Page 15 of Forbidden (Dark Delights #3)

Ira couldn’t convince the cab driver to go any faster, and when In Extremis finally came into view, a horrified sound left his mouth.

The warehouse was on fire. Flames flickered through the broken windows, and familiar black SUVs were parked in the middle of the deserted street around the entrance. There was no sign of the usual bouncer, the white-haired Storm. Ira really hoped he wasn’t dead.

“Stop! Stop the car!” He flung some cash at the gaping driver and dove from the vehicle.

“Hey, pal, wait! I don’t think you should?—”

Ira slammed the door shut, cutting off the driver’s protests.

He sprinted down the sidewalk. Paladins stood outside the club, people he recognized, their familiar faces hungry for violence. The fire gleamed in their eyes. If he was fast enough, he could slip past them and make it to the salt line. They weren’t expecting him; he could take them by surprise. He’d break the salt line, and all the demons would be able to escape. They would be okay, and whatever happened to him next would be a small price to pay. He just had to get there.

“Who’s that?” someone shouted as he drew near.

“Who?”

“Where?”

“That’s the missing prophet! That’s Ira! Grab him! Stop him!”

Ira dodged somebody rushing toward him and ducked under someone else’s reaching arms. He was almost to the entrance. The pale line of salt was visible, like snow on the dark concrete, and he could see figures inside, silhouetted by the flickering light of the fire. Dark liquid covered the abandoned dance floor. He couldn’t tell if it was red blood, black, or something else. Malachi wasn’t far from the door, grappling with a paladin wielding a holy blade. They were still fighting. He wasn’t too late.

“Wolf!” He couldn’t see him. Where was he?

His sneaker hit the salt and skidded out from under him, breaking the line and sending him crashing to the concrete, scraping knees and elbows. For a moment, he was staring up at the billowing smoke above the club. Then arms hooked under his, hauling him to his feet and away from the club.

Panic shot through him. He hadn’t seen Wolf yet. He had to make sure Wolf was okay. That was all that mattered. All of this would be a waste if he hadn’t gotten there in time to save Wolf.

“Wolf! No, let go of me! Wolf!” His sneakers slid on the pavement. He tried to wrench his arms free, but despite the handful of weeks training under Alex and Luke, he was no match for the muscled paladins.

Wolf’s voice roared from within. “Ira! Get the fuck out of my way! Ira! ”

Relief nearly took him out at the knees. Wolf was alive. As long as he was alive, everything would be okay.

Two paladins shoved him into the backseat of an SUV, bracketing him with stony faces and unforgiving grips.

“No, no, no! Let me go!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Michael snarled. “Drive!”

“No!” Ira lunged across Michael’s lap for the door.

Something unforgiving crashed against the back of his skull, and everything went black.

The first thing Ira became aware of was the absence of sound. The room around him was oppressively quiet. He didn’t move, cataloging everything his senses could pick up. No sound. A flat pillow under his head. A scratchy, wool blanket under his bare arm. The last thing he remembered was fire and paladins . His throat aching as he screamed for Wolf. And something hitting the back of his head. He reached up to check for a wound and found only dried blood crusted in his hair. No pain. Wolf’s blood had healed him while he was unconscious.

He blinked his eyes open?—

A shiver went down his spine. He was in a cell. The walls and floor were made of stone, the iron bars to his right huge and imposing. On the floor beside his cot, someone had left a paper plate with two round, white pills, and an unopened bottle of water.

He couldn’t be sure what the pills were, and he didn’t actually need them, so he left them where they were. It was nice of them to offer, maybe, if they were actually just the mild painkillers he suspected. He picked up the water, inspecting it thoroughly before he cracked the seal and took a sip. Somehow he doubted they’d given Alex these accommodations. But then, prophets were less expendable.

“Hello?” he croaked. The only thing he could see from here was the empty cell across the walkway. He had no idea if anyone else was in the dungeon with him.

Nothing but silence greeted him, so he assumed he was alone for now. That probably wouldn’t be the case for long.

He wondered what they would do with him. And God, he hoped Wolf was okay. He’d heard his voice before he was dragged away, so he at least knew Wolf was alive. His vision hadn’t revealed the outcome of the fight, though. Was anyone hurt? Had the fire consumed the club? He only knew about Wolf and Malachi. What about Alex, Luke, and Talon?

He laid back down, his eyes burning. He would rest for as long as he was allowed, and whatever happened next would happen in its own time. He’d done all he could, and he wasn’t going to apologize for his actions. His time with Wolf was the happiest of his life.

Sleep didn’t come—his anxiety made sure of that—and he had no idea how much time passed before the door finally squealed open down the hall.

He pushed himself upright, his heart pounding.

A shock went down his spine when Commander Sloan and the prophets’ division head, Diviner Christina Rousseau, stepped into view. Sloan struck an imposing figure, tall and built like a powerlifter, his figure divided by the iron bars. Diviner Rousseau was a willowy woman, her long brown hair spilling down to her waist in curls reminiscent of nineties’ fashion. Her severe, pointed face was softened by her voluminous bangs and black-rimmed glasses. She was dressed as though for church, in slim black trousers and a flower-patterned red blouse. She glanced around the dungeon as though she was afraid she would catch something if she touched anything.

The last time he’d been under both their attention at once, he’d been graduating.

“Ah, good. You’re awake.” Sloan’s voice was like a winter tide, frigid and unforgiving despite his unassuming words. “Don’t worry, the paladin who hit you over the head has been properly admonished.”

It hadn’t even crossed his mind, honestly. And if Sloan cared anything about what happened to him… “Why am I in a cell?”

Sloan clasped his hands behind his back. “Well. You were interfering with paladin business.”

Setting fire to a building filled with innocent people and halflings—yes, they were innocent, too, as far as Ira was concerned—was paladin business now. He fought the urge to sneer.

“Yes. I had a vision that you sent your men to make a mistake. I was attempting to rectify it.”

“I assure you, no mistakes were made,” Sloan said. “And you’re not a field agent. You should’ve reported it. But oh, that’s right,” Sloan tapped his chin as though he’d forgotten, “you abandoned your duty and went missing, didn’t you?”

“There were human beings in that club, Commander Sloan. Innocent people who didn’t deserve to burn to death.”

“Anyone who willingly goes into that club is as guilty as the demons who dwell there. It’s a den of wickedness. No one with an ounce of morality would set foot in there.”

Ira’s blood boiled. “It is not your place to judge the sins of others.”

“ I am the commander of this guild. I alone make the choices that keep the scales of good and evil from tipping too far toward our enemies. If they get caught in the crossfire, may they find their salvation in the afterlife. It’s their own poor choices that led them to their demise.”

Ira could barely believe what he was hearing, but at the same time, he knew he shouldn’t be surprised. He’d seen enough glimpses of the future to know better. His gaze slid to Diviner Rousseau, searching her face for some sign of discomfort at Sloan’s ego-mindedness. But he saw only conviction.

“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” Ira quoted. “We aren’t meant to judge our fellow man.”

“Those who play with the devil's toys will be brought by degrees to wield his sword,” Sloan quoted back. “They are as much the enemy as the demons they lay with.”

Ira schooled his face. “Are we still talking about the human patrons or someone else?”

Sloan’s face soured. “Where have you been these last few weeks, Mr. Faer?”

He had to spin this in a way that didn’t bring up Wolf or the others. “I was doing what I thought was right. I saw the vision of myself intercepting those paladins, and I knew you wouldn’t allow me to go if I reported it. So I hid until it was time.”

“You aren’t meant to make those kinds of decisions on your own,” Rousseau said firmly. “We have checks and balances in place to avoid exactly this kind of blunder. You could’ve been killed in the field tonight.”

“Or by the demons you’ve been associating with,” Sloan said coolly, his gaze sharp.

“What? What demons?” Ira asked sharply. They had no proof he’d been with any demons until he showed up at the club, and they only knew he was there because they were.

Sloan’s ice blue eyes narrowed. “You don’t seriously expect me to believe that you’ve been hiding for weeks by yourself ?”

“Where else would I have been? I don’t know anyone outside of the guild.”

He arched one bushy brow. “Hawk and Morgan?”

Ira shrugged. “I’m familiar with the names. Can’t remember the last time I saw them, though.”

Sloan scoffed, shifting from foot to foot. “Allow me to cut to the chase, Mr. Faer. I believe you abandoned the guild to help the traitors and their demons. I don’t know where you’ve been or why exactly you disappeared, but you were clearly not being held away against your will. Helping the demons at In Extremis tonight is an act of betrayal worthy of banishment. However, a prophet has never been banished from the guild before. You receive visions from the Lord. Those won’t stop just because you leave, and your visions, like all the other prophets’ visions, are a valuable contribution to our cause.”

Ira took a slow breath to calm his nerves. “You can’t force me to stay here and tell you my visions. They may be given to me by God, but nowhere is it written in the Bible that a prophet must turn over his visions to any authority outside of his own.”

Rousseau gaped at him. “The entitlement,” she breathed. “Do you, Ira Faer, truly think you are more knowledgeable than the entire division of prophets? Than the council? Than the hundreds of years of trial and error within our ancient guild that resulted in the rules we have in place today? They’re as much for your protection as our own, you see. Without them, every prophet would be running headlong into danger to ‘do what they thought was right.’” She flicked a judgmental hand toward him.

“Maybe we should,” Ira responded bluntly, enjoying the way they both drew back in shock.

“What?” Rousseau said.

“Maybe the reason people are leaving the guild is because the current system is flawed.”

Sloan shook his head decisively. “No. The systems we have in place now, just as Diviner Rousseau said, have been tweaked and corrected over centuries of trial and error. They’re the best they can be.”

Ira sighed. They wouldn’t listen. He could argue his case for hours and they’d never even consider any stance besides their own. They couldn’t fathom being anything other than right.

He folded his arms, resigning himself to whatever came next. He hadn’t seen this part. All he could do was hope Wolf was okay and trust that the visions he had seen were right, which meant he and Wolf would be together again eventually. “You’re right, I left the guild. I decided I didn’t want to do the work anymore, and I knew prophets weren’t allowed to quit. That vision of me intervening at the demon club made me realize that I don’t agree with the direction the guild is going. I want to quit.”

“This isn’t a job ,” Rousseau said. “It’s a calling.”

“Well, I don’t want it anymore.” That wasn’t entirely true, because he’d be happy to tell his visions to Alex and Luke and whoever else could use them to help people, but it was true as far as the guild was concerned. “I want to leave. I want to build a life of my own, doing the things I choose to do, with the people I choose to do them with. That’s all. ”

Sloan shook his head, looking at Ira like he was something distasteful on the bottom of his shoe. “Let’s go, Christina. It looks like we’ve got some decisions to make.”

Rousseau sighed. She cast Ira one last disappointed look and turned away, her heels clacking on the stone as she and Sloan left.

Ira sagged. What were they going to do with him?