Demon's Daughter (Demon Outlaws) (18 page)

Not when he wanted her for himself.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He continued to place the supplies he had retrieved from the ill-fated wagon train in a neat pile, his movements mechanical. His mind had gone blank. It took him a few seconds to remember. “I’m going to search for the boy.”

He did not even know where to begin. The desert was vast, expanding in all directions, and he had no idea which direction Scratch might have taken. The rain would have washed away any traces. But he could not stand there with Airie looking at him with such expectant trust and do nothing.

What had he done to deserve this?

He grabbed the bony prong of the sand swift’s neck and put his foot in the stirrup. He was about to swing his leg over its back when a small noise behind him caught his attention.

Scratch crawled from under the steps, rubbing at his eyes with the knuckles of one tiny fist as if he had been startled from a deep sleep.

With a cry of relief, Airie swooped him into her arms and showered his sleep-ruddied cheeks with kisses. The sand swift shied to the side, tipping Hunter to the ground and flicking its tongue in an excited reaction to her joy.

Hunter, too, was relieved. He’d developed an unexpected affection for the child. But as he got to his feet and wiped the dirt and drying mud from his clothes, a growing unease dominated his emotions. The boy showed up in unexpected places, often carrying things he should not possess. Whenever Hunter thought to ask questions, however, or investigate, he became distracted by other matters.

Not this time. As soon as he could, when Airie was not so emotional, he would discuss this with her.

Because he had looked under those steps and Scratch had not been there.

Chapter Ten

Agares was drunk.

Because of that he could not retain his mortal shape, and as a demon, he was less than impressive and not nearly so agile.

The Demon Lord eyed him with resignation and disgust. Getting information from Agares in his current state would be difficult.

It was now night. The storm had passed hours before, and already the scents and sounds of a desert newly awakened filled the air. Agares blinked piglike, bleary eyes. Leathery wings drooped over his bulky shoulders, and his elongated snout dipped abruptly toward his heaving chest. He crouched on a rock near the entrance to the Demon Lord’s desert fortress, in imminent danger of passing out.

Before Agares did so, the Demon Lord needed to hear what more he had to say. Other than that he’d happened on a wagon train of unfortunate travelers hauling whiskey intended for Freetown, so far, he had passed on nothing of value.

The Demon Lord also wore his demon form. The long, talon-like toes of his bare feet gripped the earth as he balanced his weight on well-muscled legs.

“What happened before the wagon train?” he asked again, for the third and final time. His patience had ended.

Awareness dawned in Agares’s eyes as he finally seemed to appreciate the precariousness of his position. He made more of an effort to drag himself upright and shook his head in an attempt to clear it. Droplets of blood-red saliva glistened on his muzzle. The words rumbled from his chest.

“The mountain is gone and there are no signs of the goddesses. Except for the one with the Slayer.” The rumbled words turned to sounds of pleasure. “She could rival the fairest of them, and yet the fool has not touched her.” He paused as if an unwelcome thought had only now occurred to him. “At least, he had not touched her as of last night.”

The words of a drunken demon were not to be accepted without reservation. However, the comments about her beauty and innocence caused him concern.

“There are a lot of beautiful women in the world,” the Demon Lord said.

“Not like this one.” Agares’s eyes focused. “She fought with the strength of a demon.” He zeroed in on the Demon Lord, his tone faintly challenging. “I claim her as mine.”

He should have been prepared for this, but he was not. Neither was he prepared for the way he felt about it. Was Agares claiming her for a lover? Or for another reason entirely? Did he believe she was the one he had pursued throughout time, just as the Demon Lord had known when he found his?

While it was possible this spawn belonged to one of the priestesses who had inhabited the temple as Mamna claimed, the Demon Lord could no longer pretend to believe so. The goddesses had been every bit as promiscuous as demons. If she belonged to one of them, he needed to know who the father had been. What if she were his?

The thought was too painful to bear. He did not doubt that if so, she was a trap of some sort—as was her mother, and for that, she would be his to destroy.

Mamna was the only one left who could tell him for certain, and she was not to be trusted.

“You cannot claim her,” he said to Agares.

The other demon’s expression sharpened and grew ugly. “I had permission to hunt.”

He was drunk, but he was not stupid. Eventually he would come to the correct conclusion that the woman was spawn. He would also wonder at the fact she was a female, something unheard of before now. And he would begin to question where she had come from. By trying to claim her, Agares had sealed his own fate.

“Then you should have taken her from the Slayer when you had the chance. Now, I am curious.” The Demon Lord’s voice rocked the ground in command. “Find another.”

“I don’t want another. I want this one.”

Even sober, Agares was not an impressive fighter. As he launched himself from his perch, the Demon Lord rolled away, taking the brunt of the hit on one shoulder. The crest of a wing bent, sparking his already uncertain temper.

The fight was brutal but short after that.

In the end, the Demon Lord stood over Agares’s savaged remains, breathing heavily. Thirst for blood clouded his thoughts and his vision, and it took time for him to recover as blue-green light settled into him. This was yet another demon death to claim as his. The additional burden was not a welcome one.

He dragged the mutilated body a short distance into the desert where the burning rays of the sun would turn Agares’s mortal form into ashes and dust.

His problem had not been resolved.

He had dispensed with Agares before finding out where the Slayer was harboring the spawn. Unfurling his wings, he leaped into the night sky.

Since the Slayer was known to hate spawn as much as he hated demons, if he was keeping her alive, it meant he intended to use her in some way. But against the demons or Mamna?

As the Demon Lord sailed silently above the desert’s darkened landscape, he decided it was past time he confronted Mamna and received the truth. If he had to beat it out of her, then so be it. He had grown tired of her demands and become impatient with her motives. She would not hesitate to use the spawn to her own advantage—and only she knew what that advantage might be.

A short while later he circled the night sky above the gated walls of Freetown.

He rarely ventured here. He did not like men. When he looked at them, in particular the ones considered old in mortal terms, he saw what the future held for him, and he did not care for it.

On clear nights, as tonight, guards patrolled the walls of the city. He laughed to himself without humor. They served no real purpose other than to be Mamna’s eyes and ears against her own kind, since demons attacked from the sky and did not stop at the walls for permission to enter.

He selected the most ostentatious dwelling in Freetown and peered through its windows, finding Mamna’s sleeping quarters with little difficulty. He cleared the railing of her balcony, landing lightly on his feet.

Then he shifted to his mortal form and stood at the window, staring out at the city and waiting for her to awaken.

…

The day’s rain had brought a welcome respite from the heat and caused her garden to flourish.

Mamna’s dreams, therefore, were pleasant at first.

A noise at the window jolted her from sleep. She sat upright with a start, her hand clutching the lacy coverlet to her bony chest. The fractured amulet grew hot against her skin. Terror settled in when she recognized the man silhouetted against the moonlit sky.

She had awakened to a nightmare.

This was it, then. The beginning of the end for her. She wondered what she might say or do to make him spare her life.

He climbed through the window, his long, bare legs and feet sliding easily over the frame. He straightened, wearing nothing but a short pair of breeches that barely covered his muscled thighs.

Mamna averted her eyes, but as a false pretense to modesty. Despite the fact that he had begun to age—although slowly—he remained a beautiful man. She both hated and feared him, but she loved him as well. She had long ago given up hope that her love would fade, or ever be returned by him. Instead, she allowed jealousy and resentment, and hopes for revenge, to twist and taint it. She could find no other way to bear it.

He walked to the canopied bed and drew back the filmy curtain, looking down at her with inscrutable eyes. His smile sparked a fear that liquefied her insides.

“Why do you suppose it is,” he asked, “that I can get so close to you tonight despite the amulet you wear?”

He was a demon. He fed on her fear as she struggled to hide it. Grasping her throat, he tried to tighten his grip, but when he could not, he ran a finger beneath the chain around her neck and gave a light tug.

Mamna dared not brush his hand away, instead covering the amulet with her palm so that he could neither see nor touch it. He already knew it had weakened. She did not want him to see to what extent.

He straightened, apparently tiring of his game. “The mountain has been destroyed. Why did you not send word to me?”

“I don’t know what happened to it, myself,” Mamna managed to reply, and with honesty. “The Slayer would have been on or near the mountain at the time. He will be able to tell me what happened when he returns.”

The Demon Lord’s eyes narrowed. “If the Slayer was on the mountain, how can you be so certain he survived?”

He was trying to lead her into revealing something, but she did not know what it might be. Whatever it was, she suspected it would mean the difference between life and death for her.

“He is the Slayer,” she replied, gripping the coverlet tighter. “If demons cannot harm him, a mountain is unlikely to do better.”

“When will he return?”

“After capturing the spawn.” That, too, was the truth.

He continued to watch her, his face dark with suspicion. She kept her own bland.

Long moments passed.

“This is your final chance to tell me the truth,” he said, breaking the silence. “Is the spawn mine?”

She dared not show fear. If she said yes, he would kill her. He would probably do so no matter what. Not even the amulet she wore could protect her if he was truly enraged.

She wanted to wound him. “How is it possible to know that for certain?” she asked, almost spitting the words. “The goddesses were whores. They gave amulets to their favorites. How many of these do you think I have seen on mortal men?” She withdrew from the small table beside her bed the stone she’d worn during her service to the goddesses and tossed it at him. It struck his chest and fell to the floor, disregarded. “These buy them the bearer’s loyalty. I have seen hundreds of them. Thousands. Do you think your whore was any different than the others? Or that you were the only one of your kind she slept with?”

He laughed as if amused instead of angered by her words. His amusement soon faded, and his eyes became harsh. “Perhaps not mine, then. But was the spawn hers?”

“I couldn’t say for certain,” Mamna admitted unwillingly. She was too cautious to lie outright. “She went into seclusion after you turned from her. Only her scar-faced handmaid was allowed to attend her in those final weeks before the fire.” She twisted the knife. “The goddesses sent her to trap you,” she reminded him. “Who is to say a pregnancy wasn’t part of that plan?”

The fleeting glimmer of pain in his eyes said she had managed to hurt him at last.

“Since my
whore
, as you call her, kept herself hidden, then it stands to reason she had something to hide. But over the years you seem to have forgotten to mention that detail to me.” He leaned over the bed, his demon form flickering like a shadow around him as a reminder to her of what he was, and of what he was capable.

Hot waves of anger washed off him, banishing the coolness brought on by the rain, and the air in the room became stifling. Terror seized her again and for an instant, she thought she was dead.

“When the Slayer returns, the spawn is mine. If she is not handed to me at once, keep your amulet close, Priestess, and prepare to use what little power remains to it. Demons are no longer restricted to riding west winds as a warning to mortals. What you are about to learn is something you had best never forget.”

He let the curtain around the bed fall back into place and crossed to the window, pausing with his hand on the sill as if about to say more. Instead, he vaulted into the darkness and was gone.

Mamna closed her eyes. Her fingers, still clutching the coverlet, had long since gone numb. The amulet cooled, although it remained warmer than normal, and she suspected if she checked she would find even more new cracks.

Her relief at her own survival was short-lived, soon followed by dread. He wanted to believe the goddess had betrayed him because to believe otherwise meant that he had betrayed her in return. If he found out that the spawn was indeed his, there was no telling what conclusion he might draw or what he might do in response.

Mamna knew two things. He did not make idle threats.

And the last time she’d seen him this angry, he had set a mountain on fire.

…

“You baby him too much.”

With bare feet propped against the wall, Hunter sat at the table, his long, sun-streaked hair, still damp from a shower, grazing his shoulders. As she moved about the small cabin, restlessly tidying, his eyes followed her.

Airie did not know what to make of his scrutiny. Her presence bothered him, more so than usual, and the knowledge left her feeling awkward and too aware of his presence. She knew he disliked her for what he believed her to be, but the look in his eyes this evening was more complex than usual.

It was as if he wanted something he could not—or should not—have.

He had also been staring at Scratch most of the evening, but his face when he did so was easier for her to read. He worried that she would not be able to look after a little boy on her own.

So far, she had proven him right. It did not help that Scratch was not a normal child. As much as she did not want to see it, she knew he was not.

But normal or not, he was still a child.

“He
is
a baby,” she pointed out. She tucked the blankets around Scratch as he lay on the small cot and stroked a gentle knuckle along his cheek. The steady light from the oil lamp on the table gave his skin a soft, golden glow. In sleep, he looked so innocent. Her heart constricted with residual panic at the thought that she might have lost him. Hunter was right to worry about her ability to care for him. “I would never have imagined a little boy could disappear so quickly. I’ll have to find work that allows me to keep him close, at least for the next few years.”