House of Ash & Brimstone Page 5

  Sure enough, a slew of nighttime clouds opened up and a torrent of rain fell. She retrieved her handgun from the grass and tucked it into its holster for safekeeping.

  Shade spoke over the sound of thunder. “This is bad. We need to go, now.”

  Lightning flashed overhead, and the skies roiled. Hot rain pelted Gisele’s face.

  Summer storms often came up fast, but this was a new, eerie record. The air held an acrid undertone. The wind tingled where it brushed her skin.

  Another loud crack of lightning ripped through the sky, followed by rumbling thunder, and then she heard a choked squeal. Dread slammed into her, tensing every muscle in her body as she strained to stay upright. She turned, unable to stop herself, terrified at what she was about to see.

  She’d drawn her gun without even realizing it.

  As a half-blooded demon she should have had some immunity to the effects of whatever soul-shattering evil was here in this place. But she didn’t.

  “Don’t.” The word dripped with fear.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered that it was Shade who had spoken, but his pleading had no hold on her. She was trembling, trapped in a nightmare moment. If it were a dream, she would have woken up sweaty and tangled in her sheets. But this horror was real.

  She’d turned 180 to face the destroyed front door, and even with rainwater whipping into her eyes, she saw the figure in the hallway, eclipsed in dark shadow. He hung from a thick white rope, dangling several feet from the second floor’s banister.

  It was the demon known as Samuel the Stump, dead or dying. Aside from the hanging, the unkempt, boar-like man was hogtied and bleeding from a slit throat. His body was still swaying, an indication of how recently the crime had taken place. Mere moments ago. Right behind them. By someone who could make her knees go weak with fear.

  “We’re next,” Shade breathed, echoing her panicked thoughts, “if we don’t run.”

  He was right. This demon was clearly out of her league. There was no hope—they’d never survive it. She might as well turn her gun on herself now.

  She could feel herself losing her composure, but couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t get a single breath. She pressed the cold barrel of her gun into the side of her neck so hard it ached. She clutched and tore at her collarbone.

  “Stop. Look away, Gisele!” One of Shade’s hands gripped her shoulder, tight enough to bruise. The other pulled her wrist away from her neck, pointing her gun at the ground. She struggled but was weak with fear. The gun struck thunder, mirroring the sky, and Gisele jolted back against the hard line of Shade’s chest, drained.

  His arms banded around her, held her up.

  “Look away. I’ll stop her,” he whispered, his warm lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Don’t fear her. I’ll protect you.”

  Then he was gone, and she fell to her knees. She was alone, shivering in the still of the night. The storm had cleared, but he’d left her.

  Alone with Samuel’s body.

  5

  When the storm lifted, so did the crippling fear, but that didn’t make sitting with the body any easier. The residual magic signature in the air made her skin crawl, and even without looking at what remained of Samuel, Gisele felt nauseated.

  She’d been trying to unravel what had happened for the last hour while detectives milled around, documenting evidence and chatting about the strange weather. Sitting on the curb, huddled in a silver thermal blanket, Gisele felt a weird mixture of numbness and hysteria. The firm had assisted with murder cases before, but this was the first time she’d been up close and personal with a fresh corpse.

  She’d watched the blood run out of him. And she’d been out of her mind with unnatural fear. She’d almost shot herself, almost been terrified to death.

  The grass crunched as soft footsteps approached behind her, but Gisele didn’t bother to turn, too lost to her spiraling thoughts.

  Something about the murder was all wrong but she couldn’t figure it out. Why the arsonist? Why right then and there? What did the storm and sudden terror have to do with it? Had it been accidental that she and Shade had gotten caught in its path? Shining angels, she hoped so.

  The method of murder screamed overkill, hinted at a specific intent, maybe even a ritualistic one. It was the sort of case she’d always feared getting involved with. The kind of case where you started hunting a killer only to find that the killer was hunting you.

  Despite her apprehension, the PI side of her had burned with the need to investigate her suspicions. But she’d known better than to contaminate the evidence, so she’d called her friend and best contact in the local precinct, Detective Laurel Grey.

  Being assigned to the paranormal squad was a demotion, a punishment, for most detectives—but for as long as Gisele had known her, Laurel had coveted it. And no matter how many times Gisele asked, the detective would never explain why.

  Gisele wasn’t inclined to pry. After all, she had her own secrets.

  She’d told Laurel everything that had happened from the moment she got out of the car, leaving out only that Shade had ever been there. Maybe it was stupid not to mention him, given that she still wasn’t sure about his motives. But she’d had an inexplicable feeling that she should leave him out of it. So she did.

  A familiar voice broke the quiet. “You’re cleared to go. Sarge has everything he needs.” Laurel hesitated, assessing Gisele’s condition. “I can arrange a ride, if you want.”

  Gisele shook her head, crumpling the crinkly blanket as she handed it to the detective. She stood, brushing dirt from the butt of her jeans.

  Laurel was taller than Gisele, African-American with long legs and a slim build that was deceptively sturdy. Her round face was full-cheeked and make-up free, her hair pinned into a low bun. Today, she’d donned slate gray slacks.

  She looked crisp as always. Professional.

  In contrast, Gisele felt bedraggled, muddy and sweaty, her hair tangled around her horns for the second night in a row. Only this time, she’d been rained on to boot.

  “No, but thanks, Laur. I’ll be fine from here.” Gisele glanced back toward the house one last time. Spotlights had been set up in the front yard, illuminating the gaping doorway, but thankfully the body had been moved to the county coroner’s van. “Sorry I couldn’t give you more details.”

  She’d given separate statements to four different officers, but in the end, it didn’t matter much. Due to a mix of discrimination and self-preservation, human police didn’t often investigate demon-on-demon crimes. Demons were an undesirable, often violent minority—and weren’t afforded the same rights as humans under the Constitution. If a suspect couldn’t prove they’d been born in the U.S. or had at least one partially-human parent, the Federal Office of the Paranormal could deport them to Hell, no investigation or trial needed.

  Samuel the Stump had been born in Eldersburg, but he was dead and a lawbreaker. That, coupled with the fact that he hadn’t a drop of human blood in his ancestry, meant it was unlikely anyone in the local government would advocate for him. Chances were this case would get a preliminary once-over, and assuming no human victims turned up, would be shelved in the paranormal cold files.

  She ducked her head, rubbing at one of her hair-hidden horns. “Say I’d been killed by the demon that got Samuel. The PD would investigate for me, wouldn’t they?”

  The detective made the unhappy sound Gisele’s question deserved. “Why do you think my department exists?”

  “To investigate demon-on-human crime.”

  Laurel tipped her chin in admission. “Half-humans count. And you count more than most.”

  As a half-human with few visibly demonic indicators, Gisele squeaked by better than most in her day-to-day life. Laurel was a good friend. And it didn’t hurt that she and Warrick often consulted for the department.

  Gisele blew the bangs from her eyes and let it rest.

  “I don’t blame you for feeling spooked.” Lau
rel rested a hand on her hip, near the butt of her gun. “Take care of yourself, Gigi, you hear? It may not have been a coincidence that you were here.”

  Even though the thought had already occurred to Gisele, hearing the detective say it sent fresh shock freezing through her. “I can’t see how,” she said, the words cold and cutting on her lips. She hated it, but twice now she’d lied to her friend.

  What if this was related to the Mardoll? What if something had slipped through the Hellmouth she’d opened? What if whoever had done this hadn’t just been after the Stump, but had meant to send her a message?

  But she couldn’t admit as much to Laurel without confessing to having stolen the curio. Not to mention that opening an unregulated Hellmouth had to have federal-level consequences.

  The last thing she wanted was to put Laurel in the position of having to choose between her and the law.

  “See you for sushi next Tuesday?” she asked instead.

  A sweep of suspicion and disappointment shuttered Laurel’s expression. Her thumb stroked the leather holster at her hip. “Sure hope so,” she drawled, after a beat. Then she tipped her chin in farewell and turned back toward the remaining police unit, leaving Gisele to see herself home.

  Gisele wiped sweaty palms on her jeans and wished the cops hadn’t taken her gun for testing. More still, she wished she hadn’t done the things that’d made her lie to her friend.

  But it was too late to take them back.

  She’d never thought she’d be happy to have a minotaur living in her apartment, but the thought of not being alone was an overwhelming relief as Gisele climbed the five flights of stairs to her front door. When she unlocked the deadbolt and stepped into the small, tiled foyer, though, she changed her mind.

  The couch was overturned, taupe suede ripped along one side, and the coffee table had been smashed to splinters. The metal frame of the living room’s floor lamp was bent, the lights shattered, leaving the room eerily half-cast in darkness.

  The minotaur, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Beast!” Gisele complained, tossing her bag and keys to the floor after she’d relocked the front door. “You have got to be more careful. I can’t afford to replace this stuff.”

  And to think she’d been called a bull in a china shop only recently.

  A crash and the cacophony of breaking glass answered her from the kitchen. It was followed by the clear sounds of a scuffle, and her whole body went on alert.

  Holy Mother of Devils, she’d locked herself in with an intruder. Possibly whoever had killed the Stump, come to finish her off. For a second, her mind reeled. She relied on her instincts to guide her—they were almost never wrong—but she’d felt zero risk as she’d waltzed right into a deadly situation.

  “Beast! Beast, are you okay?” She tore into the kitchen, running without a weapon or a plan, sorely missing her gun.

  She wasn’t prepared for the sight that struck her. The kitchen was ruined. An overhead cabinet hung lopsided on one wall, its doors open and dishes spilled on the floor. The fridge was dented, the stove-front cracked, and the sink faucet was running on full blast. Drawers had been pulled out. Broken plates and cracked glasses littered the linoleum floor. Unruffled, Dinah sat on the bar top directly above the sink, licking a wet paw.

  Beast was hunched near the fridge, his broad back to them.

  “Not now, Half-blood.” His voice was rough, violent. The thick muscles in his back bunched and flexed as he spoke.

  Gisele leaned around the minotaur, seeing beyond the chaos of the room, and her wide eyes locked on familiar gray ones. Shade was pinned against the white refrigerator, held off the ground by Beast’s death-grip around his throat. His left hand gripped Beast’s wrist, vainly pulling against the chokehold. His right clutched a large, stainless steel chef’s blade—one of her kitchen knives—but was pinned against the fridge where Beast held his wrist.

  “Call off your guard dog,” he croaked. A vein ticked in his temple, and his lips pulled taut as he flashed blood-streaked teeth.

  Beast’s grip tightened hard enough to crush, and Shade gagged. His eyes slid shut for a pained moment, and when he opened them again, his irises had bled to black. The color seeped into his sclera, spreading like spilled ink until she could no longer see the whites of his eyes.

  Gisele’s heart tripped in her chest. “Beast. Drop him.”

  He didn’t, and long fangs cut from Shade’s gums. Wicked claws curved from his fingers. His back arched against the fridge as the rest of his otherworldly form threatened to rip from his skin.

  A sudden image hit her, wobbling her on her feet: Shade, shirtless and bowed beneath two leathery black wings, a green-and-gold circus tent arching above.

  Hot breath clogged in her throat. No. It couldn’t be.

  Aside from the first night they’d met, twelve weeks ago—she’d been running from the local werewolf pack, and he’d helped her fight them off, showcasing those same black-tar eyes and lethal fangs and claws—Shade had done his best to play human around her. Harmless.

  A lie.

  Some demons shape-changed, masking their true selves to hide within the world. The drawback was that compressing into such a form limited the extent of their abilities—the amount of strength and magic they could access in a given moment. To shape-shift, even partially, was exceedingly difficult. It required an immense amount of concentration and raw power to force such an exhaustive physiological change.

  Gisele knew Shade was a powerful demon. It was part of the reason she resented and mistrusted him. Unlike her, he was strong enough to hide his demonic traits.

  Despite the fact that Shade thrummed with otherworldly energy, he kept his true self locked behind the guise of a handsome-looking man.

  The fact that he was letting it out now could only mean one thing: He was going to attack them. Monster.

  “Beast!”

  The minotaur snorted, black nostrils flaring wide before he complied, dropping their intruder.

  Shade fell to his knees, the chef’s blade clanging to the floor. He retched and gripped his throat, dark hair falling into his face. When he looked up at her, his eyes were a stormy gray again.

  That fast, the fangs and claws were gone.

  Her heart limped a little slower.

  “How could you?!” She started to ask him if he really would have done it—attack her in her own damn home, and more, why such a powerful demon was working for a two-bit PI anyway. Because she knew—had always known—she shouldn’t trust him. He was hiding things.

  But for just a moment she glimpsed the worry in his eyes, begging her silently, telling her that he wouldn’t have hurt them, hadn’t hurt them, hadn’t meant to slip.

  Fine. But that didn’t mean she was happy he’d broken into her apartment then torn it to shreds. “Why do this, Shade? Why are you even here?”

  Shade jutted his chin at Beast in response, a ripening bruise visible along the line of his jaw. Stark red fingerprints marred the expanse of his throat.

  His leather jacket was missing, and his white shirt was ripped across the back and mottled with crimson on the front. Among other things, it looked like he’d been stabbed between four of his ribs. “I came for that,” he said.

  At first she thought he referred to the minotaur, but then she remembered what Beast was wearing around his neck, and her blood ran hot. The curio. The Mardoll. Of course.

  She ground her teeth. “You left me at the scene of a crime—left me to deal with the cops—while you came to steal from me?”

  She was going to kill him, powerful demon or not. She should have let Beast finish strangling him.

  Shade shot her a heated look, her anger fueling his own. He stood, a wary eye on Beast, and brushed glass shards from his knees. His knuckles were cracked and bleeding. It served him right for fighting her minotaur, for trying to take something from her when he’d claimed he would protect her instead. “It’s too dangerous for you to keep. You need to give it to me.” />
  Gisele shook her head, ran her tongue over her teeth. “I’m hanging onto it for a client. And even if I wasn’t, I sure as Hell wouldn’t turn it over to you.”

  Shade tensed. His eyes darkened, and Beast stomped his hoof in warning—or maybe anticipation. “Yeah? Warrick know about this client?”

  Enough. “Beast, keep our guest entertained.”

  Jaw set, she made her way down the hallway and into her bedroom, dropping to reach under her wooden bedframe. An ensuing crash and a snarl from the kitchen let her know Beast was taking his new job seriously. Her shoulder scraped the carpet as she grabbed the cool barrel of the shotgun and stood. She pulled a slug from the ammo sleeve on the stock on her way back to the kitchen, chambered the round, and slid the action forward with a satisfying snap. She’d loaded four more into the magazine by the time she reached the kitchen. Oh, yeah.

  The matte black Remington 870 felt heavy and familiar in her hands. She should have felt bad pointing it at her coworker, the stock pressed into her shoulder, but she didn’t. The only thing she felt was fury.

  “Let me spell it out for you,” she said to Shade. “Get. The fuck. Out. Of my apartment.”

  Her tone brooked no argument. Nor did the gun in her hand.

  Shade glared at her, mouth set in a stubborn line, likely debating his chances. She didn’t know if he had an immunity to lead or silver—most demons were vulnerable to one but not the other, depending on the Hell Gate they’d originated from—but point blank, his chances might not be great either way.

  “That’s the second time you’ve pointed a gun at me in three months. Maybe I won’t let you do it a third.”

  He was still holding that against her from the first night they’d met? He’d been a stranger and a demon, and the power she’d felt in him had scared her. Now she had even more reasons to be wary of him.

  “Maybe you won’t have enough breath in your body to stop me.”