Demon Kin (A SoulTracker Novel #2) (DarkWorld: A Soul Tracker Novel) Read online

  Careful not to touch anything, I nudged the outer door open with my elbow, and exited the restroom, giving my short jacket a swift tug before hitching my messenger bag higher up my shoulder. Wouldn't want anyone to think I'd had an assignation in the ladies.

  The bar was dark, the only lighting sufficient enough to allow patrons to see what they were eating, but not enough to mind other people's business. A long row of booths filled the far wall, providing even more privacy for those who preferred it.

  O'Hagan, or Fynn to those who knew him well enough, winked at me from behind the long mahogany bar as he wiped the already spotless surface. His oversized white shirt was rolled up to his elbows, revealing hairy, muscled arms that meant he never needed a bouncer.

  Gold earrings gleamed from each of his ears, that, along with his long red hair gave him the air of a pirate. Some time after I’d first started patronising the bar, he'd seen me leave the restroom a few times without actually having entered it, he’d stared at me as if I'd appeared from a closet with doors labeled Narnia. But he'd finally asked the question.

  Was I a Mage?

  I hadn't been sure how to answer him, But then he'd finished wiping and polishing the glass in his hand, and had placed it on the table already filled with brandy. The rich golden liquid had gleamed from a glass which had been empty seconds ago.

  I'd grinned at him, supremely impressed. And we'd been friends ever since. It made perfect sense to me, why so many patrons of the bar were paranormals. Saleem, my sexy djinn client, and I had met here a few times. And Kai was known to frequent the place too. Their burgers were her favourite.

  Grabbing our usual booth, I slid inside, allowing the shadows to envelop me. The lamp shade that hung over the table shed only a little light on me, which is the way I preferred it. And Fynn seemed to understand as he never changed the bulbs.

  As I waited for Saleem to arrive - because he tended to make a sudden appearance, forgoing the need to use such mundane things as doors - I thought about Ari and how every step I made toward finding out what had happened to her ended up feeling like I was really taking two steps back.

  Someone sat a glass of hot sweet tea on the table and slid it along the wood. I looked up at Flynn and grinned.

  "I swear you're psychic but just don't want to tell us."

  He winked. "Would be bad for business. Such an admission."

  I nodded sagely. "How are you?"

  He shrugged, the low light glinting on his earring. "Shit's hitting the fan all over."

  "Omega and Sentinel?" He nodded. "What does that mean for you?"

  Another shrug. "Nothing much. I was never much use to them. Manifesting food isn't exactly a skill they look for in their agents."

  I could see the sense in that. "Probably a good thing. We need you here to keep us fed and happy." I smiled, then paused. Frowning, I asked, "Unless you want to be an agent?"

  Fynn's laugh was a deep resounding bark that drew curious glances from the couple two tables away. "Heck, no. How would I defend myself against marauding demons?"

  I thought for a moment. "A frozen Popsicle sharpened into a dagger point?"

  Fynn set a hand on his hip and nodded thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against his belt. "I'm impressed."

  I lifted a finger. "Or, you could manifest my homemade brownies. Those things are so rock hard, they are as deadly as missiles. You'd garner a few kills with them, promise."

  "More than impressed." He looked so serious that I would have believed he was considering a job with Sentinel, but I knew him too well. Fynn liked his bar, and he liked his job too much. He'd said he was a Mage, but I'd often wondered if he was a brownie or an elf of some kind.

  "Impressed with what?" asked a voice from beside me. It emanated from within a swirl of amber and bronze dust.

  Deadpan, Fynn said, "I'm going to try killing someone with Mel's homemade brownies."

  Saleem materialized fully, then raised his eyebrows, a little confused. I pretended to be dead serious. "Yeah. I offered. They're just as good, if not more efficient, than ice Popsicle daggers."

  Perplexed, Saleem looked from my face to Fynn. We could have strung it out a little longer but Fynn let out another laugh, giving the game up far too quickly for my liking.

  Disgusted, I glared at him. "You're hopeless. How do you even hide your identity from all the humans who eat here?"

  "Easy. I never lie. But I don't always tell the truth either." He winked and strolled back to the bar.

  As I turned back to Saleem I recognized the signs on his face. "Have you been sleeping?" My gaze traveled across his face, the tight jawline sprinkled with stubble, the shoulder length curls pressed flat on his crown that told me he'd been running his hands over his head in that annoying yet endearing way that said he was frustrated or worried.

  We hadn’t known each other long, but I knew him well enough to read him.

  "Not much. Things have been a bit hectic at Omega."

  "Logan working you too hard?" Logan Westin was his supervising officer at Omega, where they worked. The agency was the second most important paranormal investigative department in the world, charged with looking after supernatural affairs and ensuring human crimes didn’t cross over into ours and vice versa. Omega was only second to Sentinel, who’d existed for centuries, being the main arm of the Supreme High Council.

  Saleem shook his head. He wasn't interested in talking about himself but I needed to get him grounded. He spent far too much time thinking about rescuing his mother and too little time concentrating on ensuring that Omega didn’t know that he was onto them. Because Omega, as both Saleem and I had discovered, was guilty of the abduction of innocents and manipulation of their own agents.

  "Saleem-" I reached out and curled my fingers around his forearm, trying to ignore the muscles that shifted beneath his warm skin, or the magical tattoos on his skin that sparked against my touch.

  "We need to check on her again. I have to know that she's okay."

  I laid my hand on top of his and looked at his face. "We can go again tomorrow if you like. But watching from a distance isn't going to help us much." His fingers tightened beneath mine. "We need to find out who is holding her. Otherwise we won't know what magic is being used."

  Saleem shifted in his seat then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I can't risk getting into Omega's network. They'll know it's me."

  "Then we find another way. Maybe Steph will get something." Stephanie Maxwell was my hacker friend. The girl loved a challenge, ignoring her mere human status as she helped me find missing people every day.

  Saleem started to shake his head but I lifted my hand. "Steph is good at her job. She's managed to hack the FBI/CIA without detection so she'll be fine."

  “Only if you're sure she'll be safe. And you too."

  I smiled. "I can take care of myself."

  He nodded absently his eyes taking on a faraway look. He was so distracted that he barely concentrated on the conversation.

  "Talk to me, okay. You need to deal with your feelings about this or you're going to be so wound up at work that they'll know something’s up."

  Saleem sighed, shaking his head. But he wasn't shaking it at me. He was struggling with the thoughts in his head. Obligation, family, loyalty, guilt, fury. It didn't make for a healthy mix.

  "I just can't believe Omega is behind it. They lied to me all these years. They manipulated me, controlled my life. And I just let them, I fell for their shit, leaving Rizwan alone at home to with a burden I knew he couldn't handle.”

  "You can't create worst case scenarios in your head. It's pointless. For all you know your viziers or ministers would have banded together to support him. Or your brother could have finally grown a pair."

  "Not likely. He's far too innocent and peace-loving for that. But he'll be angry with me for deserting him."

  "Why don't we deal with one thing at a time? Save your mother and then take the two of you back to Djinn land so you can take your h
ome back."

  Saleem sighed deeply. I felt for him. For such a strong man he was helpless, at Omega's mercy, and we needed to make some progress or he was likely to lose his patience or his mind.

  He nodded firmly. "And we'll take Omega down. Every last bastard who had a hand in keeping my mother from me."

  I wanted to remind him that some of those bastards would never have known they were doing anything wrong. That was the way Omega worked, keeping all their agents on a need-to-know basis so very few agents knew anything about what the others were doing. Worked well for Omega.

  Saleem's voice broke through my thoughts. "I just can't understand why she hasn't blasted her way out of there yet. She's just happy to sit there quietly and not make a fuss about it?"

  I frowned. "Are you suggesting your mother is there of her own free will?" I glared at him. "Because it certainly didn't look that way to me. Few people are happy to reside in a cell of their own free will."

  Saleem let out a frustrated groan. "I don't know what I mean." He shifted to face me. "My mother is a powerful djinn. Fire and wind are her weapons. She could flatten that house and everything within it if she wanted to."

  Shaking my head, I leaned closer to Saleem. "Maybe they're threatening her with your safety and your brother's. So she'll remain compliant."

  He remained silent.

  "Or maybe the magic they are using is way too strong for her. If it's a different type of magic from djinn magic then she'd find it hard to break through it, especially if it's powerful”

  At last he relaxed and sank back against the seat. "Then we need to break that ward. And soon."

  I nodded. "I know someone who knows a thing or two about wards."

  "We still need to go back."

  I blinked. He certainly was persistent.

  He shook his head, a knowing smile curving his lips. "I'm not being stubborn. I just think we need to find out what type of magic is being used before we go to your someone-who-knows-a-thing-or-two-about-wards."

  I smiled and relaxed a little. "That is in fact a very good plan." Nodding, I continued, "We'll go again, and I'll astral project inside. Talk to your mother. See if she can tell me anything about the people holding her captive. She may give us a clue as to how or why the ward is so strong."

  "Okay. I'll meet you at your place tomorrow."

  I nodded as he linked his fingers with mine, trying to remain calm as heat erupted from the places where his skin touched mine, and surged through my veins.

  "And after we stake the place out . . . " His eyes swirled with amber and the tattoos on his face and neck shimmered gold for the briefest instant before turning back to a dull black beneath his glamor.

  "Yeah?" I asked softly.

  He leaned close to my ear and whispered, his voice husky, “There's some plumbing that needs my attention.”

  King of the double entendre. I wasn't sure whether to kiss him or hit him.

  Plumbing indeed.

  Chapter 4

  Driving up to the Glades was going from city squalor to the beauty of peaceful, untainted nature.

  Or rather, that was the intention.

  The development was built apart from the rest of the homes in the immediate vicinity, an attempt to maintain a certain apartness which many of the rich seemed to prefer. A way to emphasize their belonging to a higher level within society. Probably one of the reasons the Glades was set on the top of a ridge, with a view out to the National Park and the mountains.

  Definitely not a view of the city, or of the residential developments nearby. In recent years, the city had reduced its services to the Glades and the residents had begun to fund their own waste management and security. They were quietly developing their own little town, and nobody had yet noticed. Or if they had, they were smart enough to turn a blind eye.

  I passed a checkpoint a mile out of the Glades, showing ID, and confirming my appointment with Santiani. A half mile in was a second checkpoint. Overkill, or tight security? Depended on how you looked at it.

  The Santiani mansion was itself an impressive sight. Built to resemble an old English castle complete with turrets and ramparts. The gigantic stained-glass fronted door, large enough to fit a semi, was very intimidating to a guest.

  Good thing I wasn't a guest.

  I climbed the stone steps, meticulously cracked to give the impression of age, and used the gigantic bronze door knocker, complete with the giant head of a lion gripping the handle with its teeth.

  The hollow knock echoed inside the building and seconds later the tapping of heels drew closer. When the door opened I was greeted by an old man, his hair an unrealistic shade of black for a person of his advanced years.

  He regarded me with the expressionless expression of a manservant and I labeled him butler. His poker face was amazing.

  "Good Afternoon, Ma'am. How may I help you?"

  Ma'am? Who said that anymore?

  I pasted a polite smile on my face. "I have an appointment with Mr Santiani."

  The butler dipped his head. "Morgan?"

  I nodded and smiled. "Mel Morgan."

  He stepped aside and waited for me to enter before shutting the door with extra care. I almost expected him to offer to take my jacket and bag but he walked off without a word. I hesitated. Stay, or follow him?

  I decided I didn't like butlers very much.

  I hurried to follow him as he headed down a wood-panelled passage, past a floor-to-ceiling tapestry of a stag hunt, and through a set of heavy double doors.

  The butler stepped aside and waved me in. "A Mel Morgan for you, Sir." It wouldn't have surprised me if the man had bowed. Thankfully he left the room and closed the door behind him, but I paid his exit little attention. I stared, in awe of the library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the three walls while the back wall was one single gigantic pane of glass leading out onto a private patio.

  The only space on the right-hand wall, not entirely occupied by books, boasted a central stone fireplace, complete with roaring fire. Before the window sat a gigantic oak pedestal desk containing dozens of little drawers and compartments. It looked heavy and old fashioned. More nineteenth century gothic than modern day clean lines.

  And the man behind the desk bore a cool haughty expression well suited to a Regency/Victorian gentleman.

  He studied me from head-to-toe before his gaze settled on my face. Silver hair, narrow eyes, thin line of a mouth, pale skin, features almost serpentine. His cold superiority made me instinctively straighten my spine.

  Without a word he waved me to one of the three straight-backed chairs guarding the front of the desk. Again, my instinct urged me to rebel, to stand in the face of his invitation.

  But he was a client, and I had to behave. Most of the people I worked for were at least borderline pleasant, but every so often I had to deal with someone I didn't like. Either a creep, or a total bastard. Or a bitch if it applied. But professionalism meant I had to suck it up, smile, and do the job.

  Besides, even the worst kind of people suffered from the affliction of love. They too need me to succeed. I just had to remember the innocent party, the missing person who needed to be found.

  So I gave a polite nod and took a seat, retrieving a notebook and pen before placing my bag on the Turkish rug beneath my feet. The rich fibers and excellent handwork made me cringe to see my shod feet touching it so carelessly. I dragged my attention from the swirl of burgundy flowers and gold swirling thread and cleared my throat.

  Before I could begin, Santiani said, "I appreciate you coming on such short notice."

  I clamped my jaws shut. One could not respond with 'my pleasure' under such circumstances. A sober nod was all I responded with. He shifted in his seat and settled his elbows on the table. As I watched, he clasped his hands on the oak table in front of him, twisting his fingers into a tight knot. The muscle of his hands and arms were hidden by a navy blue silk shirt, but the collar was open and his neck was a study of tension.

  Behind the ic
y exterior was a man in extreme pain.

  He let out a soft sigh. "I suppose you need to know everything from the beginning?" Again with the statement/question.

  I nodded anyway and he settled into the padded back of his office chair.

  "Two weeks ago. It was a Tuesday. Gia has a piano lesson three times a week. The tutor, Xavier . . . he arrived on time, according to Marshall."

  I gathered Marshall was the butler.

  Santiani pushed to his feet, the chair rolling back noiselessly. He shifted to his left to stare out of the window, giving me a view of his granite profile. The man seemed to be fashioned from stone, yet emotion flowed off him in waves.

  "Gia is the most punctual of us all. She's never late but this time she was. Xavier was lenient because of it. He said he gave her a break because she's such a hardworking student. He waited for thirty minutes then got Marshall to go fetch her. He has other students so he didn’t have time to waste. But when Marshall went to her room, she wasn't there. Both of them assumed she'd forgotten about the lesson. Maybe she was still at school. Maybe she was having a teenage moment. It was unusual for her but neither one of them were concerned."

  Even though the girl had been through the recent trauma of losing her mother?

  In my opinion she’d be a high-risk child. If Santiani felt my censure he didn’t react. His gaze remained outside, on the hill beyond the expansive back yard. From where I sat I could make out a sparkling blue pool complete with rock formations, and an immaculate green lawn which looked more like a carpet than grass.

  He let out a ragged sigh. "We should have paid closer attention. Both girls have been affected by Deborah’s death. They were close. I've tried not to smother them. I let them be unless I think they're being irresponsible, which tends to be almost never. Like Marshall, I just assumed Gia had gone out with friends and forgot to let us know."

  Ever heard of a cell phone?

  I made my notes as he folded his arms, then unfolded them. Eventually he settled for scraping his nail on the window frame as if rubbing away the cracks in the paintwork.