Amplified

Part One

This story first appeared in the 7 Sins: a Two of Crones Invitational Anthology.

Each contributor selected one of the Seven Deadly Sins to write about. It should surprise exactly no on that I chose Lust. You can find the anthology here.

This is a long one, so I’ve broken it into 3 parts.

Warning: This one has more gore than I usually write, and there’s spice, obviously. 😘

---

Vesper

Four bodies in three weeks, and they all died smiling.

I crouched in the grimy alley behind Veritas, one of Chicago’s premier supernatural clubs, and studied victim number four. Male werewolf, mid-twenties, lying on his back like he chose the rain-soaked concrete for a post-coital nap. His arms were relaxed by his sides, his face turned up to the sky.

The scene reeked of cheap whiskey, sex, and death.

That damn smile fucked with me. He looked like he’d discovered the kind of peace people spent their whole lives chasing and never found. Like he died happy.

Except for the part where something tore his throat open and cracked his ribs outward, like a grotesque flower reaching for the light.

“Fuck,” I muttered, pulling out my phone to document the scene.

Chicago PD had kicked this to the supernatural division after body number two, but they were tied up with territory disputes in Pilsen and ‘postponed’ the investigation until further notice. So one of the families hired me.

Vesper Kane, Private Investigator, at your service. I specialized in the weird, the deadly, and the unsolved.

Business was good. Too good lately.

I was framing a shot of the vic’s ruined chest when the air changed. Magic. Not hostile, but powerful. Bright in a way that made my witch blood sing.

“Closed crime scene,” I called out without looking up.

“One of the victim’s parents asked me to investigate.”

The voice came from behind me. Deep, smooth, and with an edge that raised the hair on my arms.

I spun around, hand going to my iron dagger.

And forgot how to breathe.

He stood with his hands raised and empty. Six feet of muscle wrapped in tactical black that screamed military or mercenary. Dark hair that reflected blue in the light. Eyes too bright to be human, glowing gold-green.

Beautiful. Unnerving.

Nephilim.

I didn’t know whether to run or close the distance.

He tilted his head. “Vesper Kane?”

“Who’s asking?” I didn’t move my hand from my blade.

“Elijah Cross.”

The rest of his words devolved into static as something slammed into me with the force of a defensive tackle. Heat simmered low in my belly, then exploded outward. My every nerve ending woke up and demanded I move closer. The October air caressed my suddenly too-tight skin. The distant thrum of bass vibrated in my bones.

And him. I felt him as if he were pressed against me instead of ten feet away. The warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart. The way his jaw clenched as he fought the same pull as me.

Desire crashed over me. So sharp and visceral, so intense, my knees buckled.

I caught myself on the dumpster behind me, metal biting into my palms. My heart hammered so hard I thought it might burst through my chest in the same way something had cracked through the werewolf’s ribs.

What in the actual fuck?

“—investigate their daughter’s murder.”

The strained tone of his voice brought me back into reality.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Fine,” I snapped. Forcing myself steady, I stood taller and looked at him.

Big mistake.

He was too damn gorgeous. Square jaw. Cheekbones that could cut glass. And those damn eyes. I moved forward unbidden.

I bit the inside of my cheek to snap myself out of it. The taste of copper filled my mouth, and the pain cleared my head a little.

“Four bodies in three weeks.” He stepped forward.

Something in me urged me to meet him step for step.

“Same MO,” he continued. “Escalating timeline.”

The air between us thrummed. Electric. Magnetic.

“Stop,” I barked. The word came out sharper than intended. Great. No doubt he thought I was some hysterical freak.

He froze. “What?”

I held up a hand. “Stay where you are.”

His eyes narrowed. “You felt it too.”

I lifted my chin. “No idea what you mean.”

I turned back to the body, hoping he didn’t sense the lie, and attempted to focus on the dead wolf before me. Or the filthy alley, the building, anything but the six feet of sex on a stick standing somehow both too close and too far away.

“This was Michael Rostov. Twenty-seven, werewolf. No defensive wounds. No sign of struggle.” I breathed through my nose and went over the injuries.

“Vesper.”

I ignored Elijah and kept talking. “Same as the other vics. All found near clubs or bars with the same blissed-out expression.”

“Look at me.”

My every instinct screamed not to face him, not to meet those beautiful eyes.

I turned around anyway.

From ten feet away, the tension in his shoulders and the tight set of his square jaw were clear as day. Like he was using all of his self-control to stay put. Just like me.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“No idea.” What had I felt? When did I feel it? My skin prickled. “When did you arrive on the scene?”

“Maybe five minutes before you did. I was on the roof when I sensed you.”

Five minutes. I’d been fine until he made his presence known. Until our eyes met. A cold knot of dread settled in my stomach, slicing through the heat.

He peered at me. “What are you thinking?”

“Whatever killed them is building toward something.” I tried hard to focus on the familiar rhythm of the case, or anything but my too-tight skin. “The way they died smiling. The smell of sex at every scene. Dark magic? Blood magic?”

“Who knows?” he growled. “But we were exposed to it.”

We stared at each other over the corpse.

An ache throbbed low in my belly, demanding and wrong in a way that made my hair stand on end.

“We need to keep our distance,” I blurted.

“Agreed.”

Neither of us moved.

I gestured between us, still not moving. “If we... if this is... if this thing...” I grimaced, unable to get the words out.

“Got it.” He took a step back. Then another.

The space he created should have helped, but it didn’t. If anything, it hurt worse.

“We’ll work separately. We can share information, but that’s it,” I said.

“Parallel investigations. Sounds good. I’ll canvass the area. Talk to witnesses.”

“I’ll continue processing the scene.”

“Okay.” He turned to leave.

I made the mistake of watching him go. He looked as good from the back as from the front.

He took three steps before turning and catching me staring at his ass. My cheeks burned.

“Vesper?”

“Yeah?” I forced myself to meet his eyes.

“Whatever this is.” He swallowed hard. “We need to be careful. I’ve been hunting supernatural threats for centuries and never felt anything like this.”

I turned back to the body, needing to focus on something other than him. “How long have you been investigating these murders?”

“A few days. The Nichols family hired me after their daughter became victim number three and the cops refused to investigate.” His voice was steady and professional. “You?”

“The first victim’s family brought me in weeks ago.” I pulled out my phone to continue photographing the scene, grateful for something to do. “I’m guessing your client wants the same things mine does.”

“Answers. Justice.” He grimaced. “Find the killer before there are more deaths.”

“That’s the job,” I muttered, snapping pictures. “So here’s what I’m thinking. We work apart, but share info. That way we cover more ground and avoid…” I gestured between us.

He didn’t respond right away, and I could see him weighing options. At last, he nodded. “Fine.” He turned to go, then stopped. “We can exchange information tomorrow. Compare notes.”

“Okay, but somewhere public.” No way I wanted to be alone with this guy. Too tempting.

His mouth quirked in what might have been a smile under different circumstances. “Millennium Park, by The Bean. eleven a.m.”

“Alright.”

He walked away. After he turned the corner, I knelt by the corpse, shaking.

The werewolf beside me had died blissed out from lust. He’d been so consumed with it, he didn’t fight.

Elijah and I had a week, maybe ten days, to solve this. Otherwise, we’d be dead too.

Dead and smiling.

---

Vesper

I made it halfway home before my contact at CPD texted about another body.

Victim number five was Carol Moss. I knew her. She was a warding specialist who’d consulted on a case the previous year. Competent. Careful. Now she was lying in an alley off Michigan Avenue with her throat destroyed, ribs cracked open, wearing a familiar expression of bliss.

There was something else. Something new. She’d been drained. A witch this powerful should have left residual magic everywhere. Instead, there was nothing but sex and death and a hollow emptiness that made my teeth ache.

“You knew her?” Elijah’s voice came from behind me.

Some part of me had sensed his approach. We were like two magnets pulled together.

I used the corpse as a barrier between us. “Professionally.”

He moved closer. With each step, the temperature spiked.

“Stop.”

“I’m fifteen feet away,” he argued.

“Too close.” My voice sounded like I’d swallowed sandpaper.

He stepped back, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles jump.

“Look.” I knelt and pulled back Carol’s collar. Symbols covered her skin, still glowing even in death. “Protection runes. She warded herself.” I leaned closer and frowned. “Wait. The pattern’s reversed. She was trying to contain something, not protect against it.”

“Contain what?”

“Whatever broke free and killed her.” I pointed to a broken symbol. “This is how it got out.”

Elijah crouched on the other side of the body. Even separated by a corpse, heat radiated between us like a live wire.

Our eyes met.

The world tilted. His emotions slammed into me. Anger, curiosity, and a desperate hunger that mirrored my own.

I jerked back. “What the fuck?”

“I felt it too.” His voice was strained.

“Not possible.”

“Yet here we are.”

I stood, putting more distance between us. My hands shook as I photographed Carol’s wards. “I need to research these. Figure out what she was trying to bind.”

“I know someone who specializes in curses.”

My heart stuttered. “Curses?”

He looked at me as if I were a naive little girl. “What else would this be?”

Fair point.

“Fine, see you tomorrow,” I said.

“I’ll be there.” Three steps away, he stopped, turned back, and busted me staring. Again.

My face heated.

“We need to be careful.”

“I know.”

Neither of us moved.

“Noon,” I finally said. “Don’t be late.”

“Never am.” He disappeared around the corner.

I waited until his footsteps faded before I let out the breath I’d been holding.

---

Vesper

I spent hours trying to research while my hands trembled with increasing withdrawal symptoms. Sweating, inability to focus, wondering if Elijah slept in the nude. Six hours of telling myself I’d make it until our meeting.

My phone rang.

“Kane,” I snapped.

“It’s me.” Elijah sounded wrecked. “I can’t—I need to see you.”

Every rational thought screamed at me to end the call. To tell him to meet me at noon like we planned. To maintain control.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“In front of your building.”

“Hang on.”

I should have been angry he’d just shown up. Should have been scared that some strange mercenary had found where I lived. Instead, relief flowed through me as I bolted for the door. I took the stairs two at a time because I couldn’t be bothered to wait for the elevator.

Outside, he stood on the sidewalk looking battle-tested. Hair a mess, shadows bruising the skin under his eyes, clothes rumpled. He hadn’t slept. Neither had I.

“This is a bad idea,” he said, but he was already moving toward me.

“Yeah.” I didn’t step back.

The city moved around us. The traffic built, someone’s radio blared from an open window, the smell of coffee from the shop around the corner.

“I can’t think,” he said roughly. “Can’t focus. Every second away from you feels wrong. Like I’m being flayed from the inside out.”

“It’s the same for me.” The admission cost me. My walls started crumbling.

He brushed my cheek with his fingertips. Electricity arced between us. Our magic surged, tangling together. My shadows reached for his light. His light drank in my shadows.

Our emotions slammed together. His desperation, sharp as broken glass. My fear, cold and vast. And underneath it all, a recognition so profound it stole my breath.

There you are.

The thought echoed between us, and I didn’t know who it belonged to.

“Inside,” I panted. “Now.”

I had no idea how we made it up the stairs, and we barely made it through my apartment door.

He pushed me against the wall, his mouth finding mine. I kissed him like my life depended on it, my fingers digging into his shoulders. There was nothing gentle about it. We were all desperation and need and confident we were going to die if we didn’t get closer.

“Tell me to stop,” he growled against my throat.

“Don’t you dare.”

He slid his hands under my shirt, sliding them over my stomach. Each touch sent lightning up my spine. We stumbled toward the bedroom, shedding clothes as we went.

My shirt. His jacket. My bra.

We fell onto my bed in a tangle of limbs.

“Elijah.” His name on my lips, both a prayer and a curse.

He lifted his head, eyes blazing. “I feel it too.”

Our emotions merged. I felt his hunger, his awe, his bone-deep certainty that this was right even if it killed us. And he felt my fear, my desperate need, the way I was terrified of wanting him.

He kissed his way down my throat, collarbone, the curve of my breast. His mouth closed over my nipple, and I arched off the bed.

He moved his hand to the button on my jeans. I grabbed it. “Wait.”

He pulled back and met my eyes. “Too much?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” I was breathing hard and trembling. “What if we die?”

He smiled, something both predatory and promising, and kissed his way down my stomach. He popped the button and slid my pants and underwear off.

The cool air hit my exposed center, and I shivered.

“Cold?” he asked.

“Not in the slightest.”

He settled between my thighs and looked up at me. The intensity in his gaze made me squirm as he pressed his hands against my thighs, spreading me wide.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “My God made the female form to be worshipped, not used.”

Then his mouth was on me. My brain short-circuited.

Oh. Oh fuck.

He took his time, learning what made me gasp, what made my hips buck. When he sucked my clit between his teeth, I saw stars.

“Elijah.”

“I’ve got you.” His words vibrated against my most sensitive skin.

Our emotions tangled through the connection. I felt his satisfaction, his hunger, the way doing this to me turned him on. And he felt mine. Felt every spike of sensation, every wave of building pleasure.

He slid two fingers inside me while his tongue worked magic, and I shattered.

The orgasm tore through me, through us. My pleasure crashed into him, amplified, and slammed back into me. Wave after wave until I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel.

He didn’t stop until I was boneless and gasping.

When he lifted his head, his eyes were wild. “Still alive,” he said with a devilish grin.

“Yeah.” I was trembling so much, the one word was all I could manage.

He crawled up my body and kissed me. I tasted myself on his tongue.

I glanced down at the bulge in his jeans. “My turn.”

“I’ll survive.” His voice was strained. “This was about you. About proving we can do this without dying.”

“But—”

He stopped me with a kiss. “Later,” he said against my lips. “When we’re not racing a death curse, you can return the favor. Deal?”

“Okay.”

He pulled me against his side, and we lay there as our breathing steadied.

Reality crashed around me. “That was dumb of us,” I said.

“Downright stupid.”

“We should keep our distance.”

“Absolutely.”

Neither of us moved.

“We’re terrible at this,” I muttered.

“The worst.” He pressed a kiss onto my temple. “At least we’re alive.”

“For now.”

He sat up. “I should go. Do some research.”

“Good idea.” I pulled the sheet around myself and got up.

“Still meeting by The Bean at eleven?”

“Make it noon. I need time to do some research of my own.”

“Noon it is.” He leaned down and kissed me. Soft. Lingering. “Be careful.”

“You too.”

He left, and I listened to his footsteps fade down the hallway. Only then did I let myself collapse back onto the bed, trembling.

What the hell had we just done?

Read Part Two here.

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Sarah C. Brody writes fantasy romance where the love stories will wreck you and the heroines are old enough to know better but reckless enough to do it anyway. Her stories are spicy, dark, and twisty—the kind where emotional damage and physical heat go hand in hand.