Benevolent Passion Read online

  But that is because Mom has some...hang-ups.

  Oh, Selene had endless patience for humans, which Peony found a little strange, considering all the damage they’d caused their world. But that was another issue. When it came to demons and angels, though? Selene couldn’t get away quick enough.

  She shouldn’t think about her mother. It just made the homesick ache in her chest worse.

  She didn’t regret her decision to sign on to the Halcyon Guild, wouldn’t ever, but she hadn’t wanted to leave home and everything she’d built there. Plus, her mom had been her best friend. Sure, there was her sister—and they had each other now—but Dru wasn’t BFF material.

  Time to get up.

  She didn’t want to, though. That was unusual. Even after she’d signed her soul over to Trick, she’d been proactive about joining in life here at the guild. She’d made her bed, and she’d lie in it. Except now, she didn’t really want to leave it.

  With a sigh, she dragged the sheets away, and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. The cold floor made her exhale sharply.

  I should start wearing socks to bed.

  She knew she wouldn’t. Her room, with the door locked, was the only place in her life where she didn’t have to cover herself in clothing from neck to toe. The only time she didn’t have to worry about hurting someone accidentally.

  Peony ducked into her small ensuite—apparently she was ‘lucky’ she didn’t have to use a communal bathroom—and quickly washed. Then she dressed, braided her white hair and stared at her bare hands for a few seconds, a feeling of resentment welling deep within her, before going to choose a pair of gloves.

  If gloves were shoes, most women would envy her collection. Peony hated wearing them, though. She did it because she wasn’t a murderer by nature and she’d promised herself that she’d never, ever, kill someone.

  Peony might have toxic skin, but she wasn’t going to be defined by it.

  After picking out a red leather pair of gloves, she left her room and locked the door. She couldn’t be too careful, especially since the other guild members had taken to stealing from each other. Not that she had anything worth taking, other than her computer, but demons were weird. She might find her entire glove collection gone.

  Her stomach rumbled ominously as she turned down the hallway. Glancing at her watch, she decided that she would check on her secret patient later. Trick had been on night duty, and since he hadn’t texted her with an emergency, she assumed everything was okay.

  You know he’d lie straight to your face.

  Not about a ten million-dollar asset, though.

  That thought, she could trust. If there was one thing in this world that Trick loved, it was money. And he hated losing it.

  Therefore, it was breakfast time.

  Heading to the mess, she found the corridors largely empty. That wasn’t strange in itself; the guild’s members tended to work odd hours. Apparently, there was a lot of delicate timing involved with thieving, spying and killing.

  All Peony knew was that being a doctor had meant working twenty-four-seven. No delicate timing there—it was all hands on deck, all the time. Some days, she really missed it. Other days, well, she liked the challenge of her new job, not that she admitted that to her mother. Patching up demons—assassins, too—wouldn’t be high on her parent’s triage list.

  The mess was largely empty when she arrived, which suited her. She could eat quickly, without having one of her co-workers corner her to look at their strange rashes or the boils on their backs or, worse, ask “Are my genitalia normal?”. She never wanted to see Errant’s penis again. Sure, he was an excellent administrator and bookkeeper, but he had trouble keeping his dick out of infected demon prostitutes.

  It had been gross.

  She made herself think of kittens and puppies, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to stomach any food. Looking at the metal-and-glass food-warmer, however, she saw just a range of meat products without even any scrambled eggs or hash browns to serve as side dishes.

  Billy must be on duty. The Ulnak demon was a carnivore and had little patience for anything that couldn’t be sliced off a bone.

  Turning away, she spotted some yogurt, cereal and fruit that had been shoved in the corner on a small side table, like an afterthought. She made herself a bowl of yogurt and peaches, and then stared at the cereal boxes. Cheerios, granola, and Fruit Loops. The logical choice would be granola, since she could just add it to her bowl, but...

  She was eating her first mouthful of Fruit Loops when Sylvester and Metcalf plonked down in front of her. The two men had plates full of meat, with Sylvester having added a single grape to his meal. There wasn’t a carbohydrate in sight in Metcalf’s breakfast, but then he was a Reynard’s Imp, and they were carnivores through and through.

  Metcalf gave her a toothy smile and clicked one of his claws against the scarred tabletop. His nose had been broken—badly—and it was something they’d bonded over. “Fruit Loops, Doc? Really?”

  Peony sighed. She should have known someone would catch her. But she loved sugar, and she’d already eaten all the yummy things from her mom’s care package. “Glucose is good for energy.”

  “But not for the waistline!” Opal waved as she passed, carrying a leg of lamb all to herself. She was tall, painfully thin, and was wearing a jacket that looked like it was probably lead-lined. “Hey, Doc!”

  Sylvester rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry about Opal. You know Radiato demons. They think anything more than skin and bone is unattractive.”

  “Thanks. But I wasn’t particularly worried.” Being a cambion meant that she had a high-speed metabolism. She could, and did, eat pretty much anything she wanted. Too bad for her most of it involved desserts, which weren’t so easy to come by in Tartarus.

  Man, I would love a Snickers bar right now.

  “Good, because you don’t need to worry.” Sylvester gave her a boyish grin that belied the fact he was one of the best thieves in the guild.

  He was also so pretty it was almost shocking, with his baby blue eyes, chestnut hair and killer body. He was a cambion—half-human—like herself, but his other side, the Pollus, were distant cousins to Incubi. It made sense he looked almost as tasty as her cereal. But she wasn’t attracted to him like that, which sometimes made her wonder if there was something wrong with her libido.

  She couldn’t do anything about it, anyway, so what was the point?

  “Gross,” Metcalf groaned. “Go do your preliminary mating stuff elsewhere.”

  “Preliminary mat—” Sylvester choked on his grape, coughing loudly enough to wake the dead.

  Peony slapped him on the back, right between his shoulder blades, and the grape went flying.

  “There goes my fruit intake for the day,” Sylvester said sadly, his eyes watering a little.

  She shook her head. “There’s more fruit.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t deprive the others.”

  “Such altruism,” she said dryly.

  “It’s my middle name.”

  “Your middle name is ‘disgusting’,” Metcalf said. “How do you expect to be respected as a killer if you go around doing mating-stuff with the doctor?”

  “It’s flirting, Met. I’m not proposing to her.” He flicked her an apologetic glance. “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “Then why do it?” The imp really did appear confused.

  “I like my face to stay pretty. If she likes me, the next time I come in to get patched up, I walk away still pretty. Plus, it’s fun.”

  His honesty was refreshing. While she got along—now—with most of the guild members, she knew they didn’t all think of her as a friend. Couldn’t, because the majority of the guild’s members were slaves, with no control over their future. They had to be selfish to survive.

  “That’s the thing with you human-looking demons. You don’t get true beauty.” Metcalf cracked open a bone and sucked the
marrow out. She fought the urge to gag.

  Marrow should only be extracted for tests.

  “Metcalf, you have a face only a mother could love.”

  “Eh, she didn’t love me. Sold me into slavery.” He smacked his thin lips together, black eyes watchful. “But I know real beauty when I see it.”

  “Be sure to let me know when you do,” Sylvester said.

  “I do, every day, in the mirror.” And then Metcalf winked.

  Sylvester laughed, and Peony bit her lip to keep from smiling. “It’s the nose,” she said. “It’s totally the nose.”

  Metcalf nodded, his own small smile visible fleetingly.

  When she’d first come to the guild, Metcalf had wanted to see what cambion tasted like, since he hadn’t been able to take a bite out of Sylvester or Dru. He’d had her cornered, and she had been worried that she might kill him by accident, when Dru found them. Her sister had proceeded to beat the imp bloody, then shook him until his head wobbled for being such an idiot.

  Taking a bite out of Peony would have left her in agony...and him dead.

  After, Peony had offered to set the imp’s nose, because, well, that’s what she did. But Metcalf had wanted it to look broken, so she’d set it in a way that hadn’t interfered with his sense of smell or breathing, but had given him a rather impressive bump.

  He’d befriended her as a result.

  And since Metcalf was one screw short of full-blown psychotic, the others had decided to leave the medic alone. Plus, she’d patched most of them up by now, so they tended to be grateful to her, rather than scared, like they were of Dru.

  She fished out the last—soggy—Fruit Loop and shut her eyes as the sugary goodness exploded on her tongue. Would it be a bad thing if she drank the milk straight from the bowl? Deciding that she should save it for later, she turned her attention to the fruit and yogurt.

  Sylvester’s low murmur caught her attention. “Hey Doc, looks like the boss wants to talk to you.”

  Trick stood in the doorway to the mess, a finger pointed at her.

  Someone had clearly never taught the blond demon manners.

  “Right.” She picked up the remains of her breakfast and gave the sweet milk a sad look.

  “I’ll clean it up for you,” Sylvester said.

  “Thanks.”

  She ate as she walked, and was briefly stopped by Germaine, one of the cooks. “Hey, Doc! Is Devi going to be okay?”

  Devi was the Brevine demon she’d been treating before the angel had arrived. “She should be. I’ll check on her soon.”

  Damn, I should have asked Sylvester how she was. He’d been put on nurse duty, because his Pollus half had healing abilities.

  “Tell her I said ‘hi’.”

  “Will do.”

  She passed on a few more greetings before reaching Trick. He glowered at her.

  “Running late?” he asked.

  “Didn’t know I had an appointment.” She shoveled in a mouthful of peaches and yogurt, so she couldn’t make any more ire-inducing comments.

  He spun on his heel. “Come with me.”

  Chapter 7

  Zadkiel—no, Z—wanted to kill the yellow-haired demon. But alas, since his hands were tied and his body weak, there wasn’t much he could do. One day he’d get free—provided he survived their ‘medical treatment’—and then he’d seek his revenge.

  They would all die.

  Horribly.

  And then he would hunt down the Infernus.

  The screeching of metal against stone indicated that someone was entering the room, but he had no energy to lift his head.

  “I’m back.” That smooth masculine voice filled the small expanse.

  Lucky me.

  But he didn’t bother replying. He couldn’t, even if he’d wanted to.

  Something rattled and clanged, and then the scent of sugar hit him. He inhaled deeply, enjoying how the aroma filled him, made him feel a little more alive. He didn’t wonder too much why that was, but surely something so delicious would inspire anyone: angel, demon or human?

  “Why are his hands tied up?” The feminine voice lashed across the room.

  “He tried to rip his drip out.”

  “Then why is he gagged?”

  “Tried to bite it out after that.”

  Z opened his eyes and took in the scene before him: Trick standing near the door, his golden hair mussed and annoyance draping his expression; the female demon with her hair braided, and her gloved hands on her hips; the medical cart with the torture supplies barely a yard from his prone form.

  Can I kick it over?

  Stupid question. He couldn’t even get up to urinate.

  The thought made red flood his cheeks and his eyes close. Trick had been required to help him last night, and it had been beyond embarrassing. It just showed how pathetic he’d become.

  Surely they won’t let me back into Heaven after this.

  He could only hope they ignored his transgressions. Angelic warriors did not get captured, and they did not have their wings plucked, nor did they have demons help them vacate their bladders.

  For some reason, it was the latter that infuriated him the most at present.

  “Did you explain to him why he had the drip?”

  “He wasn’t exactly rational.”

  Oh, he was very rational. He had to escape, and they were pumping poison into his body. Why else would he not heal?

  “I’ll check him over.” She exchanged her red gloves for plastic ones.

  “You do that.”

  “Have you gotten a report from Sylvester about Devi?” she asked as she rummaged around on the trolley.

  “You were eating breakfast with him, why didn’t you ask?”

  “Because I was eating breakfast.”

  Trick rolled his eyes. “She’ll live. Although, once I’m through with her, she’ll probably wish she hadn’t survived. Robbing from an assassin—and getting caught—just highlights her stupidity.”

  Then the male demon left, leaving Z alone with the female and her torture plans.

  She placed some kind of device around her neck, then stepped closer to him. “If I remove the gag, will you promise to behave?”

  He wanted to do no such thing, but there was a kindness in her gaze that he couldn’t ignore; no matter that she had caused him so much agony he’d passed out previously.

  Did she do it on purpose? Or had she been trying to help?

  It was something he’d been wondering ever since.

  Eventually, he nodded.

  A small zap of magic lanced through his muscles, causing him to tense.

  “I’ll be careful,” she said, misreading his body language.

  Foolish. He’d forgotten that promising something to a demon would bind him. At least it was to the female, and not Trick.

  The gag was gone. He took a deep breath, then coughed, his mouth and throat as dry as desert sands.

  “Here.” She held out a cup of water with a straw. “Sip it slowly.”

  He complied, mostly because he knew if he gulped the liquid, he’d choke.

  “There. Now why did you try and take out the drip?”

  He shut his eyes, so he didn’t have to see the earnest concern in her gaze. It’s all a lie.

  Gentle fingers on his arm, near where the needle pierced his skin. She tutted. “You’ve done some damage. I am going to have to remove this and do it again.”

  “No.”

  Had he spoken? Or had it just screamed it in his head?

  But her hands touched his face, forcing him to open his eyes. “‘No’ what?”

  “I don’t want your poison.”

  There, he’d said it. Admitted he knew what she was doing.

  “Poison?” A frown marred the smooth golden skin of her forehead.

  “From the bag.” He nodded at the clear plastic sack hanging from some kind of metal coat hook.

 
She examined the withered bag. “This is saline, a salt-water fluid to help rehydrate you.”

  “I am sickening.” He hadn’t wanted to admit that, but it was clear.

  “Not from the fluid. You were ill before you came here.”

  That was true. But if they kept him weak...

  He wouldn’t be controlled. Not by demons.

  “I promise it’s saline. Here.” She went to a new bag and attached a plastic tube to it. She then pooled some of the liquid into his cup and handed him the straw. “Drink it.”

  He stared at her, trying to see the deception, but her gaze was clear, and her voice spoke nothing but truth. He took a sip and winced. Salt water.

  He tilted his chin down. “I should be healing.”

  She set the cup on the trolley then squatted, so they were eye-level. “Your wings have been plucked, you have a fractured skull, potential broken spine, they harvested some of your organs and that’s just the things I know about.”

  All things he should have healed from, but the broken spine and skull could take time because of his young age.

  “How long have I been injured?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  Truth.

  She waited for him to say more, but he just shut his eyes again. He was tired. Tired of feeling pain, tired of knowing he was a failure. And he hated the compassion in her clear gray gaze: like she could see his discomfort and would have taken it from him, if she could.

  She began doing things to his wings, moving the useless appendages in different directions, dabbing coldness over the skeletal limbs. Stinging followed the dabbing, but it was nothing like the previous evening.

  Then she pressed a cold disc to his back and stood next to his prone form, her body heat warming his left side. The scent of sugar increased. Eventually, her hands worked over him from head to toe, her touch professional and dispassionate.

  “Okay.”

  He opened his eyes. She was squatting next to him again.

  “You’re no different to yesterday, although I do agree with your theory that you’ve been poisoned. You’re covered in bruises from my touch, which indicates internal bleeding. You have a loss of muscle tension, your blood pressure is low today—but I don’t know what’s normal for an angel—and your nailbeds are purple. Not the classic signs of poisoning in humans, but all things that shouldn’t really be happening to an immortal.”