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D ominion shoved his way through the crowded bar, patrons scurrying out of his way and his entrance causing a brief lull in the noise. He pulled alongside his fellow winged assassins. Deep in conversation, Ely greeted him with a nod and Remi a slight smile. Dom cocked his foot onto the railing, his usual grim frown in place.

The Angor Management Club was the only sleazy tavern in this dimension where the Feard, aka the winged assassins of the OneCreator, could find a good drink without being hassled.

Elysium perched beside Dom on a barstool, his hand cradling an imported Demon Brew, his icy wings snapped tight to his spine.

On the other side of Ely sat Remiel, drinking a local rum. Leaning forward to include Dom in the convo, he said, “I need to kill something.” His jittery fingers tapped on wood marred by centuries of use. The bronze spike-winged assassin was high-strung, always seeking action, never satisfied unless he was fighting or buried cock-deep in a female.

Just then a dominatrix decked out in leathers, ankle-breaking thigh-high boots, and a shit-ton of metal strolled by their stools. With rumpled blonde hair and eyeliner that would do a raccoon proud, she was dressed for a little BDSM play later that night.

Remi winked at the female, halting the tap, tap, tap on the bar. The eternal playboy.

Returning his admiration, she cracked her whip overhead and grinned, her tongue sweeping across black lips. Then her eyes widened when she spotted Dom. The dolled-up Scourge shuddered and scurried on her way, putting distance between herself and the grim onyx-winged assassin who enjoyed his rep.

Ely studied the female’s retreating backside as she shot a nervous glance over her bare shoulder. In a delayed response to Remi’s need-to-kill-something statement, he said, “Downtime. Killing. It’s all the same now. Ho-hum.”

The ice-winged assassin was struggling with the boredom of eternity again. The last time he got bad, he sought stasis for a millennium. Dom had missed him, but if it was something his brother-in-arms needed, well...

Dominion, able to launch sharp obsidian-bladed feathers from his wings with little more than a thought, didn’t bother to track the dominatrix rushing off. He was accustomed to patrons giving him space and speaking in whispers. Maybe it was the patch over one eye. As a rule, Immortals were not scarred. Not on the outside.

Yep .

He knew how to keep a party lively.

Pushing three hundred pounds, all of it solid muscle, Dom was a full head taller than most of the patrons. His long hair flowed to the middle of his back, as black as the darkness that surrounded his soul. He was the biggest, though not the oldest, of the Feard. That honor went to Ely. Yeah . Kudos to him for being a bit younger than dirt.

Dom tightened his rock-hard jaw, donning his stone-cold-killer expression, while he adjusted the intimidating leather patch over one eye. He didn’t mind the flaw. Goddesses in Vast and female Scourges in Angor told him that the savagery it implied made him an enticing hunk of meat. That fact got him laid. A lot.

His true love, though, was his work as an assassin for the OneCreator. Whether it was a capture or extinct assignment, he lived for the job. One and done. Brush that asshole off the list.

When the bartender came through a rear door, he spied Dom and attempted a hasty retreat. Too late.

“Hey, there, asswipe. Get me a drink,” Dom growled, daring the barkeep to disappear into the back room.

The guy stayed put. He knew better. “What kind?” he asked, his voice quivering.

“Surprise me.”

Scourges came in four flavors—Flesh Eaters, Blood Leeches, Mind Rats, and Soul Suckers. The one behind the bar was an Immortal condemned to Angor by the OneCreator. His malady? Well, the pearly white fangs and taste for a vein were dead giveaways. He was a Leech. Not a vamp, though. Immortals didn’t swing that way. He craved blood but didn’t need it to survive. He just enjoyed it and the pain he caused when he took it.

Nobody knew why some of their kind contracted a malady, developed an unhealthy obsession, and changed physically. Not even the OneCreator. Rumor had it that Chaos, the boss’s now-extincted brother, was the cause. Something about how that Sibling’s destructive powers altered Immortal DNA, forever making the species vulnerable to the affliction. Another rumor claimed the cause was the pressure of eternity.

So-named Scourges, who succumbed to a malady, met one of two fates. If they were beyond saving, the OneCreator issued an order to extinct them, to end their existence. The justice was deserved, swift, bloody, and legit. If the OC deemed the malady-infected Immortals salvageable, an assassin dropped them in Angor where they had a chance to redeem themselves. Happy times and job security.

If Harmony, Angor’s head honcho in the OC’s absence, or the OC pronounced a Scourge rehabilitated, they returned to Vast, reformed and their physical perfection restored.

While some Immortals contracted maladies, others successfully fought the disease or remained uninfected.

The bartender looked as if he might piss his pants. “Fuck no, Dominion. The last time I prepped a surprise drink, you broke my jaw.” His mouth dropped open, showing two yellowed fangs peeking below an upper lip.

Dom didn’t feel sorry for the guy who had swept through Vast on a rampage when he succumbed to his malady. In a haven, a home for newly-created Immortals and a supposedly safe place for the young from infancy to maturity, the Blood Leech bartender had drained four toddlers. The only evidence left behind was their withered skins. When he was found, his victims’ blood still dripped down his chin onto his soiled shirt. The OC condemned him to Angor, believing he would truly reform after doing penance for his crimes. Dominion had delivered the sentence, bagging him and dropping him off in the dimension where he would be punished.

Though mature Immortals could be extincted only at the hand of the OneCreator, Michael, or the Feard, toddlers were not so lucky. They had not settled into their eternal form yet. So, the bartender’s victims had died slow, terrifying deaths. Shouldn’t happen to kids.

Dom uncoiled from the barstool, his movements fluid. He leaned on a bent, thickly muscled forearm, his good eye freezing the Leech. “Punishment is part of the gig here. What’s your complaint, wuss?”

“You never appreciate my choices.” The guy shook, imitating a willow in a strong wind.

“Not true. I just enjoy breaking your bones. Any Scourge who is in here for your crimes deserves a constant reminder of his sins.” Dom continued his intimidation while Ely and Remi looked on.

The bartender groaned. “Isn’t it enough you confined me in this pit where I’m regularly tortured at the Ordeals?”

Once in Angor, Scourges were assigned to different Ordeals for their punishments, each specializing in a torment. Drowning. Fire. Limbs torn off or chewed on by predators. Strangulation. Whips. Knives. Fun times, fashioned specifically to fit each malady.

In between torments, the OC, or Harmony in his stead, gave the Scourges brief stays, believing that downtime increased their fear. They got to think about what was coming. A little icing on the cake of agony.

But not all punishment occurred at the Ordeals. For grins and giggles, wicked malady-stricken attacked their own on the streets or dragged them out of their quarters for impromptu pain.

Trustees, those Scourges who were nearly rehabilitated, got to be the punishers at the Ordeals or moved into management positions, running a restaurant, a shop, or a bar.

“No biggie,” said Dom, answering the bartender’s question. “By morning, you heal. Refreshed, hearty, and eager to start a new day.”

The barkeep continued his sad story. “I get no reprieve. When my daily dose of torture ends at the Ordeals, I go home to the pits where it stinks like backed-up sewage.”

“Invest in air freshener,” said Dom.

“There’s noise, too. Screams. Pleas. Never-ending cries for help.”

“Boo hoo,” said Remi. “Have you tried Air Pods and heavy metal?”

“Can we get that stuff here?” asked the Scourge, his eyes lighting with excitement.

Ely took a swig of his brew. Afterward, expelling a loud sigh. “You can’t. Like we’re gonna buy you an iTunes account and some Apple shit. Do you think about the babes? You shoulda fought your thirst and stayed in Vast. It smells good there, and the sounds are mostly giggles. Some guitar music. Beaches. Blue waters. Rolling hills of green. Sunlight. Stars at night in a clear sky.”

Remi added his two cents. “Of course, we prefer to live in Angor where we can watch the Scourges suffer. Besides, no politics here. No games. No kissing the OC’s perfect ass. We do fly to Vast to shag a goddess now and again. Though we have no qualms about doing the females here, too.”

“My drink,” reminded Dom. He perched on the stool, his working eye glaring at the bartender.

The guy shuffled off, returning with a goblet filled with a dark amber liquid and fruit. He slammed it onto the worn bar.

Dom guzzled the entire thing. He swiped the back of his hand across his lips. “What’s it called?

“A Dead Manhattan.”

“Excellent.” Dom rose, hauled back a fist, and let go at the bartender’s jaw. The guy flew into a rack of bottles. Only a few crashed to the floor and shattered as he slid onto his ass, legs out straight, his head lolling on his shoulders.

“Good one. Looks like you cracked his mandibular again. Got that out of your system, Dom?” asked Remi.

“Yeah. I’ve been feeling a little down. That helped.”

“I was just saying we need a KOC order,” Remi said, clapping his hand onto Ely’s shoulder.

“Even kill-on-contact extinctions have become boring. We need an interesting assignment,” said Ely.

Peeking over the bar, Dom said, “Get the fuck up, asswipe. Pour me another Dead Manhattan.”

Leaning forward on an elbow, Remi asked, “Where’s Ohngel? I thought you were on assignment with him.”

Ohngel was the fire-winged assassin, one of the Feard. He had mated an Aeternal, a witch named Indigo. The OneCreator, being a sap for true love, allowed their brother-in-arms to travel between here and the realm of Scath with his mate. The OC also permitted her to accompany him anywhere in OneWorld.

“Nope. I was flying solo. He and his mate are on something Indigo called a honeymoon,” said Dom.

A stranger interrupted, slapping a mottled hand on Ely’s upper arm. “Hey, aren’t you guys the Feard, the OneCreator’s winged assassins?”

Ely brushed off the guy’s misplaced palm and glared over his shoulder. “So what?”

The Scourge lowered his voice as if letting them in on a conspiracy. “I’ve got intel. What can I get for it?”

“Your teeth get to stay in your mouth,” said Remi.

When the guy buttoned up, Ely said, “One free pass when you do something stupid. And you will.”

The male thought for a moment. “This is worth more. What’s the one steadfast rule we must all obey?”

“Never run from the Feard,” said Dom.

The guy puzzled his brows, a wrinkle between them. “Another one.”

“Do not tell the OC to fuck off,” said Ely.

The guy sighed. “No. Another.”

“Do not bring an outsider onto Angor,” said Remi.

“Bingo.” The Scourge scratched his arm. A chunk of skin peeled off and fell to the ground, a sure sign he was a Flesh Eater.

Ely snapped out his wings. The ice-bladed feathers unsheathed and nearly decapped the stranger. “Oops. Not sorry.” Obviously having found the exciting assignment he was looking for, Ely glanced at Dom and Remi. “Here we go again. How long has it been?”

“Not long enough,” said the black-winged assassin. “Maybe three centuries?”

Ely tossed back what was left of his brew while Remi scrubbed a hand across his eyes.

Dom pushed off his stool, fisting the front of the informant’s ragged shirt. “What’s your name, Scourge?”

“Ike.”

“Well, Ike, tell us about the outsider.” Dom’s upper lip curled into a sneer, his no-nonsense, do-what-I-say expression.

“I want to negotiate.”

Remi asked, “What do you expect for the intel?”

“I want time off from all Ordeals.”

Dom answered the Scourge. “Not happening. Besides, we have no say-so. That’s up to the OC or Harmony. If your shit is important, we’ll negotiate to keep you out of a few Ordeals of your choice.”

Ike looked as if he was thinking about the deal, but that assumed he was capable of rational thought. He scratched his arm again, opening a sore. “Deal. Time off from three punishments of my choice.”

Dom nodded. “Spill.”

“The outsider’s a human.”

The news exploded like a bomb blast. OneWorld was restricted. Vast was for Immortals. Angor for Scourges. Never. Never. Humans. And for good reason. Earthers were weak creatures who would be easy prey for Immortals and easier prey for Scourges. Besides, the OneCreator had a very protective fondness for them.

Ely’s eyes pinged from Remi to Dom. “What the fuck?”

Dominion guzzled his Dead Manhattan and jacked onto his feet. “Time to earn our pay. Shit just got very interesting, huh, Ely?”