Page 4 of Blaze

2

BLAZE

Something about Claire is a siren song to my demonic heart. Even before I saw her sweet girl-next-door face, my nature drew me towards the Toyota pulled over with hazards flashing. I’d expected it to be like any other calling—a human whose soul is desperate enough to strike a bargain.

Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t.

When she’d pulled the puny gun on me, my cock went half-mast. She’s a kitten, but she’s got claws. She’s also got secrets hidden in those hazel eyes of hers. A demon like me can’t resist secrets.

I knew right away she doesn’t know how to recognize our kind. I highly doubt a pretty human like her would have been willing to climb onto my Harley Sportster if she knew what I am. Sweet, innocent-looking girls run from us demons. The women who hang around the Knights of Hades clubhouse know exactly what we are. Hell, half of them are drawn to us because we’re a motorcycle club and the other half are there because they want the demon.

And I mean literal demon.

When I got a handful of Claire’s cute ass as I pulled her flush against me, my pants grew tighter. Then when her tiny hands gripped my leather cut, her pert breasts against my back, my cock went full mast. I raced us down the road towards Devil’s Haven—the town we’d taken over years ago—ignoring my erection.

I don’t do sweet and innocent. Claire strikes me as the type of girl who wants flower, candle-lit dinners, and a man who’ll be gentle as he makes love to her. I don’t do that shit. I fuck hard and fast, and any woman I’m with knows not to expect anything once we’re done.

Now if only my cock will get on the same page.

We cross into the large town we’ve taken over. It’s sitting at the foot of one of the many desert mountains tucked away near Death Valley. The road snaking through this region isn’t even on most of the modern maps. The only people who roll through our town are seasoned truckers and people running from something. And since Claire’s not a trucker…

So, what’s she running from?

I feel her shift behind me, probably taking in the shops as we slow down through the main street. The rest of the men are likely already split up, some headed to the clubhouse, others to the office, and the rest split between their jobs in town and The Styx, our club’s preferred bar.

I take a left towards The Styx, a bit sharper than necessary, grinning when Claire squeaks and clings to me. She’s damn tiny compared to me, but she’s got strength in her grip. The black leggings she’s wearing makes it feel like she’s naked while she’s pressed up against me, and her bare arms do nothing to dispel the illusion. But a glance down at those arms has me frowning. It’s only been ten minutes and her skin’s already turning pink from the sun.

If we hadn’t been coming back from a ride after a job, she’d still be stuck out there. Demons don’t get burned by the sun and 120-degree weather doesn’t faze us. A little thing like her could’ve died, though. The thought pisses me off more than it should.

Pulling up, it’s like I’d guessed. Several bikes are parked out front of The Styx Bar. I pull into the gravel parking lot, parking near the back door next to Sydney’s Honda Civic. The bar is housed in a two-story building with a weathered exterior, its walls painted in a faded dark blue, giving it a rustic and worn-out appearance. It’d been the run-down headquarters of the MC club that used to run the town, but since we took over, Sydney’s done a lot to improve the place. With our help, she gutted the second floor and renovated it into a two-bedroom apartment where she now lives.

The Knights of Hades runs the town, but Sydney runs The Styx, and we know not to mess with the fiery, ball-busting human.

Claire scrambles off the bike, and I hurry to get off, reaching for her. Grabbing her arms, I keep her from falling on her ass, her legs clearly weak after her first time.

“You’ll get used to it,” I tell her. She pulls out of my grip fast, glaring up at me. At least she isn’t about to tumble over into the gravel.

“No, I won’t,” she replies waspishly but drops her gaze to the ground. “Thanks, though.”

I’m glad of the reminder that she’s not going to be riding with me again. If I want a distraction, there are plenty of willing women inside the bar. “Let’s go talk to Syd. She’ll hook you up with a room for however long it takes to fix your car.”

I head for the front of the bar, not bothering to wait for the woman. I hardly know her and she’s getting under my skin. The entrance itself is under a narrow roof that stretches the length of the front; the door is a heavy wooden thing that’s the newest thing on the building. A few of the younger Knights got into a fight, busting down the old one.

Sydney got so pissed, she banned them from her bar for two years. Reaper—our MC president and owner of Cerberus Security—made them pay for and fix the damage, then assigned them all the shit, boring paperwork tasks none of us like doing. He kept them on grunt-work only until Sydney rescinded the ban.

There’s no need for advertisements posted on the outside walls or menus like you find in more popular establishments in the bigger cities. Devil’s Haven has a population of five hundred, give or take. If you live here, you know The Styx menu. It hasn’t changed in decades.

I see the curiosity in Claire’s eyes, though it’s clear she’s trying to hide it, as I open the door and walk in. The temperature plummets thirty degrees. An icy wave rolls over my skin, but it doesn’t bother me. My eyes aren’t affected by the sudden darkness, either. If anything, my vision gets better. I might have escaped the bowels of the Underworld centuries ago, but darkness is still my friend. The irony that we settled here, in the deserts of Nevada, isn’t lost on me, though the Underworld—Hell, Land of the Dead, Kur, whatever mortals call it—isn’t just one environment. The celestial plane is like this one but more, with every environment imaginable.

The religious leaders of this world would drop dead if they ever learned that the beings they called angels and demons are actually all the same. The only difference between us is the same as what separates humans: politics. Whichever sect is more powerful, whichever holds more sway over the celestial plane, gets to determine who of us are considered angels and who are demons.

Sick of the constant wars and strife of our home world, the rest of the Knights of Hades and I clawed our way through the ether in search of true freedom. We found this place and motorcycles. Then when we realized we’d need a way to legitimatize ourselves in this world, Reaper—our leader—decided we’d offer security services against anything supernatural. One of our first jobs landed us here, in this small town already called Devil’s Haven, ironically enough.

The locals had had some issues with some nasty wolf shifters. We cleared them out, then Reaper came to an agreement with the then mayor, a grizzled old man named Red. That was thirty years ago, and now we’ve got enough of a reputation that we can be picky about what jobs we take. We also charge a hell of a lot of money, part of which we invest right back into the town that’s now our turf. When Red died, they tried to vote Reaper in as Mayor. He refused, but they didn’t accept anyone else. So now Devil’s Haven really is ours, even if it’s not on any official paperwork.

I lift my chin to the riders who’ve claimed our usual spots in the back corner. Three of them are probies, men trying to earn a cut with the Knights of Hades patch. We originals are all demons, but over the years, Reaper’s been letting other supernatural outcasts join us. Strength in numbers and diversity and all that bullshit. Two of the probies are shifters, a bear named Sampson and a lynx named Max. The third is a half-blood, the spawn of a demon and human, with the boring-as-fuck name Jon. Chainz is here too, along with Brute, Heathen, and Bones.

Standing at the bar, I rap my knuckles on it, just to piss off Sydney. She’s always behind the bar, unless she’s shoving her way between idiots trying to brawl. She’s human, but all fire and spite. She sends me a glare, fire in those almost black eyes of hers. She’s as consistent as Reaper is when it comes to the clothes she wears. Cut-off denim shorts that show off long, toned legs, ass-kicker boots strapped tight, and a black tank top with some classic rock band logo on it. Sydney’s ancestors were native to the area, and it shows with her high cheekbones, bronze skin and ink black hair.

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