by Harley James
Tense.
He could see it around her eyes and lips. The way she clipped her sentences. And she was watching him even more than he watched her. She didn’t trust him around her people, her vibes telling him to be careful or she’d strike. Smart. After all, he had followed her with the express purpose to retrieve the feather, which so far, he hadn’t done.
She had no idea what he or Jessica’s feather were capable of, but she had no reason to fear. He already liked this family almost as much as he had loved John Jameson, a Scottish lawyer who’d acquired the Bow Street Distillery in Dublin.
John had died at the ripe old age of 83 in 1823, a feat few achieved in those days. Spencer had taken the Jameson name after his best friend’s death. Had taken the helm of the Jameson Irish whiskey distillery as well. He’d lost himself in the work, but it was a poor substitute for a lost kindred soul.
Spencer swirled the ice cubes in his empty glass, which was promptly refilled with lemonade by Sydney’s bubbly, seventeen-year-old sister Jiang. He listened to her sing the praises of her brother, Deon, who at nineteen was already in his third year of college. He was a young man with neurosurgeon aspirations, second quietest of the bunch behind Najeem, whose midnight-dark skin couldn’t conceal his happy glow, knowing he was beloved by those gathered shoulder-to-shoulder with him.
The world should be populated with this type of people. Salt-of-the-earth types. Reliable. Warm. Generous.
He looked again at Sydney, that little line between her eyebrows smoothing out for a moment as she smiled at something Mateo said, and felt a strange calm meld into the brilliance she aroused with her amplio.
He’d help this family with the only thing they lacked. Money.
The resolution brought a smile to his face and a deeper shade of wariness to Sydney’s eyes. After everyone pitched in to clean up, Alroy slapped him on the shoulder before he could wander over to Sydney’s defensive position by the sink. “You’re not leaving anytime soon, are you? Syd promised she’d stay and watch the season finale with us. She’s so busy we don’t see near enough of her anymore.”
In other words, they assumed if he left, she’d leave with him. What did they see about her behavior toward him that belied her outward displeasure? Or maybe her displeasure with him was a sign of her interest? She seemed a more straightforward character than that. “I’d love to stay.”
More slaps on his shoulder before Alroy grabbed a couple of the loitering teens around the neck, pulling them into the garage as they pretended to sucker punch him in the gut. The whole afternoon took on a dreamlike quality. And when Clara quickly ushered the rest of Sydney’s siblings out of the now-quiet kitchen it was even better.
Sydney turned away from the cabinet, her eyes widening when she realized they were alone. She opened her mouth.
“Your family is a treasure.”
Her mouth snapped closed. Then, “You don’t have to pretend to be nice anymore. What do you want with us?”
He came around the little peninsula slowly. “I have never pretended to be nice around you, Sydney. In fact, I haven’t felt the need to pretend to do anything in...” Centuries. “Longer than I can remember. I’ve enjoyed spending time with you and your family, and I’d like to get to know you even better.” And of course acquire the feather, he reminded himself. “Furthermore, I’d like to help. I can provide you with the resources to continue your building project.”
“What? No.”
“No? I was under the impression it was either your brother’s medicine or your dream of adding on to Torque. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
“I don’t want a loan, but thank you. I’ll build when the money is saved in full.”
“It wouldn’t be a loan.”
She frowned. “I don’t want or need your charity.”
“It’s not charity.” Except it kind of was. He could see her point. He wouldn’t like that either. Too bad he couldn’t say it’d be a fair trade for the feather. “What if I said you’d be doing me a favor?”
She folded her arms across her chest and cocked her head. “I’d be doing you a favor by taking your free money? Are you stupid, or just crazy?”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling like he was a little of both. “Each year I find noble causes to which I might lend support.”
She rolled her eyes. “In other words, charities. Listen, if you’re actually sincere, I appreciate the offer, but I always pay my own way. If you want a suggestion for a worthy organization that struggles to fund research that will hopefully someday impact millions of lives, give to AARDA, the American Autoimmune Related Diseases Association. Your money would have a much wider legacy than settling it on an auto repair shop in the Marina District, believe me.”
The worried light had come back into her eyes. She was thinking about Joaquin again. He nodded once. “It shall be my utmost pleasure to do both then.”
“What part of I-don’t-take-charity don’t you understand?”
She was actually, honestly, turning him down. Rejecting his money. “I’ve never met anyone who’s declined no-strings-attached money before. You’re being needlessly stubborn.”
“Thank you.” She brushed by him as cool and self-contained as any five-star general, the little minx. Spencer followed her into the tidy front room, rolling up his shirt sleeves—he was not losing this battle, by God—as the doorbell chimed.
Jiang zoomed into the room, straight for the door. The moment she opened it, Spencer’s senses vaulted into red alert.
“Ooo-wee, another suit! Our crib is gettin’ a shot of class today, folks. Who are you, handsome? A friend of Spencer’s, I bet.”
When she stepped back to wink at Spencer, adrenaline flooded through his body. His hackles raised, hands curved into fists, and his fire element crackled through his bloodstream.
Baal stood outside on the Ashby family stoop, smiling in the sunshine.
Chapter 11
“You guys, he’s driving a Bentley! The Ashby social status hasn’t had a boost like this since Malik borrowed that Lamborghini roadster from his sugar mama Mandy Spellerberg. Nosey Mrs. Martinez is gonna be talking about this to the neighbors all month. Way to go, Syd!” Jiang gave her sister two thumbs up and darted back out of the room as quickly as she’d come.
Sydney opened her mouth to greet the tall, clean-cut man, but Spencer cut in front of her, advancing on the newcomer, hands next to his thighs, palms facing the stranger, fingers curled rigidly, his body language howling with aggression. The room heated to the point she started to sweat. “Spencer, what—”
“Hostis humani generis, apage!” More strange words spilled from his lips. Low-toned, ancient, electrifying. Goosebumps and perspiration coated her skin as the air crackled, her hair tingling in her scalp.
She looked from Spencer to the striking, forty-something man in the suit who appeared not in the least cowed by Spencer’s belligerent advance. Rather, he looked amused.
“What’s going on here?” Her fingers had just curled around the front door jamb when a blast of air shoved her back and the door slammed shut. She stared at the scarred oak for a moment before pushing up from her butt to run back to the door, crying out when her hand sizzled upon contact with the handle. “Spencer, what the hell!” She cradled her burned palm and kicked on the wood panels as everyone rushed in from the garage. “Open this door!”
Omar made it to the picture window first, with Malik, Deon, Najeem, and Jiang close behind. Joaquin sat down in the recliner, his face a little pale. He did not need this type of excitement, dammit.
“What’s up?” Twenty-two-year-old amateur racer Mateo moved next to her at the door. “The garage door closed by itself and all the outside doors are locked.”
Her family was talking all at once, excitement in their voices. Her father disappeared down the hallway that led to her parents’ bedroom.
And his gun cabinet. Jesus.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” she held up her palm, t
he skin bubbling with a throbbing burn blister, “but don’t grab the door handle.”
Mateo swore, crossed himself, and went over to where five of his siblings jockeyed for best view at the picture window. Sydney walked over to feel Joaquin’s forehead, her pulse easing significantly to find he wasn’t running a fever. “You feel okay?” she asked.
He nodded. “Just sleepy. Mom actually let me stay out past midnight with my friends last night.”
She smiled. Progress. “Good. You stay here and rest while we figure this out, ‘kay?”
“Who’s the other suit with the dope car, bruh? Looks like Spencer wants to rip his fuckin’ cabeza off, but the other dude’s just laughing,” Malik said.
“Malik, don’t say fuck.” Clara grimaced when she saw her daughter’s blister. “Oh heavens, Sydney, you need to get that burn under cold tap water.”
“I’ll live.” Sydney pushed her way to the front of the window, letting her family’s chatter fade into the background as she concentrated on the drama playing out in her parents’ front yard.
Spencer had backed the other man to the boulevard, his arms still splayed, palm-outward toward the man, strangely, like that was somehow keeping him at bay.
The vibe coming off the two men couldn’t be any different. The newcomer smiled, seemingly pleased and very at ease. So creepy when compared with Spencer, whose entire stance communicated simmering violence. Every line of his body so tense it seemed he could detonate the entire block if he decided to blow. Which was such an odd way to think. Usually she wasn’t this fanciful, but what the hell was going on?
Her entire family was locked in their house.
“This might have been averted had we invited the other fellow in for ice cream.”
Sydney glanced back, incredulously. “Yeah, I don’t think so, Mom. It’s time to call 911.”
“I’ll do it!” Jiang dug in her overalls for her phone. Alroy rounded the corner into the room, the smooth walnut and metallic ventilated side ribs of his Browning 12-gauge clutched in his grasp like the shotgun was part of his body.
“Mercy me, Al, put that thing away,” Clara scolded, hands pressed to her rosy cheeks.
Her father looked around the room until his gaze fixed on one of the air vents near the ceiling. A fresh wave of goosebumps broke out across Sydney’s arms. She pushed away from the window. “What are you looking at, Dad?”
Alroy continued to watch the intake vent. “I thought I saw some black smoke start to come through, but I must have been imagining it.”
“What’s that?” Omar’s puberty-changing voice squeaked at the window.
Dark shadows crept over the houses across the street like a massive object had come between the sun and the earth. And a sound, deep and hollow like underwater grinding, preceded a rumbling beneath their feet that rattled the furniture legs against the tile floor.
“Quake!” Jiang yelled, dropping her phone. “We’re all gonna die!”
“Get away from the windows and stay clear of all exterior walls, glass, and heavy furniture,” Deon called calmly, as always the voice of reason in her insane family.
Alroy tucked his gun under his arm, lumbered to the front door, wrapping his hand in one of mom’s heirloom doilies on the way, then attempted to open it with pure brute strength.
It wouldn’t budge.
Clara laid a hand on his arm. “Something tells me it’s best if we stay inside.”
No shit, Mom.
“I’m no’ going to be a prisoner in me own home!”
Dad’s thickening brogue portended all manner of bad things. “I’ll call the police,” Sydney said, hurrying to her purse.
“They gotta be opposing mob bosses,” Mateo speculated.
“Yeah, maybe Spencer developed some type of new weapon so they can break into shit real easy and it pissed the other mob boss off because his shit was hit,” Malik concurred.
He and Mateo high-fived.
“Malik, don’t say shit or pissed,” Clara said, mildly, like all hell wasn’t breaking loose outside.
“The other guy doesn’t look mad, though,” Omar commented. “Yo, wait, he’s leaving!”
“911, what’s your emergency?”
Sydney covered the mouthpiece on her phone the moment dispatch answered. “Really? Is the other guy gone? What about Spencer?”
“Happy guy, vamoose. Spencer, on his way back to the house,” Mateo reported.
Alroy finally yanked the door open.
“I’m so sorry, false alarm,” Sydney told the emergency dispatcher and hung up.
Good grief.
Heart beating even faster than before, she raced out the front door, following her furious, armed father into the now cloudless afternoon.
Chapter 12
Spencer watched Baal’s car drive away, trying to get his element under control before attempting to come up with some yarn about the confrontation that had just played out in front of the entire Ashby clan.
He’d temporally frozen the neighborhood, but not Sydney’s family, in case it didn’t work on her. He wasn’t sure how all these things worked between a Guardian and the woman who reawakened your senses.
This was probably going to get complicated.
He felt Sydney—and another human—rushing toward him even before he turned around. The father was bellowing, but Spencer only had eyes for Sydney, the sun glinting off her hair like a living flame. His fire element surged under his skin, unsatisfied with his non-physical encounter with Baal’s dark energy.
Alroy approached on his left side. Then, a quick flash of static that clicked to gray to black and back to gray. Stars burst in his vision, a loud ringing filling his ears as he staggered back, pain blooming in his nose.
“Dad, stop! You’ll kill him!”
Spencer stoked his fire element as his vision slowly recovered, though the earth continued to spin. He blinked at the sidewalk spattered with blood. His hands were covered with it, too. He shook his head. Whoa, bad idea. The shattered cartilage in his nose caused his stomach to twist and roll. Though he was sworn to protect humanity, Spencer’s fingertips tingled to spew fire.
“May the Devil pick his teeth with your spine if ya ever come near me family again, ya loathsome slag!”
Spencer took a deep breath and dabbed at his bloody nose with his trouser hanky, bringing his attention to Alroy, which was what he probably should have done straightaway instead of fantasizing about his daughter.
“That’s some punch you have there, mate.” Luckily, he was a fast healer—and he wanted the girl—otherwise he wouldn’t be in such forgiving form.
Alroy’s face grew impossibly redder. “Are ya mockin’ me, fancy boy?” He raised his gun barrel to Spencer’s chest. “Go on, try it again.”
“Oh my God, Dad!” Sydney swiveled around in front of her father, putting one hand wrapped in a kitchen towel on his chest and using the other to shove the barrel away. “This is ridiculous. He’s going to leave right now,” she turned to pin Spencer with the sternest look he’d ever received, before returning her gaze to her father, “and all will go back to normal. Go in and see to everyone. Mom’s probably having a coronary.”
Spencer returned the hanky to his pocket, watching as the previously intractable father turned to putty in his very capable daughter’s hands.
“There you go, Mom needs you.” Sydney pushed against Alroy’s broad, heavyweight-boxing-champ back. “Hurry up,” she barked when his footsteps appeared to falter on the stoop.
As his hand reached for the front door, it opened to reveal Clara waving, wreathed in smiles. “Thanks for coming, Spencer! Come back real soon!”
“Get inside and shut the damn door,” Sydney howled, then turned around to face him, an avenging angel on a mission of justice.
Before she could speak, he laid his hands upon her cheeks and kissed her.
A ruthlessly carnal touch fraught with such power, rife with so much emotion, and filled with a complexity that would take years to unr
avel.
That kiss sent him reeling more solidly than her father’s right hook to his face.
She yanked out of his grasp and slapped him.
Her eyes were pools of blue storm. “How dare you bring your mafia business to my family home.”
The darkness in her voice called to the gloaming inside him. “Mafia?”
“Don’t even try to deny it.” She pointed to his car. “Please, just leave us alone. If you don’t, I’ll call the police.”
He sighed. Messy didn’t begin to cover this situation. “I’m afraid I cannot stay away, even if I wanted to.” Not with Baal now knowing about her.
“Stalker,” she hissed. “I’ll have a restraining order slapped on you faster than my father’s fist broke your nose.” She turned to walk away.
“That man was dangerous, Sydney.”
She stopped in the middle of the street and faced him, laughing without mirth. “And you’re not?”
“Not to you. Never to you. Or your family.”
“So you are the mob, then.”
He almost laughed. “The mob is a trifling flock of lambs compared to that fellow.” He longed to sweep her up and cart her off to his fortress on the cliffs of Caramel. His wards would never fail there.
“How did you lock us in?”
He didn’t even remember doing it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Cut the crap. You closed the garage door, locked all our doors, and when I tried to open the front door, the handle burned me.”
He was sorry about that. But the alternative would’ve been a categorical disaster had she been within Baal’s range.
He slid his hands into his trouser pockets to appear more relaxed.. “What you’re suggesting is impossible, Sydney. Please allow me to take you to the clinic to see to your wound.”
She didn’t reply for a long moment, weighing his sincerity while he pretended he wasn’t holding his breath. Finally, she shook her head. “Just go away and leave us alone.”
Impossible. He tamped down the urge to abscond with her. Maybe not to Caramel, as heavily warded as it was. Maybe to McMurdo Station in Antarctica. No demons would desire to go there, surely.