Chapter 11
Nicolas
His dreams were filled with darkness and heat.
Flashes of molten pleasure, the prick of claws on sensitive skin, Ashmedai’s rattling voice in his ear.
Nicolas slept deeply, boneless and safe, and waking alone was a gut punch.
He blinked up at the ceiling, stomach tossing, and stretched a hand across the cold, empty bed.
The dream was so lifelike. He’d felt whole again, there in the dark with his demon. Reality had never felt worse.
No, he told himself. Ashmedai wasn’t his demon. That was crazy. But his heart wasn’t in it. He was starting to think he’d sent his heart away with Ashmedai.
Reluctantly, he dragged himself out of bed for another day in Hell.
James and the others put him through the wringer again.
More training, more drills, more lies. It actually wasn’t quite as bad as last week.
He’d passed their first test. He wasn’t one of them yet, but he was no longer an outsider.
He’d never been less enthused about making progress in the workplace.
When it was over, the last thing Nicolas wanted to do was go see Sloan, but he was summoned before he could escape for the afternoon.
With a sigh, he grabbed his bag from the locker room and headed toward the administrative building.
Whatever Sloan wanted, it was better to go ahead and get it over with now.
On the walk over, he coached himself on keeping his face passive. He hated demons, he hated the traitors, and Sloan was a good man. Sloan knew what he was doing. Sloan could do no wrong. Sloan was a goddamn saint.
By the time he made it to Sloan’s office, his spine was straight and his expression was calm. He knocked on the half-open door, and the commander looked up from his computer.
“Paladin Garcia, please, come in. Have a seat.”
He sat in silence, and Sloan didn’t speak right away, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth and studying him quietly.
Finally, Nicolas couldn’t take it any longer. “What’s this about, sir?”
“Daniel.”
A slight twitch of his head, his brows drawing together. Interest, but confusion. Sloan wouldn’t see how his heart was pounding underneath the calm, lightly concerned exterior. “What do you mean?”
“When did you last speak to him?”
Nicolas passed a hand over his face. “To be honest, sir, not since I told him I wanted to join James’s squad the day of my cleansing.
He didn’t like that very much. We’ve been at a bit of an impasse since then.
I won’t apologize, and he won’t either. Why?
Has something happened? Is he okay?” He leaned forward.
Even if they’d had a fight, it wouldn’t be odd for him to show worry.
Everyone in the guild knew Nicolas was a protective big brother.
“He didn’t show up for patrols last night, and he hasn’t been answering his phone.”
He wouldn’t, because Nicolas had instructed him to leave his guild-issued phone behind in his apartment. They only texted through their burners now, which Nicolas didn’t dare bring with him to HQ. It was hidden in a shoe box in the top of his bedroom closet.
“Oh, no. Do you want me to try calling him?” He reached for his phone to do exactly that right now. Sloan would see him call and see Daniel not answer, further verifying his story that they were on the outs.
“No, that won’t be necessary. I sent a couple of his squad members to his apartment today. His phone was there, but he wasn’t. It looked like he’d packed a bag and left. His guild ring was sitting on top of his phone and laptop, both of which had been factory-reset.”
Nicolas stared, hoping he looked appropriately shocked. “He left? Are you serious?”
Sloan studied him intently. “You really don’t know anything about this?”
“No! I can’t believe—” He sat back hard. “I can’t believe he’d do something like that. Dad would be so disappointed in him. I don’t understand what’s going through his head right now. This is home. How could he just walk away?”
It was far too easy to say those words and mean them.
For so much of his life, they had been true.
HQ was home. Their parents and grandparents lived and died for the guild.
Every step they’d both taken in life had been on the same path as the Garcias who came before them.
At one time, leaving would have been unthinkable.
Channeling that mindset took frighteningly little effort.
“I suspect he’s gone to the traitors, don’t you?” Sloan asked coolly.
Nicolas sighed heavily. “Probably. Where else would he go? He was going to those meetings, right? Nathan Accardi started those. Isaac Morrow attended them. It makes sense he’d run to them if he left here.”
“Julian Heroux is also there. Wasn’t he a friend of yours?”
Nicolas’s mouth twisted. “I thought so. I guess I didn’t know any of them as well as I thought I did.”
Sloan’s shrewd gaze bore into him, and Nicolas focused on keeping his mask up. Confused, regretful, a little disgusted. And slowly, Sloan nodded in approval.
A knock on the door interrupted them, and one of the medical staff poked her head in the door.
“Commander, we’ve got another one. Another three, actually. They’re bringing them in through the back now. Somebody found them at dawn when they didn’t report in after patrol.”
“Three more bodies?” Sloan said, and a jolt went down Nicolas’s spine. “All the same?”
“Yes. They’re mummified like the others, but they’re—different. Maxwell sent me to get you so you could see for yourself.”
“Of course. Lead the way.”
Nicolas meant to make his escape, but instead he fell into step behind Sloan and the young woman. At Sloan’s frown, he said, “Sorry, sir, I should have asked first. I’d like to see what we’re up against, if you don’t mind?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
He wasn’t the only one. A crowd had gathered around the medical wing’s doors.
Word traveled fast at HQ. Nicolas stopped among them as the back exit of the administrative building opened.
Medical staff wheeled the bodies in on cots, faces solemn.
Nicolas came to a stop beside Cyrus, who was watching from the back of the group.
“God in Heaven,” someone breathed.
The bodies weren’t just mummified like the last ones. Large sections of the bodies’ bones were exposed. One of them was missing its eyes. Another bore deep gouges in its face and exposed extremities. They hadn’t just been killed. They’d been brutalized.
Nicolas’s stomach twisted. Ashmedai did this because of him, he was sure of it.
He’d hurt him, and now Ashmedai was taking that hurt out on the evil people he hunted.
Did he see the guild as the thing that stood between them?
Was he taking his frustrations out on them because he saw them as an obstacle?
For how long did he torture them before he killed them?
Was this what he did in Hell before he’d come to the surface?
It should bother him that people were being tortured because of him. But he was too busy feeling guilty about hurting Ashmedai’s feelings.
All around him, people were crossing themselves and saying prayers for the men who’d died. All Nicolas could think about was how badly Ashmedai must have been hurting. He’d been quick and efficient with his kills up until now. The only thing that had changed was his relationship with Nicolas.
“Why is it killing some and not others?” Cyrus asked quietly.
Nicolas glanced at him, following his gaze to the end of the hall where they’d wheeled the bodies in. The five living members of the squad who’d been attacked stood outside in the sunlight, huddled together.
“What’s the common denominator?” Nicolas asked, unwilling to say more when they were surrounded by listening ears.
Cyrus’s molasses-brown eyes met his. Pointedly, he looked at Sloan, who was several paces away, conversing with Maxwell.
Nicolas nodded.
Cyrus hummed. “You sure?”
He shrugged a shoulder. It was more nuanced than he could explain here, and honestly, he wasn’t sure he could trust Cyrus.
He’d attended some of Daniel’s meetings at one point, but he’d also been one of the first to bow out, according to Daniel.
Was that because his opinion changed or because he saw the writing on the wall before the meetings were compromised?
It hadn’t mattered in the end. Cyrus was among the first group to be cleansed, along with Daniel, Doctor Maxwell, and others.
“Hm. Come with me.” Cyrus’s shoulder brushed Nicolas’s as he turned on his heel and walked away.
Nicolas watched him go, debating. When he glanced over at Sloan and found him following Maxwell into the medical wing, he threw caution to the wind and strode after Cyrus.
Cyrus opened a door down the hall, meeting Nicolas’s eyes briefly as he stepped inside. Nicolas wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, searching the hallway to make sure it was deserted before he opened the door and followed Cyrus inside.
It was an empty conference room, with a single, long table in the center and a whiteboard on the wall at one end.
“What the hell are we doing in here?” Nicolas hissed, leaning back against the door to make sure no one could walk in on them.
“Tell me what you know,” Cyrus said. “What kind of demon did this?” He folded his tattooed arms.
Nicolas balked, mouth opening and closing. “I—I don’t know anything. It was just a guess.”
“Then why did Sloan have you cleansed?” Cyrus pressed. His dark eyes were bright with something like anticipation.
Nicolas’s throat clicked on a dry swallow. His nervousness didn’t go amiss. Cyrus uncrossed his arms, stepping back to perch on the edge of the conference table.
“I’m not making any accusations, Nic,” Cyrus promised. “I just want to know what the hell’s going on.”
Nicolas scratched his fingers through his curls, sending them into disarray, then pulled out one of the chairs and fell into it. “It’s called a sin eater.”
“Does it use any kind of fire?”