The Whispering Demon, Chapter One

Never trust a man prettier than you. Mom’s serious advice, wrapped in a thin veil of humor, had echoed in my head since I was thirteen. It was the type of advice taken lightly until you experienced the weight of Lucien Graves’ stare.

Lucky for me, Lucien wasn’t exactly a man. He was a demon, not a big trust brand, but damn he was pretty, at least in this particular skin.

Lucien wasn’t some low-rent hell-spawn, stumbling through dimensional portals after one too many shots of ectoplasm. He was a High Demon, Lord of an obscure, impossible to pronounce Netherworld realm, and currently occupying spot number three on the Bureau’s Most Wanted list. He changed names and faces like other people changed socks, and I had zero interest in seeing his true self. Probably a pulsating mass of dripping membranes and serrated teeth wrapped in meat confetti.

Not my problem.

My orders were simple and crystal clear: Bring him to the Bureau, alive. Beyond that, the High-and-Mighty Demon Lord could go screw himself.

And, no, I didn’t mean that literally, because—ugh, Demon Biology 101: not anatomically possible.

There was one teensy-weensy, irritating detail. High Demons fed straight from the dark magic buffet of their home realm, and Lucien’s turf was, let’s just say, decidedly… infernal, even by Netherworld standards.

The good news: we weren’t, technically, there.

The bad news: we were close enough.

The Ninth Crossroad—a sleazy halfway dive squatting in the shadowy gutter between dimensions, neutral ground for the weary, the wanted, and the wicked, where drinks were dirt cheap and reality occasionally took the night off—was much closer to the Netherworld than I would have liked. If Lucien could tap even a trickle of that dark mojo, things would go sideways fast.

Let’s face it, luck and I had an on-again, off-again relationship.

I straightened my leather jacket, felt the reassuring weight of the enchanted Bureau badge in my pocket and pushed through the door into the sensory assault of the Ninth Crossroad.

Inside, the ceiling couldn’t decide how high it wanted to be, shifting subtly with every step I took. The bar was carved from petrified ash wood, supposedly to keep things like thrall vampires and ambitious soul-eaters from getting grabby.

The walls flickered with spectral graffiti and messages scrawled in mystic languages that burned your eyes if you stared too long. The clientele ranged from mostly human to decidedly not: a massive werebear hunched in a corner booth sipping a pint of beer; a pair of winged low-level fae with opal skin trading shy glances; a tall woman, who was clearly something aquatic and far from home, leaving drops of condensation wherever her fingers touched.

In other words, the textbook place to arrest a rogue demon—or end up gutted and quartered for your trouble.

I scanned the room. Lucien sat alone at the far end of the bar dressed in an impeccable black suit. Most people, and even some freshly minted Bureau agents, would see a sinfully attractive guy with expensive tastes and a predatory smile, but my vision peeled away illusions like cheap wallpaper. I saw the shadows coiling lazily around his muscular frame like hungry things with too many sharp edges.

He looked every bit as arrogant and flawless as the photos in his Bureau file promised: the too-perfect symmetry of his features, the unnatural stillness when he wasn’t moving, the subtle dimming of the lights around him, the way the mirror behind the bar occasionally failed to capture his reflection, correcting itself a moment later as if reality glitched in his presence.

Note to self: Do not, under any circumstances, absorb a single drop of his Netherworld magic. Keep your inner illusion mage on a tight leash.

Seriously, Tess. Don’t be that idiot again. You know, the same idiot who just last week accidentally absorbed pixie glamouring dust while on a mission and spent three humiliating days leaving a trail of infatuated mail carriers and bewildered dachshunds in your wake.

I sucked in a breath. Easier said than done. Magic was my catnip.

The bartender slid a whiskey my way. “You sure you don’t want backup? Dude looks like a code red.”

I took a sip, letting the cheap booze burn away the last shred of hesitation. “Relax, Eddie. If he wanted trouble, we’d already be scraping someone off the ceiling.”

Famous last words.

Eddie glanced at the ceiling, like he was half-expecting fresh blood to start dripping from the tiles. Yeah, demon wrangling wasn’t exactly in his job description. Nor was cozying up to Bureau agents, but here we were.

I slid onto the barstool next to Lucien. Up close, his aura hit you like driving into a midnight storm—heavy, electric, dangerous.

He looked up, catching my gaze with eyes that shifted from bronze to bottomless black under the bar’s dim lights. A slow grin spread across his face. “Agent,” he drawled, his voice all smoke and honey. “I was wondering when you’d show up.” He gestured lazily to the glass in front of him. Something crimson swirled inside it. “Care to join me for a drink before trying to drag me back to hell?”

My hand instinctively drifted toward the enchanted badge in my pocket, but curiosity slammed on the brakes. Protocol dictated immediate containment, but something wasn’t adding up. Demons of his caliber didn’t hang around supernatural dive bars waiting to get caught and then smile while they offered a polite drink to the arresting Bureau agent.

“One drink,” I said. “It will give you time to explain why you’ve been sitting here waiting to be found.”

Lucien chuckled, low and rough, flashing white teeth that could’ve sliced through steel—literally, according to his file. His dark hair curled around chiseled cheekbones; his bronze eyes gleamed an unholy intensity. The kind of devilish allure mothers warned daughters about when they turned thirteen.

His eyes slid over me. “What makes you think I wanted to be found? Not that I’m complaining. Your captivating presence does brighten this shit hole, Agent Hilliard. Consider me thrilled to make your acquaintance.”

A chill ran down my spine at the casual use of my name. Great. He knew exactly who I was and still had the audacity to flirt. I arched an eyebrow, trying to manufacture indifference. “Flattery is a base magic. It will get you nowhere. You’re nothing but a bad pickup line in a designer suit.”

His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You could use a little bad, agent girl scout, and designer clothes would look good on you.”

My pulse inconveniently accelerated. This was expected. Every high demon came equipped with built-in glamour power. I stamped out the dangerous curiosity bubbling in my veins. “You forgot two things, I’m not some lonely bar patron and this is my turf. I’m fine not playing nice.”

His smile widened. “Music to my ears.”

I took a swig of my drink. “Feels like there’s going to be an ask. Snarky demon overlords like you don’t make rookie mistakes, Lucien. Sitting in a paranormal-friendly bar when you know I’m on your tail? You’ve either gone senile or you want something. Go ahead… ask.”

Lucien tilted his head, studying me with his tempestuous eyes. Tiny flecks of shadow swirled in their depths. “You’re more perceptive than the other Bureau stiffs.”

“And you would know that how?”

“I know many things,” he replied, idly tracing the rim of his glass with one long finger. The crimson liquid inside rippled and twisted into miniature whirlpools. “Including the fact that you’re not working alone tonight.”

I guess even demons get paranoid. Sad.

“Your aura gives it away,” he said. My stomach dropped. Mindreading wasn’t in his Bureau file. “You’re tethered to someone. A partner, I assume. Someone you’d trust with your life.” He leaned closer. His smothering essence stymied my senses like a foul scent. “But can you trust them with your secrets, Agent Hilliard?”

“I’m not here to discuss my life choices with a demon. You’ve killed, tortured—”

“I’ve killed no one,” he interrupted. All traces of play vanished from his face. The air suddenly felt heavy, like deep-sea pressure. “Not here in this dimension. Not in your world.” His eyes shifted fully black. “And if you drag me back to your Bureau without hearing me out, the real killer will strike again. And again. And you’ll never see them coming.” 

A hand appeared from nowhere, gripped Lucien’s throat and slammed him back against the bar. The demon’s bronze eyes widened in genuine surprise—the first real emotion I’d seen from him. The air crackled with competing energies, like storm fronts colliding.

“Vampires, Nyktae, now Demons. There isn’t enough testosterone in the multiverse for you, is there, Investigator?”

I knew that smug voice and that irritating face.

Fucking Killian Tierney, looking far too pleased with himself.

His chestnut hair was longer than I remembered and casually tousled like he’d just rolled out of someone’s bed. His stubborn jaw and his eyes... those damned storm-gray eyes held a spark of taunting glee that pissed me off. Heat radiated from him in steady waves. A faint pattern of scales ghosted beneath the skin of his forearm.

Shit. In all the supernatural dive bars in all the dimensions, he had to walk into this one.

“I don’t care if you came to the Ninth Crossroad to burn off some steam, or if you’re here to mess with me,” I said, measuring each word carefully, “but I’m going to have to ask you to step back, civilian.”

The egomaniac laughed. His shoulders bobbed, but his fingers remained tight on Lucien’s throat as wisps of smoke curled between them. Lucien, oddly enough, didn’t fight back. He just eyed me with unsettling patience.

“I see you have developed a noirish vibe since the last time we met, Investigator. It’s fun.”

“That’s Agent Hilliard to you. And the last time we met, you drugged me with a love potion to get me into your bed. There isn’t enough estrogen in the multiverse for you, is there, dragon boy?”

His eyebrows converged in a thunderous scowl. The temperature spiked another ten degrees. Nearby drinks began to steam. “That did not happen. It’s a gross mischaracterization of events.”

“We agree on the gross part, and I’m quite sure I’ve not mistaken you for another Therian dragon with a superiority complex and a complete disregard for personal boundaries.”

He growled, flashing me an uncomfortably close view of his absurdly perfect teeth.

Oh, you can dish it, but you can’t take it, can you, Your Scaliness?

“Enough pointless banter.” I slid one hand inside my jacket and retrieved a pair of Bureau-grade cuffs, then another. The silver runes etched into them glowed faintly in the bar’s low lights. “Release the demon into my custody, Tierney, or I’ll be forced to arrest you both.”

Killian scoffed, a puff of smoke escaping his nostrils. He wasn’t even bothering to hide the dragon anymore. Normally he kept his inner lizard under tight wraps in public. “On what grounds?”

“You’re obstructing justice, assaulting a suspect, and being a monumental pain in the ass.” I took a step closer. “Now back off.”

“Your justice is slow and wouldn’t so much as spit on a world on fire unless it had the proper paperwork.” Killian’s grip tightened and Lucien’s eyes began to glow with an inner crimson light. “I’ll deliver sudden justice to this monster, Agent Hilliard. My special way. A justice that sticks.”

Alright, that’s it. I yanked out my Bureau badge and raised it high. The silver disk flared to life with ancient symbols crawling across its surface like phantasms. The patrons shrank back, bottles spilled, glasses clattered to the floor. A werelion bolted for the door, on all fours, knocking over three chairs. That badge carried enough raw, old magic to pulverize the place and everyone knew it. Nobody wanted to stick around when the Bureau came calling.

“I am authorized by the Arcane Investigations Bureau to take this subject into custody.”  My voice carried through the sudden silence. “We’ll all be out of your hair in thirty seconds. Start counting.”

Lucien’s gaze met mine over Killian’s vise-like grip. Something like recognition flickered there—something sharp, calculating… almost conspiratorial.

Whatever his game was, I’d played right into it.

Killian growled. “Do your Bureau stiffs even know what this piece of shit has done? He’s wanted for three ritual murders and a dimensional breach that nearly collapsed an entire Orastis realm beyond the Sixth Veil. And that’s just this week, Tess.”

“I don’t care if he danced the mambo on the skulls of the seven lords of hell. My job is to bring him in, not prosecute him.”

Lucien’s lips twitched, fighting a grin, but his eyes remained cold.

Killian sneered. A second later, his free arm twisted and contorted until his skin tore open to reveal crimson scales erupting through flesh. Bones snapped and reformed with wet, sickening cracks as his human arm transformed into a massive dragon limb. Obsidian talons extended where fingers had been. The emerging curved claw nicked Lucien’s throat, drawing a drop of blood.

Cobalt blue High Demon blood. Mesmerizing. True royalty.

Lucien remained still, but the air around him darkened. I needed to de-escalate the situation before the two apex predators leveled the place.

My mind spun, scanning the room, cataloging the magic signatures, and settling on a hooded Shadowmancer cowering in a corner. I siphoned a tiny amount of his essence, just enough to borrow a barely perceptible pinch of shadow magic, and hurled it into Killian’s eyes, fast enough to go unnoticed by anyone watching.

Killian blinked excessively, momentarily blinded. I delivered a solid kick to his solar plexus. He stumbled back, hacking out a curse, more surprised than hurt.

I raised the handcuffs. The runes pulsed with containment magic. Lucien thrust both wrists forward to accommodate. Smart demon.

As I slapped on the enchanted cuffs, the metal hissed while sealing around his wrists. The silver runes darkened, locking onto his tricky magic signature.

Shoving him toward the door, I maintained a strictly professional distance—nothing that could be mistaken for even remote familiarity.

Killian was upon us instantly, moving with inhuman speed despite his bulk, and blocking our path. “There’s no way I’m letting you walk out of here with that psycho.”

“Tough cookies. My jurisdiction trumps your vendetta.”

“Fine, but I’m going with you. This asshole has a plan.”

“You think I’m an idiot, Killian? And what about your plans? You’re going to gut him somewhere along the way, yeah? Or push him down a long flight of underworld stairs? It’s better to travel with one asshole with a plan than two.”

He shook his head. “Tess, my dear, you need me,” he said, drawing out each syllable as if tasting it. “I want to keep you in one piece. And you know what can happen to pretty agents who transport High Demons solo.”

“Of course. They can hand off their fugitive to the Bureau and get their next assignment. Now get out of my way, I’m working.”

Next to me, Lucien gave me a long, suffering sigh. “Let the hothead tag along,” he drawled. “The more witnesses to this farce, the better.”

I glared at him. “You don’t get a vote, Luci.”

He shrugged. “The sooner we get there, the sooner you’ll realize this has all been a big misunderstanding.”

Killian roared with laughter. He pinned those steel-gray eyes on me as if to say, See what I mean?

I weighed my options. A Therian dragon with an obvious axe to grind versus a possible killing spree if Lucien escaped. Damn. Okay, third choice, quit my job and become a manicurist.

“Fine, if it will shut you up, come.” I shoved Lucien forward again. “But so much as sneeze in his direction, Killian, and I’ll have you in matching cuffs faster than you can say scale polish. Okay, now that everybody’s been heard, can we, please, ditch this dive?”

We stepped outside into the interdimensional twilight—a handcuffed High Demon, a chauvinistic dragon babysitter, and me.

It’ll be fine. I mean it’s the weird shit that always happens to me… so, it’s totally fine. Tess the Mess, right? Par for the course.

Some nights you follow the monsters. Other nights, you walk between them and hope for the best.

In the distance, a clock struck midnight—though I wasn’t sure which realm’s midnight was ringing out.

We were halfway across the Ninth Crossroad’s parking lot when the temperature suddenly dropped. From the corner of my eye, I spotted a shadow peeling itself off a decrepit brick wall and hurtling right toward us.

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