Prologue
“You’re a goddamn menace, Celt!”
“Scared?” Blaéz taunted. His body, his knuckles were bruised to the bone and yet he felt nothing. Remained detached from it all. “You must be. You’re fighting like a pansy—”
Týr’s granite fist crashed into his face, stopping the words. Stars exploded. A brutal kick followed and sent him slamming into one of the trees surrounding them in the forest clearing. His lungs flattened. Pain sang its way up his spine. But the sensation dissipated far too soon.
Pushing away from the tree, Blaéz swiped at the warm blood flowing from his brow. And smirked. Having lost his emotions while incarcerated in Tartarus, he excelled at emulating them. But it sure triggered Týr’s scowl.
“This mixed martial arts crap of yours is a pain in the ass! Why the hell can’t we use swords?”
“They don’t cut it for me.” Blaéz slowly circled him. “You want your Harley back? Win it. A thirty-minute no holds barred fight. Or I’ll sell the Easy Rider on eBay for fifty bucks.”
“You’re fucking insane, man.” Týr glared at him, fingers clenching and unclenching. “A screw short somewhere in that damn head of yours. The Harley cost a mil. Sell it. Whatever. I’m not kicking your ass.”
“What have we been doing for the last hour? Dancing?” Blaéz cocked a brow. “I guess my way’s too risky, could bruise that pretty face of yours. Maybe take up knitting, something safe—”
In a blur, Týr moved then stopped dead, yanking back his fist. He shoved back his damp, pale hair from a sweaty and pissed-off face. “I’m done with this shit. Find someone else to beat the crap outta you!”
He stormed off into the trees, his black Gi’s riding low on his hips.
Týr’s anger sliding off him, Blaéz turned away. The training session from the last hour had barely made an impact. He needed more than a short fight session to haul him on the straight, and see him through patrolling tonight.
I can give you what you want...
The sly voices slithered into his head, tugging at him. The strain on his psyche was growing stronger, the pull inexorable. He had nothing to ground him in this place, to keep the ominous call at bay. Save one.
He dematerialized to the northern parts of the Guardian’s island estate, just off Manhasset Bay, where the treacherous cliffs reigned and took form on the precarious edge. He cared little for his life. The only reason he still existed was because Michael saw something in him worth saving.
Far below, the sounds of the furious collision of waves against the rock face drenched the air.
Come to me…
With no way of shutting out the voices and trying to hang on to an oath taken several millennia ago, he dove off the precipice, hitting the jagged rocks just below the churning waterline.
Bones shattered. Pain exploded. A red haze filled his mind. The voices faded. Finally.
He let the waves carry him back and toss his agonized body onto the rugged shore. And closed his eyes…
Chapter 1
The street’sdrier than the desert tonight.
After hours of trawling downtown, Blaéz drew to a halt at the East River. A couple of gulls screeched over the horn of a tugboat in the distance. Not even the sulfuric whiff of demoniis fouled the briny, humid air of late July.
The turned brethren of demons usually hunted at night, needing new souls to prolong their own decaying lives. Tonight. Nothing. With no fight in sight, restlessness crawled through Blaéz again, and had him straddling a blade’s edge into darkness. Only a slight twinge remained from breaking his ribs and cracking his ulna earlier that day. He was healing too fast. The ache that had been grounding him was slowly fading and like an addict, he needed more.
Blaéz dematerialized to a backstreet in the Bowery. The stench of rotting fish was a familiar welcome. From the shadows, he eyed the scarred, dingy building opposite with crude graffiti scrawled across the brick walls and metal door.
Headlights flashed, brightening the narrow alley. A cab crept to a halt and spewed out its contents of adrenaline-jacked humans and their demon pal. Their excitement stirring the air as they scurried to the graffitied entrance. The heavy metal door opened then clanged shut behind them, releasing the scent of copper, sweat, and something more.
A whisper of seduction, it brushed Blaéz’s senses and took ahold of him in a hypnotic lure, drawing him across the grimy asphalt.
He shoved the steel door open and headed down the stairs to the basement beneath the warehouse. The place operated as a fish market during the day, but at night, something darker took place. Two burly human guards at the foot of the stairs manned the entrance through a camera and computer.
Ignoring them, Blaéz made his way through the dank, narrow passage snaking deeper into the bowels of New York, and into a brightly lit arena swamped with humans and demons. A multitude of sensations stroked his mind, along with the smell of cold cement, sweat, blood, and agony. He inhaled harshly, absorbing just one.
The sweet, brutal song of pain.
