Demon Dreams

by Nikki Sex

  My demon hums as magic saturates our metaphysical tongues. The instant Annabelle crosses over, a blast of power erupts from the doorway.

  I feel Stafford’s beast stretch his awareness toward me. He, also, tastes this golden feast.

  A small sound of pleasure escapes my lips. It feels so damn good!

  The theme song from “True Blood” interrupts my bliss, preventing me from acting impulsively. Saved by the bell, my very own vampire is calling.

  Standing on shaky legs, I excuse myself. I need privacy to take this call. Occasionally, Leonidas sends a text, but he never phones. The respectful and overly proper paranormal considers it bad manners to contact me mentally without first texting a heads up.

  Why is he calling? It can’t be good news.

  Chapter 10.

  I hit ignore on my cell phone to silence it. Locating a ladies’ room, I step inside. Checking the stalls, I find I’m alone, which I prefer. Except when communicating with ghosts—which takes fleeting seconds in real time—I’ve been known to make outrageous sounds and facial expressions when speaking mind to mind.

  “Hey, Leonidas, what’s up?” I send. He’s at home, in his stronghold. “Tell me you have good news. Tell me you’ve found my missing eggs.”

  “Forgive me, I have not.”

  Directly after surgery, someone stole six of my harvested eggs. My vampire has been unsuccessfully hunting for them. Will they be fertilized by some unknown supernatural? One day, will I have children out there somewhere, growing up without ever knowing their mother? Future hostages used against me, or worse, turned against me? As long as I have breath in my body, I’ll search for them.

  “I am sorry to disturb you,” he whispers in my mind.

  I sense distress at his failure, yet feel his relief from my mental touch. A tinge of guilt stabs at me. I haven’t talked to him for nearly two weeks.

  “Don’t be sorry. What’s the problem?”

  “Millicent,” he hesitates, “is being difficult.”

  “OK. I’m wrapping something up. Can you meet me here, in the lobby?”

  “As you wish,” he sends, leaves my mind.

  Due to magical ties, my Jugulo is always aware of my location, and that of his blood-bond, Detective Joseph.

  Despite his attention-getting good looks, Leonidas can keep a low profile when he wants to. He can also saunter through a public place like a rock-star, compelling anyone and everyone to adore him.

  As I stand by the sink in the lavatory, a woman, perhaps in her late forties, opens the door, walks inside. Reed thin, her red mane styled into a chin-length bob, she nods briefly when she sees me, enters a stall.

  Turning on the faucet, I wash my hands for something to do. Then, I contact Stafford.

  I don’t really “contact” him per se. Thanks to our mating bond, we’re always connected—psychically, mentally, emotionally. If I didn’t block this continual sensory input, I’d virtually be with him all the time.

  I wish I was with him now.

  As mates, we’re equals. Thus, he must also hold himself back from me. I don’t have to “seek out” my mate. Like opening a door, I simply loosen the metaphysical shield I’ve erected in order to function separately from him.

  “Hey,” I send, as a surge of good feelings flows through our bond.

  That’s all it takes. With one thought, we see, we feel each other.

  “Jan.” The way he says my name sings through my mind with the reverence of a love song. He lifts his head, inhales as though locating my scent. He already knows I want his help. “What do you need?”

  “A big favor. Got any hunters who mix well outside the Magic Lands, have a keen sense of smell, enjoy following a scent, and have tenacious tracking instincts? I need your wolves to locate a buried corpse.”

  “You mean our wolves?”

  I grin. “Yes, our wolves.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “No problem. I’ll round them up.”

  “Thanks.” I hesitate. “What about your fears concerning that damned collar and your position as Alpha? Am I stepping on your toes? I don’t sense anything—do you feel overruled?”

  “Not a bit. Let’s forget about the collar for now.”

  “OK, good. Um, can you meet Detective Joseph at Stanley Park?” I pause, think about it. “How about at Brockton Point near the totem poles? He’ll have samples of the victim’s clothing with him. Annabelle Symmes’s spirit told me he killed and buried her near Beaver Lake.”

  Stanley Park is over a thousand acres of public grounds. Larger than New York’s Central Park, it borders downtown Vancouver, B.C., surrounded by water.

  Much of the park remains as densely forested as it was in the late 1800s, with about a half million trees, including hemlock, red cedar, Douglas fir, yew, maple, dogwood, and cottonwood. Some trees are up to 250 feet tall, and hundreds of years old.

  “No problem. It’ll be a good training exercise. I’ll send several experienced wolves, and I’m including your friend, Owen. He’s got an extraordinary sense of smell.”

  “He’s only seventeen.”

  “Werewolves grow up fast. Besides, he likes tracking and he’s good at it.”

  This makes me grin as Owen Tremblay is Hope’s brother. I look at them both as family. Other than the newborn, Wyatt, Owen's the youngest werewolf here. He’s also submissive, and submissive male wolves are rare and valued. He’s been warmly welcomed by everyone in the pack.

  Alpha wolves tend to engage in pissing contests over stupid shit. Sports, wrestling, boxing—sports events provide an outlet for competitive instincts. The Beast Lord does a good job of keeping his dominants in line, but the easy going submissives of both sexes help cement the pack together.

  “Well, when you put it like that. Thanks for bringing him.”

  “You owe me.” His thought comes across as a sensual growl.

  “You’re doing this for John, not me. I’m just the go-between. Maybe I can arrange some special time just for you and the detective. He’s a great guy. I bet he’d make you a very happy man.” I giggle when I hear him snarl.

  “Not funny?”

  “No.”

  “Fine, Mr. Grumpy Pants. What do you have in mind?”

  “You can pay up when you get home.”

  His carnal tone makes my blood boil. Stafford and I can’t keep our hands off each other as it is. His sensual threat ups the ante, makes it more playful and fun. Not an easy task, to enhance the explosive perfection that’s our sex life.

  “Oh, yeah? What’s it going to cost me?”

  “It may involve dress-up and role play.” The teasing, sexy smile in his mind gives me goosebumps. “Remember, I already bought you an outfit for just such an occasion?”

  Interested and highly aroused, I grin while my inner demon sparks with anticipation. “I do recall something about that. Are we talking six-inch stilettos, a red leather corset, handcuffs, and a riding crop?”

  He laughs, one dark eyebrow quirking with interest. “Not this time. Right now, I’m thinking white satin and lace.” His smug smirk comes through loud and clear. “You to wear, me to rip from your delicious body.”

  “Hmm. You sure it wouldn’t look better on John?”

  “Jan!” His instant rejection slams against my mind like a door.

  “Kidding!” I laugh. “You drive a hard bargain, but it’s a deal.” Echoes of teasing, laughter reverberate as we leave each other’s mind. I can’t wait to be with him again.

  The faucet still running, thoughts of my sweetie—hotter than the scalding water—run through my mind.

  I lose track of time, forget what I’m doing, where I am.

  The woman in the bathroom stall comes out. Peripherally, I notice her reflection in the mirror as she stops short. Her leaf green eyes widen when she sees my expression. My face flushed with arousal, gaze heavy lidded, I’m grinning at myself in the mirror like a loon.

  Typical.

 
Having caught me, she laughs good naturedly. “Oh, honey.” She flashes a smile, gestures toward me with lethal red nails. “I know that look. I was your age, once. Be careful. In my experience, men are like used cars. Easy to get, but cheap and ultimately unreliable.”

  I manage a more normal smile. “Thanks for the advice.” Turning off the tap, I dry my hands. “Currently, I enjoy kicking this one’s tires, not to mention all the fun, free joyrides.”

  Nodding at the grinning redhead, I make an exit.

  I return to Samson’s office to find it empty. Trailing through the staff areas, I discover Detective Joseph in the lobby. Together, we move to a quiet corner.

  I raise an eyebrow. “What have you done with the suspect?”

  His eyes narrow. “Without a shred of evidence,” he says mildly, “I’ve arrested him, read him his rights, and had a couple of uniforms escort him to the station. I have 48 hours to make the case.”

  “Sorry about that.” I snicker. “Don’t worry, we’ll get your evidence. The victim’s crossed over, but she told me where her corpse was buried. That fucker will be locked in a cage, and you’ll be a hero. All’s well that ends well.”

  John’s eyes light as Leonidas joins our party, along with his entourage of restless dead.

  My vampire’s energy saturates the lobby, I feel him right to my bones. His face is wet-your-pants handsome, his physique perfect. The cologne he wears smells divine, while his elegant twenty-thousand-dollar suit makes him look like a super star.

  Leonidas takes fashion as seriously as demon hunting.

  As a Jugulo, he’s lethal.

  “OK, this is what happened,” I tell them both. “Our victim and Samson had a fling. They argued in her apartment where he pushed her so hard, she cracked her head. When she came to, he profusely apologized. Then he gave her a glass of water containing a drug called scopolamine—also known as Devil’s Breath.”

  John’s brows shoot up. “An illegal hypnotic.”

  “Yes.” I nod. “Who carries a drug like that around? It seemed practiced, almost like he’d done this before. So you may find more than one corpse—there’s a scary thought. Annabelle told me the asshole drove her to Stanley Park. Drugged as she was, he easily persuaded her to hike toward Beaver Lake. There, he slit her throat and buried her in a shallow grave. Hell, in her dazed state, he probably even got her to dig her own grave.”

  John’s jaw tightens.

  I shake my head in disgust. “Fucker should burn for this.”

  “Yes.” A one-word reply, but the way he says it conveys a whole page of sentiment.

  I wait while Leonidas and John disappear, traveling through the void to Annabelle’s apartment to collect her clothes for the wolves to scent. They return with an unwashed nightgown in a bag, prepared to meet the Beast Lord’s trackers as promised.

  Owen will be there. I bet his sister, Hope will come, too. She and Detective Joseph are engaged in a slowly budding romance.

  “One more thing before I go,” the detective asks. “You think he killed Ms. Symmes to save his position in the company and to prevent his wife from leaving with her money, and the kids?”

  “I do.”

  “Why kill her? Seems excessive. He could’ve manufactured an offence—perhaps some customer complaint. Why not simply fire her?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you what they were fighting about?”

  “No.”

  I sigh, saddened on a personal level as any woman would understand. The world can be so unfair, so cruel. “That poor ghost was a mess. I’ve never met a spirit who cried like she did. Being killed by the man you love is one thing, but another innocent life was taken at the same time. Annabelle was three months pregnant.”

  Chapter 11.

  My business with the detective concluded, I lift my gaze to my Jugulo’s shockingly brilliant blue eyes. When I first met Leonidas, his beauty stunned me stupid. It was difficult to think, much less breathe around him. Thanks to his collar, vampire mojo no longer holds power over me. Stafford’s the only one with that honor. One look at him and my brain turns to mush.

  Staring up at Leonidas, I feel my lips curve into a smile. “I’m ready if you are, big guy. Take me to your problem child.”

  “Thank you.”

  I step into Leonidas, he slides his arm around my waist. I never worry about people watching us vanish. Vampires can magically cloud human minds to protect their cover.

  Blue and white energy flows like a river as we dematerialize into the wondrous silence of the void.

  I love the timeless nothingness of this magical space. A minute within refreshes me like an hour of deep meditation. When we come out of the void, we’re in the living area of Leonidas’s home, high in the mountains.

  My vampire’s home is pleasantly warm, he keeps it at a temperature his blood-bonded human would appreciate. The smell of coffee permeates the air, making me smile. My Jugulo knows what I like.

  I drop onto his comfortable leather couch, cross my booted feet on the ottoman. Leonidas brings me a fresh cup of strong coffee, bless him.

  “Perfect, thanks so much.”

  “My pleasure.”

  While I did collar him, I don’t treat him as a servant. For reasons of his own, he genuinely takes pleasure in doing things for me. I’m not complaining.

  I have no idea what Leonidas thinks I might do for his newly turned vampire, but I’m happy to help if I can.

  “It’s mid-morning, don’t baby vampires sleep during the day?”

  “Normally.” A frown mars his attractive face. “Regrettably, Millicent is not normal. Like her sire, she needs little sleep.”

  “Is that part of the trouble you’re having with her?”

  “She refuses to speak.” His normally calm, deep voice, is an octave higher. In a rare sign of agitation, Leonidas begins to pace. “As you have surmised, my own Making was not pleasant. That is one reason I have never wished to sire a child of my own.”

  “I understand.”

  “I have kept Millicent’s turning a secret, thus there is no one I can speak with about her. There are books on becoming a sire, I have read everything I can find. Either she is different—or I am.”

  “Why keep her a secret? You’ll need to report her entrance to the supernatural community eventually.”

  He turns to face me. “Jugulo’s do not sire children. If they do, they give their offspring to another master or mistress. We are meant to focus solely on demon hunting, not to become distracted by politics, relationships, or other responsibilities.”

  I frown. “Sounds a bit harsh, but OK.”

  “Millicent was going to die, you ordered me to save her.” His lips firm. “I have done as you asked. May I give her to Paradox now?”

  “Hell, no!”

  His eyes flash with what? Rebellion? Frustration? Anger? In less than a heartbeat, a number of expressions cross Leonidas’s face before his features return to his usual unruffled calm.

  “What’s the big deal, anyway?” I ask. “The newly turned do figure it out in time, right?”

  He takes a deep, unnecessary breath. “Please, come with me.”

  I follow him down a circular iron stairway, into his unnervingly all too familiar dungeon. My distant cousin must be behind bars—an ugly, isolated place, but what else can Leonidas do? Apparently, newly turned vamps are dangerous.

  Not that long ago, my Jugulo thought me possessed by my demon. He kidnapped me, keeping me down here for months.

  The ceiling must be twenty-foot high. Built of large stones, cut four feet long, by two feet wide—the dungeon looks like the torture chambers in a medieval castle. The walls are adorned with shields, axes, swords, whips, and heavy clubs with spiked metal heads.

  Poor Millicent, stuck in this dungeon.

  To keep magical creatures trapped, the iron rungs of the prison cells are silver-plated. Most every window down here is currently covered, it’s much darker than when I was here.

  Newly turned vampires are s
ensitive to light.

  As I move toward Millicent’s cell, I hear birds chirping and the flutter of small wings. I know from experience that high above in each cell is a tiny window, open to the outside. These only let in indirect sunlight. As a baby vampire, direct sun exposure would kill her.

  As I arrive, ten or twenty small, glossy black birds, with iridescent purple and green feathers, fly out of the tiny window.

  European starlings. How odd.

  My demon thrums with joy at the sight of Millicent. With her newly fledged raven wings—for good or ill—she’s another one of his children.

  I first knew her as the quiet, overweight pattern the creature E created. The next time I saw her, she was bound beside me over a pentagram in a vortex cavern.

  I survey her, surprised by her drastically different appearance. How did she become so skinny?

  Disheveled, dirty, barefoot, she wears destressed jeans and a dark brown, misshapen sweater. Perhaps nineteen or twenty-years old, she has long, wavy, walnut brown hair. Her elfin face would be pretty, except for her extremely crooked nose, and huge mole near her chin.

  My inner wolf lifts her head, sniffs. Are we imagining it, or does she smell like horses?

  Standing perfectly still, Millicent rests against the damp wall of her cell, peers at me with deep, distrustful eyes.

  No heartbeat.

  No blood flow.

  No movement.

  I’m part human, part-shifter—a walking vamp meal on tap. I’d expected appetite and instinct would’ve forced her to come closer, but nope. The woman doesn’t move.

  Doesn’t she want to drink my blood?

  “Hey, Millicent, remember me? I was tied up beside you when we were tortured in that shitty cavern. I’m Jan, Janice St. John,” I babble, as I drop down, sitting cross-legged on the stone floor just outside her cage. “How did you get those birds to visit? Are you some sort of animal whisperer? If so, that’s totally cool. I love animals.”

  Inhumanly motionless as only a vampire can be, I find her unnerving. Holding my breath, I force myself to meet her dark, unblinking gaze.

  “You’re like Doctor Doolittle, eh?” I tease. “Or Ms. Doolittle, if you prefer.”