by Montana Ash
“Well? Don’t be coy. Who is your temporary employer and who are you supposed to kill?” Carlisle urged her to speak.
There was no point trying to lie to Carlisle. He had more sources and spies than even Sabre herself, so she simply went with the truth; “The new king wants me to find out the mystery conspirator who is knocking his family members off the perch. It’s kind of more mercenary work than assassination at this stage. But –”
“Did you say the King?” Carlisle breathed, a strange look of both fear and excitement on his face.
“Yes …” Sabre responded, warily this time. She had seen that look on the incubus’s face a few times and it was never a good thing.
Carlisle rubbed his hands together, “This is good. This is really good. We can use this.”
“This is a private gig. There is no we,” Sabre swiftly responded.
The incubus moved fast, almost as fast as Sabre was able to, and grabbed her hair in a punishing grip within a second. “There will always be a we, my pretty little fallen angel. At least for the next ninety years,” Carlisle amended, referring to her renewed contract.
All contracts lasted for one hundred years before they expired and needed to be renewed. Her original contract had been written in the blood from her veins, and signed in the blood from her arteries, binding her body and soul to Carlisle and the Blue Devil Den when she had been but eight years old. She knew Carlisle had been sweating the time when her original contract ended, no doubt worried about falling victim to the monster he had created with his own two hands. Because as long as she was under his employ, she could not physically harm him. To say the incubus had been pleasantly surprised when she said she wanted to renew her contract was a vast understatement. With bile in her throat and shaking hands, Sabre had signed her life away once more ten years ago. Unfortunately, the end game had not been upon her and she’d had no other choice.
It was times like these when she regretted it the most. Times when she wanted nothing more than to shove her fist into Carlisle’s ribcage and rip out his heart, squeezing it so hard it exploded into pulp. Instead, Sabre kept her face bland, ensuring her homicidal thoughts stayed well hidden. “Whatever you say, Carlisle,” she finally said, meeting his gaze.
“That’s right. Whatever I say.” He sniffed at her, his tongue coming out to lick a long line up her neck, coming dangerously close to forfeiting their contract.
Sabre held her revulsion inside. The man wanted her desperately – almost obsessively. It hadn’t always been the case. Thankfully, Carlisle wasn’t interested in children sexually. If the incubus had one thing going for him, it was that he wasn’t a paedophile. Her original contract, having been signed when she was so young, had a ‘no sexual contact or training clause’ in it. Along with the freedom to take on four private clients a year, Sabre had also made sure that same special clause had been transferred to her new contract. It pissed Carlisle off to no end. He had lusted over her the second she turned twenty. Yet, here he was, almost ninety years later with a major case of blue balls. She could go to him willingly but he could not force her. Even his powerful incubus pheromones couldn’t persuade her to sleep with him. He blamed it on the angelic low sex drive thing. But it wasn’t about that at all. Sabre simply had standards.
Receiving no response, Carlisle grudgingly pulled back, letting go of her hair, “You will report back any and all findings to me. I have an … interested party who will pay handsomely for such information.”
Sabre frowned, “You know someone who wants to protect the new king?”
Carlisle laughed, “Oh, my dear. Still so sweet and naïve after all these years. No, not protect. Destroy.”
Before Sabre could question him any further, he swept from the room, slamming the door. Sabre spent the next few hours wondering who Carlisle could be referring to and exactly how much Carlisle knew. She also started plotting how she would get the information out of the incubus.
CHAPTER FIVE
Brax’s night had been largely sleepless. Something he had grown used to over the past year, but something he resented nonetheless. His eyes felt gritty and his skin too tight on his face as he stumbled into the bathroom. Looking into the mirror above the sink, he recoiled. “Ye, Gods,” he muttered, shaking his head at his dishevelled appearance. How his hair managed to stand up that high, he had no idea. And this is exactly why I like my hair shorn, Brax thought to himself. Deciding that he couldn’t be bothered with the clippers that morning and that dunking his head under the sink was simply not going to cut it, he moved to the large marble shower that took up nearly the entire length of his ensuite bathroom. The giant tub took up the other wall, leaving only minimal space for the double vanity and the toilet.
There were bigger and grander bathrooms attached to more luxurious suites in the palace, and Brax had his pick of all of them. But he had chosen his suite of rooms because it was the only part of the palace that had its own turret. Yep, his bedroom was like his own private little castle. As a child, he had begged and pleaded with his parents for the four-room suite. But it had been at the opposite end of the palace from the First Family’s and he’d had to wait until reaching maturity to claim the magnificent space. It overlooked a private garden and Brax had spent many a morning sipping his coffee from the secure balcony.
The royal palace was a grand old building, situated in the heart of the main city, looking much like it did when his ancestor, Cerberus, had it built thousands of years ago. It had been updated over the years of course, but there was a certain comfort in the fact that the old building had housed generations of his family. A family that is now all but gone … Brax cursed the sudden reminder, punching a hole in the grey-veined marble wall. “Well, fuck,” he muttered, knowing Draven would have something to say about the new hole.
His family had slowly been dwindling in numbers over the past fifty years; his father, uncles and first cousins were all gone. But it had been the deaths of his brothers in quick succession just a year ago that had flipped a switch inside of Brax, causing numerous holes in the wall and lots of destroyed priceless antiquities. He and his brothers had been as close as three people could possibly be, sharing a bond like no other. Born just minutes apart, they had been triplets with Mikhail being the oldest and Zagan being the youngest. Brax had come screaming into the world in second place – a fact he had always been thrilled with, for he had no desire to be a king. That had been Mikhail’s deal, and a calling well suited to him. Zagan would have suited the lifestyle of King even less, Brax mused as he shut off the water. He was the cliché party boy of the royal family, always in the tabloids for one stupid stunt or another. Still, Brax felt as if there was a literal hole in his chest where his brother’s lives should be. If Sabre couldn’t find any new information, Brax didn’t know what he was going to do. But it wouldn’t be pretty, because he was hanging on to the ledge with just his fingernails.
Stepping out of the shower, Brax didn’t bother grabbing a towel, preferring to air dry. Standing naked in front of the mirror once more, he was relieved to see that the hot shower had achieved the desired result – both to his hair and his half-awake state. But that didn’t stop him from almost tripping over the damn mutt spread across the threshold of his bedroom when he walked out of the bathroom. How he missed the huge three-hundred-kilogram beast he didn’t know, but now he was cursing and limping as he tried to protect his sore toe from further abuse. The hell hound’s hide looked a lot like leather and felt like it too. As a result, it was decidedly unpleasant to kick. Styx, apparently thinking his master was playing a game with him, jumped to his massive feet and began to woof, nearly rupturing Brax’s eardrums.
“Shit! Styx, quiet,” he yelled over the echoing noise. Styx immediately quieted, looking dejected and Brax sighed. “You’re not in trouble, you big oaf.” Brax patted the beast’s head, tugging on his ears until he groaned in doggy ecstasy. Styx had been a gift from Draven and other than the angel himself, was Brax’s favourite being in all of
Purgatory. “Come on, let’s get organised. We have an assassin to meet.”
Thoughts of said assassin were the culprit for his night spent tossing and turning in his bed. For some reason, he couldn’t get the deadly, black-haired beauty out of his head. She had been different than he thought she would be. Somehow softer, he thought, surprising himself. Yet the more he rolled it over in his mind, the truer it sounded. Sabre had put on a good show with that sharp tongue of hers, leather-clad body and arsenal of weapons. But her eyes spoke of a vulnerability and a warmth that had nothing to do with the warm tones of her irises. Brax wasn’t stupid enough to think she was a good person by any means, but she surprised and intrigued him in ways that he hadn’t counted on … making her doubly dangerous.
A knock on his door had him looking up only to find a frowning Draven in the doorway. “Why aren’t you dressed? That horrid woman will be here soon and you’re still standing around in naught but your skin.”
Brax rolled his eyes but finished his journey over to his walk-in wardrobe. Donning a pair of black cargo pants and a dark green t-shirt, Brax considered himself done and he stepped back into the room. Draven was smooching with Styx – he loved the hell hound just as much as Brax did – but looked up as Brax stepped out. The automatic frown over his chosen attire made Brax smile. Draven would have preferred Brax to be wearing something more befitting his station like designer slacks and a button-up shirt. But Brax was a soldier to his core and the familiar clothing bred comfort. Something he was in dire need of these days.
“Do you think –”
“I’m not changing, Draven,” Brax stated as he pulled on socks and his boots. “Something tells me Sabre isn’t going to care what clothes I’m wearing.”
“As long as you make sure to keep your clothes on whenever she is around, I suppose I don’t care what you wear,” Draven’s blue gaze met Brax’s levelly.
Brax felt like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Draven knew him better than anyone else in the universe. As his guardian, Draven was all things to him – other than a lover. He was a protector, a friend, confidant, a guide, and a weapon. He had been with Brax for so many years that the two of them could communicate with each other without even speaking. A simple look or raise of an eyebrow and Draven knew Brax wanted the twelve-inch sword with the wooden inlaid pommel rather than the engraved one. Most of the time, Brax liked their closeness and appreciated the angel’s intuitiveness. But he thought there were some things in life that were better left private; like who he did and did not become erect for.
Yeah, boners should definitely be a private thing, Brax decided. Out loud he said; “Relax. I like my head exactly where it is. I have no intention of hopping into bed with a known murderer.”
Draven harrumphed as he made his way out of the bedroom and through Brax’s living room, Brax and Styx trailing along behind him like good boys. “See that you don’t,” Draven tossed over his shoulder.
They continued to make their way through the palace in silence, until stopping to comment on the weather once they made it outside into the gardens. Sabre had agreed to meet them there at nine. Glancing down at his military grade watch, Brax noted that it was one minute away from that time and Sabre still wasn’t there. If she didn’t show, Brax was going to –
“Oh my Gods!” came a shrill, female scream, “Is that a hell hound?”
Brax spun around to see Sabre standing inside the still locked entrance to the gardens. How she had managed to get in without the guards notifying him of her arrival, he didn’t know. But that wasn’t his biggest concern right then because Styx was off and racing before Brax could stop him, massive jaws open and saliva dripping off his three-inch fangs. Growls could be heard over the frantic beating of Brax’s heart as his dog, literally from the depths of Hell, attacked Sabre. Brax wasn’t sure who he feared for more; Sabre or his dog. Because he knew both were completely lethal and at that moment Styx no doubt believed the loud female to be a threat. Styx believed nearly everyone to be a threat – other than a small select few. Hell hounds were notoriously grumpy beasts and were not often kept as pets, but Brax wouldn’t choose another beast for all the money in Purgatory.
Brax launched himself after his mangy mutt, sadly unable to keep up with the hound even with his preternatural speed. He really hoped Sabre didn’t kill his beast in self-defence before he could stop her. Suddenly, Styx leapt, his weight and massive form tackling Sabre and obstructing her from view. A series of growls and yips followed as Styx appeared to eat the angel whole. A flutter of wings had Brax looking up to see Draven moving above him in swift flight. His guardian landed next to the struggling pair a heartbeat before Brax finally reached them. Fearing what he would see, he stopped cold when a strange sound reached his ears. Was that … giggling?
“Hi, big boy! Aren’t you beautiful? Aren’t you just the cutest?”
Brax stared in shock, the sound of baby-talk freezing him to the ground. Styx was not in fact trying to eat Sabre; he was licking her and dancing around her in joy. As for Sabre, she wasn’t wrestling with Styx in order to ward him off or injure him, she was patting every part of him she could reach and grinning like a maniac.
“Oh, you’re a sweet boy, yes you are, yes you are.” Styx – killer of hundreds – flopped onto his back, dark blue tongue hanging out of his mouth as Sabre – also killer of hundreds – proceeded to rub his tummy. “You like that? Do you? What a good boy. What a good puppy you are.”
“What is happening right now?” Brax whispered from the corner of his mouth.
Draven shook his head slowly, blue eyes opening and closing experimentally a few times. “This is worse than my original fears. The assassin is even more dangerous than I believed,” Draven finally murmured, slowly tucking his wings away.
Figuring it was safe to take his eyes off the shared adoration he was witnessing on the ground, Brax frowned at Draven, “Worse? What do you mean?”
Draven turned to Brax, eyes wide and alarmed; “Brax! She turned a hell hound into a puppy! She is clearly a devil-woman with magic too horrible to be spoken of.”
Brax snorted a laugh before rolling his eyes over his friend’s theatrical words. Draven had a real flare for the dramatic. Unfortunately, Brax knew Draven was actually being very serious and he had no doubt the angel was planning an exorcism or something in his head right at that moment.
“We cannot allow this to continue,” Draven stated.
Brax wholeheartedly agreed, but not for the same reason. The inane baby-talk coming from Sabre’s mouth was just plain embarrassing. Even as he continued to watch, Sabre laughed and pushed Styx away playfully. “No licking the face, big man. Your breath smells like carrion. Have you been eating dead things? Have you?” she asked, in that chirpy, high-pitch voice again – as if eating dead things was cute. “I bet you roll in dead things too, huh? You know, I play with dead things all the time as well. Yes, I do. Yes, I do.”
“Sire, please,” Draven pleaded from beside him. “There is only so much madness I can take.”
Shaking his head, Brax stepped over to the pair of idiots on the ground. “Okay, Styx, enough.” To his chagrin, Styx didn’t move, simply closed his eyes in apparent bliss as Sabre rubbed his muzzle roughly.
“How did you get a hell hound?” Sabre finally looked up at him, dimples teasing her cheeks as she smiled. “He’s beautiful.”
Brax tried to tell himself that calling his hell-dog beautiful was not another thing to like about the assassin, but as he watched the happy grin on Styx’s face, he knew he was lying. Styx had loved Mikhail and their father but had hated their mother and also Zagan. Styx liked the kitchen staff well enough and tolerated the gardeners but that was it. Other than Draven and Brax himself, Styx wanted to kill then eat – or eat and then kill as hell hounds tended to do – everyone. Brax cleared his throat, determining it was better to answer Sabre’s question than to focus on her appeal. “He was a gift for my eighteenth birthday from Draven,” Brax revealed.
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Sabre’s mouth twisted as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. “Really? Who knew the scarecrow could be so thoughtful.”
Draven took an aggressive step forward but Brax put an arm out in front of him. “Do you think you two could pretend to get along – just until our business is concluded?”
Sabre shrugged, finally standing up and dusting herself off. “I can play nice if feather-brain can.”
Draven growled but remained silent when Brax pointed a finger at Sabre, “That means no name-calling.”
The assassin deflated before his very eyes, her upturned lips morphing into a pout of epic proportions. “Aww, Your Majesty, why you gotta hate like that?”
Brax fought the twitch of his lips with all of his might. Sabre had a wicked sense of humour and a quick wit. Two qualities he loved in a woman. There was nothing worse than a woman with no brain in her head who couldn’t string together an independent thought if her life depended on it. Brax had met more than his fair share of pretty faces and empty minds. He knew to look beyond the outside and see the person within. The only problem with Sabre was that she was a double whammy; pretty and smart. Brax quickly ran his eyes over her leather-clad form, noting an array of weapons including a small, fold-up crossbow strapped to her thigh … and was that a handgun?
Although their world mirrored Earth almost exactly, they had of course evolved separately. Supernaturals, being stronger, faster and having longer lifespans, didn’t require the assistance of vast weaponry as much as humans did. There were no weapons of mass destruction in Purgatory. And as far as he was aware, there were also none in Heaven or Hell either. Curiously, the need to devise such weapons seemed to be a solely human failing. The weapons that were present in Purgatory were much more primitive in nature and consisted mainly of swords, daggers, clubs, and arrows. Guns were typically not seen anywhere but they were accessible to those who could access the veil or even teleport to earth. He shouldn’t really be surprised that Sabre had a gun. She no doubt had a huge number of weapons he wouldn’t even know the names of.