Maccus Fury stared dispassionately at the rogue werewolf he’d just beheaded. The creature lay at his feet in pieces, the snarl still on his face exposing razor-sharp fangs. Compassion was a foreign emotion. Satisfaction for a job well done was all he needed.
That and money in his bank account.
He was one of the Forgotten Brotherhood. They weren’t the monsters lurking under the bed. They were the ones who killed them.
Stone-cold killers, they were men who had nothing left to lose. Men holding on to what little remained of their honor and sanity. Some days they failed.
The Forgotten weren’t exactly a sociable group. Like him, they’d all been betrayed by people close to them. It had left them all with a shitload of trust issues.
But they all lived by a code. Kill only those that truly deserved it and let their gods sort them out. Kill them before they killed you. Never, ever betray a fellow assassin.
Simple and easy, with little room for discussion. Because once one of the Brotherhood accepted a contract, they carried it out. There was no other option. And if someone tried to hire one of them to execute an innocent? Well, that never ended well for the one trying to secure the contract.
And whenever the urge to kill came upon him—and it always did—there was always someone in need of dying.
Chapter One
Maccus’s eyes snapped open. He was completely awake and aware. His bedroom was pitch black, but he didn’t fear the dark. It welcomed him, enshrouded him in anonymity and silence. It was where he was most at home.
It was the light he shunned.
That and company of any kind, especially the unwanted variety, like the archangel standing in his bedroom. A bright light erupted from the corner, getting brighter with each passing second. “You want to turn down the glow. I don’t need a fucking nightlight.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and slowly stood, rolling his neck and shoulders to work out the kinks. “What the hell do you want?”
Once, the brilliance radiating from the archangel would have been blinding. Now, all it did was annoy him. He stared straight at the man who’d been his commander and closest friend and felt…nothing—not anger or sorrow and certainly nothing resembling affection.
His emotions had been burned away after being cast from Heaven and spending five thousand years in the bowels of Hell. He’d eventually escaped, been thrust out by Lucifer himself.
His soul? That was all but gone.
The light gradually dimmed until it dissipated completely. “You’ve changed.” Gabriel’s voice was still the same—deep and melodic. With his gold hair and blue eyes, he fit the conventional image of an angel, complete with pure white wings. What wasn’t stereotypical was the faded jeans and bright blue shirt he wore.
Maccus snorted in derision and strolled into the bathroom, leaving the door wide open while he took a piss. When he was done, he washed his hands and made his way back to the bedroom. It was early, but there would be no getting back to sleep for him now.
Naked, he made his way to the kitchen of his New York City penthouse apartment. Once, he would have feared to have such a powerful angel at his back. Now, he no longer cared. Gabriel could do nothing to him that had not already been done.
Death wasn’t something he feared. They were old friends.
I need coffee. He turned on the pot he’d set the night before. As it brewed, he leaned against the counter and crossed his arms.
The angel was perturbed. Probably because Maccus wasn’t cowering at his feet. But Maccus was one of the fallen. He no longer played by Heaven’s rules but made his own.
“I have a proposition.”
“Not interested.” Anything to do with angels or Heaven or demons and Hell were priorities on his Not-To-Do list. He’d had his fill of both.
“That tattoo on your back says otherwise.”
Maccus’s jaw tightened the slightest bit. In a weak moment, he’d had a pair of wings inked—one on each side of his spine—as a reminder of who he’d