Demon's Kiss (2 page)

They definitely wouldn’t raise the dead.

She combed her fingers through her shoulder-length brown hair, tugged it into a parody of neatness. Not great, but at least she wouldn’t scare anyone away.

A car door slammed. Clea rose, watching through the glass as a dark-haired man took three strides from the parked car. He froze, spun back, and she could hear his voice carrying through the old walls, sounding anxious, maybe even angry, though she couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying. He was shaking his head now, talking faster, the open flaps of his jacket shifting with his rapid movements.

He paused directly under the exterior light, and Clea had a clear view of him. Fairly young. White shirt. Dark suit, rumpled and ill-fitting. No overcoat. No headset. No earpiece. He spun, kept talking, and she had an unimpeded view of his opposite side. No headset there, either. So he wasn’t talking on a cell phone.

“. . . your keeper . . .” He turned away, his movement muffling the sound. Then his voice rose, agitated, and she caught snatches of his conversation. “. . . you’ll do as I say . . . stay in the car!”

Bolstered against the raised counter, she leaned forward, trying to see to whom he was speaking. There was no one else there. No one in the car. No one beside the car. He was definitely alone.

He made a great show of locking the doors with his remote, stabbing one finger toward the window, the remote, and back again. Then he spun and sprinted to the motel office, shoving the door open so it slammed back against the wall with a sharp
crack.
His lips were drawn down in a grimace, and his eyes darted wildly back and forth.

Catching sight of Clea, he strode to the counter and slapped his palms against the old, stained Formica.

“A room,” he said in a low growl. Spittle flew across the countertop, landing in a frothing white blob about an inch from Clea’s baby finger. She jerked her hand down to her side and stepped back, more than a little grossed out. The guy smelled like stale sweat and fear. “Gimme a room.”

“That’ll be $35.” She tried a smile, but something in his eyes stopped it cold. “We only take cash.”

He frowned, as though he didn’t understand her words, then said, “I need one at the far end of the motel. With a lock that works. I’ll pay you in the morning.”

“Our . . . umm . . . Our policy is cash up front.” Clea wrapped her arms around herself as a chill prickled her skin. She wondered if maybe just this once she should make an exception. Give him a key just to get him out of the lobby and away from her.

“I don’t have cash! Who the fuck ever carries cash?”

Who indeed? He had a point, but Mr. Beamish refused to pay a fee to the credit card companies. He said it was a matter of principle.

The guy was breathing fast and heavy, darting glances at the front window and at the car. The
empty
car.

Unless . . . There was someone in the trunk. . . . She shook her head. Oh, frig. She didn’t need this. Not tonight.

“Maybe you should go up the road, sir. Just head east. There’s a brand-new motel where the bypass meets the main highway.” She tried a little bribery. “They have coffeemakers in every room.” Like the guy needed caffeine. He already looked like he was ready to jump out of his skin. “And they’re set up for credit cards.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he stared hard at the window, through it, out into the night. Clea followed his gaze but still didn’t see a thing. “I need a room. I just need a room,” he said dully, still staring out the window. “With a door that locks.
Fuck
.”

Clea frowned, wondering if he’d actually heard anything she’d said.

His voice rose abruptly, making her jump. “Gimme a goddamned room. You have no idea—”

He turned then. Clea met his gaze and shivered. Cold. His eyes were so cold. Dead. Like he had given up hope a long, long time ago.

She swallowed, glanced at the window, wondered what it was he thought he saw out there that had twisted him up so tightly and beaten all the hope out of him.

Shaking her head, she stiffened her resolve and snaked her fingers to the phone. Less than two seconds to dial 911. She knew. She’d timed it.

Of course, the Blue Bay was way out here on an isolated stretch of road to the north of the city. It had once been a busy thoroughfare before they built the bypass. Now, the area was deserted. It would be at least twenty minutes before help arrived, but that was something she
so
did not want to think about.

For an endless moment, he held her gaze, those dead, dead eyes boring into her, giving her the creeps.

Creeped out, yes. Genuinely afraid, no. She stared him down. Over the years, Clea had learned that she could defend herself against just about any threat.

Well, maybe not exactly defend
herself
. . . but there was
something
inside her that wouldn’t let her come to harm. Some kind of weird psychic thing she’d had since she was a kid. Her insides would coil as though squished by a belt drawn too tight, and a burst of light would flare from her body, knocking back whatever threat had summoned it. A drunken frat boy who hadn’t seemed to understand that no meant no. A bunch of girls who’d swarmed her in high school.

That light had been strong enough to save her life the night the crash had killed both her parents. But she’d never talked to anyone about the light, not even Gram.

Heck, she’d watched reruns of the
X-Files
. Every episode. At least three times. She had no desire to end up locked away in some secret lab, prodded and studied and tested.

With a strangled cry, the guy broke eye contact and lurched from the office, arms waving wildly as he continued his argument with whatever imaginary companion he had left locked in the car. Clea shivered as he turned back toward her, staring at her through the glass, his face a mask of sorrow and regret.

His emotions seemed a little extreme. All she’d done was deny him a room.

She hitched in a nervous breath, watched him yank open the driver’s side door and climb into the vehicle. As he pulled out, she let go her breath in a gusty sigh.

Slowly, she sank into her seat. She’d been working here at the Blue Bay for five years. Easy work. A night job that paid on time, and she could study while she earned enough to keep her and Gram off the streets.

Gram.

Clea swallowed, battling the sharp bite of fresh grief.

Old man Beamish had sent a sympathy card, and he’d offered her the night off. But she couldn’t imagine anything worse than going back to the empty apartment tonight. All alone. With Gram gone.

So she was sitting here instead. All alone. Behind the beige Formica reception desk of the Blue Bay Motel, with an old wood-framed picture of Gram beside her for company.

Wishing she could numb her thoughts, her emotions, she rummaged through her overstuffed knapsack and pulled out her ragged copy of the
Photographic Atlas of Human Anatomy
. She was beginning to see a theme here. She’d spent half the night talking to a picture of Gram.

Who was dead.

And now she was staring at pictures of dissected cadavers.

Who were dead.

Laying the heels of her hands against her forehead, she pressed. Hard.

Yeah. Definitely a theme.

Clea stared at the atlas. She needed to study. Midterms were less than a week away.

“Okay. Left subclavian artery from the arch of the aorta,” she muttered. “Gives rise to the vertebral artery that ascends within the transverse foramina of the upper six cervical vertebrae . . .” Her voice trailed away, and she sighed.

Yeah, she needed to study, but her heart wasn’t in it. Medical school had been Gram’s dream, and for a long time Clea had thought it was her own, as well. So after high school she’d worked for a couple of years until she’d saved up a bit of an education fund, and then she’d earned an undergraduate degree in biomedical science. Worked for another year. Been accepted to med school. She’d made it through the first two years, agonizing every step of the way, knowing for certain that she wanted to help people but wondering if medicine was really the way she wanted to go.

The truth was, she liked her life nice and neat and ordered and safe. Medicine was perfect in a way. People got sick, no matter what. People needed doctors, no matter what. She couldn’t pick a safer career. She’d always be needed, wanted.

Still, med school somehow felt
wrong
.

The past few months, she’d been sleeping badly, eating next to nothing. Her gut told her that her uneasiness was more than the horror of seeing Gram through her final days, more than just symptoms of stress. It was a feeling deep inside of her. A restlessness. An edginess. Almost like there was a part of her that was struggling its way to the surface.

Just thinking about it made the feeling shift and grow inside her, like a live snake winding through her, within her, around her bones, between her muscles, winding, twirling, making her feel like she was going to jump out of her skin.

Like the weird, wired guy who’d just been in here.

Nice.

Now she was creeping herself out.

Settling the chair back on four legs with a solid
thud,
he scanned the smoky interior of the bar. The place was crowded, mostly a rough crowd, peppered by a few young professionals with a taste for living on the edge. He almost laughed. They had no idea where the edge really lay.

Certainly not in this crowded bar, with its warped pool tables and cracked stairs, its pretense of danger. Slinger’s was downtown, in a place partway between trendy and dive. Closer to dive, if truth be told. Which was the draw for this particular crowd. The occasional biker or wannabe gangsta might stumble in, and that gave the place a certain cachet.

Darqun liked it because the bar was always busy, rain or shine. Packed like a sardine can. Noisy. Stinking of booze and sweat and smoke and perfume. He needed that, needed the crackle of loud music from cheap speakers, the swell of boisterous laughter and overloud conversation. He’d spent too long alone, so alone, without a single living thing to break the silence.

He glanced at the wide front doors with their fogged windows, the BUD LIGHT sign glowing neon. Sleet and rain had been beating against the glass since he’d arrived, but now it looked as though the weather was showing signs of improvement.

The chair to his left scraped across the floor, drawing his attention as Javier Saint swung it to face backwards and straddled the seat. He was dressed in his usual snappy style. Hand-sewn Italian shirt. Perfectly pressed slacks. Darqun shook his head. Give him a T-shirt and ratty jeans any day.

Leaning bent elbows on the table, Javier began to count a pile of cash, his white teeth flashing against the dark, carefully cultivated stubble that shaded his jaw.

Darqun nodded at the other sorcerer’s winnings. “What the hell, Jav? Where is the pleasure in beating a mortal?”

With a low laugh, Javier raked a hand through the straight dark strands of his hair. “I played like a mortal. No magic. I still won.” His smile faded. “So, is he coming?”

“Yeah. Ciarran’s on his way.”

That he’d agreed to meet them was strange. That he’d agreed to meet here, in a bar packed with mortals, was stranger still. Ciarran preferred his solitude. But Darqun had made it clear that the information he had to share was better spoken in person, and better spoken
here,
where Ciarran could see things for himself.

“Oh, he’s gonna love this place.” Catching the neck of the bottle between two fingers, Javier lifted his beer and took a long, slow pull. The sarcasm in his tone was unmistakable.

Darqun knew what Javier meant. There had been a time when Ciarran would have enjoyed mortal company as well as any of them, availed himself of the amusements the human world offered. But no longer. He’d made a mistake two decades past on a deserted road to the north of town. Darqun knew how it had been, demon stink heavy in the air, the remains of dead mortals strewn across the ground. . . . Ciarran had lost a piece of himself that night, and he’d never found a way to gain it back.

A blast of cold air cut through the smoky haze as the front door of the bar opened, closed. Darqun caught a glimpse of Ciarran, scuffed leather jacket glistening wetly under the bar’s yellow lights, sun-shot hair hanging in damp strands to his wide shoulders.

Ciarran’s gaze focused on the table where Darqun and Javier sat. As he moved through the throng, bodies shifted to let him pass, opening a path. He touched no one, looked at no one, his attention never wavering from his goal. And no one made a move to get in his way.

Then a human male laughed drunkenly and lurched to the side, his shoulder bumping Ciarran’s back. The sorcerer turned slowly, his expression cold. The drunk took one look, and even his sodden brain recognized danger. His gaze flickered, and he held up one hand as though to ward off an attack, though Ciarran did nothing more threatening than stand there looking down at him. With a mumbled apology, the man stumbled away, and the sorcerer resumed his trek.

“Hey,” Javier said by way of greeting, as Ciarran approached.

“Jav. Dar.” Ciarran gave a curt nod, cast a disgusted look at the dirty ashtray. “And you two chose this place because . . . ?” he asked in a low growl, glaring at Javier and jerking a chair away from the table.

The dragon current crackled with a whisper of dark energy, and Darqun’s gaze shifted to Ciarran’s gloved hand.

“It’s strong tonight, huh?” Javier asked, his tone edged with concern.

Ciarran paused midmovement and acknowledged the other sorcerer’s question with a tilt of his head. His mouth shifted into a cold smile, and his fingers tensed on the seat back. When he spoke, his voice was low, the tone laced by a sneer. “Don’t worry, Jav. I’ve got it under control.”

“I know, man. No worries.” Javier rose, clapped him on the back. As he let his hand drop, he paused to assess Ciarran’s jacket. “Sweet.”

Darqun grinned at Ciarran’s bewildered look. The guy really needed to get out more. “He means he likes it.”

“Yeah, I got that.” Shrugging out of his leather jacket, Ciarran slung it over the back of the chair and sat.

He was about to speak when a waitress appeared beside them. “What can I get you gentlemen?”

Leaning back in his chair, Darqun let his gaze slide over her tiny belly-baring top and the scrap of black cloth that pretended to be a skirt. “You’re new,” he said.

She blinked, smiled, studying him in obvious appreciation. “Yeah. My first night.” She held his gaze as she ran her tongue along her lower lip. “So . . . what can I get for you?”

“Tequila.”

“My favorite.” She glanced at Ciarran, and her eyes widened, but not in appreciation. Darqun had seen it time and again. While he might be handsome, Ciarran had a definite edge to him, more than a hint of menace. Some women were drawn to that danger. Any woman with the smallest sense of self-preservation avoided it.

Cocking her head, the waitress took a step back and asked, “And, um, for you?”

Smart lady, Darqun thought, and ramped his smile up even brighter.

“Leave us,” Ciarran said on an exhalation.

Her brow furrowed in confusion—an expression Darqun found incredibly cute—then she turned and slowly walked away.

“Nicely done, Ciarran. You know she won’t remember my tequila now,” Darqun complained amiably. He’d remind her. Later. Hell, if he could wrangle an invitation to her bed, he’d take a bottle of tequila with him as a gift.

“You can reorder when I’m gone.” Ciarran crossed his arms over his broad chest and waited, his eyes scanning the room, ever watchful. Shaking his head, Darqun looked around. A woman stood toying with a pool cue, staring at him, her expression sultry.

“It might not be a bad idea for you to let off some steam, my friend.” Darqun waved a hand toward the woman by the pool table. If Ciarran tried a genuine smile, he might not scare the pants off her. “A place like this, you can have your pick. It will hurt no one.”

Ciarran studied him in silence, his eyes glittering, his jaw tight. He leaned in close, one side of his mouth curving in a dark smile. “Won’t hurt anyone, Dar? How do you know?”

Yeah. That was the million-dollar question. Darqun’s gaze slid to Ciarran’s gloved hand. Nodding, he acknowledged the point. He
didn’t
know, had no idea what Ciarran might be capable of.

The worst of it was, neither did Ciarran.

A second ticked past, and another.

Javier cleared his throat. “So, uh, what’s with the smell of brimstone, Ciarran? You trying it out as a new cologne?” He took a pull on his beer.

“Yeah, eau de demon,” Ciarran muttered.

The beer almost came out Javier’s nose. “Holy shit. Was that a joke?”

Darqun was less verbal but equally incredulous. Humor wasn’t Ciarran’s strong point.

“Yeah.” Ciarran glared. “Go to hell.”

Javier snickered. Darqun smiled. It almost felt like old times.

“Ten minutes ago, I smoked a cluster of
hybrids
in the alley outside,” Ciarran said.

So that explained the faint smell of brimstone that clung to him.

“They’re getting bolder, and I’ve got a hunch as to why.” Darqun waited, knowing Ciarran would sense what he had sensed, what Javier had missed. He wasn’t disappointed. Ciarran scanned the room, his posture subtly alert, looking for something; then his gaze slid to Darqun’s, one brow raised questioningly. Darqun gave a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgment.

“You guys wanna share?” Javier asked, narrowing his eyes. “I know there’s something off beam, something wrong with the
continuum
. I didn’t notice it right away. Just woke up a couple of weeks back feeling, I don’t know, out of sorts. But it didn’t go away, you know. Just kept nagging at me like a sore tooth.”

Darqun exchanged a look with Ciarran. As if a sorcerer, even a young one like Javier, would live with a sore tooth.

Rolling his eyes, Javier continued. “You know what I mean. It was just an analogy.” He leaned in to punch Ciarran’s shoulder, thought better of it, and whacked Darqun instead. “You feel it, right? I’m not the only one.”

“I feel it,” Ciarran said. He sat almost perfectly still, powerful, deadly, the slow drumming of his gloved fingers on the table his only concession to his dislike of the noisy crowd that flowed around him.

“And I want to know what the hell it is.” Darqun’s voice was low and hard.

“A shift in the
continuum
. A betrayal.” Ciarran held up one hand as the other two stared at him. He shook his head at Javier’s questioning look. “No, I have no more idea than you. But there
is
something wrong, something—” He paused, fisted his hands, searching for the right description and failing to find it. “Something that must be investigated with both haste and care.”

“That’s the reason I asked to meet
here. . . .
Do you sense it?” Darqun’s lip curled as he inhaled. “The stink?”

Sniffing his sleeve, Ciarran asked, “Worse than my brimstone?”

Javier groaned. “Don’t plan on making a living at stand-up.”

“I smell it.” Any pretense at humor faded. “Asag.” Ciarran said the name like a curse. “Demon of plague. He has been here, in this bar, days past. He left a trail. How long?”

“Less than a mortal week,” Darqun replied, his gaze sliding away to follow the swinging hips of a tall brunette. Possibilities, possibilities.

Ciarran drummed his fingers a little harder. Darqun shot him an apologetic grin, then continued. “He was here. I was here. But I didn’t figure it out until after he was gone. Frigging Asag, in the same damned bar, and I missed him.” A fact that was unbelievably strange. Darqun had sat only yards away from a demon both ancient and evil, one whose mere presence should have raised every hackle. And somehow he’d missed it, missed the stink of demon. Which meant that Asag had been walking the human realm for decades, long enough to mask his presence, to take on mortal guise. Likely he’d been loose, here, in the world of man since the night he’d cost Ciarran his hand.

“And has he been back?” Javier asked, leaning forward, his expression intent. “Could you follow the remains of the trail?”

Ciarran opened his senses and searched for a clear path, but the trail was weak, diffuse. His gaze shifted to Javier. The boy was young, true. A mere three hundred years old. But he had good instincts and even better control. Ciarran remembered himself at that age, puffed up and ready for a fight. Always ready. Not bothering to think before he leaped. Perhaps Javier was a better sorcerer than he. For all his youthful exuberance, Jav always thought a situation through, weighing the value of every action.

Which was why he was still in possession of all his limbs.

Beneath the table, Ciarran flexed the fingers of his ruined hand, tamping down the malevolent buzz that swirled through him to coil round sinew and bone, and weave into his veins, into his very thoughts like putrid smoke. Restlessly, he rubbed his palm against his thigh, battling his own private hell, the darkness within.

“We have two problems,” he pointed out. “The first, a disruption of the
continuum
. Dark magic. Demon magic. I feel it.”

“Yeah.” Javier grunted. “It feels like the dragon’s got gas.”

Sorcerers called it the
dragon current,
the perfect blend of negative and positive, darkness and light. Humans who sensed the earthly tributaries that fed the infinite river of the
continuum
called them
ley lines,
believing them to be lines of magnetic force. By whatever name, the
continuum
was the flow of raw magic that connected all realms but one. The demon realm. And that was what worried him. There was a smear of darkness in the current, a disgusting hint of demon spoor.

“Problem two is Asag”—Ciarran looked slowly around the bar—“walking here in the human realm without a keeper, and therefore without constraint.”

He sucked in a slow breath, narrowed his eyes. “So how is it that Asag, a demon of uncommon power, walks unbound, unfettered by his summoner?”

“Not just Asag.” Darqun leaned in close. “Yesterday I found a minor demon pawing through garbage in a back alley. It had no keeper.”

“No frigging way.” Javier slapped his palm against the table.