Fallen Angel: Mythic Series, Book 2 (3 page)

Karthik was Ryssa’s current boss, the owner of
Seven Circles
, and the regional Demon Lord. He knew Ryssa couldn’t ignore a summons, but he was more than capable of making her life miserable if she left him short a server.

“I owe you one,” Ryssa called after her, but Marcella was already drifting over to the demons.

A short while later, scrubbed clean and dressed in acceptable human attire, Ryssa worked her way through the woods that separated the bad part of town from the good on tired, aching feet. Wealth was not necessarily a good thing, in her opinion. Oh, there were benefits, of course, she thought as she took in the huge, imposing manor house. Money could get you a warm, dry place to live. It could pay for good food and cover your back with some nice clothes. Help others in need, if you were the charitable sort. But this place was more than meeting basic needs. This place was over the top.

You couldn’t even call it a house, not by any stretch of the imagination. A mansion, maybe. Small castle, more like. How many people actually lived here?  The place was bigger than three of the run-down tenement buildings she called home put together. And what was
that
behind the manicured topiaries? A freaking tennis court?

She winced as a bright motion-sensor floodlight blazed in her face. What was it with people and these damn floodlights these days?  If God had intended light to be a twenty-four hour thing, he wouldn’t have bothered with the moon and the stars.

It forced her to focus, though. She’d been so busy gap-jawing at the sheer size of the place that she hadn’t been paying much attention. Good thing they were just floodlights and not bloodthirsty Dobermans or she’d be dog food by now. She might not be able to die, but she could hurt a hell of a lot in the time it took to heal.

Taking a deep breath, she rang the doorbell. From far away, soft chimes sounded the notes of some classical masterpiece. Bach, she thought idly, going back to an eon ago and a universe away. Now there was a guy who knew how to party, she thought with a quirk to her lips.

It was the middle of the night. Whoever was behind the door was probably long since in bed and wouldn’t be happy to be disturbed, but it was what it was. They summoned her, not the other way around. They would have to work with her timeline. Besides, a place this big probably had a slew of servants around the clock who got paid to answer the door at any time, day or night.

Ryssa was forced to adjust that preconceived notion a moment later. The guy who opened the door was no servant.

The scent of expensive men’s soap hit her first. She looked at the wall of the muscled male chest in front of her, tightly wrapped in a high-quality designer shirt. A shiver ran down the length of her spine.

Lifting her gaze, she found cold green eyes looking down on her with absolute derision. Those eyes travelled down the length of her petite body over the span of several heartbeats, taking in her threadbare jeans, ratty sneakers, and plain black cotton T.

“No solicitors.”

The man’s upper lip actually curled when he said it. Without the snarl, she might have considered him handsome. His features were classically male and well-proportioned. Dark auburn hair cut close at the nape, and deep, penetrating green eyes that might have sparkled under different circumstances.

Ryssa stuck her tiny foot in the door as he tried to close it on her, grunting softly when the heavy weight of the hand-carved oak hit the side of her arch. He looked down as if he couldn’t believe she’d done that, then shot her an angry look. Figuring he was about a breath away from shoving her back she said, “I’m Ryssa.”

He stilled, his gaze growing even colder, if that was possible. She withheld the urge to shiver again. The ice in his human eyes made Marcella seem warm in comparison.

“Ryssa.” He repeated the name, but made no move to invite her in or push her away. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

For a moment, Ryssa had her doubts. Maybe Marcella had been mistaken. Maybe this wasn’t the right place after all, though it would have been hard to mistake this house for any other. Her weight shifted from one foot to the other as she pulled the thin jacket tighter around her in the chill of the night.

“My friend said a woman was asking for me.”

Those perfectly cold, clear, green eyes narrowed on her. “Your friend?  Who is your friend?”

No way was Ryssa going to tell him about Marcella. Wealthy types like him didn’t typically buy into the supernatural. Money, power, prestige – that’s what they understood. Not that any of that truly mattered in the grand scheme of things, but it sure as hell wasn’t Ryssa’s job to enlighten him.  

Tired, cranky, and slightly unnerved by the power of his gaze, she opted for the direct approach. “Is someone here dying?”

He winced at that, the only crack in his icy façade. Behind the frosty exterior, she could sense his pain. It was the only reason she didn’t knee him in his manly bits and beat feet out of there. People handled grief in different ways; maybe his was by being a condescending asshole.

He stared at her like she was some kind of cockroach heading towards the caviar.

“Look,” she said, reaching for her patience. “She called, I came. That’s how it works. Let me in or release me from the summons.”

Avoiding the cold steel of his glare, she looked up at the position of the moon. At most, she had about an hour and a half before she had to turn and go back. Even cutting through the woods it was a long walk and she was beyond tired, having worked nearly a full shift at the
Seven Circles
before coming here.

Still he made no move one way or the other. “Dude, come on. I’m on a schedule here.”

His scowl deepened and his fists clenched, but she stood her ground. He might think he was big and bad, but he had no idea what was out there, the ones she dealt with on a regular basis. There were a very limited number of beings who could intimidate her, and they were a whole lot bigger and badder than this GQ jack-off.

Just when she was sure he was going to push her back and slam the door in her face, he stepped back abruptly and opened it instead.

“Follow me. And don’t touch anything.”

* * *

F
or the second time that night, David couldn’t believe what he was doing. First the trip out to the cemetery, now this. Every rational brain cell he had was screaming for him to toss the scruffy female out on her ass and call the cops.

Shaggy, poorly cut hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail. Deplorable clothing. An attitude the size of Texas.
This
was the woman who was supposed to help his mother find peace?  Yeah, and he was Bradley Fucking Cooper.

He looked over his shoulder, surprised to find she was right behind him. She didn’t look any happier to be here than he was to have her. That little cupid bow of a mouth was turned down in a scowl. Big, silvery gray eyes peeked out from thick, inky black lashes, shooting icy daggers his way.

He turned forward again, preferring the familiarity of the opulent corridor to the starkness of her gaze. They were some powerful eyes. So powerful that he hadn’t been able to speak in those first few moments after opening the door, hypnotized by their clarity and brilliance.

David mentally shook himself. What was he thinking?  She was obviously in on this latest scam. Probably was the daughter (or granddaughter) of the nurse who had put the ridiculous idea in his mother’s head to begin with.

At least she seemed to be clean. And she did smell kind of nice. Fresh, like moonlight.

Quiet, too. He chanced another look back. Practically skipping to keep up with his long strides, she was looking around at everything and anything along the way. Probably trying to figure out how much she could pawn things for.

“Know this,” he hissed quietly when he stopped at a pair of intricately carved wooden doors. “If you cause her even one second of hurt, humiliation, or disappointment, I will throw you out of here so fast your head will spin.”

She pinned him with a glare of her own, but she seemed more bored than intimidated. “Duly noted. Can we move this along?”

Bristling, David opened the door, forcing a smile to his face. “Mother, you have a visitor.”

* * *

C
ancer
, Ryssa sensed immediately, and yes, the woman was close to the veil separating this life from the next.

Thankfully, Elizabeth Corrigan was nothing like her son. Despite her illness, she exuded warmth; her welcome was both appreciative and friendly. With snowy white hair, thick but short, and bright blue eyes, she was still a lovely woman. Her fine features were a bit worn from the disease and the treatments, but nothing could fully detract from the air of classic beauty.

Ryssa liked her right away, especially when she commanded her son to leave them alone. Judging by the look on his face, David Corrigan was probably close to spontaneously combusting at that point, but Elizabeth was firm. Once he stalked out (with one last murderous warning look toward her), the initial awkward tension faded and Ryssa breathed a sigh of relief. The man could teach a demon a thing or two about presence.

It didn’t take long for the veil to open; Elizabeth had a powerful soul. Her late husband was there, as were her parents, her grandparents, and a host of friends and family anxiously awaiting her arrival. Clearly, Elizabeth had been a source of much joy to those around her in her brief six decades in the mortal realm. That and the fact that Elizabeth was so accepting of her impending death would make for an easy transition. Ryssa had no trouble whatsoever in assuring the woman that when her time came, she would be going to a better place to be reunited with the loved ones that had preceded her.

By the time Ryssa had to leave, the woman had tears of joy in her eyes. She thanked Ryssa profusely and asked her to come back again. Ryssa promised she would, but deliberately remained vague on exactly when and how often. As with all of those she helped, she’d forged a bond with Elizabeth, which meant she would feel the increasing tug as Elizabeth drew closer to death. While Ryssa would make sure she’d be there for Elizabeth’s final journey, she was not as confident that she would be able to visit much in between.

David Corrigan was waiting for her when she emerged from the room an hour later. He ceased his pacing, the tense set of his body and scowl reminding Ryssa of a building thundercloud. Clearly, the man was not happy at being excluded. Well, that was too bad. Ryssa’s particular talent was meant for the traveler only.

He pinned her with a scathing glare, stiffening as she closed the door to Elizabeth’s suite behind her. “I do not want to see my mother taken advantage of,” he said, his voice deep and cold and laced with the same derision etched in his features.

It was a shame, really. Ryssa had seen framed photos of him in his mother’s room, obviously taken during happier times. The man was truly stunning when he wasn’t being an ass.

“Exactly how do you think I am taking advantage?” Ryssa asked wearily, rubbing at the dull throb at her temple. Opening the veil was draining in itself, but especially so after working a full shift. Plus it was nearly sunrise, and she had to get back to her apartment soon. Jax would be worried. And hungry. If he didn’t feed before he fell into his daytime sleep he’d wake up with terrible hunger pains and she’d already be at work.

“Have I asked her – or you – for anything?”

“Not yet,” he reluctantly admitted.

“Not
ever
. You sought me out, not the other way around, remember?  Trust me. I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here.”

That wasn’t exactly true. She had liked meeting Elizabeth, and wouldn’t mind spending some more time with her before she crossed over -
if
the douche with the silver spoon up his ass didn’t have her arrested first.  

“My mother wants you here, not me,” he clarified unnecessarily. In addition to being handsome, rich, and arrogant, the guy apparently had a knack for stating the obvious as well.

“Your mom is such a nice lady. How did she ever raise a dick like you?”

Momentary anger flared in his eyes, then morphed into triumph, as if her words were the very proof he was looking for. “Nice language for a pious little scam artist like you. Shouldn’t your lily white lips be burning?”

She glared at him, standing to her full height (which placed her eye-level with his chest) and poked a pointed finger in his direction.

“Let’s get something straight right now. I am not pious, and I am about as far away from lily white as you can get. But I am not
scamming
anyone. I’m helping your mother find her way, then I’m outta here.”

He took in her raggedy appearance, making no secret of the fact as he raked his eyes down and back up again, ending with a smirk. “Maybe you should concentrate on finding your own way, street rat.”

A flash of familiar pain shot through her before she could mask it completely. No matter how many times it happened, the mortal tendency to judge purely on appearance was disheartening.

Unfortunately, that split-second crack in her defenses was enough. It was the first sign of weakness she’d shown, and he pounced on it like the ruthless businessman he was.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice softer and silkier. “Did I hit a nerve?”

Yeah, or a thousand. Elizabeth was a nice lady, but Ryssa didn’t need the abuse. She spent most of her time around cursed creatures; she sure didn’t need this rich asshole’s bullshit on top of it. Demons had some good reasons to be pissed off at the universe. But this guy had everything on a silver platter. What the hell did he have to be cranky about?  Probably kicked puppies for fun, too.

“Fuck you, Gilligan,” she hissed, the last thread of her patience snapping. “Tell your mother I’m sorry, but I’ll have to decline her gracious invitation to visit again because her son is a douche.”  

“It’s
Corrigan
,” he corrected with another snarl. Damn, he was good at those. She wouldn’t be surprised if there was a little werewolf in his ancestry somewhere. Too bad it was wasted on her.