Demon's Kiss (17 page)

“Are these real?”

“That depends on your definition of
real
.”

Semantics. She shot him a reproving glance, her gaze lingering on his bloodied arm. “Do they actually exist? In the human world?”

“Yes.” Leaning against a column, broad shoulders angled to take his weight, arms crossed over his muscular chest, he studied her.

“I think I need to stitch your arm,” she said.

“Not necessary.” His tone did not invite discussion.

Turning back, she looked at the bottles and the poster hanging above the case. WORLD EXHIBIT 2004. SPONSORED BY CD PHARMACEUTICALS. She was no expert, but she had a feeling these bottles were priceless.

CD Pharmaceuticals.

She frowned.

CD . . . Ciarran D’Arbois.

“You own CD Pharmaceuticals,” she said, whirling toward him.

“Is that an accusation?”

“You donate millions of dollars’ worth of medications to third-world countries!”

He exhaled on a breathy sigh. “It’s forbidden to heal dying mortals by magic. It isn’t forbidden to provide the means for them to heal themselves.” He stared at her for a long moment, his expression defensive, as though he expected to be rebuked.

Forbidden? By what law? She didn’t understand.

Abruptly, he turned and led the way down a long corridor. She followed, trying not to gawk at the artwork . . . the weapons . . . his gorgeous butt.

Trying not to freak out because every piece she uncovered only made the puzzle more confusing.

“You can use this bedroom.” He pushed open a door at the end of the hallway and stepped back to let her precede him. “Bathroom’s the door on the right. Closet’s the door on the left.”

She laughed. “I don’t have anything to put in a closet.” She stepped into the room and gasped.

The bedroom was
his,
his stamp, his personality apparent even at a glance. Masculine clean lines. Expensive taste, just like his clothes, his bike, his car. An enormous plasma screen filled the far wall, and shelves of DVDs were arranged on either side. What looked like the most expensive, comfortable couch she had ever seen was angled in front of the screen. And the bed. It was bigger than a small country.

“Let me guess . . . six-hundred-thread-count sheets?” she asked.

The corners of his mouth kicked up in the barest hint of a smile. “Egyptian cotton.”

“I—” She swallowed, glanced at the bed. He slept there. And he wanted her to sleep there. . . . “I didn’t know that you sleep.” Okay. Dumb. “I mean, that sorcerers sleep—”

“Sorcerers sleep.” He stepped closer, studying her, his gaze intent. “Less than mortals. Once per week is adequate for me.”

Clea nodded, her breathing shallow, her pulse kicking up a notch. In her whole life no one had ever looked at her the way Ciarran did, the lights in his eyes like dancing flames, licking at the deepest part of her.

“
I’ve
always needed less sleep than everyone else,” she whispered, her mouth grown dry as something in his assertion struck her as significant. “Three, four hours a night and I’m good to go. That was the reason I managed to work and go to school and take care of Gram. I just had more useful hours than most people.”

He was watching her, his expression ruthlessly neutral.

“Why is that, Ciarran?” Her heart rate accelerated as she waited, already knowing the answer, half-afraid he’d confirm it. Half-afraid he wouldn’t. “Why don’t I need a lot of sleep?”

Lie. That’s what he was going to do. She could see it in his eyes, read it in the tightening of his jaw. Only she wasn’t going to give him the chance.

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, dragging her courage about her like a quilt. And then she just asked the question, a little breathless, her voice wavering just a bit.

“I’m like you, aren’t I? I am what you are.” Oh, God. Was she? Deep inside, was she the same dark, terrifying beast that she had seen him become?

And if so, was she strong enough to wrestle it into submission as he had?

Uncertainty. Wariness. The cold metallic taste of her fear. She swallowed, her thoughts spinning.

He stood there, looking grim, his hard mouth compressed in a tight line. “I don’t know. You should be human.”

“But I’m not? Since when?” Backing away from him, she felt panic gnaw at the edges of her control. Memories bombarded her, harsh and stark: the dark empty road, the sound of rending metal. She remembered hurtling through the air and the terrible sound of someone screaming. Herself.
She
had been screaming, and then whimpering, her voice fading.

The crash. She was remembering the crash again, clearer now, the smell, the sounds, the feel of dry grass poking her cheek, and the hot trickle of blood. The images were too sharp, too vibrant, like she was watching them through the lens of a camera rather than through the long-buried memories of an eight-year-old child.

She pressed the back of her clenched fist to her mouth, feeling sick, and he watched her, saying nothing, letting her work through to her own conclusions.

“
You
were there that night. The night my parents died.” Her throat felt parched, scored raw, and her voice rasped as she spoke.

“I came too late, Clea.”

Too late. Too late
. For what?

Her gaze dropped to his hand, hazy memories coalescing into certainty. A monster; a
demon
. She remembered that. A horrific struggle. A single, agonized scream. Ciarran’s scream.

Nausea churned inside of her.

“I remember the light,” she whispered. “A glowing ribbon of light, wrapping me, taking my pain, warming me.” Her gaze snapped to his. “Beautiful light. It called to something inside of me. I wanted that light, needed it, and so I took it.”

A chill slid through her veins, smooth, cold, leaving her shaking and numb. Oh, God. Let her be wrong. Please. Let her be wrong. “I took it from
you
.”

Stepping toward him, she blinked against the sting of tears. He watched her, making no move to stop her, his body tense. She reached out, caught the edge of the leather glove, peeling it away from the skin of his wrist.

There were symbols tattooed in his skin, fanning out from the mouth of the dragon like flames, winding about his wrist in a thick band. They looked like letters of a long-dead language.

She tugged on the glove, trying to see the rest of his hand, and he clamped an iron grip around her forearm, stopping her quest. “Wards and spells,” he rasped. “To deflect the darkness.”

Her stomach churned, and she tore her gaze away from the inked markings. She remembered the night of the crash, remembered the feel of his magic, the way he’d tried to pull away, the way she’d refused to let go.

“Earlier, in the hallway, you said it’s forbidden to heal dying mortals by magic.” She swallowed. “So you weren’t going to save me. What did you mean to do? When you touched me that night with your light . . . your power?”

His breath hissed from between his teeth. “Take your pain. I couldn’t stand to see you suffer.”

“Like you did for the demon-keeper when he was dying.” Breathing fast, she tried to understand the thoughts that were hammering at her. “You were going to let me
die
.”

He met her gaze, unflinching, and a muscle tensed in his jaw. “I wasn’t—I can’t heal a mortal who’s already passed beyond all capacity to heal. It’s forbidden by the
Pact
.”

“And the
Pact
is what? Some kind of law?”

“An ancient agreement that binds all sorcerers. Human life must include mortality. Human death. Such is the circle, and we are forbidden to interfere.”

Suddenly it was all so clear, everything finally clicking into place. “But I didn’t die.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated, then said, “Because you refused your fate.”

“Uh-huh. By doing what? How did I refuse? I was a half-dead eight-year-old.” Her voice was thin and high, and she felt panic clawing at her.

“You took what I meant to offer as comfort and turned it into your salvation.”

“I
took
it? What? What did I take?” She sucked in a breath. Of course. “The power you used to ease my pain.” She understood now, with a clear and bright lucidity. She’d
taken
it, stolen his magic that long-ago night, set in motion the events that had led them here, to this moment. She was the catalyst for what had come to pass.

“It’s my fault. All of it.” Horror congealed in the pit of her stomach, the hard knot sawing at her, a deep and terrible pain. “I
stole
your magic. Stole your power. Weakened you somehow. The night that my parents died, and now, too. Tonight. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? That’s what you meant outside my apartment tonight when you told me to move away from you. That’s why your wound isn’t healing.”

She was breathing heavily, the magnitude of her realization staggering.

He’d protected her. Made love to her. Stayed by her side. Made her feel safe. No, not just
feel
safe. He had kept her safe, but at what cost to himself?

“Oh, God.” She moaned, stumbled back. “I’m toxic to you, aren’t I? Like some kind of poison?”

He took a step toward her. “Clea—”

“Tell me the truth. Please.”

His mouth tightened, and she felt the air shimmer around them, dark, threatening. “You’re definitely dangerous. To me. To my power. To my ability to do my job.”

“Your job as all-powerful, world-saving sorcerer,” she said.

“Yeah.” He smiled, a bitter twist of his lips. “And I can’t seem to make myself do the sensible thing and stay the hell away from you.”

Closing his hand around her arm, he dragged her up against him, his expression savage; then his mouth was on hers, hot and hard and hungry. She came alive in a heartbeat, electricity ramping through her, every nerve animated, throbbing.

His magic weaved through her, and she felt a flare of panic. She couldn’t stop its flow, didn’t know how to temper the greedy pull.

With a harsh sound of frustration, he tore away from her, anguish and desperation etching hard lines, bracketing his mouth. For an endless moment, he stared at her, his breathing rough and ragged.

“Get some sleep,” he said. And then he turned and left her, left her body hot and screaming for him, her soul aching for his.

Had he ever showered in this bathroom in the years he’d lived in this place? He didn’t think so. There had been no reason for him to utilize a guest bedroom in his own home.

Until now.

Tipping his head back, he let the hot water stream over his head, his shoulders, careful to draw only enough magic to maintain a barrier over his freshly sutured wound. A small and necessary use of his power, but one that, in his current depleted state, tugged at him nonetheless. Almost everything he had was focused on containing the demon parasite that writhed and twisted and snarled to get free.

He needed to rest, recover, gather his strength, but he sensed that such luxuries were not to be his. There was an element of urgency that chewed at him, something wrong in the
continuum,
something dangerous to both sorcerer and man. He had every conviction that it had a direct relation to the demon he had sensed tonight and the traitor within the Compact of Sorcerers.

Clea was linked to all of this. She was the conduit, the key to the gate. Her power was mushrooming in an exponential growth pattern, her proximity to him only escalating the rate as she pulled from him despite his best efforts to stop her. She was going to hit a crest that would not only be strong enough to breach the wall, but perhaps strong enough to shred it, to annihilate the barrier that protected all mankind.

Only a sorcerer possessed such strength. But she was
not
a sorcerer. She was human. Or at least, she had been until now.

“Fuck.” The word echoed off the tile wall, a stark expression of his frustration. He had no explanations. Clea was a sorcerer now, and he had no understanding of how that could have happened.

Stepping from the shower, he reached for a towel, hesitating but a fraction of a second as he realized the towel rack was on the opposite side to the one in his own bathroom. With a shake of his head, he scrubbed the soft cloth over his damp skin, then wrapped it around his hips as he wondered why he hadn’t simply installed Clea here instead of in his own chamber.

His hands stilled as certainty slammed through him. Because he wanted her
there,
in his bed, his linens gliding over her naked skin, the scent of her on his pillow.

The thought made him hard. He closed his eyes, recalled the scent of her skin, the heat of her as he’d thrust deep, the breathy sound of her release. It made him want to walk down the hallway, push open Clea’s door, and let himself into her room, into her bed. He wanted her lips on his. And lower. Wanted the damp glide of her mouth and the scrape of her teeth on his cock. Wanted the mindless pleasure.

The image was damned erotic.

And damned disconcerting. He dragged on clean jeans, noting the fact that there were times that even well-washed and comfortable denim was a tad too tight in places.

For twenty years he’d held himself in check, and suddenly he felt as though a floodgate had torn open. Clea. He couldn’t get enough of her. He wanted her any way he could get her, wet and slick, taking him inside her and coming in a wild rush, screaming his name, her muscles taut, her body shuddering under his. He wanted her flat on her back, her legs splayed, her hands fisted in the tumbled sheets as he licked her and sucked on her and made her gasp and throb.

Hell. Since the first second he’d seen her wielding her plastic gold letter opener at the Blue Bay Motel, he hadn’t been able to put sex out of his mind. Now that he’d had her, tasted her, buried himself so deep and warm and full inside her, the wanting hadn’t gotten any better. It had only grown stronger, more intense.

Because it wasn’t just sex. Not with her.

He felt as if he
knew
her.

Knew her jigsaw puzzle pieces and secret places and dreams and wants and fears.

And valor. Knew her incredible valor.

She was imprinted with his magic, a bond that could not be broken. Only
she
possessed the power to deny him, to decline him. She could choose. And there, up against the car, with the recent danger of the
hybrids
and the heat of battle still swirling through them, she had chosen him.

Chosen
him.

Made love to him.

Despite what she had seen him become. She’d seen the blackest part of him, but she’d held out her hand, accepted him for all he was. And all he was not.
Christe
.

He yanked a T-shirt over his head, wincing at the rush of pain in his injured arm. Shit out of luck for a comb, he raked his fingers through his damp hair, shoving it into some semblance of order, trying to wrestle his thoughts, and his private demon, into similar manageability.

Focusing his energy, he tested the limits of the darkness within. It writhed and twisted, seeping through him like an oil slick oozing outward to pollute clear waters. But it
was
contained. For now.

Ciarran knew his next course of action. He needed to consult the Ancient. Get some answers. If anyone had them, the Ancient did. And he needed to give warning to the others of his kind. Asag, a demon of ancient and vast power, was here, in the dimension of humanity, a blight and an immeasurable danger.

Rage bit at him. There was a sorcerer who knew about Asag, who used that knowledge for some twisted gain, allying with the demon, breaking all laws and rules. The situation had the makings of wholesale mass destruction, and it was Ciarran’s duty to stop it.

Closing his eyes, he visualized the Ancient, the oldest of them, the most powerful, the leader of the Compact of Sorcerers. The Ancient had been at the signing of the
Pact
. He had battled the demons for millennia. His knowledge and vast experience could help Ciarran find his way.

Magic moved smoothly through him as he summoned it, weak, a paltry force. He dared channel no more than what he absolutely needed. The majority of his power remained focused on holding the darkness at bay.

The sound of rushing water spun around him, and crashing waves and the roar of a great storm. Then the wind was cool on Ciarran’s face, a light breeze, and the scent of beeswax flavored the air. There were new sounds. The soft scrape of a footstep. The low huff of regular, even breathing.

A smile tugged at his lips as he recalled Clea’s asking if he surfed waves of magic, her innocent question leaving enough of an impression on his thoughts that he had indeed ridden a wave to his destination.

Opening his eyes, he found himself in a huge, dimly lit chamber, the walls swathed in dark fabric. A single fat candle rested on a low table in the center of the room, casting flickering shadows across the layers of cloth and leaving the corners in darkness.

The Ancient had ever preferred to prowl the shadows and hug the dimness of darkened nooks.

There was a noise behind him, and Ciarran turned, his power already coalescing at his fingertips, his body shifting low, at the ready.

Two men spun into the circle of light cast by the candle, their bodies perfectly balanced, their movements in synchrony, a deadly dance. One man was as tall as Ciarran, though he carried less muscle, his form leaner. His look was that of a warrior, stark and savage, his features angular, his dark brown hair cut in a short, haphazard style clearly meant for convenience rather than good looks. Though in truth, he was by no measure lacking in the latter.

Ciarran recognized him immediately.

Dain Hawkins. Sorcerer of the light-staff. Magus of illusion.

The magus whirled, dropped low, and slashed at the legs of his opponent, the Ancient. A lean form of moderate height, he moved with artful ease. His features were obscured, his every action no more than a shifting shadow. Dain grunted as a solid blow landed against his shoulder with a sharp
thwack
.

Ciarran drew back his magic and watched for a moment, thinking how many times he had trained just so, with the Ancient, with another sorcerer. He still met regularly to spar with Javier and Darqun, and even Baunn on occasion. Fighting demons was not something that could always be done from a safe and antiseptic distance. They needed to keep their skills at their sharpest.

As he watched, unease skittered across his skin, raising his hackles. There was something odd about this match, something
wrong
. Dain was dressed in a black silk shirt and black slacks, his attire hardly appropriate for a sparring match. Which suggested that the combat was unplanned. A suspicious incongruity.

An instant later, the two combatants drew apart, the termination of the match far too abrupt to be its natural conclusion. Ciarran felt as though they ceased for his sake alone and that they had some unfinished business they would return to later.

The Ancient melted from sight, blending into the cloth-draped walls as though he had never been, and Dain paced, walking off his tension, breathing heavily, his aura sparking with his agitation.

“Dain.” Ciarran stepped closer to the candle, letting the light show his face. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Dain stopped midstride, his posture stiff as he turned his face slowly toward Ciarran. Light and shadow played across his features, showing the lines of tension about his mouth and the wary cast to his eyes. “Any reason that I shouldn’t be here, D’Arbois?”

The words were an unexpected and unwelcome challenge.

An eerie sense of disquiet twisted in Ciarran’s gut, perhaps a true wariness, perhaps an artifice of the chained beast. Ciarran frowned as he studied the other sorcerer, a man he had known for centuries. He looked haggard, fatigued, as though some great weighty matter sat heavy upon his shoulders.

Dain’s behavior was odd. Unexpected.

The darkness within laughed, a harsh and ugly sound, and a whisper came from between the bars of the beast’s cage.
The traitor. Dain is the traitor. You know it. You can sense it. ’Twould be easy, so easy, to kill him. Now. Before he has a chance to do great harm.

Clenching his gloved hand into a fist, Ciarran took a step back, twisting tight the chain that held the malevolence at bay as he forced a deep breath. The urge to give in, to let loose the demonic part of himself was strong. Stronger than it had ever been.

Christe
. What the hell was he turning into?

This was
Dain,
for Christ’s sake.

“I’m an ass.” With a shake of his head, Dain stepped forward, his mouth curved in a smile that failed to reach his eyes. They were the cold, flat gray of poured concrete. “I meant no offense.”

Dain grabbed Ciarran’s right shoulder and hauled him into a hard embrace before stepping back to study him, his brow creased in a concerned frown.

“Your demon gnaws at you, my friend. I sense it”— he thumped his chest with a closed fist—“here.”

Ciarran snorted. “Yeah. The thing has teeth.”

“Strange coincidence, yes?” Dain quirked a brow. “The two of us arriving in the Ancient’s anteroom in tandem, a happenstance that seems questionable at best.”

Ciarran shrugged. “Coincidence? Is there such a thing?”

“So you figure I planned this? Or was it you?” Scraping his fingers back through the short, shaggy layers of his dark hair, Dain gave a hard laugh. His posture was wire-tight, and a sarcastic edge laced his words. “Or perhaps it’s the Ancient who has his own secret design.”

“Secret design? The Ancient?” Ciarran asked, not bothering to conceal his incredulity. His tone grew hard. “What are you doing here, Dain?”

“I came to ask a question and to extract a promise. But the Ancient was in no mood to share. So I got nothing; no answers, no reassurance.” Dain rubbed his open palm back and forth against his silk-clad shoulder and grinned. “But I do come away with a bruise.”

“A question and a promise.” Did the guy even know how to give a direct answer?

Dain’s mouth curved in a mocking smile. “And you, Ciarran? What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to find out what the hell is wrong with the
continuum,
” he said bluntly, studying the other sorcerer’s reaction, wondering if they were here on the same errand. Maybe Dain felt it, too. “To find out if we have been betrayed, if a traitor taints the Compact of Sorcerers.”

“A traitor?” Dain smiled, a thimble’s worth of movement, but he showed no surprise. His gray eyes narrowed. “And you suspect me, D’Arbois?”

The darkness stirred inside him, fed by a sharp tug of suspicion. “Should I?”

Any hint of good humor faded, and Dain stared at him, his expression taut, his eyes pinched. When he spoke, his tone was harsh. “Do you know what it means to serve the Ancient day upon day for centuries? To study and hone skills under his tutelage? To spend an eternity in a quest for knowledge?” Dain gave a low grunt of derision. “And ultimately to fall short of his exacting standard?”

There was no mistaking the bitterness and the simmering resentment. Ciarran felt the darkness stir again, stronger, his hand ablaze now with a cold flame, white-hot pain, the demon seed stoked by the other sorcerer’s black emotions.

“No one made your choices for you, Dain. The role was filled willingly, as I recall.”

“Can one truly be willing if they are not fully cognizant of the repercussions of their choice?” Dain’s lips twisted in a sneer, and he leaned a little closer, his gaze dropping to Ciarran’s hand. “Would you have made the same choices, had you but known?”