Page 1 of Demon Heart: The Complete Series

F ive down. Fourteen letters. Clue: Bewildering.

“Discombobulate,” I muttered at my crossword, quickly scrawling the word in the grid by the light of a low-burning candle.

Not my candle, but one belonging to the dead guy at my feet.

“Don’t think I’ve ever used that word in a sentence,” I told him.

The stupid prick had come at me with a rusty knife minutes before. Thought he was so clever sneaking up on me, trying for a mugging.

Took me all of two seconds to break his neck.

Drizzling rain pattered against the cracked, dirty window, the weather relentlessly miserable. I sighed, longing for some sunshine. It was January, the worst month of the year. Especially since losing my grandma on January 6 th last year—the first anniversary two weeks ago.

If only I could disappear for the full thirty-one days, start the year in February, end it in November to avoid Christmas, too.

Life was full of ‘if onlys.’

Before tackling the next part of my crossword, I scanned the street again. No movement, no sign of life in this once-thriving high street in the town of Leighton Buzzard. Just the rain and the fractured moonlight, topped off with plenty of gloom.

Where are you, Marky Mark?

Apparently, the Saturday market here had been a bustling place, stalls everywhere, providing all manner of goodies. Now, the high street was riddled with deep cracks and holes, the buildings dilapidated, some partly collapsed or on the verge of it. The consequences of a changed world.

Man, that whole debacle with The Rift last year made me sweat a bit. A dicey situation indeed.

The Rift had been a floating scar of red storm clouds in the North Sea, a remnant of The Tainted Storm.

When a war between witches and witch-hating humans turned sour after non-magical humans tried using magic against the dominance of witches, a deadly storm of destructive magic tore across the world.

After The Tainted Storm cleared, leaving so many dead, The Rift appeared, as did the toxic rivers, a residual magic in the form of green liquid, which also gave rise to the awful river monsters.

But the rivers, the monsters, and The Rift were now gone after a bunch of nefarious creeps messed with all three elements last year. Now we were left with a world to fix and live in, the legacy of the dried-up rivers and the vicious power of The Rift around every corner.

Talk about serious luck to be spared annihilation.

The buildings still standing in this town functioned as squats, drug dens, generally skanky places to be avoided at all costs.

Like the one I hid in, a former camping/hiking supplies shop.

Downstairs, a bunch of junkies were getting high off their faces, the entire shop floor littered with rubbish and needles and plenty of grime.

I’d snuck into the top level from the back of the building, coming through a broken roof hatch. After Dead Dick failed to mug me, I settled in to watch out for my latest target.

Mark Shar. Called himself King of Clubs back in London after building himself an empire of tawdry establishments across the capital.

An arrogant man, with a lot of power and protection, and more money than I could ever dream of.

My pay as an assassin/spy might be decent, but Marky Mark was dripping in wealth.

Witch Queen Margarite of the United Kingdom wanted him dead. Not because of the clubs and cash, but because of murder.

There were other spies out there on the streets working for Her Majesty, ears and eyes on everything—only I came with the extra assassination service.

One of those spies worked as a barman in a Marky Mark club.

He didn’t reveal himself to be a spy for the queen, too good at his job.

Instead, he fell victim to Mark’s infamous temper for the crime of spilling a drink.

The poor guy got beaten to death with a cricket bat, his body found in the sewers days later.

The queen wanted revenge. Every breath Mark took was an affront to her reign. So, she called upon me, The Shadow, to destroy him. I was her personal assassin and spy with direct access to her, the only witch to know her deepest secrets, to carry out her deadly will quietly.

I never asked questions, never offered anything other than my loyalty and skills. My job was to serve her, an until-death oath sworn.

I quickly added superficial to six down on my crossword.

After weeks of digging through the club scene, stalking, watching, gathering all the intel I could, I finally dropped the pin in this town north of London.

Mark had been hiding up here, according to Keith, the guy I’d been fucking for information the past week.

What a slimeball, a part-time driver for Marky Mark.

Not someone I’d want touching me normally, but I knew he’d give me what I wanted eventually.

He’d squealed with pleasure on the end of my dick many times, and finally squealed on his boss without knowing it.

Nothing like sex to get the tongue loose.

“Don’t tell anyone, mate,” he’d said yesterday, post-arse-pounding, “but I work for Mark Shar.”

“You do?” To him, I was mild-mannered shop worker Lee, who might be shy and cute, but was also a beast between the sheets. Keith had no clue about my real job or my real name—Roman Gold.

“Yeah, mate,” he’d replied. “He’s the best boss you could ever want. So smart. So hard.” A chuckle. “I learn a lot from him. Stuff like business, money, women.”

That last part had thrown me. “Women?”

Another chuckle. “Yeah, women. He knows how to please them, what they want so you can slip a ring on their finger and stick a bun in their oven.”

“Is that what you want?” I’d asked, loathing him even more.

“Hell yes.”

“But—”

“This thing we’re doing means nothing, mate. Just a good time. Mates with benefits. Not serious. Can never with two blokes, right? I want a wife and kids and everything Mark has.”

A whole string of failed marriages and neglected children left in his wake?

I’d let his vile comments slide, our relationship nothing but a means to an end. Still, what a prick.

“I’m driving him to Leighton Buzzard next week,” he’d carried on. “The man has a plan to restore the town.”

After that, the details fell into place. Keith explained he couldn’t see me Saturday night (tonight) because of his job, but he’d call me Sunday morning. He went on to tell me they were setting off at nine for a big meeting in the town at the Heather Hotel.

The hotel in question sat directly opposite the camping store, some damage to its roof, the rest of it intact. I wanted to see Marky Mark go inside, to get an idea of the size of his entourage before I sprang into action.

It was now quarter past nine.

Come out, come out.

One minute later, headlights broke the darkness.

Bingo.

I slipped the pocket-size crossword book into my jacket pocket, snuffed out the candle between finger and thumb, and cracked my knuckles, ready for action.

Three cars showed up, parking outside the hotel. Their respective drivers got out, opening doors for two men in the first two cars, along with their security guys, and a woman in the third car, also with two burly security men.

Three bigwigs, cut from the same cloth of expensive clothes and too much jewelry, dealing in nefarious activities to line their pockets and build their empires. I didn’t recognize any of their faces, none of them as notorious as good old Marky Mark.

A fourth black car came to a stop behind the other vehicles, the headlights switching off.

Keith got out of the driver’s side, suited and booted, his auburn hair slicked back, a proud look on his pale face.

He opened the back door, a huge guy in a suit getting out first. There was so much muscle straining under those designer clothes he could probably pop my head with his thighs.

Kind of hot if you forget about the skull-popping.

The big guy stood beside the car, arms folded, his eyes constantly roaming the dead street, the buildings.

A bodyguard.

Just the one?

A second big guy slid out of the car. He opened an umbrella for Mark. As he did, I spotted his guns and a machete peeking out from under his suit jacket.

Marky Mark appeared, dripping in gold jewelry, sporting a navy-and-white pinstriped suit, protected from the rain by the umbrella. If he ever fell into a lake, he’d sink like a stone with the amount of bling he wore. How did he even move his fingers with all those rings taking up space?

Flanked by his bodyguards, Mark moved toward the hotel entrance, vanishing into darkness. The other bigwigs followed under their umbrellas.

Keith got back inside his car, hidden by tinted windows.

I had to be careful not to take out anyone other than The King of Clubs. Mark was my only target and I had to stick to that unless circumstances called for further exterminations, or Her Majesty added to the body count request.

With the bigwigs inside the hotel, I moved, leaving the camping shop through the roof. Back up the rusty ladder, the rain re-wetting my hair, the air so much fresher. Keeping to the shadows, I reached ground level, dashing light-footed down a short alley to reach the high street.

Four cars lined up, drivers still in each one. I cast a spell of diversion on myself, red tendrils of Synth magic coiling around my fingers for a couple of seconds.

Though the magic would hide me, I still pulled my balaclava over my head and kept low, snaking a route toward the rear car, avoiding the worst of the cracks and holes.

I reached the back of Keith’s car, craving central heating and a cup of chamomile tea.

Poxy rain.

Plucking my trusty rod from my pocket—a tube of silver that acted like a skeleton key—I slid it into the lock of the car’s boot. It clicked open, the dinging alert on the dashboard triggered.

“What the fuck?” Keith mumbled, opening his door.

“Nice one, Skele,” I told my tool.

I let the boot open wide.

“Piece of shit car,” Keith moaned, stomping around to the back of the vehicle.

I climbed inside, my trust dagger at the ready in case the spell broke.

Keith grumbled, bitching about the weather. I was with him on that one.

He appeared at the boot, looking inside, his irritated gaze never landing on me. Diverted to glower everywhere but at the danger clutching a pointy instrument of doom.

He huffed, slammed the boot door, and stomped away.

“Everything okay?” I heard another man call.

“Yeah, good,” Keith responded. “Boot playing up.”

With the spell still humming through my bones, I pushed open the hatch in the back seats to scope out the inside of the car. Nice cream interior, plenty of space. A fine vehicle if you had the cash.

Rather than burst into the hotel and risk dealing with those others, I closed the hatch and settled in, biding my time for the perfect moment to strike inside the hornets’ nest.

Tee-fucking-hee.

I had the patience of a sniper, the physical skill to be still for long stretches, to brush aside any call of the bathroom or hunger. A catalyst for death and spying, really good at my job.

I closed my eyes, tuning in to the sounds of the rain and Keith’s breathing.

This would be Marky Mark’s last night. I had zero doubt about that.