Wrong Side of Hell (2 page)

“She cannot perish. Her future is hidden in the fabric that binds us all. But know this.” Bill’s nostrils flared as his anger thickened. “She will be protected. I will do everything in my power to keep her safe and make sure she meets her destiny.”

“Seems like a moot point, considering she’s already dead.”

Bill’s eyes narrowed. His face darkened and blurred . . . features shifting until his true self shone through. Gone was the pleasant, middle-aged human. In his stead a powerful, enigmatic creature stood. Two realities converged, and Logan had to admit the little shit’s mojo was impressive.

Bill’s voice vibrated, falling in layers that encircled Logan and filled his head. There was no mistaking. The Seraphim was livid.

“She is not meant to die—not yet. Someone is trying to alter her destiny and I need you to retrieve her for me.”

“She’s not my problem. Find some other dog.”

“Oh, but she is your problem. I need someone who can track her. Someone who knows her scent.” Bill leaned closer, his voice amplified even more. “Someone who’s tasted her soul.”

Logan had had enough. He growled and bared his teeth. “I don’t take orders from you. Not anymore. I don’t know why I ever agreed to it in the first place.”

Bill sighed, grabbed his bag of candy, and helped himself to a generous amount of the gooey mess. “You joined the League because you knew it was the right thing to do. Nothing’s changed.” He chewed and stared up at Logan, his hard eyes and unyielding mouth at odds with the image he portrayed.

“You will do this for me.”

Logan crossed his arms over his chest and spread his legs. The Seraphim was going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that.

Logan reached for the nearly empty bottle of whiskey and dumped the last of it into his glass. “You’ve wasted a trip, old man.” He was dancing on the edge—tossing insults to one of the most powerful creatures in existence—and he didn’t give a shit.

Such was the way of it these days. His stay in the Pit had altered him in more ways than one.

“You will do this because of your vow to the League.” Bill arched a brow. “And because I know your true origins.” The words slid between them—silky, dangerous. Bill’s ace in the hole.

Logan paused, the glass nearly to his lips. His throat tightened and his teeth clenched hard.

“I know who your mother is.”

The glass shattered in Logan’s hand as a snarl erupted from within his chest. In a flash, his fist closed around Bill’s throat and he shoved the Seraphim back onto the bar with such force that the walls shook sending bottles and glasses crashing to the floor.

Logan’s skin shifted and the beast shone through, his eyes morphing to blood red as he stared down at the small man held tight in his grip.

Several long moments passed and eventually Logan pulled back, curses in an ancient tongue flying from his mouth as he stepped away.

He closed his eyes, forced his body to relax, and crooked his head to the side. “Where’s the girl?”

There was a pause.

“Purgatory.”

Logan swore. “I don’t have permission to enter the gray realm, you know that. No hellhound has ever breached it.” He swore again. “And even if I did, there’s no guarantee I will get to her in time or find my way out.”

“This is true.” Bill nodded. “But I have faith in you Logan. I always have.”

Logan clenched his lips together tightly and took a few moments to gather his thoughts. He had no choice and he hated that the little son of a bitch had put him in this situation. Hadn’t he given enough to the fucking League?

He glared at the Seraphim and spoke coldly. “Where’s her body?”

“The Regent Psychiatric Institute in Florida.” At Logan’s snarl, the round man finished quietly. “Morgue.”

The word had barely escaped Bill’s lips and Logan was already gone.

Chapter Two

 
T
HE REGENT PSYCHIATRIC Institute was a large, rambling estate built at the edge of a hidden inlet deep in the mosquito-infested keys of Florida. At one time it had been home to one of the most notorious pirates in the Caribbean—Banshee McGee—nicknamed such because he kept in his employ a woman who sang the death chant when they were about to attack—and coincidentally, death followed hard in its wake.

A bastard through and through, McGee had plundered the Caribbean for nearly twenty years until he’d met a violent end at a gentlemen’s club on Grand Bahama Island. Some thought he’d fittingly been killed by the banshee in his employ, others surmised the devil had finally taken him below.

After his death, the estate had been seized by the government, and eventually the large mansion had been converted into a mental hospital. At one time a special wing had been devoted to the most dangerous of the criminally insane, but late in the nineteenth century it had been sold to a private organization and had been restored to its former grandeur. Now, only those with wads of cash could afford to hide away their crazy family members.

Like Kira Dove. Her family was loaded. This was a detail Logan remembered clearly. When he’d come for her fifteen years ago, she’d been ensconced behind the gilded gates of a mansion in Beverly Hills. Her parents were famous and known the world over. The father was a renowned avant-garde director, and the mother, a model-turned-actress, was his muse.

Logan glanced toward the imposing structure. Kira Dove must have gone buck-crazy to warrant a stay in this place. How long had she been here? That was a question he’d not bothered to ask.

He moved forward and quickly pushed the notion aside. It was none of his concern.

It was easy for Logan to slip past the guards, to blend into the shadows that crept along the edges of the estate. Tall, moss covered trees flanked both sides of the large antebellum home, and in the distance the scent of water drifted on the breeze. Insects buzzed and the occasional hoot of an owl greeted his ears. Other than that, the darkness hid nothing but absolute silence.

Logan strode toward the front entrance, shoulders squared, gait long and loose. His thick wavy hair was slicked back, damp from the humidity, while his dark t-shirt and worn faded jeans blended together to hide him among the shadows.

He paused just inside the front entrance. The lighting here was muted and the dark corners were long. A lamp several feet away in the parlor cast a small pool of light, but it was enough to afford him some illumination.

Palm trees—six feet in height—lined the foyer, their tips waving slowly as large white fans overhead turned in gentle wide arcs. The subtle aroma of a Cuban cigar hung in the air, and he knew someone had passed by recently with one of the golden treasures. His nostrils flared. Montecristo, by the smell of it.

The walls were a delicate yellow with white trim and the floor-to-ceiling windows were open, though the blinds were drawn. Long gossamer curtains rippled on either side like wisps of vanilla smoke. Classic paintings adorned the walls—landscapes and leisurely scenes of the Old South—and small groupings of white wicker furniture were scattered about. Directly ahead was a formal reception area and behind the desk, chewing gum in a loud annoying manner, sat a large woman.

Her hair was a wild mess of tight curls in a harsh shade of red, the kind only a bad perm could produce, and her skin shone like wax paper under the lights. Watery brown eyes peered at him. “Who’s there?” she asked in a thin voice.

Logan sensed her alarm as he moved forward, and when he stepped into the light her alarm turned to fear. He moved fast—faster than the human eye—and stood in front of her as she gazed up at him, mouth open, yellowed teeth wet and shiny.

He leaned forward and leveled steely blue eyes onto her. “Morgue.”

She swallowed, her eyes glazing over as she nodded, head bobbing like a bouncing ball. “West wing, all the way to the end.”

Logan glanced behind her. “Let me in.” The compulsion that colored his words was subtle but it was enough. “Speak of this to no one and turn off the cameras.”

The woman deactivated the security, and a loud click echoed into the foyer as the heavy steel door retracted into the wall. She resumed smacking her gum, a strange melody falling from her lips as her raspy voice filled the silence.

As soon as Logan cleared the entrance and walked into the facility, the smells changed. No longer was the pleasing odor of tobacco present, or the honeyed scent of flowers. They’d been replaced with fear, pain, and the wildness of chaos. His nostrils flared and he smiled. It was like candy to a creature such as him. Better than any drug imaginable.

Logan strode down the hall, long arms loose at his sides as he turned to his left. Within seconds he spied the door to the morgue. The sterile scent of disinfectant—pine cleaner, to be exact—tickled his nostrils. Bingo.

Time was running out. According to Bill, she’d been dead less than two hours. If Logan was lucky, there would be energy traces left on her body—a signature he’d be able to track with ease. On a normal run—one sanctioned by his Demon Overlord Santos—this was already provided, because the soul had been marked and claimed by the underworld.

This trip, however, was under the radar, and if he had no starting point, he’d be running blind. It would take much longer to find her based on the little bits of her soul he’d tasted all those years ago. He needed something fresh and current. Purgatory wasn’t the kind of place a hellhound wanted to linger—it wasn’t natural for him to be there—so whatever he could do to hurry along the process would be a good thing.

Besides, there was also a timing issue. Her human form had to be in good shape when he retrieved her from the gray realm. Otherwise what was the point? A brain turned to mush and a cellular breakdown wouldn’t do anyone any good.

He pushed the door open and disappeared inside, leaving it to slowly click back into place as he glanced around. His breaths blew out in long mists and his nostrils flared. It was cold in here with nothing but metal and tile and death.

Three bodies were laid out in a neat row along the far wall, their forms shrouded in shit-beige cotton. It was the one dash of color on an otherwise sterile, stainless steel canvas. He snorted and wondered if the moneyed folk knew that the death rate at the Regent seemed to be a little on the high side.

Logan crossed the room and drew back the cover on the first. It was a woman. Pale, lifeless eyes stared up at him, the faded brown already turning into the milky shade of death. Her hair was gray, knotted and thin, the skin wrinkled with age. Kira Dove was twenty-five. He covered her up and glanced at the next body.

The shape beneath the cover was large and long, suggesting someone close to three hundred pounds. He was going to guess that the little imp he remembered was not anywhere near that in stature.

Out of the blue her face flashed in his mind. Huge, dark, exotic eyes—almond in shape—with long, tangled ebony hair, and a little bow mouth that was as red as an apple.

She’d not been frightened when he’d appeared in her room. Not at first. In fact, he’d been more than a little surprised at the curiosity he’d sensed as she stared at him. She’d had no idea what the hell he was—how could she? The girl had only been ten. Yet most humans were scared shitless when he appeared—his hellhound form was intimidating, to say the least—and those with blackened souls knew exactly what he was.

And why he’d come.

Logan shook the memory from his mind and walked past the large body. He reached for the last one and yanked back the cover. It was the girl, of that he had no doubt.

Bruises covered the entire left side of her face and dried blood crusted near her nose and mouth. Her dark eyebrows were arched, delicate accents to adorn large eyes—which were not open. The long hair he remembered was no more—only hacked-off blunt ends remained, which barely touched her shoulders. The deep black color was gone, though the roots showed an inch thick among the cheap blond dye job. Her skin held the sickly tinge of indoors, as if she’d not seen the sun in years, yet her body was lean and muscular. The girl had worked out.

Hard.

Her arms lay at her sides and he noted scars along the inside of her wrists. Some were fresh but a lot were old. This girl had tried to die. Many times, by the looks of it.

Logan frowned. Why was she so damn important?

Why had he been dispatched to drag her to hell when she was ten?
Nothing about that night had been on the up-and-up. His lips thinned and he scowled at the memory. It had been all wrong. He’d known it then and as he stared down at her broken body, something stirred within him. Cold, anger, and something else.

It was the something else he dismissed. He had no time for softness. For second-guessing. For fucking feelings.

Logan bent low, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. He filtered out the smell of death, of disinfectant and fear, and growled as two scents rose to the fore.

Her unique signature he remembered with clarity—which was odd, considering he’d targeted hundreds of thousands of souls in his lifetime. The little Dove was still full of honey and of the sun—surprisingly something that had not been killed while she’d languished here in this hellhole.

It was the other that had his hackles rising—the scent of otherworld. It carried the unmistakable trace of the upper realm.

Kira Dove had been murdered by one of Askelon’s own. But who? And why? He let the scent settle in his mind, compartmentalized the bastard’s signature so he’d never forget. If he ever crossed paths with the murderer he’d know it.

He straightened and cocked his head down at her, a frown burrowing his forehead. The bruising on her arms and knuckles suggested she’d fought back, which was interesting, considering she’d had a death wish for years.

After a few moments, Logan covered the body with the sheet and took a step back—he had everything he needed. One more glance around and then he disappeared, his tall, muscled form changing shape as the beast inside erupted.

He charged past the startled receptionist, a blur of fur, fangs, and deadly intent. Outside he turned and headed toward the far corner of the estate. Once he was hidden deep within the gnarled overhang of bush that lined the edge of a swamp, he stopped.

Flanks heaving, the hellhound turned its head toward the dark sky and howled. The terrifying lament echoed into the stillness, reverberating and thickening as it traveled beyond.

It was a call that wouldn’t go unanswered.

Within minutes a shadowed figure appeared, one that drifted above the ground. It was embraced within an ethereal mist that trailed behind it as it moved toward Logan, and when it was inches from the hellhound it stopped.

Why have you summoned me?
The gatekeeper’s rasp echoed inside Logan’s mind.

Logan’s blood-red eyes regarded the cloaked figure for a few moments and then he growled, their wordless conversation continuing.

You will let me pass into the gray realm.

The gatekeeper laughed.
Impossible. The gray realm is not for your kind.

Logan moved forward—the hellhound’s impressive height and muscled frame towering over the gatekeeper—and bared his teeth.
You will let me pass or I will hunt the daughter that you hide among the humans.

The gatekeeper was shocked into silence and Logan watched him closely. Everyone had secrets. In his line of work it boded well to know as many as he could. Just as Bill had used Logan’s own secret to force him into this covert mission, he’d use whatever he had in his back pocket to get it done.

Logan Winters would do whatever it took to keep his mother safe—she was the one thing he treasured above all else.

After several long moments, mist whirled around them both, cool tendrils slithering along the damp ground like spectral fingers.
Follow me
. The order was terse. Angry.

Logan charged forward on the heels of the gatekeeper and seconds later the gray mist swallowed them whole.

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