The Midnight Realm Read online

  No, I shouldn’t be offended he doesn’t recognize me. Not sure anyone would from nine years ago.

  His gaze comes back to me, and I manage to offer up a polite smile before turning to mix his cocktail. With my back to him, I feel his eyes on me, and I verify it with a quick glance in the mirror behind the bar. I’m wearing a mashup of clothes I got from Goodwill—a denim skirt cut super short and frayed, a tank top that’s tight and a little too small for my breasts, and a mesh overlay shirt that really doesn’t conceal the fact I’m not wearing a bra.

  It’s a provocative outfit, designed to up my tips. Vince’s eyes drop to my ass, and it does surprise me just a little. The way I look now wouldn’t have appealed to him back then, but maybe he’s changed.

  Turning, I set the drink on a napkin, and he slides a credit card toward me. “Open a tab, if you don’t mind.”

  His voice is what I remember. Timid, butterfly soft.

  “Got it.” I put his credit card in a leather jacket awaiting his final tally and move down the bar to handle some refills. When I glance back at him from time to time, he’s not watching me anymore. He focuses on his drink and his smartphone, closed off and not inviting conversation.

  After about ten minutes, I can’t help myself, and I move back to him. His drink is only about half empty, but still I ask, “You want another?”

  His head lifts and he blinks at me in surprise. “Um… yeah. Why not?”

  I mix his second drink even stronger than the first and set it down before him. “Thanks,” he says.

  “My pleasure.” I lean on the bar, folding my arms, and I know it plumps my breasts. His eyes can’t help but flick there. “You from around here?”

  He shakes his head, hand curling around the first screwdriver. “Traveling through. Looked like a nice bar to have a few drinks.”

  I flash him a flirty smile. “This place is a dump, but I make excellent cocktails.”

  Vince smiles back, taking the bait. “Too bad you’re working or I’d buy you one. Of course, it probably wouldn’t be as good as yours.”

  “Too bad indeed,” I purr, reaching out to stroke a fingertip down the back of his hand.

  Vince flushes as I draw away. I shoot him a wink and turn toward the rear bar, noticing now that his attention is fully on my ass where I want it to stay.

  I’ve got him hooked.

  * * *

  It doesn’t take long… a few hours and four screwdrivers with double shots of vodka, and Vince is drunk.

  I’ve managed to flirt with him for the last hour and a half, lacing dirty talk and innuendo within our conversation and ensuring that his butt would stay glued to the bar stool.

  He practically drools as he watches me.

  I smile as I walk by, approaching Sam down at the other end of the bar. I tap him on the shoulder. “Do you mind if I take a fifteen-minute break?”

  “Of course not,” Sam exclaims, sounding relieved I’ve asked for a bit of time from behind the bar. I know he doesn’t want to lose one of the best bartenders he’s had in a while.

  He’s a sweet man, and I wish I could care more about him, but I don’t.

  “Thanks.” I head back down the bar toward Vince. He smiles as I get nearer, but I can see he has to squint a little to stop the blurred, drunken vision. I don’t waste any time. Leaning over the bar toward him, I say, “I’ve got fifteen minutes and an apartment upstairs. Care to join me?”

  Apparently, Vince isn’t that drunk because he asks, “Is it going to cost me anything?”

  I wag a finger playfully. “I’m not that kind of woman,” I tease, although I used to be. On occasion, I’ve had to spread my legs for money, but now I make it slinging drinks. “Only going to cost you a little bit of time.”

  “Then let’s go,” he says, lurching up off the stool.

  I meet him at the end of the bar and take his hand. Winding my way through the crowd, we head to the back hallway, past the restrooms to a staircase that leads up.

  The boards groan under our weight as we ascend and leave the loud music and chatter of people behind.

  At my apartment, I let go of Vince’s hand to pull out my key. He steps into my backside, his hands going to my waist. His breath is hot on my neck as he slurs, “You going to be a good girl for Daddy.”

  I push the door open and step through, turning to face him as he stumbles in. My hand goes between his legs, and I find him soft.

  Typical.

  “I don’t know.” I work at his belt, giving him a playful look, and I lick my lower lip to hold his attention. “Have you been a good daddy?”

  “The best,” he assures me.

  “You going to let me tie you up and have my way with you?”

  “Oh God,” he mutters with a groan. “Please say that’s not a joke.”

  “It’s not.” I grab his hand and lead him to my small bedroom that contains nothing but a rickety iron bed and one night table. All my possessions hang in the closet or are still secure in my suitcase. “Get naked.”

  While Vince stumbles around shedding his clothes, I pull out some fishnet stockings I sometimes wear with short skirts.

  When I turn back to face Vince, I find him standing there naked, swaying. His dick is still limp, which is fine by me.

  “Get on the bed, Daddy.”

  He complies, a lecherous grin on his face. When he’s on his back and in the center, I crawl over him in a straddle, my skirt rising indecently. Vince’s hands come to my hips to try to push it up more, but I knock them away.

  “No, no, no,” I chide. “Wrists together and above your head.”

  “Whatever you say, darlin’.”

  I work efficiently, wrapping the fishnets above his wrists and tying them to the iron bars. The bed is so old and wobbly, he could probably wrench one of the bars loose if he tried, but that’s not going to be an issue.

  Settling down on his soft stomach, I press my hands to his chest and dig my fingernails in just a touch. He moans from the bite of pain.

  “You don’t recognize me, do you?” I ask, even though I know the answer. There’s no way he’d ever let me tie him up if he did.

  He squints at me, the alcohol muddying his brain. “I know you?”

  “Yes.”

  “From where?”

  I can barely get the words out. “7493 Melody Lane.”

  The jolt of shock that courses through his body is palpable, and his vision clears. Lifting his head off the pillow, he peers at me hard, trying to see through the platinum hair and hollowed-out face.

  Vince is still not quite able to make the connection, because I’m not the only girl who lived at that address, so I supply my name for him. “Nyssa.”

  It takes a moment for him to search his memory, but then his eyes widen when he matches the name with my new face. I can read every emotion flickering across his face.

  Unease.

  Lust.

  Fear.

  Hope.

  He opens his mouth, to say what, I have no clue. He snaps it closed just as quick when I pull the switchblade out of my back pocket.

  Pressing the tiny silver button, the blade ejects with a soft snick, and Vince’s eyes bug out of his head. “Nyssa… what the hell?”

  I put the knife tip to his pudgy throat and glare at him. “What the hell? That’s all you have to say to me?”

  “What should I say?” he retorts and tries to buck me off. It causes the blade to nick him, and I grin as a rivulet of blood runs down his pale skin. “I’d be careful, Vince. Wouldn’t want me to slip now, would you?”

  He eyes me warily, body going still. I consider my options carefully. Never in a million years did I think our paths would cross again. Lifting the blade from his neck, I hold it up before me and run my finger along the edge. It slices my skin, attesting to its sharpness.

  “What do you want from me?” Vince rasps.

  My eyes travel slowly from the blade to his face, and I open up to let my emotions swell. I’ve been holding t
hem back all night, and rage and fury now sweep through me. It burns like acid.

  “I want you to die, Vince,” I say quietly.

  He opens his mouth in protest, but his words are cut off as I lash out with the blade. It slices through his skin as if it were as frail as cotton candy, and I only know I hit the carotid by the spray of blood that hits me in the face.

  I gasp and sputter as I spit it out of my mouth. I can feel it dripping down my forehead and cheeks as I watch Vince’s eyes bulge from their sockets. He gurgles and then chokes on his blood and I watch, transfixed, for what seems like hours.

  It’s such a good show, I don’t want it to end.

  When the light goes out of his eyes and his head lolls, I release a long sigh of relief. I roll off his body and stagger into the small bathroom. My reflection is hideous, my face covered in blood and my platinum hair stained pink. I smile and find even my teeth are covered with it. Makes sense since I had my mouth open when I made my strike.

  I’m a monster, and I start to laugh.

  Dropping the knife in the sink, I walk out of the bathroom. Well, walk isn’t quite the right word. I shuffle as if drunk or high, and maybe I am.

  Euphoria coursing through me, I lurch out of my apartment and practically fall down the stairs. I push through the crowded bar, and a few people scream when they see me.

  One man reaches out a tentative hand. “Are you okay?”

  “Do I look okay?” I ask, then peals of laughter start again. The man jerks his hand back.

  I push people out of my way as I head for the front door. When I reach it, Sam’s there, staring at me in horror. “Oh my god, Nyssa. What happened? Do you need an ambulance?”

  I find that funny too. “No, Sam. Thank you. An ambulance is definitely not needed.”

  Pushing through the door into Toledo’s summer heat, I’m vaguely aware of Sam and a few patrons following me out. I have no clue where I’m going, but I look left, then right. The streets are crowded with bar hoppers, people making wide arcs to clear a path as they take in my appearance. Across the street sits a waiting cab, and I’ve got some cash in my pocket.

  A hand touches my arm, and I turn to see Sam. “Let me help you,” he says kindly.

  I laugh again, then make myself stop to give him some respect. “No one can help me, Sam. I’m beyond help.”

  “You’re not,” he insists.

  I pull my arm free and start backing toward the curb. I keep my eyes pinned on Sam, trying to accept the sympathy in his gaze.

  It bounces right off me.

  “Fuck this,” I snarl, finally realizing I’m in deep shit. I just murdered a man. Spinning, I make to dart across the street for the cab. I need to put distance between me and the dead body upstairs. I ease off the curb and take no more than two steps before a horn draws my attention.

  Twisting my head left, I gape at the city bus bearing down on me. I hear the shriek of brakes, people scream from the sidewalk, and then the bus slams into me. For the briefest of moments, I feel pain in every molecule of my body, and then it all goes black.

  * * *

  Unbearable heat is the first thing I register as consciousness returns. I open my eyes, clearly remembering the bus hitting me. I brace for what I know will be excruciating pain, but all I feel is stifling heat making my skin prickle.

  Blinking several times, I start to panic because I can’t see, but then realize I’m in a very darkened room.

  A hospital?

  I sit up, pressing a hand down for leverage, and I’m stunned to not feel a mattress but a dirt floor. “What the fuck?”

  Rolling to my knees, I push up to my feet. I have no pain whatsoever, but I’m not relieved. I’m distinctly anxious.

  As my eyes adjust, I focus on my accommodations. The thick metal bars dredge up the panic welling inside me.

  A jail cell?

  I move to the bars, wrap my fingers around them, and peer out of my mini prison.

  “Jesus Christ,” I mutter as I take it all in.

  A midnight sky with low-hanging stars, a hill made of shiny black rock sprouting from the ground and pushing higher still, and an obsidian castle with turrets and spires rising so tall, I can barely see the tips. A red river of thick lava flows between my cell and the castle, the source of the heat I feel.

  My head twists and I take in other cells carved into the side of a mountain. Thick grates covering black holes and from within those spaces, I hear screaming and howling laced with deep misery, regret, and terror.

  I’m not in a hospital.

  I’m fairly confident I’m in Hell.

  I’m dead—flattened by a bus—and I was sent straight to Satan’s dominion.

  I can’t help it. I start laughing again, releasing a mirth that comes from deep within my belly. I laugh so long and hard, tears leak from my eyes, but I can’t stop it.

  Dropping to my knees, I roll onto my side and hold my stomach, now aching from the hilarity.

  It’s more than just laughter, though.

  It’s pure joy.

  Because no matter that I’m here in Hell, Vince Matheson is still dead, and that makes it a very good day.

  CHAPTER 3

  Amell

  The amber liquor slides down my throat and burns nicely. It hits my belly with the same warming effect, and I lift my wings to settle back into my chair with a fatigued sigh.

  This job is fucking exhausting. I didn’t get this gig because I wanted it—I got it because I was apparently the most qualified. Having served as Kymaris’s second-in-command from the very beginning, I had the respect—and fear—of the Dark Fae nobles, gentry, and lower caste.

  I didn’t want it. After everything I’d been through with Kymaris, and then Zora, and then a potential apocalypse I wanted no part of was averted (thanks to Zora), I just wanted to live my life in peace.

  But our newly minted god of Life asked it of me, and there’s not much I can deny Zora after all the pain I’ve caused her.

  “Relax,” Sorcha purrs. Her claws spring forth from the end of her fingers and graze along my thighs, the leather preventing her from scoring my skin. She’s kneeling before me with promise in her silver eyes.

  “Trying,” I mutter, taking another large gulp of the Kentucky bourbon brought to me from the First Dimension by one of my Dark Fae brethren who travels there often.

  Sorcha is a beautiful Dark Fae of noble blood and sister to my closest friend, Truett. She shares the same blond hair and bluish tint to her skin that defines their familial line. We pleasure each other whenever we feel like it, but there are no bonds or commitments. That’s not the way of our race. The only reason she’s here and not someone else is because she was convenient.

  But today… she’s not doing it for me. I’m still pissed that Zora’s imprisoned me here, which isn’t the true punishment. That would be the fact I can’t visit Thalia. And Zora knew that would hurt worse than anything.

  I’m also annoyed because if punishment is supposed to be a deterrent to future actions, she’s misjudged me. Supposing I get out of this prison at some point, Zora’s sentence won’t prevent me from protecting my daughter if she falls into trouble again.

  “I know exactly what you need.” Sorcha reaches to the laces of my pants—claws safely retracted—but a loud knocking on my door has me pushing her hands away.

  “Enter,” I command as I rise. Sorcha rolls to her hip and lounges against my chair, arm resting on the cushion. She’s completely naked and doesn’t care who sees her.

  Neither do I, for that matter.

  Calix comes in with his hands folded before him. He returned yesterday after spending a week torturing Maddox with poltergeist fun. I took great joy in his recounting of how particularly annoyed Maddox was when his lights would come on in the middle of the night or when the ice maker on his fridge spontaneously spewed cubes all over the kitchen.

  But I needed Calix here more than I needed him back in the First Dimension plaguing Maddox, so I recalled him.
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  As if his eyes were magnetized, they land right on Sorcha. She leers at him, biting into her lip with a sharp fang that draws blood, and he immediately averts his gaze.

  “What do you need?” I ask him, actually grateful for the interruption. I wasn’t feeling it tonight with the blue beauty lounging naked on my bedroom floor.

  His head whips my way. “They await you on the Bridge of Judgment, Your Most Muscled Eminence.”

  I look past the ridiculous name as I’d forgotten all about my judgment duties, but it’s my excuse to take my leave of Sorcha. She’d told me to relax, but I don’t have the ability. I’m too wound up over my imprisonment, so the thought of tossing souls into the Crimson River is more to my liking than sex. Perhaps by causing others suffering, mine won’t seem as bad.

  Glancing back at Sorcha, I say, “Go home to Calashte. I won’t be back anytime soon.”

  She pouts as she rises, nabbing the nearly translucent dress she arrived in. “I think I’ll go visit Jago instead.”

  If she thought her statement would make me jealous, she’s misjudged me for thousands of years. “Give Jago my regards.”

  Sorcha glares, and without putting her dress on, blinks out of sight. I imagine she’s appearing before Jago right now, and given her nakedness and beauty, she’ll get what she wants.

  I motion with my hand, and Calix precedes me out the door. I follow him through the castle.

  My abode is neither humble nor cozy. Created from black obsidian, crystals, and glass, it’s so one-dimensional that I sometimes get disoriented walking the halls. Kymaris did like to make a statement with her inherent wickedness, and black is the in color for all villains.

  Well, not all villains. While I like black, I like other colors too. Maybe I need to make some changes to this dark monstrosity the way I have with the makeup of the Underworld itself. When Zora bestowed the weight of king upon me, she gave me incredible power to wield in my rule. With that power, I changed the very landscape of the Underworld to make it more visually palatable. There are thousands of Dark Fae, daemons, and even some humans who live in this underbelly dimension, and there’s no reason it can’t be a bit more comfortable.