Hell's Gates (Urban Fantasy) by Celia Kyle, Lauren Creed Page A

whipped out my leg, nailing him square in the jaw. His head snapped back, cracking against the wall, and he slumped forward unconscious. The reaction was instinctual, my wolf pushing me into motion without giving me a chance to think things through. Not that I wouldn’t have sent the kid into la-la land, but I might have questioned him a little more. But he’d mentioned Bry. He’d mentioned Bry and not being saved and…
    At least I hadn’t killed him. Yet.
    “Shit,” I muttered. “Shit, shit, shit.” My wolf didn’t feel the slightest bit contrite. It snapped its jaws and snarled, desperate to hunt, find, and kill. There was a target now, a definite person behind this. They knew me, knew my uncle. And didn’t care. I flexed my fingers, tips aching with the emergence of my wolf’s nails. I wanted—needed—to track this person down and rip their head off before sending them down to Hell.
    Then I’d hire a priestess to bring the fucker back. And then again. And again. And… until my fucking arm got tired and my rage was exhausted.
    I was going to find a way to make that wish come true. I’d track this shit to its source… before it infected all of Orlando.

8
    I balanced the end of my bat on one finger, the pale ash remaining perfectly in balance while I paced the outer edges of the room. I eyed the Mona Lisa, her secret smile, and noticed the red hue of her eyes. I flicked my attention to the corner, searching for the artist’s signature: L da Vito .
    Lucifer da Vito. Devil’s life. Cute.
    I snorted and moved on to the next painting, The Birth of Venus with more red eyes. This one by S da Parto.
    Satan da Parto. Satan’s birth. Or delivery.
    I circled the entire office, making the rounds with my pretty little bat still in place, ready to be used if needed. The sword hadn’t done anything and two of those strapped to my back were a hell of a lot more conspicuous than a baseball bat. With me in boots, ragged jeans, and a thin shirt, I looked like a grub ready to play ball, not a bitch looking for a reason to swing.
    A door quietly opened and then swung shut, the latch snipping into place.
    “Enjoying the artwork?” Killian’s voice flowed over me, his cultured accent holding a slight purr.
    If only he did something for me. “Pretty.”
    He hummed and I listened to his approach, eight-hundred-dollar dress shoes sinking into the plush carpet. I was sure he paid retail, too. I was a shoe girl. It was a thing. “The human copies are nice,” he paused beside me, “but I prefer the originals myself.”
    I could understand why. Some of my uncle’s evil coated the painted surface, his passion for the art imbued in the canvases. Appealing to lesser demons.
    I shrugged and moved to the next. Or pretended to anyway. Taking two steps away from the lawyer gave me enough space to flip my bat and swing it around, pressing the end to the center of Killian’s chest.
    “As nice as Uncle Luc’s artwork is, that’s not why I’m here.”
    He simply smirked, a tilt of his lips. Yeah, still nothing going on below the belt. If anything, the wolf was acting as an anti-arousal.
    “Then by all means.” He took a step back and slowly strolled to his desk. He lowered himself to the leather chair and placed his folded hands on the shined surface. “Let us discuss the reason you’re here.”
    Bat slung over one shoulder, I dug in my pocket with my free hand and tossed the small baggie onto Killian Howe’s desk. I stared him right in the eye, silently daring him to lie. “What do you know about this? Is Uncle Luc in my sandbox? Is that why he’s not answering me?”
    Killian flicked his attention to the bag and then back to me. If he was surprised to see it, he had a damned good poker face. “I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
    I tightened my grip on the bat. My nerves were ragged, scraped raw by the events of the last few days and I knew I’d snap soon.
    Chicago in Orlando. How fun.
    “You…” I whispered the