Free Seal of Destiny by Traci Douglass Page B

her unspoken question and clamped an arm around her waist, preparing to flash away. “What? You need your stuff, so we get your stuff.”
    “Wait a minute.” Mira held up a hand, her jaw tense. “How about we do this the old-fashioned way? My stomach sure would be grateful.” She pointed out the window. “You have a train station across the street.”
    Kagan glanced at his watch. “Fine.” He pulled her out and locked the door. “If we hurry we can catch the next one.”
    • • •
    Argus peered into the sunny Chicago morning while he walked back from the brunette’s apartment. It’d taken all of his strength to haul his happy ass out of the club before the cops arrived last night. Hidden in the alley, inside a Dumpster, his human host had died and been reborn again through the power of his demon. He’d been forced to regenerate a new heart because of that Scion fucking douche. Argus coughed, his new heart stuttering, the beat not yet regulated. His host still continued to rattle in his head, now crazier than ever since his death.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
    He pushed into his host’s apartment and walked into the kitchen, rummaged through the cupboards until he uncovered a box of chocolate puff cereal. Argus popped the lid and tipped the box overhead, filling his face to the brim with sugary goodness. He searched the shelves and uncovered a bottle of honey. Arugs poured the thick flow down his throat with one hand while he continued his pantry raid with the other. Sugar was the fuel his demon body depended on in the human realm. Regeneration required more than usual.
    Argus tossed the empty cereal box and honey bear into the sink and untwisted the top from a newfound jar of strawberry jam. He picked up a dirty spoon from the counter and dug out a huge glob. Then, too impatient to wait, he dumped the utensil in favor of direct scooping with his fingers. He washed everything down with two liters of stale orange soda from the bottom rack of the fridge.
    Energy levels on the rise, Argus moved into the living room. He clicked on the TV and listened to a news blurb about the club shooting while he invaded the bookcase. He scanned the titles with a sneer. Nothing but medical journals and classic literature. Who the hell did this asshole think he was fooling? Argus knew the information he wanted was hidden somewhere in the piles.
    Books and magazines flew, tossed haphazardly over his shoulders as he continued to search. His eyes flicked to the bottom level, and he spotted doors below the shelves. He popped each one open, empty handed until he glimpsed a plain cardboard shoebox concealed in a far corner. He fished out the container and flung off the lid.
    With a grin, Argus retrieved a small piece of paper with the words
Union Station, locker number 77
and a numeric combination scrawled in red ink.
Bingo.
He shoved the slip into his pants pocket, his grin threatening to encompass his entire head.
    Argus licked the last of the strawberry jam from the jar then guzzled a gallon of apple juice. He shrugged into his trench coat, mindless of the stained wifebeater underneath, smeared with the remnants of his blood and breakfast. The empty plastic juice jug rattled into the sink where he tossed it before he barged out the back door.
    An hour later, Argus pushed his way through the crowds of departing passengers at Union Station and headed toward the wall of lockers near baggage claim. He scanned the numbers until he located number seventy-seven. With trembling fingers, he punched in the code. The human’s spirit rampaged in his head and a sharp twitch convulsed his neck. He mentally bitch-slapped his newly insane host and wished for the zillionth time he’d eradicated the cracker-ass mofo prior to possession.
    After a roll of his shoulders and a loud crack from his joints, he finished punching in the numerical code and the locker hissed open. He squinted into the dark cavern and fished out a black briefcase. It fell to his feet