Page 8 of Soulmarked

The wolf, human now, just a broken body on a warehouse floor, coughed wetly. Its lips curled in something too pained to be a smile, too knowing to be a grimace. Blood stained its teeth black as it forced out two final words:

“He's coming.”

I leaned closer, despite every instinct screaming at me to run. “Who's coming?”

A pause. The dying man's eyes focused on something far beyond the warehouse walls, beyond this world entirely.

“The prince...” he whispered, the words barely more than an exhale. “He rises.”

Then the light went out of those eyes, leaving nothing but an empty shell with my knife still buried in its chest.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered, running a hand through my sweat-soaked hair. “Just once, couldn't it be something simple? Vengeful spirit, maybe? Hell, I'd even take a vampire nest over this crap.”

A marked werewolf was bad enough. The demons usually kept to their own kind, preferring to corrupt humans rather than mess about with the furry crowd. But this... this was different. A demon prince? That was the kind of thing that made even veteran hunters check their retirement plans.

I pulled out my phone, grimacing at the cracked screen. Three missed calls from Lex. He never called more than once unless something was seriously wrong.

The second wolf was still out there somewhere, probably running back to whatever hole these things had crawled out of. I should track it, finish the job properly. But this mark changed everything. We needed information more than we needed another dead wolf.

I took a few photos of the sigil, then started dialing. First Skye, she'd want to see this personally, and her knowledge of demonic lore was unmatched. Then Lex, because if a demon prince was really rising, we'd need every resource and contact in his considerable network.

As I waited for the call to connect, I found myself staring at the body again. The sigil seemed to pulse in the moonlight, like a heart still beating long after death.

“What the hell are you planning?” I murmured to the empty air. “And why show your hand now?”

The warehouse offered no answers, just the steady drip of blood on concrete and the distant wail of sirens. Another night in New York City, where the monsters wore human skin and ancient evils stirred in the shadows.

Just another bloody Tuesday, really.

2

FIRST SIGHT

Ipushed through the heavy steel door of The Haven, letting the familiar atmosphere wash over me. The underground bar hummed with the low murmur of hunters' conversation, punctuated by the clink of glasses and occasional bursts of laughter from the darker corner booths. The air was thick with the smell of aged whiskey, gun oil, and secrets.

A hunter's natural habitat.

The Haven wasn't much to look at, but that was the point. Hidden beneath an abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn's industrial district, it was the kind of place that didn't exist unless you knew where to find it. The walls were bare concrete, marked with protective sigils cleverly disguised as graffiti. Ancient weaponry hung between bottles of top-shelf liquor, each piece telling its own bloody story. The bar itself was solid oak, scarred and stained from decades of use, but still standing strong. Just like the hunters who drank there.

Alejo “Lex” de la Cruz sat perched on his usual barstool like he owned the place, which he did, among other things. The Dominican-American information broker cut an imposing figure in his perfectly tailored suit, dark skin a stark contrast againstthe crisp white fabric. His signature rings caught the light as he raised a glass in greeting, that infuriatingly knowing smirk playing across his face.

“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes sparkling with amusement. “If it isn't my favorite Irish murder machine. Looking a bit rough around the edges tonight, querido. That werewolf pack in Queens really did a number on you, didn't they? I told you to bring backup for the alpha.”

Instead of responding to his teasing, I dropped my prize onto the bar with a dull thud, the severed hand of the werewolf I'd just killed. Its fingers were curled stiff in death, bloody fur matted against gray skin.

I tossed down a second item beside it, a chunk of flesh I'd carved from the creature's chest. The demon mark burned into the skin still pulsed faintly, black sigils twisting in the dim light like living things.

Lex's smirk vanished. “Well, fuck me sideways.”

I watched his usual bravado fade as he studied the mark, one ringed finger tapping an anxious rhythm against the aged wood. The change in his demeanor was telling. I'd known Lex for years, and very little rattled him. He'd built his empire on being unshakeable, the man who knew everything worth knowing in New York's supernatural underground.

“That shouldn't be possible,” Lex muttered.

“Educate me then,” I said, methodically cleaning dried blood from my silver blade. “Why not?”

Lex exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. “Werewolves and demons don't mix. They can't. A werewolf's spirit is too... wild, too primal. It doesn't allow possession or outside influence.” He gestured with his glass for emphasis. “It's like trying to brand iron already marked by another forge.”

“Then explain this.” I tapped the mark with my knife's point.

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