Demon's Kiss (9 page)

He had to be dead, or smashed to pieces. And
she
ought to be dead.

“Come on,” Ciarran snarled, pushing himself upright. Blood dripped from his shoulder, running down his arm.

Words tumbled out of her in a wheezing rush. “
OhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGod—
”

He yanked her to her feet, and as she swayed, he glanced up at something behind her. With a muttered curse, he hauled her against his side and sprinted forward, half-carrying, half-dragging her to a sleek black car parked illegally at the curb. The landlord, Mr. Koschitsky, would have a fit if he saw that.

Ripping open the door, Ciarran shoved her in and bolted to the other side. In the mirror, she watched the men. . . . were they men? She didn’t think so because no one could have made it down the stairs that fast. God. Whatever they were, they cleared the front door of the building just as Ciarran rammed the car in gear and peeled away from the curb.

Clea’s hands shot out, the right one digging into the grab-handle, the left grasping at the console as the car flew along the street. Trembling, she uncurled her fingers and fumbled with the seat belt, taking three tries before she finally got the pieces to snap together with a solid
click.

Ciarran glanced at her, his gaze running over her from crown to toes, as though assessing any damage. Apparently satisfied, he returned his attention to the road.

Swallowing, she stared at the blood trickling down his arm, at the brutal scrape on his shoulder. He’d been hurt because of those
things
that were after
her.
The realization made her light-headed. Leaning forward as far as the seat belt would allow her, she lowered her head between her knees.

The roar of the engine filled the car. Sitting up just in time to wish she hadn’t, she tried to decide what was worse, watching the scenery whiz past or hiding her head in the sand like an ostrich. She let out a startled squeak as Ciarran nosed the front bumper about a centimeter away from an enormous truck that lumbered along in front of them. Obviously unhappy with the delay, he did a smooth lane change into the path of oncoming traffic.

She couldn’t help it. She screamed. Long and loud.

“Shh.” He shifted back again, into the proper lane, only now they were in front of the truck.

“Oh, my God.” He was going to get her killed. Clea let go of the console and slapped her palm against the dashboard, pressing her right foot hard against the floorboards as though slamming on the brakes. Only it didn’t have the desired effect. The engine roared, and the car went faster, leaving Clea wishing that they were on the motorcycle he’d driven last night. And how crazy was that? But at least Ciarran had shown some respect for the speed limit when he’d been driving the bike.

The four . . .
hybrids
. Were they back there? Following them? The thought made her stomach do a sick flip. Her palms were slippery on the interior leather, and her hand skidded across the dash as she twisted around in her seat to look out the back window. Her fingers slammed against the volume control of the radio, and suddenly the car was filled with the pounding beat of some death metal band she couldn’t name.

Which did nothing for her nerves. Her heart was pounding, and her temples were throbbing.

Through the back window, she watched the outline of her apartment building growing smaller and smaller in the distance, and in front of it, something that looked suspiciously like her beat-up, rusted-out 1979 Chevy Nova.

The one she’d left at the motel last night. The one she definitely hadn’t driven home.

Her attention jolted from her car to the road.

“I don’t think they’re following us,” she yelled, then shook her head and reached over to turn down the volume. “Maybe we can slow down.”

Her mouth as dry as a protein bar, she tried to steady her nerves. A full-blown panic attack would not be a good thing just now, but she really, really hated to be in the passenger seat, and she hated it even more when the driver was reckless.

Ciarran glanced at her and smiled, his left hand holding the wheel in a relaxed grip, his right hand on the shifter. Maybe that was why he wore the leather glove. For driving.

He caught the direction of her gaze, and something flashed in his eyes, something not quite frightening. But almost.

She shivered, studied his grip, his posture. Okay. So the driver wasn’t reckless. He was driving way too fast, but for some reason, her fear was diminishing to a manageable level. Which was crazy, because she had a healthy respect for cars, recognizing them for the weapons of death that they were.

“You’re fine, Clea. I can’t get in an accident,” he reassured her, his expression somber.

“You can’t? Because of your insurance rates, you mean?”

He laughed, the sound rich and deep. “No. Because it is not possible for me to make that sort of miscalculation. Accidents are errors in human judgment. I am not human.”

Okay. A reassuring thought. In some ways. The “I can’t get in an accident” way. Not so reassuring in the “I’m not human” way.

“You never make mistakes?” she demanded, not even trying to temper the incredulity that laced her words.

His gaze shifted to his gloved hand, then back to the road. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, then, “Yeah. One.”

His tone killed any intention she might have had of asking which one.

Okay. Next topic. “So . . . um . . . what were they, those things . . . ? You called them
hybrids
.”

“They were human, once. But no longer. Think of them as converts to the cult of the damned. No soul. Just darkness.”

“Yeah. I picked that up.” She shuddered, thinking of their eyes, devoid of life or warmth. Windows to empty, hollow shells. No conscience, no remorse. Deader than Wired Guy, and she had thought at the time that he was the bleakest it could get.

“But you—umm—said that you’re not human, so . . . are you the same thing that they are?” Oh, that was such a not good thought.

The look he shot her spoke volumes. Next question.

“So, how did they just show up in my kitchen? And why today?” She focused on him, on the thick fall of sun-shot hair and the profile too perfect to be real. Because if she looked out the window, at the rapid blur of buildings and trees flying past, it was going to put an end to any hope she had of hanging on to her control.

She’d been hunted by a demon.

Filaments of light shredding demon hide, leaving only oozing, sizzling remains.

Hunted by
hybrids.

A window. They’d jumped out a fifth-story window.

Kissed by a sorcerer.

God. No one had ever made her feel like that.

All in the space of twelve hours.

“Demons cannot cross planes without a portal, so at times they send
hybrids
to do their dirty work.
Hybrids
can travel in the human realm at will, but they lack true magic. They are walkers.”

Of course. That explained everything. “So how are
hybrids
different than demon-keepers?”

“Demon-keepers are those who summon while they still have life. They are chained to a demon in the human realm.
Hybrids
are those who summon at the time of death. They lack the life force to bring the demon over, so instead, they are”—he drummed his fingers on the dash—“
infected
by a demon. That would be the easiest way to describe it.”

“So demon-keepers are alive and
hybrids
are half-dead?”

He shot her a glance. “Close enough.”

“And they showed up in my kitchen because . . . ?”

“Because of you. The demon failed to obtain you last night, but he left a trail, so they knew where to look. The Blue Bay Motel.” He downshifted, slowed just a little, and her breath came just a little easier.

“How did they find my apartment?”

“One of two sources. You keep your insurance in the glove box?”

She nodded.

“Then they got your address from that, or from your employment record in the motel office.”

She could only wonder why his explanation made her panic less rather than more. The fact that the walking dead
hybrids
were stalking her was terrifying, but, oh, she had a reasonable explanation of how they had found her, and that made her feel so much better.

Staring out the front window, she watched the scenery change from the crowded low-rise tenements of her neighborhood to open highway. Gray blocklike industrial buildings flanked them.

Demons. Magic. She glanced at Ciarran, trying to figure it out, figure him out. Why was a—what had he called himself—a High Sorcerer driving a man-made vehicle rather than using magic to transport himself from one place to another?

With a frown, she realized how crazy it was, sitting here in a car that was going way too fast for health or safety, wondering why a man who wasn’t quite human was driving said car. A shaky little laugh escaped her.

“So . . . why are you driving? A motorcycle? A car? Why don’t you . . . I don’t know . . . just ride some kind of wave to get where you want to go?”

She leaned a little to her left, just enough to get a glimpse of the speedometer, and immediately wished she hadn’t. They were flying.
Flying.
She was a woman who never drove a single mile over the speed limit, and here she was, clinging madly to the grab-handle of a car that was eating up the road in hungry leaps.

Sucking in a breath, she pushed down on the door lock. Better late than never.

“Ride some kind of wave? Like a surfer?” His smoky voice was laced with humor.

“Can you do that?” she asked.

“What? Surf?”

She sent him a quelling look, and he laughed again, the sound tumbling over her, decadent as a long, hot shower.

“There is the issue of, well, let’s call them unwanted hitchhikers,” he said. “
Hybrids
can steal transport on the trail left by magic. But if I travel by human vehicle, they must do the same. They possess few enhancements of magic, but they are adept at utilizing the remnants that others leave behind.”

“So they’re like scavengers.”

He smiled darkly. “In more ways than you imagine.”

Which brought all sorts of disgusting images to mind.

“But you
can
travel on magic?” she asked.

“Yes. But you can’t.” He paused. “Not yet.”

If he let such behavior pass unaddressed, then other
hybrids
would dare to let small failures grow, dare to put forth less than their best efforts. Such could not be tolerated. The Solitary was due to arrive soon, and all must be in perfect readiness.

Hybrids
were disposable. Replaceable. Their value determined only by their weakest link.

This small group had thrust themselves into the spotlight, put themselves in his sights, and so they became his prey.

Asa circled them, slowly, slowly, inhaling the sharp metallic scent of their terror. Not one of them had the courage to so much as glance at him. They stood, feet planted shoulder-width apart, arms at their sides, bodies rigid. Their posture might have been military, save for the fact that they dared not look straight ahead. None dared raise his eyes from the floor.

With a thought, Asa dropped the temperature in the cavernous space, the inside of the warehouse growing frigid. The
hybrids’
breath came out in white puffs, and the trembling of their limbs escalated until they were shaking from the cold.

Their physiology was more human than demon, and they were subject to many human weaknesses. Cold. Heat. Fatigue.

Pain.

Asa knew their limitations. He enjoyed exploiting them, had counted on them when he chose the place of their meeting, a deserted warehouse in a run-down industrial park. There were no neighbors to question any
unusual
sounds. Perfect for what he had in mind.

He glanced at the row of
hybrids
, inhaled the lovely scent of their growing panic.

Sometimes, only the harshest of lessons would do.

He had set them the simplest of tasks. Walk in the world of man. Find one woman, a particular woman, special, unique. In that, they had succeeded.

Bring her to him.

In that, they had failed.

Perhaps not such a simple task after all. Clea Masters had proven wilier, more slippery than the
hybrids
had expected. An adversary of some worth. Which only escalated the excitement of the hunt.

He knew she was no easy prey. He knew much about her, pretty, sweet Clea, with her tender heart and even more tender flesh.

Far in a corner, a drop of water hit the concrete floor with a distinct
ping
. Then another. And another. Asa measured his tread, slow, steady, drawing out the moment for his maximum pleasure as he walked past each quivering underling and moved to face the leader of the small group. In the silence, the sound of the dripping water was a steady marker of the passage of time, and he knew they found the sound inordinately loud. Frightening.

He stopped in front of Baal, a squat, barrel-chested
hybrid
with battered features. In his human life, he had obviously been a man who lived hard and rough. In his
hybrid
life he had been ruthless, cruel. They were wonderful characteristics, but the man was also stupid and overly arrogant, rather unpleasant qualities that had been minimally balanced by his ability to understand and follow instruction. Until now.

Asa reached out and laid the palm of his hand on the
hybrid
’s head, a gentle movement. He stroked the short strands of hair, enjoying the texture, enjoying Baal’s shudder of sheer terror even more.

“You know you have disappointed me, Baal,” he said, leaning in so that his quiet words were spoken directly beside the
hybrid
’s ear, yet the echo reverberated through the empty space, clear enough for the others to hear.

“My most humble apologies, my lord. I will not fail again.” The
hybrid
kept his eyes downcast, and in his voice Asa heard genuine regret. And fear. Terrible stark fear.

Lovely.

“No. No, you will not fail again.” Asa’s skin slithered along his frame like discarded clothing, and he let the mirage fade away, his handsome features melting and changing, leaving a dreadful visage. He laughed, hot demon breath scorching the skin of Baal’s ear and cheek.

With an unintelligible cry, the
hybrid
jerked back. Asa smiled, releasing the full impact of his rows of jagged, razor-sharp teeth, and he let his claws elongate where he yet rested his hand on the
hybrid
’s head. The sharp talons sank into Baal’s scalp, through skin and fascia and the thin layer of muscle that covered the bone, and yes, there, with a horrible scraping sound, they went through the bones themselves.

Exquisite. The sensation was superb.

Baal squirmed, moaned, a fish on a hook, struggling desperately for freedom.

Two of the three remaining
hybrids
skittered sideways, away from Baal, away from the river of blood that they knew would soon stain the cracked concrete beneath their feet. The third
hybrid
held his place, eyes glued to the floor, body rigid as the sounds of his comrade’s desperate thrashing swelled and echoed in the vast empty space. Asa’s smile grew wider. He was well pleased by the third
hybrid
’s actions. Perfect. The small group had a new leader, and once they had acclimatized to that fact, he would round out their number with a new recruit.

Or he would kill them. He had yet to decide which option suited his pleasure.

“Watch,” he commanded. “Watch, and remember.” What they would see was his insurance of their continued efforts on his behalf. The threat of slow dismemberment was strong influence indeed.

Their terror, their horror, would only add to his delight.

One of them sank to the frigid concrete floor, his legs giving way beneath him. The other two managed to stay on their feet, trembling, sweating.

But they all followed his directive. None of them dared look away.

Holding his captive in place with the claws of his left limb, Asa unsheathed those on his right. Long and pointed and sharp, they gleamed in the thin light that filtered through the grungy windows set high up in the wall.

With careful attention and barely contained relish, Asa proceeded to carve the main course.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Until, finally, the screams stopped and the only sound that remained was a soft
slurp
as Asa sucked the last of Baal’s blood from his fingers.