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Demon Master 2 Copyright © 2019 by Daniel Pierce
Book design and layout copyright © 2019 by Daniel Pierce
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
Daniel Pierce
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Demon Master 2
Book 2 in the Demon Master Series
Daniel Pierce
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Epilogue
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About the Author
1
Trick
Easy, Trick. Slow and easy, this ain’t your first time. He pulled himself over onto the deck without a sound. Technically, it was his first time on a boat, but it was just like any other job. He took a deep breath and moved forward on the polished wooden planks at a steady pace. In moments he was two decks down and looking at the thousand dollar bottles of brandy that sat, untouched, in the stateroom, practically begging for someone like Trick to put them to use.
Jimmy had been piss drunk when he slipped and told Trick about the setup; it was like an honesty test. The liquor store owner would send Jimmy over with a bottle of hundred-year-old French brandy that no one in their right mind could afford. Jimmy would walk on board, go to the stateroom, and pick up the envelope, all cash, then leave the booze and return to the store—a neat, tidy way to make a fifty.
Trick had set out the first night he could get away from Jimmy without tipping him off. He wasn’t in the mood to share.
Trick heard that three other locals had tried to make it on board, but no one had seen any of the proof, which meant that anyone who said they had made the lift was full of shit.
And the loot was still sitting there, waiting.
Door to the left, a big sumbitch, and the bar is in the back of the room. Ear pressed to the burled wood, Trick listened.
Dead silent, just like Jimmy said.
The handle was metal and cool to his touch, or maybe it was because he was soaking wet. It swung down, smooth and easy. The damned thing even felt expensive. He kept the door in both hands and slid through the opening, keeping motion to an absolute minimum, then stood quietly, waiting and letting his sight adjust a bit further to the near-perfect dark.
A faint glistening directly ahead was a beacon to his greedy gaze—the bottles were just ahead. The carpet was thick and helped him be silent, even though Trick was too much of a pro to make so much as a squeak. Moving forward to the prize, Trick sensed a hand move from a chair in the corner, followed by the sickening noise of the door swinging shut with a pronounced click. It was locked, and he was not alone. He froze in place.
“You’re dripping on my carpet. Quite rude.” Her voice came from the corner, measured, cultured. She sounded mannerly given the situation, and certainly not alarmed. That didn’t sit well with Trick. A light snapped on to reveal a woman clad in a white silk dressing gown, curled up in a chair with one hand still grasping the chain of a ceramic lamp. An open bottle of brandy sat on the table as well, with a crystal tumbler and ice.
“Please, Trick, come in. You’ve come this far. Why not join me for a drink? That was your goal, yes? The brandy?” Warning claxons roared in Trick’s ears. Something was very wrong. She wasn’t scared, not even concerned, and she knew his name. And she was—waiting, for something. In a casual motion, she stood, revealing her small stature and long blonde hair that fell to her waist. Her eyes never left him as she crossed the space between them and held the glass out in offering.
“Try the brandy. A singular experience, Trick, and well worth your time.”
He drank, out of fear and confusion. The brandy floated up and out of his nose, warm fumes of caramel and fruit, heady with age.
Finding his voice, he stammered, “It’s very good. I was—Jimmy told me that you weren’t drinking it. He was the delivery guy, so I—he said there was no one here.” Trick finished his attempted excuse, suddenly aware of how close and calm the woman was, standing inches from him. Her eyes were dark blue in the weak light. She was smiling as she took the glass from his loose hand and opened her robe.
“You’re shivering. Let me help.” She placed his hands on her breasts, full and perfect.
This cannot be happening. Wait till Jimmy hears this shit—and then she was kissing him, her mouth open and covering his as her tongue probed him, sending the last taste of the brandy to merge with her aromas of perfume and powder. Her hair dragged, electrifying, against his chest. How did she get my shirt open? Trick thought, and then he was pushing against her as she urged him on, and he felt a tickle, like a pinprick at his back, subtly inquisitive. Her mouth bore down on him as she filled his senses to overload with her presence, and in the soft light Trick could not see the serpentine tendril of darkness emerge from her hand, wrapping around his naked chest, searching, only to pause over his heart and plunge in soundlessly, then begin pulsing with sparkling motes of blackness as she siphoned away his will, his memory, and his life, one delicious second at a time. Her feeding messenger gradually went dark as Trick’s reserve of life was consumed, whisked away while he remained locked in her embrace, her mouth cooing lovingly into his—thank you, Trick, there’s a good lad—as his heart finally thumped one last weak complaint and went still.
Delphine let his body slump to the carpet. Fully sated, she stretched and rubbed her flat stomach lazily. Walking to the bar, she poured another brandy into the cut cry
stal glass, frankly admiring of the color that a century of patience could bring to the humble liquid. Without moving, she spoke to the shadows, where her valet awaited instruction.
“Joseph, overboard with this, if you please.” She indicated Trick’s remains. “And do dry this carpet. Saltwater simply cannot be good for a Persian of this age.”
“At once, Mistress.” Joseph emerged, clad in a black suit, and lifted the body without effort. His voice carried an undertone of lust. “May I see if there is anything of merit left over?” He was the model of subservience.
“Of course, how rude of me. Please your appetite but rid me of his presence. You have one minute. Time for a quick bite.” She did not look up as she reached for a silver cigarette case.
“As you wish, Mistress,” Joseph said quickly, leaving the room with the body in his ropy arms as he sunk his teeth into the meat of Trick’s chest, biting deeply. A moment later, Delphine heard a muffled splash as the last evidence of her most recent burglar began to sink, where it would feed the crabs and fish, just as it fed her succubus needs, and Joseph’s less delicate palate. Thank you for coming, Trick. Criminals were so useful, and so ambitious. Picking up her phone, she resettled in the chair. It was time to order more brandy. And her next dinner.
2
Florida: Ring
I felt a gentle pressure in the small of my back, bringing me from the depths of a sound, dreamless sleep. It was too soft to be Waleska, and too early. Her physical appetite was anything but subtle, and the day she rose before me would be the day they buried my body. That left Risa, a more considerate partner, intense, sensuous, and more caring in her approach to our sexual needs. Although both women in my life were distinctly different lovers, neither had the cold nose and whiskers that I now felt, insistently demanding and followed by a single, questioning wuff directed at my back. I rolled over until I was face to face with Gyro, our Great Dane, who raised his ears in question at me as I struggled to a sitting position. His tail told the story, I want out in the yard, you bum, and since neither mother has let me out, you’re up. So, no early morning loving at the hands of my partners, just a potty break for a dog the size of a pony. I sighed and clambered to my feet, struggling into shorts and heading for the door to the yard. Gyro’s nails ticked across the tile alongside.
The day had begun, just not in the way I had hoped. The giant dog loped through the door into the yard, and I turned to the kitchen. Since I was up, I was going to have coffee, but the scene that greeted me chilled me to the bone. Seated at the kitchen table were my two partners, Waleska to the left, Risa to the right, both fully awake, dressed, and reasonably groomed, which in Wally’s case meant that she had brushed her teeth and put on a t-shirt. This did not bode well for me. Risa smiled broadly and Wally blew me a kiss. A cheerful “Good morning” emitted from them in unison. Now I knew something was really wrong. Wally is nearly six feet of classic blonde beauty—green-eyed, tanned, with perfect teeth and freckles that make men suddenly develop a desire to count every one of them. Up close, she gets her way with everyone, which means that we get our way thanks to her flawless genetics.
Risa is her near-opposite physically, but still beautiful, just over five feet tall, olive-skinned, with short black curls, full lips, and immense dark eyes that I find both fascinating and a little intimidating. We’re partners, friends, lovers, and we kill immortals. Or at least we did, until we ran into who may or may not have been Satan, got slapped around, and decided to recover the good old-fashioned way: sunshine and sex. Usually I was present for both, which vaults me in the Lucky Fucker Club, where I am happy to reside for the remainder of what I hope will be a long, uneventful life. But at this moment, I know I am in danger because Wally is awake, Risa is smiling, and they look like they’re up to something.
Risa leaned forward on her elbows, a plain envelope on the table. “Tell me, handsome, do you know what today is?”
I thought for a second, and then the details all clicked into place. The broad, sunny smiles. The damned, cursed envelope, filled with what could only be checks from our tenants in the Hardigan Center. Risa waved the envelope at me, a slow, taunting motion. It was the third of the month. All the checks were ready for deposit. And that could mean only one thing. I had to go to the bank, where I would once again face my nemesis, Annalise Wimple.
Annalise Wimple brought her particular vision of customer service which demanded that every deposit slip be filled completely, without mistakes, and preferably in blue ink. She also told me that she would not tolerate sloppy writing on my checks, nor would she allow me and my “cheesy good looks” to sway her tellers into letting me disregard the rules—which are here for a purpose, Mister Hardigan—and she would take care of my deposits and all other banking matters from this point forward, thank you very much.
I went to the bank, and of course, she was there. Waiting. Hell, she was lurking.
As expected, she stood in a plain white shirt and a black skirt, with little variation in her body from floor to ceiling, waving arrogantly at me to hand over the deposit without any greeting whatsoever. The six-foot three woman with hair severely parted in the middle and clipped in the back squinted her mud brown eyes at me, and we were off to the races. She peered inside the envelope, which I had checked for errors Risa may have accidentally included, sniffing as she riffled through the checks and slip.
“Mister Hardigan, did your partner ready this deposit?” Her question was loaded with levels of disgust at our non-traditional household. Annalise was capable of insulting me, my family, my business, my handwriting, and for good measure, my sexual practices all with one simple phrase. She was an artist.
I drew a bead on my target and engaged. “Yes, Miss Wimple, one of my partners, as you call them, prepared this deposit. And may I once again compliment you on the sensibility of your clothing. So practical.”
Her face never twitched. She emptied the envelope and spread the checks carefully like she was organizing the sections of an antique Japanese fan for restoration. We were in for the long haul, it seemed, but a timid teller from the drive-through asked for approval on a large check, so she tidied the deposit and handed me my receipt with little more admonition.
“Always a pleasure, Mister Hardigan. I’ll be certain to pass your standing request that we repair the night deposit drawer at our soonest possible date. Until next time, enjoy your day.” She turned away with the scratching of her nylon hose and I was dismissed without fanfare. Free, for another month, or until I could bribe someone else to do our bidding at the hands of Miss Wimple, although it didn’t look likely. Hardigan 1, Wimple 0. I had a spring in my step as I pushed through the doors, thinking about lunch. And a beer. Or three.
3
Westray Island, Scotland, 336 B.C.
He is nearly done, and he is the last one sober enough to rape me, I think. She focused on the stars above her, jerking back and forth with each piggish thrust from the stinking sea raider between her legs. Her head was ground into the sod by his forearm even though she was too battered and weak to struggle.
That spirit had been beaten out of her by the first six who had taken their turn, and the three who had spilled in her mouth, while nearly snapping her neck with their rough hands. After a groan, he slid from her, vomiting onto the turf and falling dead asleep, drunk and nearly incoherent after taking his pleasure. His matted hair, clothes, all of him stunk of fish and salt, so different from her husband’s earthy, clean sweat she had known so well until his death only hours ago, when he had been run through with a pike and left to die holding his own soft coils of intestine and crying for her from the beach. After some time, his voice had faded and then stopped, or maybe she was overwhelmed by all of the other carnage filling her ears, the killing and the screams, the children being sacked like ducks and carried down to the waiting boats.
Her father, the seer, had been burned alive after being asked repeatedly for hidden treasures, although anyone could see that their small settlement near t
he hilltop was rich only if one valued views of the rolling sea. Stone and logs set into the earth formed their community, the brochs now glowing ruins that smoldered in ash from the raiders’ fire. Not all the houses had been empty when set to the torch, and even as she was raped, she sobbed for those wailing from the burning houses, and moment by moment she became numb to the smell of her people, her kin, roasting in embers of all she had ever called home.
She lay very still. There were snores and drunken mumblings, but little activity. Looking up, she found the swan, flying through the heavens as always, mutely watching her whole life, and this, what might be the last of it, with wings spread and a black mask made of the night pierced by two eyes. If only she could summon the swan to fly her far from here, away from this death and loss.
Demon Master 2 (The Demon Master Series) Page 1