Gus Waters Novels & Stories

“Police. Senior Detective. Father of one. This is my wife—Brooke.” Brooke gave a tight smirk, eyes still on the map. “We fought Gallus before,” Gabe said. “Gallus? What the hell is a Gallus?” Scott replied. “It’s a water demon—nasty, crude, and apparently one of the four lords of Hell,” Gabe replied.

I loved his eyes so much. “I have to tell you about a man named Gavin,” I started. “Gavin who?” Maverick asked. “Gavin Waters… he’s not from our pack.” “Gavin Waters? The real estate mogul? What about him?” “You’ve heard of him?” I asked hesitantly. “He grew up around my father and Seth.” Oh crap.

"Cal? He's not that young is he?" Jasper chuckles. "Everyone's young to me." Suddenly, he sets me down. Stretching, I look through the trees. I can see the lights of Grayson's house close by. How did time pass so quickly? "Even Kaden?" This time, Jasper laughs aloud. "Kaden's great, great..." He pauses. "Great, great grandparents didn't even exist when I killed by father." Startled, I look up to meet his gaze. "Remember, I'm not really alive."

He knew what he could certainly do, and what he might do if he was lucky, and what he couldn’t do barring a miracle. The problem with Gus was that he regarded himself as the miracle, in such situations. He treated danger with light contempt or open scorn, and scorn was about all he seemed to have for Pedro Flores, although Pedro had held onto his stony empire through forty violent years. Of course, when trouble came Gus was reliable, but the only man in the outfit who was really much help as a planner . was Deets. Nobody expected Deets to talk, which left him free to pay attention, and he paid careful attention, often

He needed to go and wash up to get the scent of musk off him and the dried evidence. "Why do the best moments in life always end up being the ones that entail the most work?" He muttered, wincing as aches traversed through his body. "And he needs to keep the water nearer." The room where the water was filtered wasn't far. But when one was in pain, it felt like a hundred miles. Even the walk to the door had him breathing heavily.

The bartender, a grizzled old werewolf named Gus, was already reaching for the bottle of hellfire whiskey he kept stashed under the counter for whenever my father or I came knocking. "Your Highness," he growled respectfully, sliding a glass across the polished wood. "To what do we owe the pleasure?" I knocked back the whiskey in one smooth motion, savouring the burn as it scorched my throat. "I'm looking for a rat, Gus. Goes by the name of Azazel. Seen him?" Gus's eyes darted nervously around the room. "Can't say that I have, Your Highness. But you know how it is – I see a lot of faces come through here."