Demon Fire (The Angel Fire Book 3)

by Marie Johnston

  It took a block or two before muscle memory took over and he got comfortable enough for him to relax. He eased back and roared down the street. Memories of riding through Chicago, the thunder of engines around him, flooded his mind.

  Today he was alone. And he preferred it that way. He’d never thought he’d be back on a motorcycle again. Now he could see himself doing a lot again. Things that he’d not only thought he couldn’t do again, but wouldn’t. Like falling in love.

  He had to save Sierra. He refused to believe that she had been dropped in his path for no reason. For so many years, he’d wondered why. What was the reason for any of it? For his wife. For his son. For the job he’d loved but that had cost him everything.

  He’d never get an answer, but that shouldn’t keep him from living. From doing his part to make the world a safer place. He’d been attracted to law enforcement, had lost himself in the work. He wouldn’t make the same mistake. He wasn’t going to lose himself—or Sierra.

  Riding up on the club, he studied his surroundings, cars lined along the streets close to the club. He had no issues figuring out which place was the club: the three-story building with a long line of people out front. The sign out front stood out like a lighthouse in the middle of the quiet, dark block.

  He found a spot big enough for his bike one street over and took his time walking back. The end of the line was full of giggly girls half his age. Three of them took at least four selfies apiece before he reached them. When one spun around with her back to him and her phone ready to click, he glared into the screen and shook his head.

  “Take one picture of me and I’ll stomp that damn thing to dust,” he growled.

  He’d expected fear, but she giggled. “Ooh, are you already possessed?” She reached for his arm, but he jerked it back. “I don’t see a barbed wire tattoo.”

  A tall man dressed in a black suit with a black shirt and black tie marched down the line toward him. “Hey, man. Go on in.”

  The three selfie girls inhaled, their mouths dropping. He’d thought they’d be incensed, but they stared at him like he was a celebrity.

  Had he been busted already? As he walked toward the entrance behind the bouncer, he thought back to Alma’s house. No, Jim hadn’t seen him. The accident? No again. Was it from the sporting goods store? Was that how he’d been busted? He’d been wearing a puffy winter coat and a stocking hat and his beard had been out of control.

  The bouncer ushered him. “Our pussy count is way too high.” He leaned in. “Gotta throw ’em some sausage.”

  Okay . . . “Thanks, man.”

  The bouncer gave him a knowing nod, like he lived for the power of pulling people from the back of the line.

  Laughter and loud voices competed with the deafening music pumping through Boone’s eardrums. He’d have a headache for a week after this. Bodies bumped into him on either side as he wound his way through the throng at the bar.

  He grabbed the first open stool he could find. A bartender wearing a crisp white button-up shirt with suspenders spun toward him. He took the whole ensemble farther with a gelled handlebar mustache. “What can I get you?”

  “Whiskey sour.” Boone would sip the drink slow, and he’d eaten a burger and fries before he’d left the house. If he lingered in the club for two hours trying to determine whether Sierra was here or not, he’d only have to nurse two, leaving a little in the glass each time so he didn’t get the full load of alcohol before he had to drive.

  But unlike when he was an agent, he was drinking on this mission. The first two minutes of trying to deceive someone were the most important. Ordering water or a Shirley Temple was as good as hanging a neon sign over his head that read FAKE.

  A few minutes later, the bartender slid the glass in front of him. He took a sip, wincing. Heavy on the sour. Juiced-down drinks were even better. He could go for three and stay longer.

  Spinning on his seat, he propped an elbow on the table. The dance floor was packed. A cage at each corner had a body writhing to the music in it.

  He missed his quiet mountain cabin.

  Each minute crawled by. Women walked by. Some looked him over, a few gave him demure smiles. One licked her lips. But, thankfully, they all passed. He finished his first whiskey sour and ordered another.

  A woman in a tight black cocktail dress and a barbed wire tattoo circling her bare right arm sidled next to him and shoved herself between him and the guy next to him. “Heya, handsome. I see you have a loneliness problem.”

  He didn’t look at her, but took a slow sip. “Maybe I want to be lonely.”

  “Then you wouldn’t be here,” she purred.

  “Why’s that?” He finally looked at her. She was pretty enough. Long lashes, lush auburn hair. She was closer to his age than many of the women in here, but her body helped her jump the line. Still, nothing stirred inside of him. She wasn’t a petite blonde wearing a pea-green shirt and ugly brown leggings.

  “Loneliness, anger, desperation, jealousy. Same deep dark feelings that drive us all here.”

  The woman had accurate insight. He grunted instead of replying.

  She traced her finger over his pec. He drained most of his drink and put his glass on the table. When he’d been undercover, he hadn’t cheated on his wife. He and Sierra hadn’t talked about them as a couple, but this woman’s touch was wrong.

  She pouted. “Are you leaving?”

  “Yeah.”

  She pushed her body against his and he tensed, his first instinct to shove her away. “Want me to join you?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She huffed and threw her hands out. “I watched you sit by yourself for two fucking hours and not talk to anyone. What the hell are you here for anyway?” She slinked closer. “What brought you here?”

  He’d come up with a story about guys at work pissing him off and wanting revenge, but the woman’s comments about his feelings hit him. If he hadn’t had a cabin in the middle of nowhere, what would he have done? Would he have sunk into a pool of hate and despair? If he’d had to go to work and watch more good people’s lives being ruined by stupid decisions, he might’ve lost it.

  He didn’t have to answer her, but he did. “I lost my wife and son and I’m pissed off at the world right now.”

  Sympathy ignited in her eyes. He spun and strode toward the exit, irritated with himself for saying too much and annoyed that the strange woman summed up all the reasons why the warriors’ job was critical.

  Andy preyed on people who needed support, not a fucking demon in their body. Boone would help end the man.

  Movement above him caught his eye.

  A petite figure stood at the window, shadowed, her arms crossed, a hip kicked out. He managed to keep going when all he wanted to do was rush up there and find out if she was okay. The first phase of their plan was confirmed.

  She was in.

  Chapter 17

  Fall From Grace was in an old warehouse. Jameson had renovated the work floor into the bar and dance club. Then he’d had the penthouse redone, but for some reason, he’d stopped before the third floor.

  It made sense. All the fallen had needed was a place for his disciples to gather and a bed for fucking. He hadn’t needed to cook and clean when he was drowning in money.

  So what was on the third floor?

  She’d made mental notes about her observations.

  Her heart had soared when she’d seen Boone at the bar. The thick glass and dim lighting couldn’t hide his hard profile. His haircut gave him a harder, sexier look, and his trimmed beard caressed his jaw like she wanted to.

  It had been hard not to put her hands on the cool glass of the window and close her eyes. Being with Boone made her feel treasured, special. He wasn’t using her. He wasn’t scratching an itch. He cared for her and it showed in how he touched her.

  But this captivity had gone on long enough. She tried not to think about it. Not staring at him had been hard enough.

  He’d mostly been ignoring a tal
l woman that Sierra had seen hitting on him twice now. The sight was hard to look at. She’d never cared about what a sex partner did with others, just like she’d never been insecure about her looks. About herself? Yes. She’d never given a shit about how pretty she was until she’d seen the immaculate makeup and hairstyle of the sexy redhead flirting with Boone. Sierra was plain, and the only thought she gave to her hair was to keep it short. Once it got past a certain length, the ends turned black. No one in Numen had two-tone hair. She’d wanted to shave it once, but Papa had forbidden her from doing that. Ever. It’d reveal two bald patches, one on each side, where she’d been purposely singed by angel fire.

  Boone’s decisions were his own. She had no say. She’d have to trust him to figure out how to do this assignment without indiscriminately fucking like most of the patrons. Or she’d have to trust that if he did, he was his own person and it wasn’t like they’d made any promises to each other.

  It was her issue that she’d let him get too close. That she’d pretended that they might have a future. That she was having a baby that wasn’t his. That she might outlive him one day. She should encourage him to find someone else—just no one from the club, for obvious reasons.

  She had to concentrate on her mission. She couldn’t mess it up for more personal reasons than were already at stake. How could she get communication to Boone if she couldn’t get to the dance floor?

  They’d brainstormed ideas, and they’d done so under the assumption she wouldn’t have any freedom to move around. They were limited to the parameters of the building, if she was lucky enough to leave the second floor. Boone couldn’t get up here without notice. He couldn’t infiltrate the bodyguards. It’d take too long and the documents the warriors got for him might not withstand Andy’s thorough background check.

  That left the third floor and the dance club.

  The third floor would be easier. Even better if she could make it to the roof. The only security camera she’d seen on this level was aimed at the elevators. The door to the stairs was across from the elevators, but was covered in the same view.

  She couldn’t use the windows. There weren’t many and the ones in the apartment had been sealed. She hadn’t known looking at the outside of the building that it even had windows. For her purposes, they’d been rendered useless. The stairs were out. She could sneak up them, but Andy would know. She couldn’t risk him thinking she was there for anything other than convalescence before the birth of the baby.

  And she was over four months pregnant. Her belly was tightly rounded, but not enough to tell under a baggy New York-New York sweatshirt. She couldn’t take much more time. Soon, it’d be harder to get around and more dangerous to engage in anything physical. That left the dance floor and Andy’s permission to roam there when the party wasn’t hopping.

  Voices sounded outside the door. She crept closer. Andy was talking to her guard. He rarely stopped by her place.

  She jumped to the door and swung it open, like she was going to breeze out and stand post in front of the window. “Oh. Andy. What are you doing out of your hole?”

  He was taller than her, but only by a handful of inches. Not like Boone or any of her teammates. He drew his shoulders back and stared down his nose at her. As if she’d be intimidated.

  The bodyguards he kept had never been possessed. It had to be intentional. Did they even have tattoos? Andy probably wasn’t as concerned about demons as he was about warriors getting near him. They couldn’t risk hurting a human, thanks to Numen’s rigid guidelines.

  How did he know, though?

  “Sierra,” Andy said blandly. “Were you listening at the door?”

  “Can you blame me for getting claustrophobic? It’s a nice place, but spending weeks on end in it sucks. I save my allotted window time for when something’s going on in the club.”

  The corner of his mouth tipped up at her description. He liked his power over her. “Take a walk with me?”

  She drew back. It couldn’t be this easy. “Seriously?”

  “Come.” He shook his head at his bodyguards. It’d just be the two of them?

  She shoved her feet into her slippers and rushed out. Andy might give the bodyguards instructions to search her place while he thought she wouldn’t know, but she didn’t care. He wouldn’t find anything, and she’d do another sweep for listening devices or cameras when she got back.

  “Will I actually get to go outside? See some sun?” she asked as they waited for the elevator.

  “Perhaps in time.”

  Asshole. But at least he thought that was what she really wanted.

  She didn’t. She just needed to visit the bathroom.

  Breathing normally was difficult while he took his time selecting the ground floor. “What’s on the third floor?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Dust and emptiness. Jameson was never good at carrying tasks to completion. He recruited disciples, then got distracted with gathering Daemon blades, trying to touch Numen metal, and finally getting into Numen himself. He spread himself too thin, lost focus. And he died.”

  Boone’s advice rose in her mind. Learn to spot the tells and she’d know when Andy was lying. Andy didn’t lie, but he avoided topics and changed subjects when he was hiding something. The third floor was more than dust and emptiness. “Good thing you’re here.”

  Her sarcastic tone actually made him smile until cold fury overtook his features. “He didn’t remember me. Jameson.”

  Aw, Andy’s feelings were hurt. “How long was he with your mother?”

  “Two years.”

  Jameson had cheated on Chanel for that long? Hell, Jameson had probably cheated on Andy’s mother with someone else entirely.

  The doors opened to the first floor. She sauntered out. Traces of cheap cologne and perfume lingered. There was more discarded jewelry strewn on the ground than stray napkins. On their way to the bar, she passed two styles of dangly earrings and a lost watch.

  “People really forget their personal items here?” She toed the watch with her slipper. The display brightened, with a step count of zero. Someone was going to be pissed their steps all morning hadn’t been counted.

  “They’re distracted.” Andy went around the bar and grabbed a bottle from under the counter, along with two glasses. He splashed amber liquid into one glass. “This is my special stash. Pappy Van Winkle fifteen-year bourbon. Twenty-five hundred a bottle. No one else is allowed to touch it.”

  “Just water for me, please.”

  His hand paused over the second glass. “The baby. Right.” He tilted his head toward a fridge. “Perrier is over there.”

  Basically, serve yourself, then. Andy had a sensitive ego.

  She got her water, but didn’t settle on a stool. She hadn’t been lying. Staying cooped up for weeks in the same space drove her crazy in a way that the cabin in Montana hadn’t. The difference was that she could leave the cabin whenever she wanted. And she’d had company. Quality company.

  Strolling by the booths, she looked over every one. How much body fluid was on the surface? Blech.

  “The cleaners will arrive in an hour and prepare it for opening time.”

  Fall From Grace didn’t open until after ten. Part of its allure. It was open from eleven to five a.m. and half the people had to wait in line for two hours to get in. More exclusive that way, and therefore, more popular.

  She passed onto the dance floor. Under the normal glow of regular lighting, it was nothing special. The same went for the rest of the club. The cages sat empty like oversized dog kennels. The dance floor lacked luster, dulled from a thousand heels pummeling it week after week.

  She drained half her bubbly water and kept looping the main floor. When she neared the entrance, Andy tensed, but she kept circling.

  As she passed the entrance, she spotted a couple of guys chatting by the front doors. “You keep guards out there twenty-four seven?”

  “There are some who think the hours don’t apply to them.”

 
“Are they usually women? Are they usually trying to get into Jameson’s bed?”

  “Good deduction, though those attempts have died off over the months.”

  Probably more after she’d been making an appearance each night, which only helped her to keep making them. Fewer women Andy had to convince that Jameson still existed.

  “You’re going to need to tell them eventually.”

  Andy took a sip of his amber liquid and his lips thinned. “It’ll be best if Jameson dies an epic death.”

  “He already did.” The fallen hadn’t redeemed enough of himself, that would’ve been impossible, but he’d managed something all had thought was impossible, and he’d only been able to do it to save his son.

  “Unfortunately not where everyone can see.”

  “How inconvenient.”

  “Yes.” Andy took another drink. So did she. She finished her water and grabbed another, ignoring Andy’s perplexed glance.

  A few more laps around the club floor settled her. She’d learned a few things during the last few weeks, and she was getting restless.

  She drank half her second bottle of water. “Can I use the bathroom down here?”

  “No. We’re heading back up.”

  Crestfallen for more than one reason, she slumped her shoulders. “Can’t I walk a few more laps? It’s just that the baby’s bouncing on my bladder.”

  His jaw tightened but he finally nodded. “Two more laps and I’ll take you back to your room. I have more work to do.”

  “Can I come down again tomorrow and get another walk in?”

  Andy scowled. “You ready to give me a sample of blood?”

  She had to give in soon, even when her inclination was to take the needle and stab him in the eye with it. “When’s the midwife coming?”

  “One of my bodyguards can do it.”

  “I don’t think I’m immune to hepatitis anymore.”

  Andy nearly smirked at her joke. “When the midwife comes, then—but I’ll take as many vials as I want.”