Invitation to Ruin (39 page)

Then his own shirt sleeve caught his attention—or more accurately his cuff link, deep red garnets set in a charm of a ferry boat: the symbol of his position and job in Hell.

He set down the picture and inspected himself. He was still dressed in his standard work uniform, a white shirt with a tab collar, a black vest and black trousers. He’d taken off his greatcoat sometime during the evening, but he was relieved to see that the rest of his clothing was intact.

A good sign nothing untoward had happened, but it still didn’t give him any hint as to where he was or how he got here.

“Just get out of here,” he told himself. He could just as easily contemplate this bizarre situation in the luxury of his own place.

He closed his eyes, picturing his ultra-modern dwelling with its clean lines and stark colors. Not a single flower to be found anywhere. He visualized the living room with its black leather furniture. The bedroom with its king-size bed and dark red walls. He especially visualized his black granite bar and the bottle of Glenfiddich Scotch Whisky sitting on it.

A nice glass or two of fifty-year-old scotch and a little xBox 360 on his big screen television seemed exactly like what he needed after all this strangeness. There was nothing like expensive liquor and “Modern Warfare 2” to get him calmed down. Then maybe he’d recall his lost evening.

Let there be a hot granddaughter, he added again.

Then with his creature comforts affixed in his mind, he willed himself away from this odd apartment and back to his own world….

Except nothing happened.

No whirring sound, no sense of whisking through space and time. No—nothing.

He opened his eyes to find himself still surrounded by flowers and the scent of old age.

Pulling in a deep breath, he closed his eyes again, and really focused. But this time he noticed something he hadn’t the first time. It was a sort of weighted feeling as if leg irons were around his ankles, keeping him in this dimension.

He released the breath he didn’t even realize he was holding pent up in his lungs. What was going on? Why shouldn’t he be able to dematerialize out of the human realm?

But then he realized
shouldn’t
wasn’t the right word. He felt like he
couldn’t
. No, that wasn’t exactly the right word either.

For the first time since waking up in this place, a sensation akin to panic constricted his chest. He forced himself to ignore the feeling, chanting over and over in his head that there was a reasonable explanation for all of this.

“Just go to a bar here,” he muttered to himself. “Have a stiff drink—and relax.”

Things were bound to make sense if he just calmed down. How could he expect to think clearly surrounded by floral chaos?

Just then the cat from the bedroom leapt up onto the recliner, the springs creaking under its massive bulk. It peered at him from its one good eye, then hissed.

“Yeah. I’m outta here.”

He left the living room, striding toward a door at the end of another small hallway. It had to be the exit. But when he reached the door, he stopped. Everything within him told him to just grab the doorknob, turn it and leave, but again something stopped him. Told him he had to stay right here.

“Just go,” he growled.

But he couldn’t bring himself to move. That was until he heard the rattle of the doorknob, jiggling as if someone was inserting a key from the other side.

Killian glanced around trying to decide what to do. He
noticed the kitchen to his right and side-stepped into the narrow little room, leaning against an avocado-colored refrigerator as he listened. He heard the whoosh and creak of the door opening.

“Where is he?” a female voice said. A young female voice. The granddaughter?

“He’s got to still be here,” another female voice said.

Hmm, he hadn’t considered there might have been more than one granddaughter. That certainly made things more interesting—and worth remembering.

Killian decided there was no point in hiding. After all, they were expecting him to be here. At least, he thought they were talking about him, and they were the ones who could likely offer him the information he wanted.

He stepped out of the kitchen to see three young girls. And
girls
was definitely the operative word.

Dear Lucifer, was there
any
middle ground here?

As soon as they saw him, in almost comical unison, the girls screamed. And with the familiarity of that piercing sound, all his lost memories rushed back. The screaming girls, the flying snack foods, the thwack to the head.

Killian raised a hand, frowning down at his, for all practical purposes, abductors. Surprisingly, his gesture silenced them.

“Why did you bring me here?”

If his memories of the night before were any indication, he needed to get an answer as quickly as possible, before another candlestick-wielding woman appeared.

He shot a quick look over his shoulder, just for good measure.

The girl with a smattering of freckles across her nose and dark brown eyes moved out of the doorway, waving to the other two to join her. The other dark-haired girl joined her inside the apartment. Only the cherubic blonde hesitated behind them. But finally, and clearly against her better judgment, she followed, although Killian noticed she didn’t release the doorknob.

Ready for a speedy escape. Smart girl. He was not in a good mood. And he was a demon. Never a great combination.

“Who are you? And why did you bring me here?” he demanded.

The girls all shifted, nervous.

Then to his surprise, the freckle-faced one straightened to her full height—maybe a whopping 5’2”—and met his gaze directly.

“I’m Daisy.”

Killian tried not to make a face. Of course,
more
flowers.

“This is Madison,” Daisy said, gesturing to first one girl, then the other. “And Emma.”

Madison surprised him by meeting his eyes too. She sported that ennui that all kids seemed to master as soon as their age hit double digits. Killian was tempted to point out to her she hadn’t looked quite so bored just moments earlier when she was squealing, but he remained silent. Emma still clutched the doorknob, managing none of her friends’ cool boredom. Quite the opposite. As soon as his gaze moved to her, she tensed as if she was ready to dart—or pass out. Her blue eyes widened and seemed to eat up half her face.

A twinge of sympathy pulled at him. He ignored it.

“I was the one who conjured you,” Daisy said, her expression neither blasé nor frightened. This girl was simply direct and calm.

A girl with a mission.

“We all conjured you,” Madison corrected her, giving Daisy a pointed look.

“Yes.” Daisy acknowledged her friend, but remained undaunted. “We all did. But we conjured you to fulfill my wish.”

“Which we should have negotiated,” Madison muttered, collapsing against the wall in a perfected slouch of disgust.

Daisy didn’t even glance at her friend this time. She stayed focused on him. “We called you to—”

“Do something impossible,” Madison interjected.

This time Daisy did shoot a censorious look at her friend.

Then she said, “No. It might be a little tricky but not impossible.”

Madison rolled her eyes. Emma swayed. Apparently passing out was still an option for the silent friend.

“What is this tricky—possibly impossible task?” Killian asked, growing tired of the teenage bickering.

This wasn’t his usual thing. Hell, he’d never been conjured before, and he had very little experience with teenagers. But even with his admittedly limited experience, he wasn’t prepared for what the earnest girl in front of him said next.

“I want you to find my sister a boyfriend.”

If you liked this book, try Rebecca Zanetti’s FATED, in stores now …

“M
ama! Mama, wake up.” Tiny hands clutched at Cara’s worn nightshirt, shaking with all their might. Cara’s eyes flew open, and her heart hitched in her chest. Terrified blue eyes speared her through the dusk of the morning. The little girl must have had another nightmare. “Janie, sweetheart, what?”

“They’re coming. They’re coming now, the bad men. We have to run.” Janie’s breath came in sharp gasps before she let out a high-pitched sob.

Cara shook her head, reaching out to enfold her daughter in a hug. She slowed her own breathing, the need to comfort her child overwhelming her. Poor Janie. Not another nightmare. She reached for her reading glasses on the table only to realize she’d fallen asleep with them on. Again. The newest edition of
Botanical Magazine
hadn’t been the barn-burner she’d expected.

She smoothed Janie’s hair down while silence echoed around them. Now more than ever, she wished Simon had lived, maybe he could have soothed their daughter’s fears. She flipped on the antique pink Depression glass lamp. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m sure it was just a bad drea—”

A loud crash came from the other room and Cara yelped. The sound of splintering wood propelled her to action. She leapt from the bed, yanked Janie into her arms, and sprinted for the master bath, barely missing the potted fern in the corner.
Her heart slamming against her ribs, she locked the door and rushed toward the small window. She failed to unlock it before the thin door burst open behind her.

A broad hand stopped the door from clanging against the wall. At least six and a half feet of muscle-packed male filled the doorway.

With a cry, she dropped Janie to her feet and dodged in front of the four-year-old. The air caught in her throat and her ears started to ring as adrenaline spiked through her blood. This was not happening. She yanked her head to the side and forced herself to accept the situation. Accept that she needed to fight. She dragged oxygen into her tight lungs and searched the tiled counter for a weapon—her tweezers probably wouldn’t harm anybody.

She pushed Janie back against the wall. Retreating a step, she held one hand out to ward off the threat. His size made her gulp. Brown eyes raked her from his hard cut face, and raven black hair reached his collar with a freedom that disavowed any ties to the military—although he wore the requisite flack boots and dark jeans under a bulletproof vest. She’d seen the gear on a Discovery Channel special about soldiers.

The energy emanating from him stole her breath.

“Get out,” she said, shielding her child. Trying to shield herself from the feelings he threw at her. Anger, passion, and urgency all swirled together, mixing with her own panic and making her lightheaded. Her knees wobbled, and her head began to ache. She usually blocked better than this. Or maybe his emotions were just that strong.

“We need to go.” His tone was water over sharp rocks, as if he was trying to gentle a naturally rough voice. Then his eyes dropped to her faded nightshirt to see the image of Einstein surrounded by shopping bags—”Quantum Shopping.” His top lip quirked up and a dimple winked. Her heartbeat slowed in response. Then he stalked a step closer, his hands at his sides, and her gaze flew to the gun on his hip, to the several knives secured in his vest.

Her heart leapt back into action. “You have the wrong
house.” She glared up at his implacable face—a face cut from granite with a jaw made to take a punch. She’d have to jump to even come close.

The scent of spiced pine and male infused the room.

He shook his head. A pit the size of a large rock settled in her stomach as adrenaline slammed the room into sharp focus. Her breath came in short pants, and her scientific mind sought an answer. A way to take his massive frame down. She stamped down on the rising panic when nothing came to mind, and again searched for a weapon, spotting the tiny Fittonia “White Anne” in the terra-cotta planter. She couldn’t throw Annie at the man; the plant would never survive.

The intruder took another step to peer over her shoulder. “It will be okay. We have to go.” His large hand encircled Cara’s bicep before dragging her into the bedroom. Fear seized her vocal cords for a moment, and her mind scattered. Should she tell Janie to run? Could she slow him down long enough?

Then, with a muffled curse, he dropped her arm. A low growl emanated from him as he peered at his hand. He wiped it on his pant leg and grabbed her again. What had been on her shirt?

The phone near the bed caught her eye, and she lunged for it. He jerked her back, his hand warm and firm on her arm. Cara dug her feet into the carpet but their forward momentum didn’t slow, so she tried to yank away as he pulled her toward a basket of clothes at the foot of the bed.

“Janie, follow us,” he tossed over his shoulder.

Cara coughed out air. He knew Janie’s name. This wasn’t random. Fear choked her again. “How do you know her name?”

He pivoted until she smacked flush against him. Heat filled her, surrounded her. His hands settled on her arms, and his determination and intent beat at her. Damn it. She couldn’t block him—she sucked as an empath. Then he lowered his head.

“I know both of your names, Cara. Listen. My name is Talen Kayrs, and I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help.” Determined eyes captured hers while he gave her a moment. “Take a deep breath. I can feel your power. You can find the truth here. You know I won’t hurt you.” His voice rumbled low. Soothing.

Her body softened from his tone even as her mind rebelled. Her breathing evened out. Danger radiated out of the man, but she could sense no intention to harm her. Or Janie.

Janie tugged on her waist. “It’s okay, Mama. We have to go. They’re coming.”

Cara stepped to the side and nodded. “Fine. We’ll leave. We can follow you.” If she could just get Janie to the car—

He grinned, flashing even white teeth. “You can’t lie worth spit. You have one minute to throw on clothes.” The sound of his rough voice shot nerve endings alive through her skin. But not from fear. He turned toward the door.

“No.” She again tried to wrench away while her body tingled where it met his.

“Then you go in your pajamas.” He grabbed the basket of clothes in his other arm while he towed her into the hallway. “Keep up, Janie.” The little girl stumbled behind, keeping her hands glued to Cara’s waist.