Dark Urban Rising Box Set

11. Cracking Teeth

11Cracking TeethSoren Huxford had slept in. He’d drunk a truckload of whiskey the previous night and taken the opportunity to sleep it off in the Turin apartment, rather than get up and face a hangover.

He rolled over in the empty bed, stretching out into the space that Tazia usually occupied, and ran his hand over the hollows she’d left on the pillow.

They’d had s*x here just two days ago. Her scent still permeated the bed and as he breathed it in, the events of the previous day slowly returned to him. The stroking gave way to thumping before he grabbed the pillow and threw it forcefully at the wall. It split on impact and white feathers swirled to the ground.

Head hammering, Soren hauled himself upright and sat on the side of the bed, gathering himself before taking the journey to the shower and breakfast. He needed time to figure out his next move.

After seeing her at the airport, he’d used his not inconsiderable charm on a cute airline stewardess to check out which flight Tazia had taken. Now he knew she had run to Billy, and his temper simmered, soon to hit boiling point if he couldn’t get back some control.

Billy was the bane of his life, always on the end of the computer ready to pull her out of trouble or give her some information or other. Smarmy little d**k-head! He threw the other pillow. It joined its mate on the floor, creating another storm of feathers.

In the shower, he checked out his injuries from yesterday and smiled. Most had already healed, including the cut over his eye. The shattered hand would take a little longer. He’d also had a deep gash in his right thigh, a cracked rib, and a few purple bruises. Nothing too serious.

He’d been incensed when he’d heard from Sergio Bello that Tazia had grabbed the cash and run. The money she took had been earmarked as his bonus. Soren rubbed his knuckles. The grazes borne from taking his anger out on one of the fat demon’s henchmen were also now invisible: a highlight in an otherwise rough day.

Frankly, though, the magical wards that flowed over his skin and created a self-healing, Kevlar-like layer were better than any amount of money. He had to make sure he kept the magic; he’d gotten used to the extra strength and protection. He felt more powerful, invincible even.

He soaped his body vigorously, scrubbing every part of himself before he was satisfied. He rinsed twice, turning the water to cold the second time to blast himself awake. Then stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his middle.

Back under control.

Now, he just needed to complete the contract. Tazia shouldn’t have got away yesterday. It was a mistake he’d have to rectify. He needed the client happy. That was the outcome to focus on, right now, not how a cheap little vampire w***e had outsmarted him.

As he stepped out of the shower, words slowly formed in the steam on the mirror. He watched as they spelled out, “Y O U - L E T - H E R - G E T - A W A Y”

“I know,” Soren said under his breath, then a little louder, “I’m getting to it.”

“T O O - S L O W,” appeared beneath the previous message.

Soren grimaced, annoyed. “Where is she?”

“D E T R O I T”

“Detroit? Why the hell—”

“F I N D - T H E - I R I S H M A N”

He grabbed a towel. “Cuinn?” Conn O’Cuinn was a demon mercenary he’d served with a few years ago. They were close. He had no idea why Tazia was heading that way, he didn’t think she even knew Cuinn, he kept information about past jobs close to his chest.

To the invisible hand, he merely said, “It’s done.”

But the final message got him thinking, “D O - N O T - L E T - H E R - D I E”

Before, the instructions had been simply to kill her father and then capture her. This seemed more urgent. He wondered whether she was in real danger now.

In his chest, a tiny pang pricked at him. What was that? Regret? No! The b***h had tricked him.

She’d left him for dead in that cave under piles of rubble, certainly not caring a jot for him. Then she’d hot-tailed it out of town with his cash.

Soren clenched his teeth, grinding the back molars together so hard he heard them crack. Briefly, before the healing began, fire shot into his jaw. The pain was good.

Saying nothing more, he roughly finished drying himself and got dressed. Quality was paramount: the small metal buttons, the soft sheen of the shirt, and the fine thread of the dark gray suit. He would stand out while he traveled. Gain the respect of those around him.

Soren carefully packed a selection of other clothes and necessaries into a holdall and left the apartment. His black Lamborghini got him to the airport in no time, and by midnight, he was on a plane to Detroit. He’d be waiting for her when she landed.