One bridge too far, p.10
Haunted Bond, page 10
They say it's even better with a bit of fear or pain mixed in.
I have a weaker sense of smell than full-blown demons, but my head swims from just the memory of my sweet shifter's delicate, sweet aroma. Thanks to the fucking language barrier, I couldn't get to know her the way I wanted, but she must've been a damn good person to get a scent like that.
I wanted to fucking consume her.
At least I got to devour her sweet candy cunt. Licking and sucking and melting with pleasure over every one of those desperate sounds she made as her fierce heat made her desperate, until she was grinding against my face, gasping and gushing and—
"So, you kill the last guy?"
I blink back to the present, realizing I'm standing at my aunt's nasty-ass kitchen sink with a growing semi in my jeans and water still dripping from my face. Mel's on the living room couch, not a fucking care in the world as he downs another fish taco to the deafening sound of the news.
"What?" I ask, still dazed from remembering some of the best moments of my life.
"You're covered in some other fucker's blood. Did ya kill him, or what?" Mel asks, giving me half his attention as he eyes the last fish taco.
"Nah, I don't get paid if I kill them." Found that out the hard way.
He snorts. "Killjoys."
"Tell me about it. When'll Eisha wake up?"
Mel shrugs, frowning over at me like I'm disturbing his five-star meal as he lights up a cigar that I’m pretty sure he pulled out from between the seat cushions. "How the hells am I supposed to know? What's up your ass that you've got to bother her about, anyway?"
"I wanna try blood scrying again."
The demon groans and throws some demonness's leftover bra at me.
"Oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding me! Listen. Mezzak—"
"Finish my name, and I'll end your infernal lives," I warn.
I may not be a full-blooded demon, but demonology works perfectly fine on me. I can command infernal dark magic just like any other demon out there, but if someone learns and utters my full name, they could start all kinds of shit. Demons don't usually use each other's full names for that exact reason.
He scoffs, puffing out cigar smoke, and turns to face me better. "Whatever. Zak. Look, you're a young demon. You're living in the mortal world, not getting hunted by the bounty hunters and the legacies and all those other shits who've been wiping our kind out for centuries. Look at you, covered in someone else's blood and getting paid for it! You're living the fucking dream, all right? So just forget about that little tart that stole your balls, go get yourself laid, and stop fucking pining."
Fat chance of that when she's all I can think about.
It's been eight months since I was forced to fight alongside Amadeus's court, barely escaped the Nether with my singular non-infernal-mutt life, and went into hiding with my aunt until things settled down.
Eight months since I saw my shifter.
That's eight fucking months too long. If she survived the hellscape of that battle that ended the reign of Amadeus, she's in this world.
If she didn't survive, I'll claw my way out of the hells of the Beyond and find her in the next life. Simple as that.
"Maybe we should try soul scrying again instead," I decide aloud, kicking aside a glass bottle to grab a beer from the fridge.
"Ugh. I swear on my horns, there's nothing worse than a lovesick demon," Melchom grumbles, taking another drag of his cigar.
"You're lovesick for my aunt," I point out dryly.
"Nah," he grins immediately. "I'm just pure sick for her, and the only cure for me is her skanky, slutty, wet little—"
I smack him hard upside the head as I sit beside him, grabbing yesterday's newspaper off the armrest of the couch as he swears. Eisha likes collecting human newspapers because she says it's nostalgic to comb back through the years and read about their miserable history.
"Don't make my ears bleed, asshole," I mutter.
Melchom snickers, rubbing his sore head. I skim through the newspaper, bored as I sip the beer and wait for Eisha to wake up. Good fucking thing I can read English now, because the headlines in this are much more interesting than whatever the idiot on the screen is going on about.
Cult of the Demigoddess Relocates to the Nether
No More Fiends On A Bright Horizon
Netherborn: Refugees or Legacy Leeches?
What a dumbassed question. They're humans, not legacies. Whoever wrote that line is a fucking idiot. I read the next few.
A World Without Curses: With Taboo Lifted, Legacies Share Past Afflictions
RLHNA - How the First Legacy-Human Government Entity is Functioning
Six Months After Ban on Demon Hunting, Demons Nowhere to Be Found
I snort at the irony of the last one.
It's true that demon hunting's been banned, which is great for the demons who'd have to worry about it. I was never in much danger, since I easily pass for a human. Pretty sure I have my elemental father to thank for that, not that I know what the poor sap looked like.
I wonder if my shifter would like the way I look. She never saw me, and I never got to see her entire face thanks to the blindfold those motherfucking necromancers kept on her all the time, even when they had her chained up for me to get her through that heat.
I bet she's gorgeous.
Infernal hells, I just want my mouth all over her again. There has to be a way I can find her.
As always, when I’m losing patience and feeling like something is out of my control, my fingers slide over my right forearm to feel the raised bumps of the infernal symbols there—a credo for me to survive by.
Sett fatos imprare.
I think in English it would be: "Let fate guide."
Or maybe it's better translated as: "Let khaos reign."
Either way, I've followed it since the day it was carved into my skin by my mother, and I have no reason to stop believing it now. It tells me that whatever's meant to happen, it's going to happen—which means that sooner or later, if I trust in the khaos that fate cannot exist without, I'll wind up finding her again.
Because khaos knows I got a taste of something precious.
And sooner or later, she'll be mine again.
I just have to keep being patient.
Melchom makes a sound of surprise at whatever the deafeningly loud news report just said. "Well, twist my tail and call me an angel! Had no idea that frigid bastard had a sister. Huh. She's a pretty, juicy little thing, but she doesn't look much like the Frost prick—and I'd know, because your whore of an aunt was drooling all over that pretty boy fucker the last time we bumped into—"
My eyes snag on the image he's babbling about on the news, and I shoot to my feet. My soul does the same kind of shiver it usually does when someone starts using demonology around me.
Khaotic hells below.
That's her.
That's my entire future, right there on the screen.
I lurch for the remote, ripping it away from Melchom when he protests and turning the TV down until it's understandable instead of making my fucking skull vibrate.
"—receiving many conflicting stories about the accident that took place this morning near the West Loop in downtown Chicago. Some eye witness reports say that Heidi Elise Murley, the alleged estranged daughter of the late Frost family whose existence has made international headlines today, fled of her own accord directly into the path of the bus that hit her. Other reports claim that she was forced into the oncoming traffic by a riled crowd, and others—"
At first, I think the deafening static is coming from the TV, but I realize it's just my ears when my vision starts to turn red.
The bus that hit her.
The bus that hit her.
The bus that hit—
The remote snaps in half in my clenched hand.
Melchom sputters, barely audible with the furious static still pounding in my head. "Hey, what the hells? You break it, you've gotta fucking replace it! Damned mutt, what's wrong with—"
"Shut up," I tell him, not letting myself breathe as I wait for the reporter to give me something, anything on how my woman is doing.
Is she alive? Is she breathing? Who the fuck was driving that bus, and where do they live? If it was the crowd that pushed her, I'll hunt every single one of those fuckers down, cover their head in liquid metal, pop those fuckers right off, and—
"Local authorities of the Chicago area are not officially disclosing any more information about the accident at this time or the condition of Miss Murley. However, other eyewitnesses reported that it appears the Frost family's hidden other child was fatally injured but still alive before paramedics arrived at the scene. Some are speculating that to survive the extensive injuries sustained, Miss Murley must be a shifter or siphon of some kind, which again raises the question of why there is no record of her in past legacy records or of having attended Everbound University."
I force myself to breathe again, ignoring Melchom cussing me out as he gets the broken pieces of the remote from me. Injured, but alive. She's alive. She's a shifter, so she would've started healing.
"Did she say Chicago?" I manage, my voice thick enough that I would be embarrassed if I gave a single infernal fuck about what Melchom thinks about anything.
He looks between me and the screen. "The report? Yeah, guess that shit went down in Chicago. What the fuck's that got to do with—"
I don't let him finish before I grab my bike keys and throw open the front door, deciding I'm not waiting for khaos to get its shit together this time.
It's time to get another taste of my girl.
13
ASHER
I adjust my coat, leaning against the trunk of the biggest oak tree on the top of this hill as I pull up the nanny cam app on my phone. It's an hour past sunset, and the night mode on the nanny cam is complete ass, but after a bit of squinting, I decide Dev's fangs still haven't budged in Jada's backyard.
Damn it.
Why is it taking so long for him to respawn?
Eight months? I swear he's just taking his time to piss me off now.
The acrid sensation of necromantic magic nearby makes me pocket my phone and focus. Ducking under more trees, I move to crouch at the edge of the hill. This elevated spot at the edge of the surrounding woods gives me a great view of the old, remote estate nestled in this Northern California valley, complete with a big, showy mansion. Parked in the circular driveway is the kind of gleaming black car that rich people can't seem to resist.
Rich people who are paying a shit-ton of money for whatever this necromancer is offering.
I sense when my mark stops casting. Several moments later, I watch a well-dressed young couple leave through the grand double-door entry of the estate. I can't make out their faces from here, since I didn't bother bringing binoculars. I don't have my rifle with me to peer through the scope, either.
I haven't carried that around ever since I got back to work.
What can I say? Something about getting shot in the back of the head with a nine millimeter really makes a guy stop and reconsider if firearms are worth the trouble. When I said something along those lines the last time I was around the Amato quintet a month or so ago, their demigoddess keeper agreed that guns are inelegant, boring weapons and recommended that I look into getting myself a mace.
As if I'm going to take advice from a freak who names her weapons like they're pets.
Nowadays, I use good old-fashioned hand-to-hand combat, a knife, and magic. So far, it's served me well enough that every bounty hunter pal who ribbed me about losing my fire in that coma has been eating their words for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert.
I'm about to show them up again, because this target is one everyone is after. The Reformed Legacy Human Netherborn Association—the RLHNA that has become the new international government powerhouse—put one hell of a bounty on this guy's head with a long rap sheet that I didn't bother reading. All I know is, he's a healer-turned-necromancer who's been wanted since before the Upheaval.
Honestly, I'm doing all this more for a distraction than for profit. Better to get off my ass and make some money than to sit around waiting for another eight months.
Fuck. It better not take another eight months for me to get my hound back.
I observe as the well-dressed couple drives away. This mansion and much of the surrounding rural community look like they were left mostly untouched during the Upheaval, or, if they weren't, they've done a hell of a job patching them up. Thanks to the Legacy Curse being broken, all incubi receiving a Limbo mark, the Nether being contained, legacies and humans finding common ground, the changes in government, and the settling of the Netherborn humans…
The world has fixed itself.
I'm out for four months and wake up to no curse, no Upheaval, and no shadow fiends seeping into the mortal world. Even growing equality for legacies, for fuck's sake.
And all it took was me getting an extended time-out from a bullet to the brain.
Go fucking figure.
As soon as the wealthy couple's car is out of sight, I recheck my surroundings and move silently toward the bottom of the hill, creeping through more trees. I'll have to book it once I lose this cover and vault over the perimeter fence. I'm sure there are dozens of protective wards placed on that fence–but thanks to Arati's blessing, I can usually slip through shit like that without tripping anything.
I brace myself, about to launch into action, but I pause when I hear the low croak of a raven to my left. Turning my head slowly, I spot the glossy black fowl perched in the branches of a nearby oak tree, watching me.
Damn that demigoddess.
"Fuck off," I whisper at the evil chicken.
It squawks again, tipping its head to get a better look at me from its other eye. Something about the way it examines me seems out of bounds for normal animal behavior.
"Fly back to your creepy-ass master. I'm working," I tell it, giving it my own bird for good measure before turning back to the job. I hear it flutter away a second later.
I want to wrap this up quickly and silently so I can go back to staring at the charred dirt in my friend Jada's backyard like the sad sack I've become ever since I woke up without my furry friend.
The dimness around me lightens briefly as my eyes glow green, another acrid pull of the sorcerer's magic drawing my attention. There's no one stationed outside the mansion. Not even security cameras, from what I can tell. This guy really must think he pulled one over on the RLHNA by leaving a false trail in Minnesota.
Pretty sure that threw the other bounty hunters off, too.
Amateurs.
Taking off, I bolt across the open lawn. When I reach the fence, I leap as high as I can, grasping the arched points of the fence and slinging myself over in one silent move. Dropping to a low crouch with a sharp exhale, I stay alert for any sign of danger until I reach a set of dark cellar doors. One test pull tells me they're only locked—but there's no chains, no additional magic protection. Nada.
"Cocky fucking idiot," I mutter before casting an unlock charm.
Creeping soundlessly down the cellar stairs, I reach the bottom and will my eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they do, I frown, trying to understand what I'm seeing.
Seven large shipping crates, roughly the size of coffins, line the edges of the room. A large cauldron sits in the center of the room, surrounded by bone-white magic symbols. I peek into the cauldron and make a face at the dark sludge congealed inside, nearly black from however long it's been sitting.
Blood. A lot of it.
I pull out my phone, taking a few silent pictures of the cauldron and the runes all over the ground for documentation to send to the RLHNA, along with my target. Most of the symbols are unique to necromantic rituals, but others are blood magic markings. Whatever dark shit this necromancer has been selling, he's clearly got someone else using blood magic for him.
I saw a setup like this a couple of years ago while hunting a legacy crime lord in Spain. If my suspicions are correct…
Checking to make sure no one has come down from the mansion into the cellar, I gently pry the lid away from one of the shipping crates.
Bingo. Decrepit vampire.
If a vampire doesn't feed often enough, they get weak and decrepit. If they go more than a couple of weeks without blood, they start to ossify—getting progressively weaker, corpse-like, and gaunt until they can't move at all. Any special abilities they might have, like hypnosis, stop working. A couple more weeks of that, and they're goners.
The fact that there are seven of them in here confirms my suspicions.
"Thralls," I mutter, taking another picture.
Thralls are extremely rare. They have to start out as born vampires—either as legacies or the offspring of a vampyr and a human. To create a thrall that will obey their every command, a vampyr must find a born vampire, kill them, and turn them the same way they would turn a mortal—by injecting their vampyrish blood into the vampire's newly-dead body.
If the vampire is lucky and survives the transition, they come back even stronger, but as a thrall.
Unluckily for them, they can't act or even speak for themselves until their vampyr master is murdered—something thralls are literally incapable of thinking about, let alone carrying out.
Which means that somewhere in this house, there's a Nether vampyr lying in wait.
Yippee for me.
As quietly and efficiently as I can, I use common magic to remove the tops of the other crates, taking pictures to give the RLHNA a head start identifying the thralls. It's not my business how the new government body will handle these vamps if they turn out to be missing persons. Depending on how long they've been enslaved, thralls can be tough as hell to deprogram, once their master is dead.
I get to the last box, remove the lid, and blink down at the unconscious thrall inside.
I've seen this face before, when Everett Frost sent me out on several failed tracking missions during the Upheaval. Never could find this guy, but getting enslaved as a thrall definitely explains why the poor fuck disappeared without a trace for over a year.
