Taming the Demon (10 page)

And then recovering enough for reality. “Nuh-uh. No dying until
after
I know who sent you and why.” But when he crouched there, he found it already too late.

Ah, hell. Only one option, if he was to learn anything at all. Do it through the blade. Open himself to its invasive claws after the past week of desperately fighting it off.

Or keep himself safe, yank the blade and walk away.

No choice at all, really.

He wiped his hand against his thigh, reaching for the hilt—hesitating there, fingers spread wide, ready to wrap around cool lace agate—the tactical blade form again, taunting him. Strutting, the only way possessed metal imbued with blood and tears and sanity could do strut at all. “Bastard,” he said under his breath, and closed his hand around it.

It swept into his mind with a moaning cry of victory, wind and groaning blood and brimstone stench, and it brought with it the taste of someone else.

Get her bring her,
a flash of a dark vehicle waiting, an obscured license plate, money in a backpack, ammo spilled out across leather car seats.
Find out what she knows.
The blade shoved images into his mind—photos tossed carelessly on the center console, showing a younger woman with a less defined facial structure, unusual but not yet striking with somber blue eyes and unstyled ash and blond waves. His own blue-gray eyes, familiar and haunted and dangerous, watched some unknown quarry from a shaded doorway.

And then the scene faded away, while Devin snarled both for more and for his freedom, the tendrils of the blade wrapping through his mind and tightening down, a hiss of laughter snaking along a dozen insidious pathways into his soul.

The demon blade snared him—and then in its way, the demon blade saved him. From the casita came a thump and crash and cry, a thunderous cacophony to hearing gone blade-sharp, and he knew with startling certainty that he’d made the most unforgivable mistake of all.
More than one of them—

He snatched the blade from the man’s body, ignoring its unearthly wail of protest. A bounding kick and he’d smashed through the closed front door, into the open floor plan of the casita. Kitchen to the left, appliance clocks glowing. Flat screen dark in the corner, couch directly in his way. He skirted around it, just in time for Natalie to come careening out of the bedroom, running smack into him with a cry of surprise.

He wanted to grab her arms, pull her close—tuck her up tight and bury his face in her long, loose hair. He couldn’t believe how much he wanted to—

“It’s me,” he said, voice low, and set her aside—hesitating only long enough to be sure she was steady, breathing in the nighttime scent of her just enough to be sure there was nothing of fresh injury about her.

“Devin?”
And then, as he went straight for the bedroom—all light scents and lavenders, linen curtains and pale sheets, “My
door!
”

Only once he’d made a circuit of the bedroom, detouring into the bathroom to slap the shower curtain aside, checking all the windows, checking the glass patio door, did he begin to realize that there wasn’t anyone here. The bed—a double, on a wrought-iron frame with lazy curlicues at the head and foot—hid no one underneath. No one lurking behind doorways, escaping through broken glass—

He came back to the living room, struggling to put reality back together.

“My
door!
” she said again in disbelief, stabbing a hard finger at it.

“Where—?” He frowned, working at it...flexing his hands around the blade’s agate hilt. “I heard someone—”

“You heard
me,
” she said. “You broke down my door to guard me from
me.
”

“You—” He looked back at the bedroom, where a single bedside lamp lay in pieces on the floor, a simple straight-backed wooden chair lay askew against the wall.

“I heard something outside—it startled me.” She gave him a dry look she probably didn’t realize he could read through the darkness. “I’m guessing that was you. Devin, my
door
—”

He got it, then. She had no idea. Not that a man had come for her; not that he lay dead in the landscape gravel just off her porch.

“You heard
some
one,” he said grimly, pulling his thoughts together—clamping his hand down around that cool agate, one finger sitting in the strong choil right before the blade went edged—letting it dig in a little. Keeping the blade at bay, and feeling the righteous hiss of its anger.

It was supposed to have been a trade-off, that vision it had provided him. It wanted its blood payment. And barring that, it wanted what it had always wanted...a lingering path on the wild road before the next hapless wielder put Devin out of his misery, leaving the blade in new hands.

Natalie’s expression had gone wary—as if she could discern his struggle. As if she suddenly didn’t quite trust him. She hugged herself, obscuring the curves beneath her flannel sleep shirt and girl-cut boxer shorts—and it wasn’t clear whether she shivered from the cold rushing in through the open door or whether she suddenly wasn’t entirely secure in his presence.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Something woke me and I knocked over the lamp—and then you came crashing in. Devin, there’s no one else here, in
or
out.” She crossed to the couch, grabbing a soft shoulder blanket, and pointed out with more calm than seemed reasonable, “If there were, you wouldn’t be standing there talking to me.”

He said, without quite thinking it through, “You’ve done this before—” What, that she’d been woken in the middle of the night by crashing doors and gunshots? That she’d learned to assess, so quickly, what mattered and what didn’t?

Except this time she was wrong.

Her head lifted; the look might have been called imperious, if he’d thought she could truly see him at all. “You keep your details, I’ll keep mine.”

He closed his eyes; he pressed the heel of his hand to his brow—pressed hard, as if he didn’t already hold the blade in that hand. Hunting reality. He grappled for it, found an opening...just barely found himself.

“You heard someone,” he said, finding words again, even if his voice came out low and strained. “He’s dead, but he’s out there. And we don’t know for certain that he’s alone. So shove your feet in some shoes and let’s go.”

“He’s—you
killed
someone?” Her hands clenched on the shoulder blanket. “Just now?”

He couldn’t help it that the blade licked at his voice. “Did you think I wouldn’t? If they came for you?” And when she just looked at him, he took the few steps between them, grabbed her arm and escorted her to the side of the door where the shoe tray held a neat line-up. “Boots, whatever. We need to get to the big house.” Then he’d take care of the body. He’d feed the blade, and he’d decide whether to hunt the grounds or stick close to Natalie.

She had her boots on—and from the little secretary by the door, she grabbed a small flashlight. “Let’s go,” she said, and took a step toward the exposed doorway—and then, before he could stop her, held back. Let him go first.

Just like moments earlier.

Just like that first night. Hit by the crazy, the unexpected...still thinking her way through it.

He stepped onto the porch, lifted his head to the night. Listening with the blade’s ears...scenting the night. Waiting for the rush of warmth that bespoke the blade’s anticipation.

Nothing. Silence. Not even the satisfied bass thrum from moments earlier.

“Devin,” she whispered, a plea; her teeth chattered. She shadowed him, just enough to the side so she could see beyond him, crowding him for warmth and safety and one hand resting lightly on his hip.

He gave himself a moment to absorb the feel of that touch—a deep breath, eyes half closing—and then moved out.

Her little light swept the path before them, hindering more than helping. He reached back and gently placed a hand over hers, steadying the light—aiming it slightly off the path as a compromise. Aiming it, as it happened, at the body.

No. Aiming it at where the body had
been.

“What the fu—?” He cut himself off in his own disbelief. “It was—I left—
right here
. It was right here!”

“What was right here?” she asked, remarkable patience for someone who shivered up against him so.

“The man I—” He stopped, let it hang there. He’d felt the blade’s triumph; he’d known the man’s death.

She pushed right up against his back; her flashlight sweeping the ground.

“Right here.”

“Or the whole thing was a dream, and you broke my porch light when you broke down the door!” she snapped. “God, Devin, can we just get inside? Are you insane, keeping me out here like this—?”

This time she was the one to cut herself off, as he stiffened from her words—as the impact of what she’d said bounced back to her.
Are you insane?

Maybe just so.

Chapter 10

T
rust. A fragile thing.

Belief, even more so.

Stretched thin, now, both of them—no matter how Natalie rued it.

The man had saved her. He had nearly died for it; he had endured a night of pure torture in the wake of it. He had touched her with his strength, with his grit...with his self-honesty and with the glimpses of his startling capacity to embrace random moments of humor.

Staring out her office window at her little casita with its newly installed front door, Natalie ached at the conflict of him. At the memory of blue-gray eyes, light-footed stride along the canal path and then his sudden presence and strength, hard intensity beneath her hands. Eyes darkening...body
wanting
.

His hadn’t been the only one.

But he’d sidestepped her direct questions about what she’d seen that night. And though she thought she’d helped him with his frightening distractions...

She found herself thinking of the lapses. The moments in the main house, outside the private wing—more than one of those, now. And the night before, when he’d burst into her house...

If he’d killed a man and let the blade have the body as had happened in the parking lot, he’d had such a lapse that he didn’t even remember the whole thing.

The other option wasn’t any better—that he’d made up the entire incident.

Her own memory echoes didn’t help. Those moments Natalie had tried so hard to leave behind—flickering alley light, a man silhouetted in the midst of it, another staggering out of the darkness to die before her, features hauntingly familiar and yet unrecognizable, too broken into light and shadow by the strobing night.

“Natalie?” Compton’s voice held a hint of censure. “You’re ready for this afternoon’s meeting?”

As she’d certainly better be, if she’d been caught staring mindlessly out this window.

But she couldn’t quite bring herself to turn away from it. Not when Devin James came into view, walking careful steps between the big house and her casita. Searching the sparse dried winter grass—crouching here, touching the ground there...touching the slash side pocket of his vest. Shaking his head.

Now, Natalie glanced at Compton. “Yes, sir. The presentation folders are ready.” Thumb drives tucked into leather portfolios, preselected business cards tucked into slots meant for just that. Complementary built-in calculators, of course, as well as slim solar-powered digital clocks. A sleek Fiberstone paper notepad and matching pen, as well as a series of diagrams and plot drawings that no doubt complemented the flash drive contents. The Alley of Life restaurant development...time to woo the movers and shakers whose support would make all the difference to this project.

“And your bodyguard?”

One last glimpse of Devin—standing, now, and gazing off over the estate—and she finally turned to him. “Sir, I...”

“Natalie, relax. It’s only natural that you might feel some response to him. He saved your life, and you continue to entrust yourself to him.” He looked no less dapper than ever—ready for the presentation in a tailored charcoal suit that set off his silvered hair to perfection.

The steely businessman, still full of the vigor that had led him to his success, honed by maturity into a formidable opponent—wise and experienced and used to the taste of victory.

So why that bitter edge to his tone?

It meant she was careful when she said, “That’s not it, sir. I just... I do think something’s troubling him. I’m not sure it’s not interfering with his judgment.”

Her words startled him, which she hadn’t expected, either. He came up beside her, looking out across the yard between the two homes, large and small. “I understand there was some confusion last night,” he said. “But I have to admit, I’d rather mend a door broken in overprotective zeal than depend on a man who does too little, too late.”

Natalie took a breath, holding it as she searched for the right words. Words to say, “It was more than zeal” and “He has secrets you wouldn’t believe” and “I think maybe he’s losing his mind.”

To know that he thought he might be losing his mind, too.

But she couldn’t say those words. None of them. So instead she said, “Of course you’re right, sir.”

“Not to mention,” Compton said, “a man who seems to have a certain extra motivation to keep you safe. Don’t you think?”

She looked straight at Compton, meeting those cool eyes. “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

There was a flicker in his expression, something else she couldn’t read. “We had a nice little talk this morning. He’ll be staying on here until we’re completely satisfied the threat is resolved.”

Natalie swallowed hard. Outside the window, Devin James touched his pocket and glanced up at the window. The intense version...a little brooding, a lot dark. She felt as though he was looking directly at her—and asking something inexplicable of her.

She wanted to reach out to the window.... She wanted to run. She wanted everything and nothing, all at the same time.

She said only, “That’s excellent, sir.”

* * *

Not far from the deliberately charming streets of Old Town Albuquerque, the architectural firm held its corner in just the right bold complement to the buildings around it. Not too tall, perfectly Southwest and sleekly modern. The parking lot was newly paved and striped, and the doorway greeted Natalie with a gentle blast of warmth.

She juggled the presentation materials, striding in one step behind Compton. Devin James—dressed for the occasion in unexpected black suit pants under a deep gray wool overcoat, grim efficiency in his movement—ranged slightly behind the both of them, and then stood off to the side as Natalie unloaded the materials into the hands of the admin assistants who met them.

At a word from Compton, Devin hung back in the lobby—not relaxing, but lurking. Assigning himself an obvious station in the corner.

The receptionist gave him an unsettled look, shifted as though she might say something, and then subsided.

Natalie didn’t blame her.

She entered the presentation room with brisk efficiency, laying out the folders and preparing Compton’s work space—not with the primary presentation materials, which Compton himself had created with a consultant, and then absorbed through hours of study, but with things of a practical nature—his own coffee, brewed fresh in his own kitchen and transported in a sleek little executive thermos. His small digital recorder, set just so off to the side; pen and paper just so. A discreet wireless web camera, tiny surveillance gear of the highest quality for Compton’s convenience when it came to reviewing the meeting.

But Natalie’s presence became redundant as soon as she had his work area set up, and she quickly withdrew, the press of hearty greetings already ringing falsely in her ears.

She was just as grateful to escape. It unsettled her, the way Compton’s business persona settled around him so easily—so effectively. She left his empty briefcase by the door and slung her own slim leather bag over her shoulder, already reaching for her notebook.

Just because she wasn’t in the meeting didn’t mean she wouldn’t be working. Each of these highly placed men and women would receive a courtesy basket of goodies, and Natalie wanted those baskets waiting at their respective homes.

Still on the move, she glanced up from her notebook to find Devin James watching her from the lobby, his gaze a hooded, single-minded intensity that made her brisk steps falter, her thoughts skip a beat and the flush at the base of her throat spread both up and down.

You don’t know him at all.

Or so she told herself. A distinct part of her seemed to think otherwise.

Or maybe it just didn’t care.

The receptionist sat stiffly, glancing Natalie’s way with both accusation and relief—an expression that said
Good, you’re back. Now
take
him.

Too raw for this ultrapolished world of surfaces and shiny things. Too
real.

For the first time Natalie realized that she, too, fit neatly in this world of excessive polish and little depth—that she’d learned to slip it on like a glove.

She looked at Devin, found that he hadn’t moved—but that he still waited.

She fit in his world, too.

“Walk with me outside,” she suggested, heading straight on for the door, not looking back. Knowing he’d be there.

And he was. Not behind her, but beside her. “Hey,” he said, as if it meant something. As if it was all he needed to say.

Maybe it was.

She dug into the bag, pulled out her phone and tipped it away from the sun. “You look nice,” she said.

“Mmm.” It was a noncommittal response, so neutral that as they moved around the shaped juniper landscaping, she lowered the phone to glance over at him—found his grin.

She found herself grinning back, but pointedly lifted the phone again.

“I think I scared the receptionist,” Devin said. “What do you think? Do you think I scared her?”

Natalie lowered the phone, gave him a look.
See me being patient?

If he got it, his expression didn’t reflect the fact. Not with that smile at the corners of his eyes, the grin lingering.

She sighed, stuffing the phone away. And really, she’d made these calls. She’d just intended to double-check them all. “Let’s walk,” she said, and held out an inviting elbow.

“You don’t think I scared her,” Devin said, and briefly, visibly, considered disappointment before shrugging.

“Maybe if you hadn’t shaved,” she said kindly, but when he slanted a sideways glance at her, she burst out laughing again. Just because. Because the night before suddenly seemed long ago and far away, a nearly forgotten incident between two people who, in that moment, had been different people altogether.

This man, she had jogged with along the canal, walked with on the estate, partnered with for slow-motion games in the workout room. This man had rhythms she had come to know.

His grin faded away; he seemed at once taller and more solidly grounded, and infinitely less approachable. Not the dazed look that sometimes still overtook him, but a complete clarity of focus.

Quite suddenly, hunting.

And here we are, out in the open as if there hasn’t been any threat at all.
Her fault.

Devin scanned ahead to a small cluster of tough young men taking up the whole sidewalk, not enough in the way of jackets, wife beaters and flannel shirts and posturing every step.

Doesn’t matter. Whoever wants me isn’t working with such blunt instruments.

She glanced quickly behind, orienting—finding them alone in this clean parking lot except for an older man coming up behind them—someone’s grandfather—

That’s when she realized that Devin might have been looking ahead, but his true attention was inward—alarmed, the faintest of frowns...a searching.

And as the older man came quickly up behind them, Devin turned on him. At the last moment, turning away from the young men and their tattoos and their gang signs and turning on the old gentleman with equal intensity—eyes gone dark, hand emerging from his coat pocket with gleaming brass knuckles and the glint of a short, sharp blade. A new weapon altogether.

Natalie froze in horror. In the old man’s face she saw flashes of vulnerability and fear, the awareness that he had no defense against violence blooming to dark eminence. “Devin!” she cried, even as the old man shied away—nearly lost his footing, one hand sticking in his pocket—and then gave them wide berth, one aghast glance back at them as he made good his retreat.

And it was over. Only a moment of time. Short, sweet and fading.

An inexplicable moment in which the previous night suddenly loomed big and the laughter died away entirely.

The gang members jeered, offering exaggerated gestures of how impressed they were. Devin didn’t appear to notice. He pulled the brass knuckles from his hand, gave them a puzzled glance and snicked the curved blade closed. For a long moment he held it there, his fingers wrapping down around it...his eyes, in losing their intensity, also losing their focus.

“Devin,” she said again, her voice low; she stepped up to him and touched his face, barely cupping his jaw. Not tentative. Not guessing.
Knowing.

He sucked in a sudden breath; his hand snapped closed over her wrist. “Would you—” he said, and it was a request—quiet pleading.
“Would you—”

But he closed his eyes, and released her wrist, and lifted his face from her touch, all without quite stepping away. “Yeah,” he said harshly. “She was right to be scared.”

Natalie only shook her head, if ever so infinitesimally.
Smart woman.

Much smarter than Natalie herself, it seemed.

* * *

Sawyer Compton glanced at the one-word text message displayed on his phone screen.

The man had lived, it seemed. Good.

Not that Compton had cared particularly about his fate. But he was a good resource, even at his age—able to approach without raising alarm, presented to create assumptions, yet still spry and capable.

And he’d been instructed to kill.

Not that Compton had ever expected him to succeed. He’d expected one of two things—that the blade would warn James and the old man would die, or that the blade would warn James and circumstances would allow the man to retreat, switching to frightened grandfather mode to make good his escape.

Either way, James wouldn’t realize that the blade hadn’t gone rogue, sending him at an innocent man. Either way, he’d carry the stain of guilt and uncertainty.

And this way, Compton didn’t have anything to clean up.

He smiled, and continued with the business pitch—the one that in spite of all the implications he’d made, had nothing to do with the attacks on Natalie and nothing to do with the heightened security around the estate.

It was a shame Natalie had trusted him so thoroughly. A flaw, really.

One he was perfectly willing to use.