The Hidden Demon

by Monica La Porta

  “Tomorrow, something great could happen to you.” Peter’s eyes had turned an intense green.

  Green as in hope was the first thought that came to her mind.

  ****

  Soon, their food arrived. Peter told Piero to send his compliments to the chef because everything looked and smelled fantastic; then he and Ophelia ate their lunch in amiable silence. Despite the journalists outside and the constant flashings, he had a great time.

  “I guess we must go out?” Ophelia had dragged her meal for a few minutes longer than necessary.

  Peter had seen her moving her food around in the white and silver china plate, but he hadn’t commented upon it. That she didn’t relish the idea of confronting the loud crowd outside was evident by the way her heels ticked on the marble tiles. With a nod of his head, he silently asked Piero, who was making the round of the tables, for the check.

  “We split,” Ophelia said, her eyes to the window.

  “We don’t.”

  She turned toward him. He shook his head. She smiled. “Thank you then.”

  “My pleasure.” After paying, he folded his ivory linen napkin and left it on the table. “Let’s remove the Band-Aid.” He almost offered his arm for her to hold on to. He should have been surprised by how many times he had almost broken his strict policy of no-contact with her, but by now, it had almost become the new norm to him.

  She let out a humorless laugh and left her chair. “Let’s.”

  Piero accompanied them to the door and managed to slide his card into Peter’s hand as he passed. Peter accepted it with a smile as Ophelia openly grinned.

  “The check is never so light when I eat here alone.” Ophelia double kissed Piero, who had the decency to blush and lower his eyes.

  Piero opened the door for them and, at the same time, the horde descended upon them like a swarm of locusts.

  “Is it true you worship the Devil?”

  “Is he your satanic priest?”

  “He is the demonic figure on the wall, isn’t he? Was the graffiti realistic? Is that what you do during your rituals?”

  “Are Drako and Del Sarto involved in bestiality as well?”

  “Do you wear a devil mask when you two—?”

  “Do you always chain her—?”

  The journalists, Lena Chiosi at the forefront, were spitting out lies with such conviction that Peter had a difficult time keeping his rage in check. Among the crowd, he saw people carrying signs. One of them said, REPENT! Another proclaimed, SATAN IS AMONG US. Followed by, FANGS LOVERS UNITED. And, SINNERS WILL BURN IN HELL. When he saw the sign sporting a picture of the obscene mural with Ophelia’s name scribbled over it, his anger rose to a dangerous level. He couldn’t lose control though or his eyes would change. Then the accusations would become truth.

  “You are the one working on the vampire’s remains? Coincidence?” Lena Chiosi pushed her way through, as if standing a meter from Ophelia wasn’t close enough.

  Peter stepped sideways to cover Ophelia with his body, then raised one hand before him. “Stop there.”

  “The satanic priest is quite protective of his—” Lena Chiosi looked from Peter to Ophelia, her brows furrowed, her microphone swinging around. “What are you to him, a disciple? A servant?” An ugly smile appeared on her face. “His sex slave? Is that right? You met at Drako’s bacchanalias and from there things—”

  Something snapped inside Peter. Without thinking, he stepped forward, putting himself just before the obnoxious woman. He was about to open his mouth, when he felt a tug on his shirtsleeve and looked down to his arm where Ophelia’s fingers had pinched the fabric of his shirt. He then slightly turned and saw his ink-black eyes reflected on Ophelia’s, and the light they casted was too dark to look natural.

  She blinked once, then she shook her head. “She isn’t worth it.”

  He breathed in and out, his fists balled by the side.

  Ophelia gently tugged at his shirt again. “Believe me. You’ll regret it.”

  He closed his eyes as the journalist said something else even more outrageous and discrediting than before. He kept his sight trained on Ophelia and tuned the woman out. Ophelia smiled, and all of a sudden, they were the only ones standing outside the restaurant. He leaned toward her, and her chocolate-brown eyes were the only thing he could see.

  Something, someone pushed at his left side and he pivoted on his boots, his heart beating fast.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Move to the right so we can take a better picture of him.”

  “What does he do?”

  Lena Chiosi had been silenced by the rest of the journalists who had managed to get in the front and were now throwing their questions at Ophelia, who answered them with noncommittal sentences. Peter watched as the werewolf tried to please the sharks without becoming confrontational. Standing at an angle from him, she plastered a smile on her face, relaxed her stance, and faced the platoon.

  “Yes.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “We have a professional relationship.”

  “I can’t comment on that.”

  “That would be personal.”

  “You can ask my employer.”

  “As soon as I know, you’ll know it too.”

  “Probably a genetic disorder.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, but we must get back to work.”

  Riveted by her, Peter barely heard the questions sent Ophelia’s way. He saw the slight sag in her shoulders and her answers became shorter and shorter as the journalists became more and more obstinate in fishing for details about the vampire’s remains. Several minutes later, the crowd dissipated, and with them, the offending banners.

  Lena Chiosi was the last one to vacate the scene with the parting line, “The Roman Chronicles readers want to know more. And they will.”

  He waited for the woman to disappear inside a car parked on the opposite side of the street by the walkway facing the river, then he let out a sigh of relief.

  Ophelia stood before him, one arched eyebrow raised, arms crossed under her chest. “I’m glad you were able to maintain your control.”

  “Only thanks to you. How did you manage to keep calm? I’ve seen your temper and it matches mine.” He caressed his chin and felt the stubble even through the leather.

  She let out a small laugh, then cocked her head. “That was a first for me. I’m usually the wildest among my friends, and I’ve never had to be the responsible one. You were on the verge of losing it, so I saved your ass.” Her eyes sparkled with a mischievous light. “You’re welcome.”

  Peter laughed out loud and felt his muscles relax. He hadn’t realized how tense he was. “I am, indeed.”

  She passed him, heading toward the Lungotevere and the bridge. “In theory, we have the rest of the day off—”

  “Do you want to go back to the morgue?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t have anything better to do and it’s too early to go bar-hopping.” She hesitated a moment before adding, “Plus, I really want to discover what happened to those two kids.”

  “Okay.” He sighed again, not out of relief this time, and reached her in two steps. “I’m not looking forward to it, but I want to learn the truth myself.”

  “It’s a big weight to wear on your shoulders, isn’t it?” She slowed her pace to navigate the barriers closing the bridge to the cars. “Even on shoulders as big as yours.”

  Peter paused at her words that hadn’t had any sexual overtone, but the statement had reached a place deep inside of him where he never ventured.

  Ophelia looked at him from over her shoulders. “Peter?”

  He pressed a hand over his heart. “Coming.”

  She waited for him to reach her, then resumed her stroll, but she was not as hurried as before. “May I ask you something?”

  “Sure.” He hooked his thumbs in the front pocket of his faded jeans.

  “Ho
w was working as an escort for the fallen angels?”

  “Samuel told you about the Middle Plane?”

  She nodded, and he thought he had seen the briefest shadow crossing her face.

  Ophelia bit her lower lip, her pace slowing to a halt before one of the statues guarding the bridge. “He told me about that place and you.”

  Memories of the times he had seen her at Drako’s gym came back to Peter. Her immortal friends and the fallen angel were usually around, but he hadn’t realized she was that close to Samuel.

  “So, did you enjoy helping them?” She leaned against the statue’s pedestal, legs crossed.

  Facing the river, he rested his hands over the marble balustrade of the bridge next to her, though she was leaning against it and looking in the opposite direction. “I liked the idea I brought them some comfort, yes. But not all of them wanted to feel better.”

  “Samuel was one of them.”

  Joggers and bicycles whizzing by, he shrugged, not sure how much she wanted to know, sensing that her question wasn’t idle. “Samuel is the only fallen angel I know who decided not to change.”

  She almost didn’t let him finish his sentence, but she pushed herself from the statue and started walking again. “And do you like being the Acting Renegade Controller?”

  He didn’t care for the twenty questions game, but answered her. Her hurried movements and the catch in her voice betrayed her uneasiness, and he didn’t want to make her feel worse. “It’s a job like any other.”

  “Do you mind being called the controller?” She raised her hands to make quote signs around his title.

  He shrugged. “No. It’s what I do.”

  “The least stressful job of the two for you, I guess.” She pointed her chin ahead, the Tiberina Island Hospital looming ahead, perched on its brick and stone walls atop the small rocky formation surrounded by the now sleepy Tiber.

  He nodded. “Although my reading abilities are the reason why paranormals can bear my presence among them.” He didn’t like to complain about his status, not even with himself, but he had never talked to anyone for as long as he had been talking to her, and the thought had escaped his mouth.

  “Well, we’ve already established they’re all idiots.”

  They reached the hospital’s entry and silently made their way to the basement. Ophelia studied the remains some more, but didn’t move them around too much and recorded her observations. When Peter’s turn arrived, he decided to read the boy.

  Claudius has sent his killers. I can feel them looking for us. My sire will kill me without regrets. I worshipped him…

  I love Lucilla so much my heart bleeds. I can’t die without having made love to her. At least once. I wish I could take her to a better place. Not this cellar. Lucilla deserves a bed of rose petals, not this rough floor. But we can’t wait. Our time together has come to an end. He promised me we will reincarnate. I know our guardian angel won’t fail us.

  I will find you. Always.

  The sweetness of Valerio’s memories mixed with the terror he had felt lingered in Peter’s heart, and he had a difficult time extricating himself from the boy’s emotions. He took a moment to compose himself, then called Barnes to tell him Claudius was the boy’s sire.

  ****

  “I must report to Quintilius.” Ophelia had waited for Peter to finish his call, watching as he struggled to put one word after the other, his eyes shot black and his body shaking. “I’d stay, but—”

  He waved one hand as he passed his other over his eyes. “Go. Don’t worry. I need a moment, but I’m fine.”

  She hesitated, her instinct—and her wolf—telling her to stay and see him through that moment, but his stance told her otherwise. After wasting a few minutes tidying up stuff that didn’t need any rearranging, Ophelia headed to the door. “See you tomorrow.”

  Peter, who had sat on the floor and had his head lowered between his knees, raised one hand in acknowledgment.

  Although he hadn’t relayed any of his last reading, from the strained look on his face it must have been trying on him, and somehow, she had absorbed his mood. With a heavy heart, Ophelia left the morgue and walked back to her bike. The Promenade was full of paranormals, and she exchanged pleasantries with a few of them, acquaintances from either Alexander’s gym or from his parties. The walk and the small chat helped her lift the dark veil surrounding her thoughts. By the time she reached the garage and her Ninja, she was planning her outing later that night. Her hand already looking for her cell at the bottom of her purse, thinking of asking Malina to accompany her in checking a new place that had just opened near her house, she mounted her bike.

  “Malina—” Only then Ophelia noticed the bike’s front tire was flat. “What the heck?”

  “Nice to hear from you too.” Malina laughed. “Ophelia?”

  Ophelia had dismounted and was now looking closely at the tire. “Some punk slashed my tire. I need to call assistance.” She hung up. “What. The. Hell.” She shook her head in disbelief, then looked around to see if anyone was nearby. “Of course no one is around.” With an oath, she kicked the tire, then scrolled down the numbers in her phone to see if she had the paranormal assistance’s number. She launched her search and swore again.

  The hit came unexpected. Not even her wolf sensed the presence. She fell forward toward the bike, and her ribcage smashed over the saddle, her arms flailing around. Before she could push her legs up and face her attacker, the smell of chloroform hit her nostrils. A moment later, her mouth and nose were covered with a wet cloth. She heard hurried male voices as she slid into darkness.

  * * *

  Head heavy and mouth dry, Ophelia opened her eyes to the night. She waited a moment to gather her bearings, and soon her eyes made out forms among the shadows. After some squinting, the forms became trees. She moved and found she was sitting on the ground and bound to a pine tree, her hands tied around the trunk, her legs straight before her, her skirt barely covering her panties. A headache pounding at her temples, she tried the bindings. The rope chafing at her wrists gave away and she pulled at it in earnest. All the while, she wondered where she was. A breeze carried the scent of crushed pines and the brine of the sea. She tilted her head to the right. Waves crashed against a shore not far from her. The binding gave away all too easily, which scared Ophelia, but she shot up as soon as the rope fell. Massaging her wrists and moving her fingers to send some blood flowing back into the extremities, she looked around, straining her ears to catch any sound that didn’t belong to the quiet night.

  Once she was positive her wolf senses hadn’t heard or smelled anything, she stepped forward and her heels proved to be too thin and too high to support her. She removed the sandals and hooked the straps around one finger, feeling naked without them. Her purse was gone and, with it, her phone. And although a few buttons were missing from her blouse, at least she was wearing her clothes and underwear. Her legs shook and her knees buckled under her, but she pushed up again and again until she could walk without falling. One look at the dark forest and she headed toward the shore. Ever so thankful for her enhanced physiology, she conquered the treacherous undergrowth without tripping on the roots and rabbit holes. Several minutes later, the forest opened. As she saw the first glimpse of a long beach bordered by dark water, the terrain changed under her feet and she felt wet, cold sand squishing between her toes. She ran toward the sea and fell to her knees on the shore. The salty water came and engulfed her, but she didn’t move, needing its soothing caress.

  In the distance, in the opposite direction from where she had come, she saw a feeble light illuminating the thick forest. She raised her nose to smell the air and again she found nothing she should be wary of. Collecting her strength, she moved forward. Keeping to the shore, she followed the light until she reached a trail sneaking inland and ending in a glade. A small stone cottage lay at the center of it, and from one of its windows came the light that had guided her.

  A big shadow moved across the windo
w. Ophelia tensed. Then she recognized a familiar scent and she started running toward the cottage. The wooden door opened and Peter blasted through it, running out.

  “Peter!” Despite the fact her nose and her eyes had never failed her, for a moment, she thought she was hallucinating.

  The tall demon veered as he called back to her, and was at her side in a blink. Worry in his silvery eyes, he leaned to better look at her. “Are you okay?” His hands landed on her elbows at first, grabbing the fabric of her shirt and bunching it up as his fingers moved up her arms.

  Speechless, warmth spreading through her, the humming of the energy she had come to associate with his touch invading her body, she looked at him in relief. Then his fingers slid lower down and touched the bare skin of her wrists. The most potent feeling of lust ran through her and she gasped, falling forward, her legs unable to support her any longer. “Oh, Peter—”

  Chapter Five

  Peter acted on pure instinct and realized what he had done a moment too late. The low moan had escaped Ophelia’s throat and she was panting in his arms. He cursed himself to the seven hells and removed his hands from her bare skin. “Ophelia?”

  She blinked several times before she looked up at him without the sex-induced haze he had provoked. Shame obscured her face next as she stepped out of his shadow, putting some distance between them.

  He hated himself for that, for not being careful enough around her, but he had been preoccupied and seeing her running toward him had taken him by surprise. “Are you hurt?”

  Still breathing hard, she shook her head, her arms hugging her chest.

  He fought the urge to reach out and touch her to reassure himself. “Tell me they didn’t do anything to you.” To her puzzled expression, he added, “I’ve been receiving texts with pictures of you unconscious and tied up. Men’s boots were in the picture by your body. I didn’t know where you were. I called Barnes and Quintilius. Then another text came, it said, ‘She’s closer than you think,’ and a moment later, a pic followed, and there you were, running through the forest. They didn’t hurt you, did they?”