Demon's Kiss (8 page)

There was a low hum in her fingertips, then a buzz, and finally it grew to an itch, like radio static converted to a touch. A surge of energy flared from Ciarran, and he jerked back, away from her fingers, the expression on his face as shocked as if she had punched him.

Heart pounding, she looked down at her hands, at the thin crackle of light that fanned from her fingertips, and she raised her eyes to his, a little awed. More than a little scared.

Moving so fast it made her gasp, he rose and came to stand in front of her, his muscled body towering over her as he closed his hand around her upper arm and drew her to her feet. A jolt of excitement and electricity sizzled through her, leaving her breath coming in short, sharp huffs through her parted lips.

“Christe,”
he said, his eyes dark and hot. Heavy-lidded.

He dragged her up against his solid body, heat and power swirling around them like a storm. A thrill shot along her veins, reckless exhilaration that burned away common sense and reason. All she wanted was his kiss, the taste of him, rich and warm on her tongue.

Catching her chin between his gloved fingers, he tipped her face and brought his mouth to hers, a light brush of his lips; then his tongue touched her, making her wet. Clea arched into him, a whimper of pure feminine pleasure pouring from her as he pushed inside and kissed her deeply, lips and tongue and teeth, a little rough, a little urgent, and so hot she felt singed. He was inside her, the luscious velvety stroke of his tongue sliding into her, tasting her.

Oh, God, his mouth. The way he moved it on hers, the heat of it, the carnal pleasure.

She sucked him deeper, her fingers twining in the long, silky strands of his hair, and she was half-crazy with wanting him, a burning hunger gliding through her, pooling between her thighs into an ache so strong it bordered on pain.

Dimly, she was aware of his light, his power, and hers, that thing inside her, coiling up, weaving from her into him, and him into her, joining them, a sharing as sensual as their kiss. And then she felt something else, a slow hiss of menace, something dark, something dangerous, slithering through him, a whisper of movement like a shark in still waters. Breaking the connection, she jerked back, eyes wide, and clamped her fingers around the chair back, certain she would collapse but for its solid support.

Chest heaving, she stared at him in confusion.

“What—” She couldn’t ask, didn’t know what to ask.

He looked down at her, eyes hard and bright, his breath coming harsh and fast. Swallowing, he backed up a step, his gaze shifting to his leather-gloved hand as he turned it slowly palm up, then palm down.

Power arced between them; then he pulled it back, leashing his magic. She knew it, sensed it, felt him slamming a door against her.

“Perhaps you asked the wrong question, Clea,” he said, his voice rough. “You asked what
I
am.” His gorgeous face grew deadly earnest, and his eyes, his beautiful, long-lashed, iridescent eyes watched her with a wary respect. “The better question might be, what exactly are
you
?”

He hadn’t meant to kiss her, touch her, either, but his regret was tempered by a swell of masculine satisfaction. The temptation to kiss her again tugged at him. Putting a careful distance between them, he returned to his side of the table, folding his tall frame to fit the wooden chair. Clea stared at him for an endless moment with those wide, dark eyes, assessing, measuring. She followed his lead, trying for a veneer of normalcy as she took her seat.

What the hell had he been thinking?

Nothing. He’d been thinking nothing, only feeling, wanting her with a fierce ache that gnawed at him, drove him. He wanted her still, wanted to take her there against the wall, pin her with his weight, sink inside the heat of her with her long legs wrapped around him, the sound of her pleasure singing in his ears.

He blew out a slow breath, shifted on his seat. Hell. He was a thousand years old, and kissing her had left him feeling as jacked as any teenager.

Leaning back in his chair, he watched emotions play across Clea’s features. Confusion. Disbelief. Perhaps even fear.

And lacing all of it, the shimmer of sexual awareness that had yet to abate.

She picked up the cup of coffee, buying time to get her thoughts in order, he figured. Watching him over the rim, she took a sip. Her hand trembled just a bit.

Wise girl, to try to figure things out. She was a thinker, a planner, and a stark regret nagged at him because everything that had happened to her since he’d walked into the Blue Bay Motel had happened without giving her much time to think or plan or even adjust. But she had rolled with it, swayed and bent, letting the tide swirl around her. She was a survivor.

And he . . . well . . . he should have done a bit more thinking. For twenty years he’d thought of that night every time he looked at his damned gloved hand, but he hadn’t spared a thought for the child he had healed. In a turmoil of pain, his body and emotions ravaged by Asag’s attack that night, he had trusted Darqun to ascertain that with her parents dead, there was someone to raise her. A grandmother. Responsibility met, he had put her from his mind, never contemplating the fact that the child who had siphoned his magic on a blood-drenched road might grow into a woman who would carry that power for eternity. A woman who could purloin not just one filament, but half his magic, or more, linked to him, taking what was his, what was the sole protection of all her kind.

The more she drew, the weaker he became, leaving him open to the insidious swell of the demonic parasite that ate at him.

No, he had not considered it, because such a thing had never happened. Sorcerers were rare, a breed born of
two
sorcerer parents. When two of magical bent imprinted one another, their power joined as well, flowing between them, stronger, bigger. Their child would be a sorcerer, coming to full power at the completion of puberty, aging until full adulthood, then aging no more.

The offspring of a mortal-sorcerer match might have a kernel of magic, a whisper, just enough to give him or her what humans called a sixth sense, but not enough to draw on in the manner of a full sorcerer. He had never heard of a human child pulling power from a sorcerer. An impossibility that had become reality for him the night he lost his hand and Clea her parents.

He had thought such connection impossible.

She had proved him wrong. Whether she willed it or not, she had the capacity to draw from him as a bonded sorcerer would, yet because her power did not match his own, she had nothing to give back.

She would weaken him. Slowly. Inexorably. She would take his magic, steal his barriers and protections against the demon seed that writhed and twisted inside him.

And he’d be completely to blame. What had happened just now when he kissed her, when he molded his mouth and body to hers, was proof enough of that.

He’d reveled in it. In her response. In the mewl of utter pleasure that had escaped from her mouth into his. In the pounding of her heart and the way her fingers had tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, tighter. But their connection, the way she’d called his magic, both light and dark, was perilous.

He wanted her to want him, to crave him, to burn for him with a fierce and lush intensity. And he wanted her safe. Which put him in direct opposition with himself.

Beautiful, brilliant, sensual Clea Masters.

His emotions swirled as he stared at her, and something swelled inside him, whispering, demanding, just as it had last night.

My Clea.
Yes. He wanted to claim her.

His ruined hand tingled, and a slow, shadowy burn spread through him. He knew she’d sensed it, felt the dark coil of menace that he fought so hard to hold in check. It had frightened her.

Smart girl.

He’d
been living with it for twenty years, and the way it had swelled, snaking out toward her, wanting her . . . hell, it had almost frightened
him.

She took another sip of coffee. Anything, he thought, rather than focus on him. She was wary now, her gaze skittering from his.

Blood pounded through him, hot and thick, as he watched her lick whipped cream from her upper lip, her tongue making a slow sweep that he longed to follow with his own tongue.

Everything about her turned him on. Her plain, conservative sweater hiding a sexy bra beneath. Inexpensive jeans with a low-rise waist. He’d caught a glimpse of her black thong underwear as she’d moved around the table to take her seat. He wanted to see her in that thong—and nothing else.

The hum of desire buzzed through him, and riding it, the sharp edge of darkness writhing inside the leather-and-alloy glove, trying to wriggle free. It wanted out. It wanted her.

Christe.
What the hell was he thinking? He couldn’t have her. The risk was too great.

“So you’re what? Some kind of magician?” Clea set the cup down on the table with meticulous care and raised her eyes to his.

Ciarran jerked, clenching his fist as he battled the urge to reach out and touch her. She’d called him a
magician.
He ought to be offended, but he wasn’t sure he cared. He just wanted to touch her.

“So last night, at the Blue Bay, when the . . . uh . . . demon came after you, it scratched your arm through the leather of your jacket. I watched you bleed.” Her attention shifted to the skin of his arms, unmarked, unbroken, and she frowned. “I
saw
you bleed. Which means that you’re human and that whatever you did was some kind of trick, right?”

“I am no magician, Clea. I am High Sorcerer.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No.”

“Okay. So you are High Sorcerer,” she mused softly, repeating his earlier explanation as though trying the words on for size. “Guardian of the wall.” She cocked her head to one side, and a frown etched small creases between her brows. “So then you can tell me now”—she held one hand in front of her, trembling, sparking faint filaments of light, and she spread her fingers wide—“
what exactly am I
?”

She raised her gaze to his, eyes slightly narrowed, such a serious, intent look, but instead of the terror and confusion he expected, there was only interest. Watchfulness. A huge dose of curiosity. He wasn’t surprised to find that Clea focused on learning rather than being afraid.

“This light, my light . . . is it . . . magic?” she asked. “Like yours? Will it do what yours did”—her voice caught—“to that demon? Do I have to be worried that I’ll be walking through the grocery store and end up shredding things?” She shivered. “Shredding people?”

And that just made her wonder what the hell she was doing, thinking of climbing all over a guy who had to be the scariest human being she’d ever met.

She looked at him, considering his question. “Not even slightly bloodthirsty. No, I just want to understand the big picture. Get an idea of where I fit in.”

“Ah. A sensible approach.”

Yep. That was her. Sensible. Which was why it made no sense that she was sitting in her kitchen, actually believing he was some sort of . . . what? Warlock? Sorcerer? Protector of all mankind?

Because she’d seen that demon last night. Smelled it. Felt the burn of its flesh on the skin of her cheek. Absently, she raised her hand, ran her fingers along the skin of her face, and felt . . . nothing. No burn. No scab. She remembered Ciarran touching her cheek and the sensation of electric energy arcing into her.

What in heaven’s name was going on here? Her idea of reality was doing a quick about-face, and she had the feeling that she didn’t have much choice in the matter.

“So what’s really going—”

Ciarran’s eyes narrowed, and he held up his ungloved hand, his movement and the harsh expression on his face cutting short her words. Tension laced his features, as though he was listening for some almost imperceptible sound. Rising, he spun a slow circle, his body beginning to glow, first with a faint light, then stronger, and stronger still. The look on his face was intense. Dangerous.

Clea’s stomach took a long, slow roll, as it always did when her power swelled. A shiver of nervousness twitched through her body. The faint lights dancing across her fingertips snapped and popped, and suddenly, she was on alert, sensing some unseen threat. She had a suspicion that Ciarran knew exactly what it was.

“We must leave, Clea. Now.” He held out one hand toward her, and even at a distance, she could feel the raw energy sparking from his fingertips. “This apartment is at the center of a
hybrid
warren.”

She didn’t understand any of this, and something inside her balked. “
Hybrid
warren?” She stared at his hand warily, uncertain if she should take it or not.

“I had not thought they would dare come for you with me here. Perhaps I overvalued the deterrent presented by the presence of a sorcerer.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a self-mocking smile.

Slowly, she got to her feet, her gaze darting to the door of the kitchen, and somehow, despite the sunlight that streamed through the window, she felt the darkness, the threat. Suddenly she wasn’t just wary. She was afraid.

“I set wards this morning before I went in search of your coffee, but it is better if we leave. The strength of the spells fade with time, and they have been in place many hours.”

“Wards? What—”

“Too late,” he muttered. Closing his hand about her wrist, he yanked her behind him.

Clea pressed up against Ciarran’s back, her heart pounding, her mouth dry. His muscled body was taut, vibrating with energy even though he stood perfectly still. Heart slamming against her ribs, she made a quick decision. Whatever they were about to face, she’d let him take the lead. He definitely had more experience at this than she did.

Because how many third-year med students who worked night shift at a motel knew anything about demons and
hybrids
and magic?

Ciarran’s power swirled around her, warm, strong, and she felt her insides coil and twist, as though moving in synchronicity with the glowing strands. She closed her eyes, focused on the steady thud of his heart. While hers was pounding wildly, his was not. Maybe sorcerers didn’t get scared.

Without thought, she pressed tighter against his back, drawing comfort from his warm solidity.

A dark pain snaked through her, gliding, twirling, and she gasped at the intensity, so much stronger than she’d ever felt before. Razor-sharp agony bit through her skin from the inside out, and her power burst from her, doubling her over, spewing in every direction in a haphazard pulsing wave of light and strength.

She heard a crash as a chair flew back and hit the wall; then the three untouched cups of coffee followed suit, splattering corretto and chai latte wildly across the pale wall.

“Christe.”
Jerking away from her, Ciarran dropped her wrist as though she’d burned him. “Pull it back, Clea.”

Pull it back? Was he talking about the pulse of light that was hacking through her like a butcher’s cleaver?

“I don’t know how,” she cried.

With a low moan, she pressed her forearm against her belly, struggling to stand upright, and the light just kept pulsing out of her in haphazard spurts. She was breathing in a pattern, two short gasps in, one long slow push out, concentrating, focusing on that instead of on the pain.

Her body felt clammy, cold, despite the hot wave that poured out of her. She wanted it to stop. It had never done this before. Never. The light usually pulsed out once, only once, knocking back whatever it was that threatened her, and then it would slide away, back to wherever it had come from. But this was different. Stronger. More chaotic. This constant throb, the feeling of unbelievable intensity, was new. With concentrated effort she stuck with her breathing pattern, swaying, but managing to stay on her feet.

With a glance at her over his shoulder, Ciarran reached out, as though to touch her again. And then he made a sound of frustration and dropped his hand back to his side.

There was no movement, no sound, but suddenly Clea knew they weren’t alone anymore. Certainty swelled within her, bitter and cold. Something was coming for them.

Her head jerked up, and she stared at the kitchen doorway, waiting, her blood frozen in her veins, her heart beating in an erratic dance. There was a sharp bang as her front door slammed against the wall. The sound of heavy footfalls carried from the hallway. For some crazy reason, all Clea could think of was short, round Mrs. Garfinkle in the apartment downstairs and how the noise would upset her.

A current of air swirled through the kitchen doorway, thick and pungent, carrying the stink of death and decay, the smell reminiscent of the demon last night, but not quite as strong.

She couldn’t breathe. Her chest felt tight, blocked.

Two men slunk toward them, and behind them two more. She registered the appearance of the man closest to her, thick and barrel-chested, his face brutal. Then her eyes locked on his, and in that instant she realized he wasn’t a man at all. His eyes were bottomless pits, soulless, the entire socket filled by a round black marble with no white showing, no color. Whatever it was, this thing wasn’t human.

A chill of certainty scurried across her skin. It was here for her.

Well, bully for him, because she had no intention of letting him get her.

With her forearm pressed tight across her belly, she backed up a step, and another, toward the counter and the butcher block of knives. Her breath chuffed in and out. No. Not a knife. She needed something heavy she could wield. Gram’s rolling pin.

Ciarran glanced at her, his body tense, and when he moved, it was so fast, she could do little more than let out a startled squawk. He yanked her hard against him, wrapping his arms around her, half-carrying, half-dragging her across the kitchen. Then he leaped, catapulting them both up and over the ancient counter, his booted feet punching through the window above it.

A wild, terrified cry escaped her. Clea was aware of the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood, the shards that flew in all directions, the steady thud of Ciarran’s heart; then they were falling, hurtling through air and space, the ground rushing up to meet them.