Ballard’s brows drew together, his former concentration broken. His upper lip curled. “You think I would . . .”
“I’ll need something to strike down the devil.” Shadowman shifted his gaze to the intersection ahead, the crossroads, hoping that Ballard would know the lore regarding the summoning of a devil, and understand his meaning. A crossroads was a place where the boundaries of the three worlds grew thin, even that of Hell. From there the gate and its she-devil would hear his call for a deal and be forced to answer. Making a deal with the devil had a very long tradition among humanity that lived on in stories and song, even permeating this young country and these modern times. “I built the gate that let her out. It’s my duty. If I am going to fight today, don’t you think I’d best start with her?”
Frowning deeply, Ballard reluctantly offered the weapon. “You pursue Hell too often.”
“Indeed.” Shadowman took the ax and found the weight of the weapon pleasing in his right hand, as he had his scythe for millennia. It did not burn his mortal flesh, as the hammer had Death’s. He gripped the haft near the blade, reached to gather his long hair into a bunch, and with the blade cut the lot of it off.
“Don’t!” Layla pleaded, too late and foolish. The hair could only be a liability in a fight. And he meant to win this one.
“Thank you,” Shadowman said to Ballard. “I’ll give the weapon back to you shortly.”
He turned at Layla’s hand on his arm.
“What’s going on?” Her gaze darted from him to Ballard. “What insane thing are you going to do?”
He kissed her cheek. Soft, so smooth. “You humbled Moira for me. Let me do this one little thing for you.”
She blinked in confusion.
“Trust me.” He strode down the street toward the intersection.
“But—?” she called after him.
He lifted a hand for her patience but didn’t look back. A car honked as he took position in the middle of the crossroads, ready.
“Rose!” Shadowman called. The intersection blurred. Time and space shifted out of the mundane. Headlights streaked red and white, hanging in the air. The buildings hazed, wavering as if with extreme heat. The place was both located in the city of the present, and the burnt red dust of a dirt road in Hell, superimposed over each other.
A fae might be able to track a devil by subtle signs of death and evil, but a mortal could not. If a mortal wanted a devil, he must bring the devil to him. At a crossroads. For a deal. Fame, wealth, beauty, . . . love.
Call a devil, and she must come.
Rose sat at the pretty kitchen table of a country home, trying to lift a teacup to her lips. Chamomile tea, with its smooth aroma, always settled her nerves. The china cup rattled against the saucer, but Rose was determined to be a lady. Didn’t matter what she looked like on the outside if her manners were excellent.
She managed a sip.
Then spilled a little down her chin when the old man she’d locked in the basement started mewling again.
Rose put the teacup down with a smack, snapping the delicate handle from the cup.
Wasn’t her fault he’d toppled down the stairs. He was the one who didn’t want her to use his dead wife’s best china, when clearly the set was the only decent thing in the cupboard.
She tried to hold the cup between her thumb and first finger but broke the china. The tea puddled on the flower-printed tablecloth. She worked to control her frustration. This would not do.
“Rose!” a man’s voice called.
She dried her fingertips on a napkin, her blood moving faster. How did the old man know her name?
No, couldn’t be him. The voice had been too strong.
Rose stood, wary. Had the bad people from Segue found her? She’d been so careful in her move north. She’d followed the gate’s directions so assiduously. No hot-tempered mistakes this time.
kat-a-kat-a-kat: You can beat him.
Beat whom?
Rose stepped toward the door, and her vision wavered. The house fell down around her, disappearing into red dust, and suddenly she was in Hell again, the burnt desert landscape as dry and unforgiving as fire. In the cracked clay dirt, two roads met, crossing each other at right angles.
A shirtless man stood before her. His muscled chest and tight, rippled stomach made her flash her dimples before she remembered her dimples were lost under thick, sallow skin. His pants rode low on his hips, without a belt, so that the fuzz on his navel directed her attention even lower, which was inappropriate, but interesting. He had a really long ax in one hand, a plaything after the attack at Segue.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want?”
“I am Shadowman,” he answered.
Oh, him. Her satisfaction at his newly weakened state was poisoned by his appearance. That the monster should look like that, while she suffered . . . This was exactly the reason why looks didn’t matter.
kat-a-kat: He’s mortal now.
Better yet, he was that Layla’s lover, as Mickey had been Rose’s. So, of course, he had to die. Layla should hurt, too.