Wrong Side of Hell (League of Guardians 0.50)

Chapter One

THE DOOR BEHIND Logan Winters opened, bringing with it a gust of wind, the faint scent of pine, and complete silence. Like a ripple effect, conversations stopped, laughter faded, and eyes were averted.

Logan glanced up at the bartender, took notice of the stubby fingers grasped tight to the bottle of Canadian whiskey—the bottle Logan had been waiting for—and scowled.

The Neon Angel was a sad excuse for a drinking hole. It had seen better days, and from what he could tell, so had most of the staff and clientele. The bar was a rickety shack on the edge of a town he had no name for. It was the place he’d ended up—no reason other than timing—and for a brief moment it had been the heaven he’d been seeking.

His eyebrows knit together and his lips tightened. All he’d wanted was a drink. Just one fucking drink.

He exhaled and shifted slightly, giving himself more room as he pushed his bar stool back a few inches. The couple that had been sitting to his left were already on their feet, a wad of cash thrown onto the bar as they slid into the shadows that wrapped around the room.

The redhead who’d been eyeing him but good downed her wine and smiled a crazy “I’m getting the hell out of here” kind of smile before wiping the corner of her mouth and turning away.

Guess he wasn’t getting laid either.

Logan swore—a harsh string of words no one would understand—and nodded to the bartender. “I’ll take that shot now.”

The large man ran his free hand through the thinning gray pallet atop his head and swallowed hard, his watery eyes wide as he glanced toward Logan. Thick bands of wiry gray brows curled crazily above round eyeballs the color of peat moss.

He wore a faded black wifebeater t-shirt and his soft arms were filled with tattoos that jiggled as he rubbed the scruff on his chin. “Dude . . . not sure if that would be a good . . . uh . . . idea.”

Logan’s ice blue eyes narrowed as a snarl caught in the back of his throat. He felt the heat beneath his skin. The burn. The itch.

“Do not,” he bared his teeth, “call me dude.”

A rumble rose from his chest—a menacing warning—and the bartender took heed, his body jerking in small, quick movements as he stepped forward. Logan nodded toward the bottle, his low rasp barely containing the irritation he felt. “Pour me the drink.” He’d have his whiskey and then deal with whoever the hell had decided tonight was a good night to fuck with him.

The bartender swallowed nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing through the thick folds of skin at his neck. He didn’t know what to do. Run from whoever—or whatever—had blown into the place or pour the damn whiskey and be done with it.

His eyes darted to just behind Logan once more but he jumped when Logan barked. “Now.”

The bartender poured a generous amount of whiskey into the tumbler, and though he tried to be careful, his hands shook so much it was a damn miracle he didn’t spill the precious liquid all over the place.

The sound of clinking glass echoed into the dead silence, and when the bartender was done, he set the bottle to the side and stepped back. A pronounced tick pulsed near his left eye and he swallowed nervously as he stood there, shuffling his feet, eyes shifting from Logan to the door. His face was flushed a ruddy pink color, the skin shiny with sweat and fear.

Logan tossed some cash onto the dark grained bar and stood, his six-foot-six frame unfurling with the uncanny grace of an animal, which, considering his origins, wasn’t surprising.

Tension settled along his wide shoulders as he reached for the glass, but along with it, a shot of anticipation. He was itching for a fight. He’d just not known it until now.

He tipped his head back. Amber liquid slid onto his tongue and he welcomed the smooth, sweet taste. It burned—all the way down—yet he closed his eyes and savored the sensation.

Logan had been pretty much everywhere—in the human realm and beyond—and he could say with certainty Canadians knew how to brew their damn whiskey better than anyone else.

He let the liquid fire settle in his belly, then carefully set the empty glass back onto the bar. He arched a brow and nodded, a slight jerk to the right.

Now would be a good time for the bartender to leave.

Sweat beaded along the man’s top lip. It was quickly wiped away by a thick meaty hand, and then the bartender took a step back before he too disappeared into the shadows.

Logan slowly turned.

Two men stood just inside the door of the Neon Angel, their tall frames bathed in shadow. They were big. Well built and muscled.

And they’d not come to socialize.

Logan had no idea who they were, but judging from the otherworld scent that clung to them, he had a pretty good idea where they’d come from. But that was the tricky part, wasn’t it? Which realm did they call home?

No scent of demon twisted in the air, and yet . . .