Redemption

by C.J. Barry

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance; Fantasy Romance; Paranormal Romance; Paranormal; Urban Fantasy

Synopsis

Reya Sinclair is the last person a man sees before he dies. As a Redeemer, she offers the soon-to-be-departed one last chance to atone for their sins. It's a painful job, but it's her only shot to secure her own salvation. She won't let anyone stand in her way-not even a ruggedly sexy cop hot on her trail. Bound by her duty, Reya must shake him before he ruins her . . . but her heart can't seem to let him go. Detective Thane Driscoll has watched too many criminals get away. The man who murdered his father was no exception. Now Thane carries out his own brand of justice, even if it means compromising his soul. When a string of deaths leads him to a beautiful woman in black, he discovers there's more to his father's murder than meets the eye. As fate brings them closer together, Thane discovers that only Reya's touch can calm his rage. Racing to uncover an evil plot, they must fight together to stop the coming storm. But when the time comes, can Reya sacrifice her own redemption to save Thane?

Release date: October 1, 2013

Publisher: Forever Yours

Print pages: 336

Sample

Chapter One

Charles R. Merck leaned back in his chair and regarded the woman who called herself Reya standing in the middle of his office. She appeared to be in her late twenties, with long black hair that edged on blue.


His overhead lights glowed off porcelain skin. Her eyes were sharp, quicksilver in color, and almond in shape. A silky fabric covered her from head to toe in a black glove that left nothing to his imagination. The long coat dusted her knees, and opened up just enough to make him itch to see more.

He didn’t usually see clients at this hour of night, but when she’d shown up unexpectedly, he’d taken one look at her long, sleek, sexy body and decided to work late. His wife wouldn’t miss him. She knew better than to question what he did.

Reya lifted her dark gaze to study him in the dim light of evening, and for a fleeting moment, he felt a chill up his spine. But then he remembered who he was. He owned this office. This building, in fact, and every soul in it.

He laced his fingers across his belly. “So what brings you here, Miss Reya…?”

Her red lips formed the words “Just Reya.”

He gave her a smile. Perhaps she was a call girl. Even better. “Reya, it is. What may I do for you?”

She didn’t smile back. “Actually, I’m here to do something for you.”

His smile grew as his mind leapt ahead. She was a hooker, an early birthday present from one of the boys. Harold, perhaps. Or Carl. He’d have to thank them big-time tomorrow.


She slipped the long black coat off and swung it on the back of the chair. Damn, she was a looker. He was already getting hard. He licked his lips. “And what would that be?”

She spread her hands on his desk and leaned forward, giving him a look at a nice pair of breasts beneath the black tank top. “I’m here to tell you your sins.”

His eyes were glued to her breasts, and he nearly missed the words. Then he looked into her eyes. They seemed almost animal-like. Confusion clouded his head, and then he laughed. The boys picked a live one this time.

“Tell me my sins or act out my sins?” he countered.

Her expression didn’t change. There was an endless darkness in those eyes, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck.

“You run a twenty-billion-dollar company,” she said, her voice rough. “You gave yourself a fifty percent raise and a five-million-dollar bonus last year.”

He couldn’t pull himself away from her gaze, and he noticed an annoying ringing in his ears. Despite that, his mind was catching up quickly. “Wait. What? How do you know that?”

“While your employees were told the company was on hard times. Mandatory overtime without pay, no raises, no compensation for their blood.”

The ringing in his ears increased. His hands were suddenly freezing; he could hardly feel his fingers. Anger set in slowly, his mind fighting every step of the way. This was his office. And all the while, he couldn’t escape her eyes.


“The secret meetings where you dreamed up your next way to squeeze them,” she continued, her voice a hypnotic tone. “Stupid idiots. Like puppets in your hands. A penny here, a dollar there, they won’t even notice. And if they did, they won’t dare say anything for fear of losing their tiny houses and food for their rug rats.”

Her words echoed in his mind, memories of words he’d said himself in those meetings. Who told her? Who betrayed him? No one fucked with him. He didn’t get to be a powerful man by being nice.

“Who told you?” he managed to rasp.

She smiled then, and the chill that had claimed his hands spread up his arms and to his chest. He was shaking from the cold.

“You did,” she said. “And now you have one chance to make it right.”

His entire body was trembling uncontrollably now. “If you think you can blackmail me, forget it. I’ll destroy you.”

She stepped back from the desk and stared at him. His world, the world he’d created for twenty-two years, seemed to fade away. All he could see was her black shape, which had swallowed his office.

“Are you sorry for your sins, Charles Raymond Merck?”

He sputtered through lips that felt like ice. “Sorry? For what? You come in here and tell me I’m wrong? I’m wrong? I built this company from nothing. Those peons would have nothing without me.”


Righteous anger warmed his chest, bringing him back to his senses, strengthening him as he latched on to what he’d built. He pointed a finger at her. “You tell whoever you work for to go to hell. Now get the fuck out of my office.”

She didn’t move, only narrowed her gaze. It felt like a sliver of ice to his soul. “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ Goodbye, Charles.”

While he watched, she turned, grabbed her coat, and walked across the marble floor to the door. He reached for his phone, icy fingers fumbling to punch the numbers.

They answered on the first ring. “Security.”

Charles clutched his fingers, trying to get blood flow back into them. His office was freezing. “There’s a woman dressed in black leaving my office. Detain her. Use force if you have to.”

“Yes, sir.”

Charles slammed the phone down and punched in another phone number. Normally he wouldn’t risk calling one of his goons from his office, but screw it. He could cover it up. His best man, Harris, answered, “Yes?” It sounded like he was in a bar. Too bad.

“I have a woman I need you to interrogate tonight,” he said.

“I have a previous engagement,” Harris answered.

Charles clenched the phone and felt life in his fingers. “I don’t give a damn. I fucking pay you well enough. Get your ass down here now.”

There was a tense pause. “Of course.” Then the line went dead.

Charles tossed the phone in its cradle and leaned back in his chair. He felt terrible, his body vacillating between chill and outrage. That bitch. Who the hell did she think she was, telling him his sins? He’d make damn sure he found where she’d gotten her information from, and then he’d make sure she never shared it with anyone again.


“Fuck her,” he muttered and pushed off his chair. He walked around his desk. He stumbled unsteadily to the liquor cabinet. He opened the doors and grabbed a bottle of very good scotch. He sloshed scotch into a glass and raised it to his numb lips. The liquor burned down his throat in a single swallow. The heat raced like a flame down his core.

He filled the glass again, happy to see his hands were steadier now. His mind felt clearer and sharp. By the end of this night, that bitch would be silenced along with any dirty little secrets she had on him.

He grinned. He was back.

Charles took his glass over to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that surrounded his penthouse office. Below, Manhattan stretched out in straight, perpendicular lines. From this vantage, it was a thing of beauty. Made by men like him. This was his city, and he knew his place in its hierarchy. He was a powerful man. Others looked up to him and treated him as such.

No smart-ass woman was going to change that.

As he sipped his drink, the arrow-straight streets began to waver. He frowned and blinked rapidly as they merged and parted. He looked down at his drink. It was the first one today. Was it an earthquake?

He looked out again, feeling suddenly dizzy as the city lights spun wildly. Whole blocks of skyscraper windows blinked on and off. Rows of streetlights twisted and warped.

This is wrong, he thought, taking a step back. Something was happening. He swung around, paranoid, feeling as though he were being watched.


Suddenly, his office lights flickered, and then went black. The usual thrum of the air-conditioning ground to a halt, leaving an eerie silence and the ever increasing ringing in his ears.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he swore he could see shadows circling his office. They mocked him with their swagger. He knew he was in trouble, but his mind seemed to shut down completely, unable to form a course of action.

His phone. He needed his phone. He leaned in the direction of his desk, but his feet wouldn’t move.

“Move,” he heard himself say, surprised at the high pitch of his voice. “Move!”

Nothing. Panic seized him again, more powerfully this time. He tried to wrench his body around, and the glass slipped from his fingers. He heard the heavy crystal shatter on the marble.

Finally freeing himself, he reeled back a few more paces and hit the wall. The office rocked up and down like a boat, and he swayed heavily. Fog filled his mind, and his body seemed detached and weak. His gaze dropped to the broken glass on the floor, a few feet away.

For long moments, he stared at the tumbler. It didn’t look right. His brain scrambled to find the wrong. The base was fine, but the sides were like knives, pointing straight up.

Charles laid his head back against the cold wall and looked up. Reya’s smile flashed in his eyes. And then the floor shifted again, sending him stumbling—one terrible step at a time—closer to the glass. He tried to call out, but the words wouldn’t form.

He fell forward like he was toppling off a tall building, felt the glass enter deep into his chest. The pain was quick and cold radiated from the floor. He couldn’t move, couldn’t yell for help. Flashes of his life passed by in seconds. The truth of what he’d been sunk in swiftly and terribly, and the fear of all the wrongs he’d done crushed him into the glass. Warm blood soaked his shirt and his face, and then there was no more cold.

*  *  *

“This board has completed its case review and investigation into the allegation of misconduct in the accidental shooting death of Joseph E. Viare,” Margery said in a smoker’s voice.

She peered up from the sheet in front of her and looked directly into Thane’s eyes over the table between them. Glasses perched on the tip of her nose made her look more like a librarian than a hard-nosed supervisor sitting at a long table of lawyers, various chain of command, and the police district’s community relations representatives.

She could try to intimidate him, but this wasn’t his first time in front of Internal Affairs, and chances were very good that it wouldn’t be his last. This was little more than a staring contest.

“Detective Thane Driscoll,” she continued, not breaking her gaze. “Our finding in this case is ‘not sustained.’”

Thane kept his poker face. A verdict of not sustained was better than he’d hoped for. He must be getting good at this.

“A written reprimand has been added to your file and supervisory counseling has been recommended,” she continued, looking back at the paper.

Only then did Thane breathe. Not bad for the accidental slash self-defense death of a child molester and killer. Or suspect, as they liked to refer to the bastard. Thane knew better. All the cops on that case knew better. Viare got exactly what he deserved. Thane had just gotten off with a slap on the wrist. He could live with that.

Then Margery laid the paper on the table and took off her glasses. She leaned back in her chair and said, “However, this is the second such incident you have been involved with in the past five years.”

Shit. He should have known he wouldn’t get off that easy.

“And although you were exonerated in the last investigation, we wouldn’t want to see you again.” She gave him a smile that could freeze Hell.

“Therefore, this board is recommending probation for a period of one year. If there are any further violations during that time, you will be placed on active suspension.”

He knew he could fight the probation, but if this was the worst they were prepared to do, he’d take it. The room was silent for a full minute as the wall of faces stared at him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“This hearing is concluded,” Margery said with a nod.

The board members stood up and proceeded to walk out. He gathered his files, tucked them under his arm, and escaped Margery’s watchful stare.

He accepted congratulations from the members of the Internal Affairs board on his way back to his desk. Martin met him halfway.

“How did it go with the old battle ax?” his partner asked as he walked next to Thane.

Thane smiled at the hot new receptionist no one had been able to land yet. “Probation.”

“Shit,” Martin said and waved at the receptionist. He was a married man. “For how long?”

“A year,” Thane answered as they entered the open squad room, crisply divided into chest-high cubicles that did little to defuse the noise of the twenty-two people working here. Phones were ringing, and ten conversations were going on at once. It created a din of productivity, but it didn’t fool him. There was little real justice here, or in any other precinct in this city, what with all the protections the bad guys had. Most of his coworkers were just going through the motions.

Thane reached their joint cubicle, where two horseshoe desktops faced each other and connected in the center. The tall cubicle walls cut the two of them off from the other units. The Paranormal Investigation Unit sign hanging on the outside made sure no one bothered them. He shoved the paperwork into his file cabinet as far in the back as he could. A year was a long time to be a good boy. He wasn’t sure if he was up to it.

Martin sat in his chair. He spoke quietly over the top of the piles of files and paperwork that covered their shared desktop. “You’re lucky. You know that, right?”

Thane sat down to face him and sorted through his mail. “So you’ve mentioned before.”

“I swear to God, I see you even look at your gun, I’ll shoot you myself,” Martin added for good measure.

Thane grinned. He wouldn’t.

Martin reached out and tapped a stack of papers. “Look, this is serious. No more…” He glanced around and lowered his voice more. “Accidents.”

Thane glanced up at Martin then. The death of the suspect hadn’t been accidental, and Martin knew it even though he hadn’t seen it happen. Fooling Internal Affairs was one thing, but Thane couldn’t fool Martin. They’d worked together for three years, thrown into this fledgling department from the beginning. No one wanted this job. It was more than a bonding experience; it was a damn tragedy.

“I’ll be more careful,” he said with a smile. For a year.


Martin pressed his lips together. “I hope so. It’s hell breaking in a new partner. Besides, I’d like to get out of this unit someday.”

Thane couldn’t agree more, but then again, it did bring him a whole new, mostly insane, definitely dangerous, set of criminals. They’d investigated murderers who took orders from God, occult leaders performing human sacrifices, homeless people who suddenly thought they were superheroes, you name it. If the crime involved a crazy person, he and Martin were called in. In a city like this, they had more business than they knew what to do with.

That didn’t mean they got any respect though. He’d heard all the jokes. But really, he didn’t care. There was more freedom and leeway in this unit than anywhere else on the force. That suited him just fine.

“The good news is, I’m back on the job,” Thane said. “What’s going on?”

“We had another suspicious death last night,” Martin said with a frown.

Thane stopped shuffling mail he had no intention of reading. “Where?”

“Penthouse office building in midtown,” Martin said, picking up the file. He opened the contents and read it. “Victim was Charles Merck. Fifty-eight years old. Your basic rich CEO. Died when he fell on a broken glass tumbler. Went right through his chest, right between the ribs, which is no small miracle. He bled out on the floor.”

“Nothing suspicious though,” Thane said with a shrug. “Why do we care?”

Martin raised an eyebrow and smiled for the first time today. “Our girl was there.”

*  *  *

Reya propped her booted feet up on the coffee table in her apartment. It was morning, she was dressed, and time was a-wastin’. “Who’s next?”

Orson sat in a chair across from her with a pad of paper and a fountain pen writing away. The shock of white hair on his head stuck out in every direction. If he slept, she’d think he just got out of bed.

He didn’t look up. “I don’t know yet.”

Reya tapped her fingernails on the end table, bored. She hated being between jobs, and it had been more than twelve hours since Merck. A smile touched her lips. That one had been sweet. Granted, they all were, but every once in a while, she’d get a real gem. By now, he was on the other side trying to bargain his way out of the hole he’d dug for himself in this life.

Oh well. Sucked to be him.

She shoved off the couch and walked the perimeter of the tiny apartment she called home in this physical dimension. A living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom—and that was it. Not that it mattered, she was rarely here except to eat, sleep, and pick up her next assignment from Orson. Plus it was free. Couldn’t beat free, especially in New York City.

She turned to Orson. “How about now?”

He glanced up from his writing and peered at her through thick, myopic glasses with infinite patience. No matter what she said or did, he never changed. It bugged her to no end.

“Soon, Reya.”

She blew out a long breath. The red tape in the spirit world could rival that in any DMV. “There is a whole city of murderers, drug dealers, and abusers out there. How long can it take?”

Orson pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Our prospects—”

“Prospects?” she said, bursting out laughing. “Is that what we are calling them now?”

“Our prospects,” he repeated evenly, “need to be approached at a specific time in their lives—”


“They’re assholes, Orson,” she said. “They will always be assholes. That’s the job.”

“In order to be receptive to your offer of redemption,” Orson finished.

“Which they never take,” she reminded him. “Have you noticed that?”

“We must still give them the chance,” he pressed.

She stopped in front of him. “Why? Will one moment of regret undo all the damage they’ve done throughout their lives? Bring back the people they’ve killed? Give justice to the ones they’ve wronged?”

“No,” Orson said. “But it will set them on the right path.”

“It still doesn’t even the scales,” she said, disgust rising in her voice.

“You know it doesn’t work that way,” Orson replied. “Everyone who comes here chooses the life they get.”

He kept saying that but she just wasn’t buying it. “Who would choose to be raped or molested or tortured?”


Orson set the pad on his lap and gave her his full attention. “They chose that life. To grow. To understand and—”

“To experience pain and pleasure in equal parts over many lifetimes,” she cut in with a wave of her hand. “I know the drill. I just don’t buy it.”

Orson frowned slightly, and she knew he was disappointed in her lack of progress on that front. The Universe might have its rules but it didn’t mean she had to like them.

“I’m sure someday you will understand,” Orson replied and picked up his pad. “Besides, everyone deserves a second chance, don’t you think?”

She felt that one to her soul. Orson knew her past. He knew why she was here, hunting down the worst of the worst. Why he had even agreed to work with a woman who wavered on the line between darkness and light was beyond her.

He blinked at her through his glasses and said softly, “I’m sorry. I know you are doing your best.”

Reya silently accepted his apology. He was right. Everyone deserved a second chance, even the biggest, baddest assholes. They also deserved to die in some horrible way that included castration and quartering. Then she’d feel a whole lot better.

Orson was writing again, and she knew she couldn’t push him for the next job. He wouldn’t hurry for her sake. He’d been doing this a lot longer than she had—eons probably—and followed orders faithfully. She wasn’t going to change that, regardless of how much she needed this redemption.

As much as it sucked to be between worlds, there was no going back into the darkness. She only hoped she’d be able to stand living in the light.

She went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It contained a fresh quart of milk and a chocolate layer cake covered with whole strawberries. Guilt accompanied the realization that Orson had gone shopping for her. He might be a pain in the ass, but he was the best friend she had and an excellent envoy.

She took out the cake and cut a big slice, poured a tall glass of milk, and took both out for Orson. He’d most likely refuse it, but it was the gesture that counted. When she got to the living room, he was writing furiously—communicating with God-knew-who God-knew-how.

Her pulse sped up as she set down the plate and glass. “Got one?”

He didn’t stop writing until he was finished. Then he ripped off the sheet and handed it to her. Reya wiped her hands on her jeans and took the sheet from him. It contained a location, a time, and a name.

She held the paper with both hands and zeroed in on the name.

Alexander Wolken.


Discomfort crawled across her body and mind as she closed her eyes and repeated his name. The process of discovery was always the same; acute and violent, but necessary to do the job. The pain increased as visions floated in, slowly at first and then rising to a frightful crescendo of voices, shouts, anger, and animalistic violence.

Willfully, she slipped into his world, into his past, and heard him yell, felt him hit tender skin, break delicate bones. Women’s cries and pleas for mercy only made him stronger. He raped viciously and repeatedly, leaving his victims battered and torn from the inside out. Never to be the same.

When she’d seen enough, Reya extracted herself from the past, back through the pain and this reality. A part of her core felt splintered, the residual ache excruciating and protracted like any good torture.

She grimaced and rubbed the center of her chest where it felt like a cannonball had shot clear through. Disgust claimed the hole as it healed, the pain vanishing. The memories, however, lingered. Why, she didn’t know. Perhaps punishment, although Orson would deny that. He’d say that it was her free will to accept this job, blah-blah. Whatever the reason, the process never changed. She’d signed up for this, knowing it would be like this. She was beginning to wonder if she was any good at decision-making.

When she could breathe again, she opened her eyes to find Orson studying her.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his face etched with concern.

She fought the wave of nausea and dizziness that always accompanied a quick retreat, but it was worth it to get out of the bastard’s head. “Just ducky.”

Orson nodded slowly. “You must be at the precise location at the precise time noted.”

Reya eyed him in warning. She’d heard this speech a hundred times. “I know.”

“All the logistics will be taken care of,” he added.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” she muttered, feeling her stomach turn. This “prospect” was the reason capital punishment was invented. He oozed evil to his soul.

Orson continued speaking as if he were totally oblivious to her distress. “You cannot interfere with the prospect’s free will in any way.”

She tuned out and concentrated on not puking on her rug. She had memorized the rules long ago. The rug was new.

“You cannot judge. You cannot kill them or save them. You cannot divulge any information about yourself, your mission, or the future. Do you agree to these parameters?” Orson asked.

The nausea made her answer with more than a little attitude. “I do. I always do. Why do we have to go through this every single time? Do you think I don’t remember?”

“I know you remember,” Orson said with a smile. “But as always, there is free will.”

Right. “Not for me, Orson.”

He kept his gaze on her for a few long seconds, and she knew what he was thinking. She didn’t need his pity or concern. She’d. . .