Demon's Kiss (14 page)

The malevolence inside him snarled and hissed, sensing the drain on his strength, desperate to get out, to take him, to steal all he was. Clea tensed, raised her head, her gaze seeking his. She was so attuned to him now that she felt it, felt the demon seed. Each moment saw their link grow stronger, and in the hours they had been together, she had unwittingly chiseled away at the chains that held the darkness in check.

“Ciarran?” She said his name, her tone laced with caution.

“A minute,” he rasped, battling against the terrible tide. “I just need a minute.”

He paused midstride, the car not ten paces away, feeling suddenly wary. There was a ripple, a shift in the
continuum,
a subtle chime of warning.
Hybrids
.

Gritting his teeth, he called his light magic, feeling the smooth, welcome glide of it, though the power was barely enough to chain the beast.

“Stay close,” he commanded, wryly aware of the paradox. The closer she was, the greater her pull, and the more his power slid away from him.

She moved up against his side. Sensing the
hybrids,
he focused on them one by one, locating each in the shadows. There were only three, too few to be of concern, even in his weakened state. Yet there was something else, something that set him on edge. He scanned the perimeter, aware of a stronger current that disturbed him. The odor was faint, the shift in the stream of magic a mere whisper that hovered in the air marking the presence of a full-bred demon, one that had been long in the world of man. One such demon came to mind, one to whom he owed a personal debt.

“Ciarran, I feel . . .” Clea moved closer, shivering, her arm brushing his side, and he felt the lurch of power, unsettled, off-balance, dragged from him into her. If he allowed this siphoning to continue, he would soon be little more than an empty husk.

“I don’t feel right,” she whispered, looking around, studying the dim outlines of the neighboring buildings, searching for phantoms. Or demons.

He scanned the area, taking note of the low line of scraggly bushes that marked the edge of the property. The bare branches of a lone tree arced above them, casting a lattice pattern of shadows on the dry grass, eerie, shifting forms that swayed and danced in time to the howl of the wind.

Clea rubbed her palms along her upper arms. “There’s something out here.”

Yeah. Something. No lesser minion, but a powerful demon, flanked by a scattering of
hybrids
.

Ciarran spun a slow circle, testing the flow of magic. He was almost certain of the demon’s identity and completely certain of its goal. It wanted her, wanted Clea.

But it would have to come through him to get her.

The thought was almost pleasing, the darkness bubbling inside him, aching for violent release. Gritting his teeth, he shoved at it, trying to bind it to his will.

The
hybrids
came at him, three shadows, moving fast and low, dressed in dark clothing, their attack synchronized. The light from the distant streetlamp bounced off glittering blades, ancient blades.
Christe
. They were armed with daggers steeped in the fires of the demon realm, cooled in the blood of innocents.

Ciarran called his power, casting light and magic, pulling together his drained reserves, and the thing inside him gloried, reveled in his strained resources. Out. It wanted out.

“What
is
that?” Clea inched closer to him, sucked in a sharp breath, and he knew she felt it, sensed the demon parasite that tainted him, slithering through their link. Just what was he supposed to tell her?

The shadow to his right moved, and he lashed at it, his magic falling just short of the mark.
Christe
, he was weakened, his maimed hand on fire, white-hot pain, the monster writhing through him, whispering, wanting. Three
hybrids
. Only three. No match for him. He had to give them a chance. He
always
gave them a chance. He tried to warn them off, to bid them flee as was his wont, but his tongue was thick in his mouth, his blood sluggish.

Forcing out the words of ancient wards and protection, Ciarran built a fortress in his mind, brick by brick, willing the darkness into its cell. He focused on the
continuum,
the dragon current, the harmony of good and evil, willing himself to find the perfect balance within. The effort was not the success he had hoped. The pain flared in his ruined hand, escaping the confines of the alloy glove to sluice through him in great rolling waves. Carefully, his eyes locked on the nearest
hybrid,
he set the bag of Clea’s photos on the ground.

“What’s wrong? I can feel something wrong.”

He could hear her confusion, the growing hint of alarm in her tone.

“Tell me what to do,” she said.

“Clea.” He paused, noting the change in timbre, the hollow quality to his own voice. “You have to step away. I—” What the hell was he supposed to say? That he was part demon, part stinking hellspawn, and that he was quickly losing the battle to hold that part in chains? That she was pulling the life from him without a clue? “—I don’t want you in danger. My magic, you draw too much. From me, into you.”

She gasped at his words, but a part of him suspected that his revelation came as no true surprise. She was too smart not to have figured out at least part of the situation by now.

He turned a slow half circle, watching the changing shadows, sensing as they moved closer and closer still. The beast roared inside him, angry, vicious. The
hybrids
would not have her. On this matter he and his demonic parasite agreed.

“You have to stop extracting my power, Clea. Do you understand? I can’t—”

“I don’t understand.” She shook her head, grabbed his arm, and he jerked at the contact as he felt his magic sucked away at an alarming rate. As though sensing that physical contact was the last thing he desired at this moment, she dropped her hand, took a step back.

“Tell me what to do.” Her words were fast and high, tinged with fear.

The
hybrids
circled like a pack of starved hyenas.

She looked around frantically, her gaze darting about; then she lunged for a busted length of chain that had once anchored a dented garbage can to the tree, broken now by some unknown vandal, lying discarded on the ground. Pride surged through him as he turned to his task. She had to be shaken, but she was ever valiant, his Clea, standing just behind him, her hands fisted around one end of the thick chain. At least it was a step up from the plastic letter opener.

From the left one
hybrid
charged, armed with a glowing blade, the color of blood, a demon’s weapon, one that should have been far beyond a
hybrid
’s modest power.

The razor-sharp edge came down toward Clea, and Ciarran shifted to take the blow in her place. He snarled, pain lancing ruthlessly through him, stark, sharp. Hot blood flowed in rivulets down his arm. His good hand was numb, leaving only his ruined limb for defense.

“Bastard,” Clea hissed, swinging the chain hard against the
hybrid
’s shoulder. It yelped and spun at her, blade outstretched.

With a roar, Ciarran felt the icy control he had cultivated for twenty years tear away, decimated by the onslaught of the need to protect Clea at any cost. He flung his gloved hand forward, opening the floodgate, letting his magic flow free. All of it. Darkness smearing the light.

A surge of power ripped from deep within him, dark, threatening. Oozing farther than he had ever let it before, the strength and presence of the demon parasite as it slid through him made his magic far different than anything he had known, so strong it was almost more than he could bear. His gut twisted, and a bottomless burning pain tore at him, flaying his insides. He tried to pull back, tried to check the foul surge that disgorged from him. Dimly, he was aware of Clea’s cry of surprise, but he could offer her no comfort.

His weapons had ever been light magic, used under strict control, and only for protection and defense. The power that pumped through him now was nothing he had ever seen, nothing he had ever known. Something he could not control.

This magic was seething strength and absolute destruction, and he had not enough power left to contain it.

A dark twist of thick, vile vapor burst from him like a smothering fog. Engulfed, the
hybrid
jerked, screamed, a sharp, short sound that was cut off as he disintegrated in a splatter of blood and hissing tissue, as though acid had doused him from head to toe. The blade tumbled toward the ground, disappearing before it landed.

Two more
hybrids,
armed with demon weaponry, came at them from right and left. The wound in Ciarran’s arm was sizzling, the edges burning with a stark and livid pain. Sweat ran in hot rivulets down his back as he struggled to regain his control. The demon parasite was a sucking miasma, a black haze that colored all he felt, all he was.

“On the ground, Clea.” Relief flooded him as she obeyed, dropping to the dry, brown grass.

There was no familiar warmth of shimmering light and razor-honed magic that poured from him now.

One
hybrid
lunged at Ciarran, while the other dove for Clea, closing strong fingers around her ankle. She cried out as it dragged her along the grass, and she kicked at it, then twisted in an attempt to get free. The chain was looped around her fist, and she swung out, the links whistling through the air before slapping sharply against the
hybrid
’s thigh.

Rage such as he had never known coursed through Ciarran, escalating until it was a white-hot ball sizzling inside of him. His ruined hand burned and pulsated as the darkness slithered free to ooze through his veins, an oily, slick glide. He imagined he could feel the dragon tattooed on his arm—a symbol of the
continuum,
the balanced flow of the dragon current—roar in outrage as he gave himself up to the demon swell, embraced it, felt the magnitude of its power. Such terrible power.

Safe. Keep Clea safe.
Black blades tore through his skin, through alloy and leather, from the inside outward, slicing the air with a whistling sound, skewering the closer of the two
hybrids
. The creature screamed in agony. With a snarl, Ciarran twisted his hand, twisted the blades, eviscerating the
hybrid
as energy and seething anger flooded him in a violent rush.

Panting, he realized with growing horror that he
liked
it. Liked the intensity. So different than the subtle dance of light magic, new, unfamiliar, a heady force fueled by the very darkness he had battled for two decades.

Disgusted with himself, he gave a sharp yank, pulling free of the dead creature.

The last
hybrid
dragged frantically on Clea’s leg as she kicked with sharp, quick movements, landing blow after blow, slowing its pace. With a wet hiss, it loosed its hold and raised its blade, turning full to face Ciarran.

Blood dripping from the wounds on the back of his hand where the sharp tips of his own blades had torn through, Ciarran called the black menace inside him, welcomed it, embraced it. He lunged, sinking the razored talons deep into the chest of the last attacker. With a sharp yank, he dragged the thing closer, looking into the emptiness of its gaze.

The
hybrid
had dared to touch Clea, dared to try and take her, hurt her. With a snarl, Ciarran sliced the great arteries and veins that anchored the creature’s pulsing heart and wrenched the mangled organ from its body, blood spurting from the hole in a syrupy rush.

Ciarran froze, shook his head, feeling disoriented, primitive, savage.

Breathing heavily, he stood over Clea, his right arm throbbing with pain, dangling useless by his side. Bloodlust pumped through him, spinning him out of control.

“Oh, God.” Clea stared up at him. She was sitting on the ground, shivering, the length of broken chain still clutched in her fist, her arms linked tight across her chest. “Are they gone? Was that the last one?”

He ached to yank her up against him, taste her, claim her.

Her eyes widened. Her lips parted.

Shaking with the force of his emotion, with the effort of dragging the hellspawn inside of him back to its cell, he struggled to rein it all in.

Christe
. He had
welcomed
it.
Called
it. Chosen to loose his hold and give the thing a measure of freedom. The realization sickened him.

His gaze shot to Clea. She had to be scared to death. Of the
hybrids
.

Of
him
.

“Yeah, they’re gone.” Breathing hard, he could barely form the word as the darkness swelled once more, full and rich, making a mockery of any pretensions he had of mastery.

Ciarran’s head came up and he searched the shadows. He had neutralized the last
hybrid,
but there had been something else out there, something old and incalculably evil, a full-blooded demon that was still roaming free, a creature that had slipped the bonds of the demon realm and somehow circumvented the rules of magic and the limits of the
Pact
.