Page 13 of Protector Unmatched

6

Standing in front of his bathroom mirror, Zoltan took colored contact lenses out of the box and slid them over his green eyes. Unfortunately, even the lenses he had an optician’s lab custom-make for him—under the pretense of being allergic to all lenses other than the ones made of this special compound—dissolved after about twelve hours. The secretion of a demon’s eyes burned through regular lenses even faster. Those lasted only a couple of hours tops, thus revealing the telltale poison-green eyes branding their owner as a demon.

However, they were good enough for his underlings, since any demon was dispensable. He, the Great One, was not. For him, only the best would do. He’d hired a very talented—and very discreet—scientist to improve the lenses he was currently wearing, so far without success. But he wasn’t giving up. His need to stay up top, in the human world, rather than in the Underworld that he ruled with an iron fist, grew with every day. Here, in the condo that he’d claimed as his own, after dispensing with its original owner, he felt more at home than in the caves that smelled of sulfur and were heated by streams of lava.

None of his demons, not even his right-hand man Vintoq, knew about his abode in the human world. This was his refuge, the place he withdrew to when he was sick of the stupidity of his underlings. The place where he sometimes wondered what life would be like if he weren’t a demon. Of course, those thoughts never lasted long, because he loved being a demon, loved the power, loved the control that came with being the demons’ ruler. And most of all, he loved to feed on the fear of humans when they realized that they had lost, that he would snuff out their pitiful lives. It was meant to fill a void, a void that had started growing bigger during the last few months. To fill that void, he had to feed off the life force of humans more frequently than ever before. His hunger for sex had grown by the same measure. And he didn’t care how he got it. Be it demon or human female, it didn’t matter to him, because deep down, he knew that neither could truly fill the emptiness in him, the feeling that there was something else he needed. Something beyond feeding, fighting, and fucking.

And to top it all off, the crippling migraines he’d been suffering for a long time now showed no signs of waning. He’d tried everything: human medications, street drugs, opioids—hell, he’d even tried weed. But nothing helped. The migraines were unpredictable and often hit him out of nowhere. It was another reason he spent increasingly more time in the human world, where he could hide the attacks from his underlings. He’d had several close calls, but luckily, so far, none of his subjects had caught on to his affliction. If they ever did, his days as their leader were numbered. Nobody wanted a weakling as their leader. And that was what they would see: a man so weak that a migraine could bring him to his knees.

He invented more and more excuses so his absences wouldn’t cause suspicion, but Vintoq was a smart demon, and one day, he would figure it out. And then his loyalty would be tested. Zoltan couldn’t allow it to come to that. What he needed was a decisive victory over the Stealth Guardians, their archenemies, the immortals who stood between the demons and their goal of dominating humans, turning them into their slaves, feeding off their fear. If he could defeat the Stealth Guardians once and for all, his eternal reign would be cemented.

But first things first. Zoltan glanced at his watch. It was time for his meeting. From his bedroom closet, he retrieved a wad of cash, just in case he needed it tonight, then he grabbed his leather jacket and stuffed the money into the inside pocket, before putting it on. A dagger was already hidden on his body—not because he suspected to run into Stealth Guardians, but because he didn’t trust the man he was meeting. Better be prepared.

Ready, he snatched his keys, shoved them into his pocket, and left the condo. As he walked to the elevator, he heard the door click shut behind him. A soft ding sounded, announcing the elevator. The doors opened seconds later, and he stepped into the empty cab. He pressed the button for the garage. The sports car his predecessor had owned, and which now belonged to Zoltan, was parked in the darkest corner of the otherwise well-lit parking garage. Zoltan unlocked it, hopped in, and let the engine roar. Eric Vaughn, whose name Zoltan used while in the human world, had had good taste in cars. He appreciated that about the man. At least he wasn’t forced to drive a pickup truck, hatchback, or—God forbid—a minivan.

The drive to the area where one warehouse bordered another was short and didn’t allow him to really test the car’s speed. One day, when he had more time on his hands, he’d take it out for a spin on one of the freeways that weaved in and out of the city, to find out what this engine was capable of. Maybe he’d even experience the high that racecar drivers spoke of when hitting top speeds. Perhaps the thrill would give him satisfaction.

He brushed the thoughts away and concentrated on the next step in his plan.

At a street corner a block away from the meeting point, Zoltan pulled the car into a parking spot and killed the engine. He exited the car and locked it, then walked, hands in his jacket pockets, to the next intersection and turned right. Two buildings down was a dive bar that had seen better days. He walked to the entrance when he heard a hissing sound. He looked up and saw the neon Open sign flicker, then burn out completely. His presence had done that. It happened whenever a demon got in close proximity to neon or fluorescent lights. Had a Stealth Guardian been near, Zoltan’s disguise would have been blown. But the humans inside the bar had no idea what had just happened and what it meant.

The man he was meeting was already sitting in a booth, a beer that he didn’t drink from in front of him. He never drank during their meetings. Vasili, the dealer in stolen goods, wanted to keep his wits about him.

Zoltan slid into the booth and waved to the bartender, ordering a whiskey.

“What have you got for me?” Zoltan asked.

Vasili cast a quick look around, making sure nobody was within earshot, then said, “I think it’s the motherlode.” His thick accent gave away the fact that he was an Eastern European immigrant, probably Russian. He tried to make up for it with his choice of words. It didn’t work.

“You said that last time, yet nothing came of it,” Zoltan reminded him. Only the fact that Vasili had the best connections among the fences on the East Coast meant he’d let him live after his previous failure.

“I found it, trust me. All I need to do now is get my hands on it.”

Zoltan huffed. “So, in fact, you don’t have it.” Not a surprise.

“I know where it is. I know who’s got it. And I know how to get it.”

“Which means you haven’t even seen it.”

“I know it matches what you’re looking for.”

When the bartender suddenly showed up with a glass of whiskey, Vasili fell silent. Zoltan pulled a bill from his pocket and handed it to the man.

“Thanks. No change.” He didn’t want the bartender to come back and interrupt them again.

Once he’d left the table, Zoltan asked Vasili, “Why don’t we make this simple? You tell me where I can find it, and I get it myself.”

“That’s not how it works. I procure things; you buy them from me. I’d be cutting myself out of a deal if I gave up my sources.”

That would have been too easy. Clearly Vasili wasn’t born yesterday. He also knew how to disappear. Once, Zoltan had tried to follow him to find out more about who he talked to, but the guy was as slippery as an eel and had shaken Zoltan off like a speck of dirt on his sleeve. For now, Zoltan had to work with the guy, even though he didn’t trust him.

“You’ll still get paid, even if you give me the location.” Zoltan had to try one last time for good measure.

“Yeah, about the money.” Vasili leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “I’ll need some dough upfront this time. This job involves a bit of planning. It’s protected well. I have higher expenses with this job, if you get my drift.”

Zoltan did, but he wasn’t stupid. “You’ll get paid.” He took a short pause. “After I see a picture of it. Gotta make sure it’s really what I’m looking for.”

“But—”

“After,” Zoltan insisted, and downed the glass of whiskey in one big gulp. He liked the burning sensation it created in his throat. He rose. “And this time it’d better be what I’m looking for.” He glared at Vasili. “Do we understand each other?”

Vasili swallowed visibly. “Yes, sure, o-o-of course.”

Seconds later, Zoltan slammed the door of the bar shut behind him and marched outside. When he reached his car, he could feel the first waves of pain bombard his head. The migraine was starting. He managed to get in the car before the blinding pain crippled him. His body convulsed with every wave that pounded his head like a battering ram. One day, his skull would explode. One day, this would kill him.

The pain was so intense that he broke down and whimpered like a babbling fool.

“Please, make it go away! Don’t do this to me! Take the pain away! I’ll do anything for it.”

When he heard his own weak words in his ears, he knew that his days as the Great One were numbered. And that knowledge brought on a whole different kind of pain.