Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Still holding her hand, Teague escorted Larkin out of the VIP box and down the long corridor. She was a way smoother liar than he’d have ever given her credit for.

He telepathically reached out to her. What a performance. Bravo, harpy. If his beast could have given her a clap of appreciation, it would have.

Her mind clipped his, buzzing with irritation. Fuck off, Seabiscuit.

He felt his mouth hitch up. We have such a beautiful friendship, don’t we?

She fired him a look of exasperation and swiped her hand from his. “You’re an idiot.”

“I can live with that.”

Outside the stadium, he fell into step beside her as she joined the throngs of pedestrians walking along the Underground’s ‘strip’. They made a beeline for the exit, passing numerous venues such as bars and eateries and casinos.

“So where are we going?” he asked her. “Or did you just say we had plans because you wanted to get that scene over with?”

“The latter,” she said. “The guys reacted on emotion just now. But when they put those emotions away and really think about it, it’s going to occur to them that I could be lying to put an end to the matchmaking. In their shoes, I would have suspected it. If I’d stuck around while they acted like you were on trial, it would have cast doubt on my claims—I’m too protective of the people who matter to me to allow something like that.”

Huh. “They took it better than I expected.” Which was certainly a disappointment—Teague had been looking forward to seeing them all worked up. Small pleasures and all that.

She snorted. “They were only reasonably calm because Asher and Anaïs were there. Trust me, if I can make them believe it’s true, they’re gonna be all in a tizzy over it.”

“Which you like,” he accused.

“I do, yeah.”

“Riling people is entertaining—that can’t be denied.”

Her brow furrowed. “Actually, it can. I’m only finding some satisfaction in their annoyance because of the way they’ve been acting lately. I wouldn’t otherwise do it.”

He shrugged. “It’s not for everyone, I suppose.”

“But you really do love it, don’t you?” She shook her head in wonder. “I’ve only witnessed this kind of behavior in two types of people. Imps—because, well, they’re imps. And demons who’ve lived far too long—their mental patterns get all muddled, and they’re so desensitized to standard forms of amusement that they’ll slip into finding joy in the strangest shit.”

It took everything in Teague not to tense or let his expression change.

“But you’re only, what, fifty? Sixty?” Most demons tended to age at an excruciatingly slow pace once they reached adulthood. “You can’t be much older than that, if at all. You’ve only been racing for the past, like, thirty years.”

He flashed her a smile. “Been looking into me, have you?”

“Of course. You’re in close contact with people who matter to me.” She paused. “There wasn’t much info to dig up, though. You strays never leave many traces of yourselves. But, obviously, Khloë vouched for you. So did Jolene,” she added, referring to a woman who was not only a Prime but the grandmother of both Harper and Khloë.

He gently patted her head. “Don’t worry, little harpy. I’m not a threat to the people you care about. I’d never hurt my girlfriend’s loved ones.”

She squinted. “You said the latter with a little too much seriousness. You know we’re not actually dating, right?”

“Of course.” As they finally reached the elevator that would take them up to the club that was built above the Underground to conceal its entrance, Teague pushed the ‘up’ button on the panel. “On another note, I’ve got to admit, you’re a better actress than I thought you’d be. You still won’t hold out for the whole five months, though.”

She made a dismissive sound. “Think what you want. I couldn’t give a ferret’s last shit.”

“Are you ever going to drop the ‘I hate you’ act?”

Her brow creased. “I don’t hate you. I couldn’t muster up that level of emotion for you.”

His low chuckle was overridden by the ping that filled the air. Then the elevator doors glided open.

“Disclaimer: whenever you get all snarky with me,” he began as he splayed a hand on her back and urged her forward, “it makes my demon want to bite you.”

Larkin’s step faltered—something that, as a rule, did not happen. But this male had a talent for poking at her emotional balance.

“In a good way,” he assured her, jabbing the button on the panel.

“A good way?”

“Yeah.”

She set her hands on her hips as the metal doors closed, asking, “How can there possibly be a good way for it to bite me? All hellbeasts are venomous.” Surely he hadn’t forgotten that.

“And?”

“And only other hellbeasts are immune to your venom. I’m not a hellbeast. Which means I’d end up writhing in agony or getting struck by paralysis.”

“And?”

She was pretty sure a muscle in her cheek ticked. Because he wasn’t being deliberately obtuse; no, he genuinely didn’t see her point. “And there’s therefore not a good way for you or your demon to bite me.”

He shrugged. “The effects would be temporary.”

What worried Larkin was that he clearly wasn’t joking. He’d see no harm in biting her because, in his book, the important part was that she’d be fine in the long run. She pointed hard at him. “You will keep your teeth out of my skin.”

“Will I?”

“Yes, you goddamn will.”

“I love it when you snarl at me. There’s something mesmerizing about the way your face morphs into a glower. The transformation is beautiful.”

Muttering beneath her breath, she pressed her fingers down on her closed eyelids. “Why are you trying to drive me to the brink of insanity, Teague? Because it honestly feels like that’s what you’re aiming to do.”

“Why would I only drive you to the brink? I don’t half-ass shit, gorgeous.” He paused. “I have to ask, though . . . What makes you so sure you’re sane?”

She lowered her hands to her sides and opened her eyes. “What?”

“How can you be sure?”

“I would know if I was crazy.”

“Crazy people don’t know they’re bonkers. Mostly. There are some exceptions. For all you know, you could be mad as a barrel of monkeys.”

She flapped her arms. “Why do I always have the most senseless conversations with you?”

“Why would you want to have typical conversations?”

“Normal people do that.”

“Where’s the fun in being normal?”

The elevator slowed to a halt. When the doors again glided open with yet another ping, they stepped out of the elevator. Now in the basement of the club, they briefly greeted the demons who stood guard there to ensure that no humans or other preternatural species found their way to a place they had no business being.

Outside the venue, Teague glanced around the parking lot. He quickly spotted Larkin’s car and walked her straight to it. Boyfriends did that sort of stuff, right?

“Where are you parked?” she asked him, using her key fob to unlock her vehicle.

He pointed at his beloved bike. “There.”

She spared it a quick, covetous glance that wasn’t as subtle as she clearly hoped it would be. He’d noticed her eye it appreciatively on a number of occasions.

He would have offered to take her for a ride if his demon wouldn’t balk at it. Just as the beast would never tolerate anyone it didn’t wholeheartedly trust mounting it, it wouldn’t allow someone it didn’t wholeheartedly trust to ride on the back of the bike either—the two acts felt too much like one and the same to the entity.

It was a hellhorse thing. They basically had a no passengers rule that they only broke for very few people. Teague’s demon wouldn’t break it for Larkin. It liked her a whole lot, but it didn’t trust her. It didn’t know her well enough to trust her.

Teague watched her slide into her car. “By the way . . . ” He trailed off, letting a taunting smile curve his mouth. “I’m looking forward to watching you sing while naked. It’ll be a fuck of a sight.”

Her eyes flashed with challenge. “That ain’t how it’s gonna go down, Sullivan. The one who’ll be on stage is you.”

Teague felt his smile widen. “We’ll see.” He let her door swing shut and then stood back so that she couldn’t run over his toes. He really wouldn’t put it past her.

Once she’d driven off, he crossed to his bike and opened up the saddlebag. It was bespelled, allowing him to store an endless number of items inside. First, he took out his leather jacket and slipped it on. Then he pulled on his helmet, despite not really needing it—he only wore it to deter cops from pulling him over.

He grabbed one handle, shifted his weight onto his left leg, and then smoothly tossed his other leg over the bike—mounting it in one quick, practiced movement. He’d been riding for longer than he could remember. Five of the other six stray hellhorses in his unofficial lair—one they referred to as a clan—also rode motorcycles, but Saxon preferred his truck.

Teague switched on the engine, making his bike roar to life. Speeding down the road en route to his home, he thought of how his clan would react to hearing that he was now the pretend boyfriend of Knox Thorne’s female sentinel.

Probably not well.

Not that any of them had anything against her or Knox. It was simply that there were things they’d rather neither demon discovered. And Larkin, well, she was sharp as a tack, not to mention suspicious by nature. Having her around him on a frequent basis was risky.

If she uncovered anything she shouldn’t, she’d for sure share it with her Prime. Knox wouldn’t exactly have warm, fuzzy feelings about the secrets the clan kept. Hence why Teague had resisted acting on his attraction to her—the oaths he’d made to Khloë wouldn’t have been enough to ensure it.

So long as he was careful, he figured he could play the part of Larkin’s boyfriend without her learning things about him that she shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be long before she called it quits anyway. And then he could watch her sing naked. He looked forward to it.

Soon, Teague turned onto the unmarked stretch of land that his clan had claimed, feeling his skin prickle as he bypassed the repellent spell that made humans go no further. Driving deep into the forested area, he wondered what Larkin would say if she knew that—despite having walked the Earth for centuries—she was a baby compared to him.

She wasn’t wrong that a demon who’d lived a too-long lifespan would mentally suffer for it. It had impacted his beast in much the same way. He didn’t see how any person, no matter their species, could exist for such a lengthy period of time and remain sane in the accepted sense of the word.

The sound of dogs barking split the air before he finally reached the clearing where he and his clan lived. Seven traditional horse-drawn wagons were scattered around—minus any steeds, obviously. The exterior of each large, live-in wagon was similar in many ways. All were gilded, lavishly decorated, boasted intricate carvings, and were masterfully crafted. They were used by Romanichal Travelers—also known as gypsies—once upon a time.

A laundry line hung between two of the tall trees that ringed the clearing; the hanging clothes flapped with the breeze. Hammocks also hung here and there, along with nesting boxes.

Near the shed at the rear of the clearing, there was a huge-ass dog house the size of a small barn for the bloodhound-pack to use. But some of the dogs chose to sleep under wagons or out in the open.

A picnic table was situated near the large grill that was currently covered with protective tarp. A few folded lawn chairs leaned against Saxon’s wagon beside his ax and a pile of wood that was intended for the firepit.

Often, Teague would find his clan gathered around the pit, but not this evening. Going by the music coming from Gideon’s wagon, he suspected they might be gathered inside. They weren’t really people who sought ‘alone time’.

Teague parked outside his own wagon and unmounted his bike. The dogs danced around his legs—well, all except for the eldest bloodhound, Hugo. That lazy fucker remained sprawled on the ground near one of the logs surrounding the pit. The canine lifted his head, spared Teague a brief look, and then settled again.

The other dogs were bundles of energy at all times. Moreso, Baxter and Reggie, who still acted like pups. Temperament wise, Dutch was more of a troublesome juvenile. Barron, the calmly assertive Alpha, somehow managed to keep the others in line.

Teague gave their heads quick pats, removed his protective gear, and then stowed said gear in his saddlebag. He looked up as a whistling Leo exited the neighboring wagon, his arm wrapped around several bottles of liquor.

Teague frowned. Leo liked a drink, especially whiskey. But he didn’t overindulge—they left that sort of thing to Gideon and Tucker. “Are we supposed to be celebrating something?”

His deep-brown gaze sliding to Teague, the lean male adjusted the position of the glasses he didn’t actually need to wear, since his vision was perfect. Leo believed that they made him look ‘distinguished’.

Why he wanted to look distinguished no one was actually sure. Just as they weren’t sure why he persisted in always dressing like a golfer—collared polo shirt, flat-front chinos, white socks, golf shoes, and a baseball cap to cover his short dark hair. Sometimes, he went the extra mile and wore one white glove as well.

“Gideon wants us all to have a few birthday drinks in his wagon,” said Leo, descending the wooden steps attached to his tiny porch.

Teague felt his frown deepen. “It’s not his birthday.”

“We’re gonna overlook that.” Leo ducked as a squawking raven swooped down low, aiming for his head. The bird sailed through the air and settled on a nearby tree branch beside one of its small flock. “Fucker,” he spat at it.

“You’ve been throwing wood chips at him again, haven’t you?”

“He keeps biting Dutch.”

“Who keeps pissing on his favorite tree. The three of you are caught up in some kind of revenge cycle, and I don’t know why you won’t admit that you like it.”

Leo smiled. “There are moments when it’s fun.” He tipped his chin toward Gideon’s wagon. “You coming?”

Why not? He had some news to share with the clan anyway. Teague nodded, turning toward his home. “Just give me a sec.”

The wooden steps creaked beneath Teague’s feet as he climbed them to reach his porch deck. It was small, but there was enough room that he’d been able to add a rocking chair. A chair he’d painted to match the deep burgundy color of the wagon’s exterior.

Gold carvings of birds, scrolls, leaves, horses, and wolves decorated the entire front of the wagon, including the glass-paned door and the arched crown boards above it. Similar carvings could be found on the sides and rear of the wagon.

He pulled open the door and then stepped inside. The gold carvings and burgundy paint continued here, running along the walls and curved ceiling. Moonlight beamed through the stained-glass window on his left, which sat above the kitchenette that was equipped with a small cast-iron cooking stove resting on a wooden fireplace.

Built-in cushioned seats ran along the opposite side of the wagon. Another bench had once been situated beside the fireplace, but he’d replaced it years ago with a small table and two dining chairs. Opposite those stood a tall, vintage, glass-fronted china cabinet.

The wagon might not be very spacious, but he had more storage than he knew what to do with. Small intricately carved cubby holes, lockers, and cupboards were built into several places—including high up on the walls, within the bench seat, and even between the wooden frames on the ceiling.

Teague stalked through the arched opening that led to the rear of the wagon. In the small bedroom there, he pulled out the thick wad of cash he’d won from a few well-placed bets at the stadium. The money he’d won from participating in the race would be wired directly into his bank account.

He stuffed the cash in the hidden compartment in his chest of drawers. The piece of furniture was made of the same mahogany wood as not only the slim wardrobe beside it but the frame of the double bed that sat beneath the rear stained-glass window.

Needing to answer a call of nature before heading out, he went into the small en suite bathroom. Once he’d done his business and washed his hands, he walked back into the—

He stilled as the heavy smell of smoke and brimstone wafted toward him.

A dark blur leaped out of the shadows, one leg extended. A heavy foot slammed into his solar plexus, sending him crashing to the hard floor even though he’d braced himself for impact.

Tensing, he watched as an all-black humanoid figure squatted between his legs. At a distance, it could easily be mistaken for a shadowy spectre, even with those white eyes. But Teague had come across this species before; he knew what he was dealing with.

And he knew it shouldn’t be in this realm.

Distantly aware of the dogs barking outside, he conjured an orb of hellfire wickedly fast and hurled it at the humanoid. As the orb hit home, the demon flew backward, crashing into the chest of drawers. These particular demons might look as if they were made of shadow energy, but that was only a defensive trick.

Still, being corporeal didn’t make them easy to harm. They were built differently. They weren’t made of flesh, blood, and bones. So they couldn’t be sliced, bruised, or broken.

But they could be burned. Punctured. Even crushed. However, only hell-based weapons could kill them.

Jumping to his feet, Teague tossed another flaming ball at the intruder. Again, the orb met its target. But not before a thick tentacle shot out of the demon’s side so preternaturally fast that there was no way for him to avoid it.

That tentacle curled tight around Teague’s throat, red-hot and thick as a snake, and lifted him off the floor. Shit, he’d forgotten how strong and fast the fuckers were.

Unable to breathe, he wheezed as he snapped a flaming fist around the tentacle, scorching it with hellfire just as an identical tentacle slinked out of its other side. Shit. Teague knew how this breed killed; knew what it would do next.

He tossed orb after orb in such rapid succession that the demon couldn’t dodge them. It flinched and jerked backwards, the tentacle’s grip on Teague’s throat loosening enough for him to suck in a breath.

As he curled another flaming fist around the tentacle, he heard the door burst open. Heard barks and the scrabble of claws. Heard footsteps thundering along the wooden floor. Heard those footsteps screech to a stunned halt. Heard a string of curses and the crackling of hellfire orbs.

The tentacle disappeared from Teague’s throat in a flash and he was abruptly dropped. The bloodhounds lunged for the humanoid but, supernaturally fast, it vanished into a shadow, returning to the realm from where it had come. The dogs growled and padded around the now empty space, finding nothing, as the scent of smoke and brimstone quickly faded.

Motherfucker.

Coughing and heaving air into his lungs, Teague sat up. The dogs surrounded him, whimpering and licking at him—even the lazy-ass Hugo. The bloodhound could move quickly when it suited him.

Grinding his teeth against the pain of the blistering flesh on his throat, Teague slid his gaze to his clan, who all looked varied degrees of shocked.

Archer pointed to the spot where the intruder had vanished. “Did anyone else just see one of the shadowkin in the bedroom, or have I eaten too many mushrooms tonight?”

“No, we all saw it,” a grim-looking Saxon told him.

“Okay,” said Archer. “I just needed to hear that.”

Teague pushed to his feet with another cough. “It was here to kill me.”

Leo scratched at his stubbly cheek. “Yeah, I got that impression.”

“It makes no sense, though,” said Gideon. “Shadowkin don’t target people of their own accord. They’re mere minions.”

Tucker nodded, confusion all but whirling in his brown eyes—the shade so deep that they were almost black. “They don’t even leave hell unless ordered to.”

“A few figures of authority can pull their strings, though,” Slade pointed out, his green gaze on Teague. “One of them obviously sent it here. And they clearly want you dead.”