“Had enough pain?” Psycho Stanley asked.
Sensing he thought he’d scared her, Devon couldn’t help it—she laughed. It was a slow, raspy sound that built until her shoulders shook.
His gaze flared. “Something funny?”
“I was just thinking how much of a mistake you made taking this job. It won’t matter how strong you are or how carefully you covered your tracks. My disappearance will be traced back to you, and then you’ll pay for this.”
“No one can trace me.”
“Not even a hellhound?” she challenged. “One of Knox’s sentinels is a hellhound. He’ll find you.”
“I assume you’re referring to Tanner Cole. Are you forgetting he’s also Harper’s bodyguard? Knox is hardly going to send him on a mission to find a she-demon who isn’t even from his lair. His mate’s safety is far too important to him.”
“Yeah, but Tanner considers me under his protection.” Which annoyed her, in all honesty, but that wasn’t something she needed to share with this asshole.
“If that were true, you’d carry his mark. I bound your hands earlier. If you bore his mark, I’d have seen it.”
Because hellhounds left their brand in the center of a person’s palm. They could only mark someone if both halves of their soul wanted to protect that person. Tanner might be protective of her, but his inner demon wasn’t—hellcats and hellhounds had a natural aversion to one another.
That was okay, though; she didn’t need or want Tanner’s protection. Didn’t want his attention either. But the devastatingly hot hellhound seemed intent on driving her insane. Each time his mind touched hers, he whispered teasing comments to her …
How’s my little kitty cat?
Missing me?
Need any cat litter while I’m at the store?
I picked you up some balls of yarn—you owe me, kitten.
She’d been dealing with that shit for years. In the beginning, her inner demon had hissed and spat, outraged by his psychic touch merely because he was a hellhound, its natural enemy. Nowadays, the feline merely curled its upper lip in a lazy snarl. The demon no longer felt compelled to rip out his lungs, since it was relatively certain that he meant Devon no harm.
“You still haven’t answered my question, hellcat. What. Is. Knox?”
“Well …” The ropes winked out, freeing her. The blood rushed back to her fingers and toes, and it hurt like a motherfucker. Ignoring the pain, Devon acted fast. She released her hold on the dark power that waited to attack. As smooth, fluid, and fierce as a wildcat, it lunged at him, encased his entire body, and seized him in a crushing vice-like grip.
Eyes wide, jaw tense, he drew in a shocked breath. Before he could even think of retaliating, the power squeezed and contracted around him like a snake, exerting more and more pressure on his body and insides. He yelled in agony as bones cracked, veins popped, and skin split.
Her demon’s grin was somewhat feral as it observed the nauseating sight he made. The whites of his eyes had reddened, blood was leaking from his ears and mouth, and broken bones were protruding through his skin. Merciless, the power kept on squeezing and crushing him until, finally, his brain exploded inside his skull and he toppled off the stool. Like that, the vapor dissipated.
Devon pushed off the chair and strode toward him, rolling her stiff shoulders and examining the chafed skin of her wrists. Bastard. She looked down at where he lay, his bloodshot eyes open and vacant, his body an unholy mess. He’d suffered excruciating pain—there was no doubt about it. And she couldn’t find it in herself to give a rat’s ass.
“Told you that you made a mistake when you took this job. People never listen to me. Why is that?” She tossed a high-voltage ball of hellfire at the little bastard and didn’t move from the spot until he was nothing more than mere ashes. Satisfied, she nodded. Now where the fuck was the phone?
*
Standing in the watch room of the old lighthouse, Tanner scraped his hand over his jaw. He wasn’t by any means squeamish, and he’d seen worse sights than this. But there was nonetheless something very disturbing about seeing a dead body propped up against a wall, his legs crossed, drenched in blood, holding his eyes, tongue, and ears in his hands.
Outside, sea birds squawked, the wind bounced off the walls, and the rotating light at the top of the lighthouse flashed continuously. Inside, there was only silence as he and the two other demons in the room circled and studied the body.
“Fuck,” Tanner finally said.
“Yeah, fuck,” said Knox.
“How long has he been dead?” Tanner asked Levi since, as a reaper, the sentinel had a certain affinity for the deceased.
Crouched beside the corpse, Levi replied, “Just over an hour. It wasn’t the wounds or blood loss that killed him. He died of a heart attack—one that was brought on by preternatural causes.” The reaper looked from Knox to Tanner. “Know anyone who has that ability?”
“No,” said Knox.
Tanner shook his head, staring once more at the body. Harry Tomlinson had been a member of their lair whose specialty lay in espionage, which was why he’d acted as a spy for Knox. He’d telepathically contacted the Prime a few hours ago, asking Knox to meet him at the lighthouse—it was the same location they always met at when Harry had important information to share.
After his business meeting was over, Knox had pyroported himself, Tanner, and Levi to the lighthouse … only to discover Harry dead. Knox’s ability to travel by fire was a secret that only a select few people knew of. Although Tanner acknowledged that it was smart to keep people guessing just how powerful you were, he knew it would drive him crazy to mostly use normal means of transport if he could just pyroport wherever he wanted.
His inner demon, by nature, was no more patient than Tanner. Right then, it didn’t want to hang around the lighthouse. It itched to track down whoever had ravaged Harry this way—hunting was what the hound did best.
“This was done to Harry before his death,” said Tanner. “The scent of his blood is strongly tainted by pain, fear, fury, and helplessness.”
“How many other people were here?” asked Knox.
“Just one. A demon. Their scent … it’s earthy but wrong.”
“What does that mean?”
“Some people have scents that are floral. Others are fruity. Or sweet. Or spicy. Or earthy. The list goes on. This demon smells of autumn leaves and sandalwood, but there’s a single, small note to their scent that’s off. Like … have you ever tasted something you usually enjoy but, for some reason, it just doesn’t taste right? Like someone put a spice in it that didn’t need to be there, or one of the ingredients was stale? This scent isn’t right. Almost seems … unauthentic.”
“Like someone concealed their scent—either through an ability or with magick—by covering it with a fake one, only they didn’t cover it well enough?”
“Yes, exactly.”
Knox’s brow furrowed. “You don’t scent Sloan here?”
“No.”
Sloan Monroe was the newly appointed Prime of a Washington lair. He was also a slick motherfucker who’d repeatedly tried to buy the Underground from Knox. The subterranean version of the Las Vegas strip was every demon’s idea of paradise, and it brought in a shitload of money every year.