The Memory Puller (The Memory Puller Series Book 1)
The Memory Puller: Chapter 32

Cassandra’s heart was beating out of her chest, not solely because of the mind-scattering orgasm Tristan had just given her.

If lust had lured Opheron and his cronies to the alleyway, they’d just gotten a noseful of her fear as well.

Tristan kept his hand over her mouth, keeping her quiet as he fixed her bra, tugged her panties in place, and pulled her leggings up. He pressed a reassuring kiss to the back of her neck, and his hand grazed her ass as he adjusted himself in his pants. She almost burst out laughing, picturing him trying to fight with a hard-on. Knowing Tristan, he could do it.

She parted her lips to speak, but he squeezed tighter, warning her against even a whisper.

Tristan mouthed something into his other hand, and she felt a gust against her cheek as he opened his palm and shot a blast of air between the wall and his wings.

He brought his mouth to the shell of her ear and whispered, “Take this, Daredevil.” He pressed the hilt of her dagger into her hand. “I sent a message to some friends, but we’re going to be on our own for a bit. I’ll do the talking, you do the slicing, deal?”

Before she had a chance to nod or protest, Tristan opened his wings and pivoted towards their enemies.

“Good evening, assholes,” Tristan crooned with a mocking grin, not intimidated in the slightest by the venomous mob before them.

Cassandra sucked in a sharp breath as she counted the six Deathstalkers blocking the alley, Opheron with his greasy yellow hair and decrepit smile in the center. She grinned with wicked glee as she noticed the scar across his throat—he’d healed from their previous encounter, but not completely.

The other five, four males and one female, all dressed in white, were stick-thin and sinewy with glowing citrine eyes and darting forked tongues. The female, the tallest besides Opheron, hissed at Cassandra, and the slithery sound sent chills down her spine, though she refused to show any fear. Merely widened her grin and flipped her dagger.

Come at me, bit…sy, she thought, almost thinking the b-word, but not quite getting there. Maybe there were certain words she’d never be able to stomach, regardless of her increasingly dirty behavior.

“And a good evening you have already had, Officer, judging by the scent that lured us,” Opheron rasped, his croaky voice raking across Cassandra’s teeth. The head Deathstalker sucked in a flamboyant breath, poking his forked tongue out of his mouth. “Your lust smells more exquisite than we imagined, Brittle Lady. Care to share some with us?”

“Don’t get any ideas, Baby Carrot dick. She’s mine,” Tristan growled—risky words that thrilled her. Did he mean that, or was he saying it to protect her in the face of these supernatural enemies, ensure the completion of their task?

Tristan prowled towards Opheron, his wings sparkling in the hazy moonlight. The Deathstalker matched him step for step until the two Fae were inches apart, glaring at each other.

“You planning an orgy, Opheron? Why’d you bring so many friends? Can’t keep a woman satisfied on your own?” Tristan’s laugh morphed into a vicious sneer. They were about the same height, but Tristan had thirty pounds of muscle on the lanky Deathstalker.

Opheron’s fangs clicked out, and glistening venom plopped onto the cobblestones between them. Tristan didn’t even flinch.

“Careful, Officer. We have no qualms about feasting on our own species. And a specimen like you?” Opheron hungrily dragged his serpent’s eyes from Tristan’s boots to the tips of his iridescent wings. “We could make a meal out of you for weeks.”

Tristan turned to smirk at Cassandra, his eyes widening in a signal she didn’t understand. But she crouched into a fighting stance and braced her dagger in front of her.

Blade up, fear down.

And she found that it was easier than ever to hold the fear at bay with her brave, beautiful, muscled and magical friend to keep her safe. She was determined to use her own skills to keep him safe too.

Tristan whipped around and smashed a devastating uppercut under Opheron’s jaw. His knuckles tore on the Deathstalker’s fangs before they sunk into his forked tongue with a sickening squelch. Tristan swore and shook his hand as Opheron thudded onto the cobblestones, out cold. The second time that week that Tristan had taken out the Deathstalker with a single blow.

“What happened?” Cassandra asked as Tristan cradled his bleeding hand.

“The venom will deplete my magic faster. We need to work quickly,” Tristan said. “Get his memories. I’ll deal with the rest of these venomous twats.”

Tristan called up a blistering wall of wind to separate himself, Cassandra, and Opheron from the rest of the Deathstalkers as all five scrambled towards them.

Cassandra dropped to her knees to grab her cloak and satchel, then placed her dagger inside and slung it over her shoulder. She crawled along the cobblestones towards Opheron.

Tristan towered over the prone Fae, his hands outstretched and his fingers curled as he kept the wind-wall intact with the force of his magic, giving Cassandra the time she needed to perform the extraction ritual.

The remaining five Deathstalkers slammed into the shield with fists and feet, shoulders and shins. With every blow, the wall shuddered, inching backwards and jerking Tristan’s muscles. The veins in his neck popped with exertion as he gritted his teeth.

“Hurry! I’m not sure how long I can hold them off,” Tristan grunted over his shoulder, drops of blood from his torn knuckles splattering beneath him.

Cassandra knelt next to the prostrate Deathstalker and whispered, “Show me the formula. Show me your master. Show me the necklace.” Hints to his unconscious mind to bring forth those memories.

She brought her index and middle fingers to Opheron’s temples. “Lui ganeth, lui cathona. Lui—”

A whistling crack snapped through the alley as three Deathstalkers attacked the shield at once. Tristan barked with the effort to maintain it, sweat dripping down his handsome face.

“Don’t worry about me, Cassandra! Focus on getting those memories,” he bit out, his voice shredding.

She started the chant again.

Crackling, neon green light oozed from Opheron’s temples and pooled within her hands, zapping her fingers. As if the memories themselves were as deadly as the venom coursing through the Deathstalker’s veins.

She decanted the memory into a vial, then extracted two more before she saw Tristan wavering.

His arms remained outstretched, the wall of wind solidly in place, but his skin was paling and his lips were colorless. He couldn’t hold on much longer, must be nearing the last drop of his magic.

“Tristan—”

“I’m fine!” he bellowed. “Keep pulling!”

Four, then five memories extracted and decanted. It would have to be enough.

Cassandra placed the glowing green vials into her satchel and pulled out her dagger, racing over to support Tristan.

The wind-shield was flickering, an arm, a leg, a fist punching through at increasingly shorter intervals.

“I’ve got the memories, Tristan,” she said, breathing raggedly. “Let’s go.”

Tristan turned to her, utter exhaustion dragging his features as he attempted a wan smile. “I knew you could do it. But we’re going to be stuck here for a bit. I can’t fly until my magic replenishes.”

“How long will that take?”

The female Deathstalker slipped further beyond the shield, her head and shoulders tearing through the barrier as the wind churned her jet-black hair.

With a final grunt of effort, Tristan pushed the Deathstalker back and dropped to his knees. The shield dissolved with a sucking pop.

Cassandra darted in front of him, safeguarding him with her tiny frame, dagger braced and ready for the assault.

Tristan staggered to his feet, placing a hand on her shoulder to steady himself. He took a deep breath and rustled his wings. Though his magic was depleted, he was by far the most imposing figure in the alley, his fists capable of mass destruction. As he rose to his full height, their enemies shuddered.

“Are you okay?” Cassandra whispered, not tearing her eyes from the five Deathstalkers who were snapping their jaws, momentarily held back by her Typhon steel and the Vestian looming behind her.

“I’ll live,” he grunted. “Let’s waste these venomous fucks, Cass.”

The female Deathstalker—Bitsy, Cassandra had dubbed her—lunged for her as Tristan whipped out his pistol to take on the other four.

Bitsy twisted Cassandra’s wrist to force her to drop the dagger, but Cassandra anticipated the move, circling her arm and shaking off Bitsy’s grasp.

Bitsy hissed in frustration and shoved Cassandra’s chest. The supernatural blow forced Cassandra to stagger back, catching herself on a liquor barrel. Bitsy rushed forward, fangs popping, and aimed for Cassandra’s neck.

Cassandra slashed out with the dagger and sliced through Bitsy’s white shirt and pale flesh. A jagged line of bright green bloomed at Bitsy’s midsection.

Cassandra wondered why all Deathstalkers wore white when their blood was such a garish green—a shockingly poor fashion choice.

Bitsy touched her stomach, then roared when she noticed the wound wasn’t healing. She lunged again, too distracted by her anger to notice the lid that Cassandra had pried off the barrel. Cassandra crashed it down onto Bitsy’s head.

Bitsy’s jet-black mane crowned through the wood as it splintered down the middle. It did no discernible damage but distracted her enough for Cassandra to dart out into the street beyond the alley. If Bitsy caught her, she’d be a goner, no match for the female’s supernatural strength. Not to mention those fangs that meant instant death for a mortal.

As Cassandra dashed down the alley, Tristan held off the three Deathstalkers who nipped at him with fangs extended. One Deathstalker lay prone at his feet; Tristan must’ve gotten off a shot from his stun pistol before the other three knocked the weapon out of his hands.

Cassandra almost stopped in her tracks, mesmerized by Tristan’s effortless strikes with fists, feet, and wings. He anticipated and blocked every one of his enemies’ blows, his lightning-quick limbs blurring in a breathtaking, beautifully deadly dance that left the three conscious Fae dumbfounded and unable to land a single hit. He didn’t even need his pistol.

Cassandra had no time to dwell on it as Bitsy shook off the wooden shards and rushed down the alley to catch her.

Cassandra gripped her dagger and planted herself at the mouth of the alley, swallowing her fear as Bitsy hurtled towards her, a terrifying vision in white and glowing green with onyx hair streaming.

As soon as Cassandra saw the slitted black pupils within Bitsy’s blazing yellow eyes, she braced her fists on Bitsy’s shoulders and somersaulted backward, kicking her leg into Bitsy’s stomach and flipping the Deathstalker over her.

Bitsy crashed onto the cobblestones, howling at the blow delivered to her wounded stomach.

Cassandra pressed her knee into Bitsy’s wound, and the female’s fangs retracted at the pain. The Deathstalker’s serpentine eyes bugged out in disbelief as she beheld the Typhon steel dagger dangling over her chest.

“Bye-bye, Bitsy,” Cassandra growled, then plunged the dagger into Bitsy’s heart.

The shriek of anguish that ripped from the Deathstalker’s throat was almost enough to stir Cassandra’s guilt over the killing blow. Until she remembered that if she hadn’t, she’d be the one convulsing on the cobblestones with her life-blood draining away.

Cassandra stood and pulled the dagger from Bitsy’s chest before a male Deathstalker tackled her to the ground. He pinned her hips between his knees, then slammed her wrists into the cobblestones. A lightning bolt of pain shot up her arm, and her hand jerked open, dropping the dagger.

“Cassandra!” Tristan hollered.

The male Deathstalker snarled as his fangs popped out. A crooked scar ran from the top of his left cheekbone to the bottom of his chin, splitting his lips. His jet-black hair was the same shade and texture as Bitsy’s, and Cassandra noted more than a passing resemblance. Her brother, perhaps?

The male wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed. She pulled at his fingers, trying to loosen them, then raked her nails down his forearms as her head spun from the loss of breath.

Cassandra gazed sidelong into the alley, hoping Tristan had broken free. The unconscious Deathstalker had awoken, and all three had taken advantage of Tristan’s distraction to pin him against the wall. Tristan’s hands gripped the throats of two as he kicked at the third, holding them off as they snapped at him, searching for any opening to sink in their fangs.

Cassandra was on her own.

Her vision swimming, she drifted in and out of consciousness as the male leaned in closer, aiming his fangs toward her cheek.

Her mind was clear enough to recognize she was moments from death.

And she was furious.

She’d experienced so little of the world. Why had she wasted all these years with the Sisters? She’d always considered herself brave, but she’d been a coward all along. Too chicken to strike out on her own, preferring the comfort of the Temple despite the order’s restrictions.

She’d chosen the gilded cage, sparing herself the discomfort of a life outside the grounds while cutting herself off from living. And deep down, she knew the few families she’d saved would never make up for all those she hadn’t—families whose suffering she and the order had exacerbated. Maybe she deserved to die. Maybe the High Gods were finally exacting punishment for all of her failures.

The Deathstalker’s fangs pricked at her cheek as she resigned herself to her fate. She was halfway through a prayer to Faurana the Mother to watch over Mama and Xenia when a low snarl reverberated across the cobblestones.

She must be hallucinating.

An enormous tiger stalked towards them, causing the Deathstalker to rear back and loosen his grip. Cassandra sucked in a wheezing, life-giving breath.

The tiger’s gleaming orange and black fur ruffled as its razor-sharp claws clicked against the cobblestones, whiskers twitching above the beast’s substantial fangs—fangs far larger and thicker than those of the gathered Deathstalkers.

“Nice kitty,” Bitsy’s brother shuddered.

“I’m anything but nice, sugar,” the tiger growled.

A booming roar nearly burst Cassandra’s ear drums as the tiger lunged for the Fae atop her.

The Deathstalker’s responding screech was cut short as the tiger toppled him to the ground, its jaws crunching around his neck.

Cassandra scurried away, plucked up the dagger, and swiveled towards Tristan. He’d gained his own guardian angel.

A familiar-looking blonde male Windrider with bright white wings was sucking the air from the lungs of the three remaining Deathstalkers. His upturned hand curled in front of him as they choked, grasping at their throats and falling to their knees.

Hadriel? She remembered his name from the other night at the Fang and Claw. Which meant that the tiger…

Cassandra glanced back at Reena, who was tearing at Bitsy’s brother’s throat, devouring him like she hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks.

Trying to block out the ripping, gurgling sounds behind her, Cassandra rushed over to Tristan at the same time as he lunged for her.

His hands landed on her cheeks, and his terrified eyes scanned every inch of her. “Are you hurt, Cass? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m okay,” she choked out in a rasping voice, her throat raw from the Deathstalker’s grip—another bruise she’d have to explain to her fellow Sisters.

He crushed her to his chest, sending sparks of pain tingling up her tender arm. His heart pounded against her ear. “Thank the High Gods.”

Cassandra pulled back to see he was alarmingly pale. “I should be asking you that question.”

“I’m indestructible, sweetheart.” He grinned, and her heart leapt that he could joke, even looking so drained. “My magic will replenish in an hour or two. But if you were injured or worse, bitten, I—”

He paused, hanging his head. “It’s easy to forget you’re mortal when you fight like that.” He rested his chin on her head and stroked his hand along her spine.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “By the way, you lost the game earlier.” Tristan raked his canine across her earlobe, bringing all her naughty bits back to attention. She marveled that he could so easily pivot from fear to flirting. “Looks like I’ll be subjected to more of your terrible dagger name guesses.”

She laughed and made to push out of his arms, but he pulled her in tighter. “Sweet Amatu, I don’t know which I like more: the sound of you laughing or the sound of you coming.”

She shivered, melting into him, newly emboldened. “You’ll have to make me do both again so you can decide.”

Staring death in the face had shattered some of her walls. Plus, she’d bent her chastity vow to the point of breaking tonight and not a single High God or Goddess had descended to smite her. She intended to bend her vow for Tristan again. And as often as possible.

Their banter was interrupted by a deep, languorous voice.

“Hey man, close call.”

Hadriel strolled over, and Tristan pivoted out of Cassandra’s hold to shake the Windrider’s hand. The three Deathstalker males had run off, unwilling to die at Hadriel’s hands for their unconscious leader.

“Thank you, Hadriel,” Tristan said, clapping the blond Windrider on the shoulder, then grabbing the male into a tight bear hug. Their contrasting black and white wings tangled in a striking display.

“Hey, I was the one who got your message, handsome. Where’s my full-body contact hug, huh?” Reena’s golden eyes glittered as she sashayed towards the two males, wiping green blood off her chin with the back of her wrist and splattering it on the ground.

Tristan took Reena into his arms and twirled her around. “Thank you, Reena.” He kissed her left cheek. “You beautiful animal.” Then her right. “We couldn’t have survived without you.” He kissed her full on the mouth.

And although there was no heat in it, only the deepest gratitude, Cassandra couldn’t help the avalanche of ice-cold jealousy that shocked through her veins. She folded her arms across her chest and turned away. She was too exhausted to fight a tiger bi-form right now, despite the impulse.

Tristan grimaced and dropped Reena back to her feet. “You taste like Deathstalker guts.”

Reena licked her lips, waggling her eyebrows and smoothing her long, auburn locks. “Lucky for you, I had a craving.”

Hadriel surveyed the carnage in the alley. Opheron was sprawled midway, half in and out of shadows. The shriveled husk atop a pool of neon-green blood at the mouth used to be Bitsy. And the prone body beyond, splattered in glowing green at the throat and stomach was Bitsy’s brother.

“What in the name of Stygios happened here, dude?” Hadriel took a deep whiff of the air and swiveled towards Cassandra, a slow grin parting his lips. “And what’s that delectable smell?”

Tristan threw an arm around Cassandra, tugging her close. Staking his claim? “Cass and I were doing a little investigative work before we were ambushed. Only one venomous dickbag was supposed to show up, but the fucker brought a small army. Someone must’ve tipped him off.”

“You finally told him your name, huh?” Reena aimed a knowing smirk at Cassandra. “Smart girl.”

Tristan addressed Hadriel. “Did you see where those other three went?”

Hadriel shrugged. He was beautiful in a different way than Tristan. Refined and elegant, his face was stunningly perfect—almost too perfect. His close-cropped platinum hair and eyebrows were shocking against his bronze skin, and his amethyst eyes sparkled with vivid cunning despite his slow, measured movements. He and Reena shared the same chilled-out wavelength, despite the violence they’d just rained down upon the Deathstalkers.

“I didn’t see man, sorry. Once they ran off, I wanted to make sure this little pussy was okay.” He sent a heated grin towards Reena, who growled at him, baring her teeth and playfully swiping her claws.

Tristan chuckled, releasing Cassandra from his grip, and walked into the alley to check on Opheron.

As soon as he crouched down, the Deathstalker sprang to life and sank his fangs into Tristan’s neck.