Spirit Song Read online

  “WHAT!”

  Bastian roared, shoving the door open hard enough to knock Veronica on her ass. He climbed out and bared his teeth as he hovered over her, his rage driving her backward, and she crab-walked to stay out of his reach. Viktor’s tight grip on his arm was the only thing that stopped him from doing something he would forever regret.

  “Gør ikke dette, lillebror.”

  Bastian struggled against the calming words seeping through his dangerous fury. The red filter tinting his vision faded by degrees, biting cold pushing down the heat of his anger.

  “Sal only lets his girls stay above the club,” Veronica said. “Whoever she is, she’s not worth your life, darling.”

  Bastian dragged Viktor with him as he leaned forward, his snarl a promise of painful retribution. “I will end you if you even think her name.”

  Rivers of tears coursed down her cheeks, but his heart was cold. “But I love you.”

  His lip curled in disgust as he rose to his full height. “You know nothing of love.” Before he let slip anything more dangerous, he slid back into his car. “Don’t let me see you again.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Screeching tires drowned out Veronica’s blubbered response. Gravel peppered the air, and Bastian pointed the sleek nose of the car toward the downtown lights. His angel was no longer safe staying in that hovel, but would she willingly stay with him?

  He gripped the wheel tighter, sending hopes to a God on whom he had long since given up. Maybe this once, since the prayer was directed toward the welfare of an innocent, he might be heard. His litany was cut short by the vibrating buzz from the dash. He knew it was Viktor before he keyed the hands-free sync.

  “Fuck me, Bas. You could’ve at least waited until I got out of the way before taking off. Thanks for leaving me with psycho sobber.”

  A slight twinge of guilt tickled his conscience, but it passed quickly as he caught a flash of Vik’s black cat creeping up on his right. The suped-up Jaguar XK easily caught up to him and took the lead. After all, he did know their destination.

  “She’s gone, yes?”

  “Gee, not even a ‘What would I do with you, Viktor? You’re the best friend a guy like me could ever ask for.’ Or even ‘Viktor, you’re my hero.’ And before you ask, yes, I did fix the locks. Her key won’t work anymore.”

  Bastian stared blandly at the wide chevron of tail lights just beyond the bright halogens of his muscle car. “I owe you.”

  The roar of his engine filled in the silence as their two-car caravan stayed on the main thoroughfare. A pitiful groan slipped from his lips as both his heart and the body part currently being strangled by his seat belt wished they hadn’t passed that off-ramp. His duties must always come first, but that one taste of her was not enough. It was more of a tease, an appetizer than promised a coming meal that would never be forgotten. But not for him.

  “So what’s our next move, Vik?”

  Viktor’s Jag continued heading further away from the city on I-94 and started the eastern curve around the tip of Lake Michigan. His stomach churned as he visualized their potential destination.

  “You have got to be shitting me. Detroit is a fucking three-hour drive. Four, if you include traffic.”

  He glanced as far ahead of them as possible, noticing the red glow of impending brake lights and gridlock. If he could maneuver around Viktor, pass him somehow, then they could talk about the utter stupidity of this plan like somewhat civilized people. But the sleek car in front of him was unwilling to give up the lead. Bastian gripped the steering wheel, jerking it left and right in a feeble attempt to get around him.

  “Relax, Bas. If my hunch is right, we won’t need to go that far.”

  Unconvinced, Bastian gave it one more shot to edge him out on the inside lane, but Vik gunned the supercharged V8 under the hood and stayed out of reach.

  “What kind of hunch?” Bastian gritted his teeth, his voice a menacing growl rumbling almost as loud as his beefy 396 engine. Their speed demon jockeying for superiority was rapidly running out of open road, and he had no intention of getting stuck in bumper-to-bumper for the rest of the damned day.

  “Christ, will you just trust me for just a second?” Signs declaring Welcome to Indiana appeared and disappeared as quick. More cars joined them and their ninety-five soon turned to a more reputable 75 mph. A large part of Bastian wanted to crank the stereo, drown out the monotonous whir of the tires on the asphalt as it kept in time with his racing thoughts. He eyed the silver Ballon Bleu wrapped around his wrist, the bold black Roman numerals proudly reminding him of exactly how much longer he had to wait until his angel was once again in his arms.

  Each ticking second pulled him further and further away, every mile making his journey more and more uncomfortable.

  Viktor veered toward the approaching off-ramp, taking the winding curve at breakneck speed. Bastian didn’t waste an ounce of space, keeping the receding tail lights as close as physics would allow. Since they were no longer in Illinois, they were officially out of Viggo’s territory. He hoped that was Vik’s original plan, but another thought triggered his voice to fill the void.

  “Please tell me you told Pappa Sol we were going to be paying him a visit?” It was common courtesy to alert the local Guardian if business spilled into their territory. Helped to make sure toes didn’t get stepped on, plus ensured that the mysterious body count could easily be cleaned up.

  “No need. This is as far as we’re gonna go.” Their trip meandered through the edges of suburbia resting along the edge of Lake Michigan. Quiet neighborhoods thinned out until they entered the Dunes. Indiana National Dunes was the Midwest’s version of the beach, except about thirty degrees colder on any given day. Today was no different, only amplified by the long winter. Frigid winds blew off the frosty water, and there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  “Vik, if you had the urge to go surfing, you could’ve booked a better place. Like Maui,” he continued to grumble as he followed into the empty lot, parking his car next to the Jag. After he rummaged around and finally gave up on locating his gloves, he slipped out, swearing a blue streak as the biting air cut through his jacket.

  But that friggin’ shit-eating grin on his Viking friend’s face only added fuel to his pissed-off fire. With a scorching stare leveled at his cold-blooded companion, he flipped him off as they hiked the short distance to the shore.

  “Oh, c’mon,” Viktor said. “This is way more fun. Less crowded. Look, we have the whole beach to ourselves.”

  Bastian popped him on the arm, the need to do more violence prickling under his skin. With a heavy sigh, he glanced at the choppy water, distant ships ferrying cargo both foreign and domestic to new ports.

  “Why are we here?”

  The smile vanished from Viktor’s porcelain blue eyes and he kicked at the hard sand beneath their feet. Bastian frowned, his eyebrows knitting together, his arms folding across his chest. Fuck, they were here to track something.

  “I got something from Monica this morning. She snagged it from the body discovered late last night. Since there were several anomalies at the scene, she thought maybe it was something we could use.”

  Bastian’s gaze darkened as he quirked a brow at his friend’s rather lame explanation. The grimace on Viktor’s face brought a self-satisfied smirk to Bastian’s lips. This time, it was Vik who threw the one-fingered salute as he cradled his temple, his knees buckling as he staggered to stay on his feet.

  “Fuck me. Bastard. And that was just a little white lie.” He shook his head and the guarded expression gazing up at Bastian needed no words. He waved off the impending question with a flick of his wrist.

  “You pinched it from her and figured I’d be your damned bloodhound. Gee, how thoughtful of you.” He opened his palm, waiting for whatever object he’d sneaked away from the crime scene. He ground his teeth as the sad-puppy eyes bored a hole in the back of his jacket. “Just give me the damned thing, or spit out what’s on your mind.”
/>   Viktor balked. Not a good sign. Wearily, he lifted his gaze to the troubled eyes next to him.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Vik?”

  He waited as Viktor took a deep breath. “It’s a Calling Card.”

  Another stream of obscenities flew from his lips as he tossed his hands up and stormed away from Vik. In his current mood, he would beat the shit out of his friend and regret it later if he stayed within arm’s reach. His muscles coiled, preparing for the impending violence.

  A Calling Card. Viktor picked up a mainline to the Rogues’ nesting place. During disputes or, in cases like this, a coup, the usurping faction would give the Rogues loyal to the local lieutenant a chance to switch sides without repercussion. All they needed to do was present their “Get into the new cool kids club” pass and they were golden.

  Bastian never understood the ridiculous hierarchy within their enemies’ ranks. For a group touted to create disorder and destruction, they sure had a lot of damned rules. He shook his head, laughing mirthlessly at the irony of life as he continued to pace out his anger.

  “Look, I found it on the body part at my feet. I didn’t touch the stupid thing, but I had to get it out of there before one of the cops found it.”

  Bastian growled, a tic starting at his jaw as he strained against the urge to scream. Viktor had done the right thing. If a normal human were to pick up one, they would be transported to The In-Between, a black, void netherworld where their mind would be torn apart. That was if they were lucky. If they proved strong enough to survive the madness, the bad guys got a new player. Legend was, propaganda flyers dropped by Nazis on Allied forces were actually reams of the cursed things, corrupting or killing any who were fool enough to handle them.

  Whether or not that little bit of history was true made no never mind to Bastian. He never gave a shit about politics before he became a Guardian. Why the fuck should he care now? He fought to protect individuals, not ideologies.

  “So you what? Levitated the thing? Asked it nicely to jump into your fucking hand?”

  A sheepish grin crossed Viktor’s face. “Uh. Not exactly.” He stepped back to his car and popped the trunk. Bastian dropped his head into his hand.

  “You took the whole thing.” He looked again. Yup. Sure enough, sitting in the luxurious burgundy carpet was a plastic bag with what appeared to be a lower leg. It was hard to tell since there was neither hand nor foot to differentiate the limb. Shreds of fabric revealed pale dead flesh with the remnants of a wraparound tattoo. Some trendy tribal crap, but it still didn’t help to identify the exact body part.

  They admired the scrawny body part for a moment longer, Viktor angling his head to get a better look. “I still can’t tell if it’s an arm or a leg.”

  Bastian scoffed, shrugging. “Beats me, brother. On some days, I have a hard time telling boys from girls.” He groaned in hindsight and again, his face found his open palm.

  Viktor laughed loud, patting his on the shoulder. “Well, Sebastian. The boys have the outie parts and the girls have the innie parts.”

  He elbowed his chuckling friend in the ribs, hoping to knock loose the Mister Roger’s tone from his voice. With deliberate care, he picked up the bag by a corner and headed back to the water’s edge.

  “Did your parents have any children that lived?” He sighed, setting down the grisly parcel. Good thing he had gotten properly armed up before leaving the house. He had a feeling he was going to need all the hardware on this trip. He only prayed they didn’t need more. Careful not to come into contact with the actual flesh, he peeled the clear plastic wrap away, exposing the limb. He sensed Viktor at his back and took deep breath to settle his nerves and his stomach. God, he hated traveling to the void.

  “Let’s get this over with. I got better things to be doing after this and I don’t want to go back home to change.”

  Bastian arched a brow at Viktor’s appraisal of the situation. “Need I remind you this was your idea?”

  Before another whine could slip from his friend, Bastian turned his gaze upward, giving Viktor a nod. He flinched involuntarily as a hand gripped his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he closed the travel circuit and touched the skin. A burst of light and a crack of thunder later, the shore was uninhabited once again.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Inky black surrounded them, thick and cloying. Darkness so deep and all-consuming it had first-time visitors reaching out to push aside the ebony curtain. Bastian had long since stopped that sophomoric response, but the feeling was still there. In this world, true evil did exist and this was its mailing address.

  He blinked rapidly, hoping that time would help his eyes adjust to the never-ending night. Piercing night vision kicked in as Viktor’s presence brushed the edges of his personal space bubble.

  “You think they would’ve at least left a light on. It’s like the inside of a cow in this place.”

  Bastian scoffed. “Smells about as good as well. Time’s ticking. Let’s move.”

  “So what bring you jackholes to my doorstep?”

  Lights flared in a blinding flash, instantly illuminating the grunge club setting. The In-Between was nebulous and formless nothingness until the Rogues willed objects into being, giving them the needless reminder that they were on enemy turf. To say the rules of the void were skewed in their favor was like saying there are a couple people living in China. But something told Bastian they weren’t in Kansas anymore.

  The surroundings were too visceral, too real. The calling card had done more than taking them to the hell realm; it had brought them through it. Background traffic noises coupling with the stench of diesel in the air confirmed his suspicion. They were in Detroit, inside some obnoxiously loud bar to boot. Above it, to be specific, the glass windows looked down on the long-haired band members attempting to dance around the cramped stage as headbanging fans reached out to touch a leg in their drunken reveling. To call the sounds music would be an insult to anyone with ears.

  “Fuck me, they suck. I’ve heard cat fights with better harmonies,” Bastian grumbled as he turned to face their host. Pieter Bekker reclined on his throne, an evil king over seeing his hedonistic kingdom. Naked from the waist up, though it was hard to tell as every inch from jaw to junk and both arms were covered in tattoos. Only his face remained un-inked as he stared impatiently at them. One ratty denim wrapped leg was slung over the ornate arm, a cigarette hanging lazily in his mouth, pinned between the corner and the silver ring dead center of his lower lip. He blinked his doe eyed brown eyes at them and ran a hand over his buzz cut black hair.

  “So, you didn’t come here for the tunes. Whoop-de-fuckin’-doo. Why are you here, then?”

  Viktor brushed off his jacket and stepped up to his side. “Well, you leave invitations all over our beautiful city. How could we not drop by?”

  Bastian’s eagle eyes caught the shifting shadows around them and his fingers brushed the comforting steel trigger at his wrist. By the scent of the room, there were six other Rogues in the room, none of them over fifteen years turned. Cakewalk.

  Pieter scoffed, taking a long drag from the smoldering smoke before lowering the dying cig. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s Viggo’s territory.” He languidly rose to his feet, the loose movements not fooling Bastian. He knew a coiled predator when he saw one, and this bastard was all kinds of amped for a fight.

  Good. He didn’t want to come all this way for nothing. Seconds ticked by while they wasted time with this pissing contest.

  “Cut the bullshit.” Bastian sneered, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve got two guards on Slick Sal. Did you ice Viggo?”

  Eyes as cold as the grave pinned him, but Bastian wasn’t in the mood to play.

  “What’s it to you if I did?”

  Viktor barked a mirthless laugh, tossing his hands into the air. “Oh, gee. Let’s see. Maybe because the damned body parts piling up on the streets are starting to make this look like the scene out of the next George Romero film?”


  A lazy shrug was the answer.

  Bastian’s arms crossed over his chest, his hand tucked under his coat to keep more weaponry close by. “I don’t care if you offed the fucker. I hate the fucking mess you left.”

  Pieter snubbed out the glowing cherry in the overflowing ash tray. “So? Clean it up yourself, bitch. That is your job, isn’t it? Maid service for the world?”

  Anger thrummed through his blood, knotting his biceps with the strong desire to slaughter the smug asshole where he stood. Viktor’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder, the forced calm only adding to his rising rage. If he didn’t let slip this savagery, the cost may be too great to contain. He was a protector of the innocent, but no one in this room fit that category. And didn’t that just make his mouth water.

  Viktor tightened his grip, gloved fingers biting through the thick leather jacket, cautioning restraint.

  Pieter sneered, the silver lip ring catching the glint of the overhead neon. “You signed for the wrong team, man.”

  And if that didn’t just push all Bastian’s buttons. His mind barely registered Viktor’s muttered “Fuck” over his shoulder before he launched into battle mode. The blades were in his hands and dripping crimson in the space of a heartbeat, his eyes narrowed on the remaining enemies as they emerged from the walls. His main target stepped out of his reach, smirking with delight as Bastian rained blows in a storm of fury. Red warmth splashed across his sleeves, the silver flashing like lightning. He paid little attention to the source of the blood; he only hoped that Viktor knew enough to say out of reach of his blades.

  A fist cracked into his jaw, timed perfectly with the shoulder digging into his gut. His elbow pistoned back, connecting with a gratifying crunch, while he drove his knee upward. The force stalled his attacker for an instant, giving him the opportunity to poise his short, slender blade between the fourth and fifth rib.

  But the deathblow did not fall. Instead, a cushiony blanket of peace cocooned him. One second, he was nothing but wrath. In the next, a calm drunkenness stole his ire. He struggled to clear his blurry vision, the hazy image of a giant blonde rising before him commanding his gaze. Muffled words flowed around him before light exploded and faded into darkness. Bastian clawed desperately at the dwindling forms, but they vanished in the encroaching black.