It’s every creature for itself out here, which serves me just fine. If that changed, I already know my particular brand of capitalism would be targeted first. Sure, there are peacekeepers and vigilante justice-seekers here, but none of them bother with me, and I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I only ever accept jobs where the mark has it coming.

  I know, I know; an assassin with a conscience is weird, but none of that will matter if some hotshot politician takes over our city and tries enacting their own laws. I don’t want to think about what would happen to Kendall if I became the hunted instead of the hunter.

  All I can do is focus on my part and let that be enough.

  While I walk, I reach back and free my hair from the ponytail that’s held it up all day. Shaking out my locks, I note the green dye is beginning to fade, letting my brunette roots show through. The sight of it makes me think of my friend Stella and her love of a magical makeover. She left town three months ago after being cheated on one too many times, and while I know she’s happy, life has been pretty lonely for me ever since.

  I’m not exactly the party girl type. Hell, since my parents died, I haven’t even dated, much less made time for friendships. But Stella and Niamh, pronounced Nee-iv, as she’s always correcting for the ones who mangle it, managed to draw me out of my shell. I miss Stella. She was apparently our glue because I’ve barely seen Niamh since our trio became a duo.

  As if I’ve conjured her from thought alone, my phone dings with a text from Niamh.

  Hey, stranger. Want to get drinks?

  I frown as I type back. Can’t. Working.

  She responds with a sad face that has me shaking my head.

  Aren’t you? I add.

  Uziah made me leave early. Some asshole grabbed my ass, so I choked him out with climbing ivy.

  I snort. Niamh is the only other fae I know who has an affinity for plants like me. Except, she doesn’t poison people with hers; she just suffocates them outright. Mostly men who get too handsy. Which happens a lot considering she works at a nightclub full of drunk vampires. Not to mention she’s drop-dead gorgeous.

  Raincheck on the drinks. I need to hear about this. Tomorrow?

  She texts back almost immediately: It’s a date.

  The bar is crowded when I arrive, but that’s a good thing. Makes my job easier. Believe it or not, the more people present, the less they suspect danger, which makes doing shady shit under their noses even easier. After all, no one assumes you’re going to poison a guy in front of dozens of witnesses.

  So that’s exactly what I’ll do.

  I scan the rowdy crowd until my eyes land on the slick-looking guy at the end of the bar. Bingo. His rounded face matches the picture Em texted me two days ago. Dull brown hair receding drastically from his large forehead, a pointed nose, and a suit that screams “Look at me; I’m important.”

  I avert my eyes before I can draw his attention and begin winding my way slowly through the crowded tables. It’s happy hour, and apparently, the drinks are strong because the seats are full and floor space is tight as people crowd the aisles.

  I slide up to the bar’s end opposite from where my mark sits and catch the bartender’s eye. She saunters closer, a friendly smile on her narrow fae face.

  “What’ll it be, gorgeous?” she asks.

  “Whiskey and Coke.”

  She goes to work making the drink, and I glance over at the mark again in time to see him ogling a woman in a short skirt. She’s tall and willowy with a dancer’s grace. My senses peg her as an elf or nymph. As she walks by him, he reaches out and palms her ass. She rounds on him, glaring, and he grins like her protest only makes it all the more fun.

  Wow, he’s going to make this easy.

  “Here you are.” The bartender sets the drink before me.

  “Thanks.” I toss a sachet of herbs onto the bar in exchange.

  “What’s this?” she asks.

  “Wolfsbane.”

  Her eyes glint with interest. Wolfsbane is a commodity used mostly for trading for other valuables. What I’m giving her is more than one drink deserves, but hopefully, it’ll ensure she never admits to seeing me here if anyone questions her later. She takes the sachet and gives a nod of thanks before walking off to help the next customer.

  I take the drink, faltering as a wave of… something washes over me. Dizziness followed by a rush of power that leaves me reeling for a moment. Gripping the bar, I suck in a deep breath and try like hell to remain on my feet as the room tilts.

  Then, just as suddenly as it came on, the heady rush recedes. My vision and balance steady again. I’m left with a strange sort of itch on the inside of my skin—a pull toward…something. Or someone.

  What the hell?

  I blink quickly, scanning the room for some explanation. But no one else seems to have been affected. The bar patrons continue to drink and socialize without missing a beat. At the far end, my mark continues to leer at and grab women he has no permission to touch.

  I force myself to refocus.

  I have no idea what just happened, but whatever’s going on with me tonight, I tell myself it’s nothing that can’t be fixed by a bottle of wine and a good night’s sleep. Stress, that’s all this is.

  Time to get to work and get the hell out of here.

  Moving through the crowd, I use the closeness of bodies as cover to empty a sachet from my pocket into my whiskey. A few swirls of the ice cubes dissolve the powder until the liquid is once again amber-clear. A few more paces and I’m within arms’ reach of the mark.

  Keeping my back to his, I wait for my moment. Predictably it comes when the short skirt from earlier does another pass. The mark reaches out and brushes her thigh with his hand.

  The female rounds on him immediately, cheeks flushing in anger.

  I use her disgusted rebuff as a distraction to swap my poisoned drink with his. As soon as I’ve made the switch, I turn and begin moving toward the exit. Watching him succumb to the drink is easy enough from the window, and it puts distance between me and the crime.

  Once I know he’s taken care of, I can get home and uncork that bottle of wine I promised myself. Maybe I’ll even text Niamh to come on over tonight. We can touch up my hair the old-fashioned way.

  Just outside the door, a body blocks my path.

  Impatient, I shove past them without bothering to look up. The moment my shoulder makes contact, a jolt slams through me, driving me backward a few steps.

  Strong hands land on my hips, helping to steady me. I gasp, reeling at the sudden return of dizzying power rushing through me. When I look up, an attractive male is staring back at me, looking equally stunned.

  Not just attractive. He’s handsome to the point of devastating. Dark hair falls to the nape of his neck, thick enough that I find myself wondering what it would be like to run my fingers through it. His jaw is covered in a short beard that only adds to the dangerous and roguish aura he puts out. But it’s those eyes, nearly black and full of secrets, that hold me still, trapped by their enigmatic depths.

  The noise of the bar falls away.

  For a suspended moment, nothing else exists in the world but him and me. Something passes between us. Not interest. No, this feels so much more than that. It’s heavy and contains a darkness I should be running away from rather than leaning into, hoping for another taste. Whoever this stranger is, he’s not safe. So why are my nipples hardening at the sight of him undressing me with his violent eyes?

  Slowly, he reaches up and brushes a warm hand over my cheek. I don’t move. I barely breathe. The dizziness from earlier washes over me again, the world tilting and then righting itself again—as if the entire axis of my world has just changed.

  As the moment stretches, there’s a strange settling inside my chest that feels both comforting and alarming. And it’s all I can do not to reach for him and run my hands over his body or offer myself to him here and now to be claimed.

  The desire to do both of those things terrifies me.

  Not because I don’t welcome physical pleasure but because I’ve never felt so overcome with need. It’s a threat to my survival, especially in a moment when I can’t afford to lose focus.

  I take a step back.

  At my retreat, his gaze darkens, and fury flashes. For a wild moment, I think he might actually toss me over his shoulder and run off like some kind of caveman. But in the next second, he’s gone, slipping out the door and into the night as if he’d never been there at all.

  I follow him out, trying to decipher which direction he went.

  Inside the bar, someone screams, drawing me back to the task at hand. Dazed, I look through the glass just in time to see the mark toppling off his stool. His skin is grey, and his eyes are frozen. His glass—empty.

  I turn to leave just as the bar’s door flies open and panicked customers pour out into the street. One of them slams into my shoulder. Another reaches out to steady me before I can lose my balance. I grab her wrist, holding tight for support until I get my bearings.

  Magic surges to the spot where I’ve touched her.

  Her eyes widen, her face reddens, and she gasps. I release her, and she stumbles back. Another fleeing bar patron knocks into her, and she falls—hard.

  I rush forward and kneel, panic and confusion leaving me at a loss.

  “Hey,” I call, “Are you all right?”

  She is most clearly not all right.

  Her attempts to speak are interrupted by saliva leaking from her mouth. It’s soon joined by blood. I can only watch in horror as her skin turns grey and her chest heaves with a failed attempt to draw breath. And then the life disappears from her eyes, and she’s gone.

  Dead.

  I have no idea what just happened, but all her symptoms point to poison. A sniff against the night air confirms it. The scent coming from her flesh, from the blood that’s leaked from her mouth, is unmistakable to my dark fae senses.

  The unnatural rot of poison.

  Panic seizes me.

  Scrambling for my pocket, I search for my extra vials of supplies, wondering if one somehow broke in the commotion and jostling. Maybe she touched the sachet of powder, not that a single touch would have been enough. Besides, it’s only residue now.

  Someone kneels to investigate the dead woman’s vitals. I look up and meet the eyes of a man I’ve never seen before, noting the way he looks between the vial I’m holding and the female dead at my feet.

  “What have you done?” he demands.

  “Nothing,” I say quickly.

  “She’s dead,” he accuses, louder now. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing, she grabbed me, and I…”

  “Murderer!” the man declares.

  People stop and stare, their fear turning to suspicion as they move in closer, encircling me. With nothing left to do for the stranger now dead at my feet, I get up and run away as fast as my legs will carry me.

  Chapter 2

  Legion

  The sexy female fae from the Crossroads haunts me every step of the way back through the portal and into Tartarus. The fact that I witnessed her spike a man’s drink and ultimately kill him only makes me more curious about her. Who is she? What wrong did that male commit against her? Every thought and urge I have toward her is unexpected—and honestly, the worst fucking thing that’s happened to me in a long time. As is the desire to turn around and hunt her down.

  Fighting the temptation to return to her, I end up at Osiris, one of the less popular bars on the outskirts of town, and, therefore, one of my favorite places to frequent. Arriving well before happy hour, I order bottomless shots with a generous infusion of magic in an attempt to drink away the knowledge of the female’s existence. My biology makes it nearly impossible to get drunk—partly thanks to the blood of a god that runs through my veins and partly thanks to Tartarus which would have rendered me immortal even if my DNA hadn’t—but the magic infusion offers that extra oomph. Now, all I have to do is drink faster than my metabolism can burn it.

  Two off-duty soldiers come in. Their stares and whispers make me regret my choice. Drinking at home is probably more appropriate, given that I’m the general of Tartarus’ army. Seeing the boss get wasted in the middle of the afternoon is gossip that’s sure to spread through the ranks. But I’ve come too far.

  “Sir, can I buy you a drink?” one of them asks.

  He’s green, I can see it in the way he addresses me so casually. Not to mention his uniform marks him as a trainee. Clearly, he hasn’t learned rule number one.

  I school my features into something more growly, which isn’t hard, given my mood.

  “What the fuck did you just say, soldier?” I ask.

  “I, uh, I could buy you a drink,” he says, looking unsure.

  “No,” I say flatly. “You can’t.”

  “Sorry, I just⁠—”

  “What’s your name?” I demand.

  They exchange a look, and my temper shortens further. “I asked you a question, soldier.”

  “Lankford, sir. This is Rath.”

  “Who’s your supervisor?”

  “Uh, Conway, sir.”

  “Has he explained the consequences of breaking protocol?”

  “Sir?”

  “Drinking with your commanding officers is a punishable offense.”

  The first whiff of fear rolls off them.

  Instead of feeling satisfied, my dark mood only makes me feel bad for them.

  “Get out of here,” I say.

  “Sir—”

  “I said go!”

  They scramble out, and I go back to the task at hand of getting myself good and wasted.

  An hour later, I’m barely upright on my stool, which makes this effort a success as far as I’m concerned, when I’m rudely jostled by a new customer sidling up to the bar beside me. Styx gives me a once-over that would make most mortals quake. Despite her small stature, the kelpie is known and avoided by most in Tartarus, though somewhere along the way, her grumpy persona stopped putting me off, and we became something like friends.

  Maybe it’s our mutual love of the very mortal-like pastime of drinking in a dive bar like this one.

  As usual, her dark hair is pinned up into a bun with two metal sticks that look like lightning rods, revealing a guileless face that might tempt one to be fooled into thinking she is harmless.

  I know better.

  She is one of the most formidable creatures I’ve ever known.

  She is also the most sarcastic.

  “Is there a liver-drowning contest I’m not aware of?” she asks, sliding onto the stool next to mine.

  Without waiting for my answer, she nods at the bartender, an ogre named Meech who doesn’t speak.

  “Bourbon. With infusion,” she tells him, referencing the same magic additive I used to get wasted. Then she looks over at me, one brow arched in judgment. “Well?”

  The alcohol swims in my blood, making me more forthcoming than usual. “I went through the portal.”

  “The Earth realm was that disappointing, huh?”

  “It was … different than I remember.”

  She waits, clearly not ready to accept my vague answer. True, I wasn’t the same creature back then either. I’ve always been a dragon shifter with a dark side, but after five thousand years in Tartarus, this world and its magic have made me into its own creation, full of shadows that cling and whisper their violence.

  But Styx knows all that. Because she’s a shadow creature too. Not to mention, she visited the Earth realm with Caius himself when the portal first opened.

  “I witnessed a murder,” I add.

  “Just one?”

  I scowl and reach for my drink. The liquid sloshes as I pick it up. “The assassin was a woman.”

  “Good for her,” Styx declares. “Maybe feminism isn’t as dead as I thought.”

  Another patron cuts her a look. I recognize him as a regular who spikes his own whiskey with wolfsbane because he likes the high. He’s an asshole but usually keeps to himself. Tonight, he winks at Styx, and she bares her teeth at him. “Mind your business, asshole.”

  He looks away.

  Styx turns back to the bar just as Meech sets her drink down in front of her. She drains her glass and hands it back to Meech, saying, “Keep ‘em coming, big guy.”

  Then she turns to me again. “You know, nothing you’ve said warrants a drinking binge as far as I can tell. I mean, if either of us has a reason to drown our livers after visiting that place, it’s me.”

  I sigh. Styx has zero love for the Earth realm. Or maybe it’s what they did to her there. What they did to all of us, casting us here in the first place. And if that weren’t bad enough, her recent visit sparked her mate bond, which she’s dealing with about as well as I am.

  My thoughts drift to the last Februlune—the double moons that incite moon fever in those who’ve found their mates, forcing the shift and sending them into a frenzy that only ends if they claim their mate. Styx had me lock her up so she couldn’t go searching for her mate. If anyone understands my reasons for resisting this, it’s her.

  “Does this have anything to do with the bitch who tossed you here?” Styx asks, referring to the demon female who sired me.

  Once upon a time, I swore vengeance against her. But five thousand years is a long time, and if I’m honest, my time in Tartarus has actually been the best experience of my existence thus far. At least, Caius hasn’t ordered me to level entire dynasties for him.

  Here, I have a life. A home.

  Besides, my mother is gone. And so is the past.

  There’s nothing left to avenge.

  I shake my head. “No. There are many different kinds of creatures in the Crossroads, but I did not sense any being with power like hers.”

  “So, she’s dead. This is good news.”

  “Maybe.”

  Or just gone back to her realm.

  Beside me, Styx empties her glass again then hands it off for a refill. She sits, silent and contemplative. Her refusal to fill silences with unnecessary words is one of the reasons we’re friends. But I’ve also noticed how many drinks she’s put away since arriving, and I’m starting to think it’s more than just support for my dismal mood. Before I can ask, she breaks the silence.