Wicked devouring, p.1
Wicked Devouring, page 1
Wicked Devouring
Claimed by Gargoyles, Book Three
Copyright © 2022 by Sarah Piper
SarahPiperBooks.com
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Published by Two Gnomes Media
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Cover design by Luminescence Covers
All rights reserved. With the exception of brief quotations used for promotional or review purposes, no part of this book may be recorded, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, organizations, brands, media, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
v1
E-book ISBN: 978-1-948455-86-2
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-948455-87-9
Audiobook ISBN: 978-1-948455-88-6
Contents
Book Series by Sarah Piper
Get Connected!
About Wicked Devouring
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
About Sarah Piper
Book Series by Sarah Piper
M/F Romance Series
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Vampire Royals of New York
Reverse Harem Romance Series
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Claimed by Gargoyles
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The Witch’s Monsters
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Tarot Academy
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The Witch’s Rebels
Get Connected!
I love connecting with readers! There are a few different ways you can keep in touch:
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Email: sarah@sarahpiperbooks.com
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TikTok: @sarahpiperbooks
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Facebook group: Sarah Piper’s Sassy Witches
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Twitter: @sarahpiperbooks
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About Wicked Devouring
Cruel dark fae bent on revenge. Ancient, power-hungry demons. Corrupt mages eager to swear fealty to the darkness…
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Enemies lurk in every shadow, and they’ll stop at nothing to claim the one thing they believe stands in their way of world domination:
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Me.
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Add to that a series of deadly betrayals, a dangerous magic I can’t control, and a curse dooming the men I love to eternal damnation, and things aren’t looking too hot for the home team.
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The clock is ticking, but despite the horrific odds, one truth remains unshakeable:
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My gargoyles and I were meant to find one another.
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And now that we have, nothing—not the Wintermoon fae, not the Prince of Hell, not the mages who’ve tortured me my entire life, and especially not some ruthless fae curse—will tear us apart.
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That is… assuming the world doesn’t burn to ash around us.
Wicked Devouring is also available in audio narrated by Vanessa Edwin, Shane East, Aiden Snow, and Aaron Shedlock!
Chapter One
JUDE
If there’s anything we can all count on in this life, it’s my complete fucking inability to follow orders—a condition that’s only gotten worse now that my little scarecrow’s in the mix.
Thankfully, when it comes to my half-baked schemes and Draegan’s oh-so-predictable wrath, Auggie’s got a reliable streak, too: my best mate never lets me go up in flames alone.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?” he says now, passing me a crowbar and glancing around the quiet, tree-lined street in Bayside, Queens.
Not much happening at this hour.
Not yet, anyway.
“Augustine.” I jam the crowbar between the door and the frame, jimmying it until I hear the wood crack. Then, turning to him with a grin, “If self-awareness was a requirement for this job, I’d have been made redundant during the Renaissance. Besides, if Draegan really wanted us to leave this bastard alone, he would’ve told me to do the opposite. ‘Go after him, Jude. Do your bloody worst.’ Right?”
Auggie runs a hand through his Disney-prince hair and shakes his head. “Your logic. It astounds.”
“Precisely why I’m the one holding the crowbar and you’re carrying the rope. Now, watch your step and keep your eyes open—these shadow mages can be slippery little fucks.”
I push open the door and creep inside, crowbar at the ready. I’m already imagining the wet, satisfying sound it’ll make when I embed it in Conrad Nesterman’s forehead.
Ah, Connie. Also known as Full Metal Jacket. Soon to be known as He Whose Bashed-In Head Adorns the Front Porch Like a Rotting Pumpkin.
Just in time for Halloween season, too. Couldn’t have timed it better myself.
Look, it’s not as if I do these things just to rattle Draegan’s cage, as fun as that old pastime may be. After our initial recon of Nesterman’s house, he asked us to wait before making another move, and I had every intention of doing just that.
But all that waiting… Fuck. It just makes me twitchy. Every minute these bastards are allowed to draw breath is another minute they could be using their few remaining brain cells to hatch a plan to harm Westlyn.
Not on my watch, dickheads.
We came in through the house’s side entrance, and now, with Auggie at my back, we slink through the dark kitchen, our senses immediately assaulted by the fetid stink of old garbage and the sharp tang of cheap weed. Dirty dishes litter every flat surface, and with every step, another roach crunches underfoot.
Another step. Another crunch. A shiver snakes up my spine. I try not to retch.
I fucking hate bugs.
“Keep it together, lightweight.” Auggie clamps a hand over my shoulder and squeezes, his voice low in the darkness as we make our way out of the dumpster of a kitchen and into the main living area.
More of the same out here, along with some random occult shit scattered around—books, a few Tarot decks, various bottles filled with dark liquid that looks a hell of a lot like blood.
Real home-makers, Connie and his witch-girl, Kelly Obrovski.
No matter. They’re both roasting tonight.
The house is narrow, with nothing more than a hallway leading to a bedroom and bath in the back. From behind the closed bedroom door, a series of muffled grunts cuts through the silence, followed by the unmistakable squeak of bedsprings and the sound of flesh smacking flesh.
“Cheeky,” I whisper. Then, “You ready to start this party?”
Augs nods. “On three?”
“You bet.”
“One—”
I kick down the door in an epic shattering of old wood and cheap veneer.
“Now that was satisfying,” I announce, swinging the crowbar up over my shoulder.
Two voices shriek—one male, one female—and the pair freezes on the bed.
But me? I’m just trying to process what I’m seeing here.
“What the fuck?” Auggie says from just behind me, taking in the sight of the lovely couple whose nightly escapades we’ve just interrupted—a bloke I assume is Full Metal Jacket, tied to the bedposts in slightly less than Full Metal glory, a spreader bar between his ankles, ball gag shoved into his mouth. And a woman—Kelly, I suppose—dressed in a black thong-and-latex number, straddling him, her arse in his face as she pours hot wax from a lit candle onto his dangly bits.
In the shocked silence that follows, I let out a low whistle. “You make torture look almost fun, mate. And Kelly? Very bold choice, what with the latex around that open flame.”
“Uh, Jude?” Auggie says.
“Who knew shadow magic society members were so adventurous? Guess I didn’t give you enough credit. Which just goes to show, you can’t always judge a—”
“Jude.” Auggie grips my shoulder again, his mouth close to my ear. “That’s not Kelly Obrovski. It’s the fucking doctor. Pomeroy’s mother.”
“Pomeroy’s… Wait. Dr. Eckhardt?” I laugh, but yes, now that he mentioned it, I recognize the woman from Rook’s surveillance films—the woman we caught leaving Hunter’s apartment. “Well. I heard you made house calls, but this is some special service you’re providing to Connie here. Does Kelly know about this clandestine little romp? Perhaps we should give her a ring.”
The suggestion seems to snap them both out of their momentary shock.
Still holding the candle, Eckhardt flings her other hand t oward us, likely trying to cast some dark incantation.
Pointless.
Even with my human glamour, I’m faster and stronger and way more excited about the prospect of inflicting violence than she seems to be.
I’ve got her yanked off the bed and shoved against the wall with the crowbar across her throat, one of Rook’s dampener cuffs clamped over her wrist before the bitch can even utter another gasp. The candle drops to the floor and sputters out.
Auggie tosses me the rope. While he cuffs our boy, Connie—already restrained, courtesy of the good doctor—I tie the woman to a rickety desk chair and crouch down before her with a grin.
Yeah. That grin.
“Time for us all to have a friendly fireside chat,” I say softly, patting her knee.
Then I bash it with the crowbar.
Right to the point, this particular instrument. That’s what I love about it.
She passes out, naturally.
Connie, however, remains fully aware through it all, moaning and thrashing about like a stuck pig.
Never before have I been so grateful for a ball gag.
Fortunately, it doesn’t take long for the doctor to return to us. When she looks up at me again, her eyes are still sharp, but her skin has lost much of its earlier luster; that latex outfit certainly isn’t doing her any favors now.
“How’s the knee?” I ask. “Looks a bit swollen. Perhaps you should see a doctor?”
Tears spill down her cheeks, but to her credit, she doesn’t moan or complain.
“What… what do you want?” she pants.
“Information, naturally.” With another grin, I say, “But hey—before we get to the meat of the conversation, quick question… I assume Kelly’s in the dark about this, but… does your son know you’re playing a bit of Fifty Shades with his best mate? Far be it from me to judge, but I feel like that could make birthday parties and family barbecues really awkward.”
“My… my son?” she sputters, her eyes widening with new fear. “How do you know my son?”
“Jakey? Oh, Jakey and I go way back. Alonso, too. Turns out we’ve all got a mutual acquaintance. A witch by the name of Westlyn Ave—oh! I just realized we haven’t properly introduced ourselves. How rude of me.” I offer a slight bow of my head. “I’m Jude Hendrix, and my associate over there keeping your boy-toy company is Augustine Lamont. Go on, Auggie. Wave to the good doctor.”
From his spot beside the bed, Auggie doesn’t wave. Just sighs and rolls his eyes. “Fucking Jude. Get on with it, for fuck’s sake.”
Ignoring all this, the doctor says, “Please. My son… Just tell me my son is okay.”
I pull my face into a compassionate frown and touch her shoulder. “Your son is okay.”
“Really?”
I scoff. “How the fuck should I know? You asked me to tell you he was okay, whatever the fuck that means, and I obliged. Now it’s time for you to oblige me.”
“Not until I know my son is alive and well.”
“Hate to break it to you, Mumsy, but your son was never well. Whether he’s alive?” I shrug, recalling the crunchy sound of brittle bones when the meat grinder chewed him up and spit him out the other night—oy, what a racket. “Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. Either way, you’ve got a choice to make, or you’ll never know the answer.”
“But… what? What’s going on? Where is my son?”
“There, there,” I say. “I realize this is a lot to take in, so I’ll do you the courtesy of keeping it simple. We need to know everything there is to know about the demon Zorakkov, Hunter Forsythe’s medical treatments, and why the Forsythes are so keen on binding him to Westlyn Avery. You’re in a unique position to connect those mysterious dots for us. So…” I lean in close enough to smell the rubber on her dastardly outfit and whisper, “Cooperation, or pain? Your call, doc.”
“Help Jude Hendrix and Augustine Lamont?” Son apparently forgotten, her lip curls into a sneer, her backbone straightening despite her obvious pain. “I would rather die than cooperate with the men of shadow and stone.”
“Ah, so you do know us. Excellent. Well, death is certainly a respectable choice. Unfortunately for you, dying is not one of the options on tonight’s menu. Perhaps you should pay closer attention. Here—this should help you focus.” I slide a dagger from my boot and jam the blade deep into her thigh—no, not the leg with the shattered knee. The other one. Best to spread the love a bit, I always say.
She grits her teeth. Poor girl must be in excruciating pain.
“Looks like I managed to avoid the femoral artery,” I say. “But I wouldn’t advise any sudden moves. You might nick something vital. Wait, what am I saying? Giving a doctor medical advice? Anyway, I’m sure we understand each other now, don’t we?”
Unlike her son, the good doctor doesn’t howl like a banshee.
She does, however, give me a nod of surrender, followed by a deep sag of her shoulders and a few tears sliding down those waxen cheeks.
“They’ll kill me for this,” she whispers, and I know she’s referring to the shadow mages.
And steal the fun from under my nose? I don’t think so, Mumsy…
“I won’t tell them if you don’t,” I say with a wink.
“No, you don’t understand. They’ll just… they’ll know. They always know.”
Connie strains against his bonds, another muffled cry fighting its way around the gag. Auggie gives the bed a swift kick to shut him up.
“Have you two thought about branching out a bit?” I ask our prisoners. “Finding a new friend group? Honestly, these shadow mages sound a bit clingy. Can’t be healthy, that level of obsession. Oh! Speaking of unhealthy obsessions! Doctor, have you ever seen what a crowbar can do to a ribcage? Not as precise as a rib spreader in the O.R., of course, but it’s quite something, really.” I pick it up and admire the curved end. “The trick is getting the proper angle when you first jam it in there, then jiggling it just so. Otherwise you risk prematurely splintering the bones and your entire effort is ruined. Anyway! Gosh, listen to me, blathering on about work. I’ve barely given you a chance to talk.” I swing the crowbar up, then bring it crashing down on the windowsill about two inches from her head, taking a nice bite out of the wood. “Right then. Got something to say, doc?”
She nods, fully resigned to her plight. “Cooperation. I… I choose cooperation.”
“Excellent choice,” I say.
And then, the old bird finally sings.
Chapter Two
WESTLYN
Don’t fear, little one. Everything is unfolding exactly as it should be…
The voice fades to a soft and eerie echo, and I free-fall into a darkness so black, I’m certain death will be waiting for me at the bottom.
Shouldn’t dying be louder, though? More screaming, maybe. Or a sound like the tearing of fabric—a soul being ripped from the body long before its time.
