He wasn’t so stupid to believe that whole knock-and-tumble routine hadn’t been deliberate. Planting one hand on the floor, he hefted onto his knees. Between his new wound courtesy of Jasper’s knife and the six months of torture he was still recovering from, his impromptu acrobatic stunt was just one more battering that left him feeling like a crash test dummy. “What the hell do you want?”
“Really, Samael. You’re going to have to learn to speak to me in a nicer way.”
No, he wouldn’t. If things went according to plan tonight, his days of having to talk to Pricilla at all would be done with. Of course, there was also a good chance she’d call for his death for what he was about to do. Frankly, he didn’t give a shit. He’d rather be dead than be her damn errand boy.
Pricilla moved away from him, and he used the opportunity to struggle to his feet. Pain splintered through his ribs, and he sucked in a sharp breath, unwilling to grant Pricilla the pleasure of hearing the sound.
She picked up a brass letter opener and used it to slash through the flap of an envelope. “I’m leaving in the morning for the council’s semiannual retreat. I’ll only be gone for the weekend.”
“Pity.”
Her lips tightened. “I have an important mission for you to carry out while I’m gone. Tomorrow night I want you to travel to sector nine of the Death Wards and bring me back one of its resident souls.”
The request was so unexpected it took him a moment to register it. Once he did, he narrowed his eyes and stared at her profile. “Sector nine is high security.”
She shrugged. “Yes, but you obviously have clearance. You don’t have to worry about being apprehended.”
“Like hell I don’t. You know damn well it’s impossible to traffic souls from sector nine.”
Pricilla’s smile dripped with acid sweetness. “I have the utmost faith in your abilities.”
Didn’t that just make him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. “Who is it I’m supposed to bring back?”
“That isn’t something for you to concern yourself with.”
It took massive amounts of effort to unclench his teeth. “How do you expect me to fetch this soul if you don’t tell me who it is?”
She tore off a corner of the envelope and jotted something on it before handing the scrap of paper to him. “This is the address where you’ll find the resident. That’s all you need to know at this point.”
He eyed the number coordinates. They meant nothing to him. Not that he’d expected them to. In the seventy-eight years he’d been a soul collector he’d been dispatched to the restricted zone of the Death Wards a grand total of two times, and neither occasion had involved hauling back one of its denizens. As he’d already pointed out to Pricilla, that was a prohibited activity—one that would earn him a bullet in the brain. Or worse. Which only made him all the more suspicious of what Pricilla had up her sleeve.
If not for the fact the Samhain ball likely held his only shot at getting out from beneath Pricilla’s thumb, he’d be sorely tempted to postpone breaking his seal and track down this soul. He’d have to settle for passing the address to Nikki and Cass and see if they couldn’t dig up some information on it. Although sector nine was out of the grim reaper jurisdiction, the Lassiters had connections thanks to their demon ties.
He pocketed the slip of paper, stashing it alongside the box of condoms. “Your wish is my command, oh mighty master.” He resisted the urge to sweep Pricilla a mocking bow.
A menacing gleam hardened her expression. “That’s right, Samael. Remember it well in case you have any notion of undermining me. The misery you profess to have endured under Nettie? It’s nothing compared to what I am capable of delivering. Understood?”
Fuck, he was going to enjoy destroying this bitch’s plans. “Implicitly.”
“Good. Now leave. I have a ton of packing that still needs doing.” She waved him off like a bug that’d been annoyingly buzzing around her head.
He gave Pricilla one final look, hoping with every breath in his body it’d be the last time he’d be forced to gaze upon her, or at least while under her control. Conjuring the image of his GTO, he closed his eyes. When he opened them again he was sitting behind the wheel of his vehicle. The warm, welcome smell of leather upholstery surrounded him an instant before the suffocating heat followed suit.
Bloody hell. Talk about fucking hot. Sweat sliding down his forehead, he grimaced and dug in his jacket pocket, fumbling for the key. Locating it before he melted into an unrecognizable puddle, he twisted the key in the ignition and cranked down the windows. Six months of accumulated stale air escaped the vehicle. He struggled out of his jacket and dumped it on the passenger seat. The coolant finally kicked in, blasting him in the face with the full impact of its icy fury.
He clicked the automatic door opener and glanced at the dashboard clock. Eight p.m. He had no idea how long this damn ball was going to run tonight. Hopefully he’d have enough time to find and seduce his potential brand-breaker into knocking boots and then high-tailing it out of there before anyone became wise to him.
Realizing he had no clue where he was going, he rifled one-handed in his jacket until he located the checklist from Cass. At the bottom she’d scrawled directions to the Cosgrove mansion. The residency was in an affluent section of Savannah. He knew the area well, since it wasn’t far from one of his favorite watering holes.
He took a left out of his drive and headed into the heart of the city. Tourists and locals jam-packed the streets and sidewalks. The smoky strains of rhythm-and-blues and the dirtier, wailing beat of honky-tonk drifted from the numerous nightspots luring in patrons. Eventually making his way through the congested traffic, he entered the quieter neighborhood near Monterey Square. Lush palms bordered the road, filling the air with the pungency of tropical greens. Here the houses were bigger than life. Refined, elegant reminders of days gone by.
Up ahead, a long line of cars blocked the street. Safe to say he wasn’t the only one making a fashionably late arrival to the ball. Choosing to forgo the wait at the valet stand, he parked in front of one of the neighboring houses. The tall, Palladian windows were dark. Either the owners were down the street at the party or not at home. Regardless, not much chance they’d bitch about him blocking their drive. And if they did, they could kiss his ass.
He decided to leave his jacket—along with Cass’s damn checklist—in his GTO. After fetching a couple condoms from the box and stuffing them in his pocket, he slammed the door shut and strode toward party central. He typically wasn’t one for festive hoopla. His stance on large gatherings quadrupled when he neared the Cosgrove mansion and noticed the amount of people milling around outside.
There was a reason he didn’t do parties. The potential of vast hordes of annoying people in one space were huge. Knowing pretty much everyone here was a Glen and Glinda the Good Witch made him wish Cass had packed along some antacids. He neared the walkway leading to the main house, and several of the folks loitering outside slid him curious looks. When a few of them started to frown, he sped up his pace, bypassing the congested front entrance. He hoofed it toward the narrow lane bisecting the mansion and its smaller carriage house. Illuminated glass lanterns staked along the jasmine-lined path guided the way to the unmanned service door.
Grateful to have no witnesses to his stealthy entrance, he tried the knob and discovered it was unlocked. He ducked inside the small corridor. Judging from the noise and clatter coming from the adjacent room, he was on the other side of the kitchen. He ambled in the direction of the white double doors in the distance. The ironic symbol of those doors wasn’t something he failed to catch—the innocent purity ready to bar admittance to the evil dark demon. He was half tempted to propel the things open with one fell kick. Show ’em who was boss.