Chapter 7
SEVEN
The trip back to his apartment took Icarus less than five minutes, the morning fog heavy, the sun still shy of the horizon.
Good cover for him to move through the shadows at a quickened, inhuman pace.
His mind likewise operated on high speed, replaying images from last night.
To say the performance—the mission—had not gone where expected was an understatement.
He couldn’t say he understood where it had gone at all.
And that was fucking dangerous. On so many levels.
He needed to excavate—Adam, David, and Deborah—and needed to sort a strategy for dealing with Vincent.
Sort a way out of Yerba Buena if he had to.
At his apartment door, Icarus inserted the key in the lock, then recoiled as magic blasted through the metal, prickling his skin and lifting the hairs on his arms. Same as it had yesterday when Atlas had first appeared in his bedroom.
He backed away from the door, clear across the hall, and contemplated running.
To Adam and his armory? To Portola? To some place else altogether?
But as sure as he’d felt the current of magic, so had its wielder felt him.
He could try to run, but would he even make it out of the building?
Debatable.
Better to buy time and work on his survive-until-tomorrow to-do list. He crossed the hall and gritted his teeth, prepared for the shock this time.
He grasped the key, turned it quick, and shoved open the door.
His unit was dim, the blinds drawn and the lights off, but Icarus had no trouble seeing—and smelling—Atlas on the sofa in his living room.
The warlock sat in the far corner, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, an arm stretched across the top of the couch, the other along the armrest, hand dangling off the end in the muted light that crept around the blinds of the sliding glass door.
How long had he been waiting there?
Icarus shut the door, undid his trench, and hung it on the metal wall hooks.
He continued with his routine as if the warlock wasn’t there, venturing into the tiny kitchen, laying his phone on the charger, and grabbing an express meal out of the fridge.
He tipped back the vial and forced himself not to cringe.
Fresh and warm was better, but convenient and safe was more valuable—and his default, absent a willing food source or an agitator who found the pointy end of his fangs.
Atlas tutted, tongue clicking behind his teeth. “Where are your manners, Icarus?”
He lowered the empty vial and licked his lips. “Oh, did you want one? I didn’t think these were on your diet.”
“They’re not. I was thinking along the lines of vodka. You know, basic hospitality.”
“I reserve hospitality, basic and otherwise, for invited guests.” Icarus tossed the vial into the waste bin. “Which you are not.” He crossed his arms and leaned a hip against the end of the kitchen counter. “What are you doing here?”
Atlas dropped his leg and reached between them, stroking his half chub through his slacks. “Came to finish what we started yesterday.”
Icarus rolled his eyes, not the least bit tempted by the warlock’s cock anymore. “World of fuck no, and aren’t you supposed to be sore and dripping?”
Atlas smirked. “Who says I’m not?”
It was a shame he was a liar and an ass.
He’d been filthy as fuck during their private online sessions and hands down one of the most gorgeous beings Icarus had ever seen.
A toned, compact body under flawless fair skin, blond hair with an enviable wave, sinfully long lashes, and green eyes the color the forests used to be.
Through computer screens, Icarus had pegged him as a white-collar professional sort.
The fake profile Atlas had given him—Pierce Wilkes—confirmed as much.
Perfectly groomed, expensive business casual attire that “Pierce” liked to trade for buckles and kilts, a kink or twenty that needed regular working out.
He’d been Icarus’s best client the past two months between solo sessions and live stream hits.
The “businessman” with money and upbringing and access to resources.
Which he had, only magically.
Magic that was tied up by another.
“Where’s your master?” Icarus asked.
“He sent me alone this time.”
Icarus pushed off the end of the counter and peeked inside the bedroom.
Sniffed. No one else that he could detect, assuming the warlock—the lying warlock—hadn’t disguised their presence.
Icarus made a swift lap around the room, checking the other side of the bed, under the bed, in the closet, and in the bathroom. All clear.
Icarus returned to the living area and rested back against the wall opposite Atlas. “You can understand how I don’t trust you.”
“You can understand how I can snap my fingers”—he rotated the hand hanging off the armrest, fingers at the ready—“and he’d be here.”
“Hmm.” Icarus caught the corner of his mouth with a fang. “I don’t think so.”
Their stare down lasted a good half minute before Atlas shifted forward, elbows braced on his knees. “He’s overseeing a healing. There was an altercation with a coyote last night.”
Icarus jolted. “That was you who followed me.”
“Wasn’t that your intent?”
The opposite was on the tip of Icarus’s tongue. He bit his lip, silencing his too-truthful reply.
“That’s what I thought.” Grinning, Atlas pushed to his feet, brushed down his slacks, and made no effort to disguise that he was still half hard. “We’ll give you another chance.”
Icarus lifted his chin, defiant. “I led you to him. Not my fault he got away.”
Atlas stalked the edge of the plush white rug that lay between the couch and where Icarus stood. “Maybe we found him because of that burning building and not by following you, in which case, your debts are not repaid.”
“What if I could get you the money?”
“From the Devil?”
“Does it matter?”
Atlas stopped directly in front of him. “You know as well as I do that this isn’t about the money.”
“What does Vincent want with him?”
“He’s the last thing standing in Vincent’s way. Time’s short. Vincent’s done fucking with him.”
That explained the five-million-dollar bounty on Adam’s head. But if Vincent had the means to hire assassins . . . “Why do you need me?”
“Covering all our bases.”
“Why would the Devil be interested in me?”
Atlas’s gaze skipped over Icarus’s shoulder, out of this space and time it seemed, but only for a second before returning to the present. “Everyone has a weakness.”
“He doesn’t know me. I can’t be a weakness.”
The warlock chuckled darkly, a curious mixture of condescension, amusement, and beleaguered resignation. “You’ve got three days, Icarus. Deliver the Devil back to the Canyon Lands by Friday night, and we’ll take care of him. For good.”
Atlas turned toward the door, and Icarus shot out a hand, grabbing his biceps. The warlock’s green gaze snapped back to his—anger, surprise, and something more hiding in the forest. “What does Vincent have over you? You were in his thrall last night, but he’s a human. Their kind can’t—”
“Not everything is about magic.”
“Are you in love with him?”
If the warlock’s earlier laugh had been dark, this one was well past midnight. And so cold, like the frozen tundra way up north with its thinned-out trees and utter desolation. “Do your job, Icarus.” He wrenched his arm free. “Leave me to mine.”