Demon's Kiss (5 page)

“So do I get some answers?” she asked, squaring her shoulders and tipping up her chin.

And he could think of only one answer he wanted to give her, the kind found in hard, wet kisses and pounding release.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Dr. Paley.”

She nodded. “Okay. Hello.” Holding one arm in front of her, she whispered, “I got worms in me.”

Worms. “Well, let’s take a look”—he glanced at her chart, reminding himself of her name—“Louise.” Angling a stool a little closer, he took a seat and waited as she carefully rolled up her grimy sleeve.

Slowly, she turned her hand palm up, and he saw a large laceration, an old festering wound, the edges of the skin dark and brittle. He adjusted the light and picked up a pair of tweezers. The
shush
of the door opening and closing behind him hailed the arrival of a nurse. He frowned.

Something in Louise’s wound moved, an undulating shift, and the nurse let out a startled gasp. Asa sent her a reassuring smile over his shoulder. “Shawna, can you hunt down some containers please? I have a feeling we’ll need a few. Urine specimen bottles should do the trick.”

Shawna sent a wary glance at the woman’s blackened arm and nodded, her momentary startlement pushed aside by her professionalism. “Certainly, Dr. Paley.”

Asa turned back to his patient as Shawna slipped from the room. “Louise, I’m so glad you came back to see me.”

She looked up at him, the lank curtain of her hair falling back, and she smiled trustingly as she nodded.

Taking a deep breath, he savored the smell of her. Unwashed skin and clothes. Rich earth. Subcutaneous tissue rank with the festering wounds that marked her. And deep inside of her . . . yes . . . a lovely secret treat.

Just a whisper, but it was there, glittering like a jewel.

He was almost strong enough. Almost. Each day his energy, his power, grew.

Last week, he had been most pleased with his progress as he trolled the downtown clubs. He had sensed one of the Compact, one of more-than-moderate strength, before the sorcerer had sensed him, and he was certain he had escaped undetected. Such would not have been possible only a few months past. But he had been careful. Choosing his meals with optimum enhancement in mind. And his sacrifices, his forfeits, were beginning to pay off.

Tonight he was even more pleased. He had been strong enough to sense the failure of the minor demon tonight, strong enough to feel the ripple of magic as it had been destroyed. Somewhere close. Very close. Foolish being, to attempt to bring the Solitary before his time. The minor demon deserved its destruction, just reward for its audacity.

Asa fully intended to greet the Solitary himself, to take his rightful place at the great being’s side. There was so much to be done, and for the tasks ahead, he needed strength.

“Got worms in me,” Louise said again.

He smiled. Worms. Oh, there was so much more than worms inside of her. She was an unusual creature, one who had some sorcerer ancestry that had provided the seed for a tiny spark of magic. Enough to turn Louise from a mundane morsel into a sumptuous feast. Enough to ratchet up Asa’s power several notches.

She was a rare and wondrous find, his Louise. A delicacy to be savored. “Tell me about the worms, Louise.”

“Worms inside of me. In my arms. In my legs. I put them there to protect me from the others, the ones in my dreams. The ones inside me are small still. But I know they’ll get bigger, and . . .” She leaned closer, her eyes rolling in fear, her body tense. “The worms in my dreams’ll eat me. From the inside out. I’m food for them. And they’re evil. Bad. They come into my dreams.”

“Have you been taking the pills that Dr.”—he glanced at the chart—“Langford gave you the last time you saw him, Louise? The ones in the brown bottle?” Asa asked gently, taking his time as he closed the tweezers around the slithering worm at the opening of her wound. An earthworm. Keeping his expression neutral, he pulled it out and dropped it in the metal pan on the tray by his side.

Louise shook her head. “No. No. No pills. They won’t help. I got worms in me. Worms in me. Worms in me.” She began rocking back and forth, one hand still held in Asa’s grasp, the other lying limply at her side. “Worms in me . . . worms in me . . . worms in me . . .”

“Oh, my,” Shawna said from behind him, as Asa closed the tweezers around a second earthworm and pulled it from the wound. She opened the specimen container, but Asa shook his head and dropped the worm in the metal pan.

“I think we can easily identify the organism with a visual confirmation, Shawna.” He masked his annoyance at her quick return. He wanted Louise all to himself. Delightful, succulent Louise, who had no husband, no children, no known family, no one to notice when she simply . . . disappeared. And if her friends who lived with her in cardboard boxes beneath the Bathurst Street Bridge happened to report her absence, who would listen? “It seems we have no need of specimen bottles after all.”

“Louise, how did this happen?” Shawna asked. “Did you put these worms in your arm?”

“Yep. To carry ’em. Like a mama kangaroo carries her babies in a pouch.” Louise kept rocking. “Worms in me. My friends. They keep the other worms away. The ones that are eating me.”

Rising, Asa guided Shawna a few steps away. “She has no family? You are quite certain?”

Shawna shook her head. “I double- and triple-checked last time she was in, just like you asked me. Called social services. She has no one.” She tipped her head, her eyes shimmering as she looked at him with adoration. “You are so great, worrying about a poor homeless woman, all upset last time when she left while you were called to a different room. But you were right. She came back. Just like you said she would.” She ran the tips of her fingers along his sleeve, watching him from beneath lowered lashes, then dropped her arm with a little laugh. “I’m glad it was you she saw tonight.”

Oh, so was he. So very glad.

“Thanks. I’ve got this now, Shawna.” Asa smiled, that practiced, perfect smile that made him so damned attractive to these human females. The irony was a small secret pleasure. If they could see him as he truly was . . . He caught her gaze, held it, pouring the smallest glimmer of his will into her.

“I’ll . . . I’ll just go,” she said, her expression puzzled. “I . . . I’ll go.” She walked slowly from the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

He turned back toward Louise, who was humming quietly to herself, or perhaps to her worms.

Damn, he loved this job. The smell of blood. The mayhem. The suffering—

Louise looked up, met his gaze, and her eyes widened as he dropped his façade.

—the food supply.

Sexy.

She exhaled sharply.

It seemed he had places to go, people to see, and he had every intention of taking her with him. He hadn’t given her a great deal of choice, and even if he had, she’d have chosen to go with him.

Because the guy had just saved her from a demon.

A
demon,
for frig’s sake.

Someone needed to explain
that,
and for lack of a more cooperative candidate, she nominated Ciarran.

Which meant they weren’t exactly at cross-purposes. He wanted her with him, and for now, the idea had merit. It was the best way for her to get the information she wanted.

Back in the motel, she’d asked him, and he’d stared at her for an infinite moment, his eyes hot. Hungry. For a second she’d been afraid he would kiss her . . . or maybe she’d
wished
he would. What was it with that?

She sighed. Later, she would find another opportunity to ask questions. Demand replies. Something other than the monosyllabic grunts she’d gotten thus far. And if sticking to Ciarran like a fly to flypaper was the only way to get those answers, then that was exactly what she planned to do.

Except, maybe that wasn’t the best analogy. Flies on flypaper invariably ended up dead.

Following him around the side of the building, Clea stopped short at the sight of the sleek black motorcycle sitting in the pallid circle cast by the dim overhead light. The emblem read DUCATI. She didn’t know anything about bikes, but this one looked like it could break the sound barrier.

Which meant she was not getting on that thing. Definitely not. She’d survived one horrific crash, and she had a firm policy against inviting another.

“I think I’ll take my car,” she said. If it started. There were never any guarantees.

He paused but didn’t turn, and she thought she saw his shoulders tighten just a little. “No, you’ll stay with me.”

And he sounded none too thrilled about that.

She thought about climbing onto that bike, pressed up against him. Nope. Not a plan. In a choice between Ciarran and Ciarran’s motorcycle, she wasn’t sure which was more dangerous.

“Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll give you a ride in my car.” Problem solved.

He did glance at her then, and the look he gave her spoke volumes. “There is no longer anyplace that is safe for you.”

“No longer anyplace that is safe for me? You do realize how melodramatic that sounds?” Clea waited for him to laugh, to clarify his point. Of course he meant that the Blue Bay wasn’t safe, because that horrible gray
thing,
that demon, might have friends. That must be what he meant.

“There is
no
safe place, Clea.” His voice was low and rough. Intense. A shiver chased along her spine. “Not here at”—he glanced at the sign—“the Blue Bay Motel. Not in Toronto. Not here in Ontario. Not anywhere in the mortal world.”

“What?” She sucked in a breath, her mind spinning as his words sank in. She lived in a typical city, with its boxy malls, megaplex movie theaters, and a skyline that boasted the tallest freestanding tower in the world. The crime rate here was a bare two shades above zero. And he was telling her it wasn’t safe? What did he mean? That there really was no place safe?

That was a horrible thought.

He shook his head, exhaling a hiss of air from between his teeth. “I am your only safe place now.”

That thought was only marginally less bad.

Just as she was about to protest, he added, “That minor demon wouldn’t work alone. Others are likely to follow.”

Okay. That got her attention. Made her weigh her options.

Demon . . . bike . . . demon . . . bike . . .

She opened her mouth to argue in favor of her car, but catching sight of the glint of steel in his expression, she decided against it. Hadn’t Gram always taught her that strength lay in choosing one’s battles?

“Bike it is,” she said, forcing the words out. The decision wasn’t an easy one, no matter how glib she tried to sound.

Ciarran nodded, settling her pack on the back of the motorcycle and strapping it in place before he turned to face her.

“The man who was here earlier, the one you called Wired Guy, where did he go?” he asked. She’d mentioned that encounter in a babbling torrent of words as he’d questioned her about the moments before the demon arrived.

“I sent him up the road to the Motel Seven.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if he went, but if he’s the one you’re looking for, it’s a place to start.”

The wind swirled down from the north, biting through her thin sweater, and she shivered. Frowning, she cast a glance over her shoulder at the front door of the motel. She had a coat, didn’t she? Or had she forgotten to bring one? She thought back through her day, the cemetery, the wet dirt that was pushed into Gram’s grave, the dull ache in her heart. She’d gone back to the apartment to change for work, and, yeah, she’d forgotten to bring a coat.

“Put this on. It will warm you.” Ciarran slid his sculpted arms out of the sleeves of his leather jacket. Buff. The guy was buff. Hooking one finger under the collar, he held out his hand, offering her the jacket.

There was a tattoo on his left forearm, a dragon. Its head stretched toward the black glove, its body winding upward, aligned with the bulge of his muscle. The tail meandered up and around above the elbow. In this light, the dragon looked black, but its scales seemed to shimmer with a hint of blue and green. And its eyes were bright, a turquoise of incredible luminosity.

Oh, man, she’d always been a sucker for a well-drawn tattoo, and this one was absolutely gorgeous.

The black T-shirt Ciarran was wearing left nothing to the imagination. She could see every ridge of his toned abdomen, and his low-slung, washed-out jeans made her want to catch her fingers in the belt loops and haul him just a little closer. No. A lot closer. If warming her was his goal, that would be a great way to go about it.

When she made no move to take his jacket, he stepped close, and she couldn’t help it. She leaned forward, inhaling the scent of him, almost touching her face to the base of his throat.

Trembling, she stood unbearably still, every nerve sensitized, every cell alive as he stepped around behind her and settled the jacket over her shoulders. A scent teased her, tantalized her. Masculine. Seductive. A little spicy, a lot sexy. God, the coat smelled like
him.

She shivered, slammed her eyes shut. She was losing it.
Losing
it.

“What about you?” she asked, her voice thick. “You’ll be cold.”

Yeah. Right. She could feel the heat of him at her back, and she moved without conscious thought, tipping her head to one side, letting his breath warm her skin. She sensed him leaning in, his lips inches from the side of her throat. Inches. A sweet, sharp tingle of awareness sizzled through her. If she leaned back just a bit, she could rub against him, feel the solid wall of his body. She wanted to do just that, wanted it more than she ever could recall wanting anything.

And that yearning frightened her.

God, he was the most singularly sensual man she’d ever seen. And she was so hungry for him. She craved him with a wet, throbbing ache that made her press her thighs together and wish with all her heart that she was naked and he was naked and that they were on any reasonably comfortable horizontal surface.

The asphalt parking lot would do.

“I’m having a bad day,” she said. Maybe that was the explanation. Grief, loss, stress. Maybe she just needed to have crazy, mindless sex with him, to reaffirm the fact that she was human, that she was alive. Too much death and sorrow and fear for a single day, the culmination of watching Gram slowly fade away for months and months.

Not to mention the fact that demons and magic and filaments of light were a little outside her normal scope of experience. Oh, she’d always known she had some kind of mojo, some kind of weird protection thing going on. But a dead demon . . . shredded by razor-sharp ribbons of light . . . It was way too much.

“I know about your bad day. I am sorry for your loss.” His voice was a smoky rumble beside her left ear. Her insides twisted in response. It didn’t help that she could sense his arousal, feel his desire pulsing from his hard body. It definitely didn’t help that she knew he wanted her just about as much as she wanted him.

Because she didn’t think that
her
having a bad day explained
his
passion.

“How do you know? About my bad day? And how did you know to come here just when the demon arrived? How—” The words caught in her throat as he raised his hand, the one with the glove, and ran a leather-encased finger along her jaw.

Something stirred deep inside her, twining, writhing, light and power, reaching out toward his hand as though called. She turned her face into his touch.

He made a sound low in his throat and jerked back.

“Later,” he said, his voice tight. “I will explain later. But now we must find the keeper, before it is too late.”

“Wired Guy . . . He’s the one you’re calling the keeper?”

“Yes.”

“Keeper of what?”

“Keeper of the minor demon that I terminated.”

Of course.

She hesitated, almost asked him,
too late for what?
But instinct told her he wouldn’t answer, so she gave it up.

His broad chest expanded against her back as he inhaled. He was so close. So big. Solid male muscle and barely leashed power. One taste. One brush of her lips across that hard, luscious mouth. She just wanted, no,
needed,
one taste of him. She started to turn toward him, felt him stiffen.

He moved then, three strides, and he was back beside the motorcycle, and she felt the loss of his heat, his presence, like a physical blow. The power inside her shriveled, drawing into itself. She was left with the strange thought that somehow she was tied to him, linked to him, that the inexplicable force inside her was lured by the ribbons of light inside him.

Or perhaps not lured to the light but to the darkness. Because she did sense darkness. No. More than sensed it.
Knew
it was there with a cold and sharp certainty.

The thought gave her pause.

But darkness or light, or some terrifying combination of the two, he was the one who could explain the power that pulsed inside her. The one who could explain the demon, the light filaments, the magic.

And, according to him, he was her only safe harbor.

“Okay. Let’s do this your way,” she said. “Let’s find the keeper, and once he’s found, you give me some answers. Agreed?”

“We need to leave.” He straddled the bike, muscled thighs framing the seat. The sight of him, harsh features softened by the fall of honey brown hair, the golden skin and taut muscle, the look in his iridescent eyes . . . he made her mouth grow dry.

Eyeing the bike, she battled back her wariness and climbed on behind him, her thighs forming a notch that cradled him, her hips tight against worn denim, her breasts pressed to his T-shirt-encased back.

He gunned the engine, and as she felt the powerful hum against the insides of her thighs, she realized that he hadn’t agreed to a blessed thing.

Not a single blessed thing.