Kissed By A Demon Spy (2 page)

“Keegan.” Aden stepped outside to the back of the building.

“You too busy playing business man to pick up your phone?” His older brother’s voice rumbled over the ley-line powered connection.

“No, too busy playing fucking handyman.” Aden paced away from the building. “Had to lay a stone floor.”

“Nice. You got a spell for that?”

Aden laughed. “Fuck, no. Had to look it up online. Just like everything else about this job.”

“Nothing wrong with that. You learned fast and the inn’s bringing in business. And your intel on the Vipers has been accurate.”

“Thanks.” A nearby nest of Viper demons had been raiding other villages, though so far they had left Aden’s town of Ivydale alone. The beasts had humanoid forms and walked upright on two legs, but had the heads of snakes. Fangs too, which dripped with a nasty venom.

“The raid they planned on the wood nymphs last week would’ve been a bloodbath, plus it would’ve skewed the price of silver birch for a decade,” Keegan continued.

“Good thing that group of Serus demons owed you a favor.” Aden walked across plush green grass, toward the back of his property. The Vipers’ last three raiding parties had met an
unfortunate surprise
before they could accomplish their tasks. Careful to cover his clan’s tracks, Keegan hired different groups of creatures to block each attack. Many species were eager to slay Vipers. The snakeheads had no friends.

“Yeah. Though now the slate is clean, and I preferred it when they were in our debt.” Keegan blew out a breath. “But that’s not why I called.”

“What’s up?” Aden pushed aside thoughts of the inn, his mind readying for his next assignment.

“Stroehm’s leader is dead.”

“What?” Aden stopped in his tracks. “Draven’s dead? How?”

“Not sure. Rumor says he was found with an arrow in his neck. An elvish arrow. Not far from his compound.”

“No shit?” Aden stared at the planks of gray wood that made up the back wall of his building, seeing in them the ashy, barren landscape of Draven’s compound. Stroehm was a hellhole, a place where blood sport reigned. Draven’s captured slaves were forced to fight to the death in a gladiator ring. “Killed by an elf?”

Keegan chuckled. “Don’t underestimate the wee folk.”

“I’m not.” Aden had worked with elves a few times. Enough to know some of them could hit a two-headed snake from a hundred yards away. “I always figured if Draven got killed, it would be by an escaped slave. Like what happened to his dad.”

“Yeah, I thought so too.”

“Do you know the details?”

“Nah. I just got word a few minutes ago.” As leader of their extended Deserati clan, Keegan usually knew everything first.

“Who’s in charge now?”

“No one knows. He has brothers, but I don’t think they’re there yet.”

Aden raked a hand through his hair. “It’s only a matter of time before they move in.”

“Agreed, though I don’t know what’ll be left by the time they do. And since it’s mostly slaves and guards, most of them predatory species, they’ll probably disperse to who knows where. I need you to look and see how bad things are.”

“Have you looked at all?”

“No. I don’t have any objects from there. Why should I bother when you’ll get the better picture?”

“Glad you agree I’m the better scryer.” Out of all the Deserati demons, Aden’s skills were uniquely keen. Much of his work was done via scrying, since he didn’t need an object with a connection to the person or place he was observing in order to “see” it, like most of his brethren did.

“I’ll check it out.”

“Thanks, bro. Catch ya later.” Keegan ended the call.

Aden rubbed a hand over his eyes. A leader-less Stroehm spelled trouble. Either chaos reigned there, or bands of escaped predators had abandoned it and were likely roaming that part of the realm. It wasn’t close, but location didn’t matter. Creatures could move at the speed of a spell using amulets or a porter.

He walked back inside his building, passing the forlorn herb garden. His last cook used to take care of it. Before she ran off to another settlement with her new mate.

Call his establishment an inn or a tavern, all that mattered was it was quiet at the moment, so he’d be able to spy on Stroehm. Most of the locals were out in their fields or gardens, taking advantage of the fall sunshine to help get their plants growing.

He grabbed a pitcher of water from the kitchen and made his way down the hall past the dining room, to his office at one end of the building. No need to close the door. If anyone so much as laid a hand on the building, his enhanced senses would know. He crossed to his desk and sat down.

Setting the pitcher on the smooth wood, he opened a drawer. He plucked a small glass vial first, rubbing his thumb over the deeply carved sides. Next, a large shallow ceramic dish. He raised the pitcher and poured in some water.

Uncapping the vial, he tilted it to release three drops of amber liquid. He closed his eyes and murmured in Demonish.

Magic crackled in the air. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. His veins thrummed with power, as the skill inherited from his ancestors gathered in every cell of his body.

He opened his eyes. Mist stirred and swirled above the water. He uttered the last words of the spell, instructing the surface to reveal a real-time image of Stroehm.

The fog danced away, revealing a gray, harsh building. Rough stone reached into a sunless sky. A group of men wearing the uniform of Draven’s guards charged a disheveled group of unarmed males. Given Keegan’s news, Aden wasn’t surprised at the attack and bloody aftermath. Draven had been a tyrant, but he expected order and didn’t allow his guards to physically attack his slaves. Not out of any affection for them, but because he was such a sick bastard that he doled out punishments personally.

He needed to see more. “Inside,” Aden commanded.

The image shifted, moving as if a tiny camera on wheels navigated the unforgiving place. A doorway, then a hall came into view.

Males of all species shoved and jostled in the cramped space. Aden couldn’t hear, as the scrying water didn’t conduct sound, but the expressions of the faces were hard. Twisted. Mouths stretched in scowls and sneers. And from the looks of it, raised voices. Everyone seemed to carry a weapon of some sort.

Had all the slaves escaped? Had the guards allowed it, or did the captives rise up as a group to overpower them? The slaves were a hodgepodge of whomever was unlucky enough to get scooped up on one of Draven’s patrols, then live through the arena fights or other forced servitude.

He moved the view to another room, this one appearing to be a kitchen. The mist on his bowl swirled again, as if resetting itself. When it cleared, he sucked in a breath.

Sitting on the floor, crouched behind a huge island, was a female. From her position, he couldn’t discern her size. Her dark hair cascaded in waves down her back, and as she leaned her head against the island, the white straps of an apron became visible over a too-large dress.

Large almond-shaped eyes set in her pale heart-shaped face betrayed fear and fatigue. Those eyes pierced Aden. Haunting, dark, and wary, they seemed to look right into his soul. Beautiful, and she was stuck in hell. He’d bet the inn that she wasn’t a trained fighter.

She opened a cabinet door on the island, just a crack, leaned toward it, and spoke.

He narrowed his eyes.
Who is she talking to?
It was probably a small space, so if someone was hidden in there, they’d have to be small, too. Some fae were tiny. So were children.

Then again, Stroehm was reportedly riddled with secret passages. Perhaps the cabinet door concealed one of them. But then why wasn’t she going in?

A thought zoomed through his mind—that he shouldn’t worry about the fate of one female in this mess. Chaos would reign until a new leader stepped in. Even then, the lives of slaves and guards would be at the new leader’s mercy. But her face captivated him and stirred an unbidden desire to protect her. Despite the haunted look about her, she radiated a sweet purity.

Sweet purity?
He mentally smacked himself. What the hell did he know about that? This female may have retained a good heart throughout whatever she’d endured at Stroehm. Good for her if she did.

Brows pinched, she glanced around, then slipped her hand inside and left it there. With her slender arm stuck halfway inside the cabinet, she was still talking. She didn’t withdraw an object, so there had to be someone hidden inside.

Aden studied her, unable to look away, drawn to put the pieces in place. Her apron indicated that she worked in the kitchen, or maybe she was part of the laundry staff. An odd relief went through him that the bulky, drab gray garment covered most of her. It had long sleeves and the folds of fabric bunched around her bent knees. Far cry from the gauzy dresses he’d heard the thrall slaves wore.

She was pretty enough to be one. And now, she was probably hiding from the males that overran the place. She needed to get a weapon. He wished he could save every female from unwanted advances, but that wasn’t possible. Especially in a big place like Stroehm. No, he needed to get an idea of what was going on.

Tearing his mind from the female, he murmured more words in Demonish. The mist swirled again and an image reformed, showing him a section of exterior land, probably the courtyard. A stone wall was visible in the background. Groups of males brandished weapons. Some stalked about, others ran. As Aden looked, a new fight broke out in the center of his viewing surface.

Guards tried to block a horde of prisoners but they were outnumbered. From the viciousness of their moves, the slaves had to be the gladiator fighters. The guards didn’t stand a chance. Aden watched dispassionately as each one fell.

He couldn’t fault or judge the captives. Stroehm was a miserable place and the death of these men was considered sport. He only hoped that the slaves could form new lives outside the compound. Peaceful lives.

Aden had seen enough. He passed a hand over the surface and the image disappeared. Blowing out a breath, he leaned back in his chair. Trouble was coming. The question was, where?

Any transportation amulets Draven may have owned had probably been stolen in the chaos, allowing hungry, violent males to turn up anywhere. Including his little village of Ivydale. Besides a handful of Deserati demons, most of the residents were peaceful plant pixies. Members of the larger fae group, they had the special ability to help plants grow. Any fruit, vegetable, flower, or tree. The village sat in the middle of vast farm fields and orchards and never lacked for fresh food.

Then why can’t I find a damn cook?
 
He walked to this kitchen and grabbed a chunk of day-old bread. But the ins and outs of running an inn and restaurant weren’t foremost in his mind. That knowledge came second to his real job.

The Stroehm situation might complicate matters, if escapees attacked villages. Then again, it may work in Keegan’s favor to gain more mercenaries. A ragtag band of former slaves on the loose? Now that would be the perfect cover for his clan to keep thwarting the Vipers. What was that old saying?
Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.

Aden washed down the bread with a glass of water and pulled out his phone. Keegan needed to hear this.

“M
OM
?” D
ASH
’
S
MUFFLED
VOICE
CARRIED
through the wood. Though he whispered, Garnet heard him loud and clear. Most mothers on Torth had the ability to hear their small children’s every word, no matter the decibel level.

Cracking open the cabinet door, she found her son’s big blue eyes. Holding a finger against her lips, she shook her head. Too much noise in the hallway. Too many men still hanging around.

“What the hell are we waiting for?” One voice boomed. “Let’s go!” The floor trembled under the weight of boots thundering past, and in a minute the room was quiet.

“We still need to wait and be careful.” She reached her hand in so she could hold his, if only for a moment. His skin was soft, his gaze wary but trusting. At his age he was small enough to be allowed to stay at her side, helping in the kitchen.
Thank the gods
. He was her one light in this awful place.

Pasting on a smile she didn’t feel, she tugged her hand out of Dash’s. “I need to close the door,
nihjo
,” she whispered. “If someone comes back here, I don’t want them to know you’re in there.”

“If anyone hurts you, I-I’ll punch him in the face.” Dash’s face was somewhere between a scowl and tears.

“No one will hurt me. I have my knife, remember?” It wouldn’t do much good against a sword or a brawny male fighter, but it gave her a small measure of confidence. And it apparently reassured Dash too.

“Okay,” he whispered.

She shut the door and leaned her head against it.
My precious boy
. She’d kill anyone who came near him.

Male voices in the hall drew her attention. “We need food.”

Oh no. More men.

“Shit, looks empty. We’re too late.”

“You sure?” Thudding steps came closer. The island creaked as if someone leaned on it.

Go away.
Garnet held her breath.

A drawer opened on the other side of the island. Silverware rattled. “Not even any knives left.”

Boots scraped across the stone slab floor, crushing crumbs underneath. The steps came closer. A sigh heaved above her. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Please, leave.

“Fuck. Shoulda come here first.”

Steps retreated. The second voice carried from farther away. “Weapons before food. Easier to get meals if we’re armed.”

A grumbled agreement from the male closer to her, and then his footsteps stalked away.

Silently, Garnet released her breath. That was too close.

Bit by bit, her racing heart slowed. She forced deep, regular breaths, even as she listened to the commotion in the hall. It had died down to a dull, constant thrum of noise. Sounds drifted in through the windows. The clang of swords and voices raised. Good gods, when would she and Dash be able to make a run for it? She shuddered to think what the guards—any of the men— might do to them.