A Demon And Her Scot (Welcome To Hell) (3 page)

Apparently, she came to the same conclusion because she sighed. “I really hoped we wouldn’t have to do this the hard way.”

“Hard is right. Come sit on my lap, and ye will see just how much.” He patted his knee, surprised to note his words held truth. For the first time in a
long
time, his cock roused itself for something other than a piss. What a shame she’d probably not let him use it.

Fascinated by the surge of blood to his groin region, he didn’t catch her leaning forward to grasp the table. He did, however, watch with a bit of incredulity, though, as she hefted it and flung it out of the way, sending it crashing into one of the creeping shadows.

Damn. The lass had some strength in those pearly white arms. Still, a little bit of muscle was no match for a full-grown male like himself. He crooked a finger at her and beckoned. “Come over here and wrestle something a bit harder.”

“Eager, are we?” she taunted with curved lips.

“Like a virgin in a brothel, lass.”

“Such eloquence. No wonder the girls are beating down a path to your door.”

“Don’t you mean a path to my dick?”

“More like a weed-whacker.”

Oh, that comment got a wheezing cough of a laugh. He would have retorted; however, time was up. Before she could make her next move, or comment, the shadows surged from the corners, hungry for her lively spirit.

Given her attitude and remarks, Niall really didn’t feel inspired to come to the obnoxious harpy’s aid. Altruism wasn’t something Niall usually practiced. His idea of mercy usually consisted of a quick death versus a prolonged screaming one—it all depended on his mood. Given his moral views on helping the weak, he planned to do what he usually did. Sit back and enjoy the action. Yet…he quite enjoyed the lass’s fiery nature, even if it was unwomanly.

In his day, women didn’t question their lords, or men. They did as they were told. They catered to men. They knew their place. They also wore skirts down to their ankles, hiding their feminine attributes. Sure, times had changed. He’d seen the news and watched as they burned bras—an act he whole-heartedly approved given the infernal things never wanted to come off. They wanted equal rights. He could handle that, but in return, they could fight their own damned battles. Even unfair ones such as the one the woman before him faced.

However, this outspoken lass managed something very few had and in just a couple minutes time. She’d gotten him to forget he hated being alive—or given his vampiric state, was the more correct term undead? Whatever the case, she’d gotten him to feel something other than misery. She made him want to…well, fuck
, for one. Didn’t that deserve some kind of acknowledgement? And he could use some exercise. He’d not swung his sword—flesh or metal—in quite some time.

Despite how thinking with his cock paid off last time, he nevertheless lunged from his seat, straight at her, determined to practice some rusty chivalry and tuck her behind him out of harm’s way. Bad move. He almost got a close shave for his magnanimity. Only quick reflexes, dulled slightly by the alcohol marinating his system, had him ducking the lightning
-quick draw of the axe strapped across her back. He lost a few locks of hair despite his quick action, though. The demon behind him? Not as lucky.

It seemed it wasn’t Niall’s head she targeted
, but the miscreant using him as a shield to sneak up from behind. He didn’t have time to admire her quick handiwork or express his disbelief about the fact she could even wield the massive weapon with enough strength to decapitate a minor demon. Violence erupted, and as usual, Niall ended up in center of it, but for once, not only did he not instigate it, he didn’t fight alone.

Swinging his fists and connecting with pulpy flesh, he jumped into the battle with a berserker cry and glee. Nothing beat a good
old-fashioned fight, even a fight where his services weren’t required. It didn’t take long for him to grasp an interesting fact. The lass required no man’s aid. Despite appearing all woman on the outside, she possessed a warrior’s spirit and skill. He paused to admire her agility because, hot damn, she was a sight to behold.

Swinging her axe like an extension of her body, the yellow-eyed lassie took on the wraithlike demons who dared attack. Without pause or undue exertion, she twirled her weapon, and wherever she made contact, limbs hewed off and dark fluid erupted in a geyser.

Most women Niall knew cowered or hid from violence. Or at least they did in his time. The gore and wailing deaths of the creatures didn’t slow his mouthy lass one bit. On the contrary, a fierce smile stretched her lips, her eyes glowed an excited, maleficent gold, and laughter bubbled from her. Wondrous, joyous laughter, which coincided with each deadly swing.

“Take that
, you bastard,” she crowed. “Die, you spawn of the pit,” she cackled. “Oops, don’t lose your head now,” she taunted as another dropped to the ground. Her attitude lit something within him, a fire he’d thought to never feel again. It warmed his undead heart—and gave him a major boner.

Fascinated, and aroused, he watched as she danced among her attackers until she stood alone, the other patrons giving her a wide, respectful berth lest she turn her attention to them. Despite her adept handiwork, Niall stood his ground and clapped when she pirouetted to face him once again.

“Fantastic, lass. Beautiful axe work.” For a female. On the one hand, Niall had never been so disturbed in his life by a scene of violence with a woman at its apex and, while at the same time, so turned on.

Leaning on the haft of her weapon, only a slight sheen of sweat glistening on her skin—skin he wanted to lick—she gave him a partial bow of acknowledgement. “Now that we’ve ascertained I can beat your hairy arse in a fight, will you come willingly?”

She thought she could take him? She obviously didn’t know of his reputation. More rusty laughter croaked from him. “Apparently, no one warned you about me. In my time I was known as the Fearsome McGregor.”

“Never heard of you.”

“Sure you have. I killed hundreds with my sword and bare hands.”

“Sorry. Still doesn’t ring a bell and I’ve seen all the Pit documentaries on the greatest marauders
currently in residence.”

“I was a laird!”

“And I was a queen. Big fucking deal. Now, if you’re done trying to convince me of your greatness, we have places to go and a devil to see.”

“The answer is still no.”

“Um, did you not just watch me in action? Do you really think I care what you think? Willing or not, you are coming with me.” She thumped her axe head on the floor for emphasis.

Hot damn if he didn’t want to take her on and teach her a lesson. Strangely, though, he also didn’t want to hurt her, which was what would happen if she persisted in her foolish attempts to get him to accompany her. But what could he do to avoid a fight? Something he’d not ever done in his previous life.

“Oh, I’ll
come
.” He winked, a flirtatious act he’d not thought himself capable of. “First, though, you’ll have to catch me.”

And, with those challenging words, Niall waved goodbye and teleported away.

Where the fuck did he go?

Aella stared at the spot her target had vanished from and cursed. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Whirling on her heel, she fixed the barkeep with a fierce stare. “Where has the Scot gone?”

The massive black demon with one horn and scars all over his body dared to shrug and turn away. Seriously? Had he not just watched her decimate most of his patrons? How dare he ignore her question!

With a low growl, she leapt across the room, landing on the counter, one fist immediately grasping the bartender’s remaining horn while her other held a dagger to it. Yanking his head back, she forced him to look at her.

“I asked you a question, demon,” she snarled.

He didn’t seem to care. “You are asking for trouble, hunter.”

“My actions are sanctioned by the dark lord himself.”

“You are not currently in the imperial ring. His word holds little sway out here.”

“Maybe, but my sharp knife says you will give me the answers I seek.” To show intent, she dragged the tip over his skin, and a dark bead of blood welled. She was ready for him when he bucked, intending to throw her balance off. Not the brightest of moves. Aella never uttered empty threats. It took just one slice of her sharp blade to sever his horn. Screaming, he slapped a clawed hand to the gushing hole in his head.

“You bitch!”

“And your executioner if you don’t start talking. Or should I take off a few more body parts first for fun?” She smiled sweetly as she aimed a pointed glance down.

He blanched, and his earlier defiance melted. “
The Scot’s got one of those amulets. Them teleporting ones.”

“I figured that. But where did it take him?”

“To his tower.”

“You mean he has a home? My sources claimed this bar as his permanent residence.”

“Because he rarely leaves here. He does, however, have a place, by the bluffs in the ninth ring, right on the edge of the Darkling Sea.” Now that he’d chosen to talk, the barkeep couldn’t give her enough details of the Scot’s lair. It didn’t mean Aella spared his life. As his body slumped to the ground, the eyes staring sightlessly, she stood and addressed the remaining patrons watching in silence. None dared interfere.

“Let this be a lesson to those who would defy our lord. Or more aptly
, defy me.”

Wiping her dagger clean, she sheathed it and strode out of the dirty bar into the even filthier street. Fuck, she hated visiting this part of Hell. However, her location wasn’t to blame for her mood. The hairy Scot had bested her. How irritating.

Aella prided herself on not getting taken by surprise and of covering her bases. Her attention to detail was what made her a good hunter. Yet, somehow, in her research, which in her defense didn’t amount to much, the Scot’s file sparse, she’d failed to note the bastard had a secondary residence. Which really sucked because having never seen it before, she’d have to translocate to the nearest portal in the ninth ring and probably walk. Ugh. Just another thing the Scot would end up sorry for when she caught up to him. And, this time, she wouldn’t play nice.

Niall eyed the waves buffeting the cliff, the dark churning waters slapping against the rocks and scattering droplets in a lighter gray spray. For the most part, the River Styx meandered through the nine rings of Hell, its murky poisonous waters fairly calm except when one of its deadly denizens popped up to say hello to the fresh souls traversing. Charon, the robed entity who navigated the newly damned from the outer shore to Hell itself, apparently had a deal with them. Rumor had it he fed the water monsters and made bargains to have them scare the newbies whilst making himself appear grand, battling them off with the pole he used to guide his boat.

But those creatures
in the Styx were like babies compared to the humps he saw undulating here on the outer edge of the nine circles where the Styx spilled into the roiling sea. Where the vast ocean with its wild waves and endless horizon went was anyone’s guess. None who sailed its waters ever returned. Niall had almost joined an expedition or two just to find out, yet while he wanted to end his existence, he feared more ending up the meal of a kraken or other large sea monster, undead in its stomach, spending eternity getting digested and resurrected.

Damned cursed bargain.

As he stood upon the cliff, he couldn’t help but reflect, as he had hundreds of times before, the events that brought him to this place. A depressing tale of male stupidity that, thankfully, had never made it to song or history, probably because he’d killed the bards who dared put lyric to his shame.

It all began with his lust for a woman. Not just any woman. Fionnaghal McTavish
…

Centuries before…

Only one stroke away from the win. I can do this.

Kneeling in the spongy growth, Niall eyeballed the ragged hole and gauged the distance between it and his ball. An easy shot if he didn’t choke
, and the moment he’d dreamed of when he’d made his bargain with the devil—in blood on parchment longer than his arm, with tight writing and clauses that made his head spin. The one thing he made sure of, though, in all the fancy wording, was that in exchange for his soul, he’d be the world’s greatest golfer. But mastering the sport wasn’t all he’d get; he’d also get his chance to become more than just laird of his small demesne.

See, Niall had made a wager with his long-time rival, Donnan. Whoever won this match would earn not just the title of baron, but the hand of the fair maiden Fionnaghal too. Niall’s one true love. A fair-skinned, red-haired maiden, she’d captured Niall’s heart from the first time he’d glimpsed her—and it didn’t hurt she was her father’s only bairn, making her heir to some of the richest land in
Scotland. Soon to be his land.

The watching crowd held their breath as Niall stood from his crouch and set himself in position. A stiff breeze made his tartan flutter about his bare knees. Time for the devil to keep his part of the bargain. He had so far, ensuring Niall remained a point ahead most of the game until an unfortunate stroke of luck on Donnan’s part on the sixteenth hole landed him straight in the cup, tying them for strokes. The bastard.

Niall needed to sink this putt for the win. He pulled back his club and swung, a light tap to send the little ball jouncing across the green. It tumbled and rolled, losing speed fast in the uneven terrain. Niall eyed it intently. Five feet. Four. Three. Two. It teetered on the edge of the hole.

Fuckin’ hell.

A murmur rose, and Niall just about cursed aloud when it toppled in. The excited roar of his clan rose in a wave of sound as he claimed victory.

I did it! I won!

Everything for a while after that glorious moment blurred. He remembered in snippets the way his clan bore him up on their shoulders and carted him back to the castle, where the baron clapped him on the back and congratulated him. He remembered smiling at Fionnaghal, who looked away, ducking her head in obvious shyness as was proper for a woman of her station.

With everyone gathered, and in the eyes of his clan and that of his soon-to-be father-in-law
, Niall pledged himself to Fionnaghal. The wedding was set for three days hence. With the formalities out of the way, they feasted, celebrating his good fortune. Wine and ale flowed freely, much of it into Niall’s mouth.

Hours later, a little drunk—make that a lot—Niall made his way to the castle ramparts, hoping for some fresh air—and a place to piss. The latrines on the main level overflowed, and besides, he took perverse pleasure in pissing off the wall. Soon to be his wall.

Hauling his cock out from under his plaid, he balanced on the parapet and surveyed the land surrounding him.
My land.
And it had only cost him his soul. Bah, like he had any use for the thing.

Some would have named his bargain with the devil as harsh. However, more than just the title and land seduced him into making the choice. The beautiful Fionnaghal with her straight white teeth, her creamy white skin, and long auburn locks played a big part. Niall loved her. Wanted her.

Many a Scot had tried for her hand. Many a man dreamed of getting between her white virginal thighs. Niall beat them all, even the annoying Donnan. So what if she seemed reticent and less than overjoyed? Once she got to know him, she’d come to love and respect him like a proper wife should and, with those wide hips of hers, birth him many strong sons to carry on his name.

Leaping from the stone wall, Niall
was on his way to rejoin the festivities when he heard the moans. A couple had escaped from the revelry and were indulging in some carnal fun. Lucky bastard. In the castle of his betrothed, Niall wouldn’t find that kind of indulgence this night. He had too much respect for his bride-to-be, but it didn’t mean he didn’t envy him. After today’s blood-pumping win, he wouldn’t have minded a little fucking to celebrate, but he’d have to wait a few more days for his wedding. He couldn’t wait to make his sweet Fionnaghal into a true woman. To have her moan his name in pleasure.

“That’s it. Take it, my slut.” The familiar rumbly voice of his nemesis Donnan carried clearly.

Oh ho. It seemed the loser got lucky. Curious as to which female his rival had chosen to sate his disappointment, Niall crept close to the sounds of flesh smacking.

What he beheld froze him. Donnan pumped much like the animals in the fields, his buttocks exposed and flexing as he plowed between a pair of white thighs and sowed his seed. Sowed his seed on a very willing Fionnaghal, who cried out encouragement to her lover
. “Oh, Donnan. More. Give me more. Make me forget that ugly beast Father is making me marry.”

Now many a man would have lost his mind at this point. And with good reason. Most would have drawn sword and meted justice in the form of violence and bloodshed for the dishonor done to him. But Niall didn’t lose his temper; instead, an icy calm fell over him. He returned to the party and got royally drunk. He stayed drunk for three days until the morn of his nuptials.

Wearing his cleanest plaid, his hair braided, his sword polished and strapped to his back, his knees bare, and his pride sharp, he said the ritual words that bound him to Fionnaghal. He looked into her treacherous face and cursed the bargain he’d made to win the faithless bitch.

Once the deed was done and he found himself married to the slut, he allowed them to be carried to the feast. Of the wine and ale, he abstained. Silently, he brooded, alone in a sea of well-wishers, simmering at the ill done
to him. Fionnaghal had the nerve to look guileless, smiling and laughing, the picture of a happy bride. Even blushing as a proper virgin should. But Niall knew better.

As for Donnan, he tossed smug smirks Niall’s way. It would have taken a more temperate man to ignore the unspoken taunt. But, first, Niall did his duty.

He took his bride to bed, and when she pretended discomfort during the breaching, he bit his tongue lest he call her out. Niall finished claiming his bride, taking no pleasure in the act. Like killing in battle, it was something he needed to do for victory so that she couldn’t claim he’d not completed his role. He was ready for the vial of blood she pulled from beneath her pillow to complete her subterfuge.

He caught her slim wrist and pried the bottle from her hand. “You won’t be needing this,” he told her in a cold voice.

Eyes wide, she licked her lips nervously. “I can explain.”

“No need. I already know. You really should have been more discreet. I saw you and your lover.”

“He forced me,” she lied.

“We both know that’s untrue.” Niall rolled from bed and pulled on his plaid before he buckled on his sword.

“Where do you go, husband?” she asked, not even having the maidenly decency to hold a sheet up to her bosom. Nay, she arched like a practiced whore, trying to distract him.

She failed.

“I go to regain my honor.”

Ignoring her tears and pleading to remain silent, Niall strode from the bedchamber back to the gala. He did not pause to acknowledge the ribald jests about completing the act so soon. He did not reply to anyone so great his rage burned. Up to Donnan he strode, pulling his sword as he stalked.

The petty laird, to his credit, did not flinch. He drew his own steel and met his in a clash of metal. Back and forth, they dueled, Donnan on the defense as Niall hammered at him.

Screams asking what happened went unanswered, but all soon guessed the cause of his rage when his disheveled bride appeared, shrieking it wasn’t her fault
, that Donnan had seduced her.

And, in the same breath, she begged him to spare her lover. “Please. Don’t kill him. I’ll be a good wife. I promise. You’ve bedded me. You know I’m willing. I’ll do anything you want if you spare him.”

Instead, he lopped off Donnan’s head.

For good measure, he also chopped off that of his faithless bride, her blustering father, and all who took umbrage with his version of justice. Not many, as most sided with him. Scots did so love a good battle. His new clan united with his old, eager for action. As one mighty force, they marched against Donnan’s lands and laid them to waste, erasing his name from the annals of history. Then for shits and giggles
, they marched some more, leaving a swath of blood and destruction behind them. Why not? Niall was already damned to live in the pit, might as well populate it with shitheads he could torture for eternity.

As for golf and the deal he made to become the greatest player ever? He never touched a club again.

And he’d kept that promise, ’til now.

A scuff of a pebble, a noise out of place here on the edge of the pit, drew him from his memories of the past and had him whirling. Without much surprise, he beheld the lass from the bar. He’d expected she would show up sooner or later. Tenacity often went hand in hand with ruthlessness.

Looking as delectable as ever, she appeared less than happy as she stalked toward him, her red toga swishing about her knees, her upswept hair bouncing with every step. His cock swelled, his body enjoying the view. Odd, because Niall usually preferred his women more demure and chubbier.

“Took you long enough,” he taunted.

“I stopped to have my nails done. Like them?” She held up her fingers to show finely-honed digits painted a deep red. They looked great—and would look even better clawing at his back as he fucked her.

“Pretty. Did you get your pussy shaved too while you were at it? I hear hairless cunts are all the craze nowadays.”

Those luscious lips pursed as she approached with undulating hips. “Such dirty language. Then again, what can I expect from a filthy Scot? You’re just a step above an animal.”

“Aye, lass, I guess I am. As a matter of fact, I’m the biggest stallion ye will ever meet. Hung and ready to go anytime ye are.”

“I prefer my bedmates to be clean.”

“That’s easily arranged.”

Possessed by something other than misery for once—playfulness rising in equal measure to his lust—he lunged forward. No longer drunk, his speed took her by surprise. He hefted her over his wide shoulder, and before she could say more than, “Mother fucker!” he leapt off the cliff.

Air rushed past his face as they plummeted, and he laughed while she cursed him out. They hit the warm waters of the sea with a mighty splash, her weaponry dragging them both down. To her credit, she didn’t panic like some folks would when finding themselves sinking underwater.

Then again, for all he knew, she could breathe underwater. In Hell, the laws of the mortal world were twisted. The impossible wasn’t always true.

Niall, however, required oxygen, or at least, he preferred it. Inhaling water always made him uncomfortable and sick for days. Letting his burden go, he kicked away from her and rose to the surface. His head broke the waves, and he took in a breath. When she didn’t immediately appear, he took in a deep breath and prepared to plunge back under to find her.

Not necessary as a sleek head bobbed up and a pair of glowing yellow eyes fixed him, not with the baleful glare he expected, but mirth. “How nice of you to finally take a bath for me.”

He couldn’t help the quirk of his lips. “Ha. Like a simple dunk will rid me of all the dirt.”
He’d spent decades layering it on.

Holding up an oblong white lump, she grinned, a malicious leer, which sent a shiver through him. “Then it’s a good thing I brought soap.”