Chapter 36
THIRTY-SIX
Icarus stood beside the same bench where he’d waited for Paris last week, tugging at the sleeves of his too-small suit jacket.
The whole damn suit was too small, the Italian threads snug across his biceps, back, and thighs, and good fucking luck buttoning the jacket, even wearing Adam’s favorite slinky top underneath.
But at two in the morning, Icarus’s only option had been Cormac’s closet, and he hadn’t had time for sartorial debate.
He’d zipped in, grabbed a laundry bag, and zipped out before the raven woke.
If he was going to get past the porter of the glitzy high-rise across the street, he needed to look the part. Sure, the pink hair might give him away, but it was all about confidence, right? And he had that.
Confidence that he’d done the right thing, leaving Gabriel sleeping peacefully in his bed.
Confidence that he had the love of a good man he’d do anything to protect and keep in this world with him.
Confidence that this was the only way to do that.
Was he confident this would go as planned?
Hell no, but he was confident it would buy time for her and Adam, because the Devil was who he needed right now.
Enough time for them, together with Cormac and Robin, to secure Paris and to be ready for when Icarus delivered them Vincent on a silver platter.
Granted, it was tempting to scale the high-rise’s facade, sneak in a window, and rip Vincent’s head off himself, but there were three problems with that plan: one, Icarus didn’t know which window; two, he doubted he could get past who knew how many guards; and three, it wouldn’t give the people he loved the closure they needed.
Also, information. Vincent had it; they could always use more of it.
He glanced up and judged the location of the constellations. He had two or so hours left before sunup, before she and Adam would wake, read his notes, and realize he was gone. He didn’t have time to waste.
He crossed the street and made it as far as the sidewalk before running into an invisible wall. A magical shield. “Fuck!” He contemplated vamping out and trying to slice through it, but that would stop this party before it even started.
The willowy woman beside the door glared his direction. “May I help you?”
Snotty with a side of static, as if the wall of magic acted like a speaker.
Lovely. Icarus barely resisted rolling his eyes.
“I have a meeting with Atlas.” He doubted saying Vincent would get him anywhere.
Vincent would put his guests on the books, and as a human, no matter how criminal, he was less likely to have visitors at four in the morning.
But the kinky warlock, Vincent’s right hand—that tracked.
And if Cormac was correct, if Atlas had missed landing kill strikes at the Canyon Lands, if he’d really turned her over yesterday without caveats and conditions, said kinky warlock was their best bet.
“Your name?”
“Icarus.”
Minutes later, the elevator doors inside the lobby opened and Atlas strode out, looking morning fresh in a crisp navy suit that fit him like a glove.
He smiled at the receptionist inside, said something, then with a wave of his hand, a shimmering soft spot appeared in the shield.
Icarus walked through it, the magic prickling across his skin like it did sometimes in her presence.
The porter, a shifter of some sort Icarus could smell, approached. “I have orders to search you.”
Icarus didn’t give her any hassle, just spread his legs and held out his arms. He had no phone on him and no weapons other than those magic had bestowed, which he assumed the porter knew, given her watchful approach. “I won’t bite, promise.”
The porter remained alert as she patted him down then, satisfied with finding nothing, rose and held the physical door open for him. “He’s clean,” she reported to a waiting Atlas.
“Thank you, gorgeous,” Icarus replied, tone sweet as honey, as he stepped over the threshold.
Atlas’s tone wasn’t nearly as saccharine. “You’re late,” he snapped.
Icarus smirked and gave a showy little shimmy. “For a very important date.”
Atlas rolled his eyes. “Follow me.” He nodded at the receptionist, another shifter, then led Icarus to the elevator, murmuring under his breath, “Not a word.”
Easy enough as Icarus was too busy holding his breath, avoiding warlock stench the entire ride to the top floor.
He followed a stalking Atlas out of the cab, across the hall, and into a pitifully bland condo.
All metal, glass, and black leather, ultramodern with no color, barely lived in with zero personality.
The appearance Atlas portrayed ninety-nine percent of the time.
The warlock stopped in front of the living room’s giant floor-to-ceiling windows and spun to face him, the vivid forest in his eyes giving away the other one percent. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“My job,” Icarus said as he stepped past him to look out the windows, the view of the ocean and coastline to die for, even at this dark hour.
If he had to guess, Vincent occupied the end unit next door, the family and guards the other two units on the floor.
He drew the map in his head while continuing to speak to Atlas.
“I may be a few days late, but I can deliver the Devil. I’m here to tell Vincent where he is. ”
“We know where he is. Monte Corvo.”
“Which we proved your forces can’t infiltrate.”
“We,” Atlas scoffed.
Ignoring the slither of truth, Icarus turned and leaned back against the window casing. “And that was before the entire pack and every fucking corvid in Talahalusi descended on that knobby hill.”
Atlas closed the distance between them and grasped Icarus’s chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. “Fuck me first.”
“No.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Icarus wrenched his chin free. “Last time we did that, it ended with you threatening to strangle my cock and tear my ass apart. I wouldn’t fuck you again if you were the last person on earth.”
“You’re lying.”
“I most certainly am not.”
“About why you’re here.”
He firmed his jaw and lifted his chin. Confidence. “I will deliver the Devil to your boss. I think he’d want to hear that.”
“We have other priorities now.” Atlas brushed past him, crossing the cavernous space to the kitchen, his loafers thunking with each step.
Icarus’s heels were louder, pinging the marble as he followed. He leaned a hip against the marble island. “We who?”
Atlas opened the freezer and withdrew a bottle of vodka and two frosty shot glasses. “We as in everyone but you,” he said as he filled the glasses to the brim.
Icarus laughed. “I have more at stake than all of you.” He held up his glass, and Atlas clicked his against the rim. “Two teams,” he said after a sip. “One goes after the coven, the other after Adam Devlin.”
“And which one would Vincent and I be on?”
“The latter, of course. I assume Vincent wants to be as done with Adam as Adam wants to be with him, and that after the last time, Vincent wouldn’t trust anyone else to do the job.”
“Your assumptions are correct.” The evil bastard himself stepped out from a shadowed hallway.
Vincent wasn’t as put together as Atlas, dressed in wrinkled slacks and an undershirt, but the way he carried himself, and the leather shoulder harness packing two revolvers, put off strong I-do-evil vibes.
As did the terrifying thirst for power that still swirled in his lovely brown eyes.
Such a fucking waste. “Why should I trust you?” Vincent asked as he joined them at the island.
“You fought with Devlin at the Canyon Lands and at Monte Corvo.”
“You sent me to him for a reason. To Adam Devlin, knowing I’d be the one who could draw out Gabriel Levin.
” Vincent’s eyes widened, a flash of surprise, then one corner of his mouth ticked up, the hint of a victorious smile.
Icarus tossed back the rest of his shot.
“Do you care if you lost a few soldiers in the process?”
“You cost me power.”
“You stop the Devil, and no one will ever stop you from gaining power again.”
Vincent claimed Atlas’s empty glass and held it out for Atlas to pour a shot. He eyed Icarus over the rim as he sipped the cold liquid. “I may have misjudged you.”
“Most people do, and I wasn’t exactly on equal footing last time we met.” He cut a glare at Atlas, then snapped his gaze back to Vincent when the boss man slammed his empty glass on the counter.
“Don’t mistake this for equal footing now.” He jammed a finger in Icarus’s chest. “You’re bait, plain and simple, and I won’t hesitate to throw you to the coyotes.”
Confidence waning, Icarus averted his gaze and gulped.
Vincent took it as the sign of obedience he wanted.
He threw the glass back at Atlas, who deftly caught it, then turned on his heel, heading for what Icarus guessed was an internal door with direct access to Atlas’s unit.
“Ping the hacker bitch,” he tossed over his shoulder to Atlas.
The only thing that stopped Icarus from snarling was Atlas’s heel digging into his foot.
“Get us that coven location. We hit them first, bank the power, then there’s no way the Devil escapes. But come fuck me first.”
Icarus waited for the door to slam, sniffed to make sure the human was gone, only warlock stench remaining, then shook off Atlas’s foot. He shot out a hand for the vodka, then cursed because he was shaking too badly to actually hold the fucking bottle.
Cool as the liquid itself, Atlas refilled both glasses. He handed one to Icarus and held his out for a toast.
Icarus clinked rims, then tossed his back in one go.
He needed confidence from somewhere else now because his own was fucking shot, every drop of it spent staring down the real devil.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Mr. Magic, but if you hurt her, I will help the coyote rip you limb from limb. ”
Atlas threw back his shot, then pitched the glass in the porcelain sink, shattering it.
“You’re not the only one doing what he must to save the ones he loves.
” On the heels of that truth bomb, Atlas stepped around him, and with the kind of uncharacteristic abandon Icarus was more used to seeing when he was in buckles and kilts, Atlas ripped off his jacket and tie, slung them in the direction of the couch, and snapped his fingers, disappearing to Icarus figured he knew where.
He also figured, for the first time, that Atlas wasn’t happy about it.
That maybe he had the warlock all wrong.