The Hidden Demon

by Monica La Porta

  Ophelia pressed her head against the back of her seat and looked up at the open sunroof. The sky was dark, but cloudless, the stars hidden by the cityscape’s orange haze trademark of the Roman nights. “You’re right. I don’t want to talk about it. I want to drink myself into a stupor and have sex with a man who will make me forget how much I hurt.”

  “Sweetie…” Malina sighed and caressed Ophelia’s arm. Then, as Ravenna had done earlier that day, she asked about her latest case and kept the conversation going for the rest of the ride.

  Malina was right about the presence of willing shifters at the party. When they entered a villa in the elegant Parioli neighborhood fifteen minutes later, heads turned as they darkened the threshold. Men were more at ease showing Malina their appreciation for her feline beauty, and looked intimidated by Ophelia, but after a smile from her, offers of drinks and compliments followed.

  Ophelia enjoyed that feeling of control over a crowd. It excited her. She scanned the large room of people drinking and dancing to the rhythm of whatever the energetic DJ served. The music’s bass thumped in sync with her heartbeat, and she was the wolf, hunting for her prey. She waved at Malina who had met a friend of hers and was deep in conversation with him.

  “See you later.” Ophelia mouthed the words. The music was too loud for Malina to hear her.

  Malina nodded and immediately resumed her chat with the blond warlock.

  “Or maybe not,” Ophelia muttered under her breath as she walked toward the other end of the room where big French doors opened into the gardens. On her way outside, she paused to accept a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. A man, a werewolf lazily leaning against a pool table, caught her attention. He canted his head and his eyes sparkled with an open invitation. She liked men who showed they could handle her. Eventually, she would lead the dance to her tune, but at first, she let them believe they could tame her.

  The man pushed himself away from the table, all bulging biceps and abs showing from beneath the tight shirt he wore. He ambled two or three steps in her direction, then paused, as if to get a good eyeful of her.

  Ophelia strode forward and stopped before him, her eyes staring into his blue ones. He was as tall as her. Not tall enough, but he would suffice tonight. “Are you going to offer me a drink or not?”

  The man’s eyes widened for the briefest of moments, but he was fast at regaining his studied composure. “I might offer you the key to my heart if you ask nicely.”

  She gave him a once over, then smiled. “I’m not after your heart, sweetie.”

  She could see the man didn’t like her last remark, but he kept his temper under control.

  The werewolf offered his hand to her. “I’m Nicolas.”

  “Ophelia.” She took his hand, then squeezed it hard before releasing it.

  His lower lip imperceptibly twitched before he opened his right arm to the side. “Let me fetch something for you.” He waited for her to follow him, then walked to the long table set buffet-style, where all the refreshments and drinks were served by waiters in white liveries. He asked her what she wanted and promptly asked the barman to prepare it.

  Ophelia let him talk as she compared him to Samuel. She always did that, and usually, she was able to focus on the physical act once she decided they were good enough for a bit of fun. But the werewolf before her wasn’t eliciting the right reaction from her. Or she wasn’t in the right frame of mind. For the second night in a row. She tried to convince herself that the man was attractive—and he was, with his long, straight hair and blue eyes, but his eyes were too blue. She would have preferred him to have a different eye color—not so reminiscent of Samuel’s aquamarine and yet not quite his shade—and for him to be taller as well. Also, he didn’t emanate the right scent.

  None of those details had ever deterred her from using a man to release her pent-up energy. In fact, she always closed her eyes and tuned them out, imagining she were with Samuel. Tonight, even more so than the night before, Ophelia couldn’t stand the idea of having sex with a man she didn’t know. The realization scared her. She looked at the werewolf who hadn’t stopped talking about his team, he was apparently a professional soccer player, and excused herself.

  In the room, now filled to capacity, she looked around for Malina, but didn’t find her. After a few minutes of fruitless search, she left a message on her friend’s cell phone. “Where are you? I’m bored and leaving. Don’t worry, I’ll call a cab. Talk to you later. Ciao.”

  Chapter Three

  Peter had been staring at the starry sky for the better part of the last three hours. He felt restless, once again. And lonely. At moments like this, he thought of the wings he once had. The thought was dispassionate. He didn’t miss them. He couldn’t miss them, since his memory had been erased when he had agreed to become a demon. But he wondered about the heinous act he must have committed to fall from grace.

  When he had met Samuel, in yet another life, while he was in charge of the fallens destined to the Middle Plane—a place where angels like Samuel would spend time to decide their future—he had been touched by the fallen’s story. Samuel had renounced his wings to be with the man he loved, not knowing they never could have been together. Then in a surprising move, Samuel had decided to remain an angel, crippled, but with his memory intact.

  Peter had envied Samuel for making that choice. When his time to decide had come, he had opted to forget, but every time he crossed paths with the fallen angel, he was reminded he had taken the easy way out. That knowledge had been burning a hole inside of him for a very long time. He wanted to miss the ability to fly because it would have meant having a connection with his former self. But when he thought of it, nothingness blanketed his thoughts, leaving him numb. He didn’t know what kind of angel he had been, but couldn’t bear the idea that he might have been cruel. He had wanted to start anew. Who wants to superimpose his own personality, the core of who he is, with a different one, if not someone who couldn’t live with the weight of his actions?

  The first light of dawn broke the dark sky and his equally dark thoughts. He shook his head. He should have followed the werewolf in her gallivanting through Rome. Ophelia was fun to talk to. She was one of the sexiest women he had ever met because her brain matched her beauty and she didn’t mince words. He chuckled, remembering a few of her comebacks. She had given it to him straight from the moment they met. He liked that.

  His cell phone rang. “Peter.”

  “So, I heard you had a close encounter with a swarm of undead?” Ludwig Barnes always got to the point. The immortal seemed to believe the world would end with his next sentence given how parsimonious he was with the quantity of words he used.

  “The forensic anthropologist got to you before I could.” In truth, he had not given a single thought about calling Barnes.

  “I need to hear your version of the facts.”

  Peter sat, brushing the sand from his naked legs. He had doffed his clothes along with his gloves when he had entered his cottage, then walked to the beach. Nobody could see him, and he preferred not wearing anything to better absorb the nutrients from the sun. He had come to like the practice so much, he had started to go nude anytime he was home, night or day.

  It took Peter but a moment to recount all the details of the vampire attack. “And I need special clearance to access the remains without having to file a form every time.”

  “You got it—” Barnes paused, then sighed. “I’m so sick and tired of having to deal with the Vampire Nation’s shenanigans every other day of the week.”

  Peter was surprised by the man’s outburst.

  Ludwig Barnes, true to his Nordic origins, was nothing if not composed. Listening to him complaining was an unexpected experience. Almost the harbinger of portentous things to happen.

  “A vampire attack against two paranormals on the Immortal Council’s payroll can’t be ignored.” Barnes swore.

  Ludwig Barnes actually swore. Sure, he didn’t come close to the rich
ness of vocabulary Ophelia had shown earlier, but he had whispered a swear word.

  “We can’t turn a blind eye to a terrorist attack.” Barnes swore again. “Vampires can’t think to rule over the paranormal world as they please. Now, uncovering the mystery behind the embraced couple’s deaths is of primary importance to the Council. You have carte blanche. I know how much energy is required to conduct a reading, but I must ask you to find out what happened to the couple. There must be something about them—Claudius wanted one of them dead and now wants us to stop investigating. I know there’s got to be something else besides that.” He paused a moment as if prioritizing his thoughts. “It doesn’t make sense at all. Within the Vampire Nation, it was in Claudius’s rights to dispel justice as he saw fit, especially back then.”

  Peter inwardly shrugged. “Although, we could’ve been attacked for any of the readings I have done recently where vampires were involved, not necessarily this last one. But I’ll get to the bottom of this. Don’t worry.” He would have done it anyway. No matter how much a reading drained him, he would never fail the dead. “Could you contain the leak about the fanged skeleton’s pics?”

  “No, the whole thing is a mess that keeps on getting messier. We couldn’t glamour the journalist in time, and she was fast in spreading the news. And because the mortal world is also involved, you’ll be shadowed by Ophelia. She often works with the humans, and it will be easier for you to do your job with her at your side.”

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, an unexpected thrill ran down Peter’s back. He would see Ophelia again.

  ****

  Ophelia’s first thought upon awakening was that her mornings were a series of unfortunate déjà vus. Lately, she didn’t seem to be able to open her eyes and feel well-rested. Usually, the pain of a throbbing headache would accompany her throughout the day. When her cell phone rang, she immediately silenced it without looking at the caller ID. She didn’t care. Unless it was Samuel calling. But he wouldn’t be calling now. He was still sleeping. Or not.

  Ophelia’s treacherous mind concocted images of Samuel and Martina doing anything but sleeping and tears sprung to her eyes. Why hadn’t she been good enough for him? She had adored him since the day she had met him. Alexander introduced them at one of his parties in Amalfi. Alexander and Samuel had just come back from China with little Cherry Blossom along for the ride. The fallen angel acted as an overprotective uncle, at times even more attentive to Cherry’s needs than Alexander himself, who doted on his adopted daughter as if she were the only kid left in the whole universe.

  She had been attracted to that side of Samuel. Deep inside, she had always wanted to be petite, a small thing to be cherished and cuddled and spoiled. Ophelia couldn’t remember a time she had been anything but tall and muscular. Born in the Egyptian royal court of Ptolemy I Soter, when she started growing taller and taller, people had started to revere her as a goddess. She had liked that for a while. Then, when not a single one of her cousins would play with her anymore, she had hated the height that made her stand out. Eventually, her life had changed. A silly decision she had made started a series of events that caused her to regret the time when all she had to complain about was being too tall.

  “You are so pretty.”

  The foreign merchant had been looking at her for a while, then when she had made to leave his stall—her servants shadowing her, keeping the umbrella high over her head so she wouldn’t get too warm—he had stepped forward, walked around his table full of exotic wares, and approached her.

  “How dare you address the princess!” Her guard, Septher, a tall Namibian she had personally requested because he had the darkest eyes and the pinkest lips and would look at her from time to time when he thought she wasn’t looking, moved before her like her personal shield against humanity.

  “My sincerest apologies.” The merchant, a virile man in his prime, fair of skin and with eyes the lightest shade of sky-blue, didn’t look apologetic at all. In fact, he was still looking at her with a glint in his eyes that unsettled Ophelia. “My princess, I am your servant.” He kneeled then, but kept his face up.

  “You insolent scum. You may not talk to the princess.” Septher unsheathed the gem-encrusted dagger Ophelia had gifted him when he had become hers. “I will cut your tongue out.”

  The merchant’s lips curved up in a small smile that had Septher swinging the dagger toward him.

  Ophelia raised her hand a fraction before the dagger came down to slice the merchant’s face. The man was the first person beside Septher who had demonstrated an interest in her as a woman. And she couldn’t have any fun with Septher. “Bring your wares to the palace tonight.”

  She didn’t want any of the trinkets the merchant sold, but she had been starving for a man’s touch for a while.

  The annoying sound of her ringing cell phone brought her back to the present. She grabbed it with all the intention of throwing it out of the window she had left open, when she saw Peter was the one calling.

  Despite waking up on the wrong side of the bed, she smiled. “Hi, demon.”

  “Hi, werewolf. Rough night?” Peter’s voice was hoarse.

  She relaxed her back on the silk sheets and looked at the ceiling, her right leg crossed over her left knee, foot bobbing at the rhythm of the music coming from outside. A local band was rehearsing at full volume. She liked her neighborhood, the ancient Testaccio, but living so close to the Mattatoio meant she had primetime seats to every live show performing inside the old public butchery turned theatre and social center. Her neighbors were hip and young, but definitely noisy.

  “The usual. But you sound like you crashed one of Alexander’s bacchanalias.”

  “I was going to say the same to you. Never been to one in any case, but I’ve heard great things about them.”

  “Great times. Tough luck though. The Greek has decided to play house, so no more bacchanalias for us.” She imagined Ravenna listening to what she had said and couldn’t help but laugh. At Ophelia’s remark, her pregnant friend wouldn’t have spoken to her for at least a few hours. Sometimes, she did say things just to provoke oh-so-proper Ravenna.

  “With a companion, I would probably focus my attentions on her, I guess. Not that I know anything about having a partner.” Peter’s voice had sobered up.

  Ophelia sat up. “You have never been with anyone? I mean steady?”

  “No, never had the pleasure.” It took a moment for the demon to answer, but when he did his voice had been tinged with a sad tone. “Never had sex with the same person two days in a row, actually.”

  “Well, I must inform my friend Malina. Your reputation doesn’t do you justice—”

  “My reputation? Which one?”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Several.” He laughed.

  Ophelia thought that Peter’s laugh was nice and she wondered about the color of his eyes at the moment. “The womanizer one. Malina wasn’t positive of who had the worst reputation in that field between you and Alexander. You won. Alexander did have partners who lasted a while.”

  “Good to know I win at something in life.”

  Ophelia heard the bitter tinge again and regretted having joked about his reputation. “It could be worse. You could lose at that too.” Warm sunrays bathed her skin, and she yawned. “Anyway, why did you call at this ungodly hour? Don’t you have demon friends to bother with your last conquest’s tale?”

  “I don’t have friends—demons or not.”

  “Poor, little Peter.” She made it sound as if she were talking to a puppy. “What about that warlock you mentioned?”

  “I’m flattered you remember what I say. So, yes, technically speaking, I’ve got one friend.”

  “That’s depressing.”

  He continued as if she hadn’t said anything. “And I don’t talk with him about my encounters—”

  “Because they’re too boring?”

  “I assure you they’re riveting, but he doesn’t care about the w
omen I bed—”

  “Or take against walls in dingy alleys.”

  He chuckled. “Would you like me to recount a few of my most recent couplings for you?”

  “I’ll pass on the offer.”

  “But I wasn’t going to spare you the details.”

  “Pity.” She needed coffee and she could smell the freshly brewed espresso wafting up from the bar downstairs. “Anyway, why did you call so early?”

  “Entirely your fault. If you hadn’t called Barnes and told him about the vampires’ attack, he wouldn’t have called me first thing in the morning, and in turn, I wouldn’t be calling you now.”

  “I had time to waste and I thought he needed to know.” She reclined once again, her face angled toward the sunlight, her eyes closed. “Anyway, are you calling me so I don’t sleep either?”

  “You’d deserve that, but no, I wanted to let you know we’ve been paired. We’ll work on the embraced couple together. Barnes wants to send a message to the Vampire Nation by discovering what’s behind that case. He swore. As in he said swearwords.”

  “Barnes swore?”

  “Yes, you should’ve heard him drop the f-bomb several times.”

  “That must’ve been something.”

  “Indeed it was. So, anyway, have you had breakfast already?”

  “What are you, uncivilized? A lady never has breakfast before—” She turned her head to look at the clock on her nightstand. “You dared call me before ten in the morning? You, demon, are in great trouble. Your peace offering better be the best breakfast I’ve ever had. Or something that makes me forget breakfast altogether.”

  Peter laughed. “You should be spanked in public.”

  Ophelia’s breath caught in her chest. “Is that a promise?”

  “See you at the Tiberina Island Bridge.” His voice sounded huskier.

  “Whenever I decide to show up.”