AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You cost me power.”
“You stop the Devil, and no one will ever stop you from gaining power again.”
Vincent claimed Atlas’s empty glass and held it out for Atlas to pour a shot. He eyed Icarus over the rim as he sipped the cold liquid. “I may have misjudged you.”
“Most people do, and I wasn’t exactly on equal footing last time we met.” He cut a glare at Atlas, then snapped his gaze back to Vincent when the boss man slammed his empty glass on the counter.
“Don’t mistake this for equal footing now.” He jammed a finger in Icarus’s chest. “You’re bait, plain and simple, and I won’t hesitate to throw you to the coyotes.”
Confidence waning, Icarus averted his gaze and gulped. Vincent took it as the sign of obedience he wanted. He threw the glass back at Atlas, who deftly caught it, then turned on his heel, heading for what Icarus guessed was an internal door with direct access to Atlas’s unit. “Ping the hacker bitch,” he tossed over his shoulder to Atlas. The only thing that stopped Icarus from snarling was Atlas’s heel digging into his foot. “Get us that coven location. We hit them first, bank the power, then there’s no way the Devil escapes. But come fuck me first.”
Icarus waited for the door to slam, sniffed to make sure the human was gone, only warlock stench remaining, then shook off Atlas’s foot. He shot out a hand for the vodka, then cursed because he was shaking too badly to actually hold the fucking bottle.
Cool as the liquid itself, Atlas refilled both glasses. He handed one to Icarus and held his out for a toast.
Icarus clinked rims, then tossed his back in one go. He needed confidence from somewhere else now because his own was fucking shot, every drop of it spent staring down the real devil. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Mr. Magic, but if you hurt her, I will help the coyote rip you limb from limb.”
Atlas threw back his shot, then pitched the glass in the porcelain sink, shattering it. “You’re not the only one doing what he must to save the ones he loves.” On the heels of that truth bomb, Atlas stepped around him, and with the kind of uncharacteristic abandon Icarus was more used to seeing when he was in buckles and kilts, Atlas ripped off his jacket and tie, slung them in the direction of the couch, and snapped his fingers, disappearing to Icarus figured he knew where. He also figured, for the first time, that Atlas wasn’t happy about it. That maybe he had the warlock all wrong.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Atlas returnedseveral hours later through whatever internal passage Icarus hadn’t bothered to investigate since Vincent and the warlock had vanished. The shower kicked on, and Icarus kicked into gear, putting into action the plan he’d concocted while watching the sky lighten and the moon descend toward the ocean. The eggs were almost done, the bacon sizzling, the leftover naan resuscitating in the oven, when Atlas emerged from his shower twenty minutes later in a fresh charcoal suit, looking like his usual wound-too-tight self. “I like you better in buckles and kilts,” Icarus said as he turned the heat off the eggs.
“So do I,” Atlas replied, and Icarus nearly lost his spatula, the truth unexpected. “But that’s neither here nor there.” The dejection in Atlas’s voice was even more startling, but he didn’t give Icarus time to dwell, shuffling to a stop beside him. “What’re you doing?”
“Well,” Icarus said with a flourish of the wily spatula, “once I realized all your windows are tinted and that you may not be as evil as you want everyone to think, I cooked breakfast. Also masks the warlock smell.”
“There’s an express meal in the fridge.”
“Yes, which I already ate. You also have eggs and cheese”—he pointed at the skillet on the stove—“and bacon”—at the sheet pan of greasy goodness—“and naan”—at the toaster oven.
“We don’t have time for breakfast.”
By the time Atlas had retrieved one of those disgustingly bland protein shakes from the fridge, Icarus had, at full speed, retrieved the naan and filled two folded pieces with eggs and bacon. He knocked the still unopened drink from Atlas’s hand and shoved a breakfast wrap into it instead. “Eat it while we go wherever it is we need to go in a hurry.”
Atlas warily eyed the food. “Is it poisoned?”
Icarus picked up his own and munched through it.
“You’re a vampire. Even if it was, you wouldn’t die.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Atlas, just eat the damn food.”
Atlas grudgingly took a bite, then turned for the door and took a few more, his satisfied little hum making Icarus smile. They made their way to the unit at the opposite end of the floor from Vincent’s. Atlas knocked twice, then entered. Icarus followed him inside to what could only be described as a command center. Most of the unit’s walls had been blown out, the space a true cavern, with only a kitchen and bathroom for dedicated areas. Two cots were shoved in the corner furthest from the windows, while the rest of the open space was occupied by desks, computers, and monitoring equipment.
And paranormals. No other humans. Vampires, shifters, and the warlock from the strike on Monte Corvo. Still pissed off it seemed, magic shimmering in the air when he spied Icarus. Atlas moved between them, facing Icarus, as he popped the last bite of breakfast sandwich into his mouth. “Tell us where you’ll deliver Devlin.”
Icarus cocked a brow. “You’re licking your fucking fingers, and I don’t even get a thank you?”
“Icarus.”
Cocked a hip too.
“Fine, thank you, now”—he gestured at the giant map on one wall—“where will you deliver Devlin?”
Icarus stepped around the angry, angry warlocks and studied the map, assuming that was what Atlas-the-not-so-evil wanted. It took a minute for the picture to resolve—to understand that each pin color meant a different source of paranormal power, to realize Vincent was sucking that power from covens, packs, and loners all over the area, creating a vortex at the center right over YB—and less than a second to determine they had to kill Vincent Cirillo.
ASAP.
