Raw Deal E-Book

S M Henley

• Herausgeber: S M Henley
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Good guys don’t make deals with demons. Do they? The world is approaching the Tipping Point—when the rising demons will outnumber humankind. Assassin for hire, Soren Huxford, needs to pick a side. It should be easy; he’s human after all and so is Tazia, the girl he loves and his first priority. But when the only demon he respects calls in a favor, Hux faces an impossible choice: hold true to humanity or prove his loyalty by throwing-down alongside the demons. Set against a backdrop of imminent disaster, where fighting the demons from his past are as real as those leaping from each dark corner, Soren needs to get a grip or he may become a monster too. And what about the girl? If he picks the wrong side, will he lose her forever? Still with its gritty humor intact, Raw Deal is the darkest of the Dark Urban Rising trilogy. Though Hux leads the charge, this third and final book brings him back together with Tazia and Billy to face the day of reckoning. Raw Deal is a supernatural thriller set on the streets of modern-day Las Vegas, Detroit, and Turin. Blood is guaranteed.

Leseprobe

Contents

About the book

Stay in touch

1. Taking Care Of Business

2. Four-Inch Heels

3. Hot Chocolate And Teddy Bears

4. Dead Men Don’t Speak

5. Stand With Me, Brother

6. Snapping Jaws

7. Clean Sweat and Saliva

8. On the Road

9. Let’s Play Pretend

10. The Red River

11. Mother’s Blood

12. Skinning A Live Bear

13. Brothers

14. Sunset

15. Roman Holiday

16. Shelling Peas

17. Six Years

18. Welcome Home

19. Ad Nauseam

20. The Irish Connection

21. Waiting for the Beast

22. The Monster in Me

23. Hello, Lover(s)

24. Return of the Prodigal Dude

25. Chain-Smoking Babies

26. Goodbye Girl

27. A Jeep Affair

28. A Necessary Sacrifice

29. Run Away

30. Big Picture Time

31. Remember Milan?

32. Revelations

33. Alone

34. Lemon Verbena Creamsicle

35. Rabies

36. Making Plans

37. Dungeons and Dragons

38. The Failsafe

39. The Tipping Point

40. An Angel’s Revenge

41. Justice

42. Aftermath

Author’s Note

Excerpt from Dead Playboy

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by S M Henley

Raw Deal

Dark Urban Rising Book 3

S M Henley

Copyright © 2019 by S M Henley and Darkish Fiction.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, places, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

2nd Edition January 2019.

First published March 2017 as Pecking at the Bones.

About the book

Good guys don’t make deals with demons. Do they?

The world is approaching the Tipping Point—when the rising demons will outnumber humankind. Assassin for hire, Soren Huxford, needs to pick a side. It should be easy; he’s human after all and so is Tazia, the girl he loves and his first priority. But when the only demon he respects calls in a favor, Hux faces an impossible choice: hold true to humanity or prove his loyalty by throwing-down alongside the demons.

Set against a backdrop of imminent disaster, where fighting the demons from his past are as real as those leaping from each dark corner, Soren needs to get a grip or he may become a monster too. And what about the girl? If he picks the wrong side, will he lose her forever?

Still with its gritty humor intact, Raw Deal is the darkest of the Dark Urban Rising trilogy. Though Hux leads the charge, this final book brings him back together with Tazia and Billy to face the day of reckoning. Raw Deal is a supernatural thriller set on the streets of modern-day Las Vegas, Detroit, and Turin. Blood is guaranteed.

Stay in touch

Sign up below to get news about upcoming releases, freebies, promotions, and exclusive offers. Or just to say “hi”!

Learn more at:

https://darkishfiction.com/stay-in-touch

To mum. Finally. (Ignore the cursing).

1

Taking Care Of Business

The dog yapped up a storm trying to gain the attention of passing strangers. Soren Huxford looked again through the sights of the rifle. It was a handbag dog. A tiny white fur ball with a pink tongue and scrappy hair tied up over its paper-thin skull with a purple bow. Trapped in the car, it raced between the seats and desperately licked at the little fresh air that floated through the sliver of an open window. With the temperature off the charts, it wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer.

Soren growled lightly in the back of his throat and caressed the trigger of his gun: he would be doing it a favor.

A sudden movement pulled his attention back to the car parked in front of the overheated mutt.

Although under cover, the sun was just at the right angle to bounce off his target’s bald head as he leaned forward and peered into the side mirror to check his teeth. He’d been eating a burrito packed with sloppy meat, chopped lettuce, and a nice thick layer of bright orange cheese. Soren’s mouth had watered for the food, his usual lean breakfast had been hours ago.

Balancing Oakleys above his eyebrows, the target continued to pick at his teeth in an effort to dig out the trapped green leaf without the distraction of a dark tint. The teeth were ebony black and sharpened to points, studded with little jagged diamond shards that flashed in the burning sun. A bone cruncher. A rich one—no one could afford that tooth job without great dental.

Despite the easy shot, Soren waited. If he fired now, Bald Guy would end up slumped out the window, blood spraying the perfectly white paintwork of his bog-standard Ford sedan. Too messy. He wanted a clean job. Besides, the car was a rental. Why should a low-paid high school kid have to clean up blood and brain? Not fair. He’d wait longer.

Still motionless, lying flat on his stomach, Soren eased out a breath. It tickled the feather, which had landed on his stretched out forearm thirty minutes ago, making it shimmy a fraction then settle again. It was down, a fluff feather used to keep the bird warm not to help it fly. The magpie, the most probable owner, watched him from the stainless steel railing of the balcony. It was eyeing Soren’s wristwatch with a beady look he sporadically returned. Was it figuring out the time, or just attracted by the slight reflection on the opaque black surface? Most probably the former. Birds weren’t stupid.

The apartment block was unusual for Las Vegas, only two stories high but right in the middle of town. It sheltered behind one of the huge flashy hotel complexes right on the Strip. It was a holiday let, cheaper than the others because of the mall car park he was staring into. No view of a swimming pool or fountains moving in time to the Star Wars theme tune, just concrete, and row upon row of bland rental vehicles with the occasional celebrity dick-mobile thrown in for good measure. He guessed the rich and famous occasionally needed mall stuff too. Or else wanted their egos stroked for being seen out among Regular Joes.

For a man who lived an invisible life, Soren didn’t understand the need for fame nor did he want to try to figure it out. Unless they were targets, he wouldn’t be able to tell Miley Cyrus from Kim Kardashian. Of course, if they had been his targets, he’d know everything about them, down to the number of times they visited the bathroom in the course of a day, or how many glasses of designer water they drank in an hour.

Bald Guy had settled back in his seat, slurping a Coke direct from the can—his fourth that day. The opportunity for the shot had passed.

Soren blinked and flexed his fingers. He’d wait all day if he had to.

Demons were ten-a-penny in Vegas. Some had always been here, others had come to escape the Risings elsewhere. It was a place where they could make some fast cash in industries designed for the purpose: gambling, sex shops, gun sales. Everything in plain sight, the way Vegas had always done it.

As a whole, the western cities weren’t doing too badly. Seattle and Portland had fallen, and further south, San Francisco. LA was holding its own for now. The demons there were like those here, already well ensconced in the city. They’d always made a good living and food was plentiful. So, why rock the boat?

The biggest surprise so far had been Texas with every city gone. He’d thought they would have held out longer, but it was as if the decision-makers had just handed over the keys. Done and dusted in a month.

Not like Detroit, the first city to fall. That was five long and painful years from the arrival of the first demon to the destruction of the last human. He’d been there. Experienced it firsthand.

Soren grunted, and as though in response, the magpie hopped along the railing toward him, its head cocked, eyes staring. When its persistence forced brief eye-contact with the gunman, it shook its wings to release a second feather. This one was for flight, a beautiful midnight blue. It floated straight down past the sights of the rifle through which Soren had focused once more. He grunted again: still no wind to factor.

Bald Guy was on his phone, getting pretty animated, too. Lots of hand-waving and shoulder-shrugs. His car was side-on to Soren’s view, right by the walkway. People were passing by the demon all the time, always it seemed with some kid dragged by the hand behind a parent or pushed in front in a buggy, everyone laden with bags and balloons. Holiday towns! It was another reason not to shoot yet; he didn’t want to be responsible for some poor kid’s PTSD.

The walkway emptied at the same time as Bald Guy put down his phone and stared out of the side window. It was a perfect shot.

Soren got ready. His breath continued to flow gently. These days, he only felt a rush if it had been a long hard slog to get to this point. This job had been textbook: a contract, an easy target, a three-day stakeout, and now, the shot. Job done. Money in hand.

Just taking care of business like always.

This was the third of such contracts in as many weeks, Soren had needed it. He’d needed to get his mind off her and back to normality.

There was never any likelihood that Tazia would fall into his arms, not after what they’d been through in Detroit and Boston. But he’d thought she might at least throw him a small bone. Some sort of kind word, or a promise of a time in the future when they could talk. Just talk. Christ, was that too much to ask for? But turning human hadn’t sat well with her. She was having problems adjusting. And that vicious tongue!

Soren growled again, deeper this time. Long and low. That special sound he kept just for her. She hadn’t given him a chance. But then, did he deserve one?

His explanations about why they’d played Boston the way they did had failed to ignite even a spark of interest in her. They’d used her to get to the angel. Trapped her. Practically forced her into giving up her demon. He was sorry, so fucking sorry, but heartfelt apologies had fallen on deaf ears.

Finally, he’d offered to go wherever she wanted. He would just run alongside, keep her safe. No strings. But she wouldn’t even give him that. He should have known she wouldn’t let him, she could take care of herself. Still, in his view, her last words before she left to go walkabout were unnecessary: I’ll cut your fucking heart out if you follow me.

Soren breathed out slightly more heavily, with conscious effort this time.

Box it up, soldier!

Still, he struggled. She stalked his thoughts, sometimes dancing on the periphery, smiling and teasing him. At other times, she came clearly into view, glaring, and flipping that damn knife from hand to hand.

He didn’t know this new Tazia. Human now, was she as capable a killer as the vampire she’d once been? She hadn’t even wanted Billy with her. That was a little satisfying, the fact she seemed to blame Billy as much as him, but only a little. Billy was the good guy in all this. He was flying with the angels, making plans to save the world, and would probably lead the charge against the demons when the time was right.

He’d told Soren to relax. This was the teen strop Tazia had never been allowed to have in one hundred and fifty years: Give her a break, bruv. Let her go twist her knickers for a while.

Well, she’d been twisting them for six weeks, and the waiting was killing him—

Box it up!

The shot was still perfect. Soren did the final checks and prepared to squeeze the trigger.

For now, he worked. He took the contracts and killed the targets in this sweatbox of a city that both intrigued and repelled him. It was as good a place as any to wait for Heaven to make its plans, and to tell him what his role would be in the coming battle.

And, for his own angel to return.

The musical fountain surged to its crescendo. He braced, and fired.

The loud crack shocked the magpie up into the air, but it soon settled again a couple of feet away. They don’t give up ground that easily, little bastards. In the parking garage, no one seemed to notice.

For Bald Guy it was over in an instant. He fell back in his seat, head hitting the neck rest and bouncing slightly before becoming still. He blinked once then his eyes stuck open, wide and staring, his head tilted to the side. A dark blue trickle of blood flowed from the small wound between his eyes and followed gravity over the bridge of his nose and across the top of his cheek. One drop fell from him into the darkness of the car then stopped. Coagulation was quick for this sort of demon.

Soren nodded, clean enough.

The dog whined from the car behind, a pathetic whimper that drifted over the road and onto the balcony. It was a last desperate plea for help before it was cooked in the heated recesses of the vehicle. Still lying in the same position, Soren shot again, this time at the SUV where the dog sheltered. The front windscreen exploded.

Without checking on the result, he broke up the rifle and put the pieces back into its padded carrier. He took a few quick photographs through the spotting-scope then packed that away too. As he stood up, he replaced his sunglasses, and briefly bared his teeth at the magpie who squawked in mild alarm, then turned its back.

Soren casually walked through the living room leaving the balcony doors wide open. Behind him, he heard the dog yapping loudly as it breathed cooler air at last. He smiled. No doubt it would soon be in the arms of a puppy-loving Good Samaritan.

As he left the apartment, he gave a satisfied grunt: it was time to collect his payment.

2

Four-Inch Heels

The hotel lobby stretched out on either side for what looked like miles. It was all the same: long, narrow, and bleak. Cream walls were bisected at regular intervals by abstract artwork, matching cream doors identified room numbers in cheap gold, and acres of multicolored low pile carpeting sported a repetitive cross-hatched design.

It was the sort of carpet that it would not be good to look at with a hangover.

Soren was searching for the elevator to take him up to the penthouse, but it was an upmarket place, the kind to hide the lift behind a phony double door—utility replaced by aesthetics. A far too familiar knot of tension twisted in his stomach. Aesthetics had its place, in Georgian town houses back in London for instance, or in the great churches of Paris and Rome, but not here. This place was a testament to the fake lunacy of Vegas architecture. It was designed to deceive, to disguise, to—

Dammit!

He stomped up and down the hallway for a second time, his temper starting to rise as high as the blast furnace outside. For once, it wasn’t the Risings causing the heat; it was simply the Nevada sun doing its best to beat all patience and reason out of the occupants of this overheated city.

The elevator pinged, and he chased down the sound to the far right of the corridor. The doors to the lift didn’t open, but a tiny downward-pointing arrow had lit up green when it floated past the floor and onward to the lobby.

At least he knew where the damn thing was now.

His stomach relaxed a little, but he still smacked roughly at the call button with the side of his fist. The plaster around the button crumbled slightly leaving white powder on his hand that he rubbed away with the other—

Destroy! That was it. Vegas architecture was designed to destroy all those who entered inside. To chip away at them until only dust was left.

He waited, breathing slowly, and trying not to stare at the gold painted frames around the horrendous artwork.

Cold breezes from the air conditioning blew across the top of his head, ruffling his long blond hair until he pushed it firmly back behind his ears. At chin-length, it was still manageable, but just washed, like now, it was too soft to stay put for long. The air flowed down into the open neck of his white shirt and light gray jacket. A welcome sensation. He’d gone back to his hotel room after the job at the apartment, and changed out of the fatigues and tee he usually wore when working. But a shirt and suit, no matter how impeccable the quality, were difficult to pull off in the heat, and the skin of his neck and cheeks buzzed too warm.

Another ping and the elevator finally opened its doors with a welcoming whoosh!

Inside stood a woman. She wore a low-cut black evening dress, even though it was just after lunch time, dagger-thin high heels that could skewer an eyeball, and black lace elbow-length gloves. He stared at her for a beat, taking in the ensemble, then nodded—a polite acknowledgment of her presence rather than approval of her outfit. He took a place in the elevator beside her.

She smiled, and asked with a raise of one impeccable eyebrow, “Going up?”

“Yes, the penthouse, thank-you.”

She nodded, and re-pressed the penthouse button although it was already lit, then cast the back of her hand under the sheet of jet black hair to lift it from her neck for a moment, as though his entrance had disturbed a few of the straight shiny strands. It hadn’t. The perfect central parting stood out white against the smooth ebony locks. Once her hair was tamed to her satisfaction, she stood motionless once more, staring forward at the doors, barely breathing.

Her movement had disrupted the flow of air in the small space, and he caught the smell of her perfume—fresh spring rain on a warm summer’s day. Within seconds it transformed to the tang of ripe peaches just picked from the tree, juicy and soft. All of his favorite scents.

The energy in the elevator seemed to oscillate. It made him shift his weight slightly further forward and place his feet half a pace more apart. The effect of the speed of their ascent, maybe.

Soren risked another side glance at her. That hair was incredible: thick and shiny, with just a hint of midnight blue, the magpie he’d seen earlier flashed again into his mind. He pushed the image away, it did her a disservice. Her hair reached to the middle of her back in one long heavy curtain. Sweltering, but she didn’t look hot. Not in that sense anyway. Christ, am I turning into Billy? That guy could never say anything without an undercurrent of sexual innuendo.

They traveled together up the remaining forty floors while Dolly Parton crooned about the femme fatale Jolene via the piped background music. It was one his mother used to sing to him when he was a young child. He frowned, thinking about it now, it seemed an odd choice.

The woman moved again. She began to play with the long twist of cream-colored pearls around her neck, lifting each one to her lips in turn and sucking on it very slightly. As the seal between each solid bead and her wet lips broke, there was a tiny smacking sound, and she moved onto the next like she was performing some fetishistic rosary. Before long, Soren was counting both the regularity of the smacks with the beats of the song.

He dwarfed her. His six-foot-three muscular body filled almost half the lift space, while her slight frame only reached his chin, even with the four-inch heels. Curious, he tried to catch a good view of her face, but couldn’t seem to get a proper glimpse. So, instead, he peered at her reflection in the dull mirroring of the lift’s interior. He still couldn’t make her out, the metal appeared to undulate under his gaze.

With a slight lurch, the lift stopped, and the doors opened. He wrenched his attention away from his companion and stared directly into the penthouse suite at the very top of the hotel.

The woman quickly stepped out. She turned slightly to look at him over her shoulder as she went. “Nice to meet you, Soren Huxford.” The accent was English with a twang of something else. French?

With a flash of azure eyes, she was gone, and for a moment, he felt… lost.

The sound of the gun cocked level with his head broke the daze.

3

Hot Chocolate And Teddy Bears

Soren looked from the huge shiny revolver to the face of the man who pointed it at him—the magnum was most probably overcompensating for something.

He wore dark Raybans and sported an evening jacket that strained across mountainous shoulders. His finger fondled the trigger in a way that promised a quick climax to proceedings if Soren gave him cause.

The Swede sighed and rubbed the blond stubble on his cheek with the flat of his fingers. They itched to grab the weapon and smash the guy’s face with it, but he needed to show restraint. This job was easy, and maybe there would be the chance for more of the same. So instead he said, “Here for Dr. Drayden.”

The man-mountain stepped back, dropped the revolver to chest height, and jerked the long barrel toward the left side of the corridor. Soren strode out of the elevator, and lifted his jacket to have his own, more modest, gun checked—he knew the drill. But the bodyguard made no move to remove the weapon. He just gave a smirk that said: Mine’s bigger than yours. Billy would have loved it.

Motioning with the gun toward the corridor again, the man moved further to one side to allow Soren to pass.

The hallway opened out into a large living space which wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Warhol home movie: huge picture windows faced the Vegas city scape with low leather sofas, white shag-pile rugs, and huge swirls of purple paint on the wall.

Seeing the lurid patterns made Soren stop his assessment short. The Turin apartment he’d shared with Tazia had something similar, a smaller scale, but the same shade of bright purple mixed into weird images of distorted foliage. It had reminded him of some psychedelic album cover from the seventies. She’d loved it. He’d spent two years wanting to paint it over. Compared to this huge scale monstrosity, he’d been making a fuss about nothing.

The woman from the elevator sat on one of the sofas, her legs curled to one side with sharp heels dangerously dragging on the black leather, and the split in her long skirt revealing shapely legs. She seemed taller somehow and now wore dark shades with little gold wing tips at the corners, viciously sharp.

Beside her was a small man, maybe five-foot-four, an Italian with tanned skin, slick steel-gray hair, and black designer suit. He wore it over a white open-necked dress shirt with a folded collar that fitted high and snug against his neck, and pristine cuffs held together with large gold cufflinks. He dripped with jewelry from wrist to neck, more mob boss than rap star.

His right hand was nestled between the thighs of the woman, just above her knees, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the same spot, leaving a little trail of white in the tanned skin. They both looked at Soren and smiled.

All at once, Drayden became animated. Still smiling, he stood, raised his hands wide in a welcoming gesture, and then clapped them sharply together. He left them there in a prayer position before bowing slightly. “Mr. Huxford—you good man—thank you for coming! Thank you. Thank you.” He may have looked Italian, but his accent drilled New York, an odd match with the over-effusive greeting.

“You’re welcome.” Soren kept one eye on the man-mountain who was still fingering his gun with a little too much affection.

“The job went well?”

“You got the photographs I—”

“Yes, beautiful!” Drayden’s grin was wide.

“Then, sir, it went well.” Soren still hadn’t taken a further step into the room.

“Come sit with us for a moment, Mr. Huxford, while Deke prepares your payment.” He glanced at his bodyguard who bowed his head, though his lips pursed a little disapprovingly, then walked along the corridor and out of sight.

“You met Ms. Skye, I understand?” Drayden continued, and glanced at the woman on the sofa, looking for her confirmation, not his.

She nodded at him, uncurled her legs and slid her body to one side, then patted the seat beside her. “Come sit, Soren.” Strangely, her voice now had an Eastern European edge.

He glanced at Drayden, double-checking that he had the approval to sit next to his… What? Girlfriend. No, that wasn’t right.

Drayden stepped to one side and gesticulated for him to sit exactly where she had motioned.

Soren moved to the spot and sat, instantly hating the lowness of the sofa which left him with his knees higher than the seat. Trying to gain space, he pushed his butt back, but there was still no room for his long legs to stretch as a coffee table blocked them.

The woman curled her legs up again, momentarily rubbing her shoulder against his arm. Static shot up and down his limb, buzzing long after she’d moved away. Now her scent was sweet hot chocolate, and his mind flashed to a teddy bear he’d been given when he was five.

He jerked slightly at the oddly inappropriate image and turned to look at her feeling that she was responsible somehow. Her covered eyes gazed directly into his.

“Are you taller now?” he asked her.

“Possibly.” The word pushed from her mouth, her red painted lips holding onto the pucker of the “p” a little longer than was natural.

Soren stared at them, feeling a very real urge to lean forward and—

“Here’s your drink, Mr. Huxford.” Drayden sat down on his other side, putting a glass tumbler into his hand.

“Did I ask for one?”

“Yes, whiskey. Just now.” Ms. Skye replied.

Soren looked from one to the other, confused, he had no recollection of asking for a drink. Bookended by the couple, with the coffee table in front of him, he felt trapped. The gun under his jacket seemed to weigh heavier than usual. It was comforting.

He took a sip from the whiskey Drayden had handed him, and sucked a half-melted ice cube into his mouth, sticking it against a delicate side tooth. The freeze knifed into his jaw. He winced, but felt more grounded.

“Better?” Ms. Skye asked.

“Yes.” This time he was determined not to look at her. But he could still sense her eyes, lips, hair—dammit, all of her. He felt unsteady. Even vulnerable.

The sound of heavy footsteps announced the return of Deke, who placed an open holdall on the coffee table in front of Soren. He seemed to have left his attitude, as well as the large gun, in the bedroom and grimaced a smile. “Your payment, sir.”

“Count it, Mr. Huxford. It’s all there, but I’d rather you were sure.” Drayden shrugged, and circled his own whiskey, clinking the remaining ice against the edges of the glass. “This little demon issue we all have to suffer right now at least keeps us honest. Prevents the banks from taking their cuts on online transactions.”

Leaning forward, Soren cast a practiced eye over the mound of cash in the bag. He took in the denomination, and the number of bundles, before nodding. “It’s all here.”

“Good.” Drayden stood. “I believe our business is done, for now, Mr. Huxford, but I would like the option to call upon you again, if I may?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Yes, very good.” Drayden offered his hand.

Soren stood to shake it, towering over the small man.

“Sowilo, would you please see Mr. Huxford out?”

Without demur, the woman uncurled, stood and swept her way around the far side of the coffee table and over to the hallway. “This way please, Soren.”

Is her hair turning red? Soren knocked back the last of the whiskey and replaced the tumbler on the table. He picked up the holdall and walked toward her. Drayden had already disappeared down the corridor, and Deke was nowhere in sight.

They stood beside the elevator, her hand hovering over the call button, but she didn’t press it. Instead, she raked a red nail down his arm gently, puckering the fine gray fabric of his suit. “The demons aren’t done with you yet, Soren. And yet you must still trust them. Well, one anyway.”

“What?” He twisted his head to look at her.

“Things aren’t always what they seem,” she whispered, then shrugged. “But then you know that.” She gazed past him for a second, staring into a middle distance that appeared alive with meaning to her, before finishing her commentary with, “Compassion is the key to humanity. Let her see it.”

As soon as she’d said the last word, she pressed the button, and the lift opened. He stepped inside, but the doors didn’t close after him, she had shifted her feet to straddle the door and block them. She reached into the bodice of her dress for a business card and offered it to him.

Soren took it automatically, the cardboard warm in his fingers. She stepped away from the door without a backward glance as the doors closed.

Dragging his eyes to the card he read, “Sowilo Skye—Escort of Extraordinary Talent. Call 0666 from anywhere.”

4

Dead Men Don’t Speak

Soren stood in the hallway beside his hotel room door. It shifted a creaky inch to and fro in the breeze from the window. He’d left neither the door nor the window open.

Peering through the crack between the hinges, he saw no one, but instinct raised hairs on the back of his neck—someone was inside.

Soren reviewed possible intruders. Apart from Drayden’s man and Sowilo Skye, no one knew he was in Vegas. He hadn’t even told Billy where he was going, though, no doubt with his angelic superpowers, as he loved to call them, he could find him easily enough. But Billy wouldn’t hide out in his room, he’d be more likely to slap a kiss on his lips.

Maybe someone had got wind of the job he’d just completed and thought he’d be returning with a pile of cash. If that was the case, they’d be disappointed, it was already safely stashed elsewhere.

He pushed the door with his foot and waited. If whoever was inside was innocently changing his sheets, cleaning his bathroom, or even casually rooting in his underwear drawer, they’d soon make themselves known.

When the voice came, Soren wasn’t prepared.

“Hux? Come in now, won’t yer. You can’t be standing there all day, man.”

Soren heard the softness of the accent and the familiar turn of phrase, and his heart lurched. It couldn’t be. Dead men don’t speak.

Trembling, Soren dropped his weapon to his side. If this was a trap, or some sort of magical trickery by the Advocate, he didn’t care; he’d happily die at the hands of this man.

Stepping inside, and around the door, he faced the easy chair that stood in the opposite corner to the window. It was darkest there. What he took to be a shadow shifted just as lightning shot through the sky outside and lit up the room, the drapes billowing in the accompanying gust of wind.

Briefly illuminated, Conn O’Cuinn took a step forward, then faded again into shadow. Praying it hadn’t been his imagination, Soren flicked on the weak overhead light.

The Irish demon looked the same: tall and broad, with a messy crew cut doing its best to control the thick brown hair, and eyes oscillating between aquamarine and light blue. His clothes were the usual dark blue jeans and a button-down shirt that matched the shade of his eyes for as long as they flashed green.

As the curtain fell back the tremors in Soren’s limbs intensified. He dropped to his knees and his gun, suddenly a dead weight, gave a dull thump as it hit the linoleum covered floor.

“Wha...?” His voice failed him.

Conn took another step forward and offered his hand. “For sure, get up, man.”

Mute, Soren opened and closed his mouth, the forefinger of his leaden right hand still hooked around his weapon. He couldn’t move, his eyes stuck wide drilling into Conn’s. If he blinked, would he disappear?

Finally, he found his voice. “Are you a… ghost?” As the pounding of blood in his head retreated, his mind scanned through the possibilities, settling on the most unlikely first. No one came back. Not ever. Not from the demon or the heavenly dimensions. Everyone knew the notion of an afterlife was bullshit. So how could he be here?

“Nah, man.” Conn grinned. “What would a feckin’ ghost be needing to come back to this hell hole for? Though I’ve heard Vegas is good for the shows.” He laughed loudly at his own joke.

While Soren grasped for sense in the response, the thunder came, slow on the heels of the lightning. It was the ear-splitting kind, a deafening crack that splinters the sky like an ax cleaving a log. Both men instinctively ducked until the vibration in the walls and floor petered out.

Triggered by the thunder-clap, Soren at last found some strength. Leaving his weapon where it was, he leaped to his feet and seized Conn around the neck. Driven by the momentum, he slammed the demon hard against the wall, crashing the back of his head against it. Pieces of old plaster came loose and dropped onto them as they both slid to the floor.

Conn lifted his own hands to Soren’s neck, as if he was completing a circuit between himself and the Swede. His eyes zipped to an ice blue, even lighter than Soren’s own. But there they both stopped. Just large hands gripping each other, both collapsed in a heap at the bottom of the wall.

“You’re… solid.” Soren said.

“Yes.”

“Flesh and—”

“Yes!”

“Not dead?”

“No!”

“And not... her?”

“Jegudiel?”

Soren nodded.

Conn squeezed out a laugh through the constriction of Soren’s hands, his eyes gently deepening once more. “No recruit, I’m no feckin’ psycho angel.” He shifted his grip to pull at Soren’s wrists. “Easy, Hux. Let me go, now.”

“It’s really you!” Soren let his arms flop to his sides, took a breath, and then grabbed at Conn again, this time scooping him into a hug that knocked the breath from them both.

He’d killed this man. Shoved a dagger deep into his brain to save Tazia. It had nearly killed him to do it, but he’d had no choice. This demon was the closest to family Soren had ever had, more than a brother. And here he was, back from the dead.

He felt the wet on his cheeks and smothered his face against the other man’s shoulder to muffle the sound of his sobs. “Sorry,” he whispered, over and over.

For a short while, Conn allowed it, then pushed Soren away. He gripped his face and stared into his eyes. “You’re forgiven, right? I understand why you did it. You had to. I know what Jegudiel did. She tricked you into it. It wasn’t your fault, lad.”

But Soren pulled away, heat in his cheeks. He couldn’t face him. Conn should hit him, not forgive him.

“Look at me!”

Soren jerked up his head.

Conn’s eyes were gentle and didn’t match the sternness of his voice. “I forgive you. Do you understand, soldier?”

Soren nodded. With his mind still spinning, he rubbed his wet eyes roughly with the heels of his hands, and took a deep breath to steady himself. Whatever this was, he needed to regain control. Collapsing in a heap like this was unacceptable. Get a grip!

He stood and offered his hand to Conn who took it and pulled himself up. He did it stiffly, like he was carrying an old injury in his back.

“You got whiskey in this shit-hole?”

Soren nodded, still not able to speak.

“Good. Make it a feckin’ double.”

Another flash of lightning lit up the room, thunder closer on its tail now.

Conn settled back in the easy chair while Soren fetched a couple of plastic cups from the sink in the bathroom.

While there, he splashed cold water on his face, then gripped onto the edges of the basin, and stared into the mirror collecting himself, trying to stop trembling. He watched as the water rolled from his face. It built against the stubble on his cheeks, and dropped with a splash onto his shirt, chilling his chest too.

He shook his head roughly, shaking away the water like a dog, and clearing the last of the confusion. He allowed himself a brief smile into the mirror. His brother was back.

“Jaysus, this place gets some storms. Thought I’d left that behind in Hell.” Conn’s words floated through the bathroom door.

Soren flinched at his reflection, eyes narrowing. Hell?

5

Stand With Me, Brother

Back in the bedroom, Soren filled the cups. He gave one to Conn then sat opposite him on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to say more.

The sky split again. This time, the lightning flash was accompanied by marble-sized hailstones. They bounced off the window ledge and hammered against the glass, some making it through the opening at the bottom and scattering on the floor of the room. Both men stared as they slowly began to melt, dotting into little dark pools.

To Soren’s relief, the temperature had plummeted with the onset of the storm, and he found his breath coming a little more easily, though the cold water he’d splashed on his face now felt boiling. He wanted to ask about Hell but couldn’t, worried that his tears would begin again, so he forced out other words to push away the stopper in his throat. “You think this place is a shit-hole?”

Conn grinned and nodded, “I’m thinking the only reason there are no cockroaches is cos they packed up and moved.” He grinned wider. “You always did like ‘character,’ Hux.”

The hotel was a converted thirties mansion house set way off the Strip in the old area of town. It was in the district where the mob used to hang out back in the sixties. Just the sort of place Soren liked, classic and classy; history sounding with each rattle of the window pane, and seeping up between the cracks in the linoleum.

Conn stretched both arms above his head, and for the first time, Soren saw deep wounds in his wrists and around his jawline. It looked like someone had hacked at him with the sharp end of a potato peeler. The wounds were still fresh: deep purple, some crusted yellow, or with blackened scabs. One place, around his right ear, oozed fresh blue blood. He must have dislodged the scab when he squeezed Conn’s neck.

He retrieved a towel he’d earlier hung over the back of a dining chair, and dampened it at the bathroom sink before giving it to the demon. “You’re bleeding.”

Conn took it and dabbed at the wound. “Sure, I cut myself shaving this morning, so I did.” He winked.

“What happened? Those don’t look like fight injuries.”

“Well, I can tell you, Hux, but don’t you be getting all guilty on me again.”

“I said, I understood. But I’ll be guilty til my dying day.” Soren refilled their cups, noting the additional bottle in the cupboard. Good. They’d need two. “Tell me, man. What happened? Where have you been?”