Hell's Gates (Urban Fantasy) (6 page)

Pain hit me, nerves shouting at the sensations, and I cursed with the jolt. “Fuck.”

Once the phoenix yanked her sword free, my body went to repairing the damage, wolf rushing to help knit the flesh and muscle back together. I was pissed that she’d gotten me, but that wasn’t the true source of my rage now.

The bitch had ruined my leather pants. My
favorite
leather pants. The pair that I’d been wearing the first time I met Sam. The pair I’d worn the first time we fought together. The pair I’d been wearing shortly before the first time we got down and dirty.

Sam. Samkiel. Angel of Destruction, Purifier of Souls. My mate.

So, yeah, the pants were important.

“You fucking bitch.” The wolf was out, enraged by the damage, and I embraced the animal’s anger. Fur rippled over my skin, sliding free of my pores and giving me a light peppering of black. My teeth lengthened, fangs pushing past my gums. I rolled my shoulders, taking in the added strength and speed from the beast.

I went forward,
slash, slash, slash
, alternating my strikes and forcing the phoenix to keep up with my rapid approach. I backed her up, keeping the pressure high until she came against the bar, captured between two stools. That’s when I got fancy, annoyed yet feeling like a bad ass. I spun in place, doing a complete pirouette—ballet lessons until I burned down the studio—and sent my hellfire-infused blade right across her neck, separating her head from her body.

Adara disappeared into a pile of white ash, crumbling to the ground until she formed a small mound of ex-phoenix.

I propped the tips of my blades on the ground, leaning on them while I blew a few strands of violet hair out of my eyes. I’d almost feel bad if I didn’t know her death wasn’t permanent.

A sizzle followed by an explosion pulled me back to the rest of the mess in the bar, to the others intent on destroying the damned thing.

I’d wanted excitement, right?

A streak of light zinged past me, colliding with the peanut-fathering goblins, and that sent them both into la-la land.

The troll by the door was still going after the framed jersey and I called out to my friend. “Jezze, can you take out the troll?” They weren’t the easiest to subdue with magic, but Jezebeth cracked her knuckles and shook out her hands. “But
don’t
hurt the autograph.”

Jezze stuck out her tongue and then focused on her work.

I looked around the rest of the room, satisfied that the more violent of the customers were down for the count. The Treeson sisters were arguing over a
different
pole now, but at least it was actually wood.

Dick’s argument with the beer taps seemed to be winding down. The elf in the corner was now rocking the merits of symbolic interactionism as a research perspective, but it looked like the pillar was winning. Truck remained out for the count, snoring and curled in a ball on the concrete.

Two female dwarves were in the back booth having a slap-fight, but I’d dealt with those two in the past and they were still afraid of me. “Fima Grayspine and Kraza Copperbelt!”

Both ladies focused on me, their glassy eyes wide and lips forming an O.

“Out.”

Everyone else seemed unconscious—or temporarily dead in Adara’s case.

I escorted the others out, nudging them toward the door—and into cabs—while Jezze planted the desire to go home into their heads.

We both turned to face the carnage and Jezze huffed. “Let me get everyone’s names.”

She approached one of the goblins and dug in his pocket in search of a wallet or some kind of ID. Not all of them would have identification like humans, but those that liked living in Orlando generally had something. Jezze wrote down as many names as she could, and I identified a few of the regulars I knew.

Standing above Adara, I pointed at the pile of ash. “Can you put a ‘do not vacuum me up’ sign here?”

Jezze raised her eyebrows in question and I shrugged.

I fingered the hole in my leathers. “She cut a hole in my favorite pair.”

That got me one of those bland, “really?” looks.

“She’s a phoenix.” I shook my head. “It’s not like she won’t come back.”

As long as she wasn’t vacuumed up and spread everywhere.

Jezebeth came over, placing a piece of folded paper next to the pile as I’d asked.

I snapped my fingers. “Oh, wait, we gotta find her head, too.” I peered over the edge of the bar. “It kinda went flying when I chopped it off.” I moved a couple steps and peered around the corner. “Here it is!”

I ignored Jezze’s disapproving frown. Once done, the witch pocketed the list. “I’m going to show this to Mom and see if we can come up with some kind of tracer spell. Figure out if they have anything in common.”

“They have
my bar
in common.” My destroyed bar. I grabbed one of the half-empty beer mugs and sniffed it, the wolf coming forward to give my nose a nudge. It didn’t detect anything unusual, but I hadn’t sensed anything strange at Momma R’s, either.

“We can have Finn check those, too.” Jezze gathered a few drinks to take back for testing.

If someone managed to taint my liquor supplies, I was going to be damn pissed. Well,
more
pissed, anyway. My anger already burned so hot I was one blink away from torching anyone who looked at me the wrong way.

With Hell’s Chapel in tatters, and the tweeners going psycho after chugging one of my drinks, it didn’t make sense to stay open. I wasn’t in the mood for people today anyway.

When the remaining patrons—minus Adara, I was starting to feel bad about that—woke, we encouraged them to leave with the same homeward bound compulsions.

Once the last tween left, I padded to the front door, hand on the lock so I could throw the bolt. But as I was swinging it shut, a hand thrust through the opening and kept it from closing.

“We’re closed,” I snapped. Whoever was on the other side pushed back and I shoved harder. “Fuck off, fuckhead.”

Another shove from the stranger and my wolf growled. I flexed my hands, ready to unleash my claws on whoever decided to push me. When the asshole pushed again, I let go and stepped back, hoping to throw the interloper off balance.

The newcomer didn’t trip. Merely stood at the threshold, black leather jacket, midnight pants, and thick-soled boots in place. A mist of darkness surrounded him, a fine mist that swirled around his ankles.

Sam. I swallowed hard, meeting his dark gaze. Samkiel, fallen angel. My mate. My ex? My beast snarled at me. I’d marked him, sunk my teeth into his flesh and claimed him as my mate. There was no way Sam could be my ex. Ever. My wolf knew that. And my body…

My body craved him. I flushed hot, the memory of his hands on me, his mouth capturing mine while he thrust forward. My nipples pebbled, and I fought to breathe past the sudden flush of arousal and need. I wasn’t going to whimper and whine. I wasn’t going to beg and plead for his touch.

A touch that could hurt me, scar and burn me. Eventually kill me. It was what happened when an angel fell to Hell. Pure evil taking over all that goodness.

He’d fallen for me—for Bry. He’d snapped Dead Nettle’s neck as if it was nothing and then he’d just… gone. Called away and I was left with a shattered heart, a baby, and a soul that mourned him.

Sam stared me down, hard jaw set and eyes flashing red. I remembered when those eyes had been blue, shining with the purity of his connection to On High.

It hurt to look at him. To see what I once had but couldn’t have again. We’d had… something before he fell. Love on my side, at least.

I wasn’t stupid enough to have let that emotion linger in my heart all this time, though. At least, that’s what I told myself.

It’d been a year. A year on my own, with my friends and fathers for company. A year of raising Bry. A year of life. All year I’d told myself that I didn’t
want
to see him ever again. I was fine without him.
Fine.
And while I’d occasionally flip-flop on that point, I was pretty damned sure that
now
was not the time to deal with my ex-ish.

“Caith,” he murmured, that dark voice washing over me like an intimate caress. He took a step closer and I stood my ground. I wasn’t afraid of him. I wasn’t.

I was afraid of myself.

“What part of ‘we’re closed’ didn’t you understand?” I crossed my arms, staring him down. I ignored the tempting heat that came off his skin, the remnants of Hell clinging to him. “Get lost.”

Before I fell apart.

“We need to talk.”

I grabbed the door, intent on shoving it closed once more, but he pushed it, shoving his way past the spelled panel of wood. But he only got a step and a half into Hell’s Chapel before a hairy hand grabbed the collar of his jacket and hauled him back out the door.

I rushed outside just in time to see Sam being hurled across the parking lot. Standing beside the door, slightly hunched from throwing my mate out of the bar, was one of my dads—Papa Al.

I glanced out of the corner of my eye and watched as the fallen angel Samkiel flared his midnight wings to stop his momentum. He quickly retracted them so he landed on his feet on the asphalt.

“Papa Al,” I let out a frustrated sigh and rubbed a hand down my face. “How many times do I have to tell you I don’t need you to beat up my exes?”

I knew the sound of my mate’s footsteps, the sound of him slowly walking, and knew he was heading back toward me. Great.

I glared at Sam and muttered, “I can do that by myself.”

Papa Al planted himself in front of me so that I stared at his broad back. “Helene told me about what’s been going on. I’ve been watching the bar.”

I rolled my eyes. “And you didn’t do anything when I had to kick out my customers?”

He shrugged and I watched as fur slipped out of his skin to cover the back of his neck. “I figured you had that under control.”

Sam didn’t even slow as he approached. “Caith, I’m serious. This is important.”

I remembered that raspy voice, raised in pleasure, deep and smoky when he teased me.

Papa Al thrust a hairy paw against Sam’s chest, pushing him back. I didn’t know if he thought I couldn’t handle my mate on my own, or if this was just his way of being overprotective. He always
had
been a tiny bit extra feral where my boyfriends were concerned.

“She doesn’t need any help from you, Fallen.” Papa Al’s voice was filled with his beast’s growl.

“Papa Al.” I tried not to let my frustration fill my voice. Under different circumstances, I would have thrown down with my dad as quickly as I would with any dem or tween causing shit in Orlando. But I had too much else on my mind to deal with my father and my ex-ish acting all macho in the parking lot.

Papa Al glanced over his shoulder, keeping one eye on Sam. “He’s dangerous. He shouldn’t be around you.”

He shouldn’t be around anyone, really.

Sam clenched his fists, taking sharp breaths through clenched teeth. “Out of the way, old man.”

The red in his eyes flashed brighter, flames flickering in the orbs. I knew that look. The darkness within him was threatening to take control, to act on the impulses swirling around in my mate’s mind. And I had no idea how dark his mind had gotten. It was a slippery slope, and I knew the longer he went without the grace of the light from Oh High, the harder it would be for him to remember the difference between right and wrong. The harder it would be for him to control his darker urges.

I didn’t want to believe that one of the people I loved most could really be a danger to me, but I realized I had no idea. This
being
wasn’t my Sam. He was a completely different person.

That truth didn’t soothe the wolf’s need for its mate, though. Evil or not, he smelled the same and that was enough for the beast.

Papa Al didn’t back down. “You think I’m going to let you near her? The way you are right now?” The
are you smoking crack
was implied. “Look at yourself.”

Sam pulled his fist back as if he was about to throw a punch and then froze. He stared at his fist.

We all stared at his fist, at the burning light coming from within and the scent of sulfur that came along for the ride. There was nothing holy or righteous about what he was prepared to do. I knew that look. I’d grown up struggling with it myself. He’d called on Hell, ready to release the unending fires on my father.

And I knew that would only draw him farther down the dark path he’d started so long ago.

Part of me wanted to take Sam in my arms. I’d stroke his head and comfort him, help him through the anger that burned his veins and that dark voice that pushed him into action.

Another part of me wanted to punch the man in the face.

Sam lowered his fist, the brimstone within his palm slowly fading away. “I… I’m sorry.” His gaze remained locked on his hands. “This isn’t why I came here. I wanted to help.”

“The best help you can be,” Papa Al growled, “is to get out of here until you can control yourself. Caith doesn’t need this.”

I met Sam’s eyes, his red orbs boring into mine, and I tried not to read too much into his expression. The brand on my palm, his last gift to me, rippled with awareness. I stroked my fingers over the mark, remembering that night. The last time I’d seen him—in my house in Bryony’s room. He gave Bry what little grace he had left, blessing my son, and then his touch had branded me.

White wings consumed by black fire. He’d branded me with… himself. I secretly thought of it as a claiming mark, a way for Sam to stake his claim and that someday he’d find his way back. But the longer we stared, the brighter his red eyes glowed, more and more of that darkness surging.

I knew what he was and yet I didn’t want him to leave, didn’t want to let him go again.

Sam slowly nodded, not saying a word as he turned away and walked into the darkness. Between one step and the next, the shadows swallowed him whole, the only other sound coming from his wings flapping.

I touched a hand to Papa Al’s back. He rolled his shoulders, brushing off his inner beast, and leaving skin in its wake. He didn’t look any less fierce.