Seal of Destiny (3 page)

Mira’s mouth went arid. An odd flutter tickled through the pit of her stomach, making her squirm. Fight or flight. Flight was the normal, reasonable response in this situation, but the last twelve years had changed her. Now Mira fought. She snapped the money from the guy’s long fingers, flashed him a don’t-fuck-with-me glare, and jerked her head toward the club entrance. The guy had the nerve to wink at her before he disappeared. Mira battled the urge to kick him in the shin.

Her imaginary Bitchy Meter clicked another notch closer to the red zone as fatigue threatened to obliterate her defenses. Mira’s thoughts raced faster than a customized Corvette. So what if the guy was gorgeous, his smoky voice an invitation to climb aboard the
Got Sex
train? Who cared if his mussed-sheets smile curled her toes inside her steel-toed boots? And what difference did it make if he might be big enough, strong enough to fight her most vile demons?

A tap on the shoulder made her thoughts jump the rails. Another bouncer came out to relieve her. Mira headed into the warm indoors with a bone-weary sigh. Her numb fingers fumbled to undue the zipper on her parka and her cheeks tingled beneath the hot air blowing down from the ceiling vents. She hung her coat on the hook behind the bar and straightened her shirt then attempted to tame her feral mane.

“Hey, Mira,” Bebe called over the pounding music. “Can you go downstairs and get some more rum? We’re almost out with these drink specials.”

Mira gave a reluctant nod and yanked the keys off the wall. She trudged to the far end of the area and unlocked the basement stockroom. As she stuffed the key ring into her back pocket, Mira’s gaze hooked once more with the man uppermost in her recent thoughts. There he sat, draped in a corner booth, longneck in hand, observing her with undisguised interest. The damn flutter blossomed anew.

Mira turned away and slammed the door behind her, clicking on the lights before starting down the rickety stairs.
Get through tonight then a whole blessed week off. I’ll make it, dammit!

She punched an inflatable bottle of beer out of the way and finished her trek to the dank basement and pulled the chain on the bare bulb above. Silencing her futile wish to burrow into her nice warm bed and sleep for days, Mira rummaged through the plethora of filthy containers, searching for a damn crate of rum.

A skitter of claws echoed from behind, and Mira whirled toward the sound. She squinted into the dark, but spotted nothing. She returned to the crates only to hear a distant, off-key whistle issue from the far corner. The tune dissolved into one etched on her mind and her heart rate skyrocketed. It was the melody she heard every time she slept. A sinister chuckle near her ear had her leaping for the exit. The lights flickered. The smell of sulfur overwhelmed. Mira charged for the stairs and the lights went out. Pitch black hell. The nightmare had arrived.

The former body of Norman McClaine closed the file on the desk. He reposed in the leather office chair, hands folded atop his bulbous stomach, and glanced at the picture frames across from him. The glass reflected flat gray eyes sparking orange from the demon now residing inside him. Argus stretched inside his new form and assessed the status of his metamorphosis. He’d been forced to make the takeover fast. Fast wasn’t his preferred method. Still, once the simplest of human functions turned malevolent, he knew his transformation was complete.

He scanned the awards with a sneer. Each one testified to a fine, upstanding citizen, an exulted humanitarian, presented for assisting countless forgotten children find their forever homes. Centered in a place of honor was a photo of the new department head at her appointment ceremony. She shook hands with McClaine, her eyes wide and full of innocence. The shutter had captured a phantom darkness skittering through Norman McClaine’s expression. A premonition of things to come.

Pathetic fucks, the lot of ’em.

Argus spit into the trashcan. A sizzle sounded from the metal container as his acidic saliva ate through the bottom and into the carpet below. Good thing his plans opted for a quick, clean theft. Too long in his current form and things would start to deteriorate.

The phone on the desk buzzed to life, red lights flashing. Argus recognized the number on the caller ID and glanced at the clock before he answered, assuring sufficient time before the office’s owner returned. With a sigh, Argus pushed the speakerphone button.

“Any problems with the possession?” An ominous, monotone voice crept along the line.

Sweat beaded on the human’s upper lip. Argus swiped the moisture away. Perspiration remained the one unchanged function during any demon-human transmutation, a filthy reminder of his human carcass hideout. He hated sweat. Demons didn’t perspire. “Nope. The pussy barely put up a fight when I took him.” Argus leaned forward to rip leaves off a nearby houseplant plant, seeking an outlet for his burgeoning violence. He tossed the fragments into an ever-growing molehill of herbicidal slaughter.

“Do you have the information?” The caller wasn’t big on small talk.

“Got it right here.” He reopened the battered manila folder, the contents overflowing.

“Read the last entry.”

Argus mopped his now drenched face, cursing his host’s emotions. He’d eliminate the problem soon enough. “Says the girl ran away from her final placement twelve years ago, on her sixteenth birthday. At last report, she’s still here in Chicago.”

“Nothing else?” A hint of distrust tinged the cold tone reverberating in the room.

“No.” Argus’s concealed claws itched. He was so tired of lesser beings questioning his goddamn integrity. He was a Son of El, for fuck’s sake! Nobody questioned him. Even Lucifer left the Sons alone. He wasn’t about to let these pussy half-breeds start, either. He sank back in the cushy office chair and kicked his feet up on the desk. Time for some recon of his own. “You know this McClaine’s a real perverted shit. He’s been sampling the goods for years, not including the sales.”

“Stick to the assignment, Argus. We don’t care about McClaine. Not anymore.”

Argus smiled. He had a pretty good idea why they’d insisted he use this host. He glanced at the discolored file, at the torn edges and the faded Polaroid stapled to its front, and grimaced. The girl’s eyes glared with defiance, her curly hair in disarray around her shoulders, finger-shaped bruises barely visible under the pale skin of her throat.
Bingo
. “Are you sure she’s the one you want? She doesn’t look very
pliable
.”

“Our reasons are not your concern.” The lethal precision in the monotone voice could cut granite. A low-pitched hum droned. Argus leaned away as the noise grew louder and gave an exaggerated yawn while the voice yammered. “If we suspect betrayal, Argus, I guarantee you won’t like the results. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.” Argus smirked. They had no idea what he was capable of. What he could endure. Shit, what he
had
endured. Fuck the girl. He had bigger stakes in mind. “And transport?”

“Just get her. We’ll arrange pickup.” Muffled murmurs echoed behind the caller’s voice. “And we expect her whole.”

Argus gave a closed-lipped half smile at the girl’s picture. Hostile was not a turn on. He preferred females with less spine, more cushion. Not a problem. But smart of them to clarify. Pieces were always easier. Argus shifted his attention to the wall calendar and pinpointed the tiny circles dotting certain squares. “Fine. I’ll need a week.”

“Seven days, Argus. We’ll be watching.” The call disconnected, and Argus stared at the file for a few moments before replacing the receiver. He exhaled, scattering his accumulated pile of shredded houseplant remains like confetti. The plan was underway.

Argus opened a cheap expand-a-file and shoved the girl’s folder inside along with the massive contact list he’d printed. He exhaled a long breath at the nearby smoke detector. Black smoke spewed from his lungs in a column to blast toward the sensor. Moments later, the alarm triggered and the sirens blared. Argus dumped the contents of the candy dish into his already overstuffed holder then cracked the door open, pleased to find the chaos he’d counted on. He slipped out undetected and weaved his way through the maze of cubicles to the entrance. Once out in the sunny atrium, he hustled down the staircases to the lobby with the bag clutched to his side and humans crowded around him.

He exited the building and walked out into the chilly Chicago dusk. Argus squinted at the waxing moon with its trio of surrounding stars. The holiday crowds jostled, but he didn’t notice. One week and it would all change.
One week and he’d own this damned place. Hell, one week and he’d own the whole fucking planet.
Argus gave a slow grin and took off through the crowds.

• • •

Mira released her death grip on the wooden railing and opened her eyes. Lights on. Reality returned. She forced her muscles to relax. This time had been the worst so far. No one else saw the terrors, smelled the rotten eggs, felt the icy fingers tracing their flesh. No one except Mira.

“What’s the holdup?” Bebe’s shout carried downstairs, breaking the maze of her thoughts and kick-starting her mind. Rum. Mira picked up her cumbersome load and trudged her way up the stairs. She emerged into the club and plopped the heavy container behind the bar before securing the door.

“About time you got up here.” Bebe brushed past her to deliver drinks to a kid with colorful spiked hair.

“Sorry. I had … ” Mira remembered the imagined terrors below. She blinked several times and swallowed her fear. Not going there again. “I couldn’t find the rum.”

“Whatever, honey.” The bartender gave a dismissive wave and bustled about. “Just get that rum open. The last bottle’s dry.”

Mira grabbed a screwdriver and crouched to pry off the lid. Bebe’s overtly seductive tone with customers grated on her nerves, and now her co-worker’s voice grew positively hoarse with the next patron.
Must be male
. Mira popped open the crate and dug out the bottles. And a hottie too, if Bebe’s thick layer of innuendo was any indication. After three years, Mira knew all the bartender’s tricks. “Hey, gorgeous. You looking for a refill or a date? Either way, I got you covered.”

Without turning to be sure, Mira pictured Bebe’s huge knockers in the guy’s grill. The deep male rumble confirmed her suspicions.
Too easy.

“You want any help stowing those bottles,
piccola
?” The same rumble now moved closer to Mira’s location as she knelt behind the bar. “
Ciao
?”

Mira whipped around to find her pseudo-stalker grinning from above the counter. She returned his smile with a frown; her breath hitched and warning bells sounded in her mind. With a flip of her hair, she dismissed him. “No, thanks.”

She placed the bottles under the bar while Bebe changed tactics. “Oh, I love the accent. What’s your name, sugar?”

“Kagan.”

The low timbre of his voice slipped over Mira like a silken shroud, lulling her jitters. She glanced up, finding his gaze still locked on her.
Shit.
The annoying tingle moved from her abdomen straight up her spinal column. This guy messed with her head. He reminded her of things best forgotten. Dangerous things. Distracted, Mira stood and tripped over the box. Out of sorts and more exhausted than she could ever remember, Mira pitched a small fit, kicking the crate. Wood splintered and shards flew beneath her steel-toed fury.

“Hmm. Somebody’s got a temper.” Kagan’s amused tone struck her from behind.

Fuck him.
Mira whirled and flipped him off. Kagan tipped his beer in salute.

Cheeks heating, Mira cleaned up the broken shards of her outburst before hazarding a second glance in his vicinity. Now he faced away from her, and she took the opportunity for a closer inspection. His broad shoulders and muscular arms were relaxed, his weight supported on his elbows. The hint of a tattoo peeked out from below the short sleeve of his taut black T-shirt, and Mira tried to imagine the rest of the intricate inkwork.

“Hey, Mira! Some help, please!” Her head shot around. One of the male bouncers waved to her from the dance floor. Mira pushed through the tight circle of onlookers and spotted two men mid-brawl. One of the guys was a regular, a college kid dressed in a Blackhawks jersey with a linebacker body the size of a refrigerator. His opponent: a skinny Goth who’d apparently insulted his favorite hockey team. Two bouncers struggled to pull the fighters apart, but the behemoth’s strength and bulk made him difficult to maneuver.

Mira winced when the giant let his massive fist fly. He struck a bouncer instead of his opponent and broke the bouncer’s nose. Blood flew, and Mira opted for a more peaceful approach. Her petite size always waylaid the heavyweights. And she wasn’t about to be arrested for an unprovoked ass-whooping. Not tonight.

“Excuse me. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Mira’s clear tone cut through the noise of the crowd, her tap insistent on the refrigerator’s shoulder. All action ceased. The brawlers turned in her direction. Things looked optimistic when the outsized Goth used the distraction to scramble away.

No such luck with Bulk. He turned on unsteady feet and swayed, towering above her. His gaze roved before landing on her crotch. “I want me a piece of that.”

Mira’s patronizing smile faded to a darkening frown. “I’m not on the menu, asshole.”

The guy stepped forward. Mira issued a final warning. “Don’t. Do. It.”

He wasn’t coherent enough to heed the alert. She flicked her gaze to the other, uninjured bouncer and nodded. Bulk took advantage, grabbing Mira around the neck. One instant, he was twisting her into a bear hug and the next, she braced against his attack, her elbows whacking into his face and her knees whomping repeatedly into his groin. He staggered and fell to his knees. Mira made quick work of any resistance by twisting his arm behind him until he smacked the ground, belly down, while her booted foot pressed his cheek into the sticky floor.

“Told you.” Mira tossed her hair over her shoulder. The crowd widened. She stepped off his face to straddle his back, pinning both his arms to the ground with her knees to the backs of his elbows and her palms pressed into his shoulder joints.