*Logan

While Logan knew that breaking into the bedchambers of the current head-honcho in the fifth level of hell in order to partake of the luscious delights within those rooms, and not just the lonely, wanton ladies who were happy to share their beds with a newcomer, but also the thirty year old, single-grain Scotch, had probably been a mistake, he had only one regret.

That bastard Ziegfel caught him in the act. Well, he caught him in the act of drinking, but it was right after the act of spreading joy and happiness to several of his concubines.

Damn, the whisky was good.

He'd stayed too long in that particular den of inequity. Surrounded by gorgeous women, sipping the whisky. Zeigfel had walked right in, days early from the skirmishes on the western front.

Logan could almost taste that whisky—the burn on his tongue and throat, the smoky aroma, the earthy aftertaste...

Ever since Zeigfel's soldiers dragged him down here for his crimes, every day was basically the same. Pain for about twelve hours, a few scraps of food and drink if he was lucky (not that he needed it to survive, but it did help him regenerate faster), and then another twelve hours of darkness and cold when he could sleep. Not that he got much sleep.

Logan groaned. They liked it when he groaned. The torture was just getting started for the day, but who knew? Perhaps they would get bored and leave early if he gave them what they wanted. Dirk, one of the many torturers, usually worked alone on him, but today there was another.

Scratch that. The second one left after admiring Dirk's technique with a scalpel.

Logan could hope Dirk would get bored, but he doubted it would happen. Dirk was bred for causing pain, it was his sole purpose and desire. He was also a petty, ass-licking, peon in the demon world. But that didn't change the fact that Logan was tortured to the near end of his existence every day—if there were days down here—by him.

But Logan lived for hope these days. Scoffing at his own sentimentality (living for fucking hope? Maybe he deserved the Pit), he scanned the room. The tools for extracting the most amount of pain in the least amount of time were in place, and Dirk, who loved to torture his fellow demons, was grinning in his face. The stench of his decrepit breath turned Logan's stomach. There were not many things in the underworld that bothered him, but little by little, Dirk's smell was one of them.

"This little piggy went to the bucket," Dirk said. He sliced off a toe.

Logan grunted as the pain lanced through his foot. It would grow back and it would hurt just as much while doing so. Regeneration was a bitch, that was sure.

"And this little piggy joined him," Dirk said in a sing-song voice. Obviously, there were many things wrong with his mind.

Logan was holding onto his own sanity by threads. It had been months, at least, that he was in this dungeon for his crime against the hierarchy. He kept telling himself that soon, he'd be back out there. He was a tough fighter, the best. He had friends and had been noticed by his superiors before the bedroom incident.

Which had almost been worth it...

"And this little piggy was eaten was by the big, bad wolf." Dirk tossed one of his toes to the hell-hounds at the door, who snapped it up.

Logan bit his tongue. Insults only made the torture worse. Every demon knew better than to let the hounds get a taste of your blood, though. He'd be hunted by the damn thing for the rest of his existence. For the thousandth time, he swore silently to break Dirk over his own wrack for as long as he was down here, himself. He would make this psychopathic demon pay.

"What else shall we play with today?" Dirk asked. He hummed tunelessly as he surveyed the pincers, pokers, and sets of knives in the case at his elbow. He was deciding between the forceps and a razor studded collar when the sound of boots sounded from the corridor outside. He paused, bewildered.

The door banged open. This was interesting—something different than torture.

Two demons dragged in a black bagged prisoner. He was short and narrow but strong from what Logan could see of him. Besides the black bag on his head, a ragged cape or cloth covered most his body, so it was hard to be sure. There was a flash of silver armor from under the cloth.

Logan frowned. Silver? The prisoner also carried some kind of bag on their back, under the cape, something bulky, unless...

The faintest scents of jasmine, rain on a field, and the sun-warmed stones reached him through the heavy stink of burning coals and demon smell.

A memory hit him—a sneak attack over a wall at night, the dark night sky, and a marble walkway stretched before him in his mind. He swung his sword and cut through his winged enemy. Behind him was another, a female. With a lightning flash of her wings she was gone. It was years ago, but that scent...

He shook his head. Impossible. Not here. Not in armor. Females were never soldiers.

"Drop the prisoner and get out." A voice commanded from the shadows. The two guards deposited the prisoner on the floor not far from Logan and hustled to get out of the way.

Logan knew that voice. His praefecti, Lucius. Like his name that meant light, he radiated power wherever he walked. A bit of luck was his for the first time in months. Both he and Lucious lived for the fight, and Logan had been his best student.

That moment when the apprentice beats the master in combat? Yeah, that was him, when he was younger and even more cocky than now. Luckily, Lucius appreciated his prowess on the field instead of taking badly when he was knocked on his ass by a younger demon. He was by Lucius's side two hundred years ago during the Crossings War where the demons were pummeled by defeat after defeat. The only victories were by Lucius's troops, with Logan at the front line.

Today might be a good one, after all.

Lucius noticed him instantly. Grinning, he approached the wall where Logan was bound in chains, and appraised him.

"Your situation seems decidedly uncomfortable," Lucius said.

Logan coughed to clear his throat. "I've been better. Of course, I've been worse, too. How goes the world topside?"

"You missed a great battle, I'm afraid. A resounding victory. We took the Fountain of Life."

"You're going to make me cry," Logan said. "Of all the battles that have happened during my existence, you have to come in here and tell me that."

"I missed you in the ranks. We needed you there—too bad you didn't maintain discipline when you were off duty."

"Praefecti, it won't happen again. Let me out. Let me fight for you again," Logan said. "I've learned my lesson."

"I'm afraid it isn't up to me. But I will mention it. We lost...many."

Logan growled. The winged tyrants who thought they deserved the world above were murdering thieves. His hands twitched for the kill at the thought of them. "But the Fountain? How did you do it?"

"Distraction, Logan. We sent troops one way and then attacked from the other. It was so easy, I almost feel guilty."

The prisoner on the floor moaned softly, high-pitched and weak. Disgust rolled in Logan's gut. He understood what the flash of sliver meant. The enemy was on the floor.

"Ah, yes. I brought back a prize. What do you think?" Lucius ripped off the hood with a flourish.

Time stopped.

The angel lifted her face into the torches' firelight, her red-brown hair spilling across her shoulders. Blood and filth streaked her skin. There was cut on her cheek to her jaw, but it was already healing. She gasped for air.

Logan was lost.

The sight of her seared a path straight to Logan's heart. Desire to possess, to have, to conquer, to delight, and control left him heaving for air. He would have this female no matter the cost. No matter who he had to kill or what he had to destroy. He would make her is own.

The hounds bayed and Lucius made a motion for them to be taken out.

Crouching on the blood-sticky floor near the door, she shook. Not from fear, but from anger and her wounds. Despite this, she was ready to fight. She was a warrior. His eyes raked over her, again and again. Every muscle was coiled, her shoulders wide, legs long and powerful, but most of all the fierce, wild strength in her face. Give her a sword and every one of them would be beheaded in an instant. She was as beautiful and deadly as the legendary blade of Michael.

Logan was lost—and his only path forward was to possess her. His demon form jumped to the surface and the metal cuffs at his wrists and ankles hissed from the heat he generated. Power flooded him, making him drunk.

Lucius' voice cut through his turmoil. Instantly, Logan tampered down his demon side to appear human. She hadn't seen him. Besides, he burned through too much energy like that, but it wouldn't help him escape.

"Pretty, isn't she? I will enjoy breaking her. Then I will enjoy using her." He laughed, low and dark.

Logan tested his chains, making them rattle.

"You want out to play, too? My apologies," Lucius said. He spoke to the angel. "Be glad that one is chained to the wall. He has a very hard time keeping his pants on around beauties like you."

The angel gritted her teeth as they hauled her to her feet and ripped off the cloak covering her wings. They were broken. Filthy and broken. They hung at odd angles from her back, grey with soot and dirt. She hissed and spit as they pushed her to the wall and chained her wrists and feet. She stood opposite Logan, her broken wings splayed to each side.

Her eyes remained above him.

For the first time since he had been brought down here, someone else's screams filled the room.

*** Whew! Logan is on a roller-coaster ride of emotions, and emotions are not something he deals with very well... Hit the star! ***