The Darkling's Kiss: Part Two: The Daemon Unleashed (The Daemon's Descendants Book 2)

by Charlie Richards

  “Who are you?” Hardenshaw hissed in surprise. Before Philippe could decide how to answer, the other man continued, “Did Stargrove send you?”

  The thief recognized the name of one of the two large criminal rings that worked out of the town. He nodded slowly. “You’ve been operating outside your contract, Hardenshaw.” He kept his voice low, slow, and raspy.

  His tone had the desired effect, and the other man shivered. “It was a wizard,” he whined. “I can’t go against a wizard. Besides, why do the Stargroves care who I rent a wagon to?”

  Philippe nodded slowly, thinking quickly. So there is a wizard involved. Kalylle is correct. He silently wondered how his unexpected friend faired.

  “You were afraid. That’s understandable,” Philippe rasped. “Tell me the wizard’s name, and we’ll deal with it.”

  The man backed up a step, his face appearing pale in the light of the lantern “I-I don’t know her name,” he stuttered fearfully. Philippe waited for a heartbeat before stepping toward him. “But she wore the mark of a Wizard of the First Order,” he claimed with a strangled cry.

  Philippe didn’t know what that meant, but he knew someone who would. He stopped his forward movement, giving the man a long moment to tremble in his boots. Finally, he commanded, “Close your eyes and picture the wizard in your mind.” He held still as he watched the man try to peer beneath his cloak’s cowl to see his face. Philippe knew that the shadows were too deep.

  Hardenshaw closed his eyes, hiding the fear that clouded their pale blue depths.

  Wraith-like, Philippe stepped forward, removed the glove from his right hand, and brushed the man’s temple with his fingertips. A shiver shook the blacksmith’s body. He probed the man’s mind, finding the memory floating on the surface. He pulled it out of the man’s mind and into his own. For a brief instant, black electrical energy seemed to flicker between his fingertips and the man’s temple. The thief lifted his fingers and slipped out the door before the man gathered himself enough to reopen his eyes.

  Once standing in the shadows, glove returned to his hand, Philippe examined the memory. It was indeed a woman dressed in wizard’s robes. How the man knew she was of the First Order, he didn’t know. He’d have to ask Kalylle. Tall, slender, with deeply tanned features and black hair, he felt an unwanted attraction to the woman. Then a shimmer over her features dispelled the unwelcome feeling. An illusion! That wasn’t what she truly looked like. He could feel the blacksmith’s fear of her, and for the briefest of seconds, he caught blonde hair and green eyes. The tanned skin didn’t change. Perhaps that was real enough.

  Pain erupted in his chest. The momentum from the spell sent him flying backward, slamming him into a wall. His head rapped against the side of the building, and he saw stars. Shouldn’t have allowed myself to get distracted was his last thought before darkness descended over him.

  A fresh wave of pain woke him. Grunting, Philippe tried to shift but found his wrists shackled, stretched to either side of his body. A chill swept over him. Alarmed, he snapped open his eyes. He glanced around swiftly and realized he lay nude on a stone table. Carved symbols were etched into the surface beneath him. Several shallow cuts on his body were the sources of his pain.

  The warrior from the bar stood over him, still holding the bloody knife.

  Philippe glared up at him and again tested the strength of his bonds. No luck, even with his heightened abilities. He looked up and saw just how thick the manacles were.

  The man laughed.

  Glancing around again, Philippe noted the blood that seeped from his body filled the carved grooves. He saw that the chains around his ankles were just as thick. Taking a deep breath, he searched for the Innerworld and slipped easily out of the world of men.

  When Philippe tried to rise from the table, he found the stone table and its chains were still with him.

  Soft, feminine laughter reached him, echoing oddly through the mists. “You can’t escape that way, daemon spawn.” The female wizard came into view. “Those chains are magic, as is the stone table. Your daemon blood activated the holding spell.”

  Releasing his grip on the Innerworld, Philippe reappeared to face his captors. The cool night air on his naked body sent a chill through him, and he fought back a shudder. “What do you want?” Philippe ground out, focusing his black-eyed gaze on the woman.

  The woman wasn’t the one from his stolen memory. She was someone else. Brown hair and eyes, tall and slender, pale skin.

  This woman doesn’t get into the light nearly enough.

  Smirking, she peered down at him, her brown eyes running over his muscular, naked form. He gritted his teeth to keep his mouth shut at her intrusive staring. Finally, she leaned forward until her face was only inches from his own. Her brown hair swung toward him, resting against his cheek. He felt her slide a hand up his hip, and bile filled his throat.

  “You are a nuisance,” she whispered seductively. “You’re helping the wrong side. This war will be good for your kind.”

  Unable to hold his tongue any longer, Philippe spat out, “My kind? What’s that supposed to mean, lady?”

  Her hand left his hip to trace the muscles of his chest. “Daemons,” she stated simply.

  Philippe’s anger built, and he jerked forward, testing the shackles again. The movement caused the wizard to jump back. He grinned fiercely at her, baring his teeth. “I do what I must to keep my conscience clear.”

  Slowly, her smile returned. “Then perhaps your conscience needs…adjusting.”

  He narrowed his eyes again when she pulled seven stones from the pouch at her belt and lined them up next to him on the table. Grinning at him, she began to chant. A blast of white light filled the room, almost blinding him. He heard wind howl through the ramshackle building, rattling the building’s boards. The light settled on him, making him feel like he’d been placed in a furnace, and his skin burned as if fire flayed him. Roaring, agony searing his nerve endings, Philippe couldn’t stop his body from bucking against the stone table. He felt something inside him tear, the torture unlike anything he’d ever experienced, and he screamed.

  Then the light receded, a black, circular form trapped within it, leaving him feeling empty and cold. Trembling, gasping, his throat raw, he watched a misty doorway open, and the light disappeared into it.

  Black rage as Philippe hadn’t felt in decades swelled inside him. His face contorted as hatred for the smiling woman flooded him. Realization hit him. She’d torn from him the angel quarter of his soul. That knowledge fueled the daemon within him, and he poured strength into his arms. The loud snapping of the chains holding his arms almost drowned out his frenzied bellow. Sitting up, he reached down and gripped the chains at his feet. He popped the manacles open with ease.

  Chains dangling from his wrists, Philippe rose from the table and stalked toward the shocked woman. “What is your name?” he hissed coldly.

  Stunned, she answered, “Demara. Why?”

  “I like to know the name of my prey.”

  Gasping, the wizard turned and ran.

  Chuckling roughly, Philippe followed her progress with his gaze for a few seconds before turning to face the leather-clad man to his right. The warrior drew his sword and charged. Philippe smiled cruelly as he swung the chain dangling from his wrist. With a clang, it wrapped around the sword, and he pulled, yanking the blade from the other man’s grip. The weapon clattered softly as it hit the wooden floor beside his bare feet.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Philippe saw the bald monk grab Demara’s arm and pull her behind him. “Come on, Demara,” his keen ears heard the man urge. “You’ve done your job. He won’t be helping anyone now.”

  Philippe refocused on the warrior, who now swung a knife at him. Backing a step, snickering daemonically, he swung the chain again. This time it connected with the man’s face. The other man grunted in pain, stumbling sideways. Pressing his advantage, he leaped forward and grabbed the man’s wrist, breaking it with a wrench of hi
s hand. Philippe reveled in the warrior’s shocked scream as the human dropped the knife. Kicking the man’s knee, he heard a satisfying pop.

  Smirking, Philippe picked up the dropped knife. For a few seconds, he watched the other man use his good arm and leg to slide away from him. “Now then,” Philippe commented roughly. “The blonde wizard with green eyes. What is her name?”

  “I don’t know,” the man quickly answered, eyes wide with fear.

  “What a pity,” Philippe whispered. Swinging the knife, he opened a massive gash up the man’s good leg from knee to groin. The other man screamed. “Are you sure?”

  The wounded man nodded quickly. “I only worked with Demara. She never told me the other woman’s name.”

  Grinning coldly, Philippe stated quietly, “I believe you.” With a swipe of his arm, he used the knife to slice the man’s throat. His eyes closed, a smile on his face, Philippe listened with satisfaction as the man choked to death. Once the warrior lay still, he removed the keys from the man’s belt. “Thanks for the keys.”

  Philippe unlocked his chains, dropping them to the floor. Ignoring the blood still oozing from his own gashes, he removed the man’s leather leggings and boots and pulled them on. Glancing around, he found the warrior’s cloak and pulled it around his bare shoulders.

  He stared down at the rune stones left on the table. Slowly he picked one up and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply. “Mmm, Demara,” he murmured roughly. His body tightened as his inner daemon flooded him with lust of a different kind—bloodlust. A smug smile on his face, he tossed the rune stone back on the table. Pulling the cloak close, he left the building.

  He found two horses tied out front and recognized one as his own.

  The other must be the dead man’s.

  Glancing around, Philippe saw the building, a barn, stood in an open field on the edge of a forest. The tracks of two horses led toward the trees. Grinning, excited by the prospect of a chase, he strode slowly toward his horse.

  The animal shifted uneasily as he approached.

  “Now, now,” Philippe rumbled soothingly. “I have need of you. You are not my prey.”

  The horse stilled with its head up and eyes focused on him as its ears swiveled this way and that. Humming, Philippe finished his approach. He rubbed the horse’s neck before untying the animal. Philippe swung into the saddle and headed after his quarry.

  Several hours later, deep shadows criss-crossed the valley he rode through. He smiled cruelly as he rode, his sharp gaze following the trail of the two horses. Across the valley and in the distance, another forest appeared. At the edge of the trees, a small campfire flickered. It took another half an hour to reach the camp.

  He paused outside the circle of light, taking in the scene. He noted how Demara lay curled up in her cloak. The bald man sat outside the ring of firelight, keeping watch.

  “You shouldn’t have stopped,” Philippe told him, closing the distance between them.

  The man nodded. “But there is nowhere that you can’t follow, daemon.”

  Chuckling, Philippe nodded. “So true.” The other man rose as Philippe dismounted. Discreetly, he pulled a dagger from a sheath on his saddle. Pivoting, he threw it. A look of shock froze on the other man’s face when the cold steel embedded itself in his forehead with a dull thunk. Smirking, Philippe watched as the monk crumpled to the ground.

  Stepping over him, Philippe crossed to where the wizard still slept, dropping his cloak as he went. The twin moons reflected off his white skin, accentuating the dark blood that had scabbed over the cuts on his chest and arms. Kneeling beside her, he laid a hand on her shoulder, rolling her onto her back. The woman’s eyes opened, then immediately widened in surprise.

  “Hello, Demara,” Philippe purred before claiming her lips with his own.

  For one brief second, he felt her resistance, but practiced hands and lips quickly overcame that. She moaned softly, and he pulled her onto his lap. Her hands flattened on his bare chest, then slid up and around his neck as she clung to him for support. Philippe buried his hands in her brown hair, and then he slid them down to her neck.

  Lifting his head, Philippe saw the desire that burned in her heavily-lidded eyes. “You shouldn’t have stopped running,” he rasped coldly. He watched her eyes widen in confusion, then shock. He grinned at her when he saw the fear bloom, beating out her lust, right before a quick twist of his hands snapped her neck.

  Philippe gave her one last kiss before laying her back on her bedroll. Rising, he shivered as he glanced around at his handiwork. He felt remorse mixed with satisfaction and shuddered again. He could almost feel the souls leave the bodies near him as they slipped beyond the veil, the Innerworld feeling closer than ever.

  Hissing, hating the weakness that was the remorse he felt, Philippe looted the bodies and saddlebags, then remounted his horse and continued riding.

  Chapter Eight

  Kalylle pushed back from his chair and rose. Sighing, he headed wearily up the stairs. Surprise filled him when he saw Gunthar out a window. The moons have already risen. I’ve been at it longer than I thought. Running a hand through his short, blond hair, he massaged the back of his neck.

  “Still haven’t found what you’re looking for?”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Kalylle spotted Vednor coming up behind him and smiled. “Not yet.” He paused, allowing the older man to fall into step with him. “I’m going to get some rest and then start looking again.”

  “Maybe it’s not registered,” Vednor murmured.

  Drawing his brows into a frown, Kalylle gave the man a narrow-eyed stare. “Not registered? But that would mean that they would have been trained by someone on the outside.”

  “Not so loud!” Vednor warned. He scoffed. “Surely you must accept that it is possible. I mean, look how long it took us to track down your friend. The Council likes to think they have a good handle on things, but—” He shrugged, a wry smile curving his lips. “Fidelia is a pretty big place. There are plenty of places to hide.”

  Understanding his wisdom, Kalylle nodded. He stopped before his door. “We’ll know soon enough. I have two more tomes to go through.”

  “Good luck, my friend,” Vednor replied before moving on.

  Nodding, more to himself than to the other man, Kalylle slipped into his room, absently locking the door with a quick spell.

  “Kalylle.”

  Jerking his head around in surprise upon hearing the raspy voice, Kalylle spotted Philippe. The thief sat at the small table, his hands clasped tightly together on the table in front of him. His face appeared drawn, the shadows under his eyes betraying his fatigue. To his surprise, Kalylle felt his body respond to the sight of him. His cock thickened between his thighs, springing up from his groin. He just managed to stop himself from glancing down to check to see if he tented his robes.

  Clearing his suddenly dry throat, Kalylle found his voice. “Philippe. Welcome back to Xebean,” he greeted. Smiling, Kalylle headed toward him. “You look exhausted. In that big of a hurry to get to me?” he teased.

  Philippe held up a hand. “Stay back,” he warned. “I need you to paralyze me.”

  “What?” Kalylle frowned, confusion filling him. He paused, hearing the anger in Philippe’s voice and wondering from where it stemmed. “Why? What’s wrong?” Kalylle took another step toward Philippe.

  “Paralyze me!” Philippe roared, trembling in his seat. Slowly, he lifted his downcast head and settled an angry glare on Kalylle.

  “Talk to me, Philippe,” Kalylle urged, using a low, soothing tone.

  Kalylle watched as Philippe inhaled slowly. The pale man’s body actually appeared to vibrate with some odd emotion. It was then Kalylle noted the lines bracketing the other man’s face and the way his eyes were dilated widely. Something had happened to his friend.

  “Stand against the wall,” he ordered, reaching his hand into his pouch of rune stones. Rubbing his fingertips over the stone tiles, he quickly chose the ones he need
ed.

  Slowly, Philippe stood. He moved in jerky steps as his gaze kept snapping from Kalylle to the wall and back again. The albino seemed to be fighting himself. Every step away from Kalylle appeared to be taking an extreme effort.

  Needing to discover what happened, Kalylle watched impatiently as the lean man moved against the wall and turned to face him. Ignoring the question in Philippe’s dark eyes, he fired off a spell.

  Philippe’s eyes widened as green bands of light wrapped around his torso, ankles, and wrists. His arms were lifted to head height, and his limbs were pressed against the wall behind him. Growling and snarling, his eyes narrowing in apparent rage, Philippe strained against the glowing green bands.

  Kalylle quickly closed the distance between them. “Easy, Philippe,” he soothed. He returned his rune stones to his pouch, then lifted his hands and rested them on Philippe’s shoulders. Gently, he used his thumbs to massage the shorter man’s tense neck. “Hush,” Kalylle urged, hoping his touch would reach the man. He could see fear and anger and anguish swirling in the albino’s dark eyes. “You’re safe.”

  Blinking, Philippe finally seemed to focus on him. “Kalylle,” he whispered. He glanced left and right as he flexed his hands. “Why like this?”

  “There you are, Philippe,” Kalylle murmured. “You asked me to paralyze you, but if I did that, I wouldn’t have been able to talk to you,” he explained, rubbing up and down his neck again. “I need to know what happened.”

  Shame filling his voice, Philippe admitted brokenly, “I’ve killed seventeen people in the eight days it took me to get here.” He sighed and sagged against the wall and his bonds. “I didn’t want you to be eighteen.”

  Kalylle knew there had to be more to the story. Surely there has to be a reason why Philippe would go on a killing spree. He smoothed his hands over his shoulders and upper chest, taking in the blood dried on Philippe’s torso. His friend had been in a hell of a battle, and sadness filled Kalylle that he hadn’t been there to aid him.