Demon's Kiss (24 page)

The horror was one she had lived through.

Over the past two decades she had seen that tree’s silhouette in a thousand nightmares on a thousand different nights. She knew this place. Knew it in her heart and in the bruised depths of her soul.

From this vantage point, at the top of a low rise, she had no doubt about her location, knew exactly where she was. Oh, God. She had never forgotten that tree. Never.

This was the place her parents had died. She had hoped never to see it again.

She shivered, looking to the darkening sky. Dusk had always been her favorite time of day. The stunning colors of the setting sun, a fiery ball of orange and pink and red, low on the horizon. Wrapping her arms around herself, she stamped her feet as she fought the chill that seeped through her muscles and bones. She stared at the sunset, thinking that if she survived the night, she would never see it in quite the same way again.

Terror mounting with each passing second, she steeled herself against its chilling tide and willed the sun to be still, to sink slowly, to wait for Ciarran.

He would come. She was certain of that, and she had no doubt that Asa, no, Asag—he’d snarled at her, insisted that she call him by that name, muttering about power and plague and death—knew it, too.

Trembling, she rubbed her hands up and down the length of her arms, stamped her feet harder now against the ground. Cold. She was so cold, the wind biting through her T-shirt and an icy tide of fear rising from inside her.

The night was creeping up on her, eating the sky in great gulps.

“He let them die, your sorcerer. Do you remember? He was there.” Asag’s voice made her turn, and in her haste, she stumbled on the chain, fell to her knees.

He laughed, a foul, wet sound. Moving closer, he reached out, traced the curve of her cheek. Revulsion sluiced through her, and she jerked away.

“Your parents lay side by side”—he made a languid gesture toward the road—“their blood feeding the hard-packed ground. Do you remember that, Clea?”

“Yes.” She could smell the fire of that long-ago night, the acrid scent stinging her nostrils. Burning rubber, and sulfur, and something else, stronger. Brimstone.

“He could have saved them. Your precious sorcerer. It would have taken a single wisp of magic, a single tether to bind their souls back to their bodies. They had not departed. Their souls were fresh, confused, hovering beside their ruined shells. But even that, he could have changed. You have seen what he can do. You have seen the healing strength of his power, his magic.”

She had seen it, more than once. He’d healed the burn on her cheek that first night, healed the terrible bloody scrape to his shoulder the next day. And she knew in her soul, though she didn’t consciously remember all the details, that he had healed her the night of the accident that had killed her parents.

No, that wasn’t quite true. She had healed herself. She had
stolen
his magic. Cost him his hand. Given the darkness a chance to crawl through him and torment him for decades.

If Asag was looking to lay blame, he would not make her dump it on Ciarran’s head.

Asag was stroking her hair now, and the taste of bile burned her tongue. She scuttled away, but one of the
hybrids,
the one who had killed Terry—God, she couldn’t think of that now—caught her arm. He jerked it roughly as he shoved her back toward Asag. She sprawled on the ground, her cheek scraping along the corner of the concrete block.

The trickle of her blood was warm and wet on her cheek, and Asag stared at it, his eyes narrowing, his breathing growing faster as he ran his tongue over his lower lip. Squatting before her, he touched the tip of one finger to her skin. It came away red and slick.

With a shudder, he brought his finger to his mouth and sucked it clean. “Delicious,” he whispered. “Oh, what fun we will have Clea Masters. Once you have opened the wall, I will take my time with you.” He fisted his hand in her shirt, yanked her up against his chest, and licked her bloodied cheek with his rasping tongue.

Disgust choked her, a thick sludge high in her throat, and she lashed out at him, focusing the power inside her until a burst of light shot forth. He fell back, landing in an ignominious heap.

All pretense of his humanity faded. Clea gasped, unable to hold back her horror as the demon shed his skin, leaving it in a pile on the ground, emerging as a gray beast, hideous, terrifying. She scurried back as far as the chain would allow, her heels slipping on the grass. He stalked her, slowly, each step matching her frenzied movements.

“You are wonderfully strong,” he crooned. “All the better to open a portal.” He reached toward her, his hand a hooked claw. The feel of his sharp talon trailing along her scalp, her throat, her collarbone, made her shrink away in revulsion. He pressed hard enough to draw blood. “And your strength will see that you last long under my tender ministrations.”

Turning, he strode away and left her there with her thoughts and her horror, her body shaking with cold and terror, her palms damp with sweat.

Clea had no idea how long she huddled on the ground, her knees drawn up before her, her arms wrapped tight around them in an effort to conserve heat. An hour. Perhaps more. Night was full upon them, and she could see the shadows of the
hybrids
as they gathered.

Two passed close to her.

“I’m surprised he does not wait for an audience. I thought that a call had been set out for demons to come with their keepers, to watch the arrival of the Solitary,” one said, his voice low.

The second
hybrid
grunted and gestured toward Clea. “I think he wants her to himself, for his pleasure, more than he wants an audience. You know the demon code. Were there others here, each would be entitled to his share of the prize.”

Clea shuddered as they walked away, feeling a twisted sense of gratitude that Asag had decided to be selfish.

Suddenly, she stilled, her breath catching in her throat, and she fought the urge to raise her head and scan the area. He was here. She could sense his magic, feel his presence.

Ciarran.

Tears stung the backs of her lids, and she kept her head down, her posture unchanged, refusing to search the shadows for him lest she betray his presence to the
hybrid
horde. To Asag.

In an instant, the star-flung sky came alive with writhing tendrils of light, bright and sharp, like lightning touching down and dancing away. She heard a scream, saw the shape of a
hybrid
fall to the ground. Then another. And another.

Strength swelled inside her, and with it came a tide of desperation. She was pulling Ciarran’s magic from him. Oh, God. Not that. Slamming her eyes shut, she focused on building her imaginary wall, on stopping the flow of energy from him into her. He could not afford to lose any. Not here. Not now.

She was so cold, her strength depleted. The wall failed. Frantic, she tried again, feeling the hard pull of her power sucking his, the hot pain in her belly warning her as it swelled and grew.

He was
letting
this happen, she thought numbly, letting her drain him. He meant to keep her safe, and giving her the strength to defend herself was one way he could guarantee that. But at what cost to himself?

There was a noise to her right, and she opened her eyes, saw a
hybrid
moving fast and low toward her. Breathing in short, gasping gulps, panic clawing at her, she summoned the same energy she had used on Darqun when she cast aside his wooden sword, summoned the light and power inside of her. A jagged pain cleaved her middle, and a dazzling flare of light haloed outward in shimmering rings. The
hybrid
went flying back a dozen feet, landing on the ground with a solid
thwap
.

There was no time to revel in her victory. Asag was beside her, his claws digging into the skin of her arm as he yanked her to her feet. With a horrible laugh, he raked his talons along her front, tearing her T-shirt, baring the skin of her belly; then he raked her again, his claws biting deep. She moaned and twisted, trying to escape his brutal attack.

Ciarran. Where was he? She could hear the sound of flesh thudding on flesh and a broken moan in the distance.

“Blood.” Asag chortled, his fetid breath hot on her face as she struggled and tried to pull away. “Blood for the sacrifice and your magic for the gate.”

With a cry, she focused her power, directed it at him, and he laughed, the sound high and maniacal.

“Yes! Use your power, Clea Masters. Your blood and your spark of magic opened the breach once before. That night, it was
you
who opened the portal,
you
who set me free. Tonight, it will be your blood but no mere spark. A
flood
of your magic, stolen from a sorcerer. Oh, the beauty of it! The beauty!”

She jerked and struggled, the pain from her wounds sharp, the flow of magic a hot brand deep inside of her, and she could feel the power flowing into her, knew that Ciarran was nearby, that she drained him. She focused with all she was, willing it to stop.

Too late. Too late. It was like a dam had been destroyed, and the torrent was unstoppable.

The air before her twisted and writhed, and she saw the night sky distort. The portal. She was opening a door between the realms, against her will, with no conscious intent. She was indeed the
conduit,
the channel that carried magic in a liquid flow to the portal, opening it.

She felt as though a vacuum hose had been shoved deep inside her, suctioning off her energy, her life. The sensation was hideous, and no matter how she fought against it, the portal kept up its steady tug, taking that which she had no wish to give. Was this how it was for Ciarran when she drew his power?

“No-o-o-o!” The low moan stuttered from deep in her throat.

Sounds of a battle carried on the night air, swirling around her. The cry of a
hybrid
. A harsh groan of agony.

A horrible slurping sound, then,
“Christe.”
The word was laced with pain.

“Ciarran!” she screamed his name, knowing it was too late. They had taken him. She could feel it, feel his desperation through the connection that bound them.

Where were his brothers, the other sorcerers? Why had they not come to his aid? He had met with them, but he had come here alone. Why?

The moon was full above them. She could see the fallen shapes of a dozen
hybrids
. And then she saw Ciarran, his arms held, and with a satisfied laugh, Asag left her side. He drew abreast of Ciarran, looping chains about him, dark chains that flowed and swayed and looked almost . . . alive. A terrible, malevolent presence.

A sob caught in her throat as Ciarran raised his head, and she saw the blood on his face.

They would kill him. Because of her.

“Let him go,” she whispered, and then louder. “Let him go. I’ll do what you want. I’ll help you. Only don’t kill him. Let him go.” Foolish words. Desperate words. She would never help Asag, never do what he wanted. Oh, but she would say anything, promise anything to save Ciarran.

“You will help me and do as I wish, regardless. Do you not feel the wrenching pull of the portal? Choice has been taken from you.” Asag laughed. “I will have my vengeance against the Compact of Sorcerers. Do you understand the choice that faces your sorcerer, pretty Clea? Do you understand the torment?”

Meeting her gaze, Ciarran sent her a ghost of a smile, perhaps meant to reassure. She wanted to howl at the tragedy of this, the horror of seeing him chained and battered.

She wet her lips. “Don’t kill him. Please.”

“Kill him?” Asag returned to her side, stroked her, the contact so repellent that she flinched. “You do not know? Can it be . . . oh, that is far too lovely.”

Asag leaned close, his dank breath surrounding her in a sulfurous cloud. “Let me tell you of his suffering. When I cast him through the breach, your sorcerer will find himself a guest in the demon realm, and he will find only anguish and pain. An eternity of torment. Do you know what the demons will do to him?” Asag walked around her, trailing his talons along her skin, the sharp points scraping tender flesh. “Ah, so lovely, the marks I leave on you. Livid weals. And if I press”—he increased the pressure, and she felt a jagged pain as he broke the skin—“the results are even lovelier.”

Her clothes were damp, drenched in sweat. Cold fear.

“Ciarran,” she whispered, her heart breaking. They were going to kill him. It was her fault. She’d done this to him, sucked the life from him, stolen his magic, when all she’d wanted to do was love him.

“I’ll bargain with you,” she whispered, her throat raw and so tight, she could barely breathe. “I’ll open any portal. Grant you anything. You can have whatever you want, only let him go. Please. Let him go.”

“No, Clea!” Ciarran jerked at his chains, and she felt the flow of his magic, as though he was trying to transfer the last of his power to her, protect her.

Asag smiled at Ciarran, if the baring of the demon’s razor-sharp teeth could be deemed a smile. “She begs so prettily, and this before she knows the whole of it.” Crossing the space that separated them, he sank his talons into Ciarran’s chest, leaving a series of bloody runnels as he sliced through skin and flesh.

Yanking frantically on the chain that fettered her leg, Clea called on the magic that Ciarran had shared with her. Her heart hammered as she felt the hot glide of it; then hope stuttered and drowned in crashing desperation. So weak. So much of it already channeled toward the portal, the terrifying dark area of night sky where the stars did not glow, and the air seemed to bend and twist with a petrifying purpose. It was the strange glow and the preternatural stillness that warned her of the completion of the breach between dimensions, the opening of the gate. She recognized those signs, recalled them from the night of the crash.