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too square.
    Sasha had been Stephen when I met her.
    She had spent a childhood at the hands of freaks who made her suffer for being born in the wrong body. She’d spent an adulthood tracking them down and sending them to the hell they deserved. Some of those freaks had been monsters in other ways too.
    That’s where I had come into her life.
    I’d helped her boot the last of those sadistic perverts into the fiery depths of Satan’s asshole. After the dust settled, she had gone on to make herself whole. The surgeons had performed magic, but the therapists never could solve all her issues, or settle all her homicidal rage.
    I completely understood.
    She’d opened Cordite as a place where hit men and assassins could be entertained and do business if they wanted. The club catered to the criminal element, but it was a no-man’s-land. You didn’t start shit in Cordite. Sasha would bury you out back if you did.
    Her hands touched my shoulders lightly as she leaned in and kissed my cheek. Electrolysis smooth skin brushed mine. She smelled like green apples. Stepping back, her fingers lightly brushed over the top of her insane cleavage.
    â€œIt is lovely to see you, Deacon. Did I hear you say you were here to see Ivan?”
    I took her hand. It was almost as big as mine, the knuckles still large from years of fighting. Her nails were perfectly polished, refined, elegant, and closely clipped so they wouldn’t snag in a trigger guard. I brought it up to my lips. “Speaking of lovely, Sasha, you are a vision tonight.” My lips pressed quickly to the back of her hand. The skin was warm and smelled of antibacterial soap. “I am here to see the Russian.”
    She pulled her hand back as I stood up and used it to fan the air by her face. Her cheeks were bright beneath her base. She rolled her eyes and batted long, thick eyelashes. She smiled. “I see you have not lost your charm, Deacon Chalk.”
    â€œMy momma raised me right.”
    Her waxed eyebrow arched. “Are you planning to start trouble in my club?”
    I smiled at her. “You know I never plan to start trouble.”
    â€œThat may well be, but somehow it usually happens around you. Try to keep things civilized, darling.” She turned and began walking into the club, fingers beckoning us to follow her.
    Me start trouble?
    Never happens.

6
    Ivan Dragonovich wasn’t truly handsome. His dark eyes glittered inside deep caves carved between jutting cheekbones and a craggy brow. His nose pinched at the bridge and flared at the tip like a Roman boxer who always lost. His lips were thin, set in a permanent frown over a chin with a dimple so deep it looked like a special effect. Black hair swept back from his temples, cropped short and slicked down with some form of gel. None of his features were appealing on their own, but taken together they made a face that you didn’t get bored looking at, and you didn’t forget.
    He stood as we stepped into his private room, separated from the hustle and the bustle of the rest of the nightclub. Sasha shut the door behind us, closing off the noise with a shush. The Russian moved around the table to greet us. He was not tall, maybe 5’10”, and stocky but still lithe. His suit was expertly tailored, the expensive material caressing him like a lover. It commanded attention without drawing notice to itself. Now I did feel underdressed.
    â€œDeacon Chalk. Is good to see you, my friend.” His voice was deep, stilted with thick accent. You would think that being over 1500 years old he would lose it, but he never had. Maybe the accent wasn’t from English being his second language, but rather from human being his second form.
    Ivan Dragonovich was a dragon.
    Ivan Dragonovich, Russian hit man extraordinaire, was the human form of Zmey Gorynych, the Three-headed Wyrm of Doom. He had terrorized ancient Russia, wreaking havoc and raining destruction upon the lives of