The Hidden Demon

by Monica La Porta

  A ragged breath shook her frame, and all of a sudden, the majestic Ophelia looked small and frail. “They didn’t do anything besides kidnapping me and leaving me tied to a tree in the middle of—” Shivering, she looked around.

  “This my property, just outside Tarquinia.” He was wearing his pants and nothing else—he had been in the process of dressing to leave the house when the last text had arrived—and realized the wind blowing from the sea was chilly. “Let’s get you inside.” Moving to the side, he made a sign for her to follow him to his cottage.

  Her legs seemed stiff at first, but a few steps in and she was able to move nimbly. “You live here?”

  “I do.” He waited for her to climb the stairs, then closed the door behind them. “Take a seat.” He gestured toward the only couch in the room as he grabbed his gloves from the shelf by the entry. “I’ll bring you a blanket.” One eye on her, he moved toward the linen closet and removed a light quilt he used for when the summer nights got chillier, but he still preferred to sleep with the bedroom window open. “Here.” He unfolded the blanket and handed it to her.

  Her eyes big and wide, she took it from him and laid it on herself, every movement hindered as if she were moving underwater. “Thank you.”

  “Would you like a drink?” He didn’t know what to do to make her feel better. From his observation of humans and paranormals alike, people liked to be held, embraced, caressed, and touched when in a stressful situation. None of the above was available to her at the moment.

  Hugging the quilt tight, she nodded. “Do you have something strong?”

  He tilted his chin toward the liquor cabinet to his left. “Name your poison.”

  The ghost of a smile graced her lips. “Grappa.”

  He couldn’t help but smile back. “I should’ve known you were a Grappa drinker.”

  “Is that meant to be a compliment?” She canted her head.

  He noticed some color spreading back though her face. “The highest.” He walked closer to the cabinet and waved his hand in a large arch encompassing the whole upper shelf. “A particular brand?”

  Her eyes looking around, she shrugged. “Any will do.”

  “Let’s open my best bottle then.” He grabbed a dusty bottle he had been keeping for a special occasion and cleaned it with the palm of his hand to show her the label. “Champagne-style distilled Grappa, vintage of two thousand.” He made a show of presenting the bottle to her like a sommelier, then removed the cork with his teeth and spat it away.

  The cork rolled toward the couch. She laughed. “Classy.”

  The sound of her laugh filled him with a joy he had rarely experienced. He reached the kitchen countertop, only a few steps from the liquor cabinet, and grabbed two small glasses. After tasting the spirit on his tongue, he put the two glasses full to the brim on a tray and placed it on the salvaged wooden chest by the couch he used as a coffee table. Then he sat on the floor at Ophelia’s feet and took one of the two glasses. “To you.”

  “To me.” She raised her glass high, then drank it in one gulp. “More. Please.”

  He obliged her several times before he decided she’d had enough. “I think you should rest as I make a round of phone calls.”

  His cell phone rang as he was about to show her his bedroom.

  “Peter, are you two okay?” Ludwig Barnes’s voice had a panicked edge to it. “Ophelia is still with you, right?”

  Peter looked at her sitting on his couch, starting to show the first signs of drunkenness. “How do you know she’s here?”

  “I received a text that said, ‘We’re watching. Stop interfering.’ A picture of you and Ophelia outside of your cottage came next. Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine. I’m taking care of her.” Peter walked back to the couch to help her with the quilt she was having problems with. She gave him a lopsided smile, her head heavy.

  “I’ll deliberate with the rest of the Council about what to do next.”

  “Okay.” Peter had to step back from Ophelia, whose hands were reaching out for him.

  “I want both of you in my office first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Ophelia’s shirt had opened revealing her smooth, dark skin underneath. Her breasts were barely covered by her black lacy bra. He felt sick to his stomach. Someone had redressed her. He had told her about the pictures her kidnappers had sent him, but he hadn’t told her she was naked in them. The sight of her, unconscious, her body exposed, those faceless men around her, had made him feel powerless and furious. Ophelia so strong and proud at the complete mercy of her tormentors was an image he couldn’t shake from his mind. He picked the quilt from the floor and arranged it over her so she was covered.

  “Time to go home?” Ophelia slurred.

  He softly scoffed. “Time for me to get better acquainted with my sofa.”

  “What?” Her eyes shot wide open, but the expression on her face lacked comprehension.

  He pointed at the open door behind him. “You’ll sleep on my bed.”

  She shook her head and tried to stand. “No, that’s okay. I’ll take a cab.” She fell back down, the blanket pooling at her naked ankles again, the right sleeve of her shirt lowered to her elbow, revealing a dark bruise on her breast.

  He gulped down a curse. Rage possessed him so fast he felt lightheaded, but steadied his voice so not to scare her. “It’s out of the question. I won’t let you out of my sight. Now, please, stand up and walk to my bedroom like a good girl.”

  A smile graced her sleepy face. “I like you bossy.” She extended her arms for him to get hold of them.

  He didn’t move.

  Her head tilted, and she looked at him from under her lashes. “Sleep with me.” A solitary tear fell down her cheek, erasing her smile.

  Peter groaned. Too many mixed emotions fought for predominance inside him. He felt protective toward her and that was a first. He wanted to tear apart limb by limb whoever had touched her, and that was a first too. He wanted to take her to his bed and make love to her. He never made love. That was the biggest first of the whole lot of firsts. “Ophelia, please, help me out. Will you?”

  He hadn’t expected her to understand, but she surprised him when she pushed herself up, hands clutching at the quilt, and she walked on unsteady legs toward his room.

  “Leave the door open.” Her voice sounded steadier than her gait.

  He watched as she entered the small room and gave his oversized bed a look, then let herself down and rolled to her side with her knees up to her chest. She shivered, pulled the quilt up toward her shoulders, and dropped her head between her knees. He remembered he had left the windows in his bedroom open and walked inside to close them and the shutters too. Then he retrieved a second, heavier blanket from his linen closet and put it on the bed by Ophelia’s curled form. The desire to lie with her grew stronger, but he strolled out before he could sit on the edge of the bed and lean in to caress her.

  In the living room, he moved the couch until it faced his bedroom’s door and, through it, his bed.

  “Will you watch over me while I sleep?” Her voice was a whisper, but he heard her as if she had shouted.

  “I will.” His heart heavy with longing, he sprawled on the couch, one leg over the armrest, his head on his bent arm.

  She remained still and silent, but he knew from her erratic breathing that she was awake.

  Half an hour later, he could feel her growing anxiousness. “Is there something you want to talk about?”

  She stirred. “When you touched me…” She paused a moment. “You told me, but I hadn’t realized how strong I would react to you.”

  He straightened his back against the couch and rearranged his numbing leg. “That’s why I always wear gloves in public and why I live isolated from the rest of the world. Whatever powers I had when I was an angel, they became perverted when I became a demon. I can’t touch the living without making them lust after me. It isn’t as funny as one might thi
nk.”

  She moved on the bed, and sat upright, her back to the headboard. “You can’t get close to people.”

  “Not with the living. No.” He looked to his left at the dark night sky framed by the window he had built with assorted pieces of driftwood. “I can only get close to the dead.” He shrugged when the memories from his last reading came back to him. “I don’t know what it might feel like, holding someone you care for in your arms.” Images of the vampire boy and the werewolf girl swirled before his eyes and he had to make an effort to push them away. “Sometimes, I do wonder about that level of intimacy.”

  She smiled a sad smile. “It’s been so long for me—” She raised the two blankets to her knees, then higher to her chest. “But I miss it. The being held, the caresses, the soft kisses from when I was human.”

  “It sounds beautiful.”

  She leaned her head against the board. “It is. Even when it’s not sexual. My mother used to sing me a lullaby every night before tucking me in, then she would brush my forehead. My cousins used to play with me and I remember when we tackled each other for a toy. The guiltless freedom we had around our bodies, the innocence, I miss that. ”

  He found himself at the edge of the couch and scooted back. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  She waved her hand before her. “Distant memories for me.”

  “Do you miss being human?”

  She raised an eyebrow and a chuckle escaped her lips. “I was an Egyptian princess. I missed my status for a long time, then I made peace with myself and the poor choices I made along the way.”

  “You were royalty.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  He shook his head. “No. Not at all. You’ve always looked regal.”

  “Well, thank you.” She relaxed her grip on the blankets. “Anyway, that princess died two thousand years ago.”

  He saw the sadness in her eyes and felt compelled to leave the safety of the couch and walk to the door. “What happened to her?”

  A self-deprecating smile appeared on her face. “She had the world at the tips of her fingers and lost everything because she was bored.”

  “How so?”

  “She felt stifled by the palace’s rules and wanted to have an adventure.”

  He wanted to sit by her and take her hands in his. “What happened then?”

  Defiantly, she raised her eyes to his. “A man I had invited in my apartments drugged me, kidnapped me, abused me for days, then sold me into slavery.”

  Hurt lurched down his stomach as if he had been punched. The look on her face made him think twice before commiserating her. “How did you become a werewolf?” He leaned against the doorjamb to avoid stepping inside his room.

  “I was passed around by a few masters. I was too tall for the men, and too exotic for the women. Finally, a domina decided I wasn’t a good match”—Ophelia’s eyebrow rose as she snickered—“for her household and sold me to a brothel. I stopped eating. When not one of the clients wanted me anymore, the brothel’s owner kicked me out. Quintilius found me, bleeding and starving, at the corner of the street where he owned a taberna. When he saw the pile of skin and bones I had become, he also smelled the infection that was slowly killing me. At that time, medicine wasn’t as advanced as it is today, and he knew I would’ve died within the week if left on the street. He caressed my face and asked me if I wanted to live. For that act of kindness alone I would’ve said yes to anything he might have asked of me—”

  Peter must have made a face because Ophelia shook her head, her traits softening. “He’s handsome, the most handsome of men to me, but it’s not like that. He has been a father to me ever since. I owe everything to Quintilius. He brought me home, asked his medicus to stabilize my condition so he could change me. They kept me alive. Fortunately, the full moon was only a few days away and I survived the ordeal.”

  ****

  Ophelia couldn’t remember the last time she had told her story. She had told Alexander. And she had mentioned bits and pieces of it to Samuel, but had never wanted him to see through her tough exterior and pity her for a past she had buried so long ago.

  “Did you take revenge on that bastard?”

  She was surprised by Peter’s vehemence. He was standing by the door, his body tense, his eyes the strangest shade of purple.

  His chest rose and fell as if he had been running. “That man who brought you to Rome against your will…”

  Again, she had to repress her longing to be hugged and steadied her thoughts before answering. “First thing I did as soon as I mastered my wolf. I scattered his limbs to the four corners of his villa. It took his servants several hours to find his remains for the ceremonial pyre.”

  Peter smiled and the whole room was lit by it. “That’s my girl.”

  She felt her heart warm at his use of the endearment. Her wolf whined, wanting to be acknowledged by the demon, but Ophelia kept her down. Get in line. “Would you like to hear what happened to the other men?”

  “I’d love to.”

  Locking eyes with his, Ophelia told him and didn’t spare the details. At the end of her gory tale, she felt cold and shivered. “So, you see, I have demons of my own to hide.”

  Peter’s eyes changed colors again. Warm hazel. “You were generous.” He left the doorjamb and slowly walked to the bed.

  “How so?” She had to look up to keep eye contact.

  Peter towered over her for a moment, then, as if an afterthought, he grabbed the back of the only chair in the room—a wooden piece that looked homemade with recycled items—and placed it a few steps from the edge of the bed. He then sat and tilted his head, his long hair falling to the side. “I would’ve broken limbs and organs, but I wouldn’t have let them die. Instead, I would’ve waited for them to heal enough to start the torture all over again.” He waited for her response, but she was mesmerized by the emotions playing on his face.

  The fury emanating from him enveloped her, but instead of scaring her, Ophelia felt safe, yet vulnerable. The orange glow of his eyes warmed her and, at the same time, made her shiver. She burned from the inside, but she would have asked for a third blanket to keep the cold at bay. “Why?” She swayed, unable to control her breathing as her wolf barked to be released.

  He remained still, his back straight against the chair, his arms crossed before his chest hiding his gloved hands under his armpits, his legs wide, his naked feet planted on the rough brick floor. “Because they hurt you.”

  His voice was a caress and she moaned. Finally closing her eyes, she reclined her head and exposed her throat to him.

  “Ophelia—”

  It took her a moment to realize what had just happened and she gasped, bringing both hands to her mouth, embarrassed of her reaction. Her wolf had never interfered so blatantly. Sure, the wolf had been behaving erratically for a few days now, but Ophelia had chalked it up to stress.

  “Ophelia?”

  She didn’t know what to say to Peter, and she worried he may know what her action had meant. She must talk with Malina. Or better yet with Quintilius, but what to say? The mere thought of confessing she had just submitted to Peter was too mortifying to even consider. Maybe Malina would know. She hoped so because her immortal friends would be useless, and her angel was otherwise engaged. Then it hit her. She had just thought of asking Samuel for help in a matter that might concern her wolf’s mating preferences. She constantly kissed and told about her one-night stands with all her friends and Samuel especially; there was nothing to be ashamed of in changing partners every night. But she seldom talked about her wolf. That was private. And to talk about her wolf choosing a mate behind her back was beyond the pale. Because that was what had just happened. Her wolf had betrayed her in the worst possible way. Her wolf had taken away her free will.

  “Talk to me.” Peter had left the chair. He looked at her, worry marring his features. His hand reached out for her cheek. One gloved finger brushed away a tear, but the fabric didn’t make con
tact with her skin. He looked at the wet fingertip, brought it to his mouth, then slid it across his lips. With a shudder, he closed his eyes for a moment, only to open them wide the next and walk back to the chair.

  Her wolf howled in pain. Please, go away. Ophelia felt the pain too. It originated from her heart and made her want to cry more. “I can’t talk to you.”

  He had resumed his controlled stance, but his stormy eyes told her he was as affected as she was. “I’m sorry.”

  “As am I.” She had whispered it under her breath, but she knew he had heard.

  “Ophelia…” He said her name with such tenderness she sobbed.

  “I need to rest.” She raised one hand before her, to fend off the offer of comfort that should have followed. Then she remembered he wouldn’t touch her, not even by mistake, and least of all to soothe her. “Please—” She didn’t even know what she wanted to say. She knew what she wanted to ask. She knew what her wolf wanted.

  “That’s a good idea. We’re expected to Castel Sant’ Angelo in a few hours.” He walked toward the door.

  “That’s okay. I don’t need to sleep for long.”

  He paused between rooms, but didn’t turn to look at her. “I’ll be outside if you need anything.”

  “Thanks.” She raised her knees to her chest and leaned her head against the headboard, her face up, her eyes staring at the exposed rafters on the ceiling. She heard him take his place on the couch as he had before and listened to his breathing. Focusing on the sound of his heartbeat—the distinct thump that was uniquely his becoming familiar to her—her nostrils flared to catch his scent. She closed her eyes, all her senses tethered to Peter’s essence, and she slowed down her breathing as he did. Her heartbeat steadied to the rhythm of his. Soon, her wolf went to sleep and so did she.

  * * *

  The aroma of fresh-brewed espresso woke her. She stretched her limbs and climbed out of the mountain of blankets covering her. Sometime during her slumber, Peter had tucked her in with a third and a fourth blanket. The body of combined fabric smelled like him. She inhaled deeply. The sound of his booted steps resonated closer and her heart summersaulted, filling her with an alien joy.