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He stilled as the heavy smell of smoke and brimstone wafted toward him.
A dark blur leaped out of the shadows, one leg extended. A heavy foot slammed into his solar plexus, sending him crashing to the hard floor even though he’d braced himself for impact.
Tensing, he watched as an all-black humanoid figure squatted between his legs. At a distance, it could easily be mistaken for a shadowy spectre, even with those white eyes. But Teague had come across this species before; he knew what he was dealing with.
And he knew it shouldn’t be in this realm.
Distantly aware of the dogs barking outside, he conjured an orb of hellfire wickedly fast and hurled it at the humanoid. As the orb hit home, the demon flew backward, crashing into the chest of drawers. These particular demons might look as if they were made of shadow energy, but that was only a defensive trick.
Still, being corporeal didn’t make them easy to harm. They were built differently. They weren’t made of flesh, blood, and bones. So they couldn’t be sliced, bruised, or broken.
But they could be burned. Punctured. Even crushed. However, only hell-based weapons could kill them.
Jumping to his feet, Teague tossed another flaming ball at the intruder. Again, the orb met its target. But not before a thick tentacle shot out of the demon’s side so preternaturally fast that there was no way for him to avoid it.
That tentacle curled tight around Teague’s throat, red-hot and thick as a snake, and lifted him off the floor. Shit, he’d forgotten how strong and fast the fuckers were.
Unable to breathe, he wheezed as he snapped a flaming fist around the tentacle, scorching it with hellfire just as an identical tentacle slinked out of its other side. Shit. Teague knew how this breed killed; knew what it would do next.
He tossed orb after orb in such rapid succession that the demon couldn’t dodge them. It flinched and jerked backwards, the tentacle’s grip on Teague’s throat loosening enough for him to suck in a breath.
As he curled another flaming fist around the tentacle, he heard the door burst open. Heard barks and the scrabble of claws. Heard footsteps thundering along the wooden floor. Heard those footsteps screech to a stunned halt. Heard a string of curses and the crackling of hellfire orbs.
The tentacle disappeared from Teague’s throat in a flash and he was abruptly dropped. The bloodhounds lunged for the humanoid but, supernaturally fast, it vanished into a shadow, returning to the realm from where it had come. The dogs growled and padded around the now empty space, finding nothing, as the scent of smoke and brimstone quickly faded.
Motherfucker.
Coughing and heaving air into his lungs, Teague sat up. The dogs surrounded him, whimpering and licking at him—even the lazy-ass Hugo. The bloodhound could move quickly when it suited him.
Grinding his teeth against the pain of the blistering flesh on his throat, Teague slid his gaze to his clan, who all looked varied degrees of shocked.
Archer pointed to the spot where the intruder had vanished. “Did anyone else just see one of the shadowkin in the bedroom, or have I eaten too many mushrooms tonight?”
“No, we all saw it,” a grim-looking Saxon told him.
“Okay,” said Archer. “I just needed to hear that.”
Teague pushed to his feet with another cough. “It was here to kill me.”
Leo scratched at his stubbly cheek. “Yeah, I got that impression.”
“It makes no sense, though,” said Gideon. “Shadowkin don’t target people of their own accord. They’re mere minions.”
Tucker nodded, confusion all but whirling in his brown eyes—the shade so deep that they were almost black. “They don’t even leave hell unless ordered to.”
“A few figures of authority can pull their strings, though,” Slade pointed out, his green gaze on Teague. “One of them obviously sent it here. And they clearly want you dead.”
CHAPTER THREE
A short time later, Teague and his clan were sprawled around the living space of his wagon, their minds still blown. The skin of his throat felt unbearably hot and tight, but the blisters were beginning to fade. His breed healed quickly, but injuries delivered by hell-born species tended to take longer to heal, for some reason.
Tucker rubbed a dark-skinned hand over his buzzcut. “I think I speak for all of us here when I say that—”
“Don’t,” said Saxon, petting the Alpha bloodhound who sat between his spread thighs. “Don’t bother. Because most of the time, no one else here is thinking what you’re thinking.”
“So it’s not just plain wrong for any demon to be able to grow tentacles on a whim?” Tucker challenged.
Leo twisted his mouth, sliding his gaze to Saxon. “That wasn’t what I was thinking, but he does have a point.”
“Thank you.” Tucker leaned forward in his seat, sending the scent of marijuana wafting toward Teague, and then braced his elbows on the dining table. “It’s been a long time since we last saw any shadowkin, huh?”
