by Linda Welch
I stumbled, held my throat with one hand. There would be bruises later. If I had a later.
The best way to put out a grease fire is with a lid. Lacking that, baking soda can be used, although more than I had on hand is needed. I pointed at the top cabinet. “We need baking soda. A heap of it. It’s in there.”
He reacted how anyone would when faced with a fire. It became the first order of business. He reached up to the cabinet.
Fast as a demon can be, any chance of outwitting him was slim. But I had one opportunity and I took it.
Two paces, and I was at the stove when Gareth took the box of baking soda off the top shelf. I grasped the skillet handle with both hands, tipped, and swung. The burning oil fountained between us. I averted my face, but reflexively looked back when my hand stung and saw a strip of skin peel back, turn brown and fly away.
The oil splashed on Gareth’s hair, face, neck and shoulders. He dropped the baking soda as instinct made him lift his hands, but he couldn’t touch himself as the oil ate his skin and clothes like acid. The pain must have been terrible.
I swung the skillet backhand and he was too consumed by pain and shock to avoid the blow. The heavy iron cracked the side of his head. Eyes rolling up, hands reaching for me, he went down.
I stood over him, skillet poised, but he didn’t move. Lying on his side, he was out cold. He looked dreadful, with ugly third degree burns on his face and neck. A little blood had leaked through his blue-gray hair.
Panting, I eased down to sit cross-legged behind his head. If he came to, I’d bonk him again.
I inspected the angry welts on the backs of my hands and wrists, the small hole in my sleeve where the oil burned through. I’d feel the pain when the adrenaline rush wore off. I needed treatment, but not at the risk of another person seeing Gareth if I called the paramedics, or leaving him here when I drove to the emergency room. I didn’t have anything strong enough to bind a demon.
Mac’s bark sounded hoarse. He still lunged at Jack and Mel but with less energy. They ignored him, which I imagine took the fun out of it for him.
“Mac, hush now,” I said wearily. A neighbor might come over to investigate if he kept barking.
He fell silent but for harsh panting. After a minute, he trotted to his water bowl and drank, then lay down under the kitchen table. A second later he got up and trundled to me. He paused at Gareth’s hip, sniffed, curled his lip and lifted his hind leg.
“Don’t you dare!” But only because I’d have to clean it up.
Mac gave me an ugly look, but in an about-face lay down with his chin on my thigh. He sighed and closed his eyes.
Jack slumped on one side of me, Mel on the other.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted,” Jack said.
“Your poor hands!” Mel exclaimed.
Now was one of the zillion times I wished I could touch them, put my arms around their shoulders and squeeze. “Thanks, guys. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Because you wouldn’t risk frying the rat in hot oil,” from Jack.
Mac lifted his head, gave a halfhearted growl under his breath and let it sink on his paws again.
“Yeah, that, and it kept Gareth distracted long enough for the oil to ignite.” I grinned at Jack. “You were great.”
“And what - ”
“And you, Mel,” I said quickly. “I couldn’t find better roommates if I advertised.”
A whirlwind punched open the front door and tore through the house, creating a vacuum which whisked papers and small objects off the tabletop and counters.
“You took your time,” I told Royal before he swept me off my feet.
I clung to him, arms clenching his neck, legs around his waist, his face buried in my shoulder.
He eased me to the ground, but kept his arms around me as we looked down at Gareth.
“I would not have believed it,” he murmured.
I hugged him tighter. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
Regret saddened his voice. Gareth trained him. He was a youth when he left his home to serve the High House and met Gareth, the House’s most dedicated servant. All that time … a lie. I felt a little sad myself. I liked Gareth and trusted him more than any other demon. Shows I’m not the greatest student of human nature. I mean Gelpha nature.
“What are you going to do with him?” I asked. Royal would not call the cops.
“I’ll take him to a place he cannot escape. What happens to him is the High Lord’s decision.”
Poor Lawrence. His first judicial action as High Lord, decide the sentence of a man he’d called friend.
EPILOGUE
Snowflakes circled and drifted in the light cast by streetlamps. Snow melted on Royal’s hair and slicked his face as he stood on my stoop wearing a heart-stopping smile.
Both eyebrows shot up as he regarded me, in my robe, hair loose down my back.
His eyes flipped to the ceiling where the mistletoe had hung. “You took it down?”
“Moved it.”
“To where?”
“You’ll see.”
He sniffed. “I don’t smell dinner.”
“It’s prepped and ready to go.” I ran my tongue over my lower lip suggestively and spoke slowly. “You won’t believe how fast it heats up.”
His eyebrows made arcs above twinkling copper eyes. “I sense we are not talking about roast turkey and potatoes.” He reached out, ran his finger down my cheek then behind my ear, hooked a tress of hair and twirled it around his fingers. “I should not have teased you when we first met. I created a monster.”
“This isn’t a tease.” With both hands, I grasped his collar and pulled him in till our mouths were a fraction apart. “I promise, it’s something you can really make a meal out of.”
His big hands gripped my waist and crushed me to him. I wonder how his heavy brown leather coat restrained what reared up between us. Speaking of monsters… . Whew.
I resisted the urge to fan my face with my hand and instead released his collar. “Just one sec,” I inched back from him. “Wait right here.”
I backed up, went in the living room and closed the door on his perplexed face.
The lamps were off, but I’d managed to light the wood-burning stove. The flames danced behind the glass and cast warm orange light over the walls. The Christmas tree twinkled in the corner. I don’t own a bearskin rug, so I spread my duvet in front of the stove and threw down the toss pillows off the sofa. A bottle of Chardonnay sat in the ice bucket, two long-stemmed wineglasses on the hardwood floor. I unbelted my robe and let it drop. Shame I didn’t have some slinky, elbow-length gloves to cover the dressings on my hands.
I picked up the sprig of artificial mistletoe with its golden bell. Holding it over my head, I opened the door.
Royal beamed a wide, delighted smile.
It was, after all, Christmas, and I hadn’t given him a present.
I gave the mistletoe a little shake so the bell tinkled and tried for a Mae West accent. “Hey, big boy, you wanna come in here and jingle my bell?”
Acknowledgements
Friend and mentor, necessary harasser, LK. I couldn’t manage without you. My developmental editor Sharon. My trusty beta readers Don, Karen, Maureen, Meagan and Shirli. Kenneth Paul Jones – he whipped out the awesome verse for Demon Demon Burning Bright in a matter of minutes and on the spur of the moment. The fabulous Indie Chicks for their friendship and support. And of course Whisperings readers who let me know they want more.
Books by Linda Welch
Whisperings Novels:
Along Came a Demon
The Demon Hunters
Dead Demon Walking
Demon Demon Burning Bright
Anthology:
Indie Chicks. 25Woman, 25 Personal Stories.
Coming in 2012:
A Whisperings Mystery: Demon on a Distant Shore
Meet the Author
Linda Welch was born in Hampshire, Engla
nd. She lived in Idaho, California and New Mexico before settling in Utah. She now lives in a mountain valley, more or less halfway up the mountainside, with her husband and Scottish terrier. She is not tall and silver-haired and does not see dead people. What she does see are moose, deer, fox, raccoon, skunk, wild turkey, a huge bird population and a ridiculous amount of snow. When not writing and depending on the season, she is usually walking her Scottie, filling the bird feeders, futilely attacking the weeds in her garden or shoveling out after a snowstorm. Dead Demon Burning Bright is the fourth book of her Whisperings series. You can visit Linda at http://lindadwelch.com
Linda is working on the next Whisperings: Demon on a Distant Shore.
Demon on a Distant Shore
Tiff and Royal take a case in a far off land. Tiff finds England very confusing. For one thing, Brits use a knife and fork the wrong way and they do not speak the same language. Then there is the case itself: finding their client’s long-lost relative is not as simple as they supposed, and as usual, Tiff is distracted by dead people who could use her help. And in ancient Little Barrow, only Tiff can see a creature of myth and magic as it cries out in pain.
When bullets fly and Tiff is the target, she again wonders why wealthy Patty Norton of Boston came clear across the country to hire Banks and Mortensen instead of some hotshot investigator. With the unwilling assistance of some decidedly uncooperative ghosts, she’ll figure out what’s really going on, and bring peace to a demon on a distant shore.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
EPILOGUE