Bittersweet Blood (The Order #1)

“The fae would like everyone to believe that, but they loved each other. Why else would she have gone to such trouble to keep you?”


Tara tried to get her head around the idea that her mother and father had been in love and not bitter enemies. That her own father had been responsible for Chloe’s death and even at this very moment, he might be killing Christian. And Christian hated Asmodai. What could he ever feel for the daughter of the monster who had killed his family?

“Where do you come into this?” Piers asked Jamie.

“I belonged to Asmodai. He gave me to Lillian as a gift.”

“So, just what sort of shifter are you?”

“I’m a cat and…” Jamie paused.

“And…” Piers prompted.

Jamie shifted uncomfortably. “A hellhound.”

Piers hooted. “Half-demon, half-fae, brought up by a dead woman and now you have a pet hellhound. No, I wouldn’t describe you as normal.”

“What’s a hellhound?” she asked.

Piers grinned. “Do you want to show her?”

Jamie disappeared. In his place was a huge dog-like creature. Graham choked behind her, but she ignored him and examined the creature. His head was level with Tara’s as she gazed at him in awe. His fur was reddish brown, with a black ridge along his back, his body lean, with powerful forelegs ending in vicious inch-long claws. He had pointed ears, yellow eyes, and the longest, sharpest teeth she had ever seen. He stared back at her and something shifted in his eyes. Tara reminded herself that this was Jamie. Her friend. She stroked the fur on his head. It was soft, and he pressed against her hand.

A moment later, Jamie was back.

“Well, that was fun,” Piers said. “But it doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything,” Tara said.

Piers frowned. “How do you see that?”

Tara tried to get her thoughts straight. “We were thinking the demons wanted me to get back at Christian. But what if Asmodai wants to find me because I’m his daughter, and he loved my mother?”

“So what?”

“Maybe he would listen to me. Maybe he would agree to leave Christian alone if I asked him to.”

“How do you expect to ask him? You’ll never find Christian without me, and I can’t enter the Abyss. And I sure as hell can’t see Asmodai coming here.”

“I can.”

Piers ran a hand through his hair. “Why do I have a feeling I’m not going to like this?”

“I’m going to take off the talisman. The demons will sense me the way they did when I took it off before.”

“Great idea!” Piers said, and Tara could hear the sarcasm in his voice. “Do you know who else will sense you?”

“The fae?” she asked.

“Right first time, and this would make them very unhappy. One of their conditions for not killing you was that the talisman never comes off. That way the demons never know of your existence.”

“We’ll just have to deal with the fae.”

“How do you suggest we do that?”

Tara stood and confronted Piers. “This is a chance to save Christian, and I’m doing it. So get used to the idea.”

Piers curled his lip. “You do realize I could just kill you all and go home to bed.”

“You could, but you’re not going to.”

He was quiet for an age. Tara waited for him to speak.

“Shit,” Piers said. “What the hell? I always wanted a go at the Walker anyway.”

Tara didn’t dare hope this would work, but it was a chance.

“We can’t do this in here,” Piers said. “There’s so much magic built into the place that I’m not sure they’d read you.”

“Where then?”

“The roof.”

At the last minute, Tara reached down, picked up Christian’s note, and smoothed the paper. She was about to prove Christian wrong—they would meet again.

Even if it killed her.





Chapter Twenty-Seven


This meeting had been a long time coming. Too long, perhaps.

It was dark in the Abyss. Christian breathed in the cool crisp air, sharp in his lungs but clean and fresh. He liked it here. He always had. Overhead, the sky was full of stars and a half moon hung low against the horizon, casting its dim light over a landscape of mountains and deep rugged gorges.

He knew where to find Asmodai, but he’d manifested a good way from the fortress. He needed to acclimatize to the thinner air. It was slightly warmer than London, and he shrugged out of his coat and left it crumpled on the ground. He had no need to hide his weapons and the coat would slow him down, hamper him in a fight. He thought about leaving the guns as well; bullets would be no use. In the end, he decided to keep them on the slim chance he made it out alive. He also kept the sword down his back and the knife at his thigh.

He saw no one, but was aware he was being watched, and when he reached the fortress, the gate was already raised.