42. Barrett #2
The noise of the streets quieted as we entered Atlas’ headquarters.
As Santor strode through the space, his glamour fell away, revealing his short, curved horns adorning his forehead, a long, thin tail with a tuft of brown fur at the tip swaying with each step he took.
The rooms were filled with thick smoke, rich with the combined sweet and addictive scents of Brierleaf and Murk Root.
Santor’s green eyes passed over the individuals strewn out on the various surfaces, their eyes in drug-induced hallucinations.
I stepped through the mess of bodies quickly, passing into the hallway before the Murk Root had a chance to leave me seeing shit.
Santor took the lead, opening the door, and a painful combination of grunts and gasps put me on high alert as we stepped inside.
A male sat slouched in a wooden chair in the center of the room, arms wrapped around his abdomen as one of Atlas’ larger guards righted himself after laying a massive punch to the gut.
The male coughed, blood dripping on the ground in front of him from the busted nose and lip he’d just been dealt.
“You think you can steal from me and get away with it?” Atlas asked, his voice full of cold, calm death as he stepped from the shadows of a nearby corner, twirling a thin knife in his hand, his boots echoing his powerful presence with each step.
The sleeves of his black button-down shirt were rolled up, the leather holsters strapped over his chest holding more of the same blades.
The gold inked into his skin caught the green fae light as he crossed the room, and a scar stretched diagonally from his jaw to his forehead before carving a path through his hair.
It made him look just as much the monster he was beneath the surface, hidden by clever words and strategically shared smiles.
“No! I swear, Atlas! I’m good for it. I’ll get you the money,” the male blubbered.
Atlas stepped closer, his eyes meeting Santor’s as he crossed the room and leaned against the wall before Atlas’ gaze found me. He turned his attention back on the male, who looked as if his heart was about to give out, his eyes wild with fear as he sucked in panicked breaths.
Atlas leaned down, leveling his gaze with the male as he shrank back in his seat, lips quivering.
Atlas tilted the knife toward the male, the tip of the blade hovering before one of his wide eyes.
His voice dropped low as he said, “The next time I catch wind of you dealing in my streets without paying your cut, I’ll peel the payment from your hide. ”
“U-understood,” the male said, nodding his head.
Atlas rose to his full height, combing his fingers through his short brown hair to tame it, and nodded to his guards as he straightened his shirt. “Get him out of my sight.”
They grabbed the male by his arms and yanked him up from his chair before dragging him out of the room, his boots squeaking along the old wood floor.
“Barrett,” Atlas crooned, holding his arms wide as he approached me. “You’ve been topside for far too long.”
He wrapped his arms around me, and I returned the gesture. “It’s hard work keeping up appearances. ”
“I’m sure Damien’s working you like a dog,” he said as he released me, gesturing to the glasses on his desk at the head of the room. “Help yourself.”
I took a seat at the table littered with papers, gold, and crystals.
“No rest for the wicked, right?” I said, glancing sidelong at the four figures occupying chairs, noting each and every one of them.
“Fates spare us,” Atlas said, rubbing his hand over his eyes before grabbing his glass and settling back in his swivel chair.
Laid back on a chaise was Sonya, his ethereal Mistress of Pleasures who oversaw the entertainment in The Underworld.
Occupying a small table, cracking small crystals, were the twins; Holland, who oversaw all trade and commerce, and Lupis, in charge of gambling.
Their eyes lit up with a rippling greenish glow as they inhaled the essence that rose from the fissures in the crystals in their fingers.
The fourth watched from the shadows where she sat—the head of security and enforcer of his rules, Driska—a female who even I would reconsider going toe to toe with.
“Sadly, I have no more rest for you down here. You wanted to see me, which was perfect timing, as I was planning on calling you down here anyway.”
I settled back against the chair, draping an arm over the velvet-cushioned back, and glanced at Santor. “So I hear.”
“I need you to look into something for me,” he said, his voice hardening, smile fading from his lips as he lifted his glass to take a swig, only to pause and look at me over the rim. “And I’m curious to see if our issues align.”
I frowned.
“Word has made its way to me of several murders above,” he said. He knocked back his drink before grimacing and reaching for one of the crystals on his desk.
I held my response, not wanting to give him too much, but if he knew of it, was asking me to look into it...
“The human females who have been murdered by one of our kind,” he clarified, gray eyes sliding back to me briefly.
“It wasn’t one of yours?” I asked, my voice level, as if the murders didn’t bother me.
“It better not fucking be. That shit’s drawing too much attention,” he said as he settled back in his chair.
He held the crystal up to the light, inspecting the subtle green glow of the essence within it.
“I turn a blind eye to a death here and there, but that many in a short amount of time is too much trouble—too much attention. I’ve got enough on my plate with Hades asking for my help. ”
My eyes shifted briefly to Santor as he settled into a chair, helping himself to some of Atlas’ ambrosia liquor.
“Hades is asking you for help?” I scoffed before taking a drink. “Since when do The Twelve ask for assistance from immortals? ”
“Something was stolen from him,” he said, dropping the crystal onto the desk, the rock clinking as it rolled to a stop amidst the others. “A magical artifact from his collection.”
“And how would we be able to help him with that?” I asked.
“Because he no longer feels its presence within the Godsrealm.”
I paused, absorbing that bit of information.
“It was taken across The Veil,” I muttered, acknowledging the quiet part, and Atlas nodded.
It would make sense as to why he would reach out to the immortals for assistance, then. He likely hadn’t told the other members of The Twelve, the knowledge of it more of an embarrassment than anything.
But why did he go to Atlas and not Damien?
“What sort of object is it?” I asked, curious as to whether he’d actually tell me.
“An object once in Charon’s possession before he fell.”
I halted the glass at my lips, and my brows furrowed. “The ferryman?”
He nodded. “His necklace said to possess the ability to siphon souls from their true forms.”
That was a powerful object, a dangerous one. Its presence in the Mortalrealm could be disastrous.
“You need help with that as well?” I asked, hoping he might let me in.
Atlas eyed me wearily. “Take care of the murderer, and we’ll talk.”