Lust Born

by Jacquie Underdown

  “Police, fire, or ambulance?” says the nasal voice.

  “Police.”

  The phone connects. “Police. What’s the emergency?”

  “T-there’s a dog. A big dog at the front of my house. It chased me inside. Almost killed me.”

  “What’s your name, and where are you calling from?”

  “Ariana Hana.” She gives the operator her address.

  “A dog is outside your house?”

  “Yes. It’s enormous. And frenzied. It ran at me. Almost scared me half to death.”

  “Miss Hana, this isn’t a matter for the police. In the morning, you might want to call animal control and let them know a stray is hanging around your neighborhood.”

  “It tried to kill me. It’s more than just a dog. It’s like a demon-thing, about four feet tall with these giant, sharp teeth. It’s fast. So fast.” But even as she is saying the words, she realizes how ridiculous this must sound to someone else.

  Sarcasm and disbelief leaks into the operator’s tone. “I’m sure. Are you safe in your house now?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then that should be enough to keep you safe until you call animal control tomorrow.” And she disconnects, a bleeping dial-tone interrupting the line.

  “Bitch!” she yells and shoves her cell back into her handbag.

  Remembering some pictures she saw of weird creatures in Spells and Such Ariana grabs the book from the side table and runs to her bedroom. She shuts and locks the door and jumps onto the bed. She licks her index finger and flicks through the pages one by one. Dust, the sweet scent of honey, and time wafts into the air around her. Spells, so many spells, and poultices using crazy, exotic plants.

  Her gaze flicks from page to page. She’s after one thing. And then she lands on it. In full color on the yellowed, old pages is a picture of the man-dog: irises red with rage and long pointed teeth. A shudder crawls up her spine like the legs of a hairy spider.

  The Hound—a crazed Demon Hound from the desolate Darklands of Fiore.

  Nocturnal.

  Completely innocuous in daylight.

  Claws and saliva are highly toxic.

  Avoid being bitten or scratched by this creature.

  A Hound can be killed by applying enough physical force.

  No unique instrument, weapons, or spell required.

  Ariana slams the book shut, stirring dust motes under the stream of light from her bedside lamp. She jumps off the bed and paces across her small bedroom.

  “This is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous,” she says, hands flapping in the air. “So now you’re thinking Demon Hounds are chasing you?” She stops, frowns, and kicks both heels off so they fly across the tiny room, hit the wall with a clank, and bounce off onto the floor. She ruffles a hand through her hair, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time.

  On tiptoes, she creeps to her lamp and switches it off. Just as quietly, she pads to the bedroom window, pulls one of her blinds down a smidge, and peers into the dark night. The Hound is still there, across the street, eyes shining like slick blood as it hides in the darkness. She covers her hand over her mouth to stifle her scream. Goosebumps prickle her skin.

  She runs and jumps on her bed, rolling across it, and flicks on the lamp, casting the room in protective light again. She opens the book and sifts through the pages, to the spells. She wants one to put a barrier around the house and repel the Hound.

  No, she doesn’t believe it will work, but she doesn’t care. She needs peace-of-mind and is willing to try even the most irrational, illogical, absurd ways to do it.

  Ariana jabs at a page. “That’s it.”

  Barrier Protection Spell.

  She groans, slams the book shut, and places it on her nightstand. “You moron, Ariana. A kiddy’s book of magic spells isn’t going to help.”

  She jumps under the covers, pulling them up high over her ears, and shoves her hands under her pillow. She squeezes her eyes shut, confused about what is happening with her life at the moment and exhausted, yet still zinging from the adrenalin. The Hound isn’t trying to get in, nor coming any closer—that has to be enough.

  She hopes.

  Ariana eventually falls asleep, only to be jolted awake when the hair-raising yelping deep from the bowels of a dog fractures the silent night. She sits up, heart clanging. The cry sounds again—tortured howling until it fades to silence. The only noise remaining is her ragged breaths. Ariana flops back onto her pillow and pulls the covers high, her entire body quaking. When sunlight caresses her skin, she finds sleep again.

  Chapter 4

  Ariana stands at the large window at the front of her apartment. She peeks through the blinds, out onto the street now suffused in midday sunlight. No Demon Hound or sign of anything untoward as people and cars scoot past.

  Normal. All incredibly normal.

  Showered and dressed in short shorts and a tank top, Ariana dares to go outside. She shifts the couch back into the living room, unlatches the safety latch, and unlocks the deadbolt and the door lock. Uneasiness stirs within as she pulls the door open and steps onto the street. With quick glances, she assesses her vicinity. Nothing jumps out at her, no angry teeth or snarling muzzles, and she sighs with relief. She turns to go back inside, a self-mocking smile touching her lips, when she notices the terrible scratches down the length of the door.

  Ariana reaches for them, intending to run her finger along one of the splintered grooves, then remembers what the spell book said about the Hound’s claws being poisonous. She stops inches from the timber, and runs back inside. She grabs a bucket from under her sink and fills it with boiling, soapy water then runs back out onto the street and throws the water over the scratches, hoping to dissolve and wash away any residual poison.

  How am I going to explain that to the landlord?

  Convinced she isn’t going crazy, Ariana is determined to figure out what the hell is going on. She makes a glass of juice, some toast with peanut butter, and sits at the kitchen counter with Spells and Such in front of her. She turns the book around, looking for a name, an address, a publisher. She runs her fingers along the binding, feeling for anything to indicate where this book came from. Ariana flips it front-down onto the countertop, opens the back cover, and runs her fingers down the leather spine.

  At the seam, in the center, some of the stitching has come loose. She pulls on a thread and it falls away with ease. One stitch after the other, she tears at the inside of the back cover until she’s able to lift away an entire square. Inside lies a delicate necklace with a round ruby-colored stone medallion. Ariana gasps at the beauty of the stone—viscous, yet it sparkles with the vigor of a diamond. The façade rolls and ripples like the surface of the deep ocean.

  Ariana takes the chain, places it around her neck, and fastens the clip. Hand to her chest, where the medallion sits flush against her breastbone, she feels the warmth it emits. Such a strange emotion and energy bleeds from it—affinity, protection, adoration. Waves of calm slide over her, as though she has company. Company that is powerful and whom she trusts to guard her with their life. Ariana’s lips curl slightly upward.

  * * * *

  Thank goodness for work. Glorious routine and sanity to distract her from the craziness that is fast becoming her reality. And Saturday is the biggest, longest party night in the calendar week, so Ariana’s shift will start and finish later than the night before. Ricardo has also put her on closing duties, which means a little extra cash.

  She dresses in a tight fitting—always tight fitting—black dress with a deep curved neckline and a slit climbing all the way to her hip. The only accessory she wears is the wine-red necklace resting above her plump cleavage. Charcoal eye shadow, long fake lashes, and thick eyeliner are applied to make her green irises shine. She combs her hair back off her face and pulls her long hair into a high ponytail. Instead of stilettos, tonight she wears mid-thigh high boots.

  Ariana passes Hadeon on the way into the club and paints a smile on
her lips. She looks at his sexy mouth and her cheeks warm as she imagines kissing him again, like they did last night. But then she recalls the disappointment showing on his gorgeous, annoying face. She swallows hard and forces her thoughts in another direction. Demon Hounds. Not a great choice. Fangs. Claw marks on the door. Gah, she is not good at this. She shakes her head.

  “Ariana,” Hadeon says in his deep, mellifluous voice. He looks closer. “Everything okay?”

  She nods and widens her smile, though it grows tighter by the second. “Fine.”

  His gaze wanders to her throat, down to her décolletage. “That’s a beautiful necklace,” he says once he finds her eyes again.

  She touches it, loving the comforting warmth it emanates. Her smile comes easier now. “Thank you.”

  He nods and she heads inside.

  Music thumps, fast tempos, electric drums and beats. Ariana is swept up in the energy of the club—dancing, laughter, and heat. The money splashed around the place, and given to her in tips, sends her spirits soaring. Ariana rocks her body as she delivers drinks to the raucous tables of guys and girls, dressed in their alluring, expensive clothes. She can get used to this place.

  As the night draws to a close, a sense of urgency tramples through the bar—seduction, tongue tangling, body-to-body dancing, and fondling. Guys leave with girls to taste each other’s delights. The unfruitful in love hang on to the last, hoping to suck as much enjoyment as they can. Then they dwindle away too, into the night to sleep alone in their beds.

  The music stops, and the strobe lights cease. As darkness is replaced with harsh yellow light that blankets the club, all the mystique and glamour fades. Ariana dislikes this time. It’s like looking into a mirror under harsh fluorescents and seeing the true state of one’s makeup and lipstick after hours of drinking and sweating.

  Ariana busies herself with closing duties—collecting all the remaining glasses and bottles from tables, cleaning and organizing the bar, straightening all the furniture and wiping down tabletops. Far from glamorous, but this type of honest labor has never frightened her.

  The other staff ebb away like the tide, saying goodnight, until only she and Ricardo remain. He leans back against the bar as Ariana stores wine bottles in the fridges. His gray designer pants fit snuggly to his toned ass, and his crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck and sleeves, cling just right to his muscled arms. His eyes are warm mocha.

  “How are you finding the place?” he asks, arms out wide, looking at all his self-built splendor.

  She stands and smiles. “I enjoyed myself tonight.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I enjoy having you here,” he says, voice lowering.

  The front doors of the club clang. Their heads snap in the direction of the sound. Hadeon. Dusk has arrived and a cool gray fog follows him inside.

  Hadeon looks at Ariana hard. “I’m leaving now.” His voice is gruff. “I can give you a lift. It’s still not quite light, danger may be lurking.” His expression is full of warning.

  She opens her mouth to speak, to say sure, give me five minutes to finish up here and you can take me home, but a small part inside of her wants to steer clear of him. Not because she thinks he’s dangerous, though something of that wavelength radiates from him, but more that she’s afraid of the intensity of emotion he arouses within her.

  Hadeon’s hot mouth on hers imprints fresh in her mind. Her stomach stirs as she remembers the fierce sensations, but then the disappointment on his face follows. It burns her anew and she casts the thought away.

  “Um, thanks, but I’ll just find my own way home. I’ll see you later,” she says, the words tight in her throat.

  His eyes darken in color, and he turns and marches out of the club.

  Ariana takes a deep breath to regather her composure. She faces Ricardo, whose stance is tense, and smiles bashfully. She shrugs and shakes her head. “That was weird.”

  Ricardo nods, but is polite enough not to comment.

  Ariana continues with the closing duties, determined not to give Hadeon another thought.

  Daylight has settled over the city by the time Ariana’s shift is finished. She’s grateful for that, particularly after last night’s run-in with that terrifying dog creature. Her shift has been long, and she can feel each hour of it in her weary legs. She says goodbye to Ricardo, steps out onto the street, and starts for home.

  A tap at her shoulder.

  Ariana jerks. She spins to see who or what it is, throwing her hand to her chest in relief when she finds Matt instead of something more sinister. “Christ, you scared the shit out of me,” she says breathlessly.

  He grins. “Sorry. I…need to talk to you.”

  Her shoulders roll forward on a long outtake of air. She guesses she owes him that much. “Fine. I’m heading home. Come, and I’ll make us some coffee.”

  Matt smiles. “Thanks.”

  They engage in small talk as they walk the few short blocks to her apartment, but Ariana expects a lengthy deep-and-meaningful will occur once they’re behind closed doors.

  In fifteen minutes they arrive at her place, and she leads Matt through the entrance, locking the door behind them. Her one-bedroom home isn’t the biggest, but it’s hers. She pays the rent, she decorates it how she pleases, and she’s proud of that, despite its mediocrity.

  In the kitchen, Ariana makes herself and Matt a mug of coffee. They then retreat to the living room and take a seat beside each other on the couch. Neither speak and an uncomfortable silence settles between them.

  Ariana fills the space by taking a sip of her coffee. Matt does the same. She sets her mug on the coffee table and turns so she’s facing Matt.

  “I’m sorry about how I just left the other night…” She stops talking as a cold chill sweeps along her spine. Matt’s sitting erect. His movements are too stiff or slow, she can’t quite place it. “Is everything okay?”

  He places his mug on the coffee table, still not looking at her.

  “What’s the matter?” she probes again.

  Matt turns and that’s when she sees his face clearly. His irises darken in color and his features grow jagged and angular.

  Ariana gasps, climbs off the couch, and backs away.

  He doesn’t look away for even a moment. “Where is it?” he asks, his voice deep and detached, sounding nothing at all like the Matt she knows.

  She shakes her head. “What? Where’s what? Matt, what the hell is going on here?” Is this some weird party trick he picked up?

  He stands and strides toward her. Ariana staggers backward. “The book,” he growls.

  Her brows lower. “What book?” But as the words fall from her mouth, she realizes what he means—the spell book. All blood rushes from her head, leaving her face tingling. Her heart beats so hard she can hear it.

  “The book, the fucking book!” he roars, each angry word reverberating around the room.

  Ariana backs into a wall. She slides across it until she is in the open again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I think you better get the fuck out of my apartment.”

  Matt grins with half his mouth. His top lip rises to expose black, rotten teeth. Her stomach roils up into her throat. You’ve got to be shitting me.

  She points to the door, but her hand is shaking. “Go! Or I’ll call the police.”

  “Not without the book.”

  Ariana looks sideways toward the kitchen. Her phone is in her bag on the countertop. She has to get to it or this is going to end badly. Her heart is thumping in her chest. With a split-second decision, she makes a run for her bag. She clutches it and rummages for her phone. But Matt’s right behind her. She grasps the phone and presses her finger to the screen, but his arm juts out and grabs her neck. He squeezes, fingers jabbing in deep like pincers, and lifts her a foot off the ground. Pain and fear encapsulates her. Her phone falls from her hand to the floor below.

  She can’t breathe, but needs to. She can’t scream, but tries to. Ariana kicks her legs o
ut and hits him hard in his crotch with the tip of her boot. He grunts and droops forward. She manages another kick before his grip releases and she drops to the ground, gasping for air.

  “Fucking bitch,” he spits, hunched over in pain. But still he staggers toward her.

  She lurches from the ground, onto her feet, and attempts to sprint past him, but he punches with thick, hard knuckles that connect with her head, behind her ear. Her head swings from the force and her body twirls. Lights twinkle behind her eyes with each throb of pain.

  He just fucking hit me. Matt just hit me.

  Another crack to her cheek. Pain hits her like a hammer. She crashes back against the kitchen cabinet and slumps to the floor. Darkness slides in, tunneling her vision. She can barely focus enough to see him standing over her or the ferocious snarl on his lips. This can’t be Matt. He’d never do this to her. Something is wrong here.

  She reaches up into the sink behind her and feels for something, anything. The blade of a knife; it bites into her palm as she grips it. She feels for the handle and clasps tight. Matt punches her again—a blow to the same cheek. Her head smacks against the cabinet behind her. Another punch on the opposite cheek.

  Crippling agony.

  Light fades.

  Matt raises his fist again. She can’t take any more with unconsciousness threatening to drown her. She must fight back. But it’s her best friend. Her only friend. The agony of knowing that she has to fight her friend is almost more unbearable than the pain in her body.

  Another fist to her ear. Sound fades. His fist is poised, and she just knows with every ounce of her intuition that he won’t stop until she’s dead.

  There’s no other option now, either she uses this knife to fight back or she dies. Ariana rasps a breath and digs deep for any remnants of strength lingering in her battered body. With a desperate groan from the back of her throat, she lunges at him, despite the agony, and slams the blade into his chest.

  Matt stops and gasps, his eyes widening. He looks down at his chest, hands jerking toward the blade. He pulls out the knife. Red, viscous blood gushes from the wound and stains his white shirt.