Dark Desires After Dusk (13 page)

As he'd gaped up at her in fear, she'd blinked down at him. As though someone else had inhabited her body, she'd throatily murmured, “I guess we should part ways here?” When she released him, he'd fled.

Once Bobby's tales had made the rounds at school, no boy would ask her out, so she'd buried herself even more in her studies.

In fact, she hadn't attempted to be intimate with another male until her first year in college. The only thing different about that encounter was that she'd grown more aggressive and even stronger.

Shaking away that memory, Holly turned to Greta's page in
The Book of Warriors
. Greta the Bold had been a master strategist and had led troops of Valkyrie, witches, and Furies in the great Battle of the Plains of Doom.

If the dates of that battle were correct, then Greta had gone to war when she'd been pregnant with Holly. Six years later, Greta had lost her life on the front line in the infamous Eighteen-Night Siege.

Holly was struck by the fact that if a new world existed, then she would have an entirely new history to learn.

Suddenly feeling exhausted, she dragged the weighty
Living Book of Lore
onto her lap without enthusiasm. Scanning the pages, she found encyclopedic entries on each of the “known species.” After a brief intro, a more detailed history would follow. Flipping through, she found everything from wraiths and sirens, to Wendigos and demonarchies . . . .

“Do you want something to eat or drink?” Cadeon asked.

She wasn't hungry whatsoever. “Do you have anything to drink other than Red Bull?”

He pulled a bottle of water from the space behind her seat, handing it to her.
My favorite brand.

“Thanks.” She carefully twisted the cap, determined not to touch—

Crap!
She'd touched the bottle rim. With a sigh, she put the cap back on and placed the bottle at her feet.

“Something wrong with the water?”

She debated not answering, but figured he'd encounter all her quirks over the next couple of weeks anyway—the eating difficulties, the germophobia, the endless arranging.

“I touched the rim.” She put her chin up. “There was transference. I can't drink it now.”

Instead of laughing at her, he reached behind her seat to grab another bottle. He opened it without contaminating the rim, then handed it to her. “These shorter caps must be a pain in the ass.”

Her lips parted. She'd complained to Mei about the newfangled caps just the other week.

“So, you feeling overwhelmed yet?” he asked.

“A tad.” She took a drink. She continued to feel as if she were reading fiction—as if all of this were far too fantastic to be true.

Even when a thousand-year-old demon sat a foot from her.

“Read the book to me, and I'll add details or explain things.”

“How can I trust you? You said Valkyrie are docile. In
The Book of Warriors,
I read about Kaderin the Cold-hearted, an assassin who strings up fangs collected from the heads of vampires she's decapitated. And then there is Emmaline the Unlikely, who slew her own father. Cut him up into three pieces.” Three.
I like Emmaline already.
“Clearly, they are the picture of docility.”

“Like I said, I was just having a bit of fun. It'd be like saying sirens don't like to sing.”

She tilted her head at him. “So if I had questions, you'd answer them truthfully?”

“Yeah, if you answer questions about yourself.”

She didn't see the harm. “Very well. I'll start. How many demonarchies are there? Where are they?”

“There are hundreds. Almost every breed of demon—from the smoke demons like Rök to the pathos demons—has a kingdom of some kind, usually in a separate plane.”

“Separate plane? There are such things?”

He nodded. “There are more dimensions than can be mapped.”

“What's your kingdom called?”

“Rothkalina.” When he said it, his accent became more pronounced, as if even the mention of his home brought on keen feeling.

“How do you get there?” she asked.

“The most accessible portal is in southern Africa.”

And that explained the accent. “So does it look like an alternate universe? Does it have purple skies and a green sun?”

“Nah. Rothkalina looks a lot like the west coast of North America.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling a bit silly. Then she frowned. “But if Omort is a sorcerer, why would he want to take over a demon kingdom?”

C
lever chit,
Cade thought. Few ever asked him that question, though it seemed one of the most material in his mind.

“The land is rich,” he answered. “And the kingdom is strategically located.”

But in truth, Omort had no use for the kingdom, and only kept it because he could.
The one who controls Tornin controls the kingdom.

Omort desired what was within the castle.

Before written history, Tornin had been constructed around the legendary Well of Souls—to protect that mystickal font of power from sorcerers like Omort. And the rage demons had been dispatched to Tornin to safeguard the stronghold.

Yet they'd never been told exactly what the Well of Souls . . .
did.

“Why are you called
rage
demons?”

“We get . . . enraged when we turn demonic. Mindless fury and all that.”

“Turn demonic? Like when you fought tonight.”

“Yeah, well, that was just a hint.” In his fully demonic form, his skin would darken, reddening, while his body grew taller and larger. His fangs would elongate, and his horns would sharpen, reaching their full size. In that state,
he could emit a toxin from the ends that could temporarily paralyze even an immortal.

She swallowed. “And how often do you get enraged?”

“It's extremely rare to turn fully. It happens only when a demon's life or the life of one of his family is in jeopardy.” Or when he claimed his female for the first time.

“Why is Lorekind hidden from humans?”

“Historically, anytime some faction comes out of the closet, they get slaughtered.”

“Like who?”

“For millennia, the witches kept outing themselves—until that last rash of burnings. And all those people in the past who were killed because they were supposedly possessed by demons? They
were
demons.”

“But how do all these beings keep secret from humans?”

“It's easier than you think. We mainly stick to crazy cities, party towns. Most humans assume that anything
off
is a costume or, these days, part of an MTV prank.” He grew more serious. “But every myth is an example of when some Lore creature boned up.”

“What would you do if you got pulled over right now? What if you threw on your hat and a cop wanted you to take it off?”

“A lot of demons would run, collect a couple of bullets, then get out of sight to trace.”

“Trace? I read about that. It means to teleport?”

He nodded. “But not all demon breeds can do it, and of those that have the potential, they have to work at it to master it.”

“I assume you can't since you didn't trace us instead of going through the swamp.”

“I used to be able to. For centuries I enjoyed that power. But Omort bound my ability to trace. My brother's as well.”

“Will you ever get it back?”

He met her eyes. “As soon as that sword severs his head from his neck, we'll be free.”

*   *   *

Cadeon's expression grew sinister, as if he was imagining beheading Omort right at that moment. Then his gaze slid to her, and he seemed to shake himself. “So questions about you now . . .”

“What do you want to know?”

“How did you find out you were adopted?”

“My adoption was never a secret. My mom used to tell me the story of the day someone left me on their doorstep. She always called me her foundling.” Holly smiled softly. “They'd tried for years to get pregnant. When they couldn't and sought an adoption, the parish said my father was too old. And he outlived her.”

Though not by much. He'd been so utterly in love with his wife of forty-five years that when they'd lost her to cancer, he'd wanted only to follow her wherever she'd gone. Her parents had had an extraordinary kind of love, the kind that you read about but rarely see.

Had her biological parents experienced it, too?

“I bet you never imagined your real mum as a warrior Valkyrie,” he said, taking a deep swallow of Red Bull.

“No, we'd always supposed she was an unwed teenager.” An unfamiliar scent hit her, and she sniffed the air. “Are you . . . tippling? Did you pour alcohol in your drink?”

“Maybe.”

“You're drinking and driving!”

“If I were blotto, my reflexes would still be a thousand times better than a human's.”

“You curse like a sailor and denigrate women, and now I find out that you drive under the influence.” She peered over at the speedometer. “And you do it too fast.”

“True, true, true. And you don't live a little, don't get the lead out, and never have fun.”

“I do have fun!”

“You wouldn't know fun if it bit you on the ass.”

Her chin jutted up. “You think I'm a goody two-shoes, a prude.”

“I was going to say
preachy tight-ass
. But prude might fit. Especially after what Nïx told me about you tonight.”

“What did she say?” Holly demanded.

“She said that you're innocent, and not just in body. I'd figured you were definitely a virgin, but—”

“How?” she interrupted. She wasn't secretive about her virginity, but she hadn't thought it'd be patently obvious to others.

“You've got it written all over you. It's like a flickering beacon for males like me.”

“Please. Tell me. What do I have inscribed and flickering over me?”

“Starving—for—it.”

She glared at the roof of the car, grasping for patience. Because heaven help her, he might be right.

“So, I got that you were innocent body-wise, but the innocent-in-mind bit threw me. How is that even possible?”

“Why couldn't it be?” she asked.

“The media and such today. Sex is pervasive.”

It was. But Holly had diligently trained herself to
Turn Away
. Somehow, she unfailingly forced herself to avoid
anything that might make her lose control—anything erotic, passionate, moving, angering . . . .

A couple necking on campus?
Turn away.
A steamy scene on network TV?
Turn away.
“Can you accept that an alcoholic avoids the liquor store? Or that a dieter avoids the bakery?”

“A dieter still has to go to the grocery store.”

“Unless he gets the groceries delivered,” she countered.

“He?”

“Why would a dieter have to be a she?”

The corners of his lips curled. “Almost forgot what a little feminist you are.”

“I guess everyone would be considered so, compared to a huge chauvinist such as yourself.”

“Back to the subject. You're telling me you've never even seen people having sex in a movie?”

“Regrettably, my adult video collection isn't as extensive as yours.”

He shrugged. “Not going to apologize for that. I'm currently between females. Flicks help to . . . pass the time.”

Though she could scarcely believe she was discussing porn with an immortal in a million-dollar car, alas, she was.

“Answer the question,” he said.

“No, I haven't viewed more than a glimpse.”

“Before this trip is over, I'm going to get you to watch a flick.”

“Never. I'm just not interested in seeing things like that.” She was
dying
to see things like that.
Turn away . . .