Free Viper Moon by Lee Roland

yesterday. One walked to the driver’s side and another approached me. My hand slid under my jacket for my gun.
    “Good evening, Mr. Michael,” said the man at the driver’s door.
    What? Mr. Michael?
    Michael nodded his head like an emperor receiving a servant. The one on my side courteously opened my door. When I climbed out, I found Michael had come around to stand close to me. He put his mouth to my ear and spoke softly. “Leave your gun in the car.” His lips trailed along my cheek and, may the Mother forgive me, I leaned into the solid mass of his chest.
    “Michael, I—”
    “You chose to come here with me, Huntress. Now you have to trust me to protect you.”
    My voice shook when I said, “I should trust a man who says he belongs to the Barrows?”
    Michael shrugged. “We can leave.”
    Right. My choice. Could there be anything more fearful in the Goblin Den than I had faced before? I crouched by the open car door, drew the pistol, and stuck it under the passenger seat. When I stood and closed the door, I noticed the windows were still open.
    “You’re not going to lock it?”
    “No one will touch it.” Michael’s hand closed on my arm with a firm, steady grip, and he led me to the Goblin Den’s front door.
    This appeared to be a night for revelations. “You’ll excuse me while I reassess my opinion of you.”
    He released my arm and slid his hand around my waist. “That’s my intention. Perhaps I should have brought you here sooner.”
    “I still have my knives, Michael, and human or not, I’ll bet bronze will cut your ass.”
    Michael laughed.
    I’d tried to sound mean, but it felt good being so near him in such a dangerous place. Just good. Not safe. More like hugging a tiger. A delicious tension radiated from his perfect body, but beneath that, I could sense power and energy that went beyond what the eyes could see. How could I not desire him? How could I not also fear him?
    I’d been to the Goblin Den only once before. I snuck in the back door in broad daylight to steal a thin, pitiful four-year-old from his drug-addicted and fortunately unconscious mother.
    Big barrel lights hung from the ceiling and illuminated an eardrum-busting heavy metal band as they shouted with youthful vigor from the stage. People of indefinable gender gyrated on the crowded floor while the band did a good imitation of Metallica. Sweaty bodies, bad beer, and other less classifiable odors oozed through the cloud of cigarette smoke laced with the more exotic aroma of marijuana.
    I’d often wondered what called people to such a place. It didn’t speak to me, but the expressions of ecstasy on the dancers’ faces made me wonder if I should try it.
    Michael led me around the room’s edge. The stairs we climbed to the upper reaches of the building vibrated under our feet and smoke thickened and swirled around us. I drew shallow breaths, hoping I could draw in enough oxygen to stay conscious while sucking in a minimum of carcinogens. At the top, Michael opened a door and we entered a room with large windows that, like the office at the Archangel, overlooked the floor below. The noise level dropped to a heavy bass grumble. The room was cleaner and brighter than downstairs, and smelled infinitely better.
    Not that it mattered, of course. Because when I saw who waited for me, I knew I was in deep shit. If Carlos Dacardi was a bad guy, then Pericles Theron was evil incarnate. And I didn’t have my gun.

chapter 7
    Theron’s fierce dark eyes locked on me and I gave thanks to the Mother—and Michael—that I hadn’t come here alone. Theron and I knew each other by sight and reputation. He sat on the corner of a fine oak desk, glaring at me like a predator that had captured something to kill.
    “You got balls, Michael, bringing that bitch here.” Theron’s body was ferret slim, but his voice sounded deep and heavy with hatred. His two bodyguards, muscular bruisers worthy of Dacardi, stood behind him. Both had guns in