Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Race moved silently through the narrow alleyway in Bucharest as snow drifted between the decrepit buildings like lost souls. Fitting, since the demonii scourges loved hunting where desperation already had a chokehold on hope.
The cold didn’t touch him—not with his dragon side running hot. He watched the powdery flakes seep through the cracks in the windowpanes, reaching for the humans huddled inside their crumbling shelters.
With demoniis scarce, the weather did the killing for them.
A familiar icy sensation crawled over his psyche, and the inked sword on his biceps stirred in response. Race slowed his steps.
The scourges were on the prowl.
Their sulfuric stench cut through the crisp winter air, singeing his senses.
These turned brethren of demons were always on the hunt, always desperate for new souls to strengthen their dying ones. Nope. These assholes never got the memo. Stolen souls never lasted, and it started the damn cycle all over again.
Hunt, steal, kill.
And why the Guardians existed.
Finally. Action I favor, his dragon rumbled, scales rippling beneath Race’s skin, waiting in anticipation for bloodshed.
A child’s cry pierced the night, quickly muffled as he scanned the area. Where are you, pest?
No matter. He’d find the bastard soon enough, send its ass straight to Purgatory, and maybe, just maybe, he’d find a drink worth swallowing, even if it couldn’t dull his edges.
He rounded the corner into a dead-end alley. Broken windows gaped like missing teeth in the decaying walls. A dark-haired demonii stood there, tattered clothes hanging from his skeletal body.
A human lay in a heap at his feet, throat torn out.
Yup. Just another night in paradise.
The demonii cocked his head, mouth pulled back into a grin smeared with blood, red eyes glowing like hot coals in the darkness, fed by the freshly stolen soul.
“Guardian,” he hissed. “Come to save these worthless souls?”
Race didn’t bother responding and summoned his Gaian weapon. The mystical sword inked on his biceps materialized in a swirl of dark smoke before solidifying in his palm. Familiar. Lethal.
“Came prepared, Guardian?” the scourge taunted.
Make it hurt, his dragon snarled, feeding off his own rising bloodlust.
The demonii flew at him, black claws extended. Race sidestepped, swinging his sword in a deadly arc that would have sliced the blight in two, but the demonii twisted midair and flashed. Black blood sprayed the snow as the sword sliced through his shoulder instead.
Yesss. Fun.
The demonii shrieked, the sound like breaking glass, echoing off the dingy, snow-dampened walls. Not a soul stirred. It showed they knew how to stay safe.
The scourge stumbled back, his arm dangling uselessly at his side. “The place reeks of despair,” he rasped. “Let me put them out of their misery.”
This one had balls, shriveled as they were, to bargain mid-fight.
“You don’t get to decide who dies,” Race said, almost bored. “But you can volunteer.”
“I will kill you!” the demonii spat, circling Race, his eyes neon red beacons.
“How?” Race cocked an eyebrow. “Three and a half thousand years, and I’m still here. Go ahead, give it your best shot.”
The scourge threw out his right hand, drawing on the earth’s energy.
Fucking leeches. Even sapped of true power, these turned demons found tricks. He should torch the blight and be done with it.
A fiery bolt launched toward him like a crimson missile. His sword arching, Race blocked the hit midair, sparks hissing past his shoulder. If struck by that damn thing, healing would be a bitch, taking days.
He drove the sword into the demonii’s chest, ripped it free, then spun, and in a single motion, beheaded the cur. The body crumpled, already decomposing before being pulled back into the ground.
Exhaling, Race glanced at the dead man and shook his head. “You know danger lurks in the dark, yet you still dared the fates.”
Another death the human authorities would relegate to an attack from wild dogs.
His senses prickled. Daybreak was close.
Time to knock off, head back.
Not cave. His dragon paced restlessly beneath his skin, feeling the same ennui he did. A drink.
Who, you? Race snorted, dismissing his sword. It dissolved into black mist, inking back onto his biceps. I don’t see how? Unless I do the honors.
His dragon chuffed. From the village.
“Manhattan?” Race drawled.
The Himalayas, his beast growled.
Race stilled as the pretty-eyed female slipped into his thoughts, but he shut her out. You want to go back to that dust-laden hole?
Yesss.
Why?
At the quiet in his mind, Race knew that stubborn silence. His alter ego sensed something but refused to divulge.
“If this is about Koal again, I swear I’m going to find a way to kick my own dragon’s ass,” he muttered.
A portal later, he stepped out into the forest as dawn painted the snow in shades of pink and gold.
The village looked exactly as he’d left it. Dusty, half-asleep, and probably full of drama he didn’t need—
A terrified scream tore through the air.
Fuck! Now what?
“What the hell century are you goat-licking twats living in?” Ash spat, yanking at her wrists bound to the pole behind her. Even her ankles were tied to the damn post. “The Middle Ages died eons ago, you addlepated morons!”
The bunch of self-appointed executioners didn’t even look up, just scrambled around, adding more wood and kindling to start up the bloody pyre they’d already built for her.
Several yawning villagers stumbled out of their houses to witness the macabre spectacle.
Gut-deep horror twisted her insides. Unlike the tourist-friendly side of the valley, these people were set in their primitive ways and likely burned widows on their husbands’ funeral pyres!
Ash yanked at the ropes. She couldn’t even summon her power as her agitation grew. She needed lightning. But all she got were prickles—tiny sparks that flared and died, searing her fingertips instead of the ropes.
Christ! She was in so much trouble.
“Help!” she yelled, thrashing against her bindings.
The kindling beneath her crackled and popped. Smoke coiled upward, acrid and thick. Panic clawed at her chest. She pulled harder, but the ropes only bit deeper into her skin.
“Witch die. Curse gone. Nice rain come,” one of the scrawny bastards muttered, popping a paan leaf into his red-stained gob.
“Sod off!” Ash squeezed her eyes shut, forcing every ounce of will into the new powers tingling under her skin.
A jolt raced through her body, brief as a heartbeat before one rope snapped.
Smoke thickened, choking her. Her lungs burned. Flames climbed higher, licking through the stacked wood, and her heart hammered against her ribs. She tugged with her free hand, desperate to break the last tie. A faint prickle of power surged again.
Come on, come on. Ash coughed, yanking harder. The rope loosened a bit. She was going to blitz these bastards once free.
A rush of wind swept past. Someone grabbed her—
The rope snapped, and she was wrenched from the flames.
Ash slumped against something hard and shut her watering eyes, her stomach heaving. Another softer whoosh of air, and she was on solid ground again.
Her eyes snapped open, and she stumbled back, hacking up smoke, her lungs on fire. She wiped at her streaming eyes and groaned, her breath hitching as her body finally caught up with her mind.
Something cool pressed into her palm. A glass. She drank, the icy water sliding down her burning throat. She coughed again, shivering as the freezing air slipped under her jacket.
When her vision stopped swimming, she blinked her watery eyes, taking in the stark whiteness surrounding her—
And froze.
The silver-haired barbarian from yesterday—all dangerous swagger and raw power—stood a few feet away, watching her.
“What did you do?” she choked out, her voice rough from the smoke and coughing.
“Saved you, I believe,” he drawled. “Go ahead, thank your supreme being for this great deed, the one who prevented you from becoming toast on a pyre.”
Ash blinked watery eyes.
Was he serious?
With that chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones, he looked like an angel who got booted out of Heaven for being too bloody fine, but really? All she wanted was five wretched minutes to regain her sanity and get fresh air into her smoke-filled lungs.
“I didn’t need help,” she snapped, gingerly pressing her fingers to her throbbing temple where that lout had punched her. “I was almost free.”
A gleam brightened his eerie, claret eyes. “I beg to differ.”
Ignoring his obvious amusement, Ash sipped more water and stiffened. He had given her the glass, was helping her, or so he said…
She narrowed her eyes over the rim, eyeing him suspiciously. “What do you want?”
“Want?” He folded his arms across his broad chest, the muscles shifting beneath his black t-shirt.
A stylized tattoo of a sword inked on one massive biceps peeked out from under the sleeve.
A slow smirk appeared on his ridiculously handsome face.
“I believe I already told you—you are mine. So, save you, I must.”
“Ugh, I can’t deal with you right now.” Ash gingerly pressed the chilled glass against the burning bruises on her wrists—from the rope burns or her own power, she didn’t know—exhaling at the cool relief. “Where am I?”
He remained near the almost denuded oak tree, snow settling on his shiny hair and dusting his shoulders. “No yelling if I tell you.”
She scowled. “Like you so kindly pointed out, I was about to become toast—”
“Quite crisped, too, I believe.”
“Christ, you’re a colossal pain in my backside.” She knuckled her burning eyes, and he chuckled.
“You’re in an abbey in the mountains.”
Her head shot up, her mind spinning, and she staggered back a step.
“Have you lost your ever-loving mind?” she yelled, but it came out more as a squeak with her throat hurting.
He shrugged. “You wanted the truth.”