Bittersweet Magic (A Novel of The Order) (Entangled Edge) Page 2

  “I take it you didn’t find anything.”

  Piers glanced over to where Christian sprawled on the crimson sofa. He looked smug, but at least since coming back to the Order he’d lost the business suits and was dressed pretty much the same as Piers—black leather pants and a black T-shirt—just minus the weapons.

  “Nothing. No sign. No smell. No dead bodies. The streets of London are clean.”

  Christian grinned. “Don’t sound so disappointed. Anyway, Jonas was convinced something was going down.”

  “Well, pity he couldn’t produce a few more details. What the hell do we pay him for anyway?”

  Christian shrugged “I’m heading home. I just wanted to check in.”

  “Yeah, go home. Piss-off back to your little love nest, and say hi to Tara for me.”

  “She’ll like that.”

  Piers was quite aware that Tara was not his greatest fan. But hey, he wasn’t out to make friends.

  The shrill ring of a buzzer dragged him from his thoughts. He flung himself into the chair behind the desk. The light for reception was flashing and he pressed the button on his phone.

  “Yeah.”

  “There are two women wanting to see you,” Graham, his assistant, said.

  “Good,” he replied. “I’m hungry.”

  “Well, I’m thinking you might be staying that way.” Graham’s voice was tinged with amusement. Piers raised an eyebrow but reached over and switched on his monitor. He tapped a few keys and studied the reception area.

  “Holy shit.”

  “What is it?” Christian asked, coming to stand behind him.

  “There are two nuns in reception.”

  “They’re probably strip-o-grams or something. One of your friends has a sense of humor.” Christian leaned closer to study the screen. “Or maybe not.”

  “Definitely not,” Piers added.

  Actually, he had never seen anything less like a couple of strippers. The two women were bedraggled. One was positively drooping. They both wore black habits with headdresses framing their faces. The droopy one appeared to be around thirty with a pale, thin face and scared eyes. The other looked younger, though she also seemed to be the one in charge, squaring up to Graham and speaking rapidly.

  Slightly below medium height, she looked well filled out, though it was hard to tell whether she was straight up and down or there were curves beneath the shapeless robe. Piers focused in on her face—broad at the cheekbones, pointed at the chin—which had a dimple in the center. She had flawless creamy skin, big brown eyes, and a rosebud mouth held in a tight line.

  She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and waved it at Graham. Then she bit her lip and stepped back as Graham replied. Piers got the distinct impression of impatience—a mother superior in the making, no doubt. He’d gone through a nun phase once, but that was back in the Middle Ages. He’d found seducing them a challenge—it had been fun for a while.

  Graham still held the phone to his ear. “What do you want me to do with them?” he asked. “They say they have a message for you.”

  “Well, you’d better bring them down here then.”

  He closed off the call and turned to Christian, who was now leaning against the wall, arms folded, a small frown playing across his face.

  “I thought you were leaving,” Piers said.

  “I’ll stick around.”

  Piers raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think I can handle two nuns?”

  “Hell, I know you can handle them.”

  “But?”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be handling nuns.”

  Piers frowned. “Don’t worry. I’ll wipe their memories afterwards. They won’t remember a thing.”

  “There are enough willing volunteers about. You don’t need unwilling ones. They’re nuns, for Christ’s sake.”

  Piers narrowed his eyes on the other man. “Has anyone told you that you’re absolutely no fun anymore? Not that you ever were much fun.”

  “Yeah. You.”

  Finally, Piers shrugged. “Okay, I’ll be good. But I have to admit that I’m a little intrigued as to what brings a couple of nuns here.”

  “Me too.”

  “Let’s find out then.”

  There was a light tap on the door and Graham poked his head around. “Your visitors.” Stepping to the side, he gestured for the two women to enter. “This is Sister Maria and Sister Rosa from the Little Sisters of Mercy.”

  As the younger nun came through the door, a faint waft of sweet air followed her into the room.

  Fae?

  He glanced at Christian, whose brows were drawn together as though he sensed it as well. He must have become familiar with the scent after living with Tara for six months.

  The fae liked to believe they’d wiped out all humans with mixed blood, but the truth was there were many who still held a trace. Some more than a trace, like Jonas, their resident warlock. And strangely, or maybe not so strangely, those humans with fae blood often turned to the church and became priests and nuns. As though they could somehow sense there was more to the world than what was immediately obvious, and God was the answer.

  He studied her for a moment, but other than that faint, sweet perfume, she appeared wholly human. The scent filled his nostrils, and the hunger rose inside him. He licked his lips.

  “Piers,” Christian said softly.

  He turned his head so the others wouldn’t hear. “I’m good,” he murmured. “But you have to admit she smells delicious.”

  Christian shook his head and stepped forward. “Sister Maria, Sister Rosa, I’m Christian Roth.”

  The older one hung back. Up close, Piers could see the signs of exhaustion mixed with pain. The younger nun stepped forward. She wasn’t beautiful—Piers had known a lot of beautiful woman—but she was pretty. Even through the obvious fatigue, she was full of life, her face holding an innocence he seldom encountered. He ran his eyes over her figure, wishing he could see beneath those all-encompassing black robes. She was a good foot shorter than he was and peering down, he could make out the definite form of a pair of full, womanly breasts. All at once, it wasn’t only his hunger that was rising. He shifted, his leather pants suddenly way too tight, and Christian flashed him a dirty glance. Piers grinned; Christian wasn’t in charge here. He was.

  “Good evening, Mr. Roth. But we’re here to see a Piers Lamont.” She had a low, sweet voice as well, that caressed his ears and sent prickles down his spine.

  Her gaze had been downcast, but now she gave them both a swift glance, revealing eyes like dark chocolate. Her gaze shifted warily from Christian to him and widened slightly.

  Great, she liked him. Well, she’d noticed him, anyway.

  Piers elbowed his friend out of the way. “Welcome to the Order of the Shadow Accords. I’m Piers Lamont—how can I help you?”

  …

  Roz quickly lowered her lashes so no one would see her shock.

  Holy crap.

  Asmodai had told her that his mark would hide what she was. All the same, she had to fight the urge to turn around and run. Not that it would do much good. There was nowhere to run to; they were deep underground, and there had been armed guards at the elevator.

  When she’d seen them, she’d had an inkling that this wasn’t a wise move, but it had been too late by that point. Even so, she’d never imagined things could be this bad.

  The Order of the fucking Shadow Accords.

  Asmodai had told her all about them as well. They were the ones who kept order in the supernatural world. They were also the ones who would kill her without a flicker if they found out what she was. Apparently, they considered her kind abominations. She kept her gaze fixed firmly on the floor while she fought for control. The perfect end to a crappy twenty-four hours.

  How many times during the long day had she considered whipping out her cell phone and calling up a taxi? But that would have given her away to Sister Maria, and she’d wanted to keep her cover in place while she worked out he
r next move.

  So she’d tramped across country. It was sodding July, but up in the north where the convent was situated, it might as well have been winter. It had poured down for the entire walk from the convent to the nearest town, until her stupid habit felt like a ton weight and the rough material chaffed with every step. Three quarters of the way, Sister Maria had just about collapsed, and Roz had had to half drag, half carry her to the train station. It had taken more than four hours to make the sixteen-mile journey.

  The convent obviously hadn’t been situated with convenience in mind—probably the opposite—and it had taken three changes of trains, countless delays, and fifteen hours before they finally arrived in London. Standing on the platform at Liverpool Street Station, the time close to midnight, she’d eyed up the bedraggled Sister Maria and decided that they were getting a cab the rest of the way.

  She gave the address to the driver and settled back into the seat of the black cab as the city drifted past her. It was good to be back in London. She’d lived in many places over the centuries, always having to move on before the fact that she wasn’t aging started to strike people as odd. But she came back to the city whenever she could.

  Between bouts of comforting Maria, who was close to breaking, Roz had been trying to work out what could be going on. Who had Asmodai’s Key and why? And how did this man Piers Lamont fit into the picture?

  The trouble was, she had no clue about how the supernatural world worked. Asmodai had told her that her only hope of survival was staying under the radar, keeping to herself, not using her powers—except of course when he needed her to. Obviously, then her safety took the backseat. God, she’d been so hopeful this job would be the last and she’d finally be free of the bastard. Now it appeared she might fail, and who knew what he would ask of her instead.

  When the cabbie had dropped them off, she’d been reassured by the tall office building, which appeared eminently respectable. She’d tried the door, but the place was locked up for the night. Eventually a security guard had noticed her, come over, and let them in. The nun thing had its uses.

  A young man with dark red hair, pale skin, and a perfect smile sat behind the reception desk. It had been obvious that he knew Piers Lamont. His eyebrows had risen as she spoke the name. So here she was.

  Someone coughed, bringing her back to the present. She’d been staring at the wooden floor for an age, but she didn’t want to look up. She’d seen some scary things in her time, but these two men sent shivers running through her. Still, she forced her gaze back to them.

  The tall dark one was obviously making some attempt at hospitality. But Piers Lamont just appeared amused.

  And gorgeous. These days she tended to stick with her vibrator if she needed sex, but she’d had a few hot guys in her time. None of them had come close to this.

  Tall, he was dressed in black leather pants that showed off his long, lean body, and a black T-shirt that stretched over his broad chest. A shoulder holster fitted over the shirt, adding to the sense of menace—because, despite the lazy smile that curved his full lips, he was menacing. His dark blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, emphasizing his sharp cheekbones and midnight blue eyes. An entirely inappropriate heat flooded her as she stared at him.

  His nostrils flared, and his smile turned predatory. “Just how can I help you?” he purred.

  Quickly, she lowered her eyes again. She had to keep in character. So what would a nun do faced with the most gorgeous two guys she’d ever encountered, one of whom had the ability to make the word sex flash in big red letters in her obviously sex-starved mind? She was one sad case.

  Shit. This was a complication she didn’t need.

  Ignore it.

  She clasped her hands in front of her, in a nun-like manner, which had the added benefit of stopping them from shaking. Though maybe a little shaking was expected. Or a lot. She risked another peek. The dark man had moved to the side and was leaning against the wall. The blond had perched on the edge of the desk, one long, leather-clad leg swinging. Just behind him lay a sawed-off shot gun. She made her eyes widen in fake shock as her gaze shifted back to his face.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Is this making you nervous?” He picked up the gun and tossed it to the red-haired receptionist, who still stood just inside the door. “Take this back to the weapons room.”

  Was she supposed to feel better? He still had a pistol at each side and a knife at his waist.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. Yeah, thank you for nothing. She wished she had a gun, but she hadn’t taken one to the convent. It really hadn’t occurred to her that she’d need one among a bunch of nuns. How wrong could you be?

  “Now, do you want to tell us why you’re here?”

  “Could Sister Maria have a seat? She’s not too well, and we’ve had a long day.”

  “Of course. I’m remiss as a host. Come this way.” He jumped to the floor and strode across the room toward a door at the back. He really had a great ass.

  Roz forced her glance away and found the other man watching her, one eyebrow raised. Had he caught her eyeing up his friend’s butt? Well, even nuns were women.

  She shook away the notion, put her arm around Sister Maria’s shoulder, and ushered her forward. The sister was at the end of her strength, both mentally and physically. She’d gone almost comatose at the sight of the two men. For the first time, it occurred to Roz to wonder what she was going to do with the nun when this meeting was over.

  She’d assumed she would be able to leave her here. Had even considered sticking around herself to try and find out about the Key’s whereabouts. But no way was she staying any longer than absolutely necessary around the Order of the Shadow Accords. She wouldn’t have stepped into the building if she’d known what it housed. Sod bloody Asmodai and his Key.

  She followed Piers Lamont into a sitting area; two huge black sofas dominated the room. He gestured to one of them, and she urged Maria over and gently pushed her down. Christian followed them and closed the door before leaning against it. He did that a lot. Laid-back but ready to move.

  Sinking onto the sofa beside Maria, Roz smoothed her expression to blankness. She’d had a lot of time to think about what to say, and she’d decided to stick to the truth. Well, all except the minor detail that she wasn’t actually a nun.

  “So?” Piers said. He’d taken a seat opposite her, his legs stretched out, booted feet resting on the coffee table in front of him. He appeared relaxed, arms resting along the back of the sofa.

  “Mr. Lamont—”

  “Call me Piers.”

  “Mr. Lamont, last night our convent was attacked.”

  “Attacked by whom?”

  Roz was about to answer, when Maria beat her to it.

  “By creatures from Hell.”

  Piers raised an eyebrow, opened his mouth, and then closed it again as someone knocked on the door. It opened, and the young man from reception stepped inside carrying a tray. The divine smell of freshly brewed coffee filled her nostrils. Roz had to still her instinctive swoon toward him.

  “I thought the sisters could do with some coffee.” A frown flickered across his face. “Do nuns drink coffee?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly. If he took it away now she would probably scream.

  He frowned at Piers, who grinned but removed his feet from the table so he could put the tray down.

  Roz didn’t wait. She sat up and poured two cups of coffee, added cream and plenty of sugar, and handed the first to Maria. Her hands were shaking so much the cup rattled against the saucer. Roz pressed her fingers around the other woman’s, only letting go when she was sure the coffee wouldn’t be wasted.

  She picked up her own, took a sip, and almost groaned. When she looked back, Piers was regarding her with amusement. “These creatures from Hell?” he prompted.

  “They came last night,” Roz said. “To the convent while the sisters were sleeping. They were some sort of demonic beings.”

  “You don’t sound s
urprised.”

  “Well it stands to reason that if God exists, and”—she gestured to her robe—“I obviously believe that, then so does the devil and consequently Hell.”

  “Very logical. Go on.”

  “They killed them all. All except Sister Maria.”

  “And yourself.”

  “I wasn’t in my cell.”

  “An assignation, perhaps? Meeting the priest behind the altar for a bit of fun?”

  She gave him what she hoped was a stern expression. “I was praying.”

  “Extra prayers. Did you have some wicked thoughts you shouldn’t have?”

  She resisted the urge to throw her empty cup at him. Instead, she refilled it. The coffee had a wonderful, calming effect. She was beginning to relax. Obviously, Asmodai had told the truth—for once—and Piers Lamont couldn’t tell she was anything other than human. And if he’d bought her cover so far, and she was sure he had despite the teasing, then she was probably safe. Just give him the message, see if I can read anything into his reaction, and get the hell out of here.

  “They brought Sister Maria to the church where I was praying.”

  “What did they look like?”

  She didn’t have to fake the shudder that ran through her. “They were monsters. Half-man, half-beast, with crimson eyes. All except their leader. He looked like a man.”

  “Describe him.”

  “He was tall, as tall as you. With dark hair and really green eyes—like emeralds.”

  Shock flared on the handsome face and was gone. He obviously recognized the description.

  “You know him?” Christian asked.

  He pursed his lips. “I might. Let’s hear the rest of the story.”

  “He sent the beasts down to the catacombs beneath the church. I think they were searching for something, and they found it.”

  “Found what?”

  “I don’t know,” she lied. “But it was small. One of them handed it to the man. He could hold it in his palm.”

  “Then what happened?”

  She glanced across to Sister Maria. This was going to be hard for her, but there was no help for it. “He tore Sister Maria’s habit and he cut her back. Said it was a message for Piers Lamont. He threw down a piece of paper with your address, and they all vanished.”