Hell's Gates (Urban Fantasy) Read online

  Hell’s Gates

  A Caith Morningstar Novel

  Celia Kyle

  Lauren Creed

  Writing as Lauren Creed

  Contents

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Blurb

  I’m Caith Morningstar: bar owner, leather wearer, shoe worshipper, werewolf, Orlando’s resident ass kicker and… Satan’s niece.

  Orlando—land of that famous mouse—is on day three hundred sixty-two of my demon ban and life is… boring. Until a demon finds a way around my magical blockade with a new demonic drug. Now humans are getting high and disappearing while tweeners—magical beings that live in the land between On High and Hell—are grinding on my last, violent nerve. When my son is infected with the evil taint, I realize this demon has forgotten my rules: order, secrecy, discretion, and don’t screw with me or my stuff.

  Bryony is mine. Orlando is mine. This dem’s head? It’s gonna be mine, too.

  But, as much as I want to deal with this alone, I can’t. I have to face Samkiel—my fallen angel mate I lost to evil. On High has given him back some of his angelic mojo and I need his purifying hand to cleanse human souls, his help tracking down the local dealer, and him at my side when we locate the dem determined to get his claws into the mouse’s house.

  I lost Sam once and survived. The question now is whether I can survive losing both of the men I love most? Or rather, will the world survive?

  1

  I stroked my new bat where it rested on its shelf beneath the bar. The pristine, polished wood was smooth beneath my palm and I traced the Louisville Slugger logo branded into the surface. Just beneath that, I’d had my BFF Jezebeth add a little something extra for me with her magical mojo. Property of Hell’s Chapel along with my bar’s logo. I was gonna add my name, Caith Morningstar, but since the humans knew me as Caith Murray this time around, I had to stick with something generic. Blech.

  Man, I remembered the good old days when a gal could keep the same name for a few centuries without a problem. Stupid digital-computer-age shit.

  But bitching didn’t change the fact that I was sitting in Hell’s Chapel with a new bat and no one worthwhile to use it on. Even worse? I’d had this one for nearly a week. A week. Unheard of. Maybe I was going soft.

  I sighed and scanned the bar, hoping for some action but knowing there wasn’t going to be much. A couple of punk-ass trolls were getting into an argument over a round of drinks to my left and it looked like they were being polite about it. For trolls anyway.

  Same shit, different night with all of my regular tweens—peeps that lived between On High and Hell—filling the stools, along with a handful of strays that had wandered in off the streets.

  Slow. Boring. Bored to the billionth degree.

  It was what I’d wanted though, right? I’d banished the dems—demons—from Orlando a year ago because of my asstastic family. Though, why I’d ever thought they’d be better than they were still escaped me. My uncle was the devil and my mother was his sister, so… yeah.

  And a lot of my good customers had been dems. The upside of the ban was that I hadn’t had to repair the bar or replace furniture anywhere near as often.

  The trolls lumbered to their feet and shoved each other, and I slid my fingers around the bat’s handle. I rubbed my thumb along the wood grain, enjoying the slick feel before tightening my grip. Nice. Solid. I’d tried one of those titanium jobs I’d found online, but it hadn’t had that same crack when it struck a tweener’s skull. So I went back to wood. Now, when I broke one and sent wood scattering all over the bar, I just slipped the brownies a little something extra for their trouble. Win-win.

  One of the trolls’ buddies, a chubby little green-skinned goblin, hopped up on the table, pushed the brawlers apart and offered to buy them another round. Dammit.

  I grumbled under my breath, wishing the goblin would have kept his rotting mouth shut, and released the bat. Stupid goblin, ruined all my fun.

  Okay, sure, I used to complain when the bar got trashed. I hadn’t liked dealing with complaining brownies tasked with cleaning the place, and it’d been a pain paying for repairs when the damage got too severe. I guessed I didn’t want to admit that I’d liked the rush back then. The fire that burned in my veins and the joy I got from sending a black-skinned thelac demon flying.

  Man, I missed those days.

  Well-mannered customers were boring. I wouldn’t admit it aloud to anyone, but I almost longed for the days when dems would come into the bar. All full of bluster and hellfire, ready to rip someone’s head off just to prove themselves.

  Good times.

  Now I was back to thinking about the fact that I’d sent the dems packing. I hadn’t wanted them anywhere near Mouse Town—my town. I made the rules. Mostly because I was the baddest bitch, and no one had the balls—or hellfire—to stand up to me and say otherwise. I wouldn’t have minded if someone tried, of course. Beating them down and reminding them who was boss would be one hell of a good time.

  Of course, I’d end up eating those words later. And not even with some fava beans and a nice chianti.

  I poured drinks for a few other tweens and then scowled at the near-empty tip jar. I’d need a way to drum up some business before long. I had a kid’s college education to save for, after all. And he wasn’t going to some regular tween school either. Ivy-fucking-league all the way. I took my job as tempmomma turned adopted momma seriously.

  But the thing about being the Princess of Hell and Bad Bitch of Orlando was that it was pretty much all prestige and fear with no reward. Well, other than the joy I got out of being feared.

  Wait, lemme change my “need business” plan. I needed to get humans through the doors, which meant no scaring peeps. That sucked. Humans ran the economy in the tween, which meant I needed to keep the cash coming in, one way or another.

  I supposed I could start charging people for kicking their asses. Like, that delivery fee pizza places charged. That could work.

  The trolls were back to arguing and I quickly reached for my bat once more, wondering how much to charge them. I turned to Jezze for her opinion. “What do you think? Five bucks for every smack down and ten if I make them bleed?”

  “You gotta factor in your extra costs for furniture and bonuses for the brownies.”

  See, that was why Jezze was my best friend. Smart as hell, loyal to a fault, and always willing to look out for the bar’s bottom line. Plus, the bar bitch let me feed dead bodies to her gators. Except zombies. Last time I sent zombies home, the gators were sick for a week.

  Jezebeth had not been a happy witch.

  “Good point. A five percent surcharge for broken furniture?”

  Jezze tilted her head, eyes narrowed. “Make it ten. And try not to break their jaws. If they can’t drink, they can’t buy beer.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I shrugged. I’m pretty sure the company that supplied our napkins could send us straws, too.

  One of
the trolls flipped their table over, sending beer bottles crashing and spilling the golden liquid all over the polished concrete floor. The table remained intact though. On one hand, it was good that the brownies’ spell to make the furniture resistant to damage was a good thing. On the other, I didn’t get to charge the ten percent surcharge.

  I was partially eternally grateful and partially annoyed. Not pouty though. Caith Morningstar didn’t pout.

  Though, I supposed “eternally grateful” meant something else entirely since I was gonna live forever.

  I pulled out my new baby with a grin spreading over my lips. “All right, boys,” I called out, hopping over the bar and stalking toward them. I cracked my neck, left then right, and rolled my shoulders. If I’d have known I’d be having a bit of ass-kicking fun, I would have stretched or done some yoga before my shift. “Take it outside before I introduce you to my new billing policies.”

  Silently, I wished they’d ignore me.

  I hefted the bat onto my shoulder and propped a hand on my hip, just waiting for them to get to it. I was ready to count out the trolls’ bill already.

  Though when they started arguing with me, I figured I might not have to wait for them to pound on each other.

  “He started it!”

  “No, it was him!”

  Seriously?

  “You talked trash about my mother!” The troll snarled and raised his fists.

  Okay, first, yo momma jokes? Really? These guys had to be at least a hundred.

  His buddy raised his claws, and I readied my bat.

  It was about to get on like Donkey Kong. Hells yeah.

  I watched for a moment as they shoved each other and shouted insults. His momma was as big as a house. No, his momma was so fat, she was on both sides of his family tree. What? His momma was so fat, she got free Wi-Fi because she’s world wide.

  That one was kinda funny and it took everything in me not to laugh.

  I heard the phone ring in the background but decided to let Jezebeth answer. I was still trying to decide which one to pummel first. Oh, they’d both get their beat down, but I had to figure out which one deserved to punch my bat’s V-card. Maybe I’d wait a few and see which one got the upper hand first. It’d be funny to let the dumb fuck think he was gonna get to sing We Are the Champions before I showed him I was the real boss.

  “She doesn’t get free Wi-Fi!” He shoved his buddy into the wall and I noticed he didn’t comment on the “fat” portion of the insult. Heh.

  In the background Jezze called my name and I waved her off. It was just about time to play.

  “That’s because she’s so ugly, she even scares the signal away!”

  “Then what were you doing under her bridge?” The troll with the aforementioned non-Wi-Fi-having fat momma launched himself at his friend, arms outstretched.

  “I didn’t know it was her bridge!”

  They were tussling now, punches being exchanged, and I wound up for a swing. I could make it a two-for-one special while they were grappling. Jezze called for me again, but I was busy. Didn’t she see that? The witch knew I hadn’t had a lot of fun lately. Couldn’t she just be a considerate bitch and gimme a minute? I was ready to deliver a supernatural smackdown on these tweeners. I took a step, planting my weight and getting ready to throw my hip into the swing.

  “Caith!” Jezebeth channeled some witchy powers into her voice, drowning out the rest of the sounds in the bar so she was heard loud and clear. It was like she shouted into a megaphone into a silent room. “It’s Mom. There’s something wrong with Bry.”

  I lost balance mid-swing and ended up stumbling sideways. Of course, I overcorrected and sorta fell sideways, driving the bat into one of the empty chairs while also doing this super graceful grunty fall, roll, thump onto my ass. A shower of wood filled the air, the bat and chair blowing up into a million pieces. Like I said, there were limits to how much abuse brownie magic could endure. A bat swung by me was a bit much for Blooming Aster’s protective spells.

  I wondered if I could charge the trolls for this cleanup, too.

  I brushed my hands on my leathers and struggled to me feet, pretending I hadn’t just embarrassed myself in front of everyone. Which, by the way, was where cats learned that “do stupid shit, stop and clean myself and pretend it didn’t happen” thing.

  No one gave me credit for teaching them that.

  I flicked one last bit of wood from my sleeve and then caught Jezze’s gaze from across the room. Oh shit. Jezebeth looked… pale. Like, paler than normal and she was rocking the goth look these days. Pale and shaken and dammit it took a lot to shake up a witch as powerful as Jezze.

  A danger to her surrogate nephew was one of the few things that’d trip the bar bitch’s freaked out trigger.

  I abandoned my fun with the trolls and headed straight for the door, shouting to one of the other bartenders, Bergamot. “Berg! Take care of this.” I waved a hand at the trolls and the mess. Berg would handle ass kicking and cleanup. He was a half-demon and while he was a teddy bear on the inside, he was big and imposing enough on the outside to get the trolls in line.

  Though, boringly enough, Berg’s answer to problems usually involved free drinks instead of throwing them out. Yeah, the guy’s other half was brownie—which was why he hadn’t been banned from the city last year. It was also the reason he was a big old softie.

  Jezze followed me out the door, her heavy combat boots pounding the concrete and echoing my own. I may be rocking the goth thing this time around, too.

  We climbed into my car and I threw it into gear, tearing out of the parking lot at top speed. Something was wrong with my Bry, and I wasn’t going to let something as meaningless as human traffic laws stop me from getting to my baby. This was one of the few times I envied demons and their whole teleportation thing. Despite being the devil’s niece and possessor of the wonderfulness of my fathers’ powers, I was still bound to the Earth when it came to traveling from one place to another.

  A girl couldn’t have everything, right?

  But, at least Papa Al’s reflexes and instincts of a predator were in full effect. My inner wolf snarled as I tore through a red light, its instincts warning me of approaching danger and that I should hit the gas a bit harder. Normally, it’d be wary of another predator that could be considered a threat—for example, the forty-ton semi closing in on me—but it told me to slam on the horn and move my ass. The other driver punched his in return and screamed curses at me as we passed. The nerve of some people. Like he thought he had the right of way because he had a green light?

  Didn’t he know who I was?

  “Go fuck your whore mother!” I stared out the window and swerved around him, barely avoiding a collision. More cars swerved and honked at me as I passed, and I’m pretty sure I heard more than one pair of squealing tires and lots of crunching glass and crumpling metal. Eh, I’d made it past the intersection so the fucks I gave were exactly zero. Later, I’d call a few healing witches in—a priestess to bring peeps back from the dead if needed—to patch everyone up. Right now, my baby boy was in danger and nothing was more important than getting to him.

  Nothing.

  I kept my gaze trained on the road, whipping the car around another corner and nearly slamming into a closed newsstand. “Did she say what was wrong?

  A few flyers advertising the famous mouse’s parks flew into the air and plastered themselves to the windshield, blocking my view. I cursed myself for being a stubborn bitch. When I kicked the dems out of Orlando, I’d also promised myself I wouldn’t even touch a hint of hellfire. Nope, no interaction with Uncle Luc and Mom at all.

  Thankfully, Jezze was on the ball and reached for the window. A touch and whispered word from her had them turning to ash and flying from the glass. A cloud of smoke enveloped the car for a split second, but I left it behind as I stepped on the gas. I whizzed past slow as fuck traffic and gawking bystanders. One of ‘em better not try jaywalking because I would one hundred percent take out
whoever got in my way.

  “He’s sick.” Jezze was clinging to the “oh shit” handle attached to the passenger-side ceiling.

  “Sick how?” I gritted my teeth and yanked us around another turn. We had yet another grandma in front of us and I shouted at my window, telling her exactly where she could stick her gearshift. Normally, I’d have offered to shove it up there myself, but I was a little busy.

  “A fever or something.” Jezze’s other hand went to the dashboard. “But something’s wrong. I don’t know what, but she sounded worried, and you know what it takes to get Mom worried.”

  Yeah, I did. Momma R, Helene Renard to the rest of the tween, was about as powerful a witch as they came. To the point that Uncle Luc didn’t want her and On High refused to accept her, which meant she sort lived… forever.

  If there was something wrong with Bryony that Momma R couldn’t fix, it was serious. Especially since he wasn’t human. He wasn’t all brownie either, even though his parents were brownies. Bry had been blessed by the last grace of a fallen angel and granted hellfire by Uncle Luc himself. A kid like that didn’t do the common cold. He hadn’t been sick once since I adopted him a year ago. No flu, no cough, nada.

  I finally pulled onto Momma R’s driveway, taking the long gravel path that wound around trees without slowing. The second I hit her front lawn, I slammed on the brakes, sending the car sliding sideways and small rocks flying through the air. Jezze nearly lost her grip on the oh shit handle but managed to save herself. Before the car even rocked to a stop, I was out and racing toward the house, my wolf snarling protectively as I sniffed the air for Bry’s scent.

  “He’s right here,” Momma R called out from the front doorway. She had the baby in her arms, a damp cloth resting on his forehead. I rushed over and snatched him from her grip, hugging him close against my chest. I touched my fingers to his forehead, testing him for a fever, and my stomach clenched. His skin was on fire. Not actual fire because that only happened when he was cranky. I’d gone through two cribs, three strollers, and four tween nannies before Blooming Aster and Jezze came up with a protection spell that could withstand Bry’s hissy fits… and nightmares.