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“This is all your fault. You took him from me—”
From out of nowhere, something tackled the demon, hitting her at waist-level like a linebacker and driving her back with such force, her body’s contours blasted through the solid wall of the building he’d been on the roof of. The hole that was left behind was classic Warner Bros. cartoon, busted mortar rising as dust as her arm-raised position made the cutout look like it was cheering a score in a game.
With a groan, Lassiter tried to lift his head, and when his vision went wonky and he felt a strange rush of cool air, he reached behind and touched a wet spot just above his nape.
Oh… crap, he thought as he inspected the silver blood on his fingers.
It was quite possible that the bone he’d broken most was his goddamn skull.
And to think he’d assumed his coccyx was the worst of it.
“You’re bleeding bad,” somebody said. “And I think part of your brains are on the pavement. Take a deep breath, this is gonna hurt.”
As he was lifted up, he screamed and lost his sight completely—and shit got even worse as he was stuffed into a suitcase, his legs and arms, all of which seemed snapped in half, bending at wrong angles.
“Put your seatbelt—actually, never mind. Like a car accident can hurt you now?”
There was a jolt forward, and it was so violent, his face smashed into something that smelled like vinyl, cheap perfume, and old curry. Then there was a lurch to the side.
After that: “Hold on to your butts.”
Squealing tires now, and as another round of fire pokers went after every square inch of his body, Lassiter blinked his eyes clear and got a close-up of his own knee: The thing was pressed up against his nose.
Just as he was about to pass out, Adrian, the fallen angel he had been avoiding for three years, twisted around from the driver’s side. The big idiot smiled like this was a reunion to be savored.
“There are no snakes back there. Don’t worry.”
“Stop making Samuel L. Jackson refs and just fucking drive.”
Ad turned back to the job at hand. “You used to be more fun, you know that.”
Yeah, actually… he did.
CHAPTER TEN
After Eddie played bulldozer with the demon, taking her through not just an exterior wall but two interior ones, he rolled on top of her and tried to keep her pinned. He knew it wasn’t going to last, but the dominance didn’t have to. He just needed enough time for Adrian to evac Lassiter in the Mini.
Straddling Devina’s hips, he put his elbow to the front of her throat and grabbed his own wrist so he could lean in and apply even more pressure. The choking sounds were satisfying, and so was the gaping maw of the demon as she tried to drag air down into her lungs—and to get herself free, she clawed at his face, her nails ripping into his skin, the scent of his blood blooming.
Red drops fell from the scratches onto her cheeks, and for a moment, she was so beautiful in her straining hatred, he nearly lost his concentration. Even messed up from the tackle, her physical perfection was undeniable, but that wasn’t the attraction: He hated her with a passion that sometimes confused him, because on occasion, when they were face to face like this, the wires got crossed and he wanted her.
Not because he loved her, though.
Fuck no—
You snooze, you lose.
As she rallied without warning and sent him flying, that was what went through his mind—and hey, check it. They were in an open-air office, the two desks he sailed over messy with paperwork and colorful brochures. The far wall caught his momentum, his shoulder shattering the glass on a poster of a Carnival cruise, his body landing on a Xerox machine the size of a small refrigerator.
No more fucking around.
Swiping the blood off his face and spitting out a shard from the picture mount, he quick-footed his balance, sank down into his thighs, but left his guns where they were, holstered under his light jacket. No use throwing bullets into this mix. She’d be just as likely to send them back at him.
Across the travel agency’s layout, Devina was looking like she’d been in a collision with—well, a building. Her hair was matted with gray blood, her bustier and skintight black leathers smudged with dust, one heel missing from her stilettos. Yet she stood there with her hands on her hips, all Wonder Woman, like she was ready to cat walk.
“Is that how you greet an old friend?” the demon said before coughing and then spitting off to the side. “Fuck, Blackhawk. You could have just called me a cunt.”
“Cunt.”
With a roll of her eyes, Devina cleaned herself up, all the dust and debris—including the paper clip hanging off one lock of hair—disappearing, her leathers no longer scuffed, that heel back where it needed to be.
