 
The Demon's Prisoner

Michelle Scott

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Copyright 2020 Michelle Scott
The Demon's Prisoner Copyright © 2020 by Michelle Scott

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First Edition • April 2020

Chapter One

Harper stood in line at the roadside market with a Diet Coke, two apples, and four boxes of dog cookies. Today was her day to visit the Ravenstock animal shelter, and she wasn't going to arrive without treats for her patients. Only three people stood ahead of her, but the line crawled along. The clerk, an older man with a white, bushy beard, chatted to every customer while ringing them up. Harper forced herself to keep from tapping her foot. Now that she'd moved to the country, she had to accept things moved slower than they had in the city.

The bell over the door rang and a man in a long, black coat swept in on a gust of wind and rain. His dark hair had been cropped brutally short, and he had several piercings in his left ear. Harper lowered her gaze, not wanting to catch his eye. He wasn't a large man, but an aura of danger enveloped him. His shoulders were tense, and his lower jaw was clenched. Harper had occasionally seen his type in Detroit, but he looked out of place here in northern Michigan.

As the line inched forward, Harper sensed the man in the long coat prowling around the store. She tensed, certain he was about to rob the place. However, no one else seemed concerned. The clerk laughed at something one of the customers said, and the woman in front of Harper kept her eyes on her phone.

The man in the coat stepped in line behind Harper. He carried one of the red, plastic shopping baskets over one arm. In it was a loaf of bread and a half-gallon of milk along with a package of sandwich meat. Certainly nothing dangerous. Harper let out a sigh of relief.

The problem wasn't the man, she realized. It was Greg, her ex. Greg had been stalking her ever since she'd left him three months before. At first, he'd sent her texts demanding to know why she'd gone. Then he'd started forwarding candid pictures of her at work and the gym to let her know that he was always watching. His latest messages had been downright threatening. You better stop ignoring me, or you'll be sorry. When he left a dead cat on her doorstep, it was time for her to leave town. Now, even though she was three-hundred miles from Detroit, she still looked over her shoulder.

"That's a lot of dog biscuits," the man behind her said.

To prove to herself she wasn't afraid, Harper looked directly at him and smiled. "I have a lot of dogs."

"Animal hoarder?" he said.

"Veterinarian." She nodded toward the door. "I volunteer at the Ravenstock animal shelter."

He broke into a smile, softening the hard angles of his face. "You like helping strays. Good for you."

Harper was about to reply when the clerk cleared his throat. "I guess I'm next," Harper said and placed her purchases on the counter.

As she left the store, the wind whipped at her hair and blew rain into her face. Although it was the beginning of May, spring hadn't yet arrived this far north. Harper loved the quiet of the country, but this cold weather had to go! She hurried toward her car.

"Harper." A long-haired, heavy-set man in a bulky coat leaned against her car. Greg.

Harper gasped and almost dropped her groceries. "How did you find me?" she demanded. Because Greg was a private investigator, she'd been very careful when she'd moved, not even telling friends and family where she was going. She'd cut up her old credit cards so they couldn't be traced back to her, and had changed her phone number. She'd done everything right, yet here he stood.

"You can't get away from me." He stood straighter and came toward her, forcing her back a step. "You should know that by now." He smiled when he said this, but the threat was all too clear.

"Leave me alone!" If she was loud enough, maybe she could attract attention from someone inside the store. She fumbled for the can of mace hidden deep within her purse. "Go away, or I'll...."

She cut herself off, but Greg picked up on her threat. "You'll what?" he jeered. "Call the cops?" His smile was cruel and cunning. "I'm sure they'd be interested in hearing my side of the story, too."

Harper knew she was trapped. If the police did come, she'd be in as much trouble as Greg. "Leave me alone," she said, this time begging. Her hand went to the scar above her left eyebrow. Greg had hurt her before; he would surely do it again.

Greg shook his head. "No can do. You, however, will get into my car if you know what's good for you."

She retreated another step. Suddenly, the safety of the market seemed leagues away. "Greg, please... ."

"Greg, please..." he said, parodying her.

Harper felt a presence behind her. "Leave her alone."

Greg's sneer became a snarl. "Who are you?"

The man from the store stepped in-between Harper and Greg. "I'm someone who wants to talk sense into you."

The man sounded calm and assured, almost friendly, but Harper wasn't fooled. Tension thrummed throughout his body. She had the feeling he was sizing up Greg and looking for weaknesses.

Greg stuck out his chin. "Get lost. This is between Harper and me."

The man held up both hands to show he wasn't a threat. "Let's be reasonable and talk this out."

"Real men don't talk," Greg said and reached under his jacket.

"He's got a gun!" Harper shouted, but her warning came too late. The gun went off, and Harper shrieked.

"You stupid son-of-a-bitch," the man growled the words. In the yellow light of the parking lot lamp, the man's coat darkened at the shoulder as blood flowed from the wound.

Harper dropped her groceries and ran to her rescuer's side. "Oh my God! Greg, you idiot!"

"He made me do it," Greg said. "It wasn't my fault!"

The man leaned against Harper's Jeep, his hand clamped over the wound. Even in the dim light, Harper noticed the pale look of shock.

The gunshot had drawn attention from those inside the store. Shouts rang out and someone peered around the doorway. No doubt, at least one person had called 911 which meant the sheriff would arrive any minute.

The scrabble of tennis shoes against gravel let Harper know Greg was fleeing the scene. He leapt into his car and sped off so fast his car fishtailed on the road, making his tires squeal against the asphalt.

Harper had been terrified moments before, but now she was furious. How dare Greg come after her like this! And how dare he shoot her rescuer! Hopefully, someone would call the police. Even if it meant she got into trouble as well, she couldn't let Greg get away with it.

She hurried back to where her rescuer leaned against her Jeep. "We need to get you to a hospital."

He shrugged off his coat and examined his arm. "It's nothing more than a scratch."

"Doesn't matter. It's a gunshot wound, and it needs to be looked at."

"You're a doctor," he said. "Can't you do something?"

"I'm a vet," she corrected, "and I could lose my license if I practice medicine on people. But don't worry. I'll call an ambulance."

He shook his head. "I can't have the authorities involved."

"This isn't a debate," she said.

"You said you were heading to Ravenstock, right? Take me there and clean the wound. Once I know you're safe, I'll be on my way. Then, you can speak with the police."

Harper's stomach was in knots. She owed him a debt of gratitude, but the man threw off warning signals like police flashers at a four-car collision. He had a desperate, dangerous feeling about him. As if someone hunted him. And the last thing she needed in her life was another loose cannon.

Seeing her hesitation, the man shrugged. "Look, it's okay. I know this looks sketchy as hell."

He was right; it did look sketchy as hell. "Are you running from the cops?" she asked. "Are you wanted? Is the mob after you?"

He laughed. "I'm wanted, but not by the mob." He picked up the bag of groceries she'd dropped and handed them over. "Don't worry about it. I don't want to get you into trouble." He turned to go.

Ah, Hell. She couldn't turn her back on someone who had just rescued her from Greg, the maniac. "Get in the Jeep. "Ravenstock is only a mile up the road." She never could resist helping a stray.

Chapter Two

"How are you doing?" Harper asked the man when they were in Ravenstock's parking lot.

"I've had worse injuries."

Worse injuries than a gunshot wound? How was that possible? Maybe he was a veteran. Or perhaps a cop. Either way, he was in strict control of himself. Even now, injured and bleeding, he remained stoic.

"Wait here," Harper said. She wanted to make sure the coast was clear before letting him inside. She'd never be able to explain away the gunshot wound.

Before she got out of the Jeep, she hesitated. "What's your name?"

"You can call me Bishop."

So no first names. That might be for the best. Harper nodded, left the Jeep and hurried inside to check for Maggie, the woman who ran Ravenstock.

Hearing Harper enter the building, the dogs in the kennels started barking a welcome. The shelter had kennels for a dozen dogs along with a shed for cats and a small barn for larger animals. Right now, Ravenstock was home to eight dogs, six cats, a horse, and a goat. Thanks to the team of high school volunteers who helped every day after school, Maggie's place ran smooth. Harper had been nothing but impressed by Ravenstock ever since she'd started helping out three months before.

The high school kids only worked until five, and Harper expected the building to be empty. However, when she walked into the office, she found Maggie sitting at the desk, squinting over a pile of papers. Crap. She'd have to get rid of Maggie before she brought Bishop inside. Unfortunately, if there was paperwork to be done, Maggie wouldn't go back to her house on the hill until she'd finished it.

"Working late tonight?" Harper asked.

Maggie was a spry seventy-year-old with a head of wild, white hair, and a pair of sparkling, blue eyes. She'd founded Ravenstock thirty years before, and she'd probably be running it for another thirty years. She was a bundle of energy all packed into a five-foot-four body.

"I'm getting ready for my guests tonight," Maggie said.

"A new suitor?" Harper teased.

Maggie snorted. "A couple from Detroit who want to make a donation to the shelter. I'm pretty sure they're loaded." No doubt Maggie would have them eating out of her hand by the end of the evening, and would walk away with a hefty check.

Harper nervously tugged at a lock of her hair. She had to get Maggie out of here. The infirmary was right next to the office, and there was no way Harper could sneak Bishop in under Maggie's nose. Bishop wasn't in danger of bleeding to death, but he sure as Hell needed medical attention. Plus, she had to get on the phone with the police and warn them about Greg.

Maggie lifted her head. "What's wrong? You're as nervous as Captain."

Captain was their most recent canine guest. One of the high school kids had found her alongside the road. The pit bull was gentle, but terrified of people, especially men. The scars on her nose, and her ragged ear told a heart-wrenching tale of abuse and neglect. She was getting better, but she still trembled whenever someone came near.

Harper felt the urge to spill her secret, but she didn't want Maggie entangled in what was sure to be a mess. Right now, Harper wanted to tend to Bishop and send him on his way. "I'm fine," she said.

"It's not that ex-boyfriend of yours, is it?" Maggie asked with a glare. Harper had told her stories of Greg's harassment.

"It's nothing," Harper assured her. She'd try to explain about the gun later.

To Harper's relief, Maggie took off her reading glasses and pushed her chair away from the desk. "I've got an eggplant parmesan that needs to be put into the oven before my guests arrive. Better get to it." As she headed toward the door, she frowned. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Maggie was too intuitive for her own good. "Fine," Harper assured her.

"You're a good woman, Harper," Maggie said. "Your help at the shelter is something I won't forget. People like you are what gives me hope for humanity."

Harper looked away. If Maggie knew about Harper's past, she wouldn't say that.

Once Maggie left the office and was halfway up the hill to her house, Harper hurried over to the Jeep. Bishop was sound asleep in the passenger's seat. When Harper rapped on the window, he bolted awake, his eyes blazing. She jerked away from the door, certain he meant to come barreling through it and attack her. However, when he saw it was her, he smiled. Relieved, she sucked in a breath. Who was this guy? And why was he so tightly wound?

Bishop followed Harper into the building. When they got into the infirmary, Harper told him to slip off his coat and get onto the exam table. She helped him remove his bloody T-shirt. "You're right," she said, relieved. "It looks like the bullet only grazed you. Although," she added, "it's going to sting like Hell when I clean it."

"It's my own damn fault," he said. "I should have known he'd have a weapon."

"Greg never did play fair," she said.

She fetched her kit and got to work. As she did, she looked Bishop over with a professional eye. His chest and belly were crosshatched with old scars. Most were superficial, but a few looked like they had been quite deep. His wrists were chaffed, as if he'd been handcuffed, and there were marks around his neck as well, almost like he'd been collared. If he'd been a dog, Harper would have guessed he'd been tied up and abused. She wasn't sure what to make of it.

"I'm a mess, aren't I?" he said. But his smile didn't quite meet his eyes.

"Are you a veteran?" she asked. Maybe all of these injuries came from being in the line of fire.

"No. More of a...street fighter."

Street fighter? That explanation only made the damage seem worse. Maybe he'd been in a gang. Or a fight club? Harper shook her head. Whatever history he was dragging around wasn't her business. She'd treat him and send him on his way.

Bishop's scars were unsettling, but Harper's hands remained steady as she worked. He didn't flinch as she sewed him up. It was as if he had suffered through pain much worse before. By the time she was finished, though, the sheen of sweat on his forehead had returned.

Harper left the exam room and fetched two bottles of water and a few packages of cookies from the office where the snacks were kept for the volunteers. She also grabbed a Ravenstock hoodie from the box in the storage room. She'd pay Maggie for it later.

When she got back to the exam room, she found Bishop sound asleep on the exam table again. She stood in the doorway, hesitating. He was dangerously good looking. His brutally short hair gave her a better glimpse of the planes of his perfectly symmetrical face. He was heavily muscled, but thin. Too thin in her opinion. Even his hands were calloused. Those muscles had come from hard work, not days spent at the gym. His left hand trembled as he dreamed and his face twitched into a frown. Something bothered the man. A guilty conscious? Or some other trauma?

Whatever his issues, now would be the time to call the sheriff. She took her phone from her pocket and was about put in a call to the station in town, then she hesitated. Should she tell them about Bishop? Or just send them after Greg? Then she spotted Bishop's black coat hanging over a chair. Maybe it held some answers.

She braced herself as she dug through the outside pockets. She was half expecting drugs or a wad of money. What she found, however, made her gasp.

A large feather, so white it glowed blue at the edges, stared back at her. Harper stroked it, feeling it tingle against her fingertips. It wasn't a goose feather, or a swan feather. Even peacock and ostrich feathers weren't so enticing. The purity of the thing struck her. The palpable sense of magic that it carried. She drank in its beauty, wondering how a ragged man like Bishop had gotten his hands on something with such ethereal beauty.

A chorus of barks came from the kennels. Shit! Something had roused the dogs. Harper draped Bishop's coat back over the chair, but she couldn't bear to let go of the feather. Instead, she tucked the thing down the front of her jeans and yanked her sweater over it. Then she went to check on the dogs.

Most of the kennel's lights were off, but the place wasn't entirely dark. "What's wrong, Alfredo?" Harper asked the dog in the kennel closest to her. Alfredo, a black mixed lab, ignored her and continued barking. Normally a mild dog, it took a lot to get him to bark. Not tonight, though. He was intent on something.

Harper hurried down the length of the kennel. "Maggie? Are you there?" Maybe she was giving that couple from Detroit a tour of the place.

A shadow loomed around the corner. Someone was in the meet-and-greet area. "Maggie?" Harper called again.

When she didn't get a reply, her heart thudded in her chest. Greg must have returned. She unlatched the door to Brutus's cage. Brutus, a 150 pound Rottweiler, was especially protective of her. With him by her side, she was sure to scare off anyone causing trouble. She snapped a leash on him and together they made their way to the meet-and-greet area.

"You'd better leave, Greg," Harper warned. "Brutus doesn't like strangers." Brutus played his part to perfection by growling low in his throat. He sounded like the bad ass king of a pack of hellhounds. A crest of fur raised along his spine. At only five foot four and a hundred and twenty pounds, Harper wasn't sure she could reign him in if he lunged, but she was willing to take the risk. "Leave right now!" she ordered.

Something in the next room made a chittering noise. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. "I'm warning you," she said, her voice wavering.

Brutus suddenly whined and took off in the opposite direction, tugging so hard on his leash he ripped it from her hands. "Brutus!"

The chittering grew louder. It sounded like a scuttle of a thousand roaches across a tile floor. Harper shivered in apprehension. What in God's name could make a noise like that?! Not that she would stick around to find out.

Terrified for the dogs, she raced from cage to cage, letting them out. "Bishop! Come help me!"

At that moment, a monstrous creature scurried through the doorway. Harper stood frozen, too terrified to do anything but stare. As large as a pony, the creature had the segmented body of a scorpion. At the end of its curved tail was a lethal-looking stinger as long as Harper's arm. Its enormous claws could lop off her head with one swipe.

The dogs were mad with fear, their frantic barks echoing off of the cement walls. Run! Harper's primal brain screamed but her rational side held her back. If she ran, that beast would overtake her. If she retreated one slow step at a time, she might stand a chance.

Her heart pounding, Harper took another step back, almost tripping over one of the dogs. "Stay back," she whispered to the giant scorpion. "Just stay right there." For a moment, it hesitated and hoped surged. Maybe she'd get out of this alive after all! Then it lifted its tail and released a bright-red ball of lava.

Harper was thrown to the ground by Bishop who spun aside an instant before the molten missile would have touched him. "Stay down!"

He'd changed into the Ravenstock hoodie and put his coat back on. In one, swift move, he withdrew a knife from under the coat and flung it at the creature. The knife stuck the monster between the eyes. It hissed in outrage and charged Bishop. Bishop threw another knife. It whizzed through the air and sliced off one of the spider's legs. It released another glob of lava which Bishop dodged. The lava struck the back wall, leaving a scorch mark the size of a trashcan lid.

Harper scrambled aside, got to her feet, and opened the doors to let the dogs out of the building. Then she searched for a weapon. The only thing she found, however, was the high-pressure hose the volunteers used to clean the kennels. But it was better than nothing. She yanked the hose from its hook and twisted the nozzle.

She was rewarded with a powerful spray of water that she directed at the monster. The thing squealed and clicked its claws as the water drove it across the floor.

Bishop flung another knife, and this time, his weapon hit its mark as the blade drove itself into the creature's eye. The thing shuddered and crumpled to the ground. A pool of stinking, black blood poured from its injury.

"It's dead," Bishop said.

Hands shaking, Harper turned off the water. "What the Hell was that thing?" Her voice was on the cusp of hysteria.

Bishop started to answer when another scorpion-like creature shot out of the meet-and-greet area and into the kennel. "Bishop..." The monster's voice was a rattling gasp. "You've found your target. Now return to me."

"Target? What target?" Harper asked.

Instead of answering, Bishop reached for another knife. This time, he came up empty. "Shit," he said. "Go to your car, Harper!"

But Harper wasn't about to leave him alone with this thing. When the creature locked on Bishop, ready to drive its stinger into his throat, she acted without thinking. She tackled Bishop in order to get him out of the way. The night had been too much! She wanted to be somewhere safe. Somewhere far away from here!

Something lit a line of fire down her belly. She gasped in surprise at the sensation and fell, expecting to smack her head on the cement floor.

Instead, she and Bishop tumbled face first into a snowbank.

Chapter Three

Bishop yanked her backwards by the back of her sweater. "Are you trying to get us killed?"

Harper jumped to her feet and looked around. The kennel was gone. They were standing on a narrow ledge on a mountainside, high above the tree line. She had a full view of a deep valley that separated them from a range of snow-capped mountains. Daylight waned and the sun dropped low. The skies were clear, but the air icy. Gusts of wind tugged at her, as if trying to yank her off the mountain.

"Where are we?!" What happened to Ravenstock?" Her body shook with adrenaline. "What in God's name were those things?"

"Demons," Bishop said.

Her laugh sounded unhinged, even to her own ears. "Demons?! You can't be serious!"

Bishop held her shoulders and looked into her eyes. "Take a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth."

His hands were like safety lines, anchoring her to the ground, his eyes, blue pools of calm. Though her heart fluttered in terror, she did as he asked, taking long, deep breaths until, finally, she got herself under control. Then she remembered Maggie and the animals and her panic returned. "We've got to get back! What if that thing goes after my friend?"

"Those demons were there for me and me only," Bishop said. "Now that I'm gone, the living one will go back to Hell and await orders."

"How can you be sure?"

"If there's anything I know well, it's demons," he said. "But you're right. I do need to get you back home." He held out his hand.

"And to do that, I need my feather back."

Despite everything, Harper felt guilty over the theft. "Here," she said, taking the feather from under her shirt. It wasn't as bright or lustrous as it had been before, but it certainly wasn't an ordinary feather, either.

He frowned. "You used some of its magic to get us here."

She wasn't sure how a feather had brought them from Ravenstock to a mountaintop, but she didn't have the luxury of questions right now. She had to get back to the shelter and make sure Maggie and the animals were all right. "Is there enough magic left to get us back?"

"We can try. Hold my hand."

She gripped his hand, worried a strong gust would blow her over the edge of the cliff. Her long, blond hair whipped around her head.

Bishop hung onto her with one hand while he clutched the feather with the other. "Think of where you want to go."

She did as he asked, picturing Maggie's house in as much detail as she could. The gabled roof, the wrap-around front porch, the tulip beds that were beginning to show signs of life. For a moment, the world grayed out, and she swore she and Bishop were at Maggie's, listening to the dogs barking in the background. She could almost feel the cement walkway under her feet. Bishop let out a sigh, as if he too could see it. Then she was slapped in the face by an icy blast of air. Maggie's house faded from sight. Once again, she and Bishop were back on the mountain.

Bishop dropped her hand. "There's not enough magic left."

"But what about Maggie?" When he didn't reply, she grabbed his arm. "Bishop! I can't not help her!" She didn't care what he said about the demon only coming after him. She wasn't about to take that chance.

"If you hadn't stolen my feather and wished us out of there, I could have done something!"

So this was her fault? "You could have at least warned me."

His expression grew stormy, but his anger didn't seem directed at her. In fact, he managed a smile. "Forgive me, but I was too busy rescuing your ass."

"Not funny," she snapped. Then added, "Besides, I'm the one who did the ass rescuing."

The storm cloud over his face broke apart when he laughed. "We made a pretty good team. Although, now we're stuck here."

Harper eyed the narrow ledge on which they stood. Once false move and they'd be tumbling over the cliff. "Stuck here? On the side of a mountain!"

His smile widened. "Haven't you ever wanted to camp out under the stars?"

She glared at him. Right now, she didn't care about his roguish charms. All she wanted was to get somewhere safe. "If anything happens to Maggie or the animals, I'm holding you responsible."

He shrugged. "Unless your cell phone can get a signal, there's nothing you can do."

At the mention of a cell, Harper yanked hers from her pocket and tried to make a call. However, it was useless. In a place this remote, the phone couldn't raise so much as a single bar. She wanted to fling the phone over the cliff in frustration but that would be a mistake.

She was desperate to help Maggie but she had to agree with Bishop. There was nothing they could do. Right now, they needed to find shelter before night fell. "Any idea how to get off of this mountain?"

Bishop surveyed the area. "There's a reason why we're here. What's the last thing you thought of before we were sent over?"

"I wanted to be somewhere safe," she said.

"Then there has to be shelter nearby." He peered down the trail. "If you had been thinking about a spectacular view, then we might have had a problem. But safety means shelter, so I'm betting there's a cabin around here."

At least he was confident. Harper was far from it. Additionally, she felt like hell. Her head ached, and her stomach churned. It was almost like having the flu. "I need to rest. Just for a minute."

He looked concerned. "Did you get hurt back at the shelter?"

"No. It's just altitude sickness. We must have shot up several thousand feet."

Bishop reached into the front pocket of the Ravenstock hoodie and brought out a package of cookies and a water bottle. "Here. This should help."

Harper passed off the offer of the cookies. She doubted her stomach could handle them. The water, though, she needed. As she drank it down, some of her nausea ebbed.

"I'm thinking we head down that way." Bishop pointed. "We'll get you to a lower elevation and find that cabin."

Harper still wasn't sure the cabin even existed, but she didn't argue. Instead, she let Bishop lead the way while she trudged after him. Thankfully, she'd been wearing boots and a heavy sweater. Even so, she was shaking with cold by the time they crossed the tree line.

The narrow trail they'd been using widened, becoming a path. The right side of them continued its steep drop, but the wind had died down. Harper no longer felt she was about to be swept off of the edge. Still, as the light continued to ebb, her heart sank. They couldn't travel after dark. If they didn't find shelter soon, they'd be forced to spend the night outdoors.

Thirty minutes later, Harper was thinking of how they might build a fire when she spotted a rough, wooden structure off the side of the trail. "Over there!"

"Thank God," Bishop said. "I was beginning to worry."

He'd been worried? He certainly hadn't shown it. Harper once again wondered about his past. He seemed so capable and in control. Something had given him those muscles and that confidence. She was determined to find out what.

The moss-covered cabin wasn't a palace, but the minute Harper stepped through the door, she felt a sense of security. The inside, although small and a little dusty, was well cared for. A large, stone fireplace dominated one side of the room while a double bed took up the other. The only other furnishings were a shelf of books, a well-used table, and two chairs. A row of cupboards stood above a counter that held a propane stove. To Harper's relief, the cupboards were stocked with cans of food. It was the perfect hideout.

Bishop went to examine the food stores. "Feeling better?"

Thankfully, her headache and nausea had ebbed once they got to a lower elevation. Still, Harper sank onto the bed to give herself a moment. "I need to know what happened back there. At Ravenstock."

Bishop held up a large can of baked beans in one hand, and one of beef stew in the other. "Hungry?"

"Answer the question." A shiver traveled down her spine. She wasn't sure if it was from cold or what she'd been through. She grabbed a quilt draped across the end of the bed and pulled it across her shoulders.

When he noticed her trembling, Bishop set the cans of food aside. "Let me light a fire. Then I'll tell you all about it."

A wooden box by the fireplace held kindling, but Bishop went out back to retrieve more wood. When he returned, he dropped an armload of logs by the hearth. "The wind's picking up, and it's starting to snow. We may be here for a while."

Harper threw off the quilt and helped him gather more wood. After a few more trips, she figured they had enough to last the night. Maybe even longer. While Bishop laid the fire, Harper went to the kitchen area to heat up the beef stew. She opened a drawer looking for a can opener. "The feather," she prompted.

"It's an angel's feather," Bishop admitted.

Her head jerked up, and her eyes locked on his. The feather was special to be sure, but an angel's feather? Still, she couldn't argue that she'd been at Ravenstock only an hour before. Either she'd hit her head on the cement floor and was suffering from some kind of hallucination, or the feather really was magic.

"You don't believe me," Bishop said, returning to his task.

"Can you blame me?"

He lit the kindling and began adding larger pieces of wood to the flames.

"I guess not, but it's true."

Harper gripped the counter with both hands as a dizzying wave of unreality washed over her. None of this seemed possible, and yet it was. She didn't believe she was hallucinating. Everything about her situation was too detailed. She felt the cold, smelled the wood smoke. But then again, how could she believe such a story?

"If those things were demons and that feather belonged to an angel, what does that make you?"

Bishop stared into the flames. "An ordinary man."

She sensed him holding out on her. What ordinary man tangled with demons? "You're not being honest. "In response, he tossed a twig into the voracious flames of the fire. "Until yesterday, I was a man living in Hell."

Chapter Four

"You've been living in...Hell?" Harper asked. "You mean like in prison?"

Bishop laughed bitterly. "Prison would have been a vacation compared to where I was."

Harper frowned and tried to digest it all. "You can't have been living in Hell literally." There was no way. Hell wasn't an actual place. At least, she didn't believe it to be. Then again, she might not have believed demons could attack her, or feathers from an angel's wing could transport her across the country. Yet, here she was.

"Hell is real." His voice was firm. "I'll prove it." Bishop stood and lowered his jeans, then tugged his boxers down a few inches. Carved into the flesh of his left thigh was an elaborately decorated circle, much like an official seal. What made Harper gasp, however, wasn't the mark, but the way the whole thing glowed orange. This wasn't an ordinary tattoo. It shined as if lit by a fire from within. Looking at it made her eyes water. "What is that?"

"My curse," Bishop said.

Harper remained frozen at the counter. She couldn't tear her eyes away from Bishop. He might call himself an ordinary man, but she wasn't sure she believed it. What kind of monster had she gotten entangled with? They were miles away from any hope of rescue. He was strong enough to overpower her if he wished. Heart pounding, she reached for the first weapon she saw: a fillet knife in the utensil drawer.

Harper kept a tight grip on the knife, but she came forward to investigate further. The scientist in her was fascinated. The human in her appalled. "Does it hurt?"

He shrugged. "I've learned to live with it."

"What does it mean?"

"It's a prisoner symbol." He touched the mark. "It means I belong to my demon, body and soul."

"Your demon?"

"Barbas. He owns me."

Curiosity finally won out. Harper set the knife on the bed. "Can I examine it?"

Without speaking, Bishop dropped his jeans a little further down. Harper knelt next to him for a better look. Apart from the glowing red of the brand, the taut skin of his thigh wasn't inflamed. When she passed her fingers over the mark, however, she felt the fire burning underneath it.

She risked a firmer touch, making Bishop hiss and clench his jaw. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

He drew in a breath and relaxed a little. "It's okay."

She peered closer. The flickering light from the fireplace cast an orange glow on his skin, but it was nothing compared to the burning fire coming from Bishop's brand. It flickered and seethed, as if alive. She carefully probed the flesh of his thigh.

"Your touch is so gentle." Bishop's shoulders relaxed.

She was suddenly aware she was on her knees, stroking the muscular thigh of a semi-dressed man. A very handsome semi-dressed man. Her cheeks flushed, and she came to her feet in a hurry. "I've had to work on my bedside manner. She prayed he wouldn't notice how much he affected her. "Plenty of my patients are skittish."

He pulled his jeans up and buckled his belt. "What's your professional opinion, doctor?" His lips quirked playfully. "Should I take two aspirins and call you in the morning?" She smiled in spite of herself. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Now do you believe me?"

Harper tugged on a lock of her hair. Everything seemed impossible, yet she couldn't deny her own senses. She'd felt the heat from the fire in that brand. She'd even caught a whiff of brimstone. "Yes," she said. "I do. But how did you end up a demon's prisoner? What brought you to Hell? Are you even a real man?"

"I am a whole, hot-blooded man, I assure you. "Which means I'm also starving. How about we heat up that food?"

While Bishop kept the fire going, Harper returned to the kitchen area. The propane stove decided to fight her, but soon she had two, steaming bowls of beef stew ready. The fire had done wonders to warm the small room, and her icy toes had finally thawed. Outside, the wind whipped the cabin, making it creak and groan. Gusts of snow blew against the windows. Thank goodness, the building was well insulated and there weren't any drafts.

Harper and Bishop took seats at the small table and dug into their food. The hike down the mountain had left Harper with a ravenous appetite, but Bishop acted as if he hadn't eaten in weeks. He bent his head over his bowl and curled one arm protectively around it, like he was afraid someone might take it from him. She'd seen abandoned or neglected dogs act that way when they came to the shelter. A sure sign they'd been starved by their cruel owners.

The moment Bishop finished his food, he returned to the kitchen for the can of beans. "I forgot how good food on earth tastes."

"They don't feed you in Hell?" She'd meant it as a joke, but Bishop's face clenched like a fist.

"Bread, water, and just enough protein to survive. If you're lucky." He opened the can of beans and dumped it into the same pan that had heated the stew. A few minutes later, he returned to the table with the pan and a bottle of whiskey sitting among the canned goods. He offered Harper some beans, but she shook her head. He dug in, eating straight from the pan.

"How long were you in Hell?" she asked.

He frowned. "What year is it?"

"Two-thousand nineteen."

A wave of anguish washed over his features. "Ten years."

"I'm sorry," she said, wanting to erase his pain.

He looked up from the pan and his features softened. "It's okay. I shouldn't be burdening you with my crap." He offered a tired smile. "Coming back to earth is...strange. I keep forgetting it's not all fangs and claws up here."

"With the exception of my ex," Harper said. Even after facing the demons at the shelter, Greg's face was thing that scared her the most. "I never thanked you for that. Saving me, I mean." She scooped up a final spoonful of stew and wondered what Greg was up to now.

Bishop's smile brightened. "I was glad to assist. Although, from the way you handled that demon, I think your ex might have gotten more than he'd bargained for. Using the hose was inspiring."

"I wish I could have called the police on Greg." She didn't want him turning up at Ravenstock looking for her. Although Maggie would give him a run for his money. Between her dogs and Old Bessie, the loaded twenty-two the woman kept by the door, Greg didn't stand a chance.

"You can do that soon enough," Bishop said. "Once we get you back home that is."

Harper wondered how long that would be. Although, despite everything, she felt pretty content. Her stomach no longer rumbled, she'd thawed out, and with the wind blowing outside, the cabin was warm and inviting. And there was Bishop. Not only was he easy on the eyes, he'd proved himself to be a good protector. Although, she wondered what kind of sinner he'd been to end up in Hell.

Harper opened the bottle of whiskey and took a swallow, enjoying the way the liquid fire burned on its way down her throat. She handed the bottle to Bishop who knocked back a shot.

"Tell me why you were in Hell." She wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, she knew from personal experience even good people like herself could do terrible things. Yet, as much as she wanted to believe he was a good person, she had to make sure.

She watched him measure his reply, sorting through the details of his story. She wondered how much of it he'd trust her with. At last, he said, "I could tell you I was the victim of bad luck, but the truth is, it was my own damn fault."

"Was it a woman?" Harper asked. Somehow, she knew.

He nodded and took another swallow of whiskey. "That's right. But don't judge her too harshly. She wasn't malicious. Just stupid. Just like I was stupid for thinking she knew what she was doing." He tilted the bottle at Harper. "Here's a tip for you: never try to steal a demon's treasure. It makes them grouchy."

Harper laughed. "Is that what happened?"

He shrugged. "Close enough."

The food and alcohol had mellowed her, had taken the edge off her terror. Harper moved from the chair to the bed and faced the fire. Bishop joined her. He, too, seemed more relaxed. He stared into the dancing flames; his eyes distant. "This is the first time in ten years I've been content. I forgot how good it feels."

Harper drew the quilt over both their laps. "Greg never wanted to go to the mountains with me," she said out of nowhere. Compared to what Bishop had been facing, it was a laughable complaint, but for some reason it seemed important. "That should have been my first clue Greg was a loser."

Bishop laughed, a deep, delicious sound Harper wanted to wrap around herself like the quilt. "That's what made him a loser? Not the fact that he pulled a gun?"

"Well, that and other things. Was your girlfriend a loser before she sent you to Hell?"

"She wasn't my girlfriend."

The news made Harper happier than she should have been. "Who was she then?"

"A colleague. A very headstrong, stubborn colleague." He gazed at the flames. "Although, to be truthful, the fact I ended up in Hell was my own damn fault. I should have been more careful."

Harper didn't realize she was resting her head on Bishop's uninjured shoulder until he slipped his arm around her. He smelled of wood smoke and, faintly of Ravenstock thanks to the hoodie. The scent was a pleasant, comforting and she drank it in. Being here in this place with him made her feel protected.

Chapter Five

As the storm continued to rage, exhaustion washed over Harper like a wave. It was impossible for her to keep her eyes open. "I'll take the second watch," she said. There was no way she could stay awake for the first one.

"Don't worry about it," Bishop said. "I won't sleep anyway."

"You have to sleep." She remembered how he'd crashed on the exam table back at Ravenstock. He was as tired as she was.

"Go ahead," he said. "I'll keep watch."

They had turned off both lanterns, and the fireplace was the only light in the room. Harper watched Bishop as he paced from window to window, looking out. There was a restlessness to him that she'd seen among some of the dogs who'd been brought into the shelter. It was as if they never felt safe. As if they kept expecting their history to catch up with them.

She dozed off almost immediately, but woke with a start an hour later. Her heart pounding, she bolted upright and looked around, confused. Seeing Bishop guarding the windows drew everything back together. She was in a cabin on a mountain with a man she hadn't known until that night.

Noticing her fright, Bishop took a seat on the bed. "You okay?"

"I was dreaming I was being chased." Her heart stopped pounding. Having Bishop there put the nightmare to rest. "Guess I'm still keyed up about Greg and those demons. Plus, I'm worried about Maggie."

Bishop leaned back against the wall and tucked his arm around her shoulders. "I won't let anything happen to you."

She settled back against him. He was as solid as a mountain. Still, those demons had been fierce. Her eyes went to the window.

"I used to know this guy in Hell," Bishop said. "He was quite small, but damned feisty. I saw him go up against three demons at once in the fighting pits and win."

"There are fighting pits in Hell?" Harper's eyebrows shot up.

"Where do you think I got my scars?" Bishop said. "And before you say you're sorry, don't bother. I'm not looking for sympathy."

"I'm still sorry," she said.

"Anyway," Bishop continued, "this guy's name was Trevor or Travis or something, but we all called him Joe Slow because of the way he moved. The demons in the pit would come flying at him, as slick at lightning, and Slow Joe would take his time, pick his spot and - WHAM!" Bishop slapped his hands together, "- strike those bastards down."

"Is this supposed to be a bedtime story?"

"It's a life lesson," Bishop said. "Just remember, those demons might be fierce and ugly, but they all have their weak spots. That's what Joe taught me. Study your opponents. Know when and where to strike. Do that, and you'll win every time."

Harper thought of Greg, "Unless they surprise you."

Bishop touched his injured shoulder. "That was my own damn fault. I didn't take the time to know my enemy. I have a feeling he doesn't play fair."

"No, he doesn't," Harper said with a shake of her head. Once again, she laid her head against Bishop's shoulder. She tried to picture him in the fighting pits of Hell. He must have been a marvel to have survived for ten years. He'd fought those scorpion things like he was born to it.

"What ever happened to Joe?"

Bishop tugged on his earrings and didn't look at her. "He died."

Somehow, she'd expected that. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too," Bishop said.

They sat in silence. He shifted his weight under her, getting more comfortable. Once again, she caught the smell of wood smoke on his clothing along with a deeper, spicy scent. A manly kind of musk that made her weak in the knees. Greg always smelled like dandruff shampoo. "Do you really think I could take out a demon on my own?"

"Let's hope it never comes to that," he said.

"What's it like in Hell?"

"It's dark down there. You can hardly see your opponent. There are weapons, but no rules. Winners are given enough food for another day. Losers are sent to the...." He pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Never mind."

Harper's eyes traveled over Bishop's face and down his body. She'd never met anyone so broken yet so determined to make the best of it. Despite his joking, she knew he hurt.

She let her hand travel down his chest, imagining the muscles she'd seen under his hoodie. He tensed, as if she was hurting him, then let his breath out and relaxed. Almost without thinking, she kissed a scar on his jaw. "Those things never should have happened to you."

He took her hand and pressed it to his heart. "We all have our burdens to bear."

"Some are worse than others." She kissed his ear. Who cared that this was their only night together? She was still reeling about what had happened back at Ravenstock. Plus, she was also sick of being lonely and afraid. For one night, she wanted a break from all of that. And if it gave Bishop some happiness as well, then what was the harm? Bishop's hand slipped around her waist, and he drew her closer. His calloused fingertips were rough, but gentle, as he lifted her sweater and stroked the small of her back. He buried his face in her neck, kissing the underside of her jaw. The stubble on his scalp tickled her chin.

Mindful of Bishop's injury, Harper tugged the hoodie over his head. The dancing firelight played over the contours of his muscles. She ran her fingers along his chest, marveling at his strength. As her hands traveled south, she tilted her head to meet his lips. He filled her mouth with the taste of whiskey. His kiss grew more urgent; more demanding. Her hands slipped down to cup his ass.

The fire in Harper's lower belly grew hotter as Bishop unfastened her bra. He teased her nipples with his rough fingertips, making her moan. Desperate to receive more of him, she unfastened his belt and unbuttoned his jeans, shoving them over his hips even as he tried to tug her sweater over her head. She laughed when they got tangled together.

"Lay back," she said and straddled his stomach. He obliged with a grin. She feathered kisses along the waistband of his shorts, making his member come to full attention.

A howl shredded the air. Part animal bark, part industrial roar, it was a discordant, angry sound that froze her blood. Her first thought was wolf, but no wolf on earth could make a noise like that. It was as if a locomotive and a wild dog had merged.

In an instant, Bishop had moved her aside and was off the bed. He scrambled to get back into his clothes, and Harper did the same. "What is it?" she asked, her heart pounding.

The sound came again, closer this time. "Hellhound," he said.

She'd been right; it was worse than a wolf. Much worse. She tried to envision what a Hellhound would look like, and came up with a slavering mouth and red eyes lit by an inner fire. Their bodies would be as armored as tanks, and their nails like knives. "What do we do?"

Bishop grabbed the fillet knife that lay on the counter. The howl came again, closer this time. It was answered by another. "There's two of them," she whispered. She had a strong sense the creatures could hear far better than anything she'd ever run across before. She didn't dare breathe for fear they might find her.

"They're closing in," Bishop said.

Harper stood behind him at the window. If only it was daylight! But a glance at her watch showed it to be two in the morning. The sun was a long way from rising.

When the howls came again, they sounded mere yards away. One was in the front of the cabin; the other had headed around the back. She and Bishop were being surrounded!

"They know we're here," Bishop said.

Something scrabbled on the narrow porch. Harper scrambled to the window and caught sight of the fiery eyes she'd imagined. She choked back a scream. Bishop shoved her out of the way just as the window exploded. Glass sprayed across the room.

The beast thrust its black, shaggy head through the window. Its lips lifted in a snarl, revealing red gums and slavering, white teeth. With its shoulders too wide to fit through the window's narrow opening, it battered against the wall as it tried to force its way inside. When that didn't work, the beast clamped onto the windowsill with its jaws and tore a chunk out of the wood.

"Get back!" Bishop shouted. He shoved the fillet knife into one of the monster's red eyes. The creature howled in agony, but didn't fall back. Instead, it seemed Bishop had only pissed it off. The hound charged again, throwing itself against the cabin. Wood creaked as its shoulder met the solid, log wall.

"We have to get out of here!" Harper cried.

"Take my hand." When she did, he hung on tight. With his free hand, he grabbed the angel's feather from the pocket of his coat.

"It doesn't work, remember?" Harper asked.

"What other option do we have? Let's go!"

Only they didn't go. The feather's light twitched like a flickering bulb, but refused to brighten. "Shit!" Harper said on a whimper.

The Hellhound had worked its head and front paws through the window. Its back legs scrabbled on the porch as it tried to force its way inside. Harper felt its breath, hot and heavy, on her face and peered into the fiery reaches of its uninjured eye. When it howled, she clamped her hands over her ears. Even then, the sound was deafening. In reply, another howl came from the back of the cabin. They were trapped!

Bishop ran to the kitchen area and grabbed a cast-iron skillet hanging on the wall. He tore it from its hook, and when the Hellhound on the porch lunged, he swung the skillet with all his might. The crack of iron hitting bone filled the room. The monster howled in outrage, and its head disappeared through the window.

"Maybe we can jump start the power in this feather!" Bishop shouted. "We need something religious. Like a cross or holy water."

"Holy water here?" Harper asked. Couldn't he come up with a better plan than that? Then, she caught sight of the small bookshelf mounted near the bed. Among the mysteries and bird identification books stood a copy of the Bible. She dashed across the room, returning with the book.

"Good call," he said.

The Hellhound's head reappeared. It was not giving up on them. Only this time, its eye was on Harper. She was pretty sure if she didn't leave now, the thing would have its revenge on both of them. "Hurry!"

Bishop snagged his coat from the couch, and with the same hand, grabbed onto her. "Let's do this." He brushed the angel's feather over the top of the Bible just as the Hellhound managed to wedge its way into the cabin. The last thing Harper saw before they left was the hound's single, red eye glaring at her. She knew beyond a doubt that if she and the hound ever met again, she'd be dead.

Chapter Six

This time, Harper was prepared for the rapid transition from one place to another. Instead of landing on her face, she stumbled forward, but remained upright, Bishop at her side. They stood in a clearing at the top of a hill near a winding country road Harper immediately recognized. "We're close to Ravenstock," she said, relieved.

"You're sure?" Bishop asked. "All these trees look alike to me."

"I'm positive." She'd always prided herself on her keen sense of direction. Even though she'd only lived in the area a short time, she already knew her way around like a local.

It had been two in the morning on the mountain, but Harper's smart watch had accounted for the time difference. Now, it was just after five. The sky was still dark, but there was light at the horizon. Birds sang in the trees, and the smell of thawing earth and growing, green shoots made for a pleasant perfume. All signs pointed to it being a lovely day.

Unfortunately, Harper couldn't focus on the beauty. Those Hellhounds had followed them to the mountains with no problem. What was to stop them from coming here? She scanned their surroundings and listened for the sound of their locomotive-like howls. "Are we safe?"

Bishop, too, searched the area. "They're not close, but they're still after me."

"What about me?"

He pressed his lips together in a tight line. "Not if I can help it."

His words reassured her but only a little. Maybe she'd gotten herself into trouble by helping him. Harper thought back to the giant scorpions that had chased them away from Ravenstock in the first place. "What target was that demon talking about?"

Bishop quirked an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"That scorpion monster said that you had found your target. What did it mean?"

"I came here looking for something," Bishop said. "They think I've got it." He touched Harper's shoulder, urging her down the road, but she stayed put. He'd given her some information, but she knew he was hiding more, and she wasn't about to continue on without it.

"What is it you found?" she pressed. "The feather?"

"Not what, but who," he said. "And before you go making assumptions, it's not you I was looking for. That was a happy coincidence."

"Who, then?" Harper asked.

Bishop sounded equal parts annoyed and amused.

"You're stubborn, you know that?"

"Answer the question."

"I came for Greg," Bishop said. "I need to take him to Hell."

Harper could have scraped her jaw off of the ground. It wasn't that she didn't think Greg deserved a one-way ticket to the fighting pits, but she never imagined it would actually happen. At least, not in this way. "Why do you, of all people, need to drag him to Hell?"

Bishop once again, directed her toward the road. This time, she let him guide her. "I made a deal with Barbas," Bishop said as they walked. "The only way the demon would let me out of Hell was if I traded my life for someone else's. You have no idea how much I struggled with that. Could I really condemn another person to Hell in order to save myself?"

"There are lots of people who deserve to be in Hell," Harper said. "Look at the news' headlines."

"There are no newspapers in Hell," Bishop said. "No Internet, either. I was completely cut off. By the time Barbas made his deal with me, I had no idea who was worthy of that death sentence."

"Yet you found Greg."

Bishop took the feather from his coat pocket and ran his fingers along the edge. "I solved the problem by asking the feather to take me to someone on Earth who could go to Hell in my place."

"And that led you to Greg?" Harper asked.

"Exactly. Now, all I have to do is find him again and take him with me."

"Sounds like Barbas is getting impatient," Harper said, thinking of the Hellhounds.

Bishop nodded. "I only had a short time to get my target back to Hell. From Barbas's point of view, I've overstayed my leave by quite a bit. If I don't complete my mission soon, he's liable to send something else after me."

Before Harper could ask another question, Bishop drew up short. "Smell that?" He lifted his head, like a dog scenting the air.

Harper took a deep breath of air. "Trees?"

He shook his head. "No. Smoke."

She tried again, this time picking up on the tiniest whiff of the acrid sent. Her blood froze. "Another Hellhound?"

"No. They smell like the fires of Hell. This is something else." Bishop gazed down the road. "Something's burning."

"Maggie's neighbors are always burning their trash," Harper said. Her high-pitched voice rang with hope. Nothing bad could happen to Maggie. That was unthinkable. No, it had to be the neighbors.

But from Bishop's tense features, Harper knew he was thinking it was something else. No doubt, years of fighting in the pits of Hell had honed his senses to a keen point. If he figured sensed trouble, he probably had reason to.

Harper ran down the road. Maggie had to be okay. She had to. When Bishop grabbed Harper's arm to slow her down, she wrenched out of his grip. No one was getting between her and Ravenstock!

"Harper! Wait!" He pulled her to a stop. "I know you're worried, but we can't rush in without knowing what happened."

Harper's eyes blazed. "You don't understand! She's all alone down there! And the animals...." She couldn't bear to finish that sentence.

"I know, but we have to go down slow and make sure we're not being watched."

Harper pursed her lips and nodded. Bishop was right. She'd be in no position to help Maggie if she rushed in and found a demon waiting.

They left the road and made their way through the woods. Bishop moved almost soundlessly while Harper did her best to follow suit. When they reached the bottom of the hill, she peered through the trees and spotted clouds of smoke over what had once been the Ravenstock Animal Shelter.

Bishop had her in his arms before she could utter a sound. A wail lodged in her throat. Not Maggie! Harper's body shook as she pictured small, feisty Maggie, and the helpless dogs in their kennels. They must have been terrified!

A dog's whine cut through Harper's grief. Standing near them was Captain. Seeing Harper and Bishop, Captain whined louder and wagged her stump of a tail.

Harper squatted down. "Come here, Captain." She held out her hand.

The dog whined again, and cautiously came forward on a slow walk. Harper held still until the dog's nose touched her hand. "What happened?" Harper asked her. "How did you get free?"

"She's lucky she did," Bishop said. He scratched the dog's ears. Harper was amazed that Captain allowed it. The abused dog didn't trust strangers, especially men.

"Captain! Captain!"

Maggie's voice rang out. Harper ran toward her, Captain on her heels. "Maggie! Over here!"

When the older woman saw her, her eyes shone with tears. "My God! Harper! I was so worried about you." She gripped Harper in a hug so tight that Harper couldn't breathe.

"You're all right!" Harper said, equally relieved. Then she looked over the smoking remains of the shelter. Tire tracks in the soft ground showed firefighters had been on the scene. Three of their regular high school volunteers were loading the dogs into a van Harper didn't recognize.

"What happened to the dogs?" Harper asked.

"All safe," Maggie said. "We have temporary foster homes for them. The cat shed and the barn are both okay, too." She shook her head. "It's bad, but it could have been so much worse."

Maggie's house, too, was untouched. Thank God for miracles. Still, Harper's heart ached when she looked at charred rubble of the kennels.

Maggie shook her head. "I never believed a man could be so cruel."

For a moment, Harper thought Maggie meant Bishop. However, Bishop was still at the forest's edge. "Who do you mean?"

"Don't you know?" Maggie asked, her eyes wide. "It was your ex who did this. Greg."

Maggie's answer took Harper's breath away. She'd been expecting this to be the work of demons, not a mere mortal. "Greg? Are you sure?"

"Sure as I'm standing here," Maggie said. "He came pounding on my door about midnight, drunk as a skunk and demanding to talk to you. Old Bessie and I chased him off."

Harper ran her fingers through her hair. Greg was a better PI than she'd given him credit for. She had no idea he knew where she worked. Then again, she hadn't realized he knew where she lived, either. She seethed, clenching her hands into fists that pressed her nails deep into her palms. Threatening people with a gun was horrible, but trying to burn down a kennel full of dogs? That was unforgivable.

A blue pick-up truck pulled into the parking lot. Maggie squeezed Harper's shoulder. "That's my brother, Billy. He's going to give me an estimate on what it will cost to rebuild the kennels. Good thing that couple from Detroit was generous last night. Their donation should be enough to cover most of the cost."

Harper left Maggie and returned to where Bishop stood at the edge of the forest. He listened as she told her story. When she finished, he looked as murderous as she felt. "Greg's not going to stop until he gets to you."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Harper didn't dare go home where Greg might find her, but what else could she do? Every turn took her in the wrong direction, and every decision seemed incorrect. She felt trapped and helpless. Which, undoubtedly, was what Greg was depending on.

She glanced at Bishop stared at the smoking remains of Ravenstock. What was going on in his head? Could he be worried about the demons who'd been stalking him? Maybe he planned on how to get rid of the fiery tattoo on his thigh? Or was he simply cursing the moment he'd met her?

"What now?" Harper asked, breaking into his thoughts.

Bishop's expression was inscrutable. "Now we part ways."

"What? No!" Harper protested. "I'm coming with you."

"Like hell," he said with a growl. "It's too dangerous."

"Dangerous like in an ex-boyfriend threatening to kill you and burning down an animal shelter? Because it looks like I'm already up to my eyeballs in danger."

Bishop met her eyes. "I'll take care of your ex. You won't have any more worries about him."

"And what about the scorpion monsters, or the Hellhounds, or whatever else Barbas decides to send my way?"

Bishop's hands clenched into fists. "I'll take care of him, too."

"I won't be able to rest until Greg and Barbas are out of my life," Harper said. "So until that happens, you're stuck with me."

A muscle jumped in Bishop's jaw. "No."

"You can't order me around.

His gaze was as focused like a laser beam.

"I said, no."

"You don't seem to understand...."

"I understand perfectly. What you don't realize is that Barbas is a demon who will stop at nothing until he gets what he wants. And what he wants is me. Anyone who helps me will die or be dragged into Hell, too."

"I can take care of myself," Harper said.

"You're good in a fight," Bishop admitted, "but I'm not risking your safety."

Harper tilted her chin, eyes blazing. "I am not backing down, and there's nothing you can do about it."

Bishop's expression could have made fire rain down from the sky. He laced his hands behind his head and stalked off. Harper knew she'd pushed him too far. She'd been around agitated animals long enough to know when to back off.

To give Bishop space, Harper went to help the high school kids and tend to the dogs. She fetched her bag from the Jeep which, miraculously, sat untouched in the parking lot. Then she examined the few, remaining dogs. To her relief, they were all fine. More so when she handed out treats.

She was finishing with Captain's exam when Bishop finally stalked over. "Fine," he growled. "You can come along."

Harper wanted to pump her fist into the air, but she knew better than to gloat. "Thanks."

"I keep forgetting I'm on Earth," he said. "Back in Hell, the other prisoners listened to me. I was in charge, and I gave orders. No one called me out on it. If anyone dared, they'd be put in their place."

It wasn't hard to imagine Bishop as the top dog in Hell. He was certainly strong enough and fierce enough. But he held compassion as well. Harper had seen it over and over again. "You must have been an amazing leader."

The ghost of a smile returned to his lips. "I tried. I kept the prisoners in line, but I like to think I also kept them safe." A shadow eclipsed his smile. "Or at least as safe as I could." He touched her hand, entangling her fingers in his own. The touch sent sparks along her nerves. Touching him was as enticing as touching the angel's feather.

"There is one condition, though," he said.

"What's that?"

"You do as I say and without asking questions."

Harper weighed the order. She trusted Bishop in a fight, and she trusted his instincts as well. She also thought he valued her abilities. Maybe, right now anyway, the partnership wasn't a hundred percent equal, but she'd make sure it would be eventually. "I promise," she said, meaning it.

He nodded and smiled. His grip on her fingers tightened, easing some of her pain. Even so, she was furious. It had taken Maggie years to build this place up, only to have it destroyed in one night. Greg would pay. She'd make sure of it.

Chapter Seven

"Where to now?" Harper asked while seated in her Jeep.

Bishop rubbed his chin. "There's only one person who would know how to get me out of this mess, but I don't know where to find her."

"If you have a name, it shouldn't be too hard," Harper said. "Technology's come a long way since you were last on Earth. Social media's all the rage."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Social what?"

"Don't worry about it." She took her phone out of her pocket, ready to bring up Facebook, but the phone was dead. And her charger was at her house. "Damn. Looks like I'll need to go home first." She eyed Bishop. "Providing you think that's a good idea."

"I think we can risk it," Bishop said. "At least for a little while, that is. Barbas is no doubt still looking for us in the mountains."

"And Greg?" Harper asked.

"He doesn't worry me."

It was a relief to hear that. Harper had never wanted breakfast or shower as much as she did right now. She threw the Jeep into gear and within minutes, they were heading toward her house. When they arrived Bishop insisted she park in the street and wait in the vehicle while he checked out the place. "If I'm not back in ten minutes, I want you gone." His face was deadly serious. "No arguments."

She promised, but kept a close eye on him as he crept along her driveway toward the back of the house. Even in full daylight, Bishop had an uncanny ability to blend in with his surroundings. He crouched by the garbage can outside the kitchen window and then darted into the back yard. Harper held her breath, praying Greg wasn't hiding by the garage, or that Barbas hadn't sent another demon.

When Bishop didn't reappear after ten minutes, her hands tightened on the steering wheel. Again, several minutes passed, and she gnawed her lower lip in agitation. She had promised to drive away if he didn't return, but there was no way she could do that. What if he needed her help? Maybe she should just take a peek. She slipped from the Jeep and closed the door, trying not to make a sound. Before crossing the street to her house, she grabbed a large, black flashlight from the rear of the car. The object was the length of her forearm and heavier than a lead pipe. It would be a formidable weapon, even against a demon, and Greg wouldn't stand a chance.

Following Bishop's example, Harper crouched by the garbage cans and listened for a sign of activity. Hearing nothing, she crept around the corner of the house, almost running into Bishop who was walking towards her.

"I thought I told you to stay in the car."

"I was worried about you."

"Worry about yourself," he said. "Disobey me again and I'm cutting you loose."

"I was armed, though." She slapped the flashlight against her palm for emphasis.

His fierce look softened. "I'm not doing this to be an ass, but you need to listen. It's for your own good."

"I get it," she said.

He shook his head as if amused. "That flashlight, though."

She grinned back, unlocked the door and went inside.

The house was dim and quiet, waiting for her return. The clean dishes she'd washed the day before remained in the drainer. The refrigerator hummed softly. Morning sunlight slanted through the blinds. Everything seemed normal, and yet...?

Bishop sensed her tension. "What's wrong?"

Instead of answering, Harper went into the living room. Here, too, everything was as expected. Books were lined up neatly on the shelves. A pile of mail sat on the floor beneath the mail slot. Yet, she sensed a disturbance, as if someone had been inside. "This place is making me nervous," she admitted. "But nothing seems wrong."

Greg would have sneered and called her a pussy or worse, but Bishop went into action. He strode through the house, checking every room and closet. He swiped at the shower curtain to see if anyone hid behind it. He went outside to investigate the garage and made another pass through the yard. When he returned to the living room, he shrugged. "It all looks normal to me."

Harper tried to shake off her unease. No doubt she was jumping at shadows. "Then it's probably okay."

Forcing a smile, she found her phone charger and plugged in her cell. The minute she did, the phone began buzzing with texts. All from the night before, and all from Greg.

In the first few messages, Greg sounded tearful and apologetic. Harper played them on speaker so she and Bishop could both listen. "I'm so sorry, Babe," Greg said. "I didn't mean to scare you. Will you call me?" After four or five similar calls, Greg started losing patience. "Why aren't you calling me back? Call me right now, you bitch!" Most of the other calls were full of insults and swear words. Harper assumed he grew drunker and more desperate with every passing minute.

By the time she'd listened to the last message, Harper's temper boiled over.

Bishop cracked his knuckles. "I should have taught that coward more of a lesson when I had the chance."

Harper knew she should call the cops and help them find Greg. She owed it to Maggie. Hell, she owed it to herself after the way he'd treated her. Yet, she hesitated. If she got the cops involved, Greg would out her as well. Like it or not, she was locked in a stalemate until she could set things right. Either that, or until Bishop dragged Greg into Hell. Which was a problem in itself. As evil as Greg was, could she really allow him to be damned?

"Everything okay?" Bishop asked.

Harper dodged the question by leading him into her office. "I'll look up that friend for you." The moment she sat down at the computer, she froze. There, taped to the screen, was an empty ampule of Ketamine.

The tiny, glass bottle was like an exclamation point at the end of a threat. The blood drained from Harper's face. She felt faint and sick to her stomach. Greg had been in her house and he would ruin her.

Bishop noticed her distress and pulled her into his arms. "Talk to me."

Harper pressed her cheek against his chest and fought against tears. "I made a mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake."

"In my book, that makes us equal."

"You wouldn't say that if you knew what I did."

"Try me."

Harper sucked in a breath and steadied herself. "Ketamine is a horse tranquilizer. Back when I lived with Greg in Detroit, he knew I had access to it and demanded I give him some. He wouldn't say what he wanted it for, but obviously something bad." Harper couldn't tear her eyes away from the empty ampule. "I wouldn't do it, but he kept hounding me. Then he started threatening me." She touched the scar above her left eyebrow. "He even hit me, and, finally, I gave in just to make him go away."

"Then what happened?"

"I don't know the details, but about a week later, a woman in the city died from a Ketamine overdose. I'm pretty sure Greg had been hanging around the clubs and selling drugs there."

For a moment, she and Bishop held one another. Coming clean about what she'd done was hard, but it was also a relief. The terrible secret she'd been keeping from everyone, even Maggie, was ugly, but now that she was facing it, Harper saw it wasn't as bad as she'd thought. Yes, she'd been weak. Yes, she'd done something wrong. But she was now strong enough to face up to it, no matter if it mean a jail sentence.

Harper eased from Bishop's arms. "I'm calling the police."

She picked up her phone but Bishop put his hand on her arm. "Wait."

"But I need to confess and Greg needs to be arrested!"

His eyes held hers. "And I need you to wait." .

"I don't think I can stand by and let you drag someone to Hell. Even if that someone is a terrible person," Harper said.

Bishop nodded. "I understand. But do you trust me?"

Harper hesitated. She had trusted Greg, and that proved to be a huge mistake. Yet, Bishop had proved himself different. For one thing, he'd protecting her. Or maybe it was because he'd been to Hell and still walked away a good man. Or maybe it was the fact Captain had trusted him when the dog feared so many others. Whatever it was, Harper put her phone down. "Okay." She prayed that she was making the right decision.

Bishop smiled. "Good. Now, if you can show me how to use that social media you were talking about, I can find Tate."

Harper sat at her desk, brought up Facebook on her computer. "Who are we looking for?"

"Her name is Tate Winthrop. Last I knew, she was in Chicago."

Harper started with Facebook. Within minutes, she had an address.

"Impressive," Bishop said. "Mind if I try that myself?"

"Are you sure? It takes practice."

"I'm sure." He took her elbow and guided her out of the chair. "And while I take care of that, you take a bath."

She managed a dim smile. "Do I stink that much?"

He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. "You smell like heaven, but you look like hell. Let me take care of you, okay?"

His kindness threatened to release her pent-up tears. "Thanks." As she headed towards the bathroom, she said, "There's a Bible on the dresser in my bedroom if you want to charge that feather up again. The way things are going, we just might need a hasty getaway."

Bishop nodded. "Good idea."

Harper took her time filling the tub with the hottest water she could stand. She added a few drops of lavender essential oil and then slid into the perfumed bath and tried to release the tension in her mind. No matter how hard she tried, the events of the past two days refused to leave her mind. She saw the flaming balls of lava the scorpions released, heard the wails of the Hellhounds.

She was about to climb out of the tub when Bishop knocked at the door. "Hungry?"

"Starving. I can make us something," she said. "I have eggs and vegetables for an omelet."

He said something she didn't catch. "What's that?"

He spoke again, but the only word she caught was 'pancakes'.

She climbed out of the tub and wrapped herself in a towel. "You can come in."

The door cracked open and Harper held tight to her towel. Through the slit in the door, she saw Bishop's profile. "I said I've been craving pancakes."

"Since this morning?" she asked.

"Since I first went to Hell."

Ten years was an excessive amount of time to wait for pancakes, and the humble request tugged at Harper's heart. Bishop had been denied such small pleasures. "I'm pretty good at pancakes," she said. She stepped out of the tub. "What else have you been waiting for?"

"The sun on my shoulders, country music. Cold beer." A long pause passed. "Waking up next to someone."

Harper moved closer to the door. "Have you ever been married?"

"No."

"Were you dating anyone when you were...taken away?"

Another pause. "No."

Harper stood so close to Bishop she saw the rise and fall of his chest. He was looking away from her, but she knew his senses were on high alert. He was like a wild animal that would take off the moment it sensed danger. Moving cautiously, she reached out and stroked his cheek with the back of her fingers. He trembled.

"Maybe I'm not as hungry as I thought," she said softly and let her towel drop.

Bishop jerked away as if burned. "I'm not sure...." he started, and then cleared his throat. His cheeks reddened and his breath came fast... "I don't think it would be a good idea."

Harper reached for his hand. "Don't you want this?"

He swallowed. "God knows I do. Harper, you're beautiful. And strong. And kind."

"But?"

"Barbas has a way of knowing when my defenses are down. The minute he suspects I'm not paying attention, he'll come for me like he did at the cabin last night." Despite his words, however, Bishop's fingers tightened on hers and he drew her closer. "If anything happened to you...."

"It won't." Her breasts teased the fabric of his shirt, and the pleasant friction against her nipples made her close the gap further. Right now, she needed him to take her away from the fear that had been gnawing at her mind for the past two days. She wanted an escape, and Bishop could provide that.

His hands released hers, and his fingers traveled to her hips. He leaned in, and she met his kiss with an eagerness she'd never felt for any other man. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pressed herself against him. His member strained against his jeans. When she rubbed her hips against him, he moaned her name.

Tension built in her lower belly, and she grew wet with need. She deepened the kiss, savoring his taste against her tongue. His fingers lowered, stroking her folds. Her need doubled then trebled until she was ready to explode.

Without asking, he guided her to her bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed, and he kneeled before her. Her thighs quivered as he drew her legs apart and placed his mouth against her soft, wet sex. His tongue teased her clitoris, bringing the promise of a headlong rush, but holding back just enough to make her crave more. "Please," she said as he drew her closer and closer to the moment she so wanted.

Just when she thought she couldn't take any more, he surrendered to her desires and sent her crashing over the edge. Her hips bucked and she exploded from within. Before she'd fully landed, Bishop stood and unbuckled his jeans, setting his member free. Harper lay back, welcoming his hard body as he settled on top of her. When he slid into her wetness, she gasped in pure pleasure, welcoming every inch.

He moved slowly at her first, then with greater urgency. Every thrust drove deeper, and Harper arched her back to claim it. He touched the very core of her, bringing them together as if they were two parts to the same, miraculous whole. She ran her hands along his muscular back. A back that had seen ten years of hard labor without the comfort of love.

"Harper," he whispered. His blue eyes looked into hers. She knew without asking she was getting past his defenses and reaching a part of him that had been blocked off for a very long time. She shared the same feeling. No other man had come close to connecting with her the way he did. He was a splash of color against the drab background of her life.

Their passion intensified, setting every cell in Harper's body aflame. They climaxed together. Harper exploded with such pleasure she felt like a comet streaking across the night sky.

Instead of spoiling the moment with words, they lay entangled listening to the soft sounds of the wind in the trees outside. Harper stroked the dark hairs on Bishop's chest while he rubbed his cheek against her hair.

"John," he said, breaking the silence.

So now he trusted her with his first name. She nestled against him. Never had she felt so safe or cared for. She traced the edge of his ear, letting her fingers trail over the silver earrings. "The spoils of your battles?"

He nodded. "I took them from my victims."

"Not humans?" she said, appalled.

"Demons." He held her closer. "I never did want to fight. The first time I did, I won out of pure, dumb luck. I walked away a victor but I refused to kill my opponent." His muscles tensed. "Barbas gave me twenty lashes and killed the loser anyway. I soon learned that killing was art of the contest."

"How awful."

He sighed. "I dealt with it the way everyone in Hell deals with things. By not thinking about them. Until one day, I came into the arena and found I was up against Slow Joe. Joe fought hard; but I was better. Still, I knew I couldn't do it. We'd been in Hell together for a long time and he was the closest thing I had to a friend. So I laid down my weapons and told Barbas I wasn't fighting for him anymore. I didn't care what he did to me."

Harper held her breath and waited for Bishop to continue.

"Barbas must have sensed I meant what I said. That's when he made the offer to me. He'd set me free if I found someone to take my place."

"And Joe?"

"Barbas killed him."

Harper held John and stroked his hair until he fell asleep in her arms. How much he'd suffered! She wished she could do something for him, but she couldn't erase the past or get rid of his poisonous memories. But she could offer him support.

She woke, hours later, to find the sky dark and the bed empty. On the pillow next to her lay one of his earrings sitting on top of a folded piece of paper.

I couldn't risk taking you with me, the note said. But I'll be back for you. I swear it. John. She looked over at the dressing table and saw the feather was gone.

Harper palmed the earring, threw on a T-shirt and a pair of sweats, and hurried through the house, searching for Bishop. He couldn't have left her! He'd promised to take her with him.

When she reached the kitchen without finding him, her heart had to admit what her head already knew. John was gone.

That earring, though, was a promise. He never would have left something so special behind if he hadn't meant to come back. Doing her best to remain strong, Harper fastened the silver hoop into her ear.

The moment she did, a bolt of white-hot pain traveled from her ear, down her neck, and into her heart. She cried out, and struggled to remove the earring which seemed to have shrunk two sizes since she'd put it on.

"It's cursed, you know."

Harper whirled around, her heart in her throat. Standing behind her was a tall man with a pale, cadaverous face. His fingers were bejeweled with rings, his black hair slicked back to reveal a widow's peak. A long, black goatee hung from his chin like the point of a knife. "I'm afraid your lover didn't realize it when he gave it to you, but it's true."

Harper tried to swallow back her terror. "What...who...who are you?"

The man displayed a ghoulish smile. "I'm Barbas, of course. And you, my dear, are Bishop's ticket out of Hell."

He stepped toward her, and Harper ducked away, putting the kitchen counter between them. Where was that flashlight? Or, better yet, a knife? "Stay away," she said.

"Oh, that isn't possible," Barbas said. "I plan to keep you with me for a while. At least until your lover comes looking for you." Barbas had the easy confidence of someone who knew that things would turn out exactly in his favor. "Once Bishop realizes I've dragged you to Hell, he'll do anything in his power to rescue you."

Harper yanked open the utensil drawer and grabbed the first knife she saw. "I am not going to Hell with you," she said, brandishing it. If she could make her way to the bedroom and lay her hands on the Bible, she might be able to use it to send Barbas back to where he came from.

Barbas chuckled. "Don't fret. I'll let you go the moment Bishop agrees to come back and fight for me."

Harper lowered the knife and blinked. Was this the plan all along? To somehow get Bishop back into the fighting pits? John had been fighting for ten years. How much longer could he last?

"He's the best fighter I've ever had," Barbas said. He stroked his long, pointed beard. "Hell was never so entertaining. I can't go back to the way things were before he came along."

Harper shook, both with rage and fear. "I'm not going with you," she said, readjusting her grip on the knife. Her eyes darted to the hallway leading to the bedrooms. All she needed was a break, three seconds at most, and she could be in her room.

Barbas looked amused, as if he already guessed her plan. He came closer. "You can't get away from me."

Harper feinted left, as if she meant to exit out the back door. Barbas followed the motion, ready to stop her. Instead, Harper dodged right toward the hallway. She launched herself at her bedroom door. Five steps down the hall, and her hand was on the knob. She'd made it!

But instead of touching the cold metal of the doorknob, her hand closed around air. She stumbled forward, catching herself before she tumbled face-first onto the stone floor. She gasped as her house faded from view, replaced by a black, marble hallway lit with smoking torches.

"Welcome to Hell," Barbas said.

Chapter Eight

At six p.m. on a Saturday night, the Wayside bar was crowded. Bishop hung back in the shadowy parking lot, crouching near an enormous 4x4 truck. Close enough to see who was coming in and out of the roadhouse, he remained hidden from sight. Tonight the bar was hosting a live band, and every time the door opened, there was a blast of music from inside. Perfect. It would be loud enough to cover Greg's screams when Bishop grabbed him and dragged him into Hell.

Bishop had formed this plan while he'd lain awake with Harper sleeping in his arms. She had roused a part of him he'd thought had been dead forever. As he'd rotted in Hell for ten years, he'd never once thought he'd allow himself to become vulnerable to another person. Not after the treachery and lies he'd lived with while under Barbas's roof. Harper, however, was miracle. She was tough, yet gentle. Clever and capable. And oh so incredibly sexy. Her wide, expressive eyes and full, pouting lips had ignited him from the moment he'd seen her. Their lovemaking made him realize what he'd already known: he loved her and wanted her by his side. Always.

Only raw determination had dragged him from her side. He hated she would wake to find him gone, but he prayed she would trust him enough to understand. If they were going to stay together, he had to leave. There was no other choice.

The door to the roadhouse opened. Bishop peered around the truck only to see a group of laughing, middle-aged women. Damn! Was Greg ever going to show his ugly face? He had to be in there! The feather never got it wrong. It certainly hadn't been wrong when it had carried Bishop from Hell to the parking lot of that food market the night before. The feather had known exactly who deserved a one-way trip to Barbas's lair. Bishop had to trust the feather knew what it was doing now.

As he considered going inside to see if Greg was sitting alone, the man stumbled through the door. Greg fumbled with his car keys, dropped them, and cursed loudly. When he bent over to pick them up, he about fell on his face.

Bishop slipped out from his cover and strode over to where Greg staggeredg toward his car. All Bishop needed to do was grab Greg, wish on the feather, and take Greg to Hell with him. Then he could offer Greg's life for his own, fulfilling the promise to his demon master: a life for a life, as Barbas had commanded.

Bishop moved at a snail's pace, using the extra time to size up his enemy, as Slow Joe would have recommended. Unlike last time, Bishop wouldn't be making the mistake of going in unaware.

Greg leaned against his car, mumbling to himself. Bishop picked up on the name 'Harper' and the word 'regret'. He also caught the slight bulge under Greg's jacket. Somewhere, the man had picked up another gun. Bishop paused, chose the spot where he would attack, then whispered to the feather, "Open a gateway."

A silent explosion drove him backwards, away from Greg. A burst of red light blinded him as a portal to Hell opened. It hung in the air, glistening and slick, like a rain puddle laced with motor oil. Through it, Bishop saw the all-too-familiar glowing fires of Hell. The sight made his guts clench. He had a terrible feeling once he entered that damnable place, he'd never find his way back to Earth again. The only thing standing between him and eternal damnation was a demon's promise. Still, if he wanted to be free, he had to take the risk.

"Gatekeeper!" he shouted. "I need passage!"

A giant lizard, with scales like armor, crawled through the doorway. Its black, beady eyes stared Bishop down, and its gray, forked tongue flickered in and out, almost touching his face.

"You wish to enter?" the gatekeeper asked.

"Yes," Bishop replied. "I'm John Bishop, and I have a gift for the demon, Barbas." He kept his eye on Greg. Greg was either too drunk to notice or too stupid to care what was going on a few feet away. He leaned against his car while fumbling with the door lock.

"Bishop," the lizard said. "What gift do you bring?"

"A soul from Earth in exchange for my own freedom."

"But you're already free," the lizard said with surprise. "Haven't you noticed the change?"

Only then did Bishop realize something was wrong. Well, not wrong exactly, but different. The raging fire that had burned under the skin of his thigh for the past ten years was gone. The flames had been quenched. Bishop gasped. He'd been so enthralled by Harper he hadn't been paying attention. His heart soared. Barbas had made good on his deal! He'd freed Bishop as he'd promised.

And yet....

Something didn't make sense. Barbas was bound to the oath he'd made, yet Bishop was bound by that same oath. He shouldn't have been freed until he'd delivered Greg, but Greg stood right in front of him. So what had fulfilled the promise?

"I want to talk to Barbas," Bishop said.

The lizard's tongue flicked. "To what purpose? You're already free."

"Something stinks," Bishop said, growing angry. "I demand to talk to him!"

"You're not in the position to make demands," the lizard growled. Its clawed feet scratched the ground in agitation. Gatekeepers were known to have little patience, especially for humans. They took their jobs as the guardians of Hell's gates seriously.

The slam of a car door let Bishop know Greg had finally gotten into his vehicle. It was either act now, or lose the opportunity. Bishop charged toward Greg, ready to drag him from the car and fight his way into Hell. Although the fiery brand on his thigh no longer burned, Bishop wasn't going to trust he was free until he saw his demon overlord face to face.

The sound of a car horn blared through the parking lot. Bishop was vaguely aware Greg had managed to start his car, but was having trouble with the steering wheel. The engine raced as the drunk man stomped the gas without engaging the transmission.

"Barbas!" Bishop shouted. "Come meet me! We need to talk."

The lizard laughed. "It's no use. He doesn't care for the likes of you." With a flick of its long, sticky tongue, the gatekeeper snatched the feather from Bishop's hand and tossed it into Hell. "You won't be needing this anymore."

Furious, Bishop charged. He wasn't going to be denied entrance by some overgrown Gila monster. The gatekeeper lashed its tongue at Bishop's feet, tripping him and sending him sprawling. Then it wrapped the tongue around Bishop's waist and tossed him into the air. Bishop landed on the hood of a car, grunting in pain when his shoulder took the impact. He rolled off and bounded onto his feet. "Barbas!"

"You called?" Barbas, wearing a tatty, velvet robe appeared on Hell's side of the doorway. A cunning smile played across his craggy face.

"I have your sacrifice," Bishop said. He pointed to Greg's car.

Barbas's laugh sounded like the screech of tires before a terrible accident. "I don't need another sacrifice. You've already paid in full." He stepped aside. To Bishop's horror, Harper stood behind him. Her hands were bound, her eyes wide with terror. When she saw Bishop, she tried to run toward him, but the gatekeeper swished its thick tail, knocking her to her knees.

"Harper!" Bishop cried.

Greg had engaged the transmission. His car lurched forward, crushing the back of the gatekeeper's head which still protruded through the portal. Bones crunched as the vehicle's front tires climbed over the creature. The lizard let loose a frantic squeal and went through its death throes.

Bishop raced to the doorway. If the gatekeeper died, this portal would close forever. "Barbas!" Bishop cried. "Barbas, let her go!" Bishop tried to force his way into H, but without the gatekeeper, the doorway refused to let him cross.

Barbas picked up the feather the gatekeeper had tossed into Hell and held it up in triumph. As the portal to Hell faded from view, all Bishop could do was stare helplessly at Harper on the other side of the divide.

Bishop whirled on Greg. "You idiot!" He slammed his fists so hard against Greg's car he dented the hood. How had this happened?! Greg was meant for Hell, not Harper! From the very beginning, the feather had led Bishop right to his target; Harper had only been there by happenstance.

Or had she?

The question put a chill in Bishop's bones. Maybe he'd read things wrong, and maybe it was Harper who was meant for Hell.

"What happened?" Greg slurred the words. He was still hunched over the steering wheel, but he sat up and rubbed his head. "I think I know you." He squinted up at Bishop.

"Shut up." Bishop's patience had run out. How could this man who had pulled a gun on someone, threatened his girlfriend, and set fire to a dog kennel not be worthy of Hell? He was the perfect candidate.

Then Bishop paused. Greg was perfect for Hell which meant Barbas had wanted Harper for another reason. He didn't want her for himself, though. Barbas wasn't drawn to women or sex. No, it had to be something else. Something devious. Think, Bishop, think. What did Barbas want?

Greg struggled to get out of the car but Bishop pushed him back into the seat. "Stay there," he said, pinning Greg in place with a glower. No way could he set this troll free. One way or another, Greg was going to Hell, and Harper was coming home.

Luckily, the trunk of Greg's car was a kidnapper's treasure trove. In it, Bishop found zip ties and rope along with several weapons. The handgun in Greg's jacket went into the glove compartment.

Bishop didn't waste time. He bound Greg, gagged him, and tossed him inside the trunk. When Greg tried to fight his way free, Bishop used some of the chloroform he found and pressed it to Greg's nostrils until he passed out. Then he slammed the trunk shut and sat in the driver's seat.

Bishop leaned back against the headrest. Despair threatened to overwhelm him. Harper was strong and resourceful, but could she withstand Hell? The thought terrified him. He cursed himself for getting her involved in the first place. He should have grabbed Greg at the onset, regardless of the gunshot wound, and never given Barbas a chance at Harper. He'd been a fool.

One question remained: how to get her back. He needed another portal into Hell, but wasn't sure how to find one now that the feather was gone. Right now, he needed a friend, something he was in short supply of. Ten years had put a gulf between him and anyone whom he might have called on for help.

Well, almost anyone. There was still Tate. She had sent him after the feather in the first place. To his way of thinking, she owed him. Hopefully, she'd feel the same way.

With heavy heart, Bishop drove out of the roadhouse's parking lot and turned left toward what he prayed was the answer to his problems, and not the start of another one.

Bishop drove like the devil was on his tail. He went straight through to Chicago, only stopping once to check on Greg. Greg thrashed and cursed when Bishop tried to offer him water. His murderous eyes looked almost as ferocious as one of the demons from the fighting pit. Not that Bishop was worried. He shoved the gag back into Greg's mouth, dosed him with more chloroform and went back to driving. Every hour he spent away from Harper was another hour she had to endure Hell.

Finding Tate hadn't been hard. Thanks to watching Harper on the computer and the miracle of Google, Bishop had located Tate in a matter of minutes. Apparently, in this day of social media and geo-tags, even half-demons like Tate couldn't hide themselves any longer.

He reached Chicago at eight in the morning and spent the better part of an hour battling the morning traffic as he inched his way toward Lincoln Park. When he reached the house he was looking for, he circled the block until he found a parking spot. And then he sat for a moment to consider his options.

Ten years ago, Tate had hired him to rescue her greatest treasure, the angel's feather, back from Hell where Barbas had hidden it. She'd been clear about the dangers, but even she hadn't known how treacherous and unpredictable Hell could be. Bishop had sneaked into Barbas's lair without a problem. He'd even laid his hands on the feather. But the moment he'd tried to wish his way out of Hell, Barbas had appeared and cursed him. The feather had been rigged.

For the next ten years, Bishop kept his eyes on that feather, knowing Barbas kept it within sight in order to torment him. Each time Bishop had managed to snag it, the thing alerted Barbas, who then punished Bishop by sending him deeper into Hell. Only when Bishop had laid down his weapons and refused to fight had Barbas agreed to set him free. There remained one condition; Bishop had to come up with a worthy substitute. Someone who could fight in the pits in his place.

Not that Tate would have known that. No doubt, she probably thought he'd taken her feather and run away with it. Tate had a short fuse and could carry a grudge. Even if she screwed up in the first place. No, it was best to approach this with smarts.

Leaving Greg in the trunk, Bishop crossed the street to Tate's house. In the time he'd last seen her she'd converted the first story of a Victorian house into an occult shop. A black banner bearing a white, Wiccan symbol fluttered next to the door. A neon sign proclaiming palmistry readings hung in the window. Bishop smiled. Tate had always wanted her own shop. Good for her opening one.

He stepped inside the dimly lit store and was greeted with the calming melody of flute music and trickling water from a meditation fountain. The place smelled of sandalwood incense and patchouli oil.

Tate stood behind the counter reading a book. Her black hair was longer than he remembered and threaded with a few silver strands. Her face was rounder, too, and the extra weight looked good on her. She always had been too thin in his opinion. Still, she was as well-muscled as ever. She wore a tight-fitting, yellow tank top that showed off her toned upper arms and flat belly.

"Tate."

Her head jerked up, and when she saw him, her mouth dropped open. "My God! John!" Then her amazement turned to outrage. "You have some nerve showing up here, you son of a bitch!" She slammed the book shut and marched over to him. "Where's my feather?!"

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

Tate snorted. "Friend? Are you serious? You hide from me for ten years, and you want to call yourself a friend?" The top of her head only came up to Bishop's chin, but she looked ready to tear him to pieces.

"Hold up," he said. "I was in Hell for the past ten years. And you're the one who put me there."

Tate's eyes widened and she lost some of her bluster. "You've been in Hell all of this time?"

"That's right."

She ran her fingers through her hair. "Jesus, John. I had no idea. I thought you ran off with the treasure and left me high and dry."

Bishop sank onto the wooden bench next to the meditation fountain. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Can you blame me?" she asked. "Ten years without a word."

The bell over the door chimed and a young woman entered the shop. Tate scurried over to her. "Sorry, but we're closed today. She smiled and herded the customer out. "I'll be open tomorrow, I promise!" Tate locked the door, turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and shut off the lights. "Come upstairs," she said. "I'll fix you breakfast."

"I could use a shower, too," Bishop said.

"Boy, could you ever." But then she threw her arms around him and hugged him tight. "My God, it's good to see you again."

Chapter Nine

The smell of pancakes drifted in through the closed bathroom door. By the time Bishop had dried off and dressed in the clothes Tate had rustled up for him. His stomach rumbled louder than a Hellcat's growl. "You made my favorite," he said, entering the kitchen.

Tate stood at the stove wearing an old, gingham apron over her clothes. She waved a spatula at the table. "Have a seat. Coffee's ready and the orange juice is cold."

"You never treated me this well before," Bishop said.

"I feel like I owe you for all that time you spent in Hell on my account. But don't get used to it," she said.

She took a red gemstone from the pocket of her apron and handed it to him. "Here."

The smooth stone felt cool and fit into his palm perfectly. "What is it?"

"Beryl, A healing stone. Athletes use it. It's good for what ails you. And from the way you look, you could use all the help you can get."

Bishop knew better than to ask how this bit of stone could help him. Tate's remedies always worked. Though, her magic was a two-way street. After all, it was her angel feather that stuck him in Hell in the first place.

Bishop pocketed the stone and then plunked down at the old, farmhouse table, ready to dive into his breakfast when he had a thought. "Shit." He bolted to his feet. "I've got a problem to take care of."

Tate frowned. "You damn well better eat my pancakes after all the trouble I went to."

"Relax. I'll be back in a minute." Bishop left the upstairs apartment, hustled down the back set of steps, and hurried over to where he'd parked Greg's car. It was much warmer in Chicago than it had been in northern Michigan, and Greg had to be simmering.

Sure enough, when Bishop opened the trunk, he found Greg sweating like a pig. Greg glowered at Bishop and struggled against the zip ties, trying to talk around the gag in his mouth.

Traffic sped by the car, but luckily there were few pedestrians in front of the houses lining the street. At this time of morning, everyone was either at work or hurrying to get there. Bishop dragged Greg out of the car and propelled him over to Tate's house. "Any trouble out of you, and I'll lock you back in there," he growled into Greg's ear. "I don't care if you die of heat exhaustion."

Greg nodded and climbed the stairs to Tate's apartment. When Tate saw Greg, her mouth dropped into a perfect O. "What the hell have you done now?"

"I did what I had to," Bishop said. He shoved Greg into a chair. "Now, behave or it's back in the trunk." Bishop thought he caught the word 'bastard', but other than that, Greg remained silent.

Tate dragged Bishop into the living room. "You want to tell me what's going on?" She shouted in the quietest voice Bishop had ever heard from the woman.

"Long story," Bishop said. But he knew Tate wasn't about to buy that excuse. "It has to do with a woman," he admitted.

"Doesn't it always," Tate said. Bishop knew she could relate only too well.

Bishop told her about how he'd stopped fighting in the pits and about Barbas's bargain. "That feather of yours guided me to him." Bishop jerked his thumb toward the kitchen. "But before I could bring him to Hell, Barbas stole Harper. Now Barbas says the deal has been made. I'm free to leave Hell, but Harper stays."

Tate closed her eyes and sighed. "Let me guess. You want me to send you back to Hell so you can rescue that woman?" When Bishop nodded, Tate shook her head. "No. Way."

"I can't leave her there!" Bishop argued in a low voice. "She doesn't deserve that!"

"And that man does?" Tate asked.

"He's threatened Harper, turned a gun on us, set fire to a kennel full of dogs, and ran over a Hell guardian because he was drunk. And that's only since I met him. God only knows what he did before."

"So he's an asshole," Tate said. "I get it. But what I don't understand is why you're willing to go back to Hell to save someone you met a day ago."

"She's special," Bishop said. The time they'd spent together were the most golden hours of his life. The ones they'd spent apart, the darkest. Even now, on the verge of exhaustion, all he thought about was how to get her back.

Tate studied his face. "I've never heard you talk about a woman that way."

"And you never will again," he said. Sometimes, there's one perfect match in life. Harper was his.

"I'm not a believer in true love," Tate said.

"You're also not a believer in letting the innocent suffer."

"I still want to know why your demon overlord wants her if she's so innocent," Tate grumbled the words. However, Bishop could tell she was weakening.

"I don't know," Bishop said. It would give them an edge if he could figure out why.

"You are all kinds of fool," Tate said. Then she sighed and shook her head. "This is all fucked up, but...."

"Does that mean you're in?"

She shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

Chapter Ten

Tate went downstairs to her office to set up for the ceremony that would take Bishop back to Hell. Although Tate was half-demon, she wasn't a gatekeeper and couldn't open a portal at will. Instead, she needed the right tools, along with blood. Preferably not hers.

Bishop returned to his breakfast. The pancakes had long gone cold. Not that Bishop noticed. He was too busy thinking of how to deal with Barbas.

A steady thumping noise broke into his thoughts. Greg gave him a death glare while he slammed the front legs of his chair against the floor. When Bishop raised his fist as a threat, Greg's glare increased. So did the thumping.

Bishop pulled the gag from Greg's mouth. "What do you want?"

"I'm starving, man," Greg said. "And I have to piss like a race horse."

Bishop considered the request. Tate would murder him if Greg urinated all over her kitchen floor. Bishop hauled Greg to his feet and cut the zip ties from his wrists. "One false move from you, and..."

"...back to the trunk. Yeah, yeah. I get it."

Bishop followed Greg to the bathroom and waited by the open door while Greg took care of business, and then Bishop muscled him back into the kitchen. "You get five minutes to eat."

Greg shoved the cold pancakes into his mouth. "So you're going to send me to Hell," he said while chewing.

"That's the idea."

"You don't have to do that, you know," Greg said. "I can help you get Harper out of there."

"Shut up and eat your pancakes."

"Seriously, we can help each other."

"You don't know the first thing about it."

"Do you want to hear what I have to say, or don't you?" Greg said. "Consider it a condemned man's last wish."

Bishop massaged the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Tell me."

"I'll do better than that. I can show you what happened to Harper the minute she was taken into Hell."

Bishop stared at him for a moment. "How?"

Greg shrugged and looked away. "I might have heard a few things." Then he grinned. "You and Harper had some great pillow talk."

Bishop's hand was around Greg's throat so fast the chair was knocked aside. Bishop stood, raising Greg off the floor. "You listened in on us?" He shook Greg like a rag doll.

Greg clawed at Bishop's hand. His eyes bulged. The word 'sorry' burst from his lips. Bishop dropped him on the floor. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't hurt the man. He needed him to get Harper out of Hell.

Greg, coughing, set the chair aright and climbed back into it. He grabbed Bishop's glass of orange juice and chugged it. "Anyone ever tell you you've got a temper?"

"Anyone ever tell you listening in on another person's conversation is a hanging offense from where I come from?" Bishop asked. Hell enforced strict rules.

"Can you blame me?" Greg asked. "You stole my girl! I had to get her back."

"So you planted cameras in her house?"

"Only a couple."

Bishop's temper burned bright when he thought of Greg listening in on him and Harper making love. It was sick, and it made him feel dirty. Until now, their passion had been pure. Greg had sullied it. "I ought to crush your skull." Bishop cracked his knuckles for effect.

"You won't say that after I show you what happened to Harper."

Bishop's need to shut Greg up warred with his need to know the truth. "Show me."

"Get me some coffee, and I will."

Bishop stood, towering over Greg. "Tell me, or I'll break your nose."

"Okay, okay!" Greg raised his hands to protect his face. "Get my laptop out of my car. The computer will show you everything."

Bishop started to rise, and then hesitated. "If you're playing me, you'll pay dearly."

"I'm not playing," Greg assured him. "I don't want to go to Hell, that's all. If I help you, then maybe you'll help me?" He grinned like a whipped dog.

"I doubt it," Bishop said. Still, he hurried to Greg's car, grabbed the laptop, and returned to the kitchen. Greg was stuffing more pancake into his mouth. He'd even poured himself a cup of coffee.

While Bishop waited, Greg brought up the spy-cam software. Mumbling to himself, he played with the controls until he found what he was looking for. Bishop ground his teeth in rage when he saw Barbas appear in Harper's kitchen.

"That's your demon?" Greg asked. "He looks like a real man."

"Shut up," Bishop growled.

With the sound turned to maximum, Bishop and Greg heard every word of the conversation. When Barbas admitted Bishop's earring had been cursed, Bishop slammed his fists against the table and swore. He'd been such a fool! No doubt Barbas had planned this entire thing from the beginning. Meeting Harper hadn't been an accident. Falling in love hadn't been an accident, either. When Barbas looked into the camera and winked, Bishop knew it for sure. He'd been played for a fool.

When Barbas and Harper disappeared, Greg stopped the video. Bishop's mind raced. If it came down to it, he would trade his freedom for Harper's without question. However, there had to be a way to free both of them. His eyes traveled to Greg who was finishing the last of his coffee. Barbas clearly wasn't interested in him. No, Bishop was going to have to win another way.

Tate came up the stairs. Her reading glasses were perched on the end of her nose and she had a book under her arm. "The good news is the ceremony is all set to go. I can send you back to Hell whenever you're ready."

"And the bad news?" Bishop asked.

"Getting back will be tricky. I'm not an official gate-keeper. Only a half-demon with a few tricks up her sleeves," Tate said. "I can hold this side of the portal open as long as I can, but without that feather...."

"I'll take my chances," Bishop said. He wouldn't leave Harper alone with that demon a minute longer than necessary.

"Now all I need is a blood sacrifice. "And I know just the man for the job." She caught Bishop's eye and smiled.

"Wait! What?" Greg demanded. "You can't mean me!"

"Setting fire to a kennel full of dogs makes you less than human in my book," Tate said. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a gleaming, silver knife with a scrimshaw handle. "Besides, I only need a few drops, so relax."

At the sight of the knife, Greg's face went paper white. He groaned and fell sideways off of the chair in a dead faint.

"That's the most satisfying thing I've seen all day," Bishop said. He watched Tate prick Greg's finger with the tip of the blade and then squeeze out several drops of blood. "Now what?"

"Now you pick that bastard up and follow me downstairs," Tate said. "You're about to go back to where you came from."

Chapter Eleven

Harper paced the large room she'd been tossed into, lavish by Hell's standards. A large bed shrouded with moth-eaten, velvet drapery and a scarred, walnut vanity played center stage in the room. A full-length, oval mirror in a tarnished, silver frame hung on the wall next to the door. The stone floor was covered with threadbare carpet. The place was shabby and elegant, like a countess who had fallen on hard times.

A glass decanter of ice water sat on a tarnished silver tray on the vanity. Harper's throat had been scraped raw from the smoky torches, and the water looked delicious. It even smelled fresh and dewy. However, she didn't dare to so much as wet her lips. Who knew what it really contained? Poison? Or cursed like the earring? Looking at it drove her mad. She grabbed the decanter and flung it across the room. Glass shattered.

If only she could get her hands on that feather! When the lizard creature had flicked it into Hell, she thought she might have a chance to grab it, but Barbas had snatched it up before her. Once the portal to Earth had closed, Barbas had locked her into this room and left with the feather.

The iron door scraped open and Harper bit back a cry, fearful of whatever creature might crawl through. If she had to face a Hellhound or scorpion demons alone, she wasn't sure what she'd do. To her surprise, it was Barbas.

"How do you like your accommodations?" He waved a hand at the window overlooking an overgrown courtyard with a dried-out fountain. "It's the finest room in the palace. Next to mine, of course."

Harper glared at him. "I don't belong here and we both know it."

"Once Bishop comes for you, you'll be released."

Harper believed that like she believed Barbas had a soul. No, if she was going to get out of Hell, it would be because she and John fought their way out. Oh, John, Harper lamented to herself. I hope you have a plan.

"I love watching your hope die." Barbas licked his lips. "Bishop will wear that same expression when he realizes he can't have you."

Harper's hands clenched into fists. "I won't leave without him."

"Really? How about I throw you into the dungeon and see if you change your mind?" Barbas touched her wrist and she jerked away. "Or maybe an hour in the iron maiden? Would that be more convincing?"

Harper's forehead broke into a sweat, and not from the heat of Hell's fire. This oppressive place sucked the air from her lungs. Screams of pain and anguish floated in on the stale air coming through the window. How had John withstood ten years of this? She'd only been here a few hours and wasn't sure she could endure another minute.

Barbas noticed her discomfiture and frowned. "Isn't my palace good enough for you?"

Harper was about to shout no, the palace is horrible, but then she had an idea. As much as she hated Barbas, maybe playing to his ego would be a better strategy. At times, she'd managed to soothe Greg by playing to his ego. It couldn't be much different with a demon. "The palace is worthy of a demon like you," she said, meaning it.

Barbas' smile meant he took this as a compliment. He puffed out his chest. "I've spent millenniums working on it."

"I'd love to see more," Harper said. If she were lucky, maybe she could find out where he'd stashed that feather. John had said that when he'd been in Hell, Barbas had put the damn feather on display to torment him. Hopefully, it was in plain sight now.

Barbas stroked his knife-like beard with his eyes resting on her. "If you're expecting to find an escape route, you'll be disappointed."

Harper struggled to put a smile on her face. "John told me your palace was amazing."

Barbas quirked an eyebrow. "Did he now?" Then, to Harper's relief, he nodded. "Follow me."

The moment she was left the room, Harper put her mind to work and created a mental map of the palace. As she followed Barbas down the long hallways, she counted her steps and took note of every landmark. Luckily, there were plenty. The stone walls were hung with oil paintings depicting portraits of demons and the screaming faces of the damned drowning in lakes of fire. The hallways were lined with doors, and each door had a brass nameplate attached.

Barbas proudly escorted her from room to room, showing off the moldy, old books in the sparse library; the smoky, greasy kitchens full of roaches; the dead plants in the garden; and the throne room with its tin throne. Everything about the place was reeked shabby and revolting. Harper had seen animal hoarder homes in better shape. However, she made sure to mutter compliments and praise. The more she did, the more Barbas's chest swelled.

When Barbas walked past a corridor leading deeper into the palace, Harper stopped him. "What's down there?"

"The prisoners' cells and the fighting pits." He gave her a cunning smile. "You'll get to see those later."

She shuddered. That was the very last place she wanted to visit, yet she hadn't seen the feather yet. Maybe it was down there, in the fighting pits. "Are you sure that's all there is?"

His eyes gleamed. "I suppose you want to see the treasure room."

Harper's heart leapt. Yes! So that's where he hid the feather? She felt it in her bones. "If it's not too much trouble." She batted her lashes. Maybe flirting with a demon was a bad idea, but her desperation grew with every passing minute.

Barbas rubbed his chin while he thought. "All right. This way."

A large, hairy demon the size of a gorilla, hurried down the hallway toward them. "Master Barbas! There's been an incident!"

Barbas frowned. "What now?"

"There's someone here to see you," the hairy demon said. "He's waiting in the prisoner's room."

Barbas flicked his wrist, dismissing the request. "Send him away."

"But it's Bishop."

Harper's heart soared. John hadn't left her. Like he promised, he came back.

Barbas stormed back to Harper's room, and Harper chased after him. When they arrived, her heartbeat picked up. John stood as solid as a granite monument, his muscled arms like iron bars.

"Welcome back, Bishop," Barbas said. He tilted his head back to meet John's eyes. "I wasn't sure you'd show up." His gaze lowered, falling on John's thigh. "After all, you are free of my curse."

"You know me better than that," Bishop said with a growl.

The mirror in Harper's room had grown smoky in her absence. It no longer reflected its surroundings, but looked more like a portal into another world. Harper caught a glimpse of a small shop full of bookshelves and display cases. She also saw Greg. His wrists were bound behind him and he stood in front of a black-haired woman in a yellow tank top. Greg's eyes widened as he glimpsed Hell, and he shouted, "No!" as the woman pushed him through the foggy veil. He landed on his knees on the stone floor in Harper's room and cursed.

"You can't make me stay!" He struggled to his feet. "There's no way!" He turned to charge back through the mirror, but too late. The smoke dissipated the moment he touched it, becoming reflective glass again.

Barbas smiled. He stroked his beard and studied the look of horror on Greg's face. "Who have you brought to the party?" he asked John.

"My replacement." John folded his arms over his chest. "You told me to bring you someone in exchange for me. Here he is."

Barbas's smile widened. "You know I don't want that mongrel," he said, nodding at Greg. "The real prize is this beauty here." He put his hand on Harper's shoulder.

She shook him off while Bishop stepped forward, fists at the ready.

"Don't touch her!"

"She's my prisoner now," Barbas said. "In fact...." Like a magician conjuring a rabbit from a hat, Barbas waved a hand, adding an extra flourish to the gesture. The moment he did, a white-hot poker touched Harper's thigh. She screamed and stumbled forward. Pain blazed beneath the surface of her skin. Only by focusing on John's face could she withstand the agony.

This time, John didn't hold back. He came at Barbas with both fists raised, looking ready to pound him into the ground. But as he made his first punch, Barbas waved his hand again. An expression of surprise flashed across John's face when his hand was halted midair. He gritted his teeth and grunted as he tried to move his arm in vain.

Seeing John immobile, Greg launched himself at the demon, doing an impressive spin kick at Barbas's knees. Had Barbas been a normal man, the kick would have taken him out. However, Barbas laughed. "Nice try." He crooked his index finger and Greg rose from the floor. Then, when Barbas flicked his wrist, Greg sailed overhead, thudding so hard against the wall, Harper flinched.

She wanted to enter the fray, but the pain wouldn't let her. Her eyes watered as the fire under her skin continued to burn. She didn't have to look in order to know the demon had branded her as he had John ten years before. Barbas had marked her with a slave symbol. Now she belonged to him.

"I'm giving you a final chance," Barbas said to John. "Walk away now and save yourself."

"Not going to happen." With a mighty groan, John fought Barbas's invisible hold on his wrist. Sweat broke out along his forehead. He strained against the magic once more, this time breaking the spell. Panting, he stepped back, but looked ready to try again. "I won't give up until Harper is free."

"So it really is true love?" Barbas said in a mocking tone. "How touching." His eyes traveled from Harper to John and back again. "How about we make a bet?"

"Go on," John said.

"Fight one last battle for me. If you win, I'll let you both go free."

"And if I lose?" John asked.

"Then you and the woman are my prisoners. Forever."

John and Harper exchanged looks. Harper didn't trust the demon. Then again, she didn't see that they had another option. If John was in agreement, then so was she.

"I'm in," John said. Harper's stomach clenched, but she nodded.

"Who is he going to fight?" Harper asked.

Barbas's smile widened. "Me."

Chapter Twelve

Ten minutes. That was all Harper needed.

The moment Barbas announced John would fight him, Harper craved time alone with John. If they had ten minutes together, they could make a plan on how to get out of this place. Despite everything, there had to be something they could do. Harper wouldn't let herself believe anything else.

John had been escorted out of her room by a pair of hulking, flat-faced demons the moment he'd agreed to fight Barbas. Right now, he was God knew where while Harper stood helpless in a locked room. Greg lay in the bed nursing a terrible headache. A little souvenir from when Barbas threw him up against the wall.

"Are you sure it's not a concussion?" Greg asked.

"I already said no," Harper said. "Besides, even if it was a concussion, there isn't anything I can do about it." She paced the room, looking for inspiration. Barbas was long gone, and it felt like hours since she'd been locked in. The burning in her thigh made it hard to think, but she refused to lose hope. Somehow, she and John would find each other and escape. She refused to believe anything else.

The door scraped open. A small, blue-skinned demon with a long, pointed nose walked in carrying a covered, silver tray. "The master thought you might be hungry," the creature said. He set the tray down on the vanity. When the demon lifted the cover, Harper caught the scent of sausages and roasted potatoes.

Greg jumped off the bed faster than Harper thought possible, given his headache. Before she could call out a warning, he grabbed a sausage and took a bite. He made a face. "God, this is the worst food I've ever eaten." Not that it stopped him from taking another bite.

Harper's stomach rumbled, and when she saw that Greg hadn't been poisoned or magicked, she considered eating something herself. However, the little demon had given her an idea. "How is Bishop?"

The demon shrugged. "Who am I to say?"

Harper had a strong feeling everyone in Hell had a price. If she could figure out what the demon wanted, maybe she could gain leverage. Unfortunately, she didn't have much to bargain with, only the cursed earring that John gave her. Still, it was worth a try.

She took off the earring and held it out to the demon. "Tell me about John and I'll give you this."

The demon sniffed through his large nose. "What would I want with an earring?"

"John won it off of a demon while fighting in the pits."

The large-nosed demon looked more interested. Then, to her disappoint, he shook his head. "No."

Inspiration hit. "Then how about a nose ring?" She held it up to her nose.

Immediately, the little demon was at her side, holding out its hand. "Okay. Give it to me and I'll tell you."

Harper closed her fist around the earring. "Nope. Tell me first."

The demon offered a sly smile. "You're pretty cagey. Are you sure you haven't been to Hell before?"

"No." And she had no plans to return, either.

The demon shrugged. "Okay. Bishop is back in his cell waiting for the battle."

So he hadn't fought yet. Harper let out a sigh of relief. "I want to see him." Ten minutes with Bishop would give them the edge they needed.

The demon shook his head. "I wouldn't even do that for two earrings."

"How about an earring and a watch?" Greg asked around his mouthful of sausage. "And a silver money clip."

The demon considered. "Throw in your shoes and it's a deal."

Harper held her breath as Greg hesitated. He'd always been particular about his shoes. No doubt his leather loafers cost as much as two of her mortgage payments. To her relief, he nodded. "Fine." He slipped off his shoes and handed them over along with the watch and the money clip. Harper surrendered the earring.

Greg picked another sausage from the silver platter. "Don't you dare forget about me," he said to Harper as she headed toward the door. His sharp eyes had already figured out her plan. Or part of it, anyway.

Harper nodded. "I won't." she promised. And she meant it. As much as she hated Greg, she wouldn't let him rot in Hell when he'd tried to help. No, Hell would still be there for him after he died.

The demon grinned and cradled his armload of booty. "This way," he said and led Harper through the door. Again, Harper paid close attention to the layout of the palace. She counted her steps and took note of the landmarks. By the time they came to the hallway leading to the prisoners' cells, Harper felt confident she could find her way back to Greg without a problem.

The demon she'd been following unbolted the cell door and stepped aside. Harper took a moment before entering, terrified of what she might find. The sunlight of earth seemed light years away. Then she took a deep breath and walked in.

The cell wasn't quite the horror she'd visualized. There was a bed with a mattress and a working toilet. A rickety desk in the corner held several books and writing materials. John wasn't chained. Still, the despair surrounding the place sucked all of the air out of the room. Here, hope came to die.

John took her into his arms the moment she stepped inside. "My God." "I was going crazy wondering what he did to you."

"I'm tougher than I look," she said. She clung to him, grateful that he was alright, yet terrified of what Barbas had in store.

She pulled away. "You can't fight him."

John's jaw clenched. "I don't have a choice."

The demon escort had closed the door and left them alone. Yet, Harper worried someone, or something, would listen in. "We've got to get out of here," she said in a low voice.

"Agreed," John said, also speaking softly.

"I think I know where the feather is."

"In the treasure room?" John said on a guess.

Harper nodded. "All I have to do is steal it."

"Easier said than done. Barbas has probably cursed it again."

Harper's heart sank. She'd forgotten about the curse. "There has to be some way out of here!"

"There is. All I have to do is beat Barbas."

Agitated, Harper ran her fingers through her hair. "What do you mean, that's all you have to do? That monster is unstoppable."

"In case you've forgotten, I've fought demons before."

"I realize that. But this is Barbas," Harper said. "He held your fist in place like it was nothing!"

"You don't have faith in me?"

Harper knew she'd hit a nerve, but she also knew she truth was on her side. For one thing, Barbas held powers she could only imagine. For another, he wouldn't play fair. "Don't you get it? I can't let you fight him." Harper said. "He'll kill you! Or worse!" The threat about the iron maidens still rang in her ears. What other horrors did Barbas's palace contain?

John released a breath and pulled her into his arms. "That won't happen because I won't allow it to happen."

"That's wishful thinking," Harper said. But she allowed John to hold her. Right now, she needed all the comfort she could get.

As they embraced, Harper realized the burning in her thigh had eased. Something had doused the flames. She pulled away, curious about what had happened. The moment she was out of John's arms, however, the pain returned with a vengeance. "Are you wearing something magic?" she asked.

He frowned. "No."

"Are you sure?" She pressed against him, and again, the fire under her skin abated. "Maybe you have something in your pocket?"

John's eyes lit up. "I do!" He reached into his pocket then slipped something small and hard into her palm. "A gift from Tate. She called it a healing crystal."

Harper glanced at the item he passed her. The red gemstone glowed under the dim lighting of the cell. When she held it to her thigh, the gem turned dark ─ almost black ─ but the pain eased. "Does it remove curses?"

John shrugged. "It wouldn't surprise me. Tate's trinkets always have a lot of power attached to them."

"Think it could neutralize a curse on the feather?" she asked.

John grinned. "Definitely worth a try."

Harper gazed at the crystal again. Great hope rested on such a tiny bit of mineral. Still, it was better than nothing. She put the gem into her pocket.

"If that thing can break the feather's curse, then all you need to do is find the feather, wish yourself to me, and then, if we're lucky, there will be enough magic left for us to wish our way out of here," John said.

A bitter laugh left Harper's lips. "Easy peasy."

John cupped her chin and looked into her eyes. "You work from your end; I'll work from mine. We'll get him."

"Or go down trying," Harper said.

When John pressed his lips to hers, she tilted her head back to meet his kiss. Desperation, made the connection more passionate because neither of them knew if they'd see one another again. Harper couldn't bear the thought of losing him now. They'd only been together for a short while, yet their adventures made it seem as if they'd lived a lifetime together. Their kiss wasn't just a sign of affection. It was a sign of defiance. Even in the pits of Hell, love existed. Barbas might think he could crush their hope. She meant to prove he couldn't.

Two, hulking demons the size of gorillas marched into the cell. Their flat faces remained impassive but they sneered with their eyes when they saw Harper and John embracing Harper glared. Let them smirk. She and John would get out of here.

"It's time," the guard on the left said. He reached for John, who jerked away.

"There's no need to restrain me," John said. "I'm coming of my own, free will."

The guard's nostrils flared and he snorted. "Have it your way."

Before he crossed the threshold from cell to passageway, John looked over his shoulder and winked at Harper. She smiled back, admiring his confidence. "I'll see you soon," she said, praying those four little words were a certainty and not an idle promise.

As John's footsteps faded, Harper was left standing in the empty cell, forgotten. Which was perfectly fine with her. The cell door hung open, an invitation to go looking for the treasure room. All she had to do was locate an angel's feather and wish her and John's escape out of here.

Then she had a thought. Greg was a horrible person, but he was also an extra set of eyes and hands. Two people searching for the angel's feather would certainly be better than going alone. Even if it meant allying herself with her enemy.

She left the cell and hurried back toward the room where she and Greg had been locked up. Her mental map proved reliable, and within a few minutes, she was back at the room.

She unbolted the door and called out to Greg in a low voice. "Follow me."

Greg, who had been sitting on the bed, bolted off and joined her. He stank of the sausages he'd been eating. "What's the plan?" He kept his voice quiet. He might be a monster, but he wasn't a fool.

"We need to find Barbas's treasure room." and I have a pretty good idea of where to look." Harper headed off in what she hoped was the right direction, Greg following at her heels.

When they reached an intersecting hallway, Greg put a finger to his lips and motioned for her to dog her heels. He flattened himself against the wall and peered around the corner. When he was satisfied the coast was clear, he nodded and they pressed on.

The palace wasn't a labyrinth, but there were enough corners that Harper's concentration was severely tested. Twice, when they encountered dead ends, they had to turn around and retrace their steps. Harper sensed Greg's growing impatience.

"Let me go first," he said, trying to push past her.

"Forget it," she said. His sense of direction was only slightly better than his bad temper. She'd rather risk pissing him off than getting lost. Although she had no way of knowing, she sensed the battle between John and Barbas was about to begin. She prayed it hadn't yet ended in John's death.

The thought of the battle urged her on faster. She broke into a sprint. Luckily, the palace halls were empty. No doubt everyone had gone to the pits, eager to see the fight.

"Are you sure we're going in the right direction?" Greg asked. "All these torches look alike and we haven't passed a door in quite a while."

"Shhh," Harper said. She stopped walking and raised her hand in warning. From somewhere up ahead, she'd caught the clink of metal against stone. It might have been the sound of iron-shod boots on the stone floor, or it could have been something more dangerous.

She crept forward; her breath held. Greg followed suit, skulking in her shadow. The sound came again and Greg nodded. He'd heard it as well. Peering around the corner, Harper saw two more of the immense, flat-faced guards that had led John from his cell. They stood in front of a large, iron-clad doorway Harper was certain lead to the treasure room. The guards weren't armed, but they didn't need to be. Their bare feet ended in sharp talons that scraped like steel against the stone floor. Their muscled arms were like tree trunks. Their hands could squash her head like a grape. Physically, there was no way she or Greg could get past them.

Harper turned toward Greg. "Can you distract them while I slip inside?"

He snuck a peek around the corner at the guards. "Are you kidding me?" he asked in an outraged whisper. "Even your friend Bishop couldn't do that!"

"Who's there?!" one of the guards shouted. The clatter of those steel talons against the floor almost sent Harper scurrying away. Instead of running, she stood her ground with Greg cowering behind her. She swallowed, then spoke in the toughest voice she could muster. "I want to see the treasure room."

The guard's laughter sounded like a gorilla's hoot. "No one but Barbas's guests are allowed in there."

"I'm a guest," Harper insisted. Although, she wasn't sure if prisoners counted as guests.

The guard lowered its head and sniffed, its wide nostrils flaring. "You bear Barbas's mark. I can smell it seared into your flesh."

"That's right!" Harper nodded. "I do bear his mark." She was fully prepared to yank down her jeans and show him, too, if it meant she could get inside that room. "I'm a guest."

The guard snorted. "You're a prisoner."

"I was brought here by Barbas." To her relief, the guard seemed to consider this. Then she added, "I'm Bishop's friend."

The guard reared back and clenched the slabs of his hands into fists. "Bishop? The fighter?" He scowled. "That human is an enemy! Do you know how many demons he's killed?"

Harper shrank back against the wall, cursing herself for dropping John's name. She'd thought his reputation as an expert in pit fighting would have made him a superstar. Guess she'd been wrong. Now what?

"Over here!" Greg had retreated down the hall. In his hand was one of the sausages delivered to their room. Harper knew he'd smelled of meat! He must have taken some food with him.

Greg dangled the sausage like an oversized dog treat. "Want it?" "Come get it!"

It was a ridiculous plan and Harper knew by the way the guard's eyes narrowed he wasn't pleased. In three, long strides, he had caught up to a retreating Greg. The guard grabbed Greg around the neck and shook him like a doll. "What do you think I am? An animal?!"

Something whizzed by Harper's head, making her shriek and duck. A razor-sharp talon flicked out like a switchblade, lopping off the head of the demon who held Greg suspended above the ground. Greg dropped to his knees as the demon's headless body fell to the side. Rivers of sticky blood poured from the stump of the demon's neck. Harper shrank back in disgust, narrowly avoiding being doused. Greg bore the full brunt of the sticky fluid. He staggered to his feet, covered in the rank, black mess.

Harper whirled around, coming face-to-face with the other demon guarding the door. She wasn't sure if she should thank him or flee in terror.

"You're Bishop's friend?" the demon asked. He looked identical to his partner, save for a long, white scar marking the side of his face. At some time, his upper lip had been injured and was pulled back in a permanent grimace.

Harper's voice shook, despite her best efforts to keep it level. "Yes."

"He saved my brother's life once in the pits," the demon said. His eyes flat, black eyes showed no emotion, but one couldn't mistake his grateful expression. "Barbas made him pay for that mistake. I vowed never to forget the favor." He nodded at the treasure room doors. "I'll let you in."

Relieved, Harper sucked in a breath of air and smiled, knowing kind hearts in Hell were a rarity, not to be taken lightly. "Thank you." I'll make sure that Bishop knows about your kindness."

The demon nodded, and then, without a word, unlocked the treasure room door and allowed them entry.

Chapter Thirteen

The crowds, the chanting, the mingled smells of blood and ichor...all came back to Bishop the minute he stepped through the iron gates and into the fighting pit. So did the fear and the feeling of being trapped. After ten years, this scene had become part of his identity. Even Harper couldn't erase his brutal past.

John had stripped out of his street clothes and donned his gladiator's subamarilis. The leather garment was stained with the blood from prior battles and scarred with from the glancing blows of his opponents' weapons, but he'd never asked for new armor. He'd worn this armor for every one of his thirty-five fights, and he considered it lucky. He prayed it would help him now. He chose to go barefoot, rather than wear sandals. His shield hung on his arm, and his short sword fit comfortably in his hand. It was as if he'd never left the pits.

Most of the demons in the stands chanted Barbas's name, but a small section faintly called out for Bishop. He searched for his admirers in the upper tier of the stone risers but couldn't see them through the haze of smoke of burning torches. Knowing some rooted for him in this godforsaken place raised his spirits. At least he wouldn't be facing Barbas without some support.

As he walked to the center of the arena, his thoughts were on Harper. Had she located the treasure room? And if so, had she found a way in? He pushed the thoughts from his mind. If he meant to beat Barbas, he had to stay focused. Conquering the demon was all he could worry about right now.

An explosion of shouts and whistles let him know Barbas had entered the arena. Barbas hadn't even bothered changing into armor or carrying a sword. Typical. Still, the demon's overconfidence worried him. Barbas entered the area unarmed because he knew he didn't need weapons. The demon held powers Bishop could only dream of. Bishop flexed his arm, remembering how Barbas had pinned it in place. If the demon wanted to, he could end the fight within seconds. Bishop wasn't about to let that happen.

Barbas smiled and waved at his admirers. He'd always loved attention. To get them to cheer louder, he raised his arms and pumped his fists. The noise in the stadium swelled like the roar of an ocean, Bishop's meager cheering section drowned out amid the loud chants.

John tensed, waiting for his chance. The only rule in the fighting pits of Hell...no rules, no rules at all. Barbas knew this, but the adoration of his court had apparently driven the idea from his mind. If John could spring into action at the right time, he might get the drop on the demon.

The spectators threw object from the stands. Instead of roses, the objects consisted of clumps of ashes and bones, the remains of other fighting pit victims. A rib dropped at Bishop's feet and he kicked it away in disgust. This is your last fight. One more, and you're out of here.

Now, all he had to do was beat Barbas.

With the demon's back to him, Bishop edged closer. He sensed every eye in the stands was focused on Barbas. Very few paid him any attention. Still, he had to be careful.

The gifts from the stands continued to drop, as if Barbas had won already. Someone threw strips of brightly dyed dragon's hide. Someone else tossed in a bouquet of dead flowers. When Barbas stooped to pick it up, Bishop took his chance. He charged, sword held high. A section of the crowd gasped and then shouted a warning to the demon. Barbas turned to face Bishop as his opponent sliced downward with his short sword.

Barbas's look of astonishment spurred Bishop to put more strength into his swing. Steel met bone as Bishop drove the sword into Barbas's neck. Barbas howled in fury and reared back, using his powers to lift Bishop from the floor and toss him against the wall. Bishop grunted in pain when his injured shoulder met the unyielding stone wall. He slid down the wall and hit the ground with a thud. Immediately, he sprang to his feet, ready to rush the demon again. This time, he'd have fight left-handed. The pain from his gunshot wound was too great to hold the sword up with his right.

Barbas, too, was injured. Ichor flowed from the wound on his neck where Bishop's sword cut him. The crowd booed. Two winged demons spread their pinions and circled the top of the pit, shrieking in outrage. Barbas clutched his bleeding neck while glaring at Bishop from across the arena. He said something Bishop couldn't hear above the roar of the crowd. He was pretty sure he could guess the message, though, and it wasn't 'congratulations'.

Barbas grasped the cut in his neck, but raised his free hand in the air. Without warning, a cloud appeared. Bishop's heart sank. He recognized this spell. It was pestilence, a particularly devious trick since the flying demons were tiny and therefore hard to fight. Like biting insects, they attacked together in a cloud, and were small enough to flood their enemy's ears and nose. Their bites weren't deadly, but very painful. Barbas wanted Bishop on the run. He knew it would entertain the crowd.

Bishop deflected the first attack of the pestilence with the flat of his sword. A handful of demons fell, cut into even smaller pieces by the lethally sharp blade. The others buzzed in fury and reassembled for another attack. Then they dove again, this time heading for Bishop's face. When the cloud came for him, Bishop dodged right and rolled across the floor, springing to his feet near some strips of dyed dragon skin.

Tiny demons peppered his skin, sinking their talons and teeth into him. He thought for certain he'd stumbled into a hill of fire ants. The crowd roared in laughter as he hopped from one foot to the other, trying to stomp on the little demons. He grabbed a strip of the dragon hide and flicked it like a swatter at the cloud of flying demons. To his relief, he took out one-half their numbers. Another flick took out more. When he advanced, ready to destroy every last one, the cloud of tiny demons turned and fled. It would seem none were eager to fight to the death. Even if Barbas had ordered them to.

Bishop wheeled around to find Barbas holding his own strip of dragon hide. The demon used it as a tourniquet to bind the wound in his neck. Barbas still bled, but not as profusely as before. The demon also struck a cunning expression which meant he had a plan in mind.

Not that Bishop would wait for his plan to fall into place. No, he needed to move and move fast. Acting on instinct, he picked a spot on Barbas's skull and threw his sword like a spear ─ a desperate move, but one that brought him luck before. More than once the move had saved his life.

Throwing with his left hand was much harder than his right. Instead of sinking point-first into Barbas's skull, the tip of the sword caught Barbas in the shoulder. The demon howled his outrage. His black eyes blazed. He opened his mouth and unleashed a stream of fire at Bishop's chest. Bishop jumped aside a second before he was incinerated. The fire blazed past him, turning a strip of stone floor black in its wake. Orange and deadly, the stream blew like a force of nature. Bishop marveled that Barbas could control it.

The stream of fire reached the back of the stadium and beyond, climbing the stone wall separating the audience from the gladiators. The lower section of demons shrieked as the fire continued to rise. They clamored over each other in their desperation to escape. The fire pressed on, and with their bodies as fuel, blazed brighter. The flames scattered to the very top of the section.

The smell of scorched demon flesh filled the air. Barbas's attack had been powerful. Too powerful. The flames had incinerated a lower section of the stands. Blackened lumps rested where demons sat moments before. The crowd roared, this time in outrage, as it witnessed the slaughter of comrades. Barbas might have been their king, but he'd crossed a boundary. The audience was not a part of the fight.

Barbas blinked and looked over his handiwork. For the first time in ten years, Bishop saw uncertainty, and even fear, in his former master's eyes. The crowd murmured uneasily then one, clear voice rose above the others. "Bishop! Bishop!"

The crowd picked up the cheer. "Bishop! Bishop!"

Bishop's heart swelled. Barbas might have been their king but Bishop had been their champion for ten years. He'd always fought fair and with honor. Even in Hell that meant something.

"Bishop! Bishop! Cut him down!"

The tide had turned. Bishop felt it. Unfortunately, Barbas sensed it too. The demon lord's smile widened when he raised his arm over his head and floated upward.

Clearly, this fight wasn't over yet.

A roar rolled like a wave through the empty halls of Barbas's palace. Harper and Greg paused and looked up. "Is that another demon?" Greg asked.

"No, the crowd in the pits is roaring," Harper said. Her heart raced thinking of John standing victorious over Barbas's body. She couldn't allow herself to think the outcome was anything else. Still, she wasn't giving up on her search for the angel's feather until she knew for certain the battle was over.

Barbas's treasure looked like a junk closet. The place was the size of a large garage, every inch was crammed full of shelves. Tacky costume jewelry hung on the arms of a headless mannequin and rusted chain mail had been dumped on the floor. Shoved on the shelves were glass jars of old marbles and rusted nuts and bolts. A few broken-down personal computers that looked to be from the eighties sat next to a collection of broken pottery which, to Harper, looked ancient.

"This place is a garbage heap," Greg complained. He tossed aside a dented bicycle rim blocking his path. "Are you sure we're in the right place?"

Harper wondered the same thing. How could any of this stuff be valuable?

"What's that red light in your pocket?" Greg asked, pointing.

Harper frowned, uncertain what he meant. Then she remembered the gem John had given her. She pulled it out of her pocket, startled to see it glowed as bright as a laser. She held it closer to the item she'd been examining, a mummified sparrow. The red light burned brighter. To test it, Harper walked away, coming close to a starched, linen handkerchief. The light died, and the fragment of mineral grew black.

The little gem was sending her a message. She needed to figure out what. Though she couldn't know for certain, Harper guessed the beryl turned colors based on whether or not an object was cursed. But, did the red light mean the object was also dangerous? Or, did the red light signal the object was safe? Harper would have to test the theory.

"Greg! Pick up this sparrow." Intuition told her the red light meant an object was safe, but she'd already tangled with cursed objects and didn't want to do so again. Let Greg take the risk.

"Afraid of a little, dead bird?" Greg jeered. Harper held her breath as he picked up the tiny, mummified body. When nothing happened, she let her breath out again. So red was safe. Now to test the black color.

"Happy now?" Greg asked. He dropped the bird in disgust and immediately picked up the starched, linen handkerchief to wipe his fingers. Before Harper could call out a warning, he yelped in pain when the white cloth enveloped his hand. "Get it off!" he cried. Several spots of blood appeared on the pristine, white fabric. Greg waved his hand in the air and attempted to yank off the handkerchief.

Harper grabbed Greg's injured hand and pressed the red beryl to the handkerchief. The cloth fell to the floor and smoked.

"God! What was that thing?" Greg flexed his fingers and examined his hand. The cursed handkerchief had opened two dime-sized, bloody spots on his palm.

"Be careful what you touch," Harper said. "Most of this stuff is cursed."

Greg eyed the collection of objects with greater concern.

"Now you tell me."

Harper used the red beryl to guide her from object to object. Looking hard at every piece of trash, she almost missed the angel's feather. It was hidden in plain sight, a decoration on a woman's felt hat. However, there was no mistaking its elegance and beauty.

Harper's heart lifted. Maybe they could get out of Hell after all. The beryl signaled red. Barbas hadn't gotten a chance to curse it again. Relieved, Harper plucked the feather from the hat. "I've got it!" she called out to Greg who was in the opposite corner studying a blank-eyed teddy bear.

Greg ran to her side. He hovered over her shoulder like a hungry bear. "Are you sure that's it?"

"Positive."

"Then thank-you very much." Greg plucked the feather from her hand and dodged aside when she tried to grab it back.

"We need to get to John!"

"No, we need to get out of Hell. You and me." Greg grabbed her hand and shouted, "Detroit!" just as Harper shouted, "John Bishop!"

The feather quivered as it processed two different orders. Harper made another grab for the feather but Greg held her off. She clawed at his arm and then reached for his face. No way in hell was she leaving here without John!

The feather still hadn't sent them anywhere. Praying the beryl would protect her, Harper grabbed the first cursed object she saw – an old toothbrush – and shoved it down the back of Greg's shirt. Greg cried out in pain as the unholy object touched his neck. Harper pushed him away, grabbed the feather from his hands, and again shouted John's name.

The instant before she disappeared from the treasure room, Greg snagged the back of her sweater. A second later, they were both in the center of the fighting ring. Just in time to see Barbas in midair and John on his knees.

Chapter Fourteen

The crowds, the noise, the stink of burning demon flesh...was too much. A wave of dizziness swept over Harper, and she nearly fell on her butt as the world spun around her.

"Harper!"

John's shout readjusted her focus. She fought the rising, gray tide threatening to pull her under. Now, more than ever, she had to remain strong. She could not fail now.

John stood twenty feet away, near the back wall of the pit. Above him lay a scorched section of risers, and on the risers, lumps of charred, demon remains. Dead bodies. That's what she'd smelled when entering this damned place.

The pit was surrounded on three sides by spectators, two-hundred strong with every eye on her, John, Barbas, and Greg. The fight raging between Barbas and John was a nail-biter. Barbas floated between her and John. With his arms raised above his head and his black eyes flashing, he looked like an unappeased God, ready to strike down anyone who crossed him.

Seeing Harper and Greg, Barbas tilted his head back and roared so loud the ground shook. Harper fell backward into Greg who shouted in terror and covered his ears with his hands. A river of flames spewed from Barbas's mouth. It plowed across the length of the pit, creating a ten-foot chasm between Harper and John. The crowd cheered.

Well, not the entire crowd. In fact, not even most of it. Harper noticed several sections booed while others chanted Bishop's name. Not all present were happy with the demon lord.

"Let's go," Greg said. His wide eyes were fixed on Barbas's floating figure.

Harper had used the feather to wish them to Bishop's side and she still felt its power against her fingers. Could the feather help her cross the fiery chasm to John's side and then wish them back to Earth? She prayed it would.

"The lovers are separated!" Barbas's voice mocked them from above. "Oh, no, how will they ever manage to escape?" He released another stream of liquid flame directed at Harper. She sprinted away but not before the fire scorched her arm. With a shriek, she yanked off her sweater. Luckily, the sweater took most of the damage, saving her skin from a serious burn.

"Coward!" John shouted. "You're here to fight me, not her!"

Barbas circled the pit, his tawdry cape fluttering behind him. "You forget who you are! You are my slave. You will always be my slave!" He released another burst of fire but the flame was weaker and more ineffective than the last. She prayed he had overextended his power and strength.

"I am lord and master of Hell!" Barbas crowed. "No one can defeat me!"

"You are not my lord or master!" Harper shouted, despite her inner fear. Barbas's last gout of flame had come too close to John. With Barbas in hanging the air, John could not fight back. Nonetheless, he stood like a warrior, sword in hand, his face a mask of grim determination, his stance strong. Harper's heart swelled with pride.

She sensed a movement from behind before Greg plowed into her. He knocked her to the ground, driving the air from her lungs. As she struggled for breath, he flipped her over and straddled her. "Give me that feather!" His eyes wide with terror, spittle flew from his lips. "I've got to get out of here!"

Instead of trying to fight him, Harper pulled the feather from beneath her camisole. "Take me to John!"

In the blink of an eye, she and Greg crossed the fiery chasm and stood beside John. John grabbed the back of Greg's neck, yanked him off Harper, and tossed the man aside like a bag of trash. Before Harper could respond, John grabbed her hand and said, "Ravenstock."

Instead of leaving the scene, pain shot through Harper's thigh. She shrieked and clutched her leg, the fiery heat burning from the inside out. No amount of ice would put out those flames.

"What did you do to her?!" John screamed.

Smirking, Barbas dipped low to the ground. "She's mine now. She can't leave Hell unless I allow it."

John let go of Harper's hand and swung his sword, striking Barbas a blow to the calf. Barbas howled his anguish and shot upward.

"The beryl!" John called to her. "It's supposed to cancel curses."

Maybe. But Harper doubted it beryl could eradicate such a strong curse. She needed something stronger.

Like yesterday's birthday balloon, Barbas sank lower and lower to the ground. Strain showed on his features. John swung his sword again but the demon lord deflected the blow by into the stands. Instead of cheering, however, the crowd booed. Their champion had let them down. A tall, thin demon with empty pits for eyes, flicked its whip-like tail and lassoed Barbas's feet. The demon's tail stretched taut, fought hard to wrestle Barbas to the ground. "Get in that pit and fight like a demon!"

"Yes, Barbas! Come fight me!" John shouted.

This time, the crowd roared Barbas's opponent's name.

The look of hatred on Barbas's face could have set Hell on fire anew. He zoomed in close to John but struggled to hold himself aloft. "I'm through playing around!" he said, but his voice no longer echoed off of the stone bleachers. Harper had been right; Barbas's power had ebbed.

John must have noticed too as a smile spread across his face. "What's wrong, Barbas? Trouble in paradise?" He swung his sword over his head, drawing another cut on Barbas's legs. "Need a little help?"

The end appeared close, yet still far away. Even with Barbas failing, Harper wondered how long John could hold on. She, John, and Greg were trapped on a narrow strip of ground, surrounded by lakes of lava. The stands were high and sheer, impossible to climb. The crowd seemed to have switched to John's side, yet would they intervene on his behalf.

Her eyes dropped to the feather, and she had a wild, desperate idea.

"Yank on his feet the next time he drops from the sky, hold on tight, and whatever you do, let him go the instant I tell you to."

John's eyes went hard, and for a moment, Harper worried he wouldn't trust her enough to let her take charge. To her relief, he nodded. "Okay."

"Barbas!" John shouted. "Bet you can't hit me again!"

Barbas snarled and raised his hands, ready to release more fire.

Nothing happened.

Someone in the stands threw a skull, hitting Barbas directly in the forehead. The crowd roared with laughter.

A furious Barbas zoomed toward John. John tensed, then sprang. His fingers closed around Barbas's ankle, dragging him downward. Harper wasted no time in shoving the angel's feather into the side of Barbas's boot. "Bottom of the lava river!" she shouted.

"No!" Greg screamed. "That's our ticket out, you bitch!" He grabbed for the feather, his fingers brushing the tip. Both Greg and Barbas were sucked into one of the fiery pits.

John ran to Harper and clasped her in a bear hug. He spun her in circles, shouting to the crowd. The audience no longer sat in stunned silence but erupted into raucous cheers and applause. Stomping their feet, they shouted John's name.

John set Harper on the ground. She laughed and cried at the same time, realizing her thigh no longer burned. The curse had been broken.

She and John were free!

Chapter Fifteen

John sat at Harper's kitchen table, knife and fork in hand. "That smells wonderful," he said.

Harper grinned and placed a stack of pancakes in front of him. "It's an old family recipe" "My grandmother passed it on to mother who gave it to me."

John drizzled real maple syrup over the stack and then took a bite. He moaned his pleasure. "My God, this is good."

Harper stood behind him, slipped her arms around his shoulders and pressed her cheek against his head. "I can make this every morning if you like." She had been afraid of approaching the subject during the two weeks John had been living with her. He'd even gone to Ravenstock every day to help rebuild the kennel. She'd almost allowed herself to hope he'd stay with her for good, but she had to know for sure.

"I'll make you a deal," John said. "You make me pancakes, and I'll clean up." He pushed his chair back and almost tipped her off-balance. Then he swung her, laughing, into his lap. He kissed her slow and deep, as if they had all the time in the world.

"You taste like maple syrup." She teased a corner of his mouth with her tongue.

"And you taste like heaven," he said. He clasped his hands around her waist and repositioned her so she straddled him. "I've never been this happy in my life."

"Me either." She ran her hands over his strong shoulders. After working outside, his skin was smooth and bronze. His once brutally short hair had grown long and was now streaked with sunlight. He'd also won the hearts of every teenage volunteer at Ravenstock. Even Maggie loved him.

But not everything was sunshine and roses. John's restlessness made it impossible for him to sleep through the night. Harper sensed he had nightmares about fighting in the pits. She'd also noticed a faraway, almost homesick look in his eyes. Her heart trembled at the thought he might leave seeking a more adventurous life.

Thus, she had to find out what he wanted. If he planned on leaving, she wouldn't stop him. She had to let him discover his own path. He'd been chained up for so long. Harper didn't want to pen him in again.

Nuzzling her neck he made it hard for her to concentrate. They'd been spending so much time in bed, a single touch from John made her wet and wanting. Right now, she considered leading him into the bedroom but then she held firm. She had to find out how long he was staying.

"John?"

He brushed the hair from her face. "What, my love?"

Her heart leapt at the endearment, the first time he's used it. Please, God, don't let it be the last. "Are you...will you...?" She sucked in a deep breath. "Are you leaving?"

He blinked, surprised. "Why? Are you kicking me out?"

She pressed herself against him. "No! Never! But, don't you have a life to get back to, people to see who might miss you? Or a job you need to get back to? Or...." Her tears came unbidden. Who was she kidding? She'd never be able to let him go, not when he meant so much to her.

John brushed her tears aside with gentle fingers. "Hey, don't cry."

"Are you leaving me?" she asked again.

His lips formed a firm line. "My life, at least the life I had ten years ago, is gone. I've been checking up on people." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the new phone Harper bought him. "My only living relative was my mother, and she passed five years ago. My friends are scattered to the four winds. My job...?" he gave a rueful laugh, "My job was collecting holy relics for clients, it's safe to say I won't be doing that again. I've learned my lesson about playing around with those things."

Harper hardly dared hope. "And Tate?"

"Tate is busy with her girlfriend. Or, if she's single right now, she'll soon be busy with a new girlfriend. No, you are my world right now, Harper."

The tears came again, but this time Harper they were tears of laughter. "Good. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

He held her close. "I only have one thing to do first."

"What?" Harper asked.

"Take you to the mountains. I found the owner of that cabin and she's willing to rent it by the week." John took Harper's hands in his. "Will you go with me?"

"Always," she said and kissed him.

He looked her in the eye. "Is that a promise?"

Harper's breath caught. "Yes," she whispered.

"Forever," he agreed and kissed her."

Ready for more urban fantasy? Try The Book of Lost Souls.

Ever since demons first made their appearance on Earth, the Protectorate has been working hard to send them back to hell. It's a dirty war between good and evil, and it gets even tougher when a demonic prophet named Hezbah threatens to smash the gates of hades and release every demon inside.

Unfortunately, the only two people who can stop Hezbah aren't speaking to each other.

Kia Saunders takes her job as a Protectorate agent very seriously. She thought her partner, Levi, did as well. But after Lev's disregard for the rules almost gets her killed, she questions everything she knows about the demons...and Levi.

Fearless, swaggering Levi Asche is the best Protectorate demon hunter in Detroit. Or at least he was until he made a mistake that cost him his job, his home, and his partner.

Now, as Lev and Kia work together to stop Hezbah, two things remains clear: Hezbah's powers are greater than anyone guessed. And even when they're arguing, Kia and Lev have never been better together.

Read chapter one of The Book of Lost Souls

Chapter One

Kia Saunders sat alone, watching her black candles burn down to nubs. She'd been at the downtown market all night but still hadn't found the demon she'd been hired to kill. The candles hadn't lured it in nor had the pentagram drawn in chalk. On an impulse, she'd used a few drops of her own blood to call the creature to her, but no luck. She had a feeling that it was hiding among the shadows, laughing at her.

She'd wanted to come during the day when she could actually see what was going on, but the fruit and vegetable vendors who had hired her insisted that she not draw attention to herself. Detroit was gaining a reputation as a demon hotspot, and the vendors worried they'd lose business if word got around. Even though Kia had told them that the crowds were what attracted the demons, they wouldn't listen. Now, she'd sat all night in the market for nothing.

She stood, putting her hands to her aching back. As the shy, morning sun colored the sky, the vendors were arriving and setting up their wares. Unfortunately, any hope she'd had of catching the demon before the market opened was gone.

She was dousing the candles and erasing the chalk outline with water from her water bottle when something dark and sinister entered her periphery. The demon!

Kia held her breath and kept still, hoping it would come closer. It did. She could smell the brimstone of its breath and feel heat radiating from its body. A moment before it touched her, she spun and thrust her blade at it. But it was too late. The creature was already gone. Cursing, Kia grabbed her candles and went after it.

Now that the market was filling up, it would be much more difficult to track the beast. Already, a few early morning shoppers had arrived, hoping to get deals on baskets of strawberries or flats of pansies. Very soon, families would follow on their heels. All those babies in their strollers would be tempting food for a creature that fed on young flesh.

Kia had to kill this beast and quickly.

Despite her urgency, however, she moved slowly. She couldn't risk rushing past the demon because she was in too much of a hurry to notice it. She peered into the bed of every pickup truck and looked behind every trolley of flowers. Now that it was light out, she could also see into the rafters of the pavilion far above her. Although, if the demon was up there, she'd never be able to catch it.

A gray-haired man gave a yip of surprise. Kia whirled, catching sight of the demon as it upended a display table. Dozens of apples rolled across the cement floor. One tripped a lady who had been texting on her phone, and she came crashing down on her knees.

The demon feinted, as if to feed on the woman, but at the last minute, it darted off again, probably looking for smaller prey. Kia sprinted after it, avoiding apples and snaking her way between shoppers. By now, the aisles were becoming crowded. And, sure enough, the families were starting to arrive.

Once again, Kia lost the demon. Damn it! Most demons were all appetite with very little brain, but this one appeared to be clever. Just her luck. If she'd known what a difficult take-down this was going to be, she would have charged her clients double.

Kia kept on high alert as she threaded her way through the yuppie suburbanites who were buying organic asparagus and paper bags of mushrooms. At least she fit in. Normally when she worked a job, she wore snug leather pants, a neon-pink bandeau, and a heavy jean jacket. Denim because it was easy to wash blood stains out of, and leather because it was hard to bite through. Bright pink bandeau because it was pretty. But today she was full-on yuppie: Capri pants, Hollister t-shirt and sandals.

Although Kia wasn't in uniform, she did carry her tools of the trade: a pair of silver daggers sheathed inside her pants; a protective ward made of woven hemp, magicked beads, and a hawk's feather; and her black candles, chalk, and canister of salt. There was also a recycled deli container in her canvas shopping bag to hold the demon's heart once she'd cut it out of the little bastard.

If she cut it out, that was. Right now, she was losing hope that she'd ever find it.

Then she spotted it again, near a wagon in which a toddler was seated. The demon was only slightly larger than the child. Pale, with a bulbous head and wasted body, the monster looked like a malformed human baby. Its teeth were enormous. While the unwitting parents picked through bundles of lettuce, the child whimpered at the sight of the creature.

Kia flew up the aisle, knocking people out of her way. She drew her dagger and took aim. When she reached the wagon, she dropped to her knees and thrust up with the blessed silver of her weapon. But the demon nimbly darted aside without taking a hit. The thing let out an ungodly wail that made the toddler scream. His parents whipped around, saw Kia with the blade, and let out screams of their own.

In the split second it took for Kia to get to her feet, the demon took off. Damn and double damn! She'd be chasing this thing all day!

Having lost it again, she paused near the blind musician who always kept watch at the crossroads of the market. Kia had been down here in January, when the Michigan winds blew like the breath of ice gods, and Fret would still be there, playing to an empty house. He'd been a demon hunter himself, he once told her. And it was a demon's touch that had turned his eyes milky white.

"What's the good word?" she asked him.

Fret's dark, wrinkled hands moved with the sensitivity of a lover over the strings of his instrument. "The angels told me you'd be coming by." He played a fraction of a smooth melody. "The little bastard you're looking for passed through here about a minute ago, heading towards building C."

Fret always claimed that he could talk to angels, and she never questioned him about it. After all, who was she to argue when he was always right?

"Thanks," she said and slipped a ten-dollar bill into his guitar case.

Kia dodged strollers and wagons full of perennial flowers and edged around couples who haggled with the fruit sellers. When she reached building C, she stopped and sniffed the air. Brimstone. Yup, the creature was nearby all right.

Building C was the smallest and least populated of the market buildings and held only a few vendors. People generally passed through it on their way to someplace else. She jumped the cement curb that separated the vendors from the customers and walked out of the shelter and towards a row of semi-trucks.

That's when she saw Levi Asche.

Her hands tightened in to fists. That son of a bitch! The one-time hotshot of the Protectorate who had flaunted every rule in the book, putting himself and others in danger yet somehow always surviving with a smile on his face. For three years, she'd been his partner, and had always stood by his side even when his methods were questionable. But then he'd gotten too cocky, and his contempt for the system had resulted in multiple civilian casualties and an injury that had almost killed her.

Kia hated that he looked as good as ever. Broad shoulders, wavy brown hair, and sea green eyes. Strong arms that could wield a two-handed sword like it was a pencil. Unlike her, he hadn't bothered to blend in with the crowd. Instead of shorts and a t-shirt, he wore a black, leather vest, skin-tight leather pants and a pair of heavy-duty, bad ass boots. His shit kickers, he'd always called them.

Seeing him was like a punch in the gut. Although she'd laid in the hospital for days after the demon attack, Levi hadn't stopped by to see her. Instead, he'd skipped town. She hadn't heard from him since.

Suddenly, the demon's heart no longer mattered, but calling Lev a son-of-a-bitch to his face did.

She marched over just as he darted off towards the semis. Dropping her bag, she followed him into the maze of parked trucks. What the hell was he doing here? And why now? The last she'd heard, he'd moved down south to cities with warmer climates and fewer demons. Far away from the shame he'd brought down on himself and the Protectorate.

The demon's presence was even stronger now. Kia's nose burned with its scent. The protective ward in her pocket shivered, sending off a warning. But it came too late. The moment she looked up to see if the demon was looming above her, it slid out from under the nearest semi-truck and sunk its claws into her ankle. Luckily, the protective ward was working its magic, or Kia might have ended up with some serious gashes. She shook her leg, but the wicked thing hung on. It might be little, but it was fierce. Size never mattered when it came to demons. The giant ones might be as easy to kill as a ladybug, but some of the smallest were the hardiest. It all depended on what circle of hell they'd ascended from.

Kia yanked her blade from the sheath, driving it towards the demon's bulbous skull. Instantly, the monster dropped to the ground and scampered away. The dagger slashed empty air. Cursing, Kia dropped and rolled under the semi, then sprang to her feet on the other side, coming face-to-face with Lev.

"Kianna," he said, startled. "It's been a long time."

"And whose fault is that?" she demanded.

Her fingers itched to slap him, but the scuttle of nails against metal sent Lev sprinting past her and into the next row of trucks. Kia followed at his heels. The demon was scrambling up the side of the nearest trailer. Kia jumped, grabbed a hind leg, and yanked. The thing twisted in her grip, sharp teeth tearing into the delicate webbing between her thumb and forefinger. She yelped but hung on tight.

She swung her blade to slice the beast in half when Lev charged forward, grabbed the monster by the back of the neck, and drove his own silver through the demon's gullet. Ichor – demon's blood – spurted, black and sour, dousing Kia who coughed and sputtered in disgust. With a twist of his knife, Lev gutted the thing, yanked out its still-beating heart, and crushed it under his boot.

"Hey, that was mine!" Without the heart, she wouldn't get her bounty. "That was worth two hundred dollars!"

He scraped the sole of his boot on the ground to get rid of the slippery mess. "Sorry, I didn't know." Then his gaze sharpened. "Since when are you hunting down bounties?"

"Things have changed since you took off," she snapped. If he had bothered to keep in touch with her, he would have known. She glared at him, hating that not a drop of ichor had landed on him while she looked like something a demon cat had puked up.

He motioned to her hand. "You got bit."

Now that the battle was over, Kia finally noticed her injuries. Her calf was on fire from the demon's nails, and her hand throbbed. Her own red blood mixed with the black ichor. She knew from firsthand experience that it was an ideal way to get a really bad infection. "I'm fine."

Lev reached into another pocket, withdrawing a small tin. "This might sting, but it will clean your wound."

So now he was worried about her welfare. Where was that compassion a year ago when she really could have used it? "I'm okay," she said, glaring.

His expression hardened. "Fine. Have it your way."

Once again, she wanted to slap him. Or punch him in the gut, stomp on his foot, and knee him in the groin. Or cut out his heart the way he'd done to her when he'd turned his back on her and run away. But instead of giving him the satisfaction of a meltdown, she turned and stalked off.

This is the end of chapter one of The Book of Lost Souls. Continue the adventure by reading the book which is available in on-line stores.

About the Author

Maybe it's because of my Halloween birthday, but I've always been attracted to scary stories. On the other hand, I love romances as well. Once I discovered that these two genres existed side-by-side in urban fantasy novels, I was in heaven! Urban fantasy is like chocolate and peanut butter: a perfect, to-die-for combination that I can never get enough of.

I've been writing since childhood, but earned my bachelor's degree in psychology and my master's in English literature. When I'm not writing, I'm a straight-laced English teacher at a two-year college in Detroit. I've been married to Mr. Right for over twenty-five years. I also have three teenaged children: a boy and two girls, all of whom have threatened to never speak to me again if I turn them into characters and put them into my books.

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More supernatural suspense by Michelle Scott – Straight to Hell

The devil never forgets a deal.

I, Lilith Straight, was the woman you always wanted to be. I was married to someone better looking than your husband, we lived in that house you always wanted. Within a year, however, all of that changed. My marriage dissolved, my house burned down, and my job hardly paid the bills. So when I was hit by a car and died, I thought my life couldn't get any worse. Boy, was I wrong.

Hell was not the place I imagined. It was worse. During my brief stay, I learned some disturbing truths about my family. Most worryingly my ancestor's deal with the devil promising him every female descendent as a succubus.

So these were my options: Life on earth as a soul-sucking seductress. Or death and pass the succubus baton to my sweet little daughter. There was no choice. Welcome to hell on earth, Lilith. Mother, teacher, wanton she-demon.

Straight to Hell is published by Carina UK (a digital imprint of Harlequin), and is available wherever e-books are sold.

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