Grave Mistakes (Hellgate Guardians #1)(15)

I do my best not to get hypnotized by his oddly colored hair. It looks orange, but there’s also some red and yellow streaks in it, and the roots are unusually black. It looks like slow moving lava. His colorist is clearly very skilled.

The white-haired man snorts and looks over at the others. “No, we’re fully warded,” he scoffs. “Quīnque can never see through those. She probably just senses something.”

I don’t understand why he keeps saying kinky, but I’m getting sick of them talking about me like I’m not here.

Surfer dude squints at me. “Wait...she is looking at us like she can see us,” he says, and he starts waving his hand from side to side like he expects me to follow it with my eyes.

I roll them instead. “Of course I can fucking see you, dimwits,” I say.

He looks shocked, his green eyes widening at my declaration. “What?” he asks as he takes a step closer to me and pushes back some long wavy blond strands out of his face.

“I said I can fucking see you. Obviously. If you were trying to play hide-and-seek, you suck at it,” I retort.

These guys are way too massive to be stuffed into this tight space, but I still can’t piece together how they got in here in the first place. Are they lost party guests or assholes trying to give me a hard time on my first night?

I run my gaze over each of them again. They’re dressed too casually to be hitting up the kind of fancy shindigs a place like Perdition Estate is bound to throw. So my guess would be that they’re Iceman’s friends and they’re trying to fuck with me.

“You assholes are trespassing on private property. I suggest you leave, or I’ll call the cops,” I lie. “Oh, and tell your Iceman friend that this was not cool,” I say, tightening my grip on my walking stick.

The three of them exchange a look of confusion, and for a moment, I can’t help but appreciate how hot they all are. Not in a normal way either. I’ve had hot guys flirt with me all the time at the bar, but none of them looked like this. These three are striking. Their looks scream freaky, but in a hot, I bet they’d rock my world kind of way. Even the more normal looking surfer dude has a certain vibe about him. They’re all over six foot, look like they’re in their late twenties or early thirties, and have this intensity that seems to ripple off their very well-developed muscles.

Surfer guy whistles under his breath. “Well, fuck me. I thought we got another Diluted or a Quīnque. How’d we get an Inner Ring?” he asks the others. “And a Derek Jeter fan,” he adds, nodding to the batter-like stance and grip I have on my walking stick.

The other guys shrug, looking just as confused. I have no idea what the hell they’re talking about, and I’m intimidated as hell as they study me like I’m something they want to shove under a microscope. My grip tightens on the stick, and I back up a step, ready to get the fuck out of here and radio Iceman. “You guys need to get the fuck out of here, or the cops will be on your ass.”

Lava hair snorts and waves me off like he couldn’t care less about the threat, his orange eyes looking at me sardonically. “Now, now, Warrior Princess, calm down. We all know you’re not going to call anyone. Especially not a bunch of mortal cops.”

I narrow my eyes at the nickname and then go still at his words. Iceman must’ve told him the no calling the cops rule. I open my mouth to say something, but he takes a large step toward me.

I react on instinct.

I swing the walking stick at him, aiming right for his side. I doubt it will do much damage, so I mentally prepare myself to run my leather-clad ass away immediately after I give him a good smack, but what I’m not prepared for is for the walking stick to suddenly warm up in my hands, and for a huge curved blade to pop out at the top of it while another shorter dagger pops out of the bottom.

What the fuck?

My walking stick-bat just became a weird ass spear knife...thingy.

So I do the most logical thing a girl can do when something like that happens. I stop the trajectory of the swing by squealing like I just saw a spider, and then I try to chuck the brutal transformer weapon as far away from me as I can. Clearly, this thing has stab-a-man cooties.

Unfortunately, this brilliant move of mine only results in panic from everyone as the blade-tipped stick ricochettes off the ground and then bounces up haphazardly, forcing everyone to scramble away to keep from getting stabbed. The three guys shout at each other about keeping clear of the blade, and luckily, the thing eventually clatters to the ground without so much as nicking anyone.

“What the hell?” I demand, half to them about their presence and half to the walking stick that just betrayed me. I stare at the wickedly sharp, curved blade that sticks out of the end. The thing has to be longer than my arm, and I can’t figure out how the walking stick possibly sheathed that blade. It’s too damn thick, and the wood is too damn thin.

Surfer dude’s bright green eyes go even wider as he runs a hand through his long blond hair. “Did she just activate a scythe?” he asks. “She’s gotta be a Trēs Ring at least, right?”

The tattooed, white-haired man narrows his eyes on me. “Who are you?” he asks, his black eyes bouncing from the curved blade to me. “And which Ring of Hell did you track down that thing in?” he demands.

I draw up my shoulders like I’m not inwardly freaking out and hella confused. “I’m Delta Gates, the new security guard. And if first day on the job counts as a Ring of Hell—and it should—then that’s where I got it from. Who the hell are you?” I retort as I fumble and struggle to get my radio detached from its holster on my belt. This whole thing just quickly went from I got this to red alert, I almost stabbed someone. Over.