Demon's Kiss (23 page)

“Yeah,” Ciarran growled, picking up the phone on the fifth ring. Darqun had the startling realization that he’d interrupted something. Or perhaps called at the tail end.

Interesting.

It appeared that Ciarran had succumbed to his desires, sacrificing some modicum of his control.

“You okay?” he asked, though he knew Ciarran could hear the unspoken question.

“I’m still sorcerer.” Ciarran paused. “Mostly.”

The darkness had not prevailed.

Definitely very interesting.

“We’ve been summoned,” Darqun said, and he wasn’t surprised when he was greeted by silence. It was rare that the Compact would meet, rarer still to meet in person rather than hold a conference call. Ah, the wonders of modern technology. Darqun could easily recall a time when they’d sent messages via pigeons.

Telephones were a definite upgrade.

“When?” Ciarran asked.

“Now.” Darqun ventured into dangerous territory. “Ciarran, it might well be about the girl.” About the fact that she had magic at her core, that she pulled power from Ciarran, and that it seemed he could not stop her.

About the fact that she was no longer human and almost sorcerer. An impossible mix.

About the fact that Ciarran had taken her to apprentice without sanction.

Which begged the question, what now? Darqun couldn’t imagine that Ciarran would sacrifice Clea, especially in light of what likely had filled their recent hours. Though
he
suffered from no such emotional compunction, he could not imagine Ciarran sharing his body without sharing his heart.

A dangerous choice for a sorcerer who was part demon, his heart and soul smeared with evil.

Darqun snapped the cell phone shut. To borrow a mortal colloquialism, he had a feeling the shit was about to hit the fan.

A bubble of euphoria fizzed to the surface. She could smell Ciarran, the clean, fresh scent of him, a little spicy, a lot sexy. She was so in love with him, so far along the path that she ought to be terrified, or at the very least, a little uneasy. But all she felt was happy.

Closing her eyes, she inhaled the scent of him that yet clung to the linen, reveling in the memories of their bodies joined as one, their souls connecting. In a way, she was actually glad that he’d been called away by a phone call from Darqun. It gave her a chance to catch her breath, to think, to savor her emotions.

She finished her task of making the bed, unable to stop smiling, and then checked her watch. Almost 1:00. Terry would be outside in the alley any minute.

After Ciarran had left, Clea had called her voice mail to pick up messages. A couple of classmates. Her best friend from grade school, Beth. The landlord, looking for the rent. No big surprise there. But it was the message from Terry that caught her attention.

“Clea,” she’d said, her voice sounding strained, even a little desperate. “I need to talk to you. Right away. It’s about Louise. And your gram. I’m sorting canned goods at the food bank today. You can call me here.” She’d left a number, and Clea had reached her easily.

Terry had sounded distraught, anxious to meet in person. Which had left Clea in the position of making some quick decisions. She was smart enough to recognize the danger in leaving Ciarran’s protected abode. Didn’t she hate it when the girl in the horror flick insisted on heading out into the darkness, despite the creepy noises and scary background music?

TSTL. Too stupid to live. That definitely wasn’t going to be her. No way was she trading the safety of Ciarran’s home to go meet Terry, no matter how important Terry perceived the meeting to be. Ciarran had explained to her about the wards he’d set, protective barriers that could not be breached by
hybrid
or demon. Sort of a sorcerer’s version of a home-security system. He’d said that these wards were stronger than the ones he had set at her apartment because they were permanent.

She was certain that the
hybrids
would be thrilled if they found her walking around alone and unprotected, which was why she wasn’t going anywhere. She wasn’t going to risk an encounter with a
hybrid,
or worse, a demon. Just the memory of the one that had stalked her that night at the Blue Bay was enough to make her feel sick. She was safe in here but not out there.

With that in mind, she’d given Terry directions how to find her. Terry definitely wasn’t a
hybrid,
so no danger there. And even if they somehow figured out the connection between the two women and followed Terry here, the
hybrids
couldn’t pass Ciarran’s wards. So there was little risk to her solution, she thought as she wandered out of the bedroom and along the hall to the main entrance.

Given the whole alternate-reality thing, Clea knew she couldn’t rely on Terry finding Ciarran’s place all on her own. His home was cloaked in magic, hidden from view of the mortal realm. But she had a solution. All she needed to do was open the door at precisely 1:00, watch the mouth of the alley, and get Terry’s attention. Problem solved.

Even then, she was cautious. She opened the door a crack, peered out. The sky was overcast, gray, heavy clouds hanging over the city like a damp blanket. Turning her head, she checked the entire length of the alley. The sound of traffic carried from the main drag, but there wasn’t a soul in sight.

Clea glanced at her watch: 12:59.

Looking out once more, she searched for some sign of Terry. The muscles of her neck tightened, and she raised her hand, massaging them lightly. Her chest felt stiff, like she couldn’t draw breath, and she rolled her shoulders trying to redistribute her tension.

She definitely had a case of the jitters, but she couldn’t figure out why.

The mouth of the alley was clear. After a moment, a group of young men shuffled into sight, baggy jeans hanging low on their hips, equally baggy jackets obscuring their bodies. One of them stopped, punched his friend in the shoulder, then they moved on, laughing and jostling each other.

Swallowing, Clea looked back and forth, scanning the alley beyond the courtyard once more. There was nothing amiss. Nothing out of place. The Dumpster sat at the far end, garbage overflowing onto the ground. A gust of wind sent the pile of paper blowing about in a frenzy. The sheets drifted and finally came to rest against the graffiti-marked wall.

Her throat was tight now, the sensation crawling up from her chest. Clea shivered, wondering at her reaction. There was no one there. No one. Not even Terry.

She stepped back, let the door slam shut, and stood in the hallway, wrapping her arms around herself, staring at beautifully carved wood. She was losing it, positively losing it, sensing monsters in every shadow. Common sense told her she was being ridiculous, but some sixth sense seemed to come alive, tingling, prickling along her skin, arguing a different case.

Something felt off. Weird. She felt like the magic that coiled inside her was getting a case of the flu. Strange, but it was the only analogy that seemed to fit. She felt like something was just plain
wrong
.

Was this the dragon current . . . the
continuum
that Ciarran described?

Wrenching the door open, she peered into the alley once more. A ripple of relief danced through her as she saw Pickles running toward her, tearing through the garbage, barking madly.

“Pickles!” She laughed, looked toward the mouth of the alley. There was Terry, raising a hand in greeting, waving.

Clea raised her own hand in reply, stepped into the daylight, and bent to scoop Pickles up in her arms.

Standing just in front of Ciarran’s door, the beautiful fountain a hazy outline to her left, the smell of the alley sharp in her nostrils, she realized what she’d done. She turned her head, a sick certainty crashing through her. Terry wasn’t waving a greeting. Her movements were too wild, too big. She was—

Clea spun, her heart clutching as a rough hand caught her arm.

“Steady,” Asa Paley said, smiling down at her. So polished. So handsome.

Relief was sweet and cool. She laughed, shook her head, confused by his presence.

“What are you doing here?”

His smile grew. His teeth seemed too big, too long. So many teeth.

Asa Paley.

He must have been here all along, hiding . . . Where? Why?

Her stomach dropped, and her arms felt numb. She was dimly aware of Pickles as he squirmed free of her and leaped to the ground.

Clea swallowed her horror as suddenly everything clicked into place.

Her aversion to Asa as a romantic liaison.

The link between the missing homeless women and St. John’s Hospital. Asa Paley worked the ER there.

Ciarran’s assertion that he’d had an audience as he fought the
hybrids,
and her crazy notion that she’d seen Asa Paley outside her apartment building before the
hybrids
attacked. Not so crazy.

Not so crazy at all.

The demon, Asag. The one Darqun and Javier had spoken about.

Asa was Asag. And he was here for her.

She was the conduit. The demon had called her that at the Blue Bay Motel. She was the key to the gate, her magic so much stronger now that she had drawn a heavy measure from Ciarran.

“All I needed was for you to open the door, Clea,” Asa said. “Just open the door, breach the sorcerer’s wards, and let me in. But you’ve been so accommodating, stepping right out in the open.” He laughed, a high sound that made a swell of nausea crawl up her throat. “You’ve made things so very easy on me.”

Too stupid to live. Oh, God.

He curled his fingers tighter around her arm, biting deep. She knew she’d have bruises.

Closing her eyes, Clea focused on the coil of power inside her. She felt the hot, sharp glide of it, the deep pain, the glow, and she focused it on Asa. He jerked her hard against him, knocking the breath out of her in an abbreviated
whoosh
. The tension between them was enormous, his body drawn tight as he took the blow of her magic with a shallow grunt.

“Lovely,” he murmured, and leaned close to run his tongue down the side of her face, her neck, leaving a wet trail in its wake. Revulsion rolled across her skin, leaching through her pores to settle deep inside of her.

“You are powerful. Wonderfully powerful,” he murmured. “And you are mine to do with as I please.”

Clea struggled in his hold, terror and desperation chasing through her as she heard Terry’s muffled sobs and looked up to see her held by a
hybrid,
his meaty palm pressed tight over her mouth. Oh, God, poor Terry, an unwitting pawn in a war she knew nothing about.

“Not too deep,” Asa instructed. “I prefer that she die slowly.”

“No!” Clea screamed, struggling against his hold.

The
hybrid
nodded, and in a single stroke, he slit Terry’s throat.

Blood. Red, red blood, dripping down her neck to stain her shirt. Clea moaned, the world beginning to spin. She was aware of Terry crumpling to the ground, aware of Asa’s laugh, of his arm across the front of her waist; then the alley turned hazy and indistinct before her, everything blurring at the edges.

Ciarran
. His name echoed in her heart.

She felt a cold wind on her face, and with a cry, she was pulled into darkness.

Christe.
A ruse. He realized that now. He had been lured away by a summons to meet with the other sorcerers, an endless meeting of disagreement and dysfunction that had solved nothing, created nothing but ill temper. He’d sat there, talking with them, discussing the evil that invaded the
continuum
of magic.

In his absence, she had been taken.

Who was the traitor? Baunn? Javier?

Dain? Could he have been so wrong? Could it be Darqun?

Who?

Now, as he walked from room to room, he could smell the demon’s trace. With a snarl, he wrenched open the front door and stepped into the alley, shifting dimensions, bypassing the courtyard altogether. The stink of the creature was stronger out here, brimstone and rotting death. Asag. Ciarran’s fury escalated, a living writhing thing.

Clea’s friend Terry lay on the ground in a pool of blood. Her dog was at her side, spinning nervous circles, whining piteously.

Casting magic, Ciarran calmed the frightened animal, even as he assessed the damage. Terry was alive.

This woman was important to Clea, a friend, a significant part of her life. She would want her to be saved. And he wanted to save her. For Clea. For himself. Because he had not yet let the darkness take him. He was still capable of compassion.

Kneeling by Terry’s side, he felt for her pulse. There. Thready and weak. Likely, Asag had reveled in the knowledge that Clea would suffer in the awareness of her friend’s horrific circumstance and her inability to prevent it or help her. Clea, who longed to fix the world. The terrible responsibility of her friend’s fate would torment her.

One more debt for Asag to pay.

Next, Ciarran turned her gently and assessed her wounds. The
hybrid
had been sloppy, cutting only one side of the woman’s neck rather than full across her throat. The carotid artery was intact, the jugular vein incised, though the cut was too shallow to kill instantly.

No, not sloppy. More than likely, Asag had
wanted
her to lie here, to know of her impending demise, to be powerless to stop it. He would have reveled in the certainty of her suffering, would have intended her death to be a slow torture.

He would have wanted Clea to suffer that knowledge, as well.

Ciarran wanted to howl with rage and desperation, but he pulled back his emotions, locked them away where they could do the least harm. Clea’s life was not yet at risk because Asag was a creature of ritual and rite.

He would wait for the night, of that Ciarran was certain.

Just as he was certain as to where Asag would take her. To the site of the crash that had claimed her parents decades before. Tonight, Asag would try to sacrifice her, a tribute of blood and pain to open the breach, to bring the Solitary from the demon realm, and in doing so return his own full power.

The demon would do nothing to cause her physical harm in the interim. He would want her power intact, untapped, until the exact anniversary of the crash arrived—to the moment, to the second—the anniversary that had brought Asag to the human realm.

Which meant that for the next few hours, Clea was relatively safe.

Ciarran clenched his ruined fist, feeling the thing twisting inside him, rattling the confines of its cage. His fury was cold, controlled, an icy rage that sucked everything into a vortex of hate. The darkness swelled within him, called by the black emotion in his heart, crying for release. He was tempted, so tempted to set it free, to set it on Asag, to enjoy watching it rip him apart.

If it didn’t rip
him
apart first. Therein lay the quandary.

Terry moaned, drawing Ciarran’s full attention, and Pickles lay down at her side, nudging her with his nose.

The Compact forbade Ciarran from tethering a soul back to the mortal shell it had departed. Terry’s soul was yet inside her. He could still save her, with a forfeit of magic and power, a part of himself.

Calling on his light magic, Ciarran healed her, sacrificing his already weakened reserves, drained by the hours he had spent in such close association with Clea.

The demon seed swelled, taking a little more of him, pushing the boundaries, stealing another piece of his soul.