Chapter 4
This was the most uncomfortable elevator ride I’d ever experienced.
Amelia was the human buffer here, but she was not on my side.
Cillian’s presence was consuming, overpowering, and if it had been bad down in the casino, it increased a thousandfold crammed into the confines of this elevator, threatening to suffocate me.
I’d wedged myself into a corner and stared hard at the numbers lighting up with each floor we passed, zooming upward. Better than acknowledging the weight of Cillian’s stare as it settled over me like lacquer.
Still, I’d gotten myself into this mess, and I would see it through. Based on Cillian and Amelia’s comments, I could at least gauge that they knew where my father was, and with any luck, they were taking me to see him.
Granted, I hadn’t been doing great in the luck department lately.
“How did you hear about Hank Taylor?” Amelia asked, her voice light, as if she wasn’t fishing.
Yeah, no way would I give her that information.
“Around,” I responded. “Word travels.”
She gave me a disapproving glance, but what had she expected with a blatant question like that?
The elevator let out another ding, and the doors opened.
Cillian pushed through without waiting for either of us. Already, he struck me as an entitled asshole, someone used to getting his way, the exact sort of person I loathed. Not the type who’d be forgiving or understand that they’d ripped my father away from me.
“This way,” Amelia said, casting me a look marginally less frigid—almost concerned, and I liked that even less.
The dimly lit corridor stretched ahead, bluish lighting and black walls guiding the way like a landing strip.
Cillian’s heavy footsteps echoed throughout the whole area, drowning out Amelia’s and my own.
Despite working in Peregrine City Library, I hadn’t been around a ton of demons, and the sheer size of him intimidated me.
I wiped my palms on my slacks, an odd calm settling over me. I’d reached this far, which was farther than I’d originally believed I could.
Whatever awaited me, I’d face.
By myself.
Loneliness stabbed me in the chest yet again, that the only person I would’ve contacted for help was the one I’d set out to save.
The crisp scent of the hallway made my nose tingle, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what it was.
A few shut doors lined the length, and at the end of the inky black hall, another corridor intersected it.
Who knew what lurked there. The elongated shadows crept under my skin, unsettling me.
This area was nothing like the flash and glitz of the casino below, more akin to the forbidding silhouette the Spires cut against the night sky.
My avenues of escape were either the elevator behind me—which I could guarantee was either spelled or required identification—or the unknown.
“In here,” Cillian rumbled, and he pushed open a big door to the right with a mighty creak.
“He just wants to talk,” Amelia said, which wasn’t a reassurance. “With any luck, you’ll be on your way soon.”
“That’d be ideal,” I responded, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice.
Cillian flicked the lights on, and we followed him into the room.
It reminded me of a mix between a conference room and a dining room, with a massive table in the center.
This one was black with legs like twisted tree trunks.
The tabletop was glossy like the surface of a lake, and the chairs were made of the same twisted, blackened wood.
“The décor feels a bit gothic revivalist,” I commented, approaching the seats.
Cillian had already settled at the head of table, because of course he did. A wealthy demon like him wouldn’t be able to stand anything else without a tantrum.
“Works well to set the scene for my business meetings,” Cillian said, the slightest curl of a grin on his lips. Amelia took one side, and so I settled into the seat on the other.
Well, damn. This chair was like sitting on a rock. “Couldn’t spring for more comfortable furniture?”
He full-on smirked. “No, I like my visitors uncomfortable. It encourages them to leave.”
“Right, then this should be fast,” I responded, shifting on the seat.
“Hank Taylor,” Amelia started, folding her hands in front of her. “He’s made some poor decisions.”
My stomach plummeted. “He’s alive?”
That, I needed to know before all else.
“He is,” Cillian said, though his golden eyes flashed with malevolence. “Though he’ll soon wish he wasn’t.”
I rose from my seat, hands balled. “What are you doing to him?”
“Who are you to him?” Cillian asked, a predatory glimmer in his eyes that I didn’t like.
I closed my mouth, probably something I should’ve done far earlier.
“His son,” Amelia said, her gaze glued to her phone. “It wasn’t a difficult search.”
I sucked in a sharp breath and settled back in my seat, even though my thighs and calves tensed as if I might sprint away at any moment.
“Your father owed us a substantial debt due to a…problem.” Cillian remained as cool and calm as ever, the pale light from the sconces making his curled black horns gleam. “He’s been sentenced to the Pits to work it off.”
Ice rushed through me in a fierce and fast torrent.
The Pits were talked about in whispers, part of the thriving underworld in Peregrine City.
The entrances were scattered throughout, but they all connected beneath the city proper into a true underground establishment.
That was where the seediest gamblers went, anyone looking to chase their darker proclivities.
Any sort of vice was for sale there, and many of the people who entered never emerged into the light again.
“How long is his sentence?” I asked, my heart in my throat.
“A decade,” Cillian said. The calmness sparked ire in me.
This bastard crushed innocent people under his thumb.
My father had probably made one small mistake, and now he would suffer for the next ten years because of it.
And given his age—fuck, would he even last down there?
My chest tightened as resolve settled over me.
There was no other choice.
“I’ll do it.”
Cillian’s brow furrowed. “Take his sentence?”
My stomach churned, and nausea rushed through me, but I wouldn’t back down. “Yes.”
Cillian sucked in a long, slow breath, drawing out my torture. Would he accept the offer? Or was he determined to punish my father?
And what sort of debt could my father have owed in the first place? What problem was Cillian referring to?
“I’ll accept a trade,” he said, slowly scanning me over.
Cillian’s gaze was that of a predator, as if he’d chew me up and spit out the bones.
A shiver ran down my spine, and I clutched the arms of the chair with white knuckles.
This was it. I was selling my soul to a demon, and I’d never see the surface again.
Someone like me wouldn’t last long in the Pits.
“Hmm,” he said, his low rumble like the purr of a jungle cat.
His gaze hadn’t left me, and I felt pinned by it, unable to move under his scrutiny.
“Except you’re not the right fit for the Pits.
I’ve been looking for a personal assistant to replace the last one.
As long as you’re somewhat competent with files, then you’ll serve your sentence up here. ”
With him.
Relief rushed through me that I wouldn’t be sent to the Pits, but hot on its tail came the nausea again. Because I’d still be a prisoner for the next decade. Trapped in the Spires with this demon, whose despicable reputation preceded him.
I wasn’t sure whether my chances of survival were any better.
“Cillian—” Amelia started, and then stopped when his golden gaze sliced her way.
“Do you have a concern with it?” he challenged, the low deadliness in his voice a giveaway that he would brook no argument on this.
“If you think it’s in your best interest,” she said delicately, though I didn’t miss the stubborn glint in her own gaze. Amelia either had more backbone than I’d expected or she was more than just a lackey.
“I accept,” I responded, my throat dry. “But please, let me see my father at least, one more time.”
“Fine,” Cillian said, his imperious gaze rankling me in the worst way. “He’ll be going free anyway.”
I swallowed hard. Freedom. Which I wouldn’t have for a long, long while. What would my coworkers at the library think? That I’d been abducted? That I’d flat-out quit? Honestly, I’d probably fade from their memories far too fast. Fuck, I was going to vomit.
“I’ll send him up,” Amelia said, pushing from her seat and striding out of the room.
Which left me in here with Cillian Ashmore.
Fuck.
He rose from his seat and strode over to a cabinet.
It opened with a creak, and he tugged out a bottle of amber liquid that looked like whisky or scotch, though who knew what demonkind drank.
Cillian poured a finger or two into one of the glasses sitting there and then sauntered back over.
Considering this man would be my new employer, he was treating me as if I were a gnat to be crushed.
I supposed casual conversation would be beneath him.
He sipped at his drink, and the silence settled over us with a thick tension, like a barrel of gunpowder ready to ignite.
“I’m a librarian,” I stated, cutting through the quiet. “So if you need help with files, that’s within my expertise.”
He arched a wicked brow at me. “Noted.”
My temper flared at his dismissiveness. If he wasn’t interested in my qualifications, what the hell did he want me here for? A dark thought flashed through my brain, but I squashed it before I could fully process.
I’d find a way out, no matter how long it took. Surely, sometime during my ten-year imprisonment I could muster a solution.
“Will I be confined to a room?” I asked, not sure whether I wanted the answer.
“There will be parameters,” he stated.
Clear as mud.
Amelia stepped into view again, and behind her stood my father, who was handcuffed. A big burly redhead strode up behind him, filling the doorway to make sure he didn’t bolt.
The sight of Dad offered a combination of relief and dread. He was alive, but I’d sold my freedom for his. His blond curls were matted against his forehead, streaks of dirt marring his skin. He looked worse for wear, his clothes wrinkled and stained, and his demeanor wasn’t sturdy but bowed.
I swallowed hard and rushed toward him, and as Amelia stepped to the side, I threw my arms around him. He stank, like he hadn’t showered in days, but I caught a faint hint of the overpowering cologne he always wore—the bay rum one. It reminded me of home, of him, and tears prickled in my eyes.
“You’re alive.” I hugged him even tighter.
This might be the only chance I’d get in a long, long while.
He sagged into me as if he’d been through horrors, and relief cascaded over me stronger than ever.
I soaked up every ounce of it, from the heavy weight pressed against me to his ragged breaths.
Gods, what would I even look like when I emerged from the Spires? If I emerged?
“What are you doing here, Beau?” he asked, his voice raspy, like it was unused.
“You’re free, Dad,” I said. “They can’t hold you anymore.”
He stilled against me. “What did you do?”
“Don’t worry,” I said, trying to shove the tremble out of my voice. “I’ll be fine.”
“No,” he stated, his voice harsh. The desperation there coiled around my own. “No, they can’t. I’ll go to the Pits. This is my burden to carry.”
My eyes stung, and his words alone reminded me this had been the right decision. “No, Dad. You won’t survive the Pits. I’ll be okay, I promise.”
“Come on,” the big burly guy said. “It’s time to go.”
Abruptly, my dad’s weight vanished. His deep hazel eyes widened as they met mine, and his mouth was tight with a frown, those wrinkles more pronounced than ever.
“No,” he said, trying to surge toward me again. “No, send me.” His head whipped toward Cillian. “Take me, not him. He didn’t do a damn thing.”
“Get rid of him,” Cillian said, the cool, cruel tone seeping into my bones. Dread settled in its wake.
The sight of my father being yanked away would be emblazoned in my mind for a long time to come—his deep-set eyes wide, his jaw dropped, his whole body surging as if he could somehow find a way to protect me. But he’d been protecting me my whole life, and it was time I stood on my own.
It was time I protected him.
My heart beat out of control as I froze in place, unable to chase after him, unable to do anything but watch as he was yanked out of the room.
Amelia followed hot on their heels, leaving me alone with Cillian once more.
The silence now echoed louder, as if the chaos and intensity of mere moments before lingered in the room.
No doubt the Spires were filled with thousands of ghosts like this.
“No sense in waiting around here,” Cillian said, cutting smooth strides toward the door. “I’ll show you to your chambers.”
Just like that. His calmness unsettled me and made me rage at the same time.
That he could be so unfeeling at tearing a family apart.
That he could send my father away so easily, hold people captive and treat them like hell.
Bubbling anger scorched through me, the kind that wouldn’t cool any time soon.
“Right, my chambers,” I muttered as I followed him out the door.
More like my prison.