Watcher Redeemed Read online

  Well, everyone except her and Zander.

  When the doors hissed shut, the elevator began its descent. Kyrian shifted and joined Seth in blocking her from the glass walls of the elevator. The pair scanned the flurry of shoppers below, muttering observations of humans and Otherworlders flitting and filling the atrium below. Mothers with strollers sat along the edge of the fountain, and shoppers laden down with bags rode up and down the escalators in a life-sized game of Chutes and Ladders.

  The humans couldn’t see that those were Daemons among them, but they could. The Seraph blood running in Nephilim veins allowed them to see past the enchantments that disguised the identities of both Dark and Light. And now, she could see those things too. Things she’d never known back when she’d lived life as an oblivious human. Things she sometimes wished she couldn’t see now.

  Seth retrieved his phone from the hip pocket of his long, leather slicker and raised it to his ear. “Side door in two, my brother.”

  Outside the confines of the elevator, the sharp echo of a thousand voices bombarded. It lowered, decibel by decibel, as they made their way from the main floor of the center, down a side hall, and toward the parking garage. Austin knew the drill. Reaching the inside of the metal fire door, Seth looked out the hatched-glass window and waited the few seconds until a quick, sharp horn sounded on the other side.

  She tucked in tight to Kyrian’s side. Zander was crazy overprotective, no doubt, but after experiencing the evil tip of the Darkworlder iceberg, she would never argue. She followed Kyrian’s lead through the door. If a security force made her angelman feel better when she was out in public, she’d deal.

  One parking garage was the same as the next—the chill of concrete construction, the hum of fluorescent lights, the dank air that smelled like sweat, and the reverberating sounds of unseen activity above, below and beyond.

  That activity set her boys on edge.

  Kyrian’s grip tightened. His pale green gaze swept their surroundings. Fixated on all the gray and gloomy, his gaze hardened. She felt it then, that itch she’d gotten a few times since Zander brought her back. The needle-tip prickling at the back of her neck. A Nephilim early warning system that never came early enough.

  “Gun!” Kyrian tackled her to the side. Bullets hissed past her ears. Concrete exploded. They hit the garage floor and pain erupted. The chill of the floor contrasted the heat spreading over her. Commands ricocheted as Seth and Phoenix closed in on them.

  One moment, she was flat on the ground covered in a Kyrian blanket; the next, she was tossed into the back seat of the truck. Bullets rained down on them. The reinforced windows of the Navigator puckered and pocked, but nothing penetrated. Car horns sounded. Cries of shock and fear rang through the air as people scrambled to take cover.

  Kyrian leaned into the back seat and ripped open her bloody shirt. Searching her skin, his fingers trembled, his eyes wild and filled with rage.

  “Her arm,” Seth barked over his shoulder from where he covered Kyrian’s back.

  Ripping a cloth strip from his shirt, Kyrian wrapped it around the wound until the pinch and ache had her crying out.

  “It’s superficial. Seth, you’ve got her.” Kyrian rolled out of the truck and drew his weapon. “Phoenix, get her to the clinic. I’m on the shooter.”

  “No!” Austin grappled to catch him, but the slamming door jarred her hand. White-hot pain shot through her shoulder as the truck interior swirled around in her head. “Seth, don’t let him go alone.”

  Too late.

  Seth piled in beside her. “You’re priority, cowgirl. Always.”

  The truck barrelled past the rows of parked cars, out the gate, through the honking, screeching traffic, onto Yonge Street and up Shuter. The roar of the engine drowned out the shriek of tires as they wove through Toronto midday traffic.

  “I’m fine, Phoenix.” She scrunched her eyes shut as brakes screeched and they swerved. Her stomach lurched, and she snapped them open again. “Don’t kill us trying to save me, please.”

  “Shots fired on your Ishah,” Seth said into his phone. She heard Zander’s fury from two feet away. “Superficial . . . yes, I’m sure . . . I’m sure . . . It’s a fucking chicken wing, boss . . . we’re on the way to the clinic now.”

  The violent baritone of her husband’s voice matched the rumble of thunder outside. Austin leaned closer to the window. She didn’t need sight to know the sky was darkening above and lightning was about to burst across the horizon.

  Thunder cracked, and she flinched.

  Zander’s connection to energy intensified when he’d gone through his transformation. What used to rattle pictures and burst a few light bulbs had grown to mortally dangerous levels.

  Seth shook his head. “Okay, boss man, we’re on our way.” Shoving the phone back into his pocket, he leaned toward the front seat. “Change of plans. Z wants her brought to the loft. He’s calling in the archangel to heal her.”

  “Raphael?” Austin shook her head. Her arm hurt, but it wasn’t that bad—not like last time. She ran a finger over the platinum wrist cuffs Zander had commissioned to hide the ugly pink scars on her wrists. She gathered the tattered halves of her blood-soaked shirt and winced. “Shoot. If I look like a Freddy Kruger victim, he’s going to flip.”

  Seth moved to pull his black T-shirt over his head.

  She stopped him. “I can’t have your scent on me when he’s panicked, Seth. His beast will rip you to shreds. Grab me the bag with the sweater I bought.”

  Seth helped her out of the rag that, ten minutes ago, had been her favorite blouse, and eased her new sweater along her grazed arm and over her head. When she winced, he pegged her with a scowl. “You’re sure you’re not hurt anywhere else?”

  “I’m sure, why?”

  He held up his hands and though she couldn’t see the fabric, she could see the glow of Seraph blood. “That’s a lot of blood, isn’t it?”

  Seth nodded and cursed.

  Kyrian. All the blood drained from her head and the truck interior spun again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kyrian’s boots pounded the asphalt as his legs went piston. He palmed his SIG, and in a blurring sweep, passed rows of parked cars and scattered shoppers. Jumping over a concrete barricade, he went free-fall and dropped a level. The landing jarred his ribcage and shards of hot-agony splintered through his torso. He ignored the blotchy stars blocking his vision and locked his knees to keep from doing a face-plant on the concrete.

  Whatever. Another day, another round of punishment for his body.

  Digging deep into his keg of hatred, he pictured Austin lying beneath him on the garage floor. Then the memory of her in that Shedim cave flashed in. Her hung like dead carrion.

  The kill urge of his inner beast roared to the forefront and cleared his head PDQ. The blare of a car horn and screech of tires had him Bo Duke-ing across the hood of a sedan. With his head solidly in the game, he kept moving.

  The shooter had booked it on foot as soon as the Navigator cleared out. He hoped the fucker was stupid enough, or inconsequential enough, to have to keep hoofing it.

  If he had tricks in his bag—

  As the universe flipped him a middle-finger salute, the hair on his arms stood. The charge in the atmosphere signaled that a Bolthole had indeed opened. Austin’s attacker was attempting to scurry back up the Dark Prince’s ass crack.

  Racing down the ramp to the next level, he rounded the concrete column, gun raised. If he could only get a shot off—

  The shimmering energy bridging the two worlds swallowed the hulking silhouette and vanished.

  Fuck. Kyrian tucked his weapon at the small of his back as a group of teenagers poured out of the elevator and looked him up and down.

  “Whoa, buddy,” one of the hoodie dudes said, pointing. “You’re leaking bad, man.”

  No shit. He glanced down. Blood plastered his shirt to his body and as much as he wanted to follow the shooter into the depths of the Darkworld, he wasn’t i
n any condition to start a Hell hunt. Grabbing his phone from his pocket, he waved off the lookie-loos and headed back up the ramp.

  A text from Seth said they’d gotten Austin to Z and were on their way back. Perfect.

  His fingers were bloody and shaking, so he skipped the keyboard and hit the call button. “Hey . . . no, the fucker slithered between the cracks . . . yeah, I need a lift to the clinic . . . still the parking garage . . . I’ll meet you on Yonge.”

  Four minutes later, Kyrian slid into the back seat of the Navigator. Well, he didn’t so much slide as collapse. With the adrenaline rush over and most of his hemoglobin on the outside instead of in, he was fast approaching black-out territory.

  Phoenix gave him a look-see, closed him inside, and hopped into the shotgun seat.

  “Fuck, Greek, you look like shit.” Seth eyed him from the rearview as he louied toward the Expressway. “Phoenix, toss him the towel from the glove box. I don’t want him bleeding all over the interior again. Zander hardly lets me drive his baby now as it is.”

  Kyrian settled into a part sitting, part leaning position and let his eyes drop. He looked forward to tracking the shooter down and bringing the cocksucker’s brain to a meet-and-greet with the muzzle of his gun.

  A Bolthole at the Eaton Centre? In broad daylight?

  Darkworld fidiot.

  They had one absolute in their world—one—stay off the radar of the humans. Whatever score needed to be settled, whatever itch needed to be scratched, keep it the fuck out of the papers and don’t attract attention. What the hell was that guy thinking?

  “Is Austin all right?”

  Phoenix peered over the front seat and head-bobbed an affirmative.

  “Aside from the shot to the arm,” Seth said, “and being pissed about her blouse getting shredded. She’s freaked about you, though. Zander had to throw her over his shoulder and send me straight back to find you, or he wasn’t getting anywhere with our Texas wildflower.”

  Kyrian coughed and wiped the splatter of blood on his ruined designer jeans. Then he unsheathed his knife and cut away his shirt. Shiiiit. It was messy.

  Seth whistled softly, his gaze narrowing in the rearview. “That’s one serious hole. Why the hell are you still leaking like that? It’s been almost twenty minutes.”

  Kyrian’s head dropped back against the leather seat. The world was spinning and the ride was picking up speed. He had a sinking feeling he knew. The Shedim who started this Darkworld Rebellion had commissioned a new generation of weapons. A bizarre red alloy that did real damage to him and his brothers—negated their immortality completely, actually.

  They only had blades until now. He’d bet his left nut they’d graduated to bullets.

  “I don’t need to inspect it, boys, I need to plug it. What’s our ETA?”

  Phoenix took a good long look at him before focusing on his brother. Though the guy hadn’t spoken aloud since his voice box was ripped out as a kid, Phoenix and his twin could talk cranium-to-cranium. And by the look on his face, Seth was getting a brainful.

  “Almost there, Greek,” Seth said, his jaw clenching until he could see the hollow and flex of his muscles. “You’re not going into shock, are you?”

  “Nah,” he said, his eyes rolling shut. “Just taking a nap.”

  Seth’s cursed and laid on the gas. He must have called up the clinic on the SUV’s phone system because a minute later, there was a conversation going back and forth. The guy was spouting off shit about “the Greek bleeding out”.

  Um, hello . . . sitting right here.

  More cursing. Another bump-and-weave and Kyrian fainted dead away.

  Zander snapped his phone shut and slid it into the pocket of his jeans. With one hand pressed against the invisible field separating him from his Ishah, he fought to stay calm. White as an archangel’s three-piece suit, his beloved sat propped on the kitchen island while Raphael tended to her arm. Zander lifted her sweater to his face and tried to breathe in her scent.

  There was none.

  He wasn’t stupid. This wasn’t what she’d been wearing when she left. And dollars for donuts, she’d ordered Seth to dispose of the blouse she’d had on earlier, so he wouldn’t lose his mind. Which he had anyway. Shit, she looked pale.

  “Have they got Kyrian?” she asked.

  “The twins are running him to the clinic and getting him patched up now. Stop with the worrying, cowgirl, and let Raphael fix you up.”

  “This is nothing,” she snapped. “Kyrian should be here with Raphael, not headed to a stupid racetrack. Zander, I’m sick of this—frickety-frac!” The pain in her eyes as she spun a glare at Raphael enraged his beast.

  Zander lunged forward. His ebony wings flared and cut the air behind him. He didn’t get far. The barrier Raphael had thrown up to block the kitchen doorway remained rock solid. The archangel apparently didn’t trust him to keep cool. He cracked his knuckles against the field, his growl bouncing off the hard surfaces of marble and stainless steel.

  “Be at ease, Zandros,” Uriel said, squeezing hard on his shoulder. More than a gesture of comfort, the Vulcan death-grip siphoned off the surge of violent mojo his body radiated—ensuring Toronto wouldn’t be hit by a freak October hurricane.

  More aggressive than the other three archangels, Uriel, the Ruling Prince of Powers, could handle Zander’s amped-up connection with nature and clear the skies of the GTA. Fighting his own instincts to protect Austin, Zander allowed himself to be turned and focused on the guy’s hard, hazel gaze.

  The color might be the same as his wife’s, but Uriel’s eyes held none of the golden warmth Austin’s did. “You have been shot scores of times. Your female has not. You recall how it smarts, yes?”

  Yes, he fucking well did recall how it smarts. And he didn’t want Austin anywhere near that particular sensation, fuck-you-very-much.

  Uriel hissed and gripped harder. A sheen of sweat glistened across his perfect brow. After freeing the blue silk square from his breast pocket, he patted his forehead. “Zandros, who better to tend Austin’s injury than the Ruling Prince of Virtues? She is in the best possible hands. You know that. As soon as Raphael ensures the bullet’s path is clear, she shall be healed.”

  Bullet’s path. Zander inhaled deep and ground his molars.

  Shot. Some motherfucking Darkworlder tried to take his beloved, tried to rip his soul from his body, and extinguish the only warmth in his cold, dark world. Thunder rolled across the sky outside. His jaw clenched until something cracked. Shit, by the time this was over, his pearly whites would be nothing but stumps. He reined in the panic a bit so he wasn’t gumming his way into the future.

  “Talk to me, cowgirl. How you doing?”

  Her gaze came up and locked on him. Now those were hazels he could get lost in, but the worry and anger in their depths pegged him solid in the chest. “You know how I am, and know how to fix this.”

  Damn her. She’d been shot, and still sat there, worried about Kyrian.

  He clenched his fists tight and tried not to dwell on that. He really did. Truth be told, with the ever-present danger she inherited with the Zander-Nephilim-package, more warriors at her side to protect her would be better.

  His inner beast didn’t agree. Kyrian was feeling his mate way too much, and the primal side of him was way too strong to let that shit fly. Zander soooo didn’t deserve her, but selfish bastard that he was—he’d kill anyone who thought to take her from him.

  “Unfortunate,” Raphael mumbled.

  Zander growled. “What? What the fuck does that mean?”

  Raphael eased from Austin’s flesh and held up a fragment of a burnt red bullet. It wasn’t red from Austin’s blood; it was the colored alloy the Shedim used against them in the start of the summer rebellion.

  Zander cursed. “Either the interest in that alloy has spread, or the Shedim army is moving forward with their plans, despite the loss of their leader. They’ve advanced their arsenal from blades and bolts and graduated into Watcher Kill
ing bullets.”

  “And Kyrian was shot with one?” Austin snapped. “Phone Drina. Get it out of him.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Stay with us, Greek.” Seth swerved around some asshole in a Kia who had the balls to pull out in front of the speeding freight train he was driving down the Gardiner Expressway. He didn’t care who he had to mow over; he wasn’t losing another brother. “Piece of shit, motherfucker, ass-wipe,” he yelled as the sheep in the Kia finally clued in and got out of his way. “Almost there, my brother. Phoenix, how’s he looking?”

  Phoenix had shifted to the back to put pressure on the wound the minute Kyrian blacked out. We’re losing him. Get us there, now!

  Speaking as they did, Seth not only heard the words his brother projected, but felt the sick panic rolling behind them as well. “Since when does a bullet bring one of us down?”

  Since now. Fuck. He’s almost stopped breathing. Nothing but the odd hitch and sputter.

  “Almost there, Greek.” Seth banked the last turn at ninety and when the Navigator Fast-and-Furious’d onto two wheels, he prayed they’d get there in time. Come on. Come on.

  The instant he stomped on the breaks and slammed sideways in front of the big-ass horse building, he threw the door open. He grabbed the Greek under the arms as Phoenix handled his legs. “Fuck, he’s gray.”

  Phoenix didn’t reply.

  The clinic door burst wide and Drina, a turquoise-haired Reaper, angled the gurney toward them. “Put him down, let me—” There was a moment of shocked hesitation when she looked at her partner in this clinic venture before something seasoned and mechanical took over. Then, she was all hands and commands. After grabbing her supplies off the stretcher, Drina tossed the towel they’d used to plug the hole in Kyrian’s side and covered it with a wad of thick white gauze. It didn’t stay white long. In a heartbeat, scarlet pooled beneath her palms.

  On a curse she jumped onto the gurney and straddled the Greek, pressing down on the wound. “Get us inside to Cato. Now!”

  They flew down the wide corridor, past a dozen twelve-by-twelve horse stalls, to what used to be an equestrian clinic. The gurney wheels bumped and rolled over the cobblestone floor as the three of them took the corner and came to a grinding halt. Drina’s assessing gaze shot from the blood-soaked gauze pressed on Kyrian’s side to the sickly-gray pallor of his skin.