Wrong Side of Hell (7 page)

Chapter Ten

 
T
HE DOG SHE’D been following howled. It was a hairsplitting cry that cut between the two of them and ended on an abrupt note that was jarring. Silence followed, the kind that weighed heavily. Fear, thick and foul tasting, filled Kira’s mouth, and when Logan grabbed her hand she offered no resistance.

His touch wasn’t gentle—in fact, his fingers dug into her flesh, causing her to wince. But it was real, and hard, and if she knew nothing at all, she knew that blood flowed beneath his veins the same as hers. And in this place of chaos and falsehood, it was reassuring.

They ran across the deserted street and headed toward a series of buildings that bordered two of the four sides of the market square. What made up the remainder of the square couldn’t be seen; the fog was too thick. Logan pushed open the third door and bolted it behind them once they were inside. Only then did he let go of her hand.

They were in some kind of gift shop, one filled with candles, pottery, and artwork. Several large and small canvases filled the walls, full of varying shades of gray with the odd dash of color. Kira glanced at them but they didn’t register, not really. Nothing in here did. She couldn’t focus.

You’re almost out of time.

That’s what Logan had said. But what did he mean?

She turned to him and was more than a little unnerved to find his dark eyes settled onto her, arms crossed over his chest as he glared at her.

“I want some answers or . . . I’m not going anywhere with you.” Did she sound childish? Maybe. Did she give a rat’s ass? Hell, no.

He remained silent and anger stirred within Kira. “Who are you?” She shook her head savagely. “No, that’s wrong. I think the question should be
what
are you.”

“Hellhound.”

“Say again?”

Logan moved toward the window and peered out. He dropped the blinds and turned back to her. It was several degrees darker now, and the shadows that flickered across his face made him look a hundred times fiercer than he already was.

“I’m a hellhound. I
escort
souls to the hell realm for processing.”

“Hellhound,” she repeated as an image of his furriness flashed before her eyes. She thought that maybe a normal person would reject what he’d just shared. But how could she? After all she’d seen?

“Are we talking . . .” She pointed below and waited, breath caught in her throat as he nodded.
Okay, then.

“I’m not sure I understand exactly,” she paused, “what you mean.”

“Souls that have been marked for the lower realm usually require,” a ghost of a smile played around his mouth, though his eyes remained cold as winter, “a little coaxing.” He shrugged. “Most try to escape, but once scented, there is no evading a hellhound. I bring them in to be processed.”

“Processed?”

Logan was quiet for a moment. “I guess ‘sentenced’ would be the correct word.”

She snorted. “You have a judge and jury in hell?”

He shook his head. “No judge. No jury. Just a pissed off demon who decides what district the term will be served in. District One being almost heavenly compared to, say, District Three.” Logan’s smile was harsh. “Trust me. Rarely does one get sentenced to District One for the term of their punishment.”

“Term?”

He shrugged. “Term means nothing, really. A trip below means forever. Once you’ve been marked, there is no turning back.” Logan watched her closely. “Hell is no different from anyplace else. There is order,” he grimaced, “of a sort.”

Kira’s mind moved fast, processing what Logan had shared. “So, when I was ten you came for me because I’d been marked?”

He nodded but remained silent.

Flashes of heat, moans of pain, and the smell of fear as thick as acrid smoke filled her mind. She exhaled slowly and took a few steps, needing some space between them.

His dark eyes followed her as she moved away—she felt them on her skin as surely as if he’d taken his hands and run them across her shoulders and down her arms. A shiver followed in their wake and she ran fingers through the tangles that fell around her face.

Why?

“I was ordered to.”

Okay, he was a mind reader now?

“Ordered . . . you have a boss?”

“I answer to the Overlord Santos.”

“Overlord,” she repeated. “That makes sense.” Her eyes flashed. “It’s not like you’d have a boss called, say . . . Mr. Smith or Mrs. Hannigan or anything like that. No way, because that would be
normal
and you’re about as far away from,” she felt him just behind her and froze, “normal as you can get.” She finished in a whisper.

“We don’t have time for this, Kira.”

The way he said her name made her feel hot inside and more than a little shaky. She couldn’t let him rattle her. Not now. She needed the truth.

“You told me I was dead. I don’t get that.” Kira whirled around and ate the squeal that sat at the back of her throat. He was much too close. Much too large . . . and much too male.

“In the human realm, your body lies in a morgue at the Regent Institute.”

“The human realm,” she repeated. Right. Because this was so not the human realm.

Light flashed inside her head as pain lanced across her skull. She groaned and doubled over, hating the pictures that ran through her mind. Mergerone. His hands. His face and smell. The new orderlies. Their glee at her pain and their relentless attack.

“No,” she whispered in horror as she backed away. Fists pounding against flesh rang in her ears and a sob escaped from between her lips. “I tried,” she whispered. “I knew they wouldn’t let me leave that room alive. They were too big and too strong and they . . .” Her eyes sought out Logan’s. “They weren’t human and there was . . .”

“Go on,” he prompted, his voice as gentle as it was going to get.

“There was someone in the shadows. I couldn’t see his face but I
felt
him. Felt his sadistic joy.” She let out a shuddering breath. “Why? Why would they want to kill me . . . ?” Her voice trailed into nothing as she stared at him.

Logan moved closer yet, and this time she welcomed the energy and strength that he gave off. Kira watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. She inhaled the earthy, exotic scent of him, and for one brief moment wanted nothing more than to move into his arms and forget everything.

“I can’t answer your questions.”

Of course.

Kira had never felt so alone. “Can’t or won’t?” she said bitterly.

“Both” was his curt reply. “I need to get you out of here alive and take you back.”

“Take me back? Where? To your so-called
human
realm? But if I’m dead, then what?” She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t need to understand.” He leaned forward. “You need to listen.”

The dog began to bark once more.

Kira exhaled stiffly and tore her eyes away from his. He made her nervous. The man was much too intense and held too many secrets.

Could this be one of her nightmares? It seemed plausible. She rubbed her temple and winced as the beginnings of a headache erupted. There was no alternative but to go with it and see where she ended up. Was she alive? Dead? Or somewhere in between?

“Okay.” She pulled away. “What’s the plan?”

“We find the portal.”

“Portal?” This was the stuff of science fiction novels.

“Do you remember where you were when you first arrived here?”

“No, not really.” Kira shook her head but then she paused. “I think I was here in the market.” Her brow furled. “No, no, that’s wrong . . . hold on.” The pressure inside her head was incredible, pressing behind her optic nerves with a ferocity that left her dizzy. Blotches of color, the sensation of soft cotton sheets and floating on air surrounded her. It was blurry at first, then like water receding in the tide, the mist cleared. “My first memory of this place was at my house. I was in my bedroom in Beverly Hills.”

“Do you remember where the house was in relation to this market?”

“No.” Panic set in and she began to pace.

“Do you remember any sounds or maybe a smell? The gray realm is constantly shifting but smells linger and we might get lucky.”

A thought crossed her mind. “How did you get here?”

“That path is closed.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I don’t bring out the warm fuzzies in the gatekeeper.” His eyes narrowed, his voice was firm. “Tick tock, tick tock . . . I need you to remember.”

Kira cracked her neck and tried to ease the tension that lay across her shoulders. It was no use. She was strung tighter than a bow around an arrow. Still, she closed her eyes and concentrated. Nothing but a blank canvas came to mind. “It hurts,” she whispered.

“Try harder.” There was no compassion in his voice, but did she really expect it?

The dog’s barking had reached a level that signaled the game had changed—at this very moment the trojans might have arrived with their master close at hand. Yet Kira shut it out, covering her ears with her hands as she searched her mind. Pain sliced through her skull and she cried out.

Then, like a leak that had been sprung, a small crack appeared in her memories. It fingered out—thin spidery legs of images, smells, and sensations. She turned to Logan and whispered, “French toast.”

“French toast,” he repeated, watching her closely.

She nodded. “Someone brought me breakfast. It was there beside my bed. French toast, maple syrup, and scrambled eggs.” Her brow furled. “I reached for the plate.” Eyes wide, she stared up into his. “It had been so long since I’d had anything like it, but . . .” she exhaled. “It disappeared . . . right before my eyes. When I rolled out of bed everything went weird, like the floor was mushy and the walls changed color. I was off balance and the next thing I remember is standing at the edge of the market.”

“French toast,” he murmured. Blue eyes stared into dark ones. “You did good, kid.” He nodded toward the back of the shop. “This way.”

Kira’s gaze rested on his broad shoulders, her face flushed at the small crumb of praise. He opened the door and glanced back at her, hand beckoning toward the swirling mist beyond. His nostrils flared and his eyes sparked crimson.

Most people would run the other way at the sight of such a man. He was too large, too intimidating . . . too much an alpha male. And then there was the whole turning-into-an-animal thing.

This man or hellhound—or whatever he was—held her life in the palm of his hand. He was asking her to believe in things that were beyond believable for most people, and yet . . . she trusted him completely.

Which made no sense.

“Nothing about this makes sense,” she said under her breath.

Kira started forward, a prayer on her lips as she slipped past Logan and disappeared into the heavy mist. It was the first prayer she’d uttered in over fifteen years.

She just hoped someone was listening.

Chapter Eleven

 
T
HE SMELLS OUT here were sharp. They tingled along the inside of Logan’s nose and he filtered out the ones he wanted before moving forward. His long legs ate up the concrete while Kira’s smaller ones pumped fast in order to keep up with him. He supposed he could slow down—match his strides with hers—but the need to complete the mission tore at him.

The gray realm made him edgy. Kira made him edgy. And that left the bad taste of losing control in his mouth. Something he didn’t much care for.

He glanced down at her. She was surprising to him . . . for a human, and that was saying something. They were a race of beings he’d always thought of as weak, and he’d never much cared for them. Not the way Bill did. He had to wonder what it was about Kira that made her of special interest for those of the otherworld. Especially the one who was here, tracking her in the gray realm.

His mouth tightened at the thought of the faceless assassin. Damn, but he’d love a chance at his ass—how cowardly to stalk a human girl with no chance of protecting herself. Logan snarled and clenched his hands. He might get a chance yet.

He hazarded a glance behind them but wasn’t able to penetrate through the fog that swirled ever faster. At the moment it seemed they were alone.

He’d found the smallest thread of a scent that could be what he was looking for. French toast? Who knew, but it was sweet—sickeningly so—and more importantly, it was linked to Kira’s scent, which carried bits of sun and soul.

Logan grabbed her hand and guided her to the right. The wind picked up—slicing through the mist and thinning it—as it swept along the ground in turbulent gusts. At his feet the concrete suddenly gave way to soft grass, his heavy boots sinking into its softness, and he sniffed—water was nearby.

One second they were rushing through gray; the next, they were nearly blinded by sunlight.

Logan pulled up at the sight before him—an opulent house faced with delicate pink stucco and white trim, a sea of green and blue, and a riot of color everywhere else.

Kira trembled in his grasp and he watched as her face came alive. Her eyes widened—their recesses shiny, now reflective pools of onyx—and her generous mouth curved into a soft smile. For a few seconds she appeared much younger, as if no worry lived inside her soul. Long hair wafted about her face, and he reached for a tendril that floated behind her ear but stopped short of touching it.

What the hell was he doing?

He cleared his throat and extricated his hand from hers. She didn’t seem to notice, and he followed as she began to jog and then run toward the pool.

This backyard oasis was alive with color. No gray existed here. Gardens fell along the fence, a riot of pinks, oranges, yellows, and purples. Tall, exotic trees lined the border, a fountain with a mermaid shooting water several feet in the air lay to his left—its gray foundation was bordered by the bluest irises he’d ever seen.

Logan snorted at the thought. He supposed most creatures—human or otherworld—would be surprised that he had a bit of a green thumb. Gardening was his therapy. When he’d been imprisoned in the Pit, the one thing he missed most was the garden he kept at his home.

There was something beautiful in the simple organic makeup of plants.

His gaze drifted toward the pool. This was extravagant, even for the well-heeled and moneyed humans who dwelled in Beverly Hills. Several waterfalls dropped buckets of shimmery, fresh liquid—the color of the deepest part of the Caribbean—into the pool. There was a diving board, hot tub off to the right, and to his left an impressive swim-up bar.

“Nana.”

Kira’s tortured whisper drew his gaze and he started forward with purpose. Time was wasting and there was someone beyond the pool. He couldn’t see who it was, but the presence held power.

He reached the patio a second behind Kira, and watched closely as an old woman turned toward them. Her hair was silver and fell past her shoulders in long waves, the face warm and kind—though her eyes were much colder when they landed on Logan.

She was otherworld—the scent was unmistakable—though Logan couldn’t quite determine exactly
what
she was.

“Catherine . . . I thought you were Nana.” Disappointment rang in Kira’s voice and her shoulders slumped slightly as she exhaled a long, shuddering breath.

“No, my dear, she moved on a long time ago.” The woman glanced up at Logan and she frowned, her brows drawn tight. “You’re guiding her back?”

Logan nodded, well aware of the distaste that sat in the old woman’s eyes. He smiled, a fuck-you salute. “Unless you’ve got someone else who can get the job done.”

Her eyes narrowed for a second, but then she ignored him and turned to Kira. “I’ve been waiting for you, but make no mistake, you’re in grave danger. We’ve got to hurry.” The woman glanced behind Logan, her lips tight as she shook her head. “They’re not far behind. Follow me.”

Logan prodded Kira forward and they disappeared inside after the old woman. The house was as impressive as the outside—humans seemed to love rich, exotic things. And the ones who could afford these rich trappings seemed to have the least amount of taste. The old adage “less is more” sure as hell didn’t live in this house.

He ignored all of it and followed Kira and the woman, Catherine, through a kitchen and up a large, circular stairway that led to a posh upper level.

He knew this home. He’d been in it fifteen years earlier. It was exactly as he remembered.

“Here we are, dear.” The woman smoothed wrinkled, worn hands over the long, colorful skirt she wore. Bangles jingled at her wrist, sounding like tinkling water.

Kira stepped forward and hugged the old lady tightly and whispered, “Thank you.”

Catherine glanced at Logan and even he was impressed with how fast the warmth fled her eyes. “Take care of her, hound, or I shall haunt you for eternity.” She stepped out of Kira’s embrace and motioned toward the far end of the landing. “Hurry, hurry.”

Logan tapped Kira on the shoulder. “We have to go.”

She nodded and pointed toward the far end of the landing. “My room is there.”

He knew that, of course, but remained silent as he followed her. She threw open the door and Logan blinked. Shit, he didn’t remember it being so . . . nauseatingly girlish. An assault of pink and white greeted him, as if a bag of marshmallows and cotton candy had exploded everywhere.

The door closed behind him and he moved into the room, nostrils flaring as he opened up his senses and scanned the entire perimeter. On a large pedestal base, in the center of the room, was a four-poster bed. White gauzy wisps of fabric fell from the ceiling to touch the floor around it. Off to the right a small white sofa and table were arranged beneath the window. Books and magazines were scattered across the table and a large dollhouse stood nearby.

With eyes closed he visualized Kira’s energy, those shimmering threads of her soul, and he followed the wispy strands. They led him to her bedroom closet.

“Well, this is cliché,” he murmured. “All right, let’s do this.” The door opened beneath his fingers, exposing a large walk-in. The energy inside the room pulsed with otherworld magic and he knew the portal was still there. Lucky for them—the damn things had a habit of moving around at will, especially in this realm.

“Let’s go, Kira.”

Logan glanced back and froze. She stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror—inches from it—her fingers upon her face as she stared at herself. She looked sad, lost. When she looked up suddenly and their eyes met, something twisted inside of Logan. Something hard. It was a physical reaction and the muscles in his gut tightened. What it was he reacted to, he couldn’t be sure of. The only thing he did know was that he didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

“I don’t . . .” Her eyes dropped to the ground, her voice was barely heard. “I don’t really look like this.” Her shoulders hunched forward. “Not back there.” She paused and then looked up, her dark eyes haunting as she stared at him through the mirror. “Not anymore.”

Suddenly he understood. “I know.” He answered gruffly.

Surprise flickered in her eyes and she turned to him. “But how would you . . . we’ve never met. I mean, not as adults.”

She ran her tongue along her dry lips. The action drew his eyes and he spent more time than he should have staring at her mouth. Those full lips that were made for sliding and licking and—his groin tightened—all sorts of things he shouldn’t be thinking about.

“How do you know what I look like?”

“I tracked you from the morgue.”

“The morgue,” she repeated, a slight tremor riding her words. “Right.” She crossed the room until she stood so close he could touch her. When she looked up at him the sorrow that lay in her eyes punched him in the gut. “I’m dead. So, back there,” she blew out a shuddering breath, “back there I’m nothing and after we go back, what are my chances? Am I going to make it?”

The air thickened. Logan was hot and irritated.

Her scent washed over him, the purity of it, and the warmth that was woven into her signature left him tight. His gut churned as he stared down into her dark eyes.

Damn, but he should have tapped that blonde at the bar before Bill had shown. He rolled his shoulders. It had been too long. Now was not the time to be thinking of his dick.

“I’m not going to lie,” he said carefully. “I’ve never brought anyone back from the gray realm, and if we’re successful in navigating this portal together,” he shrugged, “I have no clue what condition your body is in. Time moves differently here. What seems like a few hours to us might be days in the human realm—or seconds.” He shook his head. “It’s a total fucking crapshoot.”

“I could end up dead, forever dead.”

The window was open and the breeze that flew in carried the stink of demon. In the distance the mad barking dog broke through the silence and Logan knew their time was up. The trojans weren’t far behind.

“Little Dove, you’re already dead. If you stay here you’ll end up much worse.” He nodded outside. “Whatever is out there will end you, understand? You will cease to exist. At least if we return, you have some kind of chance.”

He tried to ignore the big dark eyes that stared up at him, full of worry and anger and something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

He ran his fingers through his damp hair that curled around his neck. Shit, it was hot in here. Logan turned toward the closet. “We gotta roll.”

Yet her hand at his back stopped him cold. “Wait.”

His skin sizzled where she touched him. Right through his damn shirt. Logan kept his mouth shut as she moved in front of him. He wanted to tell her to back off—to take her hand off him—but he remained silent. Logan Winters wasn’t about to lose his cool because a little slip of a human had managed to get under his skin.

Finally she let go and stared up at him, chest heaving and shoulders squared. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides and the knuckles strained white.

“I won’t do this until I know . . .” Her voice trailed off and he arched a brow, a muscle working its way across his cheek as the mad barking grew closer. Was he going to have to toss her ass inside?

“Know what?”

She shook her head. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.” Something in her eyes changed—it wasn’t just the slight softening of color from dark chocolate into caramel. It was the emotion behind them, and suddenly he was nervous.

Him. Logan Winters. Hellhound from the fucking land of the damned.

“I’ve never been kissed before.”

Shit, no. We’re not going there
. And yet his body hardened instantly as if her words plucked him like a cellist pulling her bow.

“I’ve never made love to anyone.” Shadows crept into her face. “He . . . Mergerone raped me.” Tears filled the corners of her eyes and she trembled, a sob caught in her throat. “Many times.” She whispered. “That’s my experience. That’s all I’ve known.”

His eyes narrowed and beneath his chest the beast shifted. This Mergerone had touched her. Blind rage colored everything until only a palette of red remained. He would pulverize the bastard. Torture and maim and then kill. Kira was his.

Logan growled.
She was his.

A roaring echoed in his ears and for a moment reality slid away, leaving only the woman standing before him. Her soul glimmered, surrounding her in a beautiful rainbow of gold. It called to him.

With a savage snarl, Logan shook the image from his head. This was crazy. What the hell was he thinking?

Outside he heard the thunderous boom of feet pounding into the grass and the screeching of birds—and the incessant barking grew louder. It was in the room with them, surrounding them both, and yet it couldn’t pierce the wall of emotion Kira had just put out there.

Her gaze was focused on his mouth. He felt her touch as surely as if she was imprinted on his flesh. “If I don’t make it, I just want one—”

Logan’s groin tightened painfully and he clenched his teeth in order to eat the groan that sat in the back of his throat. Kira needed to shut the hell up and follow him through the portal.

“—kiss,” she whispered, placing her hands upon his chest and pulling herself up onto her toes.

The heat of her was everywhere. Her scent was inside his body. He glanced out the large window behind the sitting area, alarmed to see most of the backyard oasis had disappeared as a blanket of gray preceded the onslaught of the trojans. Color was bleeding out of her purgatory as fast as blood seeping from a wound.

They had maybe a minute, most likely less.

Her hand hardened against his jaw, he felt her nails puncture his skin and she pulled him down toward her. He could have resisted, pulled away from her touch, and yet he didn’t. Was he fucking crazy?

I want her.

And then her lips were on his, hesitant at first, like a whisper of silk gliding across his mouth. He heard his heart beating fast and furious, felt the tightening of every muscle in his body, and knew he needed to grab her and run.

But desire was a traitorous bitch with no care as to whom she put under her spell.
Just one touch
, he thought, as his large hand sank into the thick hair at her nape. With a groan he pulled her flush against his body and his tongue slid inside her warmth.