Dark Hope (The Devil's Assistant) (2 page)

No one ever took the gift. Probably because it was a cheap gold watch or maybe it was the unsigned thank-you card curled inside the band.

Janus stomped away from my desk and punched the elevator button with his fist. I shouldn’t care
,
and not because I’d become jaded over the last five years
.
I shouldn’t care because he made his deal—just like the rest.

I shoved the three documents and his credit card into the red folder. I couldn’t save him any more than I could save me.

I gazed at the flowers again and remembered I would see Jack for lunch. He was the reason I got up in the morning. I loved him. He was the thing that kept me sane. I needed him, and I really wished I were still curled up in bed with him instead of staring at a red message light from the oldest hellspawn in existence.

I took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and pressed voicemail. In the five years I’d worked here, Junior never came to The Boss’s office. Not willingly.

I concentrated on his voice from the message. “Summer sun and falling rain have only you to call my name. If ever joy and comets come, the end of ocean’s eyes are one. Blue and deep the windows see, as far and wide as yonder be. The willow breaks and I must need the one who means so much to me...I’m sorry about before. I can’t wait to see you. I’m coming up.”

I’m not sure how many minutes passed, but at some point, the phone timed out, clicked off voice mail, and started an annoying busy signal. I was still holding the phone—trying to determine exactly what had happened.

I hung up the phone and stared.
What the hell was that
? I picked up my coffee, wishing it were a double espresso.

“A love poem?” I said. I pressed the call log again. His name was still there.

The intercom buzzed, and I nearly dropped my coffee. The mark on my right forearm tingled and burned. Symbols appeared. I had no idea what they meant and was too scared to ask. The four characters resembled Chinese script, but they were actually from a long-dead ancient language.

I clenched my fist as he made the blood of his mark boil.

The intercom buzzed again. I glanced at my watch—it was early for The Boss to be in the office. I quickly checked my desk. Everything was in order—just the way he liked it. Retirement complete, no messages, no meetings until later. Maintenance was planning to strike, but he’d ignore that.
Okay, breathe. Now find out what he wants
.

I pressed the intercom, ignoring the pain on my arm.
Be polite. Be courteous
. “Yes, sir.”

“Come here.”

He didn’t look up as I entered the office. Usually his desk was the picture of organization, but today he was moving papers around as if he’d misplaced something.

A slight chill made goose bumps on my arm as I closed the door. It always struck me as peculiar that he liked his office cold given his realm was Hell.

His voice was dispassionate and clipped as he said, “I need you to fetch something.”

I straightened. He wanted me to leave the office?

In a casual tone hiding a deeper meaning, he asked, “Who sent the flowers?”

My mouth went dry. I couldn’t speak. His stark black eyes were on me now—waiting. The Boss had one rule that could never be broken. No ordinary human or plebe from the office could know who he was. If I told anyone, they died. Period.

“Jack,” I said quietly.

After a moment of studying me, The Boss dropped his gaze to his desk. He was dressed completely in black. His shirt was open at the collar—no tie. His black hair was cut short with a few streaks of silver running through it. He had a strong jaw and angular nose. He was attractive—as always—but frightening.

I stood there, waiting for his command, but it never came. After several more minutes I asked, “What do you want picked up?” which came out more agitated than it should have.
Crap
. He had me on edge with the flower question, but that was no excuse.

He was staring at me again. His intense eyes flared as he sent a jolt of heat through my mark.
Be polite, be courteous, and be quiet
. I bowed my head. He dialed the mark down a few notches.

“You will go downtown and see a man named Wylan James.”

My head popped up, and my eyes widened.

He ignored me and continued, “He has something for me. Tell him I sent you, and he’ll give you what I need.”

The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them. “I’m not allowed downtown by myself.”

My survival instincts were forgetting several key bits of information. First, his mood—grizzly bear. And second, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about me. Why should he care if the druid mob that runs the Underworld—or downtown, as he liked to call it—has threatened to kill me if they catch me down there alone again?

He kicked up the heat on his mark. I clamped my mouth shut so I wouldn’t scream, or say anything else to piss him off.

“Return to me by noon.”

~ * ~

Trying to ignore the nagging unease in my gut, I headed to the motor pool. The Boss knew I wasn’t supposed to go to the Underworld alone, so why was he sending me?

The Underworld was the place between the three realms and Earth. I remember thinking it sounded so exotic. It turned out to look a lot like New York City. The only real difference between the Underworld and Manhattan was the cops. The druids ran the police. They were the law keepers of the Underworld, but they weren’t police. They were the mob, and they were as corrupt as any member of organized crime on Earth.

The druids were the reason I didn’t go downtown alone. The first time I’d been sent, a ruthless druid named Johnny Flash trapped me in a circle of salt surrounded by rabid dogs for three days. They made me promise to get Maintenance dental by the winter solstice.

The Boss said no to dental.

I was barely sixteen, but I learned three very important lessons that day. The Boss cared nothing for me, no one gets dental
,
and druids were not to be trusted—ever.

I willed the bad memories away. I’d get in and out before anyone knew I was there. I had no choice. No one refused The Boss.

The motor pool was dead. Shiny black town cars were parked neatly in almost every available spot of the big underground garage. The normally bustling atmosphere was quiet. It always was the Monday after a big Underworld event. The guys had all worked the weekend, driving the executives to and from Fight Night, so they had today off.

I spotted the manager, a burly demon with wiry black hair.

“I got your car ready, Miss Cooper,” he said with a smile. The glint of red in his eyes sparkled as he motioned to the smaller man behind him. “Your usual guy is out—stomach flu—and with the fight being this past weekend—”

“I understand. You’re short-staffed,” I said, stopping his explanation. My polite smile faded when I sensed the new guy’s veil.

“This is Frankie,” the manager said. “He’ll be your driver today.”

Frankie appeared to be in his early thirties, and the harsh line of his nose and jaw gave him a stern demon-ish look. I was being stereotypical, since he was a demon, but he triggered my veil detector. The anxious feeling in my stomach, the response my body had to being near a veil, wasn’t helping to settle my nerves. He shouldn’t have been veiled. It wasn’t necessary
. Not
down here where humans weren’t allowed.

There wasn’t much physical difference between the beings of the three realms and humans. The pagans, druids, and demons veiled when around humans to hide what
was
different. Frankie’s veil wasn’t just out of place. It was wrong. His veil made him appear more
like
a demon.

I checked my watch. Frankie was busy typing on his phone, but if we didn’t leave soon I’d never make it back in time.

“I need to see a man named Wylan James,” I said. “It’s important business for The Boss.”

Frankie’s eyes were blank, but his hardened expression was smug. “Hold your horses, toots. I gotta make the log entry before I can leave.”

“I have to be back by noon,” I said.

“Frankie,” the motor pool manager hollered. “Get goin’—that’s a VIP you’re driving.”

“All right, already.” Frankie shoved the key into the ignition.

Finally. I waved a thank-you to the manager.

I looked up when Frankie muttered a curse. He was stabbing at the GPS, trying to clear the screen. I only caught a glimpse before the screen went blank, but I was sure the last destination had been somewhere in Paradise—which was impossible. No one who worked for The Boss could go there.

The three realms weren’t exactly vacation destinations. I’d never been to Hell—thank God, but it was technically possible to go. My soul would be trapped in Hell when I died. Demons were souls who had already died, but had enough power or privilege to get out of Hell. While it wasn’t impossible for Frankie to go to Paradise—the druid realm—what reason would the Druid King have for allowing him passage?

I checked my watch again, but before I could tell Frankie I’d wait for the next driver, the car lurched forward, and we were off.

I considered asking him to return to the garage, but I really didn’t have time to wait. It was a quick pick-up—in and out—no big deal.

Ignoring my unease, I picked up my newspaper and settled back into my seat.

The entertainment section was taken over by the Fight Night debacle. The fight—Underworld’s biggest event—became an uncontrolled brawl after several small fights broke out in the arena. The entire event had to be shut down. For the first time in a hundred years, Fight Night was cancelled.

I shivered when the tingle of the threshold passed through me. We’d crossed into Underworld. Buffered by the car, it wasn’t much different from a change in the cabin pressure on an airplane.

My eyes widened as a white van screeched to a stop in front of us. Frankie slammed on the brakes, throwing me forward into the back of the front seat.

Four tough-looking goons piled out of the white van that was now blocking the road ahead. I gripped my phone to call for help. Panicked, I glanced at Frankie to see if he was okay.

I froze when I spotted the gun he pointed at my chest.

I gasped. “What are you doing?”

He grinned and then pulled the trigger.

I expected agony to rip through my chest. When I only felt a sharp pain, I lowered my gaze to see the damage, but there was no hole in my chest. Instead, there was a blue-feathered dart.

My eyelids drooped. Frankie had his phone to his ear. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. He smirked at me, continuing his conversation. I was going to pass out.

I fought to keep my eyes open. Frankie ran a hand through his hair, drawing the illusion away. His dark hair changed to a mousey brown, and his eyes glinted a muddy caramel. I understood now why he’d been veiled.

“Angel...” I accused, just before I blacked out.

Two

My mouth was dry. That was the first thing I noticed when I came to. The second was the horrible smell of pickled olives—a druid delicacy in the Underworld, and a dead giveaway the mob was behind this.

Slowly, I opened my eyes. Light shot through my head, making me wince. I glanced around. The room I was being held in was a large pantry lined with shelves of food and crates of fresh vegetables and fruit. My hands and feet were tied behind me. I was cold, lying on the dirty concrete floor. At least there weren’t any rabid dogs this time.

My chest hurt where the dart hit me. I attempted to readjust, but nothing was comfortable. The ropes around my wrists and ankles were too tight, but I didn’t think I could get them off. When faint murmurs drifted in from outside, I stopped moving.

I closed my eyes and concentrated on the door across the room. At first, I didn’t hear anything. Then, as if a set of speakers had been flipped on, clomping feet and chair creaks came through loud and clear.

“Hey, Frankie, how did you like working for The Boss?” a man with a heavy European accent asked.

Another deeper voice—not Frankie—chuckled. Two unknown men were outside the door.

A normal person wouldn’t have been able to hear them so clearly—or understand them, since they were speaking in Druid, but I wasn’t exactly normal, and I had gadgets.

The veil detector wasn’t the only company issued perk I woke up with five years ago. I had no idea what made the veil detector work—spells probably—but the translator was technology. Totally manmade tech the plebes would kill for.

It translated everything but Ancient into English, and it magnified any sound within earshot to an audible level. I’d cursed it often until I learned to control it. Now I could pick up the slightest sound and draw it near enough to listen.

A loud scrape of wood on concrete and the deep voice bellowed, “What the—” bringing my attention back to the men outside the room. A loud grunt and what sounded like a wooden chair clattered as something big hit the floor.

“What’s your problem?” the man with the European accent asked.

Scuffling, a few thumps, and a jarring thud.

“Fuck you, Frankie,” the man with the deep voice growled. “Can’t take being called an ange—”

A grunt of pain and another shove against the door before the European said, “Chill out. Let him go, Frankie, you ugly fuck.”

Druids were so damn touchy. They hated to be called angels. It was their own fault. They called their realm Paradise for God’s sake. What did they expect?

Sadly, that was the only similarity to angels they had. Druids weren’t unattractive exactly, but they weren’t beautiful. They weren’t even cute; they were plain—average, ordinary, nothing special. I was stupid to have called him an angel, but he shot me with a tranquilizer dart. He deserved it.

“Enough,” the European cried.

“I’ll show her,” Frankie snarled.

Shuffling feet neared the door. The click of a bolt sounded. I gasped, then relaxed, pretending to be asleep.