Hellforged: The Unnaturals Series, #2

By Jessica Meigs

Zachariah Lawrence wants out.

 

After working covertly for the United States government for nearly a decade, he's had enough, a feeling compounded by the fact he was forcibly turned into a vampire during his last assignment for the secretive Unnaturals organization. And with his new apprentice Riley Walker on the run after being declared rogue by their superiors, Zachariah and his partner Ashton Miller race to help her as they realize she has something much more dangerous than vampires on her tail: demons.

 

But any plans Zachariah makes to ensure their safety quickly fall apart when one of them is possessed by a demonic force and turns against the others. As Zachariah reels from the betrayal and struggles to deal with a demon problem that is quickly spiraling out of control, he is forced to turn to the unlikeliest of sources for help: Agency Director Damon Hartley. And it's through him that he discovers there's something much bigger going on, something…biblical.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jessica Meigs
• Release date: Aug 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393704270

Book preview

One

Riley Walker sat in the driver’s seat of her white rental car, the air conditioner turned on as high as it would go, the force of it blowing her dark hair back from her face as it fought a desperate battle against the hot, late summer sun. It was barely August, and Washington, D.C., felt like it was sitting on the surface of the sun. It was the kind of day that begged for shorts and spaghetti-strapped tank tops, ponytails and sandals, but she didn’t have any of that. Not that she’d have worn it even if she had. Outfits like that were the definition of impractical in her line of work. And impractical usually ended up equating with almost certain death in her day-to-day activities.

Riley was a paid killer. A professional, not one of those fly-by-night ones that took any job thrown at them because they enjoyed killing, the morals behind their actions be damned. She was selective, choosing assignments that involved truly bad people doing truly heinous deeds. Most of her jobs were contracted to her via the United States government—and though she was only twenty-five years old, she’d been one of the best they had.

Not anymore, though.

She dipped her hand into the battered black backpack on the passenger seat, the bag she’d affectionately named Linus, and pulled free a wrinkled, creased sheet of paper. She’d read the words printed on the paper so many times over the past several hours that she could quote them from memory, but that didn’t stop her from taking the time to read it all over again. She scanned the sender line and crumpled the page in her fist, scowling.

Brandon Hall. That son of a bitch.

It had been thirty-six hours since she’d learned for certain of his betrayal and barely twelve hours since the fight at The Unnaturals headquarters when he’d beaten her and tried to kill her while vampires swarmed the place in an effort to slaughter anything that moved. If she hadn’t stabbed him, he’d have succeeded in killing her, too. And she still had no idea why he’d done it. She was at a loss trying to figure out his end game.

Her former handler had turned against her and against others like her, and he’d forced an alpha vampire—one of the strongest types of vampire in existence—to murder twenty-seven agents, like the vampire had been his own personal supernatural hit squad. He’d been dead set to make her number twenty-eight after she’d refused to join him. At least, until she, her partner Scott Hunter, and Unnaturals agents Zachariah Lawrence and Ashton Miller had thrown a wrench in his plans.

Thoughts of Scott brought a slight smile to her face, dispelling enough of her anger to bring it down to a slow simmer. She’d really enjoyed working with him, even if they’d ended up butting heads more often than not. He’d brought something back into work that she hadn’t realized was missing since her former partner’s murder—fun and camaraderie. Though Scott had been fairly serious, almost a stick in the mud—the polar opposite of her, in other words—he’d still been fun to work with, and she hoped she’d get the chance to do so again.

Riley wondered where he was and what he was doing. She hadn’t seen him since everything went down at The Unnaturals headquarters, when he’d taken the Croatan Indian weapon she’d used to kill all of the vampires in the warehouse and left it somewhere safe. She hadn’t heard a word from him since.

She really hoped he wasn’t one of the agents now trying to track her down to put a bullet in her head.

It was a negative thought, she knew, but it was a current fact of her life. With Brandon having abused his new position as deputy director to put out a hit on her, she’d have dozens of agents looking for her, trying to capture or kill her. The thought made her grasp the steering wheel tightly in both hands, her knuckles blanching with the force of her grip.

Two can play at that game, asshole, she breathed.

It was then she caught sight of Brandon’s sedan pulling into the Agency’s parking lot.

Riley’s anger flared at the sight of the silver Lexus LS cruising through the lot to the designated deputy director parking spot near the entrance. Her shoulders tensed, her muscles trembled, and she watched the familiar blond man emerge from the vehicle like the self-satisfied bastard he was. She ground her fingers into the leather-covered steering wheel and fought the urge to jump the curb and run him over, thereby ending her immediate problems right then and there. But too many pedestrians were around, and she didn’t want to risk running over an innocent bystander in her haste to kill Brandon.

Besides, she was almost one hundred percent certain that Damon Hartley wouldn’t appreciate it if she used his money to pay for rental car repairs. Not because of the need for the repairs themselves but because she’d have killed Brandon with a distinct lack of finesse. And Damon was the type of man who appreciated finesse.

A tap on the passenger window startled her, and she tore her eyes away from Brandon’s disappearing form to the other side of the car. Damon stood outside the car, holding two coffee cups and a small white paper bag from the nearby coffee shop, waiting patiently for her to acknowledge him. She hit the unlock button on the driver’s door, and the dark-haired man juggled the cups enough to get the passenger door open. He slid inside, knocking Linus onto the floorboard, and passed her one of the coffees he held before pulling the door shut, settling in his seat and setting the paper bag on his lap. She took a cautious sip of the coffee and was surprised to discover the drink was prepared the way she liked it. As she drank, she peered at her boss out of the corner of her eye, scanning him over with thinly veiled curiosity.

Damon was tall, tall enough that he looked uncomfortable with his frame tucked into the passenger seat. Despite his height, he looked fit and strong, well dressed in a day suit and with his dark hair neatly combed. Afforded her first real close-up, casual look at him that didn’t involve him surprising her while she wore only a towel, Riley tried to guess his age, and she put it somewhere in the mid- to late-forties, maybe even right at fifty, though the only indicators of age that he had were the creases at the sides of his mouth and around his almost-black eyes.

He waited until she’d taken several sips of her drink before saying, I thought I told you to get out of town for a while.

You did, she agreed. She took another sip of coffee, rolling it around in her mouth and savoring the taste of it before swallowing. It was bitter, but it was a perfect kind of bitterness that she enjoyed.

Any particular reason why you haven’t?

She shrugged and set the cup into one of the holders in the console between them. She eyed the white paper bag on his lap, wondering what was in it, and said, I’ve never been one to turn tail and run at the first hint of danger.

"No, you usually run towards it," he said. He took a swallow of his own coffee and adjusted the wire-framed sunglasses he wore, pushing them further up his nose with one long finger.

That’s me. Reckless to the bitter end. She glanced toward the Agency building. Brandon was gone. Damn it.

You should be more careful, Damon said. The last thing we need is you to get killed before the end game is run. He took a sip of coffee and continued. I want you to get out of town. It’s better for you to pick your ground and make Brandon and his people come to you. Then you’ve got the high ground and a better chance at completing your assignment.

I know how to strategize, she muttered. He chuckled softly. If it’d been anyone else but her boss who’d laughed at her, she would have given him a quick and dirty introduction to her fist. Instead, she ground her teeth together and continued. "I just want to know what he’s doing and why he’s doing it. I haven’t figured that out yet, and it’s driving me insane."

I suspect he’s trying to find a way to take control of the Agency, he said. He spent months dealing with those who were threats to him. He’s left only three level ten agents in the entire organization that have the capability to take him out and aren’t sympathetic to him and his goals—you, Zachariah, and Ashton. I suspect he’ll start in on the level nines soon. There were ten different levels of field agents, scaled from level one to level ten, the latter which were the most experienced, highly skilled, well trained, and lethal of the bunch, a mere step below handler and supervisor in the organizational chain. Riley was surprised about two things: that all the agents murdered in the past six months due to Brandon’s intrigues were level ten agents and that Scott wasn’t designated as a level ten. It only stands to reason that that’s his goal, he added.

And so you…promoted him to deputy director so he’d have a better chance at succeeding? she asked.

He shrugged. Keep your enemies close, Ms. Walker. Always.

Riley retrieved her coffee cup and took a few swallows. So that means there’s a high chance you’re next on his list. What are you going to do?

My job, as always, he answered. "And if you don’t succeed at your job, then I’ll probably turn up dead. A small grin quirked at his lips. No pressure or anything."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t comment. Instead, she toyed with the lid of her coffee cup and contemplated her options. Damon was right, ultimately. She did need to get out of town, find somewhere to go that wasn’t too far away but would give her enough breathing room to plan how to get her hands on Brandon and squeeze the life out of him before he did her the same courtesy.

She stared out the windshield and sipped her coffee, hesitating as a question pressed against the insides of her lips, dying to be asked but afraid to escape. Finally, she heaved a slow, beleaguered sigh and asked, If I ask you for a favor, are you going to go all Godfather on me and demand the soul of my first-born child?

He looked amused. Riley, I don’t deal in souls, he said. You can ask me anything you need to ask me. As your employer, I’d expect as much.

She hesitated again, covering it by taking a swig of coffee. Then she forced the words out. Would you let Scott Hunter know that I’m okay?

A look of intrigue crossed Damon’s face, and his eyebrows slowly rose. Oh? he queried. Did you two get a little closer than you’ve let on while you were on assignment?

I haven’t ‘let on’ anything, she said. And I’ll have you know it’s nothing like that. He was just a partner, and considering we worked together—

Only for a few days, Damon pointed out. She ignored him and kept talking like he hadn’t said a word.

—I thought he’d like to know that nobody’s managed to kill me, she finished.

Yet.

She rolled her eyes. Stop talking like my death is a given, she snapped. "I’m not that easy to take down."

Says the woman sitting out in the open waiting for Brandon to take a pot shot at her, he said. He collected both coffee cups and opened the door, sliding out before leaning back inside. Don’t let me catch you out here like this again, he warned. He set the paper bag on the seat and shut the door. She scowled at him and fought the urge to flip him off.

She watched as Damon crossed the street—still carrying the coffee cups—and waited until he’d disappeared into the Agency headquarters building before grabbing the paper bag and tearing it open. It was a freshly baked croissant, partially wrapped in a slip of brown paper. She smiled, closed the bag, and focused on the road, shifting the car into drive. With one last glance at the building, she put her foot on the gas and pulled into traffic, even as she jabbed at her GPS unit.

She was going to Atlanta.

Glass crunched under Ashton Miller’s tennis shoes as he slowly walked across the large, open area that comprised much of The Unnaturals headquarters. As he took in the sight of the near-total destruction—the shattered computers, the broken tables, the browned and blackened papers littering the floor—he had to blink back a sheen of tears from his single good eye. A surge of emotion had come over him with the ferocity of a smack to the head, and he struggled to remain composed in the face of the scene in front of him.

This place had been his home. His home. He’d lived in his small back room apartment attached to his office ever since the attack that had disfigured him two years before, and he’d come to love the place. He’d expended a lot of energy making sure everything was kept neat and orderly. And now it was all gone.

He didn’t even want to look at the apartment and the office at the back of the building. He didn’t want to see the more personal level of all that he’d lost.

A young man with dark hair and dark eyes approached him, an N95 mask in his hand, a matching mask over the lower half of his face, and a nervous appearance around his eyes. Every step he took kicked up grime and ash from the floor in small puffs. Sir, you forgot your mask, the man said, extending it to him. Ashton glanced at it but didn’t take it. He gripped his cane tighter, grinding his fingers into the handle. The cleaners said we’re not supposed to be in here without masks on account of the ash—

"I’m fine, Agent Meehan, Ashton interrupted, more snappishly than he’d meant to. At least it had the desired effect: Meehan clamped his mouth shut, judging by the silence coming from the mask. Where is Zachariah?"

Last time I saw him, Agent Lawrence was outside on the sidewalk, sir, Meehan reported. I offered him a mask, but he said he wasn’t coming inside.

Just as well, he muttered. Not like there’s much to see. He turned away from the ill-lit building and headed back to the front entrance.

Zachariah waited on the sidewalk, his hands tucked into the pockets of his blue jeans, his torso wrapped in a thin Iron Maiden t-shirt that he’d probably owned for years, and his dark hair pulled back into a loose, messy ponytail. His head was tilted back, and his eyes were closed as he basked in the morning sunlight. As Ashton stepped into the heat, his blue eye began to sting and water, and he patted his pockets, searching for his sunglasses. Zachariah held out a pair to him, and he slipped them on with a grateful half-smile.

You left them in the car, Zachariah explained. I figured you might want them.

Thanks. He watched him for a moment, studying the way the sunlight practically made his skin glow. The man’s most recent brush with death—not his first, unfortunately—had changed him, at least physiologically. His skin was a bit paler than it had been before, almost too pale, though some color had begun returning to his features. His eyes were more sensitive to sunlight, too, judging by the way he’d reacted when he’d walked out of the Agency’s medical ward that morning, a fact Ashton was reminded of when the younger man put on his own pair of sunglasses. And the fangs—they hadn’t gone away. They served as a distinct reminder of what had happened to him.

Zachariah had been a vampire, and he was the only known person who’d ever escaped the curse of vampirism, thanks to the alpha vampire who’d turned him, Elise, sacrificing her own life so he could avoid the wrath of the weapon Riley Walker had unleashed on them. Of course, that sacrifice had come with a price, as Ashton expected everything to: the vampire woman had extracted a promise from Zachariah that he’d find her vampire sister, Chloe, a creature who appeared no older than thirteen and who Brandon Hall had kidnapped months before to control Elise into doing his bidding. And, knowing Zachariah the way he did—literally in every way possible—he knew the younger man would feel like he was honor-bound to keep that promise.

If Ashton hadn’t seen Chloe with his own eye, he’d likely have objected to Zachariah’s self-imposed mission. He’d seen first-hand the deplorable conditions she was kept in: half starved, injured, and chained to a wall like a dog. Vampire or not, it was no way to treat another living being.

Ash? Zachariah’s voice broke into his thoughts. Earth to Ash. Come in, Ash.

He shook his head and scowled. What?

I asked you a question, and you looked like you were off on another planet, Zachariah said. Something on your mind?

Just you, he almost said, but he clamped his mouth shut against the words. Instead, he shook his head and asked, What was your question?

Zachariah looked like he was fighting off a grin at his spacey-ness. At least he knew better than to let it slip free; it’d have probably earned him a smack on the back of the head. He bobbed his head toward The Unnaturals building and repeated his earlier question. How bad is it?

He scowled again. Bad enough that I’m effectively homeless, he admitted. At least until building repairs are made.

Zachariah did grin then, and though he had one of those grins that lit up his entire face and made him appear even more gorgeous than he already was, Ashton still felt that predicted, irrational urge to smack him, if only because he knew exactly what was about to come out of his mouth. "Well, I guess you’ll definitely have to stay with me, then!"

Ashton groaned. As much as he enjoyed Zachariah and his company, the man’s disorganized mess of an apartment always screwed around with his OCD tendencies. He’d spent the night there only a handful of times, and he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep thanks to his incessant compulsion to clean. I…I’m not sure that’s a good idea, he said, slowly and cautiously, not wanting to hurt his feelings.

Oh, come on, Ash, Zachariah wheedled. I cleaned this time, I promise.

No, you didn’t.

Zachariah paused, considered, then said, No, you’re right, I didn’t. But I will! When Ashton hesitated, trying to figure out a nice way to tell him that shoving random objects into random cabinets and closets—whether they belonged there or not—didn’t qualify as cleaning, Zachariah stepped closer and murmured in his ear, in the type of tone that usually promised all manner of interesting activities, I’ll even cook for you. You like my manicotti, don’t you? His lips brushed against his jaw and his hand pressed against his chest, sliding slowly down his stomach to hook into the waistband of his jeans, eliciting a shiver from Ashton. He dug his fingers into the grip of his cane, trying to maintain some modicum of self-control.

Aw hell, Zach, how am I supposed to turn down your manicotti? he asked, trying to ignore the way Zachariah’s fingertips traced circled against the skin under his shirt. You fucking manipulator.

The very best, Zachariah said, his voice suddenly chipper. He let go of Ashton’s pants and dangled a set of keys in his face. Let’s go. I’m driving.

Of course you are, Ashton said. The statement hadn’t been necessary; he hadn’t driven a car since the attack that had left him physically impaired. He started toward where they’d left the car parked, limping with every other step and relying heavily on his cane for extra support. He hated using his cane. It always made him feel like he was vulnerable and helpless, though he was neither. Zachariah walked alongside him, keeping pace with him but not offering to help; he knew better than that. When they reached Zachariah’s car, a shiny black Camaro that was the only non-motorcycle vehicle he owned, he climbed into the passenger seat with difficulty, trying to ignore the aches, pains, and soreness he’d earned at Brandon’s hands when he’d been taken hostage the night before the mess at headquarters had gone down.

Zachariah swung into the driver’s seat with every ounce of fluidity and grace that Ashton lacked, another thing that made him want to smack him, if only out of sheer jealousy. As he reached to pull the passenger door shut behind him, a stab of pain shot through his shoulder, and he grasped it gently with his left hand, massaging it as he pulled the door shut.

You okay? Zachariah asked, apparently having seen his facial expression.

Yeah, it’s my shoulder, he said. Brandon did a number on me, and being tied to a chair for a while didn’t help. I’m just sore.

Zachariah nodded in understanding. I think I have something that can help with that, he said, starting the car’s engine and putting it into gear. So do you have any plans for your downtime? he asked, easing the sports car into the street.

The Agency had a standing policy of no back-to-back assignments. Any time an agent took a job, no matter how experienced he or she was, no matter how difficult the assignment or whether it was successfully completed or not, they were required to take a mandatory minimum two weeks of leave. That time doubled if the agent had been injured. The two of them were facing at least a month of downtime, which meant Zachariah was probably going to spend his time getting into trouble.

He sighed and shifted in his seat, shoving the cane over to make more room for his legs. I suppose any plans I have will be discarded in favor of trying to keep you out of trouble.

Zachariah laughed softly at that, the sound rolling across the car’s interior and bringing a crooked smile to Ashton’s face. He promptly squashed it before Zachariah saw it and accused him of not taking him seriously. Oh, that you will be, the man said.

Should I ask?

Probably, because I’m going to need your help on this one. Zachariah made a lazy right turn, flicking his signal on at the last second.

Well, I’m asking, he said.

I know you aren’t a field agent anymore, he started, and Ashton had a feeling he wasn’t going to like this, but I need your help on something that’s sort of field related.

Ashton sighed and shook his head. Zach, what have you got up your sleeve?

Agree to help me, and I’ll tell you, he said promptly.

You’re kidding, right?

"Does it look like I’m kidding?"

Ashton groaned and leaned forward, burying his face in his hands and scrubbing at it in exasperation. You drive me nuts sometimes, you know that?

Yeah, it’s what I’m good at, he said with a heavy dose of smugness, as if he were proud of his ability to drive him to distraction. Are you going to help me or not?

He lifted his head and dropped his hands to his thighs with an audible clap. Sure. Why not? he said. God knows I’m going to end up trying to dig you out of a hole anyway, whether I agree to help or not.

I’m going to spend the next month trying to track down Chloe, Zachariah said. While I’m not exactly eager to run off and help vampires in any way, I promised Elise that I’d try to help Chloe, and I’m not going to deny the wishes of a woman—vampire or not—who died in order to spare my life.

I agree, he said. I figured you were going to end up going after her as soon as you were able. So I’m thinking you have some idea what you’re going to do?

"Yeah. I’m going to find Brandon’s house and break in to see if Chloe’s in there. And you are going to help me not only find it but get inside without us getting killed."

Ashton raised an eyebrow. "You’re kidding, right, Zach? Do I need to remind you of what you just said? I’m not a field agent, not anymore. I mean, I’ve done what I can to stay in shape and keep my skills up, but I can only do so much, and I’m far from where my skills should be to qualify for field."

Zachariah pulled the Camaro into the parking garage attached to the apartment building he lived in when he was in D.C. Once he pulled into one of his assigned parking spaces, he turned the engine off and twisted in his seat, looking at Ashton with seriousness. You don’t have to meet the Agency’s field operative requirements to help me. You just have to meet mine, and you are far and away past my minimums.

Ashton gave him a small smile, and he suddenly felt the urge to kiss him, so he leaned across the console between them to press his mouth against Zachariah’s. Thank you for not putting me in the position of having to kill you, he said as he pulled away. The smile Zachariah gave him hit him right in the chest.

Not a problem, he agreed. Lord knows I didn’t want to put you through that. He lifted his hips off the seat to cram his keys into his pocket; the move only fired every crumb of Ashton’s healthy imagination, which was vivid to the point of discomfort. What do you say we get inside, get some food, and spend the next couple of days just…relaxing?

"I have a feeling you have something in mind other than actual relaxation," Ashton said, reaching for the door to begin the arduous task of getting his sore body out of the car.

Oh, you better believe it.

Two

Scott Hunter stared at the computer screen on his desk with the bleary-eyed look of a man who’d spent too many hours in front of it. Empty water bottles littered the desk, several protein bar wrappers scattered among them. His forehead was wrinkled into a frown as he re-read what he’d just written.

He’d been trying to write his after-action report of what had happened at The Unnaturals headquarters for almost six hours now, and he was no closer to being successful at it than he’d been when he’d started. How was he supposed to explain the unexplainable? He’d never experienced anything like the events of the previous three days, and he wasn’t sure his vocabulary was adequate enough to cover it. Kidnapping? Breaking and entering? Sure, he could handle that; he’d written reports like those before. But vampires? Impossible. And then there was the issue of that strange weapon Riley used that seemed to have so drastically altered her, at least physically if not mentally.

He couldn’t say that his world hadn’t been altered, too.

Scott scowled at the computer screen and jabbed at the backspace key, erasing what little he’d written. As he did so, his eyes drifted to the new smartphone his handler, Henry Cage, had given him that morning to replace the one he’d broken. His thoughts slid back to the mass email that had been sent out to every agent in the Agency’s rosters a mere handful of hours after the events that transpired the night before. Riley had been declared rogue, and an Agency-sanctioned hit had been put out on her. It had been signed off on—and probably written by—the Agency’s deputy director, the very man who was already responsible for the deaths of twenty-seven agents and who seemed hell-bent on adding Riley to his tally. And him, Ashton, and Zachariah for good measure. Even as he tried to write his report, the lie that Riley was responsible for the murders was spreading like wildfire through the Agency, taken as gospel truth by government-employed assassins who didn’t have an independently thinking bone in their bodies.

What the hell am I doing here? he muttered, shoving an almost empty bottle of water away from him. He didn’t need to be in this building right now. He didn’t want anything to do with these people, not when they were probably having powwows with their handlers and planning how they’d take out Riley. She was his partner. He needed to be out where she was, backing her up, because as little as he knew about her, he did know that her loyalties ran deep, and she’d do the same for him if he were the one who’d been designated rogue.

Scott finished erasing what he’d been working on, closed the program down, and logged out. After dropping his trash into the can under the desk, he abandoned his attempts at