Prologue
In Rowan’s line of work, if you turned over a rock, what crawled out had fangs, claws or a bloodthirsty temper. Bad guys came in all forms, and it was his job not to neutralize them.
A bullet burned through the night air along a secluded Seattle waterfront dock and sped toward its target. Rowan, a Fire Wizard for hire, moved out of its path, feeling only the heat of its trail before it embedded in an abandoned car, setting off an alarm as ear-piercing as a Banshee’s wail. He reached the gunman before he could squeeze off another round.
Rowan shoved the dirtbag against the warehouse wall and held him off the ground. Human, by the smell, the man he held had a loose-jointed, scarecrow appearance.
“Who are you?” the man choked, trying to pry Rowan’s hands from his throat.
“Armageddon. But this is your lucky day. You’re coming with me to the precinct.”
“Aren’t you going to read me my Miranda?”
“Don’t know her. And anyway, I’m not a cop.” He let the comment settle. “As an off-the-books undercover detective for the Seattle Police Department, I have my own set of rules. Rule number one. Stop bad guys by any means necessary.”
Two heavily armed men eased out from behind a dumpster. One moved to box Rowan in on the left and the other on his right. They looked like men itching for a fight.
Rowan swore under his breath. Detective Lyons was on his case about holding down the body count. Unless these men grew brains and surrendered, this wouldn’t be one of those times.
He let them get close and shoved his dark glasses up the ridge of his nose. No sense spooking the humans unnecessarily.
He nodded toward the man he held against the wall. “Tell your friends to put down their weapons.”
A tall lean man with a tuft of white hair pushed the barrel of his assault rifle against Rowan’s back. “You know who I think we got here, boys? It’s that guy who declared himself a one-man clean-up gang along the waterfront. Well, you met your match this time, buddy boy. It’s three against one.”
Rowan had seen the man’s type all too often. More bravado than common sense. “Scary. You’re like the bad-ass Three Musketeers.”
Rifle-Guy grunted.
Human with no sense of humor. Tragic. The third man, with dead-looking eyes that reminded Rowan of a female vampire he’d dated once, edged forward into the light of a flickering streetlamp. He slipped a blade with a serrated edge out of its sheath on his belt. It was the kind of weapon that could have made the jagged Pentagram on the latest victim’s chest and caused Detective Lyons to suspect that the killings were the work of a rogue half-blood or vampire, which was the reason Rowan was called in on the case. But these three weren’t paranormal bottom feeders, they were human bottom feeders with a taste for the occult.
Deadeyes raised his blade and pointed toward Rowan’s neck. “Nice ink. Unusual. Get them in prison? Let my friend down, and I’ll make your death… memorable.”
“Generous offer,” Rowan said evenly. “For the record, my tattoos weren’t inked. They were earned and burned.”
Rowan eyed Deadeyes. It was his guess these humans had sold their souls when they’d started their five-state killing spree, leaving grieving families in their path of destruction and the part that made them human at the gravesites of their victims. But according to the law, they deserved a trial. More importantly, and the reason these men were still breathing, the families of the victims deserved justice and closure.
Rowan deepened his voice. “Counter offer. Tell me where you’ve stashed your victim, if there’s anyone else working with you, and how you pick your victims, and I’ll consider letting you live.”
When Deadeyes followed Rifle-Guy’s gaze, it confirmed Rowan’s suspicion. They were hiding their next victim behind the dumpster. Hopefully, the victim was still alive.
Deadeyes had the good sense to back down, but Rifle-Guy wasn’t as bright. He kept his weapon trained on Rowan. “You’ve got a lot of questions for a guy who is about to die. You’re ballsy. Heard that about you. And since you asked so nice, and you won’t live to tell anyone, I’ll answer your questions. We like them young and pretty, and a new drug on the street makes them easy to handle.” His gaze flicked on the other side of Rowan. “Kill him. Say your prayers, big man.”
“You, first.”
Rowan summoned the fire power from his core. It heated to the speed of a raging firestorm and raised his body temperature. Heat shimmered over the alley like the desert at high noon. Time slowed as Deadeyes drew back to plunge the knife into Rowan’s chest, and Rifle-Guy cocked his weapon.
Rowan moved faster than a mortal could blink. In less time than it took to strike a match, Rowan let the man he held drop to the ground, pulled his knife out of his boot, slit Deadeyes’ throat, and shot Rifle-Guy with his own weapon. His goal had been to deliver them to the precinct alive. That changed when Rifle-Guy made the mistake of describing their victims.
Flanked by two dead bodies and a man lying in a whimpering pool of fear and piss, Rowan sped behind the dumpster, praying the victim was still alive. She lay curled in a fetal position, unconscious. He let out a breath. Alive, but barely.
He dialed 911 and gave his location, then gathered the young woman in his arms, brushing a forgetfulness spell over herforehead as he moved her beneath the flickering lamplight. With luck, she’d chalk up her fuzzy memory to late-night partying. He set her on the ground, pillowing her head with his jacket, then turned to the remaining villain, who looked more like a scarecrow than a human being.
“Your victim is unconscious. What did you give her?”
“If I tell you, you have to promise me a deal.”
“How about you tell me everything you know, and I promise not to barbeque your ass.”
