Spirit Song Page 17

  “Only you can hurt me, tesorina. I will destroy the world to keep you safe.”

  She turned her head and looked at him. His eyes were focused on something in the distance, something behind her. She was tempted to follow his gaze, but his eyes shifted and returned to hers. Power resonated in the amber depths, strength to defeat any and all enemies reflected back at her. She tasted the lethal power in his kisses, but the predator in him did not scare her. He would never hurt her. In this moment, in this place, he was her protector and she was not about to say no.

  “Will you give me a chance to prove myself worthy of your smile once again?”

  Certain her voice would fail her, her answer was a simple nod, and he smiled. Not a normal, polite smile. The expression brought a lightness to her soul and gave meaning to so many lyrics she’d memorized, but never believed she would experience.

  He dragged his knuckles under her chin, his swirling whiskey eyes growing closer as he leaned down.

  Words rattled around Bastian’s brain as he lowered his lips to hers. I claim you, body and spirit. He deepened the kiss as the Claiming Ritual sang through his mind. He had truly found his spiritmate. He swallowed her needy groan as her mouth opened to him, his tongue swirling and dancing with hers. He slid one hand down to cup her ass as his cock pressed hungrily against the zippered teeth.

  A trigger in the back of his mind snapped his attentions back to his current surroundings. Perhaps having a make-out session in an open hallway of Slick Sal’s restaurant with the mobster’s prized singer might not be the smartest thing he’d done today. And given the number of fuck-ups he had pulled out of his ass since waking up, that was saying a lot. He released the tension in his arm and walked his hand back up around her waist. He took one final nibble of her tempting lower lip and placed a chaste kiss on the tip of her pert nose before pulling back to take a look at her.

  The absent glow had returned to her cheeks, the thick black crescents painted dark shadows against her rosy complexion. God, she was beautiful. He brushed the back of his knuckles along the curve of her jaw, tipping her chin back and willing her eyes to open. When the thick lashes fluttered up, he smiled in pure gratitude. Gone was the pain and heartache that clouded her sapphire seas. The passing storm still lingered in the depths, but that could be dealt with in a more private locale.

  “She just seemed so insistent and—”

  He swallowed the anger roiling in his gut and smiled only for her. “That word is much kinder than what I would have chosen to describe her. But since she knows where you live, not to mention the lack of a locking front door, I would feel better if you were to stay elsewhere until…”

  Until what? Until he completed the Claiming Ritual and tied her to him for the rest of her days? Could he? Did he dare to believe she would choose to stay with him?

  A hesitant voice crept in, the speaker farther down the hall. “Miranda? You OK here?”

  Bastian raised his gaze, a twitch starting to curl his upper lip in a fierce scowl until he met the open and fatherly concern reflected in a pair of deep brown eyes. He recalled from his brief stroll through her memories that the older man was a true friend to his lady so he dialed down his possessive streak.

  Loosening his embrace a notch, he stepped aside, giving her just enough space to wiggle around and face the speaker. The shellacked bouffant on her head tickled his nose and he suppressed the urge to tug the offending fakery off of her. Instead of giving in to his baser instinct, he trailed his fingers down her arm until they laced with hers.

  “Thank you, Eddie. I’ll be right there.”

  The frown on the man’s face deepened and he quickly sneaked up to them. “Ooh, girlie. You know what’ll happen if Sal catches you with the likes of someone like him.” Knowing dark eyes flashed up to his, apprehension digging deeper furrows into the ebony brow. “You the reason she was crying?”

  Bastian squared his shoulders, meeting the man’s accusatory gaze. “Not directly, but yes.” He held his ground as the man weighed his words.

  “You also the reason she was singing like an angel last night too, yeah?”

  A hint of a smile cracked his stern scowl and he nodded.

  The face across from him lost some of its tension and Eddie flashed him a guarded grin. “Man of few words, huh?” He paused, his gaze shifting to the bundle in Bastian’s arms before heaving a heavy sigh as he locked eyes with Bastian. “You best keep her safe, then. Ain’t wanna hear no more of those sad songs.”

  “That is the plan.” He extended his hand toward the man his angel trusted. The man smiled and gave his hand a firm shake. Images poured into his mind from the brief contact. The old man had lived a good life, visions of a loving wife and two smiling young boys filled his memories. He hit the mental fast forward and one boy dressed in Army fatigues vanished, the second fading out as he slumped in a dingy alleyway, a needle sticking out of his arm. The man’s hunched figure stood over a simple grave in the rain before the past caught up with the present.

  Bastian nodded once and released Eddie’s hand. The deep ebony eyes shifted and a compassionate and fatherly smile meant for the woman in his arms warmed his face. “I can give you another of couple of minutes, but you better be hurrying out soon.”

  “Tell Gary I’ll be right out. I just need to…” She paused, shifting her gaze over her shoulder. Bastian met her gaze, the lingering traces of her earlier tears painted silvery circles beneath her clear blue eyes. “Oh hell. I need to get myself more together. I’m sure I look like a raccoon.”

  Eddie chuckled and headed back down the hall to the stage. Muffled piano and soft drumming bled in as the curtained door fell back into place. Alone once again, he held her close for a moment, breathing in the newly discovered calm before releasing her. She turned in the shelter of his arms and gazed up at him.

  He was unable to stop the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. “Sei bellissima, tesorina.” With the pads of his thumbs, he gently wiped away the black flecks beneath her eyes. She was beautiful, both inside and out. Her face warmed the palms of his hands as he cradled her cheeks. This was neither the time nor the place to dally, lost in the eyes of his lover like a mooning youth.

  The untimely vibration in his jacket pocket helped make the decision for both of them. He smiled sadly and kissed the tip of her nose. “Don’t leave until I return.” Releasing her from his embrace, he turned swiftly on his heels and exited out the back. He forced himself not to look back. He knew if he were to see her standing alone, he wouldn’t have the strength to go.

  Safe in the shocking cold of the alley, he grabbed his phone before it went to voicemail.

  “Are you good?”

  A light dusting of snow dotted his jacket as Bastian rounded the corner to return to the front door. “For now. Sal isn’t here—”

  “Yes, he is.” Viktor’s hushed voice froze him in his steps. “Him and those two goons of his just came in. And he had the look of someone with a dangerous secret. Are you out?”

  With a quick sidestep, he ducked back into the narrow alley. “Yeah. I’m behind the kitchens.”

  “Well that’s a good start. He’s eying every female in the place like starving man looks at a steak, but that’s not the bad part.”

  Bastian growled. “There’s worse?”

  The long seconds of silence were unnerving. “Yeah. He reeks of blood, and the scent is reminiscent of your female.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Fuck.

  “How fresh?” Bastian primed his skills, reaching down to fire up his tracking skills. If his friend was accurate, then Miranda’s brother, Kyle, might have gotten in way over his head this time. He stepped around the corner and right into Viktor’s personal space.

  “Very,” Viktor remarked, the normally present grin replaced with focused determination. “I know the specifics are your thing, but from what I could tell, the person who splattered Sal was still breathing. Does she have any family?”

  Bastia
n moved closer to the front of the restaurant to get a better line of the trail. He tapped into the tracker and quickly picked up a faint hint from Viktor’s clothes. “Yeah. How close did Sal come to you anyway? I can smell it from here.”

  Viktor frowned, sniffing his sleeve with a perturbed smirk. “Hey, I showered this week.” Bastian’s unamused glare kicked his friend’s tongue back into gear. “Closer than I’d like to get again. That guy oozes evil like a cheap aftershave.”

  The trace on Viktor was not strong enough to get him farther than the front door, so closer to the main door he moved. With each step, the hidden path glowed brighter, the intensity of the twisted and evil attack painting the night like a beacon. Worse, the unearthly glow surrounded the building.

  The copper-infused concrete and cinderblock walls shielded the interior, but the truth was obvious. Miranda’s brother was somewhere inside Slick Sal’s restaurant and was most likely two steps from dead.

  Bastian flipped through the brief conversation with the overly naïve young man. He had a vicious gambling problem, which was the reason for Miranda’s indentured servitude. But Sal was no fool. The longer he kept Kyle under his thumb, the longer the bastard kept HIS beautiful songstress on her tight leash.

  Screams from a nearby tenement and the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle hit his primed senses before he could twist the knob open. A deadly flare of evil brushed against the back of his neck and he growled, turning away from problem number one to face problem number two. Viktor’s face registered the same level of incredulous surprise as he followed suit.

  “What the fuck is this, Devil’s Night reruns?” Viktor jogged after Bastian, and the source of the violence spilled out into the street as they reached the sagging projects. The weapons and scent of burnt ozone made Bastian’s stomach lurch. Five bodies pummeled each other, fists flew, and unfocused energy blasts peppered the fight. Didn’t Pieter bother to tell his lackeys about the goddamned rules?

  He slowed his pace, eyes darting into every corner to check for the presence of civilians. Judging by the echoing cries from the building, there would be some mopping up to do. He approached the tangle of limbs with a slow, predatory lope. He sensed the instant Viktor had cocooned their strange group within a protective shield, hiding them from innocent eyes.

  Bastian cleared his throat, gathering stunned stares from the brawlers, their arms frozen mid-punch.

  “Excuse me, but I think this party is over.”

  “Who the fuck are you, asshole?” A lanky kid hiked up his sagging jeans and sneered. His pathetic attempt at cockiness was completely lost on Bastian as he fished his innocent looking baton from his jacket pocket.

  “I’m the one who gonna teach you some manners, boy,” he growled and with a flick of his wrist, three feet of wicked steel slipped into view. Their earlier struggle stalled, forgotten as five heads swiveled toward him. Hellish black eyes gleamed in the trapped street light’s glow, the anticipation of an impending beat-down shifting to the thrill of an all-out battle.

  Fuck.

  “Bekker said you’d be an easy mark,” the same snot nosed kid said, his voice thick with unearned bravado, the other four falling into step at his back. Bastian sized up the competition in the blink of an eye, assessing strengths, weaknesses and fighting styles without breaking a sweat. These five may have been told to expect him, but they didn’t know what they were really going to get today.

  Viktor’s presence loomed to his left, centuries of experience coiled up in a tidy package, primed and ready to take on these punks. Fully converted Rogues or not, they were all young, the most experienced not more than two years turned. Their youth made them reckless and overconfident, both factors that Bastian planned to use to his fullest advantage.

  The lead asswipe thought to bait him with a half-assed insult.

  Not this time.

  Bastian snarled, his teeth bared in a deadly version of a grin. “What other fairy tales did he tell you, busone?”

  The air crackled and sizzled, charged with power as the two sides squared off. Bastian stood tall, his arms loose at his side while the spun-up imps opposite him bounced from foot to foot in impatience. It was clear they were expecting another response from him. Confusion oozed off them as their eyes darted about, searching for some kind of starting bell. They were obviously told that Bastian would draw first blood, attacking wildly.

  Blood he would draw, but it would be on his terms, not Pieter’s.

  Seconds ticked by with no response. He glanced over to Viktor, his friend’s profile silhouetted in the amber glow. “Not too bright, are they?”

  Viktor shifted his gaze for a moment, a devious smile tugging on the edge of his mouth before returning to stare at the skinny upstart. “No, but they are cute.”

  Bastian smirked as Viktor puckered up, blowing an air kiss across the narrow span separating the two factions.

  The gauntlet well and truly tossed, the Rogues flew into a rage and raced toward them, broken bottles and wicked, curved blades brandished as they attacked. Bastian backpedalled to gain better footing and lunged to the side to avoid a sloppy and well-telegraphed thrust. Rapier in his right hand, he slid the long dagger from his inner pocket with his left and stabbed his opponent, his right forearm guarding from any attempt at a counter attack. The sharpened steel slipped easily between the man’s ribs, puncturing his right lung and stalled his attack for a good second or two. Using the pause to his advantage, Bastian leaned back and followed through with a superhuman backstroke with his right, the sweeping arc slicing clean through the kid’s neck like a hot knife through butter.

  Bastian pivoted quickly, dropping into a wide stance as the head bounced at his feet, the rest of his opponent falling the other direction before both parts vanished in a puff of red mist. Another crimson plume clouded the space off to his left hand side. With an effortless flourish, Bastian swung the sharp steel over his head and spun on his heel, blocking a sloppy overhand strike, the venom-dipped blade clattering to the ground. The razor-like edge cleanly lobbed off the descending arm just below the elbow and blood rained down before he delivered the coup de grace to the howling man.

  “On your six!”

  Viktor’s warning came a moment too late and sharp pain exploded in the neighborhood of his shoulder. Bastian pistoned his leg back, hearing the satisfying snap of bone as his heel connected with the man’s knee. He avoided the back-stabber’s flaying jabs, the remains of a broken bottle still clutched in his fingers. Judging from the glass stump in the man’s hand and the warm wetness dripping along his back, a good amount of the brown shards would need to be dug out after they wrapped up here.

  He dropped deeper into a fighting crouch, preparing for a renewed attack. Instead, the man’s face contorted just as the tip of a broad blade pierced through his chest. The flat sword twisted and a red mist showered the ground. A flicker of movement caught Bastian’s eye and he hurled the long dagger in his left hand. The unbalanced missile sailed with lethal accuracy, sinking hilt-deep in the bony center of the last standing Rogue, his weapon trained on Viktor’s exposed back. The force of the blow sent the lifeless body flipping backward before it vanished in a puff of scarlet.

  Viktor followed the path of the flying steel with his gaze, ducking out of a sense of self-preservation rather than a lack of faith in Bastian’s skill. As his friend turned his face back to him, the stunned, yet appreciative, gleam in his blue eyes brought to mind the surprised gratitude of so many past clients.

  “Always glad to have you at my back, lillebror.” As Viktor regained his feet, Bastian noticed his friend favoring his right leg. A quick glance down and he spied the slash at the top of his thigh leaking a lovely trail along his denims.

  Both warriors locked eyes, the thank yous unspoken and unnecessary. After so many centuries of fighting side by side, Bastian stopped keeping score of who’d saved who’s ass. He recalled the perplexed look on Viktor’s face when he first told the Viking he owed him.

  �
�No need to count the favors, brother. Time will soon come where the deed shall be repaid in kind.”

  Without speaking, the pair split apart, each handling the task of clean up. Viktor scanned the battered tenement, tweaking any surface memories of magic with common explanations of random violence. Bastian gathered the discarded weaponry, tossing the mundane weapons of convenience into the gutters while tucking the poison-laced blades into his inner jacket pocket. Just as his brethren, the swords and daggers wielded by the Rogues could hide in less conspicuous packaging.

  Once the impromptu battlefield was cleared, Viktor released the concealing sphere and the standard late night noises crept in. Bastian checked his watch, marking on the hour. If his math was accurate, his angel would be wrapping up her final song in about five minutes.

  The sting of the cold night air bit through the shredded wool across his back. His wounds would mend easily enough, but the jacket was another problem altogether. Somehow, Suzie Homemaker had never fallen under his job description.

  “So much for making a good impression on your lady there, Bas. I think you looked better before you cleaned up.”

  Bastian rolled his eyes, a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue when a figure stumbled out of the alley, using the walls as guides. The scent of blood, and familiar blood to boot, cut through the exhaust and inner city perfume. Bastian hustled over as the young man collapsed onto the snowy pavement. He grabbed Kyle’s arm before he completely ate asphalt.

  “Hang on, kid. I’ve got you.”

  Air wheezed in and out in heavy gasps as the blonde kid struggled to continue on his original path. “No, I gotta go. Need…I’m sorry, Andy.”

  “Who’s Andy?” Viktor’s perplexed question turned his blood to ice. He guided Kyle toward a safe scrap of darkness and took a quick appraisal of the damages. Bruises and cuts decorated his pale complexion and blood matted his dishwater hair.