Something inside her broke free—tearing away and revealing a dark, dark door she couldn’t seem to keep from entering. Nay, instead she ripped through it, skipping and screaming.
Raising her hands shoulder level, she let ’er rip, lobbing off a slew of fireballs, letting them shower the room like rain. They shot from her fingertips like baseballs from a pitching machine. Eyes that had once been clouded by sweat now were glazed with the desire for vengeance, sweet and tangy. A long, whistling howl erupted from her mouth as her feet lifted off the ground, leaving her a vantage point from high above whoever this man was.
If he wouldn’t tell her what she wanted to know—all she could think about was making him tell her—twisting the information out of him until his eyes bulged and his breathing became staggered. She’d haul him up by his colorfully beaded braids and shake it out of him until he was left limp.
And that was when the vermin appeared.
Rats, fat and slick- haired, scattered in a million different directions, squealing and squeaking on the floor below her.
Wow. She’d summoned pestilence. If only Darnell could see her now.
Day-o.
While patting herself on the back she, of course, lost her focus and crashed to the floor below.
The very last thing she heard was the demon’s freakish laughter and the words, “De servant always knows.”
“CASEY? Casey—wake up!”
The rough demand rudely invaded her eardrums, but her body wouldn’t cooperate with the command. It was buttery soft and lifeless, and after what had just gone down—it might be better to play dead. Or at least unconscious.
His tone was edged with a hint of panic. “Casey—c’mon. Wake up, honey.”
Honey?
Heh.
It sounded like Clay, but then, the demon the other night had looked just like Rick. Her nose caught a whiff of Clay’s cologne, leaving her almost reassured—but not totally.
She heard the shuffle of feet, and what she really hoped was Clay’s voice, telling Archibald to call Wanda immediately and let her know to call off the search. Then he spoke again. “It’s okay, Casey. It’s really me. Clay. Open your eyes.”
Like you could believe your eyes with this bunch of morphtastic nuts. Though, to his credit, wherever she was, it wasn’t hot. Her hands felt beside her—touching what felt like Marty’s leather couch, but feeling wasn’t always believing.
“Casey. Open your eyes.”
Okay, yeah. That had to be Clay. Only Clay could have that stern, no-nonsense tone of voice when surely she was half-dead and could use just a small “poor baby.” And if it wasn’t Clay, she knew how to summon vermin. She smiled. The motherfucker better be prepared to hit Walmart for some rat poison.
Letting her eyelids drift open, she struggled to clear her blurry vision. Swiping her fingers across her eyes, she massaged them, popping them open once more to indeed find Clay sitting next to her on the edge of the couch.
He ran a thumb under her chin, concern streaking his eyes. “You okay?”
Every square inch of her body moaned in protest. “I feel like I did a few rounds of Extreme Cage Fighting, but otherwise, yeah, I’m okay. What the flip happened, and how did I get back here?”
“Ironically, you reappeared in the same spot you left. You’ve been gone for almost twenty-four hours, Casey.” His gravelly voice was tight upon his admission.
“Like, unconscious?”
“No. Gone. One minute you were giving me shit. The next you disappeared into thin air. I tried to be grateful because I thought it was just you needing a time-out, and you were getting loud, but after a couple of hours, I got worried.”
An ironic chuckle passed between her lips. Clay had been worried about her. That gave her a nice, warm squishy she’d address later. She gave him a playful poke on his wide chest. “You worried about me?”
His eyes were teasing. “Sure. You are my mate.”
A girly sigh bubbled, then was stomped down by her practicality. Yeah. He’d worried Wanda’d eat his balls for appetizers if something happened to her. “You deserved shit, pal. That you would even compare me to that—that woman was a real shot at my moral compass.”
A small smile formed, making the dimples beside his cheeks deepen. “Okay. It was unfair, and I shouldn’t have made you feel like a burden. How will you ever forgive me?”
“I don’t know, but it might involve a trip to a masseuse on you. My back is killing me.”
Clay’s eyes dusted over when she made light of the serious situation. “Where have you been? What the hell happened?”
“Did ya miss me?”
“Casey . . .”
“Hell.”
“What?”
“I said Hell. I was in Hell. I swear, in all my years of catechism, I don’t know that I was 100 percent convinced I believed some of the stuff they fed me until I landed there. It really is hot.”
“How did you get to Hell, Casey?”
“I have no clue. I know for sure it wasn’t by way of Julie the Cruise Director.”
Concern lined his eyes. “Stop joking, Casey. This is serious. What happened?”
“It’s like you said, one minute I was preparing to give you the reaming of all your lifetimes put together, the next I was in Hell—or at least that’s what the guy called it. Yep. He said it was Hell.”
Narrowed and riddled with suspicion, Clay asked, “What guy?”
“A guy with long braids and a Jamaican accent, and he said I needed to find the key if I didn’t want to end up in Hell forever. Our conversation didn’t go very far because I got pretty pissed off—the heat makes me very cranky, for future reference. And then, you know, the usual stuff began to happen. Fireballs, levitation, but this time, I made rats appear. I have to admit I was rather impressed with myself—until I was facedown on the floor, that is. That’s all I remember.”
Clay’s jaw tensed, his mouth forming a sneer. “I’ll kill the bastard.”
“So you know the Tallyman?”
“He sounds like one of Hildegard’s cohorts, Casey, and he’s a pretty rough one at that. His name’s Marcus. Jesus, you could have been hurt.”
Nah. She hadn’t gotten that feeling at all. It had been more like he’d wanted to play with her—to taunt her with what he said he knew. “You know, I don’t think he wanted to hurt me, but he sure wanted me to know something—something he wouldn’t tell me. Something he said you knew about. Something that’s at stake . . .”
As was typical with Clay when they talked about anything relating to Hildegard, his face closed up, devoid of emotion. “Demons are all about deception and big orchestrated games. He was toying with you. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Uh-huh. She’d heard that same sentiment before, and it was always almost the truth. “Well, news flash—I hate to be toyed with—I hate the heat even more, and if my destination really will be Hell, then something needs to be done—soon. Look at my hair, for the love of God. I can’t spend an eternity in Hell. Period.” She made a joke of it, but that shit wasn’t funny. The reality was this—it was either her or Hildegard who was going to be mated to some pitchfork whore who probably ate fireballs in his Cheerios.
“I won’t allow that to happen, Casey.”
Her eyebrow cocked. “Here’s a thought—you’re big on not allowing things to happen, but happen they do. So how do you suppose you can keep me from ending up in Hell?”
“You’ll drink from me, but only one of you can do it. Hildegard drinks me almost dry in order to sustain herself. It’s like storing up on my essence. But I only have so much to go around.”
“So why wouldn’t I do it now—like, right now, as squicky as that makes me feel. If I do it now, Hildegard can’t do a damn thing about it, right?”
“If only it was that easy. We’re talking vampire law here, Casey. She has to drink on the anniversary of our mating, and that’s when you’ll have to drink, too.”
Oh. Ick. “So do we have a plan B?
”
“No.”
“Are you sure I have to drink from you to stay here?”
“Darnell assures me that’s the case. The blood of a vampire is what’s required.”
That made her dizzy. “So it’s only once a year.” That wasn’t so bad. It was like having to get a shot, or going to the gynecologist. You sucked it up, no pun intended, and you did what you had to do for life-maintenance purposes.
“Thankfully.”
“Okay. I’m going to be brave here and ask when exactly this year will be up?”
Clay looked resigned. “Next week.”
Grand. Her stomach rolled. “So it’s me and Hildegard—head to head. Like Kong versus Mothra or something.”
“No, Mothra. I won’t let that happen. I’ll make sure you’re protected.”
“I’d rather be Kong, thank you, and you can’t stop it. She has to feed from you. And that makes me wonder something else. Why don’t you just have a big paranormal sleepover when it’s your anniversary? Invite, like, ten of your toughest werewolf friends and make them stop her from feeding from you when you’re defenseless? If you can do it to protect me, why can’t you do it to protect yourself?”
Clay’s laugh was bitter. “The irony of that is if I kept her from feeding from me, it would in essence be killing off my mate. That’s purposeful intent.”
Her head spun from all these rules. “That still means someone has to take out Hildegard, right?”
He gave her the grimmest look she’d seen on him since their first meeting. “Yep.”
“And what if no one else can?”
“I know I sound repetitive, but I won’t allow that.”
“Right. But you do know what that means, don’t you?”
“You’re going to think up some ridiculous plan B?”
“Hey, have a little faith, would ya? I did summon rats.”
“Rats won’t keep Hildegard from getting what she wants, Casey.”
“No, but if all else fails, maybe I can.”
“Absolutely not. You’ll be kept safe until it’s over. Period.”
“Got a question.”
“Hit me.”
She’d sat up now, her feet dangling to the floor. Gazing at him, she asked, “Do you take anyone but yourself into consideration? Anyone? This isn’t just about you—it’s about me, too. I’m the one who’s going to end up mated to a demon in Hell—H-E-double hockey sticks—if I don’t get rid of Hildegard. Not that I have a clue how to do it, but I’m willing to find out what needs to be done because this is my unlife, too. The worst that can happen to you is you stay mated to a maniac, but you do get to keep your undeadedness, your home, and your pretty blue pickup while you wait around another year for her to come skulking back. Nothing that hasn’t gone on for centuries changes. Boo- hoo. But me? Not so much. A choice has to be made—there can’t be two of us, according to Darnell. Someone has to show up in Hell to represent the Hildegard faction, and it ain’t gonna be me.” Her anger that he so carelessly wanted to handle everything himself was escalating. She had the power to help, and she found it wasn’t just herself she wanted to help—she wanted to help him, too. No one deserved to end up with the fate he’d been dealt.
And yes, it was because she liked him. She didn’t know a lot about him other than he was one extreme or the other, and when she was actually able to turn his mood around when he was scowling thrilled her. It made her want to keep right on trying.
She looked to see his eyes had narrowed. “Casey Schwartz, I feel threatened, and I have to say I don’t much like it. There’s no way in hell I’m letting you go one-on-one with Hildegard. So forget it. You’re not going anywhere near her. I’ll figure something out.”
Casey pushed off the couch, tugging at her sweater that still clung in uncomfortable clumps to her skin. “I just have to say this—you are the most difficult, pigheaded man to ever live. I can help you, Clay, and in the process help myself. This isn’t just about you anymore. The hell I’ll end up spending an eternity with some demon king. So you’ve got two choices, me as your mate or Gigantor. And be very careful what you say here, pal. I’ve been insulted to high Heaven on more than one occasion and all because of what you did. So if being mated to that homicidal, supernatural lunatic is what you want—you’d damned well better be prepared for the smackdown of your eternity, because I am not—am not—ending up taking Hildegard’s place downstairs. Let me reiterate all slow so you get it. I hate the heat. At all costs, no matter what it takes, I’ll kill the bitch before I’ll let her leave me with a fate I neither asked for nor was given a choice about. So unless or until you have a better plan—there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” Turning with an exasperated huff, she planned to make a stomping, rage-fueled, hissified exit.
But Clay grabbed her arm, pulling her to him so that her spine bowed and she fit against his rock-solid frame. “Temper, temper, Ms. Demon. Look, I’ll give you that an eternity spent with you as my mate has a far less bleak outlook than it does with Hildegard, but what I can’t get past is, you have absolutely no choice in the matter. You’re a young woman, Casey—you deserve more. You deserve better than what mating with me offers. Not that I’m a bad catch”—he cocked an eyebrow at her—“but I shouldn’t have to be your only one.”
Her eyes blurred, her throat clenched. Maybe she’d be okay with him being the only one. “But those choices aren’t on the list of boxes to check off anymore. So it is what it is. I’ve always been practical, and I do understand what I’m getting into, and while I don’t want to insult you, you beat Hell hands down.” He was definitely much better in bed.
A throat cleared. “Excuse me, sir.” Archibald held up Clayton’s cell phone between two fingers. “This has been vibrating precisely every fifteen minutes. I thought I must make mention of it, as it seems someone wishes to reach out and touch you.”
Clayton let Casey go, nodding at Archibald and flipping open his phone. He frowned.
Sooooooo unlike him.
“I have to take this, Casey. We’ll finish this later.”
Casey sighed at Archibald. “Men.”
Archibald’s eyebrow rose. “Indeed, Miss. We’re all rotten scoundrels of the worst order.”
She threaded an arm through his, directing him to the kitchen. “Not all of you—definitely not you. So how well do you know Clay?”
“Is this a fact-finding mission you’re on?”
She threw up her hands. “Well, I have to get the dish on him somehow. He sure isn’t talking. And no one seems to know much about him.”
“Ah, then I won’t be of great help to you, either. What I can tell you is this—Master Clay and myself don’t know one another very well beyond social gatherings of the trio from Hell. Their words, not mine, Miss. However, I’m pleased to tell you that I sense he is a man beyond reproach, forced into a very sordid liaison, not of his choosing. I also sense a deep and abiding honor in him, and his promise to the fair Wanda was that he would protect you at all costs. And I believe him. No one was more worried than Master Clay when you were absconded with. He went, as you young call it, ape-shit.”
Which told her next to nothing, but sent a shiver up her spine nonetheless. She battled with the thought that it had everything to do with his taking responsibility for her demonic state, and nothing to do with anything emotion based. So she decided to cast her line and fish. “So he was worried?” Over me? Of course he was worried, Casey. He’s not such an ass that he wouldn’t be concerned when you were snatched out of thin air right in front of his eyes and all because of what he did to you. He may not be Mr. Ray of Sunshine, but he has compassion—oh, and the wrath of Wanda.
Archibald busied himself with the contents of the refrigerator, pulling out shelves and wiping them off. “Oh, indeed. I do believe I recall a point when I thought we all might have to stake him through the heart to keep him from finding that horrible woman Hildegard and killing her himself. Which, as you know, would only bring more harm than good to
his plight. Master Clay may behave as though he’s callous and uncaring, lobbing jokes about when he wishes to disguise his feelings, but that is decidedly not the case. Especially where you’re concerned, Miss.”
Yeah, yeah. But that was all out of obligation and duty. She’d never seriously thought he didn’t have morals or that he wasn’t willing to own what he’d done to contribute to this mess, but there was a big part of her that wished it had to do with other things. Mated things . . . “Thanks, Archibald. I think I’m going to shower and maybe take a nap.”
“You’ll find fresh towels in the bath along with a Yanni CD. Master Clayton asked that I purchase it for you so that you might enjoy his fine instrumentals whilst bathing. He said yours were all in storage until you’re able to find another place of residence.”
Casey’s stomach lurched. He’d actually listened when she’d told him she loved Yanni. . . . He was just being nice. Because she was Wanda’s little sister, because he’d doomed her in a deadly demon bloodbath, because he felt guilty. Yet, she muttered, “That was nice.”
“Oh, undoubtedly.” His profile, glowing from the light of the fridge, twitched with the lift of his lips in a smug smile.
To believe there was some hidden message from Archibald, like he’d picked up some kind of man-signal where Clay’s worry about her was concerned, was only reading into things she was better off not reading into. “Okay—off to a shower. When I say my day was Hell—I can’t believe I’m really not kidding.”
Arch gave her an amused glance over his impeccably suited shoulder. “Then I can safely assume our girl-talk is over, Miss?”
Grinning, she patted him on the back. “Sorry, that must’ve been uncomfortable.”
“Oh, not at all, Miss Casey. I watch The View—I’m very”—he swiped two fingers on each hand in the air—“in the know.”
She went to the stove, where something hideous simmered. The smell accosted her nostrils. She was almost afraid to ask. “What is that, Arch?”
His hand went up in the air in dismissal. “A poultice of sorts, Miss. I’m an old man with many aches and pains. It’s an old recipe from many years ago. Bloody awful on the nostrils, don’t you agree?”
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