Demon's Kiss (3 page)

“Way,” Darqun grunted.

“I think our two problems are really one,” Ciarran said. “Demons can’t walk around without their summoner. And yet, all of a sudden, they can. Last month I found a minor demon sucking on rat carcasses in a condemned building. There was no sign of its keeper. And today, I’m sitting here breathing Asag’s stink.”

Drumming his fingers once in a slow roll across the tabletop, Ciarran fell silent for a moment. “He’s feeding, growing powerful, preparing himself for something.”

“He’s gonna try to bring over the Solitary,” Javier said.

Darqun snarled and came halfway out of his seat. “And he’s gonna fucking fail.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he is.” Ciarran rose, slid his leather jacket back on and turned to go. He paused, glanced over his shoulder at Darqun as the other sorcerer got to his feet.

“Two
hybrids.
Booth at the back,” he said. “Which means Asag made you the night you were both here, Dar, my friend. Made you, and evaded you, and now he’s sent his lackeys to watch you.” Ciarran smiled. “Time to clean out the vermin.”

“Ciarran, wait.” Darqun caught him by the arm as he began to walk away. “You’ve already had your fun for the night. Leave the two
hybrids
for Jav. How’s the kid ever going to learn to use his power if we don’t let him practice?”

A snort of derision escaped Javier. “At least I can move without my joints creaking,” he muttered.

“There’s a third problem.” Darqun paused, his expression intent as he met Ciarran’s gaze. “The grandmother. She died. Cancer. Funeral was this morning. The girl, Clea, she’s alone now.” Something flickered in Darqun’s eyes, memories, ghosts. “I thought you’d want to know.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Ciarran bit back a curse. Just what he needed, a responsibility he’d never sought but one he could not deny. He’d check on her. Make sure she had enough money to survive. And then he’d leave her the hell alone.

The girl had lived, and a piece of him had died. And the only one he had to blame was himself, for making a careless mistake in the face of a cataclysmic disaster.

“You know what Sunday is?” His gaze met Dar’s.

The other sorcerer nodded, his mouth drawn in a grim line. “Yeah. I know.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Ciarran turned away, anxious now to get the hell out of the bar, away from the people, the scent, the dark temptation to do something he would regret. He was going to get on his bike and ride north, see if he could find the demon he’d been tracking for the past three nights.

He shoved open the door, turning his face into the cold wind, welcoming the bite of it.

She’s alone now.

Alone.

Except for him.

And Sunday would be the twenty-year anniversary of the day she’d witnessed the start of his trip to hell.

Slapping her palms against her thighs, she pushed herself upright and headed to the back office to check the thermostat. It felt like a morgue locker in here.

As she cranked the heat a few degrees, the sound of a heavy footfall drifted to the back office, making the fine hairs at her nape stiffen and rise. A doorknob rattled; then something scraped across the floor with an eerie rasp. Clea’s heart flipped over in her chest. There was someone out front. Oh, man, she hoped it wasn’t the wired guy.

Forcing her feet to take one step and another, she walked slowly through the office door, back to the reception area. With a gasp, she froze, pressing the flat of one hand against the base of her throat.

“Gram?” The word escaped her on a whisper.

Gram
. There she stood, at the far side of the lobby, staring out the window, her ash blond hair streaked with gray, tied in a loose bun at her nape, her slim body clothed in black pants and her favorite green sweater, looking tall and strong as she had before the cancer had done its worst, eating away at her from the inside out. Only . . . it wasn’t possible. Gram was dead.

And buried. Buried just that morning, beneath an overcast October sky and a damp blanket of light rain. And the dull thud of wet earth.

Clea made a soft noise, low in her throat, half groan, half sob. It was enough to grab Gram’s attention, and she turned, smiled.

Smiled. A straight smile. Even. The sides of her mouth curving in perfect symmetry.

The smile wasn’t right. Not Gram’s smile.

Gram’s mouth had sagged a little on the left thanks to one of the tumors, the one on the facial nerve. Cranial nerve VII, Clea thought absently. She’d looked it up in her neurology text when Gram’s face had first started to change.

She studied the woman by the window. Not Gram’s eyes . . . Gram’s eyes had always been warm and loving, even at the end, even after the cancer had done its worst.

“You’re not Gram,” Clea whispered. “You aren’t real. I know that.”

“Right. And wrong.” The voice was terrifying, not quite human, and Clea felt it sink into her and grab hold, like a barbed hook snagging a fish. “Not your Gram. But definitely real.”

The air shimmered and twisted, like cool breeze hitting sun-baked pavement; and then the illusion of Gram was gone, gone, her image replaced by—

Oh, God, the thing that stood in her place—

Clea stumbled back, one step and then another, a scream locked in her throat, adrenaline pumping through her system. Her foot caught the swivel chair, knocking it back, nearly sending her to her knees. She recovered, clawing at the wall as she backed up, faster now, her fingers scrabbling for balance, the hideous thing before her filling her vision, stalking her.

“Think of me as the Big Bad Wolf.” Its voice was like ground glass. “You should have believed the vision. Things would have been easier that way. Easier for me.”

Her breath coming in sharp, harsh gasps, Clea spun and barreled into the back office, slamming the door shut behind her and shoving the bolt home.
Where to go? Where to go?

There was no other door. Heart pounding, she leaped for the small window at the back of the office, her hands shaking as she yanked on the lock.
Come on. Come on.
It released, and she curled her fingers under the handle, jerking up with all her might.

Come on!

The window didn’t budge. Her nails tore as she clawed at the old paint that formed heavy blobs on the window frame. Sealed tight.

A strangled sob escaped her. She was trapped, and it was there, right behind her. She could hear the dull thud of its steps.

The familiar heat that heralded her strange power uncoiled in her belly, and she hitched in her breath, waiting, waiting. The burst of light that had saved her from harm more than once was there, just beneath the surface. It shimmered and writhed, and she felt the tips of her fingers tingle, like she could shoot sparks, and then . . . nothing. It did
nothing.

“Nooooo.” She exhaled on a desperate moan.

The door splintered with an ugly crunching sound, and Clea spun, her back pressed against the cool metal of the filing cabinet, her heart beating so hard that she could feel it banging against her ribs.

A clawed hand reached through the hole in the door, long, pointed nails scratching at the knob, thick gray fingers closing around it, twisting slowly, slowly, to the right.

Her heart hammered. The taste of vomit burned the back of her tongue.

The door swung open.

OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod—

The thing before her was a monster. Its skin was rough, cracked, and gray as death, like asphalt pavement that could have used replacing years past. And its face—Oh, God—its face was twisted and cruel, and all she could see was a huge gaping maw and row after row of sharp, jagged teeth. It reached for her, hands like reptilian claws coming toward her, the nails curved and blackened, and she could smell sulfur and the stink of rotting meat.

Terror sifted through her body, so sharp and stark she weaved dizzily from the force of it. Every breath a harsh, desperate rasp as she battled her fear, she sank to the floor, her legs giving way from under her.

Reaching behind her, she frantically traced her hand across the linoleum tiles, looking for something,
anything,
she could use as a weapon. Her fingers contacted cold floor, and dust, the leg of a chair, and—yes— something sharp. She snatched at it, dragged her hand up, glanced down. A thumbtack.

Useful.

Not.

She was breathing so fast and hard, she felt light-headed. Not good. Not good.
Slow it down, Clea.
Breathe nice and slow. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Stay in control
.
In control.

The thing took a step forward, moving leisurely, as though it enjoyed her terror.

And that pissed her off.

Focusing every thought, every fear, she pushed outward, trying to channel the power inside her. Now would be a very good time for it to make an appearance.

Because whatever this terrifying . . . terrible . . .
thing
was, it wasn’t getting her without a fight.

Gliding through her veins with a surge of pain, the power rippled and stirred, a sharp heat, but she couldn’t make it gather, couldn’t guide it the way she so desperately needed to. She’d never tried to summon it before. It had always just come, without effort, without thought. Maybe that was the problem.

The gray beast took another step closer, and the smell pummeled her, stronger than before, fetid and dank.

“Don’t fail me now,” she muttered to herself, closing her eyes, focusing her energy, fists curled, nails digging into her palms, hoping that sheer will and determination would bring forth the power. “Come on!”

Closer. She could feel the thing stalking her, feel its cruel intent and the heat of its breath, smell the stink of decay.

She kicked out at it, and it laughed, an ugly, wet sound. Her blood roared in her ears. Scuttling back a bit farther, she wedged herself behind the dubious barrier of the filing cabinet.

The sound of a masculine voice, low and smooth, drifted from the lobby, making her head jerk up and her pulse catch. “Demon. Where is your keeper?”

The monster turned away from Clea, toward the speaker.

She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, trying to hold back a panicked cry, not wanting to do anything to call the monster’s attention back to her. As it moved away, she flung herself to her feet and ripped open the desk drawer, her fingers closing around a gold-leaf letter opener that bore the crest of the Blue Bay Motel.

“Where is your keeper, demon?” Again that voice, so calm, so confident. “Have you been left to your own devices?”

With the demon focused elsewhere, Clea spun toward the sound of that voice, brandishing the letter opener, breathing heavily as she peered through the open office door into the lobby.

She saw a man, broad-shouldered and sleekly muscled, clothed in faded denim and well-worn black leather. He was surrounded by a glow of light, or maybe it was coming from him, silver strands of moonlight that fanned out and around him, glittering, liquid, bending and twirling. . . . The sight seemed familiar somehow.

His face was both magazine-cover perfect and ruthlessly cruel as he stared at the thing that stalked her.

Demon.
He’d called it a demon.

I want to wake up. I want to wake up.
Clea reached down, her hand shaking so badly she could barely make it do her bidding, and she pinched her thigh. Hard. Only she didn’t wake up, and through the open office door she could see that vile gray beast circling, circling, and the man, oh, God, the man just standing there, waiting for it to come.

Opening her mouth, she tried to call a warning, but panic trapped the words in her throat.

“Ciarran D’Arbois,” the demon hissed. “You meddle where you have no place, sorcerer.”

Ciarran D’Arbois
.
Sorcerer.
Clea frowned, chasing a memory, or perhaps a dream, but it eluded her.

She sank her teeth into her lower lip, choking back a cry as the demon lunged, claws curved and raised in deadly intent, mouth hanging open to bare endless rows of razor-sharp teeth.

The filaments of light surrounding the sorcerer glowed stronger, rippling as he stepped aside, a fluid movement of grace and speed.

“You think to stop me?” The demon laughed, the sound soggy and loose, like a beast slurping at a carcass. “The conduit must be returned to the gate. Tonight, the great master of us all, the Solitary, comes.”

“The great master of us all?” Ciarran laughed, a low, menacing chuckle. “Not
my
master.”

Lashing out, the demon raked the tip of one claw along Ciarran’s arm, cutting through leather and cloth, leaving a thick line of red, red blood that welled and dripped to the floor.

He was injured. Bleeding. Clea stared at the blood. Terror surged inside her, escaping in a short, sharp cry as the thing lunged once more. And still Clea couldn’t make herself look away, uncertain if it was worse to watch or to hide, not knowing what was to come.

She thought of the Discovery Channel special about the sharks. Of the way the shark’s teeth tore through flesh and bone. This thing, this
demon
, would do that to this man, Ciarran, this beautiful, terrifying man who was about to be killed in front of her.

And then the demon would kill
her
, make her bleed just like Ciarran . . .
oceans
of blood. . . .

RunawayRunawayRunaway . . .
Only she couldn’t. Her legs were like noodles, and she couldn’t make them bear her weight as she tried to stand.

Besides, the guy had come to save her. She hoped. The least she could do was watch his back.

With her gold-leaf letter opener.

Because it seemed that the power inside her that had saved her butt more than once over the years was definitely not making an appearance tonight. With a hiss of frustration, she closed her fingers tightly around the edge of the desk.

“Tell me you aren’t so brain-dead that you think I’ll let the Solitary pass the gate.” Ciarran smiled, a curving of masculine lips that held far more threat than humor. He didn’t even glance at the nasty gash on his arm.

“You cannot stop it, sorcerer.” The demon’s head swiveled, and it pinned Clea with its burning gaze. “
This
conduit is strong, stronger than any that has come before, laced with
your
magic.” The demon laughed again. “And for that, I thank you.”

Ciarran shook his head. And then he moved. At least, Clea thought he moved. Suddenly, the lobby was full of glittering, sharp-edged strands that swelled and swayed with lethal beauty, catching the demon about its arms, its legs, its throat.

Filaments of woven light.

A light very much like the one she had tried to call forth, only bigger, brighter, stronger. Controlled. She blinked. Ciarran could channel the power. It didn’t rush out of him in a stuttering unrestrained burst, the way it did from her.

His
light,
his
power, flowed and danced.

It was beautiful, calling something inside her that she couldn’t quite grasp.

“Go find your keeper, demon. I offer you this one chance.”

“My keeper is weak, and I am strong. Strong enough to stand separated from him by miles. Strong enough to feast on you, sorcerer.” The demon circled, watching his opponent.

“Then you
will
join your Solitary this night.” Ciarran shifted the palm of his right hand up, sending a ripple through the shards of light. “But your meeting will be on the far side of the gate, demon. Enjoy your trip to hell.”

Staring in frozen fascination, Clea felt her stomach turn a slow, sick roll as the deadly filaments sliced through cracked gray hide, spewing blood-drenched pieces of demon all over the walls, the floor, the ceiling. A bit landed on her cheek, and she slapped at it, panting now, flapping her hand at her skin as it sizzled and hissed. She could feel it burning. She looked around, her mouth opening and closing in soundless terror as the other bits crackled and fizzed and smoke curled up, the smell so bad that she gagged and gagged again.