Page 1 of All Out of Flux (Stolen Hearts #3)

1

LEON

T he room was dark, cold, lit only by stray slivers of moonlight. Max cast an imposing figure, muscles taut as he leaned forward, jabbing his finger at the wicked man’s face.

“How many more times do we have to go through this? No. We’ve had enough. You’ve worn us down. This has to stop.”

My heart thumped, beating with longing for this assertive, powerful man, but also with fear. How much longer did we have to suffer?

“We’ve had enough,” I echoed, hating how small and weak I sounded. “Please. No more.”

Max glanced toward me, eyes sparking with fervor. “This must come to an end. We aren’t going to take any more of this.”

“But you know why I’ve summoned you here,” said the wicked man, the lenses of his glasses flashing evilly in the moonlight. “I have such sights to show you.”

“Babe,” groaned a fourth man. “They’re right, though. We can’t keep this up. I haven’t slept a full night in a week.”

The glasses came off. Roscoe blinked, no longer quite so wicked as he studied our faces with big, hopeful eyes. “But I thought you guys liked doing this. It’s our special late-night treat. Remember when that brick hit that one guy in the face?”

Johnny Slivers — the fourth man — laughed out loud. “Okay, that one was pretty funny.” He caught me and Max staring daggers at him, then cleared his throat, dragging his hand down along his jaw as if to rearrange his features. “Leon and Max are right, though. You need to stop calling them to the shop to watch your traps at work.”

“Aww. Okay. Sorry, you guys.” Roscoe’s shoulders sloped as he stuck his hands in his pockets. He kicked at an imaginary pebble, somehow looking even more dejected.

Well, now I was just going to feel bad. “This is the last one, okay, Ross? But let’s make it count.”

Max threw his arm around Roscoe’s shoulders. “Yeah, and you can always send us security camera footage, right? The fun isn’t actually ending.”

We were somewhere inside the unlit interiors of Unholy Grounds, hidden from view behind the counter, and again behind chairs stacked on top of tables. To Roscoe’s elation and Johnny’s chagrin, their coffee shop and bar had become a favorite target for a band of very persistent small-time criminals.

And as if that wasn’t enough of a problem, they were all thugs working for the Brillante family, too. And not just Divina Brillante, either. The Masques had dealt with her, as far as we knew, Max’s horrible mind-controlling cousin. I was confident we wouldn’t be hearing anything from Divina for a long time.

That didn’t really help matters much, though. The Brillante clan was large, its members numerous. Like cockroaches. Max’s words, not mine. Word of Max having a stake in the café — whether emotional or financial — was enough. It was entirely possible that this swarm of thugs was coming from different Brillante factions, all come to harass the shop.

Unsuccessfully, if that. We’d seen the goons grudgingly drag themselves to Unholy Grounds knowing that they’d get their asses kicked one way or the other. It was a game to Roscoe, a way for him to apply his extremely versatile arsenal of spells and protective glyphs.

Johnny had made him promise to stop using the fire traps, as destructive as land mines, really. So Roscoe had improvised. One night, he cast a spell that effectively turned the café’s windows into rubber. They still looked like glass, which was why that one guy had been so gung-ho about lobbing a brick through them.

The brick came bouncing back, naturally.

The normal, nonmagical cops found the man on the sidewalk the following morning, dazed in every sense of the word, a brick still in his face. Roscoe even got me involved to prepare for a different night, infusing one of his traps with the essence of my fear hexes, sending an entire gang of Brillante thugs screaming into the night.

But like Johnny said, we’d worn out all the fun, and we definitely needed our sleep. Roscoe did so much to keep the shop safe, not to mention help me and Max out with his wealth of arcane knowledge. Neither of us had the heart to turn down his giggly midnight calls summoning us to the shop to watch another thug eat a mouthful of pavement.

The lack of sleep had made Max extra grumpy, which I oddly found extra sexy. I knew he wasn’t sleeping much because I’d been sleeping over even more, his little asides about exclusive partnership tickling that quiet, forgotten part of me that wanted to be pampered, romanced, and sometimes, fucked into a million quivering pieces.

We were ready for bed that night. In fact, we were dressed for it too, mostly, tank tops and boxers. I had to pull on a pair of jeans because I’d just end up swimming in any of Max’s comfier pants. He himself had opted for gray sweatpants, the bane of everyone with a pair of eyes and a love of the male physique.

Little known fact: gray sweatpants aren’t actually a form of clothing. They’re just an excuse for highlighting a man’s bulge and butt, possibly invented by some genius fashion wizard who just wanted to ogle big packages. Front and rear deliveries, thank you very much.

Even now he was standing too close to me, here behind the counter. Even as we talked to the guys, my gaze couldn’t help swinging back to admire the way Max’s plain white tank hugged his torso. Those biceps. Dear God, those biceps looked delicious. I bit hard on my lower lip, resisting the urge to bend over and take a nibble out of those ridiculous muscles.

I did actually bite down on his shoulder once before. Chomp, chomp. Max yelped and called me a cannibal. Yet I also remembered him rubbing the sore spot while throwing me intrigued glances, as if he didn’t already know that I found him irresistible. The teeth marks didn’t last all that long, anyway, and he was irresistible. Like squeezing a baby’s cheeks.

Speaking of which, one time he walked out of the shower and it took everything I had not to sink my teeth right into that perfect butt. I ended up slapping it instead. Poor Max, honestly, having to deal with me and my lack of self-control.

“Fine,” Roscoe said, wearing a small smile. “You’re right. You guys indulged me plenty already. I’ll make some highlight reels, edit them together.”

Johnny pressed a kiss against his cheek. “That’s a mighty fine idea, Ross. Now, let’s check out tonight’s patsy. I mean victim. I mean — well, whatever.”

We gathered around the glowing oblong in Roscoe’s hands. A regular tablet, in fact, and it felt weird that I had to mentally clarify that. But some people in the arcane underground, like our unfriendly neighborhood Masque, actually projected tiny screens in their hands, an odd melding of magic and technology.

The fuzzy black and white image flowed into motion when Roscoe tapped the screen. He was connecting to one of the café’s security cameras, which meant that we were watching the man in the back alley in real time.

At least this guy bothered with dark clothing. It seemed like the bare minimum. I thought I spotted something gleaming on his neck. One of those magical diamond tattoos, probably, that designated him as a minion of the Brillante crime family. He wended his way between the crates and garbage, frowning at all the debris.

“You promised to clear all that junk before the evening’s over,” Johnny said, clucking his tongue. “I don’t need the city on my ass about trash and blocked exits, Ross.”

“I said I would, didn’t I? Don’t worry about it. I wanted to arrange it sort of like a maze this time. Can’t believe he’s actually following the exact path.”

Max shook his head. “Like a rat in a maze. Not that he has a choice. There’s only two ways into this place. At least he’s changing it up and trying the back door.”

I chuckled. “Three ways, if you count a broken window. But we know how that worked out the last time.”

The thug tested the door. A rattle came from the back room, matching his movements. He pushed it open. We all hit the floor.

“Did you leave the door unlocked this time?” Johnny hissed. “What were you thinking?”

Roscoe shoved his glasses back up his nose, lopsided after our sudden move. “I didn’t, I swear. They must be sending the smarter ones. Thugs with unlocking spells, maybe.”

I glanced between the three faces, bathed white by the glow of the security feed. “What the hell do we do? We can’t kill him.”

There wasn’t much I could do in my state, in fact. As far as I knew, Bakunawa was still asleep inside my body. Or my soul. I never did figure that part out. Side effect of ingesting so much water and saving my life, and Max’s, among others. But it also meant I had no dragons to call on.

“I could make him crap his pants.” I pushed myself up, kneeling instead of lying prone on the floor. “Fear hex, straight into the brain.”

Max grabbed my wrist, protective, possessive. “No way in hell. They’re sending in people with actual magic now. Who knows what else he has in his arsenal?”

“This trap was supposed to be like a bucket of water over the door.” Roscoe raked his fingers against his scalp, shaking his head. “It would have covered him in muck, made him stink for days. Except it didn’t trigger. Why didn’t it trigger?”

“Not helpful right now, sweetheart.” Johnny rose from the floor, rolling up his sleeves, revealing his strong forearms as well as his incredible collection of tattoos. He cracked his knuckles. “No choice, then. I’ll knock his lights out, make him regret coming to this — hey. What’s that on the screen?”

A dark blur streaked in through the open back door. Another Brillante hire? And a more powerful one, at that. The others leapt to their feet, practically elbowing each other as they hustled toward the back room. I took a quick moment to review the footage, scanning back a few seconds.

I smiled. I recognized that shock of wavy black hair. That was definitely someone on the Brillante payroll. But this person was on our side. I went over to join the others, unhurried because I knew the first thug was in big trouble, but still moving fast enough so I wouldn’t miss the fireworks.

We arrived in the corridor leading to the back exit. The man in the dark clothes and the balaclava pulled over his head froze, but only for a moment. His hand fell to his hip. Was he reaching for a gun? Preparing a spell?

Roscoe muttered a string of words in a language I didn’t understand. Johnny waved his hand, conjuring a floating array of needles. And Max held his hands up, his diamond daggers at the ready. Hot. Very hot.

And me? Again, I didn’t have much that could help. But we wouldn’t be needing any extra help.

It was too late when the thug noticed the rapid footfalls coming up behind him, the approach of heavy boots. A final step and his pursuer left the ground entirely, leaping into the air and kicking him with both feet at once.

Max screamed first. “Tina, you fucking killed him!”

“Did she dropkick him?” Roscoe sputtered, forgetting his spell words entirely. “Oh, God, I think she dropkicked him. Right in the back.”

“I heard a crack.” Johnny dismissed his needles, eyes wide with worry. “Did anyone else hear a crack?”

The thug groaned. At least we knew he was still alive. Kneeling on his back, triumphant and smirking, was one Guillotina Hernandez.

“You assholes never invite me to your dumb little midnight parties. I only knew because I sensed Max was in the area.” She bent low, speaking just by the thug’s ear. “Hey. New fish. Who sent you? And who gave you your magic?”

She tugged on his arm, wrenching it against his back in a painfully unnatural position. The thug lifted his head as far as it would go and howled.

“No magic! They gave me a key. That was all. It’s in my pocket.”

Tina wrenched on his arm again. “Which one? I swear if I find anything gross down there — if this is giving you some weird boner, I will rip your dick off.”

Again the thug wailed. She didn’t even pull on his arm this time. Tina’s threat was more than enough.

“Hoo, boy,” Max said. “I’d listen to her if, I were you. She collects them, you know. Dries them for her charm bracelets.”

“Nuh-uh,” I breathed. “Is that for real?”

Ross threw his hands up, turning to Johnny. “I swear I haven’t been handing out spare keys to Brillante goons.”

It didn’t take long for Tina to rummage through the thug’s pockets. She grimaced when her fingers found it, before she even pulled it out. It was a key, but large and ornate, like something that didn’t even belong to the current century. Her gaze met with Max’s, her eyes darkening.

Max stood straighter, his shoulders broadening, his face stony and hard. He spoke only two words, yet they were somehow enough to fill me with dread.

“Gustavo Brillante.”