"You sound like a bad gangster movie." She lifted one hand in a gesture of futility. "I've never been to Toronto. I don't know anyone by the name of Big Ralph. Or Asmodeus."
She wanted to ask him about a million questions. He could see it in her eyes. Instead, she just shook her head and said, "Let's go."
Decisive. Make her choice, follow through. He'd always liked that about her. It bothered him to realize he still did. What the hell was wrong with him? He'd played with this particular pack of matches before, and he'd been damned near incinerated. He ought to know better than to like anything about her.
"You're agreeable," he said. "Is it because you think I'm the lesser of evils?"
"Something like that. For now." She turned toward the stairs they'd taken to get up here.
He almost laughed. "Wrong way," he said and, catching her wrist, dragged her to the edge of the roof.
"I don't think—"
"Good," he cut her off as she peered over the edge. "Don't think. Just follow my lead." He let a mocking edge creep into his voice. "Unless you'd prefer to run into company." He dipped his chin toward the end of the street where two of Asmodeus's grunts lounged against a wall, the glow of their cigarettes surging each time they took a drag.
"How do you know they aren't just two guys out for a smoke?"
"I can see their faces."
She was silent for a second, digesting that. They were almost a block away.
"You're different now," she said. He thought she sounded wistful.
"Yeah." That was about all the explanation she deserved.
He kept a tight grip on her hand as he drew her to the edge of the roof that overlooked the back of the club. No one was down there.
"The stairs are the other way," she said, wariness coloring her words.
"We're not taking the stairs." And that was all the warning he gave her. Looping one arm tight around her waist and the other across her back so his fingers splayed along the base of her skull, he lifted her off her feet and jumped.
Her scream was muffled by his shoulder.
"Two stories," he said when they landed. "For me, that's like a hop." He kept his grip on her long enough for her to find her feet, and couldn't help but admire the fact that apart from a look that was vicious enough to gouge out eyes, she just nodded when he said, "This way."
They both knew that any more questions would have to wait.
He hurried her along the street, and when she wasn't fast enough, he grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her along. He didn't need to look over his shoulder to know they were being followed. He felt it. And from the way she doubled her pace, he thought that maybe she did, too.
Yanking open the door to the public lot at the corner, he shoved her through ahead of him and barked, "Up."
She took the stairs two at a time, and he was close on her heels. Then he surged ahead of her, caught her wrist again and dragged her through the door to P3.
The band of pure energy that he'd used to tether the darksoul to him pulled taut. He yanked it back. He had twenty-four hours to get the heart and darksoul to the Underworld. He couldn't take Amber with him. And for the moment, he couldn't leave her alone.
He caught her cutting a look at the thing through her lashes. "Turn," he ordered, and together they rounded the elevators.
She skidded to a stop as they reached the far side.
"That's a—"
"Mint-condition 1960 Corvette convertible," he finished for her. The car he'd dreamed about buying way back in the day. He remembered the birthday card she'd given him that year. Hand-made, with a picture of a corvette that she'd cut out of a magazine.
"The soul reaper business must be good," she said softly.
He pulled open the passenger door and nudged her inside. As she looked up at him, he met her gaze.
"I kill bad people, Amber." He offered a smile that was all teeth and little warmth. "Rip their hearts out. Steal their darksouls. Deliver them as a meal of pure power to the god who owns me."
He tossed the pouch with the heart onto the floor at her feet, but his eyes never left hers.
"And sometimes," he continued, "if the dead have no heirs, then I help myself to what was theirs." He leaned in, and she gasped, raising her hands to press her palms against his chest and hold him off. Then she flushed when all he did was drag the seat belt across her lap. He smiled at that. "I'm good at what I do. And the pay's great."
All true. But he didn't say a word about the fact that he was low man on the totem pole and his existence was only assured if he could maintain his kill numbers. He survived on the edge. And somewhere along the way, he'd grown to like that. The adrenaline high. He supposed, to a degree, all soul reapers did.
His head kicked up as he heard the sound of a powerful engine and the squeal of tires. Time to move.
Slamming the door shut, he then rounded the hood, slid into his seat and got the car moving.
They reached the spiral exit ramp just as an enormous black Hummer bore down on them.
Chapter Three