A timeless monument to spiritual devotion—and a 1950s architectural marvel that somehow managed not to insult the majesty of the burnished sandstone buttes into which it was wedged but to grace them—Sedona’s Chapel of the Holy Cross wasn’t where you might expect the gates of hell to open. But open they did, for a few brief moments on one gorgeous midnight last spring. On Lucy Smok’s twenty-fifth birthday, to be exact. Funny thing, though, about opening the gates of hell to let something in: stuff got out. And it was Lucy’s responsibility to round up the wayward “stuff” that escaped and put it back in. Cleaning up after Lucien. As usual.
Not that it was really his fault this time. It was their father who’d traded her twin’s soul to the devil. And when Edgar Smok died, the bill had come due. Lucien’s transformation into an infernal being had opened the gates until his descent to rule the nether realm closed them. In that brief interim, the path between the nether realm and this one had been a two-way street.
Dozens of hell beasts were now running amok.
The one she’d tracked this evening—or rather, early this morning—wore a female skin suit: a haggard-looking twentysomething waitress at a greasy spoon, dishwater-blond hair slipping out of a limp ponytail and into her eyes as she took Lucy’s order. She was such a cliché that she had to be infernal.
Lucy had tracked the fugitive with a little help from the thousand-year-old Viking who happened to be dating Lucien’s sister-in-law. Leo Ström was the chieftain of the Wild Hunt, and the instincts of the Hunt wraiths under his command functioned like a metaphysical GPS, homing in on any vicious killers in the area. As much as Lucy hated the idea of them, connections among the not-quite-human came in handy for her present mission. And Theia Dawn, Lucien’s wife, had an entire family of not-quite-human connections. The Carlisle sisters, who claimed the demoness Lilith as their ancestor, seemed to attract it.
Lucy had other means of finding infernal fugitives, of course. As the CFO of Smok International and its subsidiaries, Smok Biotech and Smok Consulting—as well as its acting CEO in Lucien’s absence—she had access to the world’s most sophisticated database for tracking and logging unnatural creatures. But the fugitives from hell weren’t in any database, and those that hadn’t made themselves obvious through their sheer audacity in attacking humans right out of the gate, so to speak, were extremely good at blending in with the human population and keeping a low profile.
The stop at the coffeehouse had been serendipitous. After losing the trail, Lucy had taken a break to refuel, and the little downstairs café was the only thing open this early in the morning. She hadn’t been sure until the waitress brought her order. A telltale flick of the woman’s tongue at the corner of her mouth accompanying a rapid eye blink had given her away as a reptilian demon. Anyone else would have missed it. The demon saw Lucy’s recognition in the same instant, eyes widening with alarm.
Before it could make its escape, Lucy grabbed it by the wrist and pinned its hand to the cool wooden tabletop.
“Let go of me.” The eyes narrowed to reptilian slits with an unnerving clicking sound, like a muted camera shutter.
“You’re out of your element.”
The demon bristled, a reptilian reflex beneath the borrowed skin. “And you’re about to discover how far you are out of yours.”
Lucy smiled darkly. “You’d be surprised how far my element extends.” She’d been banking on the fact that the demon wouldn’t want to make a scene in the middle of a brightly lit coffeehouse with a small but decidedly human audience. She hadn’t counted on the demon’s desperation.
A hissing sound provided an instant’s warning before the demon spat, giving Lucy the chance to duck and dodge, narrowly missing a face full of demonic acid. Unfortunately, the evasive action also loosened her grip, and her quarry was off in a flash.
Lucy catapulted over the counter into the short-order kitchen in pursuit of the creature, startling a busboy and a tired cook. The demon flung the busboy across the kitchen as a distraction, but Lucy wasn’t here to pick hapless busboys up off the floor. She was here to stop a hell fugitive.
She leaped over him and followed the demon through the back door into the alley. It had given up its pretense of humanity, shedding its skin and leaving the corpse of the unfortunate woman it had been wearing in a heap among the trash bins as it dropped onto all fours and scuttled through a crack between two buildings.
Lucy spared a glance back up the alley to make sure she wasn’t observed before using the advantage of her own unnatural blood to scale the back of the building and race over the top. Inheriting some of Lucien’s curse came with a few perks. She leaped down onto the unlit street just in time to block the demon’s egress as it crept out. The demon reared up on its hind legs in surprise, poised for an attack, as Lucy drew her gun—she’d brought her favorite, the Nighthawk Custom Browning Hi Power 9 mm—and aimed between the thing’s inhuman eyes. The skin it had shed evidently wasn’t the corpse of a human after all, but a sort of shifter’s shell, as evidenced by the demon wriggling to redon the same form like a translucent skin coat, albeit a slightly fresher version. It was an obvious ploy to appeal to Lucy’s humanity. Always a mistake.
“Please.” The demon held its human-appearing hands in the air. “I have babies at home. I’m a single mom.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Appealing to her womanhood was an even bigger mistake. Lucy palmed the slide to chamber a round. “Hope you kissed them goodbye.”
Before she could pull the trigger, something barreled into her from her left, knocking the gun from her hands and her to the ground. Her Russian martial arts training kicked in automatically, and Lucy flipped over and onto her feet before her attacker could grab her, swiping his leg with a roundhouse kick from a crouch and incapacitating him with a one-two punch to the neck as he fell. When he hit the ground, Lucy leaped on top of him and dug her fist into the hair at his forehead to slam his head back onto the concrete. He managed to block her as she swung at his jaw simultaneously, trapping her arm inside his with an elbow jab toward her throat. They were deadlocked.
Lucy glared down at her attacker, sizing him up. A dark hood framed salt-and-pepper hair and a tightly compressed, disapproving mouth in a tan face offset by a sharp, muscular jaw. For a middle-aged man, he was in damn good shape. Not an ounce of fat on him.
“That was an escaped fugitive whose rescue you just came to, G.I. Joe. Thanks to you, a violent predator is in the wind.”
“From where I’m lying, you seem to be the violent predator.” He let go of her arm, and she let him yank his hair from her fingers. “I’d like to see your badge.”
Lucy snorted with derision and rose to collect her pistol from where it had spun against the corner of one of the buildings. “I don’t have to show you anything.”
“Maybe I’ll just make a citizen’s arrest, then.”
Lucy