Demon Chained (Shadowfae Chronicles) (6 page)

***

The light popped on, and before I even closed his apartment door, the sweet boy from the nightclub was kissing me, trying to get his tongue deeper into my mouth. His body quivered, those nice muscles tense and hard beneath his rain-soaked T-shirt, and he felt so good my skin puckered, straining my nipples tight. He was shy, for a while, but now he was getting right into it, and every dip and fold and curve of my body sprang alive with sensation. God, I'd missed this.

He walked me backwards, stumbling further into the room. It had rained all the way home, and close heat thickened the air. Our sweaty skin slid together, the friction delicious. I grabbed twin handfuls of wet blond hair and went with it—he had a kinky metal stud through his tongue, and he liked it when I sucked it—but I kept my eyes slitted open to look around. I was tempted to drag him to the floor right now and jump on him, but I had something to attend to first.

His apartment was small, dark, probably didn't cost him much. Dented plaster walls, dusty venetians clamped shut over the windows. Burnt pizza flavored the stale air. He had a weird flat TV and a stuffed couch piled with wires and bits of plastic stuff I didn't recognize. More piles of stuff—shiny green metal boards, little plastic boxes with pictures on them, steel cases with bits of metal bolted inside them and electrical plugs hanging off—scattered in a maze over the grimy linoleum floor, dust collecting in fluffballs.

Great. A mad scientist. But it'd do, until I found something better.

"Nice place," I said, my words muffled by all the kissing.

"Yeah, right." He nudged my chin up, trailing wet lust along my throat.

Mmm. I twisted my neck, goose bumps shivering my skin. Hurry up, Jewel. Two doors, one dark and bedroom-ish, the other presumably the kitchen. "You're letting me live here, remember?"

"Sure." He walked me back into his bedroom doorway and bit my collarbone, gentle but deliberate. The sting caught my breath, delicious. Oh, yeah. Give me more of that. No teasing tonight. I didn't have the patience.

Reluctantly, I twisted away from his searching hands. "Just a second. Hold that thought. I . . . umm . . . need to use the sink." I darted away, hopping over his half-built laser destructor, or whatever it was, and into the shadowed kitchen.

Brown plastic bench along two walls, a rusty little fridge, crusted dishes piled on the sink, the smell of old fried food. I spied a cupboard under the sink that still had a door, and tucked my damp bag inside, pushing aside a burned frypan. The door clicked shut, tight. Good. Lamp sorted. Now screw me.

He lingered in his doorway, tugging shyly at messy blond hair. "Look, we don't have to—"

"Yes, we do." I grabbed him and pushed him backwards into the dark. Luckily, his bed filled the entire room and wasn't too hard to find. I crawled astride him and leaned back to flick the light on, the smells of sweat and rain-fresh air a tingling glory. Torn wallpaper, creased brown sheets, a pile of pillows, one sexy hunk of boy. "What's your name, again?"

He laughed, young, shy, his hair dripping rainwater on the sheet. "What do you care?"

Gives me something to scream, baby. I flipped his jeans open and tugged them over his hips and off, crawling down the bed to drop them in a pile on the floor. I surveyed what I'd uncovered. Yeah. He'd definitely do the trick. My mouth watered, and it wasn't the only part of me getting hot and wet. I squirmed back on top of him, and he sat up under me, enough to let me peel his wet T-shirt off.

"You can call me Pearl," I suggested.

Near enough. And I wasn't dumb enough to tell him my real name. Too much magic in it.

"Luke." He stared at me, drinking in my curves, his pupils dilating. God, he smelled fantastic, fresh and damp and male. Clean, though. Not a smear of dirt or decay on him. Even his fingernails were spotless, his sweat perfumed. Pity. For a moment I recalled the dark scent of hot flesh and gunmetal, and I regretted running.

But Luke slipped smooth hands up my thighs, dragging me closer, and I forgot about it.

I crossed my arms and dragged the nylon dress off over my head. Static nipped at my hair. Sultry air caressed my naked breasts, warmth creeping upwards inside me. I grinned. "Nice to meet you, Luke."

***

Chapter Six

Creeping's hard when you're dead. My joints crackle and weep, my flesh squelches at inconvenient times, and I'm not exactly Catwoman on my feet anymore. But these two lovebirds aren't paying attention to much above their waists right now, and I hang back in shadow, halfway up the broken lino-covered steps, and watch them stumble into his room with their mouths stuck together like wet paper.

She's really something, this lamp girl. I followed them home along King Street, traffic growling past in a smear of lights, and she laughed and danced in the rain, warm summer drops sliding down her arms. She's in love with life, so wrapped up in sensation and bliss that she didn't notice the stinky dead guy half a block behind.

I didn't even feel the goddamn rain. I just got drenched, and now my hair's greasy on my face like wet dog fur and I'm dripping black grime on the stairwell. Great.

The door clicks shut behind them. This corridor stinks so bad of pot smoke and baby shit that even I can smell it. Paint peels from the wall in faded clumps, and the floor sparkles with broken glass. From another apartment, late-night TV blares, some fucking infomercial with a hyper-energetic American accent. But wait, there's more, buy the whole set in just twenty-seven easy payments and get some free steak knives.

I give the blond kid a few minutes to get it in, and then I creep up to the door. It's an old lock, the dull nickel tumblers worn down, and I pop it quietly with a switchblade and an old ATM card.

Light pierces the narrow gap. I can't hear anything, and I let the door swing slowly open. Heh, I should pull my pistol.
Fuck-a-random-stranger police, come out with your hands up!
Let's just hope they're not doing it on the living room floor.

Now I can hear them, a soft sigh and a groan or two, but no one says
shit, a dead guy just broke in, get the shotgun!

I step inside. Beat-up TV, computer parts, pirated console games. He's lucky some junkie hasn't ripped off everything he owns with a lock like that . . .

Christ. She's naked.

My heart does a sluggish somersault. I mean, I knew she'd be naked. But . . . wow. Actually, she's still got the choker and the boots on, but who's complaining? Pearly skin, smooth muscles working in her back. Her wet black hair is plastered flat, and raindrops trickle over her shoulders. She's riding him with her back to me, his fingers are digging into her hips, he's pushing up into her, she leans forward . . .

Sweet Jesus. I really didn't need that view right now.

Blood pulsates in my cock, thick and warm. Concentrate on your lamp, Tam. You can think about her pretty girly bits later.

The kid gasps, his knuckles white. "Wait. Shouldn't we use . . . you know . . .?"

She giggles, fresh and bright like crystal. "It's okay. I can't get pregnant."

"But what about—"

"Shut up, Luke." She grabs his wrists and pins him down, stopping his protests with her mouth.

Hold on. She's not, is she? Without a condom?

I can't resist another peek . . . okay, shit. She sure is. Are you crazy, darlin'? I don't know for sure where young Luke's been, but I'm betting it isn't pretty. My fingers twitch, and I want to run up and pull her off him, jam some sense into her.

Yeah, right, Tam. Jam something else into her, more like. Pity you're dead and can't get it up.

I swallow hot rotting envy, and look away. Lamp, lamp, lamp.

They're in the bedroom, I'm in the lounge. I don't see her bag—soon to be my bag—in here. Their clothes lie crumpled at the foot of the bed. Anything else on the floor in there? No, Tam, there wasn't. No need to look again.

I sidle into the kitchen, baby steps, quiet as I can. They're both moaning now, the slap of skin on skin louder and more frequent. My hip crunches, loud to me like a gunshot, and I grit my teeth, but no one hears. Finally, they're out of sight.

Dishes, more dishes—Jesus, Luke, clean the fuck up if you want to bring a lady home—toaster, microwave, no bag. A few shelves littered with junk, no bag there either. Could be in the cupboard.

Who puts their bag in the cupboard before they screw?

Someone hiding a magic lamp, I guess. I click the cupboard door open and there it is, that shiny black bag.

My fingertips prickle, distant but definitely excitement. I used to love this shit, and it's still not bad fun, even if I'd rather have what those two are having. Stealing is pure rebellion, a big juicy blob of phlegm in society's comfort food. Drink up, suckers. You don't really own anything.

Carefully, I slide her bag—my bag—out and unwrap it, the satin catching on my skinned palm. Brass glints at me from within, and sure enough it's an old oil lamp, with a long curved spout, a round lid and a curly handle, just like Robin Williams in that old Disney movie Katie loved. Phenomenal cosmic power, itty bitty living space.

She's made of smoke,
Gavain had said.

I shake my head, unease a dull ache in my spine. No way. She can't be. It's just a piece of old junk, right? Worthless.

So why would Kane send me to steal a worthless piece of junk? And why would she carry it in her bag to a nightclub, and take time out of a hot spontaneous shag to hide it in the cupboard?

Because Kane's crazy, Tam. And she is too, crazy like a shit-house rat, same as any chick who'd screw a whore like Luke without protection. And from all those moans and sighs, it sounds like she's having a whole lotta fun. I fold up my bag, tuck it under my arm and turn, slowly so I won't lose a knee and fall over. Normally I'd break a few things, trash the place, make it look like some idiot searching for money or score. But I can't this time, and I don't care. Good luck to her with getting this lamp back from Kane, even if she finds out it was me who did the job.

Guilt twinges my conscience like a twist of lemon. I swallow it, and the freshness makes a tart change in my mouth. Whatever. Gotta get outa here.

I creep out into the main room, but treacherous rubber bands attach themselves to my eyeballs and yank them towards the bedroom. She's under him now, her legs folded high around his hips, his sweat beading on her black vinyl boots. He's pumping into her in a fast, hard rhythm, and from the sound of it he's hitting her right where she likes it. Her voice is beautiful, high and breathy like a fairy's, tearing from deep inside her guts like she's about to . . .

Uh-huh. She sure is. I really don't need to hear that.

I sneak towards the door as quickly as I can. Her airy cries rise, swell, sharpen . . . Too late.

My blood slithers, smacked into pulsing energy by that wild, abandoned sound. It's a long time since I heard a woman come. I'd forgotten how powerful it is, that fleeting meltdown of control. Women are used to being the smaller, physically weaker sex in a brute-force world that's out to get them. It sucks, but that's the way it is: they lose control, they get hurt. If they'll gift you that surrender . . . priceless.

Such fascinating insight, Tam. Now get on with it before they see you.

I ease the door closed—like they're gonna notice me anyway—and shamble out. On the stairs, I pass a drunken spriggan, dragging herself upwards on pointy black elbows with her stumpy legs trailing behind, gurgling happy spit onto her chin. A crumpled yellow fifty drops from her pocket, and I risk bending over to pick it up, my spine crackling. Black blood leaks onto it from my ripped palm as I hold it out to her. "Hey, darlin', you dropped something."

She twists her fat neck and goggles at me, wiry hair springing. Her piss-yellow eyes narrow, and she snatches the money back with black claws. "Fuckin' dirt on it," she mutters, and heaves herself away.

That ain't dirt, sister. That's Tam-juice. Tasty yet nourishing.

I let myself out at the bottom, the screen door screeching on one bent hinge. I step around the lumps of dog shit blotting the concrete pathway to the street. Rainwater trickles in the gutters, gleaming under the streetlight, and steam drifts from the warm road. A dented panel van splashes by, scattering oily puddles into my path.

Humidity slicks my skin, threatening, and I can almost feel the bacteria doing a happy fuckdance under there. I rot faster when it's hot, and already my fingers feel spongy, more flesh peeling from my palm as I wipe blood from the mess on my forehead. It's getting pretty bad tonight. All that banging my head against the wall wasn't the greatest idea.

I turn left, towards the city. Back to Unseelie Court. Hopefully Kane's still there, and I can ditch this weird lamp, wallow in the noise, wait till they're all drunk and high, until someone's senseless enough to touch me and give me the sensation I need to shape up.

That's how it works, see. Pain, pleasure, it's all the same: distant, wasted, a shadow of what it used to be. But I need it, or I won't ever heal. Without sensation to keep my nerves alive, I'll rot away.