Wrong Side of Hell (League of Guardians 0.50)

“Let’s just say I don’t bring out the warm fuzzies in the gatekeeper.” His eyes narrowed, his voice was firm. “Tick tock, tick tock . . . I need you to remember.”

Kira cracked her neck and tried to ease the tension that lay across her shoulders. It was no use. She was strung tighter than a bow around an arrow. Still, she closed her eyes and concentrated. Nothing but a blank canvas came to mind. “It hurts,” she whispered.

“Try harder.” There was no compassion in his voice, but did she really expect it?

The dog’s barking had reached a level that signaled the game had changed—at this very moment the trojans might have arrived with their master close at hand. Yet Kira shut it out, covering her ears with her hands as she searched her mind. Pain sliced through her skull and she cried out.

Then, like a leak that had been sprung, a small crack appeared in her memories. It fingered out—thin spidery legs of images, smells, and sensations. She turned to Logan and whispered, “French toast.”

“French toast,?

? he repeated, watching her closely.

She nodded. “Someone brought me breakfast. It was there beside my bed. French toast, maple syrup, and scrambled eggs.” Her brow furled. “I reached for the plate.” Eyes wide, she stared up into his. “It had been so long since I’d had anything like it, but . . .” she exhaled. “It disappeared . . . right before my eyes. When I rolled out of bed everything went weird, like the floor was mushy and the walls changed color. I was off balance and the next thing I remember is standing at the edge of the market.”

“French toast,” he murmured. Blue eyes stared into dark ones. “You did good, kid.” He nodded toward the back of the shop. “This way.”

Kira’s gaze rested on his broad shoulders, her face flushed at the small crumb of praise. He opened the door and glanced back at her, hand beckoning toward the swirling mist beyond. His nostrils flared and his eyes sparked crimson.

Most people would run the other way at the sight of such a man. He was too large, too intimidating . . . too much an alpha male. And then there was the whole turning-into-an-animal thing.

This man or hellhound—or whatever he was—held her life in the palm of his hand. He was asking her to believe in things that were beyond believable for most people, and yet . . . she trusted him completely.

Which made no sense.

“Nothing about this makes sense,” she said under her breath.

Kira started forward, a prayer on her lips as she slipped past Logan and disappeared into the heavy mist. It was the first prayer she’d uttered in over fifteen years.

She just hoped someone was listening.

Chapter Eleven

THE SMELLS OUT here were sharp. They tingled along the inside of Logan’s nose and he filtered out the ones he wanted before moving forward. His long legs ate up the concrete while Kira’s smaller ones pumped fast in order to keep up with him. He supposed he could slow down—match his strides with hers—but the need to complete the mission tore at him.

The gray realm made him edgy. Kira made him edgy. And that left the bad taste of losing control in his mouth. Something he didn’t much care for.

He glanced down at her. She was surprising to him . . . for a human, and that was saying something. They were a race of beings he’d always thought of as weak, and he’d never much cared for them. Not the way Bill did. He had to wonder what it was about Kira that made her of special interest for those of the otherworld. Especially the one who was here, tracking her in the gray realm.

His mouth tightened at the thought of the faceless assassin. Damn, but he’d love a chance at his ass—how cowardly to stalk a human girl with no chance of protecting herself. Logan snarled and clenched his hands. He might get a chance yet.

He hazarded a glance behind them but wasn’t able to penetrate through the fog that swirled ever faster. At the moment it seemed they were alone.

He’d found the smallest thread of a scent that could be what he was looking for. French toast? Who knew, but it was sweet—sickeningly so—and more importantly, it was linked to Kira’s scent, which carried bits of sun and soul.

Logan grabbed her hand and guided her to the right. The wind picked up—slicing through the mist and thinning it—as it swept along the ground in turbulent gusts. At his feet the concrete suddenly gave way to soft grass, his heavy boots sinking into its softness, and he sniffed—water was nearby.

One second they were rushing through gray; the next, they were nearly blinded by sunlight.

Logan pulled up at the sight before him—an opulent house faced with delicate pink stucco and white trim, a sea of green and blue, and a riot of color everywhere else.

Kira trembled in his grasp and he watched as her face came alive. Her eyes widened—their recesses shiny, now reflective pools of onyx—and her generous mouth curved into a soft smile. For a few seconds she appeared much younger, as if no worry lived inside her soul. Long hair wafted about her face, and he reached for a tendril that floated behind her ear but stopped short of touching it.

What the hell was he doing?

He cleared his throat and extricated his hand from hers. She didn’t seem to notice, and he followed as she began to jog and then run toward the pool.

This backyard oasis was alive with color. No gray existed here. Gardens fell along the fence, a riot of pinks, oranges, yellows, and purples. Tall, exotic trees lined the border, a fountain with a mermaid shooting water several feet in the air lay to his left—its gray foundation was bordered by the bluest irises he’d ever seen.