A Demon's Desire (17 page)

She rolled her eyes, leaning back against the
wall. “Could you at least try to speak as if you are only
twenty?”

Breaking eye contact, I focused on my usual
meditation point, a black knot in the wood wall directly across the
room. It was nearly invisible in the flickering lamplight. I closed
my eyes once again in an attempt to shut out reality. “I’ll try.
It’s harder when I’m upset.”

One of the consequences of appearing young
when my body is much older than it seems. Sometimes what comes from
my lips doesn’t match what others see.

I felt her lean close on the little stool,
her wild red curls brushing my bare knee below my dress. I cringed
away from her so slightly that she didn’t notice. Five weeks I’d
gone without touching her and delving into her mind; I refused to
give in. “It’s almost over. We are almost out.”

I straightened imperceptibly, drawing in a
deep breath, comfortable in the darkness behind my eyelids.
“Yes.”

“We can hope our new masters are good-- ”

“Matilda,” I cut in sharply, eyes flying
open. When she jumped back slightly at the sight, I knew I had lost
my glamour. I closed my lids on the lavender fire that glowed
there, and steadied myself. Sometimes she made me lose my temper.
The downside of keeping human friends, I suppose. I took a few deep
breaths before opening my eyes and going on in a lower tone. “False
hope will only make the little ones worse in the long run. I wish
you would put an end to it.”

“What is life without hope?” Her voice was
small and I felt a pang of regret. Good intentions never go without
punishment.

“Life is a long, terrible thing,” I
whispered, more to myself. I couldn’t meet her eyes.

The door creaked open like a scream in the
hushed room, pivoting outward. Every face around me, nondescript
and identical to the one beside it, turned to see who was on the
other side. The big one with the bushy red beard stood in the
doorway, dressed in rags fit for no better than a pirate. His dirty
white shirt had short sleeves and barely covered his rotund belly,
while his black vest hung open over his loosely draped black pants.
Scuffed brown boots tapped on the floor as he gazed around in
disdain.

It was time.

“1, 4, 8, 9, and 13,” he said sharply.
Thirteen; that was me; it was crudely tattooed on the inside of my
right wrist. I slid from the barrel, my heart beating wildly.
Matilda followed me, her fingers clutching my shawl and her eyes
wide.

The room was silent as we were shackled
together. I brought up the rear, stepping lightly and slowly so as
not to walk all over the little one in front of me: the green-eyed
girl. I could see every bone in her little shoulders. She looked
like a beaten dog.

Torches lined the hallway outside our cell,
casting evil, wavering shadows on the dirt floor. Mine, as usual,
was absent, a by-product of my abnormal heritage. The young man
walking somewhat behind and to the left of me, obviously new to the
guard, kept glancing from the floor to me as if I might
disappear.

Too bad that wasn’t within my range of
powers. If that was the case, I’d be harvesting my potato patch
instead of walking towards an unknown destiny.

Dry dust swirled around my ankles, the
hallway steadily getting warmer as we ascended the steep hill. A
sharp corner brought us into blinding sunlight and fresh air. I
felt unwelcome tears sting my eyes and choked down a sob of
gratitude for the warm rays that caressed my shoulders. I let go of
my shawl outside the door, where it trailed from my fingers to the
ground without a thought; it had never been mine, anyway. Already I
could feel my strength returning, the sun filling my reserves with
its loving energy.

We came out of the jail tunnel behind a
raised platform crudely constructed of wood and haphazardly sewn
burlap sacks. I could hear the noise of the crowd on the other side
as we were lined up with our backs to the stage.

The first girl was a teen with shorn brown
hair and slumped shoulders, her spirit in tatters on the ground.
Her hands were shaking so much I feared she was going into shock. A
man with muscular arms and an almost invisible neck unshackled her
from the community chain and led her away.

So the waiting began.

The big guard walked by tapping his sword to
the side of his beefy leg. His black belt strained with the weight
of his belly, a wild patch of red hair sprouting from above the
loose ties of his shirt. He leered at me from the center of a head
full of dirty, rust colored curls.

“Glad to see you’ve survived, pretty thing,”
he murmured, brushing a thumb down my cheek. The offensive finger
continued to my neck, and even further to the crest of my
breast.

Disgust flooded me. I gave him my best glare
and emptied my eyes of emotion. The human color remained, but he
was seeing the inhuman inside, the part of me that is connected to
the Earth, to the things that bump and crawl in this world.

Confusion darted across his countenance and
he inched away.

It was entirely too tempting to do something
stupid, like zap him with a single touch. My cover would be broken
and the people who knew what exactly I was. They’d slap a steel
cuff on my ankle so fast my head would spin…if they didn’t hang me
first.

“How is it you see out of those pig-like,
squinty eyes?” I retorted with a sneer.

Slap
. Colors
exploded. One of his hands was the size of my head; the force threw
me to the ground where I landed hard in the dirt. I sucked in a
couple of deep, centering breaths with my chin tucked to my chest.
I kept my eyes and palms to the ground, spitting blood as he walked
away laughing.

One by one my companions were unchained and
led to the stage I couldn’t see. The sting of my cheek eventually
ebbed. Matilda gave me a cautious smile and a lighthearted good-bye
wave as she shuffled to the stairs. I watched until she rounded the
corner, her ankle chains leaving lines in her wake. It wasn’t clear
to me whether I would miss her or be glad to be rid of her.

The young guard, handsome in a childish sort
of way, waited until we were alone before coming to me. Lacing my
fingers before me, I tried to appear as easy and approachable as
possible, despite the chains weighing me down like a criminal.

“Why do you cast no shadow?” If I hadn’t
already been prepared for the question, I might not have understood
the whoosh of air that escaped him in the form of words.

I regarded the Italian thoughtfully, all dark
coloring and confidence. The physical closeness of his body to mine
would allow me to read him, and I conceded to the temptation. When
my eyes caught his, he froze; prey. I could imagine the hairs
rising on the back of his neck as he watched the dark brown of my
eyes fade to be replaced by irises so bright purple they could
burn. With a decent amount of effort, I focused on not allowing my
skin to revert to its natural form; I didn’t want to scare him
away.
One, two, three
…I charged in.

I can’t explain how the thoughts come. A
series of pictures, words uttered in my head; also scents, colors,
emotions, and sensations. Flashes of insight into the life of the
person I choose to read. Physical touch isn’t necessary, just
proximity, although with touch sometimes it comes unbidden.

His wife’s name was Theodora and his
daughter, Victory. They lived in a one bedroom shack above a
butcher’s shop. I could smell the blood. His daughter was
sick…tuberculosis. She was going to die; it was in her stars. Mere
man can’t fight the fate set forth by the universe. He was a good
man, who took care of an elderly mother and gave to the poor…I saw
an empty pantry and a deteriorating marriage.

“Why are you here, Marcello?” One might have
thought I’d hit him. I saw the questions pass over his face. I
placed a hand to his bare arm, my skin like fire next to his human
temperature. “You don’t belong with these men.”

“I need the money,” he stuttered. Even
unsure, he didn’t shake me off. I let his dark eyes study me, his
other hand coming up to cover mine on his arm. “My daughter-- ”

“The butcher needs help,” I told him watching
the elderly man in that sacred place of my mind. His wife was
passing away as we spoke, her hold on life threadbare. The timing
was impeccable; how grand the Universe is when it demands
intervention. “You will make much more money. The old man has no
child, and his only will to live is leaving soon. He will leave you
the shop if you take a job with him. You have a choice to make.
Your current path will end your marriage and result in
suicide.”

The poor man was shaking, his skin ice
beneath my hand. His brown eyes resembled that of a doe, flashing
around in panic beneath the archer’s gaze. I could feel his
indecision on my skin.

“Number 13, your turn.” The brute was back,
abruptly ending my connection to the sweet, naïve Italian. My hands
twitched to wrap themselves around the big man’s neck.

I’ve killed before. I wouldn’t hesitate to do
it again.

Like free ebooks? Lizzy and Heather are
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Heather Adkins, young adult fantasy author,
Abigail

Julia Crane, young adult fantasy author,
Conflicted: Keegan's Chronicles

Lizzy Ford, paranormal romance author of the
War of Gods
series and
Rhyn Trilogy

Talia Jager, young adult author,
Damaged:
Natalie's Story

P.J. Jones, parody author,
Melvin the Dry
Cleaning Zombie and Vampire Shoe Warehouse

Shéa MacLeod, paranormal/urban fantasy
author,
Kissed by Fire
(
Sunwalker Saga)

M. Edward McNally, fantasy author,
The
Wind From Miilmark (The Norothian Cycle)

Alan Nayes, paranormal romance and fantasy
author,
Smilodon

Jack Wallen, zombie and thriller author,
My, Zombie My
(I, Zombie Trilogy)