Embrace the Desire

by Spring Stevens

  “I am not a fucking maid, she can do it herself if she wants it. Who the hell does she think she is ordering me around? And why the fuck does she smell so good?”

  He carefully sat the can down on the counter and looked down at the black cat. “You fix the shit for her!”

  Jazz purred and rubbed up against his leg as the other three cats came running into the kitchen at the sound of his voice. He grinned as they jumped up onto the counter and pawed at the pan. They were loyal to her and he did appreciate that.

  Loyalty he understood, cooking he did not.

  Payne grabbed the pan and slammed it down on the burner, wincing slightly at the harshness of the sound. He poured it about half full of milk and turned the knob until flames shot out from underneath the pan. He stepped back and grinned; he could have used his fingers to achieve that. He took the lid off the can and tipped it over the pan. The tabby squalled out as a few drops of the powder poured into the milk. He jerked the can away and frowned as the powder landed on the stovetop.

  “What the hell do you expect from me? I haven’t ever done this shit before.”

  The tabby growled and hissed as she went to the dish drain and pawed a spoon. Payne grunted as he took the spoon and slammed it into the can. He dumped two tablespoons into the milk and glared at the cat. He stood over the stove and stared at the milk until it started to boil.

  As his stare hardened, he listened to the water running in the bathroom. He could hear her humming and smell the soap she was using to wash her hair. He wondered what she looked like without all that makeup and Gothic clothing. Growling, he could picture her in a black negligee with her hair damp and clinging to her. He wondered what kind of lover she would be as he pictured her sitting in the middle of his bed. The image was sexy. He groaned as he imagined her naked in his arms and begging him to take her.

  Mine.

  The tabby squalled again and Payne watched as the chocolate milk boiled over the pan’s side. “Son of a bitch!”

  He grabbed the pan’s handle and cursed again. The tabby jumped off the counter and hissed at Payne. He sat the pan on the counter and mentally shook himself. He grabbed the mug that was turned upside down and slammed it on the counter. He gritted his teeth as it split up the side. Picking up the pieces, he looked for a trashcan. His nostrils flared as he threw the broken shards into the ten-gallon can. Jazz purred and pawed at his black combat boot as he ran his hand through his hair.

  “What the fuck am I doing?” He looked at the cat and suddenly felt like a fool.

  In all his life, he had never been like this, jittery and acting foolish.

  He reached to the cabinet above the sink and pulled out another mug. He poured the mug full and carried it to the front room. Grunting his discord, he placed it on the table beside the black velvet chair. He reached into his pocket and took out a pen and notepad. He scribbled on it and tucked it under the mug’s edge. Taking a deep agonizing breath, he turned on his heel and stomped to the front door growling as he quickly left and locked the door behind him. This night had definitely not gone the way he had intended.

  His body was hard wired for Chanta Timbers, ready to embrace her Burning. His mind was another matter. The witchy woman had done something to his body and to his head.

  Mine. The word spun loops in his brain, zigzagging across his nerves like the teeth of a saw blade. She could never be his. His future didn’t have any place for her, it didn’t have a place for anyone.

  He was famished and needed to feed. And there was no denying that he needed to put some space between himself and the bewitching woman in the shower. Cursing under his breath, he left the building and shimmered out of sight. Right now, he needed control and patience and those were two things that he seriously lacked.

  • • •

  Chanta dried off and slid the purple gown over her head. She caught her reflection in the mirror and smiled. She was back to her normal self and her face felt a lot better without the make-up on. Wearing all that stuff made her skin itch, but it hid the dark circles under her eyes. Her light blonde hair dripped as she ran her fingers through it. She wondered if Payne liked her natural whitish blonde tresses. It was an odd color, almost white.

  But then why would she care? Why did she care? It wasn’t like he was going to stick around.

  She wiped the fog from the rest of the mirror and frowned. She hoped he thought she was pretty. Hell, she was praying he thought she was sexy because she sure as hell was thinking that about him. She closed her eyes and imagined him standing in the bathroom naked. All those beautiful muscles and that silky long black hair and his hands, oh lord, those hands. Her face flushed as she wondered what he felt like under those clothes of his.

  Chanta grinned and turned to the door. She took a slow long deep breath and opened the door. As she stepped out of the bathroom she heard the front door close. She frowned and went to the front room. It was empty. She slid into her chair and noticed the mug steaming on the end table.

  Without thought, she took the cup and raised it to her lips. Sipping the hot chocolate, she realized something was stuck to the bottom of the mug. She pulled it and looked at the fancy writing. It was old English and as neat as it could be and her jaw dropped as she read it.

  It read: Sorry about the mess in the kitchen. I will be back tomorrow night at ten sharp to finish our conversation; make sure you are home. If you feel the burning before I return tomorrow, call me immediately. Payne.

  Underneath the words nine numbers were scrolled, it was a cell phone number. Payne, crazy as he may be, had left her his phone number. Knowing it was silly, she smiled as if he had left her a bouquet of flowers. An odd feeling crept up her skin. She felt as if she had cracked the surface, had somehow took an inch off of the mile where he was concerned.

  Payne was a Destroyer, a lethal weapon against the demons that Damon commanded. And even though she knew he had a demon of his own under his skin, she couldn’t help the way she was feeling.

  With a sigh, she shivered. Payne was just more male than anyone she had ever been around. He was the total package except for his ill moods; those she could live without. The same ill-mooded, almost frightening, thick-headed Destroyer with no manners who she knew would rock her world. Reading the note again, she laughed. She was already feeling a burning, but she was sure it was not what he meant.

  Chapter 13

  Payne collectively retreated inside of himself as he left Chanta’s apartment. He needed to find that black void where he felt so comfortable. His back went straight and rigid as his hands curled into balls at his sides. The smell of this town was almost clean, almost.

  His eyes flashed and turned yellow as he caught the distinct smell of witch. The grimace on his face deepened as his eyes glowed orange and then red. It was hunting time and his blood boiled with the excitement of the kill. His fangs extended over his lower lip as he grinned.

  He reached around to his back and pulled the Egyptian scimitars from the sheaths that hung from his shoulders. They were his favorite weapons, forged by his own hand with the power that ran through his blood veins. The smile on his face widened as the smell grew closer. He knew the witch was strong and old and he hoped for a good fight. The stronger the witch, the more fulfilling her blood would be.

  His image shimmered and disappeared as he stepped into the shadows. He reappeared inside of an old barn that lay on the outskirts of the small town. The low chant of the coven filled his ears. His eyes narrowed as his mind was thrown back to the past, a past that burned into his soul every second of every day.

  • • •

  Egypt. During the reign of Thutmose III

  Payne was known as Damian, the son of Damon. He was not coveted or treated as one would expect a prince of the Underworld to be. Instead, he was starved and scared, and stayed huddled in the corner of the dark cave. His fear and loneliness isolated him as much as being Damon’s son did.

  He watched as his mother painted a five-pointed star in blood on
the cave’s wall with her long finger. She was as beautiful as sin, long black hair and eyes the color of the deepest ocean. Her beauty was devastating, but her heart was as black and cruel as they came. She was a witch, a worshipper of the feared Damon.

  The star she had painted was from the blood of an innocent child, her child. Damian’s blood slid down her fingers as she turned to him. He was crying and holding his wrist. She smiled and walked to his side slowly sucking the blood from her fingertip. She knelt beside of him and grabbed his wrist. He bit his tongue as she raised it to her lips and licked the wound. His skin crawled as the tears ran down his dirty cheeks.

  “Do not cry. You’re serving a great purpose. Your blood is innocent and Damon loves you.” Her ancient Egyptian language spilled from her mouth as she ran her finger down his nose. “You’re his son and he needs you. Love and obey your father and he’ll give you immortality in the end. Hate your father and he’ll torment your soul for all time.”

  She pulled him to his feet and ran her fingers through his thick mud packed hair. He leaned against his mother and took her other hand in his. He walked by her side out into the cave’s opening. Over thirty witches stood waiting for them. His mother, Re-Mona, held her hand up and silenced the coven. Their chant subsided and she pushed the boy to the center of the crowd.

  “He must be beaten with your wands. Take care to lance his skin and lick the blood from the wound. His blood is pure and tonight Damon commands that we all partake of him and taste what he implanted inside of me.”

  The little boy fell to his knees, but his tears dried as the witches formed a line. The first witch stepped forward and held out her wand over his back. The little boy stared at the ground and waited. The wand came down and bit into his flesh. His mother smiled as the witch fell to her knees and licked the wound. She stood and went to Re-Mona’s side with his blood on her lips.

  The next witch stepped forward. Damian looked up as a little black haired girl, Bastilla, came running at him. She threw herself across his back and screamed in utter defiance to his mother.

  “No, please stop. I love him. Why do you cause him so much pain?”

  Re-Mona frowned and went to the young witchling. She grabbed her hair and pulled her to her feet. Bastilla kicked her shins and fought as Re-Mona dragged her into the cave. She commanded the ceremony to continue as they disappeared into the opening of the cave.

  Even though the witches continued the beating, Damian turned and watched his mother, listening to every word being said.

  She threw the girl into the corner and took out her wand. “He is the property of Damon! His blood is still human and is unfit for your love. You disgrace your god by loving him. It’s your duty to love Damon!”

  Bastilla pleaded, “But coven mistress, please. He is your son!”

  Re-Mona stopped, her face going pale. “He is Damon’s son. I may have carried that demon inside of me, but he isn’t a child of mine! My pain was greatly rewarded.”

  Bastilla’s eyes widened as she stared out of the cave at Damian. “You sold your body and your son to Damon.”

  Laughter echoed through the winding cave. “His pain is a blessing from your god!”

  “A blessing?”

  “Yes.” Re-Mona grinned, her eyes glittering like diamonds. “You should not worry about the boy, you should be more worried about yourself. I have given you to Damon. He has chosen you as his next bride-to-be and wants you to understand that you will mother his next child!”

  “No!”

  Bastilla scrambled to her feet and tried to run past her. Re-Mona caught her by the hair and slammed her to her knees. She lashed out and slapped the girl several times and spit in her face.

  “You ungrateful little urchin! It’s time you met your god.”

  Damian heard Bastilla’s scream. Scrambling to his feet, he raced to the cave, fear clutching his heart. He knew that his mother would beat her for trying to protect him, but that wasn’t what worried him. His father would do unimaginable things to Bastilla.

  Pushing through the two of the witches at the entrance, he fell scraping his knees. Slipping through one of the witch’s legs, he ran as hard as he could to Bastilla. He slid to a stop in front of her unconscious body and fell to his knees. As he reached for her hand, he was kicked in the side. Unwilling to feel the pain, he crawled to her hand. His fingers grazed her skin as he was pulled to his feet in front of his mother.

  Re-Mona’s eyes were cold and hard as she slapped him across the cheek. She threw him face forward to land in front of a pair of black boots. He looked up and bit back the scream in his throat. The man who stood before him was death, disease, famine, murder, hatred, and pure evil. His straight hair hung down to the cave’s floor and fanned out around his black boots. His face was cold and as white as the linen worn by virgins. His eyes were red and set in dark sockets. The black horns that protruded out of his skull were twisted and jagged.

  Damian tried to look away but couldn’t. The man’s body was lithe and skinny and snakes curled around both of his arms and slithered around his chest like clothing. They hissed and bit at Damian as he scrambled backward.

  Damon laughed and the sound of his laugh froze the cave’s air and the cold mist settled around Damian’s body as the cave disappeared. The boy scrambled to his feet and tried to see a way to escape. He reached out into the mist and screamed as his hand was bitten by snakes that appeared out of thin air. He fell to his knees as the snake god stepped forward and grabbed his hair.

  As he lifted Damian from the ground by his hair, he said, “Is that any way to treat your father? It has plagued my soul to have to be away from you.”

  The boy twisted and cried out as his hair began to pull from his scalp. Damon released Damian’s hair and let him fall to the ground. A throne of twisted naked female bodies appeared and Damon sat down. He peered at the boy and pointed at him. He crooked his finger and Damian slid across the cold floor to his booted foot.

  “I want to share something with you, my son.”

  Damian closed his eyes as the mist cleared and two woman dressed in white appeared. They were chained to the floor by their ankles. Damon grinned and opened the boy’s eyes with a flick of his wrist. Damian watched in horror as another man dressed in red satin robes stepped forward holding an axe.

  The women in white were virgins. Damian knew because he had witnessed these executions all of his life. He also knew that they were members of the One Race and had not yet gone through the Burning. He didn’t know how he knew, he just did.

  He swallowed hard as his mother appeared in front of the two women. She was naked, painted with blood from head to toe. Damian tried to look away as his mother took the axe in both of her hands, but his head refused to turn.

  “Lesson one, my son. Fear will win you more servitude than any other emotion.” He leaned forward, grabbed Damian’s chin. “And when that fear turns into devotion . . . ” He pointed to the women in chains. “They’ll want to die for you just so it will bring you pleasure.”

  Damian jerked away, fell backwards as Damon laughed. “I don’t want anyone to die.”

  “Watch Damien, watch how your mother serves me.” Damon grinned, his black hair falling over one of his eyes. “Soon, you’ll serve me as well. The rivers of blood that you’ll create will give me insurmountable pleasure.”

  Chapter 14

  Payne watched in the shadows shaking off the memory as two witches carried a black candle from the front of the barn to the back. The smell of hay and horses filled his nostrils, the scent distracting his thoughts. It reminded him of the kiss he had never forgotten, of the woman he had tried to forget, but hadn’t.

  And he had just left that woman in her apartment, naked and wet. Chanta was becoming a major distraction and it was presenting a problem for him. For the life of him, he didn’t know what he was going to do or to how to handle the situation.

  The doors of the barn opened and a red haired witch stepped in followed by ten more witches.
All of them were naked and all painted red. The red head was strong and no doubt the high priestess of her coven. She wore the mark of Damon on her forehead as if it was an honor to have endured his touch. Payne’s lips curled into a cruel grin as he saw the scars that ran across her nose and down her jaw.

  Damon was an enigma. He lived on the pain and misery of others and even convinced his followers that through the pain he inflicted, his love was in the purest form. How crazy was that? Damon really was a snake, in every possible way.

  The scimitars hummed in his hands, anxious to taste blood. Damon had taught him well in the time he had been his prisoner, he taught him how to kill without mercy, without fear, without emotion. And Varick had honed those skills to perfection. He was born to be a killer, born from the semen of a god, born from the womb of a witch. Reborn with revenge and bloodlust in his heart. He was Payne!

  He stepped out from the shadows and his war cry scolded the ears of the coven. They fled in ten different directions as he crossed the small space to the head witch. His blades were raised as she shielded her face. Her screech of anger flooded his mind and he grinned.

  He swung the scimitar and sliced through the flesh of her arm. Black blood gushed from the wound as she whirled around with her wand. The edge of the wand contacted his left forearm and he laughed. The witch stepped back with a wild unbelieving expression on her face as blue flames rose from her attacker’s fingertips and flowed up his arms.

  “Who are you?” she screamed as he leapt forward.

  “I am your Destroyer. Prepare to meet your fate.”

  No sooner than the words left his twisted mouth, she fell to his thrust. The blades penetrated her body as if it were made of soft butter. Her blood poured down his hands as he heard the scream of another witch.