Running With Devils

Twenty-One

"Alright," Mal sighed, rubbing his temples tiredly. "Fine. Go do that. I'll just—"

"Take it easy," I shrugged. "Let us do the heavy lifting today."

Destiel nodded in agreement.

"Keep me posted," Mal said, loosening his shoulders. "And don't get caught."

His face almost seemed relieved. He almost seemed grateful for the lifted weight off his shoulders.

Malachi's eyes caught on to something behind us.

Then his face shifted. It became soft. Curiosity sparked within me at the sudden change in him. Never once had I seen a look like that on his face.

So I turned. And there she was.

Standing where the hallway met the common room, the witch had taken my advice and chosen a different outfit— a better outfit. She had chosen some black skin tight leather pants and a tank top, paired with some thick soled boots.

It wasn't a crazy choice, but it was enough of a step in the right direction. Though her light brown hair was still messy from last night's close call, I thought it made the look.

"Well well," I whistled softly. "Look at you."

She just ignored my comment and stepped into the room.

"I'm hungry," she said plainly.

I rolled my head towards Mal, who just was gone. His head was completely empty of anything besides her.

"Alright. That's our cue. Sam. Des. Let's roll," I sighed. "Don't give him too much trouble, darling."

I gave a teasing wink before signaling the others to follow me out the door and into cool dusk.

"Did you see the way he was practically drooling," Des asked quietly as we headed into the garage.

"Yea," Sam snorted. "Dude is whipped."

I rolled my eyes at the conversation. "You would be too if your heart was in someone else's hands," I grumbled. "It's only for a short while. He'll be back to his normal self once we get back."

"It's a damn shame is what it is," Des sighed, plucking the keys to his sixty-seven impala. "I think peaches was starting to warm up to me."

That drew a laugh from me. "Sure thing, cowboy. Keep telling yourself that."

We climbed in the car, Des revved the engine to warm it up and we hit the road.

"I do have to admit the one thing mortals do right is their muscle cars," Des said with a wicked grin, pressing hard on the gas pedal. "These babies have a certain charm."

"If you love them so much, why don't you just go fuck 'em then," Sam taunted. "Probably beats your hand."

"Well, I would," he said, looking into the rear view mirror. "But then who would take care of your mother while I'm away? You know how she gets when cranky."

Samael drew a knife, pressing the tip to his finger and spinning it lazily. "Don't know," he said, his voice lowering. "I'll be too busy with yours to find a replacement."

I rubbed my temples tiredly. "Can you guys shut the fuck up for two seconds," I muttered. "I need to think."

The three of us together on a stakeout meant that I had to maintain my control. I had to sever myself from any and all feelings I had about the situation at hand.

The anger I felt for whoever had meant to kill my darling's spirit with that fire would have ultimately led us down the wrong path.

But I wanted to stoke that flame. I wanted to feel its burn. I wanted to stay mad and beat the living shit out of the person responsible for that horrible scream of hurt that had left the witch's throat.

I would love nothing more than to extract that same scream from them. Then I'd put it in a jar and keep it as a reward for my efforts.

I would torture them. I would make it slow and agonizing. I'd break them apart piece by piece, both body and mind, until they were nothing.

Perhaps I'd decorate a power line with their corpse in the center of town to help with their spooky festivities. Only time would tell.

But I had a feeling that Jack— or James... or whatever the fuck his name was— would be the string that tied it all together.

Thank the Seventh I had the right mind to tag his car on my last recon run.

"Turn here," I directed.

Des dimmed his lights as he pulled close to the curb a block away from the small chapel that sat in the center of town.

"Do not make contact," I ordered simply. "We're here for information only. Des, I want you keeping tabs on the kid. Sam, secure the perimeter. I'm almost certain there's a ward on this place. I'm going to test it further and see what kind it is."

Sam was out the door, all ready for a hunt if it came down to it.

Des was a little more relaxed as he stepped from the car, placing his hat upon his head and flicking the toothpick he chewed on to the ground with a swagger only a southern gentleman would have.

He certainly was no gentleman. Not with females and definitely not with a fresh kill.

I knew he was itching for one. His eyes had a particular glint in them that said he was just as bloodthirsty as Samael.

"Happy hunting," he said with a wicked grin as he stalked off down the street.

"Yea," I sighed, shutting the car door. "If you make a mess, clean it up."

"Hearing you loud and clear," he called behind him, waving his hand haphazardly over his shoulder.

I rolled my eyes. "Yea right," I muttered to myself.

Then I headed towards the boyfriend's house. Technically, his family's house. It was old school boujee. I didn't even have to go inside to figure that out. The five ornate pillars standing on the porch were enough to know that this family was rich. That and the huge gravel roundabout for a driveway.

Having studied mortal structure and design on my study abroad program, I could pick up that the architecture came from the eighteenth century.

Of course, I was sky high the entire time so who the hell knows. But this house was definitely a symbol of generational wealth.

My money was on trapping. Beavers were fucking everywhere here. And similarly, witches and other assortments of critically acclaimed supernaturals took up residency.

It could be entirely possible that the Turner line led to hunting. That impenetrable ward didn't help their case. They were definitely hiding something.

I just needed to get closer.

Slipping quietly through their side gate, I watched where I stepped. Hunters were crafty sons of bitches. They had tricks that had gotten many powerful creatures into hot water.

I would not become one of them.

I almost had once. I was high as a kite, up to my usual tricks when I had stumbled into a devil's trap built to hold even Lucifer himself. I had almost died.

They made use of me by testing all sorts of extraction methods ranging from exorcisms to holy fire.

And Malachi was the one to keep me from biting the dust.

He had somehow, miraculously, infiltrated the hunter party and disarmed the trap. Of course, he was pissed because he had just wasted months of grunt work just to keep my sorry ass from being another statistic.

It had left me so scarred that I couldn't even look into a mirror for hundreds of years. For hundreds of years I made myself remember that pain in any way I could. My tats were reminders of that shitty time in my life. I had promised to myself that I would never forget it.

That was nearly a thousand years ago.

I listened inwards, searching for sounds of life.

Empty.

Now all I had to do was find the source of the barrier.