Chapter 9

9

I stared at Thorn, outraged.

Who the hell did he think he was? A girl can only be pushed so far, and this time he knocked me right out of the park.

“No fucking way,” I said.

He blinked as if he had never heard the word “no.” Which, come to think of his sexy ass, he probably hadn’t.

“What?” he said in a low snarl.

“That’s the third time you called me a thief, and it’s the fucking last. I seek. I retrieve, but I do not steal.”

Thorn’s red eyes bore into me as if he wanted to shred the flesh from my bones.

“But that’s what you do, thieving, isn’t it?” he growled. His eyes turned blood red, and his fingernails seemed to grow into dark, pointed tips. I’ve had enough of grown paranormal men and their temper tantrums. I whirled, ready to storm from the room.

Then get two steps before every muscle refuses to move.

Just stopped working as they were made of stone.

What the ever-loving fuck? I strained to walk forward like a fly caught in amber, struggling against a weird invisible superglue. My body trembled from the effort while sweat formed on my brow. But I could not move, at least to the door.

But I found I could whirl toward Thorn, who stood over his pricey mahogany desk, leaning forward on his arms with his fingers outstretched and liquid gathering on his forehead. Only wasn’t sweat glistening there, but honest-to-God blood, and it hit me this was proof positive that though Thorn looked like a sex-on-a-stick-human, he wasn’t.

Despite my predicament, it was fun watching Thorn lose his arrogant demeanor because I stripped him of it.

We met eye-to-eye, caught in each other’s gaze, neither willing to give in. In this windowless room, the wind-rushing noise of a violent tornado filled my ears, and an inexorable pull forward threatened to drag me toward Thorn. Still, as my teeth chattered, I stared at Thorn because I’ll be damned if I gave in to him one more time.

“Boss?”

Behind me, Casey’s voice sounded like it was a million miles away, but Thorn’s head snapped up, and the wind-rushing noise stopped.

“Get out of here,” he growled. The demon’s voice split into a hundred sharp tones with feral intensity.

The door slammed shut, and I was alone with a demon.

“Had enough?” I said.

“Have you?”

We stared at each other again, but this time without the sound effects. Thorn’s odd power left my muscles with a weird, lingering weakness. I gripped the arm of the nearest leather chair and spun my ass into it.

“That’s one helluva party trick you got there, Dagon.”

Thorn blinked, and his eyes reverted to his usual swirly brown and gold, appearing exhausted as if he hadn’t slept in a day and a half. His nails drew back, too, replaced with the buffed and polished version he sported earlier. He lowered into his chair as if against his will.

“That’s some temper you have, Miss Barlow.”

I stared at him for a long time with my nails digging into the arms of his plush leather chair while I prayed my muscles would recover soon. I’ll be damned if I don’t leave here on my own two feet.

“Is this how it’s going to be?” I asked. “Because I wear your mark?”

He scoffed as if speaking to an idiot.

“I told you, it isn’t my mark. But, yes. We are bound by it, and as I agreed, you are not my servant. But neither am I yours.”

I looked away. This situation sucked because we must cooperate unless we wanted to stay locked in perpetual power games.

“You should have just poured that damned whiskey.”

He poured a finger for me, and I slammed it down my throat like a shot in a glass. The amber liquid burned my nose with alcoholic fumes but because of its advanced age, not my throat. With the same predatory gaze he’d leveled at me all day, he did the same.

I pointed to the whiskey again, and he poured another round.

Then another.

To my surprise, I discovered another curious ability of this artifact in me.

I couldn’t get drunk.

But apparently, neither could Thorn.

Eventually, though, we both relaxed enough that he told me the plan to remove the artifact from my chest without killing me, and it was a plan I could support, even if it meant retrieving items against the owner’s will.

Nine hours later, I’m sitting in the dark in Thorn’s Porsche, parked outside a Highland Road mansion, waiting for the last light to go out.

Thorn reached inside his jacket pocket, pulled out a black leather-sheathed object, and held it out to me.

“What’s this?”

“A gift. Of sorts.”

“For me?” I said in a singsong voice. “Aw, you shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t be a smart ass. You might need this. It has useful properties.”

“What kind of properties?” I said with suspicion. Any gift from a demon was suspect.

“It masks the wielder’s movements for a short time. But don’t over-tax it. The magic becomes volatile with prolonged use.”

Even under the top leather flap, I could see it was a knife. I pulled it out and was oddly touched. It’s a beauty with an obsidian blade and a pearl handle.

“Gee, what every guy should gift a girl. Protection against him,” I said sarcastically.

Thorn put his forehead in his hand and pinched his nose.

“Business, Elena,” he said.

“Okay. And this artifact is where?”

“It’s in the house,” he said.

I rolled my eyes. “Obvi. What does it look like?”

Thorn shot me a skeptical glance, as if he didn’t believe I asked.

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Fabulous,” I said sarcastically.

He raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t this what you do?”

“Yes, but it helps to have a clue.”

A derisive noise rose in his throat. “Well, you don’t have one.”

Our eyes locked on that bonmot, and the temperature inside the Porsche rose ten degrees. I’m undecided whether to kiss those sexy-as-fuck lips or slap his face. Thorn continued speaking as if he didn’t just insult me.

“We have no intel on its locale. It might be kept in a safe, or a glass case, or its location is monitored by an alarm. But we are certain the object is in the library. One of my guys broke the library’s window lock on his run last night to trip the alarm.”

“And he didn’t get caught?”

“Well, he’s a professional thief.”

I gritted my teeth. Thorn deliberately worked my last nerve. And sitting in close quarters to him, and inhaling his cologne, an animalistic charred wood, myrrh, frankincense, and tobacco scent, bitter and sweet at the same time, made things sizzle between my legs that shouldn’t.

Focus, Elena.

“Anything else?”

The corner of Thorn’s mouth twitched.

“The collector is secretive and may be supernatural as well.”

I glared at him then. “Okay, well, that’s kind of an important point. The last time I crossed paths with a non-mundane retrieving an artifact, I nearly drowned, and now you’re forcing me to encounter another preternatural being?”

“We don’t know what he is. No one can read him,” Thorn countered. “Which means he may be a simple mortal.”

“Or so powerful no one can read him. Perfect. Got it.”

Thorn shook his head in exasperation.

“It shouldn’t be that bad. I’ve had my people set off the security alarm every few days for the past two weeks.”

I must have stared at him like I was stupid because he scoffed and shook his head again.

“It’s nearly impossible to keep a security system working around magical energy,” he said.

“I know that,” I hissed. “The kinetic energy of magical objects can interfere with the electronics.”

“The police grow tired of the rich after a few false alarms. So now, if you screw up and trip the alarm, the police won’t respond quickly. That might buy you enough time to finish, and escape with the object.”

“If I screw up?” I snarled. “Thanks for accounting for my total incompetence in pulling off this heist of yours.”

Thorn’s eyes swirled red once more.

“Out! Now!” he snapped. With a glare, I stepped out. He roared off, revving the exorbitant Porsche’s engine dangerously high and spitting road dust on my jacket and jeans.

I batted away flying pebbles.

“Cranky,” I muttered. “He runs me out of the car to creep outside the fence of an upscale Highland Road neighborhood, and he gets an attitude about it.”

I dusted off my jeans and stared at the wall before me. A row of oaks grew along the barricade constructed of irregular granite bricks capped by long limestone blocks. I scaled the nearest tree and leapt to the rampart’s top with a grace worthy of any wolf.

With my newfound night vision courtesy of the Hand or Thorn’s mark or a combo of both, I scanned the path forward and found it a straight shot to the building. It seemed too damn easy. Either there is a supernatural defense I’m not picking up, or I’m dealing with a stupid mortal.

I’m betting on door number two.

Most arcana collectors are mundane with too much money and the desire for power they cannot wield. Thorn and I both know it, but it doesn’t help when I’m going in alone, and this might be the one time that doesn’t prove true.

So, I ended up sitting atop a three-foot thick barricade clutching an oak branch to steady me, outside the west wing, the arcana wing, of a gorgeous ten-thousand square foot faux gothic mansion surrounded by stone paths, and gardens complete with palm trees.

Continuing my surveillance, I tuned into each of the magical artifacts inside the house. This guy possessed a world-ending quantity of magic artifacts. He’s either extremely stupid or paranormal.

I’m so praying for a stupid human.

Lights illuminated the windows in the wing nearest me, and I exercised considerable patience waiting for them to wink out. Finally, as a creeping numbness crawled up my legs, and I felt I could fall asleep against the tree trunk using Spanish moss as a coverlet, the last windows darkened.

Show time. A burst of energy electrified me.

Now there’s only one problem left to tackle.

Despite what everyone thinks, I’m not a thief. I find things, and ninety-nine percent of the time, the objects are out in the wild. Filching from a wealthy collector with the money for a security system is a different ball game, and it’s definitely not in my skill set.

Slip in, grab the thing, and skedaddle out. Easy peasy, right? Yeah, famous last words. Hopefully, they won’t be my own.

In one fluid motion, I dropped to a crouch between the ornamental trees and the sculpture between me and the house. As I prowled the meticulously kept stone path, no exterior lights winked on, no sirens blared, and no new scents assaulted me. Every molecule inside me focused on the item I must retrieve. Every magic has a different frequency. Each spell does, too, and I’ve done this often enough now to trust my instincts.

When I started this gig, I spent every second terrified I’d grab the wrong item and get my ass killed. Then I realized when I got a request, the need to locate it took up residence in my head, and I always connected to the item I sought.

Like magic.

Tonight, the evening featured the right kind of quiet. Frogs sang, mosquitoes hummed, and the cicadas shrieked their cacophonous chorus without interruption as I snuck across the garden and crept to the window Thorn described as belonging to the library.

My heart pounded, and I tested the lock Thorn said his guy broke on the last attempt. The tall window silently swung open like it beckoned me into the darkness. It set my teeth on edge and my internal threat sensors screamed I should run.

Then, it was gone, and a sense of calm filled and warmed me. It started below my neck, between my shoulder blades, and spread like a shawl around my body.

“I’m here.”

I should have been freaked out by the voice of the artifact, which encompassed me with unnatural calm, but the mark helpfully performed its job. My heart rate slowed, and my legs stopped wobbling like wet noodles.

I entered through the window, crouched on the ledge between two large, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and gave my eyes time to adjust.

The new clarity I experienced when I awoke after receiving the mark is even more noticeable in the near-total darkness. I blinked a few times and surveyed the room. Not only could I see the bookshelves lining three of the four walls, but I could also spot the spines of every book on every shelf. Even in the dark, the titles are clear. In fact, the gilt writing glowed.

Hell, yes. What other sorts of tricks do I have now? I can’t wait to find out.

The desk against the north wall faced a large window, and a long oak table commanded the middle of the room. In the corner, where the wall met the ceiling, a camera pointed to the interior doorway.

Hmm. But does the camera cover the whole room, or did its sweep radius leave blind spots? I study the lens and the room, comparing the camera’s sight path to the room’s area.

I slink closer to the camera and climbed the shelf beside it. Halfway up, footsteps rang farther into the interior of the wing. I froze and held my breath.

Seconds passed like hours as I waited for sirens to blare or lights to flash on. But nope. All clear. I tilted the camera upward with my newly acquired knife then I listened. With no new warning sounds, I ran my hands over the desk.

You’ll know it when you see it, Thorn had said.

Or I’ll identify it when it jumps into my fucking chest with its friend. I shuddered. One dweomer in my chest was enough, thank you.

Then Thorn’s signal hit me jumbled, heated, primal, and incoherent. I don’t have time to get mired in a Thorn sexual fantasy. I must ignore the heat building between my thighs prompted by whatever is going on with Thorn and focus on the artifact’s “scent.”

I walked cautiously through the room until a soft, dark glow at the edge of my vision beckoned, and I turned toward one of the bookcases. Moving closer, the thrumming between my breasts grew. In this metaphysical game of hot and cold, I’m burning up.

I touched the books closest to where I sensed the object I sought and finally received a shock as my fingers trailed on a book spine. After pulling the volume off the shelf, I opened it to find it hollowed out. Nestled in its center rested a black eye-shaped stone carving.

Drawing a deep breath, I wrapped the stone in a silk cloth to avoid contact with my skin—just in case it wanted to sink into my flesh—and tucked it into the thigh pocket of my jeans. When I shove the book back into place, another spark hit my fingers from a book two titles down on the same shelf. Inside lay a bottle of flower petals, but despite being plucked, they looked alive and whole, soft, supple, even moving a little as though they feel air moving through them.

For one long moment, I’m tempted to take them, too. But I’ve had enough close brushes with iffy magic to learn when it wants you to pick it up, it may hurt you.

Reluctantly, I closed the book, returned it to its slot, and exited the window with the lock the professional thief broke for my benefit. Once on the safer side of the stone fence, I texted Thorn.

Me: Got it.

It only takes a second to get a text back.

Thorn: Meet me at the Talisman Casino. I’ve informed the front desk you are coming and they will direct you.

Me: WTF? You’re gambling while I’m risking my life????

A dangerous growl rumbled between my ears. Oops, I poked the bear, or rather the demon.

Thorn: I live here.

Really? But it makes sense. Greed is one of the seven deadly sins, and what does a demon love more than sin?

After checking my phone, I cursed.

Me: Ten miles away? Fuck, Thorn, how do you expect me to get there?

Thorn: Walk west. You’ll encounter the bus line.

Me: Come, get me.

Thorn: I’m busy.

Me: Doing what?

In my mind’s eye, Thorn grinned evilly.

Thorn: Coming.

Fucking A. I’ll make that bastard pay. Guaranteed.

With a sigh, I started the long trek, which lent me ample time to contemplate this question.

How do I make Hellspawn pay?