Taming the Demon

by Doranna Durgin

  Echoes of memory and fear...

  She pushed away distractions, focusing on the battered phone and Compton’s private number.

  “Natalie,” he said, recognizing her voice immediately. “Are you coming? Is he coming?”

  She hadn’t realized the intensity of his interest. “I’m working on it,” she said, aware of his disappointment. Not just in the circumstances, but in her. “He’s finally getting some care,” she told him. “And he’s a little reclusive.”

  “I imagine he is,” Compton said, an edge to his voice.

  “Is there something I should know?” Natalie asked. She couldn’t help but glance over at that open doorway, even though from this angle she could see nothing. Compton might have a personal assistant, but he remained his own primary resource—and he’d had plenty of time to dig around in Devin James’s background.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Compton said, in such a perfunctory tone that Natalie relaxed. Classic Compton. Whatever he had in mind, concerns about her safety were so far off his radar that it hadn’t even occurred to him to mention it.

  She might eventually find out what that was; she might not.

  Compton’s voice went short. “Keep working on him. I’ll expect to see you both here as soon as possible.” And he hung up.

  Natalie replaced the handset in the cradle with the faintest of smiles. Last night, Compton had been worried and solicitous—and she hadn’t known what to do with that man. This man, she knew. And she knew how to do her job.

  She flipped through the insubstantial paper, scanning the headlines.

  If anyone had noticed the activity the night before, they hadn’t called it in. Or if they’d called it in, the police hadn’t put it out on their blotter or the paper hadn’t cared. Under other circumstances, she might have suspected Compton’s hand—he’d never said anything, but she’d long ago noticed his ability to squelch certain stories. But he hadn’t had nearly enough advance time to work on this one.

  The bad guys might turn up on someone’s missing persons list...but they weren’t going to turn up, not literally. Natalie’s hand crept to her pocket, where Tattoo Head’s license waited. She didn’t know who the others were, but...

  This family, if there was one, deserved some closure. Somehow.

  Like with the skip tracer in Compton’s contact files.

  She set the newspaper aside and returned to the office, peeked in...went unnoticed.

  “Should I even bother to say you should be taking medicine for this wound?” Enrique was saying, tying a complicated knot and snipping the suture ends. A sheen of sweat covered Devin’s back; he didn’t appear to be listening. “I guess we see if now your luck runs out. This is a bad one, hijo.”

  “Yeah,” Devin muttered, barely audible at that. Lips not moving, jaw tight. He sighed as Enrique blotted his arm with the antiseptic-soaked cloth—a rough cloth, but a surprisingly careful touch. “It’ll do. Thanks, Rick. I owe you.”

  Enrique snorted as he gathered the suturing supplies, but his expression—concealed from Devin as he turned away to the cabinet from which they’d come—hardly matched. Plenty of worry there. A long-term worry, Natalie thought. “You watch it, then. For the swelling, the redness. And you left a lot of blood somewhere last night, hijo—I can see it in your color. So stay away from the streets a night or two. That’s what you owe me.”

  “Ahh, Rick,” Devin said, and flashed a sudden and unrepentant grin. “Gotta roam. You know that.”

  “I know your brother said the same, once, and he and those boys—” Enrique’s lips thinned; he replaced the bottles where they belonged, tossed suture packets...set the dirty cloth aside.

  To judge by the look on Devin’s face, this was an old conversation, and not a welcome one. He met it with resignation. “They were hardly boys.”

  Enrique glanced back at him. “So you say. I say a man acts like a man. Back then, if your brother had acted as a man...he would not be dead now. And you—this diablo—”

  Definite weariness on Devin’s face—pain of an entirely different sort. He briefly squeezed his eyes closed. “I didn’t have any choice.”

  Enrique closed the cabinet door and put his back to it, crossing his arms over his thin chest in scowling belligerence. “No choice at all. Exactly my point. No brother does that to another.” And when Devin jerked his head up to look at Enrique, expression stricken, Enrique shook his head. “You see? That is what I mean. It’s not what you did to him, hijo. It is what he did to you.”

  Natalie held her breath, suddenly aware that she was eavesdropping on something more raw, more profound, than she’d ever expected or intended—and that she really, really didn’t want to get caught. Her lungs burned in the silence; she allowed herself a shallow draught of air as the two men locked gazes—Enrique’s dark, perceptive eye, unflinching—and Devin’s grayed blue layered with more than pain. Grief and guilt.

  Devin looked away first.

  Enrique turned from him without a word, yanking open a low cabinet drawer and rummaging therein—coming up with a hack-sleeved heather-gray T-shirt. He balled it up and threw it at Devin without looking. “Cover yourself,” he said. “Be a gentleman with your friend.”

  Devin caught the shirt one-handed. “She—” he started, and then stopped, shaking his head. “Just someone I ran into last night,” he said. “When things got messy. I didn’t—” He frowned, jamming his head through the shirt and then one arm, and following more gingerly with the next. “I don’t—” He shook his head. “It’s no big deal. She’s dropping me off at my truck. Just seemed best to get this over with, before it started scarring up at the ends.”

  “The proud flesh.” Enrique nodded. “Not much to do with it once that starts. We learned that with Leo fast enough.”

  And if she still wanted no part of this conversation, Natalie nonetheless found herself drawn in. Enough to hear Enrique say, as he reached to jerk down the back of the shirt—brusque, even, but somehow with the echoes of the gesture a father might use with his son— “It’s good that it’s no big deal. She seems like a nice young woman. Best you don’t mess with her life.”

  Devin looked away. “Dammit.”

  Enrique’s expression softened for the first time since this conversation had started. “That’s the way of it, hijo. With what you carry.”

  “Yeah,” Devin said. Now he just looked tired. He picked up his sweatshirt and pushed off the desk to his feet. “Thanks, Rick. I’ll be careful.”

  He headed for the door so limber, so fast—Natalie found herself caught flat-footed. Only one thing to do—take a quick step forward, almost colliding with him as he yanked the door the rest of the way open and headed out.

  “Oh, hey!” she said, doing a quick two-step back again. “You’re done?” And look, it’s happening again. How long had it been since she had fallen so easily into lying?

  Years.

  Enrique was right. She was a nice young woman now. And she didn’t need Devin James messing with her life.

  * * *

  Devin had almost forgotten she was there. Forgotten about her, no. Forgotten her presence the night before...

  Far from it.

  And this morning. If anything of this past day reigned crystal clear in his mind, it was the moment this morning when the blade tried to curl back through his mind and she’d brought him back. Given him that silly little trick. Count your toes....

  And if anything reigned crystal clear in his mind, it was that every time she’d touched him—all through the fiery tumult of the night—he’d found just that instant of respite, of focus.

  It hadn’t been enough, of course. Nothing was enough—nothing could be enough, if the blade had finally broken through his boundaries of self.

  But it was more than he’d had before.

  “You okay?” she asked him, looking up into his face—direct and unabashed. “Your color isn’t—”

  Enrique snorted. “Every time,” he said. “Sits through the stit
ching like a man, walks out the door and—”

  “Once,” Devin said sharply. “Just once. And I—”

  Natalie’s interruption came with haste. “Now,” she said, with some purpose, “will you come with me to see Mr. Compton?”

  For a moment, he didn’t know what she was talking about. A blink, a frown...a quick search of her features and the determination there. His gaze slid down her cheekbones, came to rest on her mouth...lingered there, while his thoughts blurred around the edges.

  It was some moments later that he felt Enrique’s hand on his arm—fingers closing at his elbow, a firm but understanding grip. “Whoever you want to see,” he said, “it should be later. Now he should rest.”

  Devin shook himself free. “I’m fine,” he said, suddenly annoyed at the entire situation. Mothered by an aging boxer, pushed to meet Natalie’s demanding boss—tethered to it all by weakness.

  He should have been able to drive home the night before; he should have been able to get himself to Enrique on the bus. Dammit.

  “I’m fine,” he said again, though no one had argued. He shook off Enrique’s hand, stalked away from Natalie’s expectant eyes and aimed himself at the grimy glass gym door. Enrique’s Spanish curse at his back meant nothing; Natalie’s noise of dismay meant nothing.

  The guys in workout mode between Devin and the door faded back and out of the way.

  He stalked out into the bright sunshine and started walking, cat-footed in the black high-topped martial arts shoes he’d pulled this morning instead of wet sneakers. The cold hit him like a cruel slap, and he tipped his head back to soak it in, absurdly glad to feel it at all. Enough to laugh at himself, there on the sidewalk, his arms open to receive the cold and sunshine—to garner a strange look or two along the way.

  Well, that was okay, too. All part of the game.

  For however long it lasted.

  He wasn’t surprised to hear hasty steps on the sidewalk coming up behind him. “You’re following pretty closely for a woman who drove away so easily last night,” he observed, not turning around.

  Even if he’d just realized he’d turned in the wrong direction, and would need to cut over at the next cross walk in order to reach the right ABQ Ride bus stop. As if to drive the point home, one of the striking, red-and-white, double-length buses roared past.

  “Hey,” she said, a little breathless. “I came back.”

  “Right. You make your own choices.” If he shivered a little, he took a deep breath and enjoyed that, too. “Or so you say.”

  “Hey!”

  Now he stopped, so abruptly she ran into him and bounced back a step or two—and then another, as he took a step toward her, ignoring the faint alarm and definite surprise on her face. “Tell your boss no thanks. I’ve got things to do.”

  Such as not wasting time with a man who thought his money meant people did as he bid them, whether they worked for him or not. Devin knew it well enough—just as he knew enough about Natalie’s influential and affluent boss. He was the last man who could gain even a mere whiff of the blade’s existence—because he was the first man who would scheme to take advantage of it.

  Obvious enough, in the way he’d sent Natalie out into the dark of a difficult neighborhood, and in the way he’d pushed her to get Devin’s cooperation in spite of the absurdly inconvenient circumstances.

  Maybe the man was grateful. Probably the man was grateful. An assistant like Natalie would be hard to find. But only a man used to controlling others would insist on this morning, this day...this now.

  “Hey,” Natalie said, lifting her head and setting her stance—holding her ground. Sidewalk traffic flowed around her—mostly Pueblo and Latino in this neighborhood, making Natalie’s the out-of-place face. “I make my own personal choices, damn right. But when it comes to work, yes—I do as Mr. Compton asks. That’s the point.”

  “Uh-huh.” He cocked his head, considering her. The flash of blue eye in sunlight, the indignation in her mouth and the way the curve of her full upper lip flattened out. “You good with that?”

  It flustered her. “It’s a job. Sawyer Compton is a good man who does good things for this city. Maybe you should stop by—you might learn something.”

  He watched her for a long moment, catching the tiny signs of rising temper. Thinking again of the night before, how she’d held together—fought back as she could, and fought smart. Stayed cool.

  Not a skirmish virgin.

  He gave her a sudden grin, one that took her back just as much as his sudden turnaround. It suited him. He didn’t underestimate this one, no. He didn’t take her lightly. And he needed her just as off-balance as he was. So he grinned—the I-don’t-really-have-anything-to-lose-anymore grin—catching the surprise in her eyes. “Maybe,” he said, shrugging the shoulder that was willing to do it just before he turned away again. “Or maybe not.”

  She didn’t follow him this time—but her low voice reached his ears. “I saw all that, you know. Probably you wish I hadn’t. But I did.”

  He stopped. He didn’t turn around.

  She came up behind him—right behind him, her voice in his ear. “The knife that turned into a sword. Dead men, gone. And you—you should be dead. You know it. I know it.”

  That ache...that was his jaw. His teeth clenching. His fists, so tight his nails cut into the flesh of his palms. “That,” he said flatly, “is crazy talk.”

  “Maybe,” she said, but her expression said she was more sure of it than that. “But it’s still what I saw. And it’s what I’ll tell my boss—unless you want to come and choose your own story.”

  He took a deep breath through those clenched teeth. Now the cold just felt...cold. Sleeveless old gray T-shirt under a gray hoodie with the stained fleece gone stiff where it had dried. “Black,” he said, as much to himself as to her.

  “Excuse me?” She sounded wary, which was wise enough.

  “The shirt. This day needed black.” Like the black that curled around his soul, taking advantage of precarious balance lost.

  He hadn’t expected blackmail. Not from her. He’d somehow stupidly thought, after the raw intensity of this past night, after the excruciating vulnerability had come and gone, that she’d understand. That she’d respect it.

  That she’d realize no one else could know about the blade.

  As if the very mention made the blade come to life, flame hissed along his skin, raised the hair on the back of his neck...sent his thoughts bouncing along scattered paths. Natalie’s voice rested briefly against his ears, meaning nothing. The blade tugged at reality, replacing it with a hint of dark laughter—

  And suddenly her eyes were there. Right in front of him. Her hands on his face, pulling his head down just enough to meet her gaze—sharp blue concern, mouth parted just enough for her teeth to catch her lower lip.

  Right away, she realized he’d come back to the here and now. She dropped her hands and said dryly, “Toes.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Only works if you think of it before.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. Of course he wouldn’t be able to simply walk away from the previous night, just like that—from the first true taste of the wild road. And while what he needed most was rest, what he could afford to do least was let his mind wander.

  She might well have read his mind. “Come with me,” she said. “And he won’t be able to say no when I have to take you back home. Leave him hanging, and he’ll just keep asking.” She hesitated. “If the toe thing really helped, I have some other things I can show you.”

  “Do you?” he said. Weak. He knew it, and she knew it—he wasn’t going to walk away. He’d barely stopped himself from following her touch; he still felt the lack of it. Clarity, and awareness—and a gentler warmth that supplanted both the chill and the unnatural heat. “I can’t help but wonder why.”

  “Good,” she said, and turned back for the gym—for the tiny little parking alley alongside the gym where he’d had her tuck the Prius away. She tossed her next wor
ds over her shoulder, as if she was suddenly quite confident enough that he’d be following behind. “It’ll give you something to think about.”

  And yeah, look at that. There he was, following behind.

  * * *

  Compton ignored the man waiting for his attention as he set the phone on the desk and pushed it slightly—precisely—to the side of an otherwise clear desk. The small room adjacent to his estate office held several desks and a massive custom-made work station—and there, Natalie organized his time and his day, while at the same time never touching those files he hadn’t given her clearance to touch.

  He’d given her plenty of chance to break those rules; if she’d been tempted, it hadn’t shown.

  And so he trusted her now. And while he’d heard her reluctance on the phone, he’d also heard her acquiescence. She’d find a way to make it happen.

  Unlike her ex-fiancé, who was both infinitely temptable and not nearly as reliable. Not that he didn’t try. He simply didn’t have it in him. Not the edge; not the determination. Ahh, if Compton had only gotten his hands on Natalie a few years earlier...

  Definitely before her ex-fiancé had engineered the circumstances of Leo James’s death, hoping for the blade...failing. It wasn’t possible to predict what a blade would do during transition—sometimes it accepted the first new hand that snatched it up; sometimes it didn’t.

  Maybe Natalie had even glimpsed some aspect of the blade that night—research told him that this blade, shared by two brothers, had a taste for flash. A major, with all the extra power that came with it. A blade that thought much of itself, with reason.

  Damned thing liked to show off, is what it came down to.

  Maybe when it came down to it, that was one reason he wanted this particular blade so very badly.

  Then again, he wanted them all.

  “Ajay,” he said, barely glancing at the man who still waited by the door—older than Natalie, coarser in every way, and her ex-fiancé...well aware that Compton had taken him on for his own means. Quite probably hoping to engineer himself back into her life, even if Compton had made clear that she was not to know Ajay Dudek was even in the area, never mind connected to her employer.