Slow Burn

Slow Burn

A Sexy Spy Thriller

by

Sascha Illyvich

Copyright 2015 Sascha Illyvich

Kindle Edition

ISBN-10: 1-62827-994-X

ISBN-13: 978-1-62827-994-8

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are products of this author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or
dead is entirely coincidental.

Published by
Ardent Books
, an imprint of
Assent Publishing

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To those lost in darkness, May you find your Self in the
Light.

Chapter One

The shitty light show didn’t bother his eyes; he was
otherworldly. The extra effort of the band onstage was lost on both him and and
the other patrons slowly filling in to see the main act.

He’d been in worse places with even crappier light. Such was
the life of a spy, especially one who could move between worlds like Derrick.
The term spook didn’t just hold true for his human side; it was reinforced
exponentially for him as a shifter.

Tonight he wasn’t here to think of the past.

Stale cigarette smoke and sweat hung in the air, irritating
Derrick’s puma senses. After thirty minutes, the opening band managed to move
the crowd into some semblance of frenzy, if the tiny mosh pit could be called
that.

Too bad no one gave a shit about the poorly expressed
political message in the band’s lyrics.

Derrick stood in the back with the bartender, Rob, a
leather-clad human that dwarfed most people. Rob’s auburn curls emphasized the
scariness of his face; black eyes sunk deep into a skull that might have made
Derrick afraid if he were simply human.

Pumas didn’t fear mankind. A two-hundred-pound solid mass of
muscle that could easily leap eighteen feet need not fear anyone, especially
when it could tear out the throat of its victims with ease.

Scanning the crowd, Derrick swirled his drink around and
took a sip. The Manhattan slid down his throat before he set the glass on the
bar and another quickly sailed his way.

Derrick reached for his wallet while thunderous kick drums,
booming bass guitar, and fast riffs from the band onstage assaulted his ears.

Rob’s voice didn’t change despite the loudness in the club.
“No charge. You’ll want to sip this one slowly, though, Derrick. In fact, keep
your eyes on the stage.”

Nodding, Derrick turned to face the stage, grateful for his
enhanced hearing. He could actually hear Rob’s words over the riffs played by
the newest band in the death metal scene.

The band Ark-KaotiK jammed loud and fast onstage, causing a
melee of noise while the crowd erupted into a mosh pit that would have made the
Devil himself proud. For thirty minutes, they cranked out chords, kicked off
melodies, and warmed up.

Derrick sipped his drink and kept an eye on the crowd. Many
of the concertgoers were human, though he noticed a few wolves and bears had
made their way in. As a former spy, he’d learned to watch the crowd for signs
of violence, ignoring most of their behavior as harmless. Metal music listeners
tended to get a little raucous, especially since this was one of the largest
bands making the death metal circuit.

After a few more minutes of jamming, his target would appear
onstage.

Ark-KaotiK sported a drummer on a par with the greatest of
technical death metal drummers. Their guitarist played complex riffs and
melodic rhythms like nobody else. Their bass player proved capable of bringing
out a thunderous low end.

Sonja, their legendary lead singer, made them the most
amazing death metal band around.

Stories circulated in the paranormal community about a witch
with the voice of a goddess and the power to influence crowds. At a time in the
country when waves of violent uprisings by angry mobs fed up with class
inequality were becoming the norm, the youth remained neglected. Many of the
displaced youth did what they did best: went to metal shows, got drunk, and
took out their aggression on willing and sometimes unwilling participants.

Supposedly, Sonja could control all of that with her voice.

The tension in the crowd had risen to an all-time high. The
previous band managed to pull out charisma at the last moment and rile up the
crowd, jumbling listener emotions, serving as a reminder to many of the patrons
of class warfare issues and capitalist pig ideas. Combined with alcohol, drug
use, the aforementioned tension levels created a powder keg of violence.
Already, two fights had been broken up between two were-beings. That couldn’t
be allowed to continue. Humans would get hurt, a body count would be
established, and everything that had been done by those in the shifter
community to improve the perception of humans would be torn asunder.

Derrick chose to keep his distance from the crowd. Rob had
asked him to watch the lead singer, tail her, keep her safe. Hanging back gave
him the best vantage point; he could see who came in while he watched the
stage.

“I really appreciate you coming out to watch her. I’d
apologize about the music but—”

Derrick held a hand up. “It’s no problem. I’m a fan.
Besides, you did me a favor, so thanks.”

Rob arched a brow. “I did?”

“Let’s just leave it at I needed to get out of the house.”
Derrick smiled.

His routine hangout was the cigar club on the other side of
town. Pumas were notorious loners. In his normal crowd, he hung out alone or
included himself in conversation as he saw fit.

Except among his few friends, Derrick affiliated himself as
a diehard metal head. If a show came to his part of town and even one of the
bands was someone he listened to, he showed up. The large crowds allowed him to
get out and mix his aggression with theirs. If he didn’t, he became irritable
and that tended to turn off any women who might otherwise share his bed.

He had no misconceptions about sex. At his age, he could
still have any woman he wanted, but commitment scared him. He shunned the idea
after his last few relationships. Nicole turned out to be psycho. Mahalia
couldn’t deal with him being a shifter. Margaret worried for his safety when he
admitted to being a spy, and she hated the lies he had to tell her.

Most of them wanted commitment.

Even though he was out of the spy game, he still had
reservations from his past that kept him from seeking a lifelong partner.

Except for the dry spell he’d been in, Derrick had a pretty
decent sexual career, but his heart was empty and he desperately craved
companionship.

Tonight, he wanted none of that. Tonight would be for the
music, the drinking, and keeping the peace. And, oh yeah, protecting his
target.

The lights went down.

The band left the stage.

Another drink slid across the bar.

Without looking, Derrick extended his hand and caught the
glass before bringing it to his lips. Cool liquor slid down his throat and sent
tingles racing through him.

Screaming voices erupted from the PA and mixed with loud
thunderclaps followed by rain. A mist appeared from the darkness, illuminated
by purple and blue lights just above the stage. The crowd quieted down just
enough to let the aural buildup occur. Then the rain stopped.

A thundercloud outside shook the walls of the bar and boomed
against the brick and mortar. A few hushed gasps immerged from random places in
the audience.

The sound of shattering glass pulled Derrick’s attention
center stage.

On the stage, he noticed what appeared to be glass shards
reassembling themselves.

He scratched his head and did a double take.

Yup, the glass was indeed reassembling itself into the wine
bottle it had once been.

Then it floated offstage while band members took their
places, instruments in hand.

The small lead singer dispersed the smoke with a wave of her
hand.

At the same time, the lights kicked on, the band started
playing, and the lead singer emitted the most beautiful growls through the mic.

His heart thundered in his chest, blood pooled south.
Derrick did another double take. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around the
now-angry screams coming from the woman onstage.

She belted, grunted, made the disjointed music make sense.

Metal had a way of being both darkly angry and intensely
beautiful if the singer’s voice and lyrics could captivate the listener.

Worse yet, she’d captured the attention of his dick. Hands
angrily gripped the microphone. Dark, waist-length hair swirled around and fell
at her sides, blanketing her face; Derrick saw plump lips ripe for kissing. Her
ample chest rose and fell with each breath she took.

She moved with grace. Power spilled off her in time with the
music.

The audience followed her every move.

The mosh pit opened up; bodies slammed hard into one another.

Then, as if they weren’t a death metal band at all, their
music changed tones, became melodic. Her singing matched the music, and all the
weight of the aggressive pit seemed to lift off the humans and into the air.

The pit slowed down.

Derrick watched the woman who now sang with an angel’s voice
in absolute amazement.

Slowly, he slid off the barstool and made his way toward
her, only to be stopped by Rob’s hand on his arm.

He looked over his shoulder and almost growled back at Rob.

The bartender shook his head. “Something’s wrong. She’s
calling to all the shifters to come closer, to let go of their animalistic
violence fetish. You go to her now, she’ll own you. Shake it off.”

Derrick must have looked puzzled because Rob scowled. “I’ll
introduce you after the show. Trust me.”

He shook his head and found Rob staring back at him.
“Thanks.” Derrick took his place back on the stool. He’d wait, but that melodic
voice carrying such pain and sorrow had already woven a spell on him. The glint
in her silver-blue eyes caught his gaze and helped push sensual lust into her
death-laced lyrics.

Something resonated deep in his bones, but he didn’t quite
understand why. Never had he felt a power like hers.

The overwhelming need to wrap his arms around her and hold her
startled him.

The band went into the second song—a nonstop blast-beat
number with rhythmic guitars that created the perfect scene of darkness and
despair while Sonja continued singing. Sumptuous, clean vocals nearly forced
him off the stool again.

Rob clapped his hand on Derrick’s shoulder and applied a bit
more pressure. Derrick didn’t look back, but he gripped the bar until his
knuckles ached.

She sang and took the audience on an auditory journey of a
troubled teen struggling into adulthood who ultimately took his own life.

As hard as he was, Derrick found himself wanting to comfort
Sonja now.

Lights flashed in sync with the rapid-fire drum kicks and
created a strobe light effect.

Derrick leaned forward while still holding his drink. Lights
onstage gave Sonja a more dramatic appearance. Corpse paint covered her round
face; eye shadow set her eyes deeper in her skull than they really were;
blood-red hair looked like the darkest tar. A charcoal sweater clung to full
breasts and showed off a flat tummy meant for licking. Black leather hugged
luscious hips. Derrick couldn’t pull his eyes away from her sultry swagger.

A third song morphed into a fourth, and an hour later, the
band retired for the night after playing one encore. Sonja thanked the crowd
and tossed the microphone onto the stage.

Derrick noted the mood in the bar as it slowly emptied out.
People, moods, everything seemed lighter.

The air of danger and despair had fallen prey to sadness,
acceptance, and finally relief.

His body still thrummed with sexual need.

Derrick finished another Manhattan and turned to pay the
bartender.

“No need.” Rob shook his head. Auburn curls spilled down the
sides of his face. Black paint around his eyes made them appear to be sunken
deeper into his skull. “Give them a few minutes to clear out and I’ll take you
backstage to meet Sonja. She’s…waiting for you.”

Derrick didn’t understand but nodded anyway. The nervous
underlying tones in Rob’s voice made him wary. He gripped the glass, spun it
around on the bar, and slid it toward Rob.

With typical bartender flair, Rob caught it, tossed the ice,
and set the glass in the dishwasher.

A bottle of water flew past a patron and ended up in
Derrick’s hand.

“I am still amazed at your speed.” Rob laughed.

His ears rang but he could still hear Rob with precision.
Derrick popped the top off. “You’ve got speed yourself and you’re not even a
shifter.”

Rob snorted. “I’m something, that’s for sure.”

Derrick laughed. “Indeed.”

He turned back to the empty stage and watched roadies carry
equipment away. His mind wandered back to the singer, how her prowess on stage
controlled the crowd with exactness, getting them to move just as she directed
them.

Many singers were charismatic, but not like Sonja.

A few minutes passed and the stage emptied. Rob reached out
and grabbed Derrick’s shoulder. “Come on. You want a proper introduction,
right?”

Derrick nodded. Heavy sexual energy consumed him, making him
fear he’d say the wrong damn thing. He made a mental note to keep his mouth
shut and let Sonja do the talking—if she had the voice for it.

Besides, he wasn’t supposed to let her know he was watching
her. As far as she would know, he was just an old friend of Rob's from school.

Rob escorted Derrick past the bar and down a long dark
hallway. Fans ran on high and sent an obvious chill through the bartender. The
leather he wore proved no match for the warmth of puma fur.

“Here’s her room. Remember, she shouldn’t know I hired you
to protect her. Nor does she need to know about the note threatening her life.
The guys typically head into the hidden cellar here for a shower.”

“Right, we’re just old friends from school. Took some of the
same classes and I’m in town visiting.”

Rob nodded. “Right.”

Derrick rubbed his chin. “You said something went wrong when
she sang and began pulling shifters toward the stage. What did you mean?”

“You’ll see in a moment.” Rob pushed the door open.

Behind the wooden slab that passed for a door, dimmed lights
illuminated the area. Derrick made out the leather couch and the sounds of
muffled cries. He rushed in and scanned the area.