Accidentally Demonic

by Dakota Cassidy

  CHAPTER 11

  “You really don’t have to stay.”

  “Oh, I disagree. I really do,” Clayton said, plopping down on the poofy cream-colored leather couch in the middle of Marty and Keegan’s lush apartment, throwing his long legs up on the dark wood of the coffee table. Wanda had finally relented and gone home to Heath for the time being, after Clay’s solemn vow he’d watch over Casey. However, she’d promised to return in a couple of days, and she’d sent Heath’s manservant in her place. So that he could keep an eye on her—for all the good it would do, seeing as he was no longer a paranormal. Yet Wanda had divulged that Archibald had been around a long time, and his knowledge of folklore and the mythology of the supernatural was extensive. Though, Casey had to admit, she still wasn’t sure how a manservant who was an ex-vampire could lend manpower if it was needed.

  And what was a manservant, anyway?

  “It is someone who tends to all your needs, Miss.” Archibald, stately, balding, dressed in a black suit, smiled upon offering the answer to her question.

  He must have caught her staring at him, bewildered in his formal suit and tie. “I’m sorry, Archibald. I knew of you, I just didn’t know any of the details.”

  His nod was curt, but his smile warm. “ ’ Tis a great deal to absorb, I’m sure, Miss.”

  “So you were Heath’s servant when he was . . .”

  “A vampire, and before, Miss. Indeed, I was. And for the time being, I shall be yours. I may no longer have the power of the clan behind me, but I do have the power of knowledge, many years of it, in fact, and far more Heath experiences than I care to confess.”

  “You really don’t have to do this, Archibald. Not that I don’t appreciate Wanda sending you to be her eyes and ears. Surely you have better things to do than babysit me.”

  “Oh, indeed, I do. I’m, right at this very moment we speak, missing Emeril Live. He’s making wild boar this evening with a garlic glaze that is simply to die for, you know. A devastation no greater has ever befallen me.”

  Her laughter filled her ears. It felt good to laugh. It felt better to see someone look at her with a twinkle in his eye and an almost smile. “There’s a TV in the spare bedroom—go get your Emeril on.” Casey hoped he watched closely, because whatever the frig he was brewing in the kitchen smelled like something had died. It definitely didn’t smell gourmet-ish.

  “If you’re certain there’s nothing more? Something to eat, perhaps? I’m happy to cook you something.”

  Oh, God. Starvation had a new appeal. “I’m fine, and thank you again.You really didn’t have to come.” She covered her cringe with a warm smile.

  “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for the fair Wanda, Miss. When she asked that I offer you this TLC of which she speaks, while keeping my eyes and ears open, I didn’t hesitate.”

  Again, there was that twinge of sadness way deep down in her gut. Wanda had surrounded herself with an incredible amount of devotion, and she’d missed it playing Super Nanny. “Thanks again, Archibald. You go get some rest.”

  He took the kitchen towel from his shoulder, swiping it along the back of the couch as he left the room. “Wild boar and Mr. Lagasse it is,” he chuckled on the way to his room.

  That left her and Clay alone.

  With the residual of last night’s kiss.

  In more silence.

  Awkward.

  “I really can take care of myself.” Why reminding him she could take care of herself had become such a bone of contention with her left her baffled. The need to do so just ate at her.

  “I really want to believe that.”

  She plunked down on the farthest end of the sofa, as far away from him as she could. The entire day had been spent in close quarters while they dragged her things in, rubbing her already fragile nerves to a heightened frenzy. “Then go away and let me. Archibald is here. He can have the night shift.”

  “Not on your life.”

  “My half-life, thanks to you.”

  “Petty.”

  “Truthful.”

  “So how about we talk about Rick.”

  She paled. “How about we don’t.”

  Clay didn’t look at her when he spoke. Instead, he let his head fall back on the cushiony leather and closed his eyes. “In light of the fact that I’m looking out for your best interests, I think it’s wise you share with me anyone of suspicion.”

  Yeah. That was what this was about. “There’s no suspicion about Rick. He’s someone I knew a long time ago, and he has nothing to do with me being a demon now.” The end. “Now, I’m going to go take a shower and wash away the day’s dirt. You know, the kind of dirt that involved me losing my house, my livelihood, my job?” Why, along with stating her independence, she was also so intent on backsies tonight left her confuzzled, but for some unapparent reason, she wanted to twist the knife in his gut. Remind him she was unemployed and homeless over and over until his eyes rolled to the back of his head.

  If he wouldn’t—no—couldn’t stop being so utterly wonkable, yet unattainable, then she wanted him to suffer in unspeakable ways.

  “Blame, blame, blame,” he retorted, the lilt in his voice teasing.

  Leaving him and his smart-ass remarks behind, Casey went to the bedroom she’d chosen and grabbed some bubble bath.

  The shiny gold of the taps on Marty’s sunken tub made her cringe at her reflection in them. Her hair, still sticky from last night’s gallon of hairspray, stuck out at varying angles, and her eyes had more bags than an airport carousel. She flipped the taps on and dumped some scented bath oil into the swirling water.

  Realizing her mood was sour, Casey plunged into the suds, hoping to cleanse herself of her foul disposition. Leaning back, she let the silken glide of water swish over her belly, threading handfuls of soap through her fingers.

  But the soothing water didn’t calm the sudden sharp, searing pain in her gut. Bolting upright, she pressed a fist into her abdomen, letting out a squeal of pain. The compression didn’t ease the sting and the sudden heat glazing her cheeks and forehead left her dizzy and disoriented.

  That itch on the top of her head, the one that signaled her newest ornamental hair accessory, crisscrossed along her scalp. Reaching an arm over the edge of the tub, she tried to haul herself out, only to flop back down with a resounding splash of water and bubbles. The moment she fell back, attempting to brace herself for impact, a fireball flew from her fingertips, bouncing off the opposite wall and nailing some dried flowers on the vanity.

  Fighting a scream of agony, Casey focused on getting out of the tub. Sweat dripped between her breasts, soaking her forehead, and the ceaseless burning of her scalp revved up a notch.

  Clay’s knock at the door was sharp. “Casey? What the hell’s going on?”

  The white-hot heat of spasms in her belly intensified, taking her breath away.

  “Casey?” Clay’s voice grew urgent from behind the tall oak door.

  Once more, she made an effort that seemed damn near monumental to lift herself out of the tub.This time when she fell back, she cracked the side of her head on the faucet. A sharp cry of pain-filled surprise escaped from between her lips. Christ, it felt like she was being split in two. Flames crackled, rising higher until they wended their way toward the decorative towels that hung near the sink.

  The door exploded open in a burst of splinters and groaning wood.

  The blurred motion of Clay’s large, imposing form filled her watery eyes. He dunked a towel into the tub, throwing it onto the flames, tamping out the fire. Then strong arms plunged into the water, lifting her out as though she wasn’t a size twelve at all.

  Hiking her up against his hard chest, he asked, “Casey? What happened? What’s wrong?”

  She heard the strain of his voice, the concern, but she couldn’t answer for the invisible knife that sliced through her intestines like they were warm cream cheese.

  Holding her close to him, he rocketed from the bathroom, grabbing fluffy dark green
towels on the way. Water dripped down the front of his sweater, making a squishy mess of the marble-tiled floors. Clay braced her against the granite kitchen countertop while reaching for his cell phone.

  The irony of this being, she couldn’t even enjoy the fact that she was pressed to the crush of her libido’s lifetime—naked, because the ricocheting pain had her doubled over.

  Clay barked something into the phone she couldn’t quite catch for the fight she was having with herself to keep from screaming.

  He flipped the phone shut, tearing the towels off his shoulder and tucking them under her, around her. Carrying her into the living room, he set her on his lap while she shivered uncontrollably, rocking her back and forth, pressing his lips against the top of her head.

  Her organs felt like they’d been put in a microwave on high, the seizing, burning pain sending her muscles into spasms Clay tried to massage.

  And then, out of the dim light the living room lamp cast, Darnell appeared while Clay shouted at him to help.

  Kneeling in front of Clay, Darnell put a beefy paw to her head. “Shit, man—it’s happening.”

  “What—what’s happening, for Christ’s sake?” Clay barked, gruff and tight with panicked impatience. He cupped her cheek, tilting her head back to look into her eyes.

  “The change, boy. She’s changin’. Look, her horns is pokin’ out. That’s a sure sign. Her bellyache is, too. It’ll pass in a minute or two. Always does. Just happened later for her ’cause of her special circumstances.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Darnell?”

  Her breathing had begun to even out, the agonizing pricks of pain easing. So yeah, what the fuck was Darnell talking about?

  The towel Clay had so carefully tucked around her butt was lifted, cool air wafting over her exposed skin. “You look and tell me if you see the mark,” Darnell prompted, turning his initialed head the other way.

  The mark?

  Clay didn’t bother to ask; he hoisted her up, craning his neck around her shoulder. His response was a long, low whistle.

  Casey struggled to maintain her dignity. This was her ass they were dissecting. Between clenched teeth, she gritted out, “Talk to me about the mark, Darnell.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his dark head. “The mark a the demon. We all get one when the change happens.”

  Hold the phone. If she had the numbers 666 on her ass—it was on. So on, Clay would never forget she had some flipped-out demon’s nuttiness running through her veins. “First, and I ask with much hesitance, what does the mark look like?”

  “Uh, it’s a letter.”

  “Representing?”

  “Who owns you,” Darnell muttered, shamefaced.

  Casey’s eyes narrowed. Pushing sopping wet strands of hair out of her face, she searched for words. “And who owns me, Darnell?”

  There was a long pause—long and rather dramatic. When he finally spoke, it was on a ragged sigh. “The devil.”

  Spankin’. “So I have a letter D on my ass?”

  “Actually, it’s an L. For Lucifer. It ain’t no thang, really. Just a way for the mutha to show his muscle.”

  A hysterical giggle escaped her lips, forcing her to cover her mouth. “Could have been worse, I guess. It could have been a B for Beelzebub on my be-hind. Thanks, vampire.” She slapped Clay on the back with mock gratitude.

  “Happens every time with the change, Casey. Everybody gets the mark.”

  “I thought the change had happened by way of fireballs and horns?”

  Darnell’s full face scrunched in irony. “I thought so, too, for you anyway. But it looks like that ain’t the case.You turnin’ full on. Least ways that’s what it looks like. It’s how it happened with me and everybody else I know who’s demon.”

  Struggling to sit up, Casey clung to the towels that covered her. “Explain ‘full on,’ please.”

  Darnell rose, backing away, the clunk of his high-tops echoing against the hardwood floor. “Means you gonna get your demon form, I think.”

  “Why do I get the feeling this won’t be like a favorable case of Extreme Makeover?”

  “Oh, it’s extreme, aight,” he muttered, looking down at his rings.

  “Spit it out, Darnell,” Clay demanded, still holding on to her, raising her temperature in a much different way than the microwave experience earlier. But his concern touched her, and it probably shouldn’t, but there it was, touching her.

  “Weeeellll, it’s like this, man. When you become a demon, you turn into, well, a demon.You know, scales, talons, claws, whatever your demon form ’sposed to be.”

  “Hang the hell on,” Casey cried, her spine now rigidly pressed to Clay’s chest while he kept her securely in his grasp. “You said I could take on any form I wanted, once I practiced, or whatever. How did I go from choosing human forms—which, if you ask me, is fun and sort of exciting to anticipate—like anticipating a new outfit—to turning into some scaly beast in a fairy tale gone awry?”

  “I dunno, Casey. Like I told ya when I last saw ya, I ain’t never met nobody like you before. I just know now you showin’ all the signs of a normal shift from human to demon.”

  “So in the end, the probability that I’ll be just like you is likely.”

  Darnell’s glance was sheepish. “Looks that way.”

  Turning her body, she stared at Clay straight on. “And all this because you couldn’t resist the temptation of demon’s blood.”

  His expression went sheepish. “Yeah. Angry?”

  She let her head bend low, pushing her forehead against his. “No. Not at all. I’m struggling to find new and innovative ways to thank you for my pending scales and talons. It’s not easy to express that kind of gratitude, you know.”

  “We’ve arrived at the blame portion of our relationship, then?”

  Casey’s eyes narrowed. “Buddy, you have no idea.”

  His gorgeous, “get lost in the depths of ” eyes met hers. “Apologizing again would probably seem disingenuous, I suppose.”

  Tucking the towel between her breasts, she pushed off with a jarring jolt to his scrump- dilly-cious chest. “Ya think?” Turning to Darnell, she forced a smile she didn’t feel. “I appreciate that you came so quickly. I just have one more question. Will this happen again? I hate to be a complainer, because the good Lord knows, this demon gig has been an LOL ass load of fun, but what just happened hurt. A lot. So if I need to prepare to be split in half, I’d like a heads-up.”

  Darnell’s face was riddled with sympathy. “Won’t be so bad time number two—gets easier and easier. Hard part is learning how to get back to your human form. But I’ll show ya, Casey. And if you need me, all ya gotta do is think me up. Us demons can contact each other through our minds. Picture me in your head, and I’ll come runnin’.”

  Stellar.

  Composure, despite her nekidity, took over. “Thank you, Darnell. You’ve been very honest and upstanding. Traits I value in a man.” She shot a pointed glare at Clay. “And now, I’m going to go clean up the mess I’ve made of Marty’s bathroom. I’m here only a day, and I’ve already torched the place. So woo- hoo fireballs.” She pumped her fist in the air, turning on her heel, fighting to maintain her dignity.

  She had the letter L on her ass.

  Where was the dignity in that?

  “Oh, c’mon, Casey!” Clay yelled. “Don’t be mad. Why can’t you just admit how cool fireballs are?”

  If the letter on her ass didn’t fuel her anger, his idea of joking did.

  In the bedroom, she closed the door, without slamming it, then patted herself on the back for avoiding a fit of rage. Letting the towels fall to the floor, she stood before the mirror on the dresser, looking over her shoulder at her ass, something she’d avoided for the better part of her adult years.

  And indeed, there it was. An L.

  In a scribbly kind of script normally used for wedding invitations.

  She’d been branded like so much cattle.

  Squee
e Lucifer.

  Searching for some clothes, she dragged on a pair of old jeans and a sweatshirt, but she stopped cold when she heard raised voices. Running to the door, Casey pressed her ear against it like she once did when Wanda had her friends over, and they’d excluded her from their sleepover. It was childish, but stopping herself would have been like stopping a screaming freight train.

  “You better tell her, Clay. I told ya she deserves to know whose blood’s runnin’ through her veins. I knew there’d be trouble. Knew it, man!”

  Hmm.

  “It doesn’t change what’s happening to her, Darnell. So what’s the point?”

  “Aww, c’mon,” Darnell said with such gruff irritation, it took Casey by surprise. “The point is, that she-beast knows some unsavory dudes, and they gonna come callin’ on Casey. One already did. You can’t watch her forever.”

  Yeah. What Darnell said. Then a thought occurred to her. The Matrix guy in the coffee shop must’ve thought she was the demon whose blood ran through her veins. He’d mentioned how different she looked. If he wasn’t unsavory, then she didn’t know who was better qualified. So who was the owner of said demon blood? She jammed her ear against the door.

  “Damn it, Darnell, Casey’s demonic origins don’t matter as long as I’m here to protect her.”

  “The hell you say, brotha! You better tell her she got that crazy-assed bitch Hildegard’s blood runnin’ through her veins, or I will! I can’t hardly sleep knowin’ that shit, thinkin’ one of those really accomplished, fucked-up demons might come callin’ on her. Hildegard plays with the big boys. Now you do it, Clay, or I will!”

  Casey gasped—shrill and raspy.

  It had been Hildegard’s blood Clayton had spilled on her.

  Dum-da-dum-dum.

  The plot thickened. So that was why the Matrix guy in the coffee shop had thought she was capable of sexual acts reserved only for circus employees. He thought she was Hildegard in another form. And then, like a thunderbolt of awareness, everything was clear. Hildegard obviously wasn’t afraid to take her sexual needs into her own hands—scratch that, she was clearly a slut, which meant Casey now had slutty breezing through her bloodstream—and that was why she was having hormonal attacks to challenge any nympho.