Demon from the Dark iad-10

by Kresley Cole

  Watching for any reaction, Carrow slowly said, "No, I'll grant you that the Neoptera are depraved. They don't kill their quarry; they keep it, tormenting it hour after hour."

  Had sweat beaded on Chase's upper lip? If those creatures had gotten hold of this man ... Well, Carrow knew what they did for shits and giggles, what they did to their victim's skin, and it made her stomach turn.

  Was that why Chase had covered as much of his body as possible? How was he still sane? Was he?

  The inmates gossiped about this man constantly; apparently, he hated to be touched, had once clocked an orderly who'd made the mistake of tapping his shoulder.

  That would explain the gloves.

  She almost felt a shred of pity for him, until he grated, "And the witch believes she's better than they are."

  And the witch is talking to a madman. "Okay, clearly you two are beyond rational debate, so let's just get to it. Why did you take me?"

  Dixon answered, "Our aim is not only to study you, but to conceal your existence. Most immortals fly under the radar. You flaunt your powers in front of humans."

  Carrow had been repeatedly chastised by her coven for this. But, as she'd often argued, she never used her powers around sober humans. "So why'd you bring me here tonight?"

  "You're going to help us capture a vampiric demon, a male named Malkom Slaine."

  Heh. Twenty large says I'm not. "A vemon? You really think they exist?" she asked innocently. Vemons had been thought an impossibility, a "true myth"— oxymoron, hello?—until one had been unleashed on New Orleans last year.

  Unimaginably strong, he'd defeated several fierce Valkyrie, who'd survived only by chance. He'd barely been destroyed by the powerful Lykae king, and only because he'd been threatening the werewolf's mate.

  "They're rare, but we have knowledge of one's existence," Dixon said. "You'll seek out this male, then lead him to us."

  "You want me to go out and coax some poor sap to his death?"

  "We don't intend to kill him," she said. "We want to discover his weaknesses—"

  "And how he was made, huh?"

  Dixon held up her palms. "We are interested in the anomalous beings among the Lore."

  Anomalous. What a mild way of putting it.

  "He lives in Oblivion, a demon hell plane."

  The demon planes weren't parallel universes, but self-contained, hidden territories with their own climates, cultures, and demonarchies. Most of their societies were feudal and old-fashioned. Not exactly hotbeds of technology—or, say, women's liberties.

  "I've heard of it," Carrow said. A wasteland once used as a gulag for Lore criminals, Oblivion was the former home of the Trothan Demonarchy. Before the vampires overthrew their royal line.

  "We've been able to compile information about your target, taken from detained Trothan demons."

  Carrow raised her brows. "You torture them to spill the beans?"

  "They volunteered the details gladly. He's reviled among his kind, a bogeyman of sorts. You'll like him no better. He is illiterate, filthy, and brutish. Mentally, he is severely disturbed."

  "You're calling someone 'severely disturbed' with this dude in the room?" Carrow hiked a thumb at Chase. The tension in his shoulders and neck ratcheted up, if that was possible. "You know, Dix, you're not exactly selling me on this."

  Dixon pursed her lips. "To succeed, you will need to know exactly what you're up against."

  "Why me?"

  "You're from the enchantress caste of witches, and you're attractive. The males on that plane have probably never seen a female like you."

  "That plane? Honey, try this universe. Oh, and easily this room."

  "We have your history as well," Dixon snapped, losing patience with her. "In your forty-nine years of life, you've routinely done things that are very brave—and very stupid. This should suit you perfectly."

  No argument there. And she'd only grown bolder since she'd become fully immortal twenty-three years before. "Why can't you go and get him yourselves?"

  "He's sequestered in deep mines within a mountain and has choked the few passes with traps. He guards his domain ruthlessly. If we can't take him out, we can lead him out."

  With her playing the part of Delilah? Don't think so. "As much as I appreciate the invitation to help out with your vemon-retrieval problem, I'm afraid I'm going to have to R.S.V.F.U."

  Over his shoulder, Chase said, "Is that your final decision?"

  "Yep. Even if I wanted to help you, I'm not special-ops—I'm front line." She was a general among her kind, leading armies of spellcasters. "So if you've got some urban warfare, we can talk. But not so much with the tromping around on a mountain in a hell plane." Carrow loathed the outdoors, Gulf Coast beaches excepted.

  Chase said, "We thought you might be misguided in this." Were his pupils dilated? "I have something that will give you perspective." He crossed to an intercom panel on the wall, pressing a button beside it.

  That concealed panel door slid open once more, and Fegley walked in. He had his arms full—with a young girl, unconscious and limp in his hold. Her mane of long black hair covered her face. She had on a dark T-shirt and leggings, a tiny black puff tutu, and miniature combat boots.

  Carrow felt a stab of foreboding. Don't let it be Ruby. She glared at Chase. "You're taking kids prisoner?" How many little girls dress like that?

  Fegley sneered, "When one of them tortures and murders twenty soldiers?" Then he tossed the girl to Carrow.

  She dove forward to catch her, shooting the man a killing look before gazing down. Don't be her.

  Carrow hissed in a breath. Ruby. A seven-year-old from her own coven, related to her by blood.

  "Where's her mother?" Amanda, a warrior-caste witch, would never have been separated from her little girl. "Answer me, you prick!"

  Fegley snidely said, "She lost her head."

  Amanda dead? "I'd already planned to end you, Fegley," Carrow choked out. "Now I'm going to make it slow."

  Fegley merely shrugged and sauntered out, making Carrow grit her teeth with frustration. In the past, she could have electrocuted him with a touch of her hand, could've rendered him to dust as an afterthought.

  Struggling to get her emotions under control, she turned her attention back to the child, petting her face. "Ruby, wake up!"

  Nothing.

  Dixon said, "She's only sedated."

  Carrow gathered the girl closer. Her breaths and heartbeat did sound regular. "Ruby, sweet, open your eyes." Of all the young witches for them to have...

  Within the coven, there were tanda, social groups of similar ages. Ruby was in a group of baby witches, or a "gang" as they called themselves—a gang more in the sense of Little Rascals than of Crips and Bloods, but it was cute.

  Carrow and Mariketa often took them to sweets shops, getting them jacked up on sucrose before setting them loose on the coven. Ring the doorbell, drop them off, then run like hell, cackling all the way.

  Carrow and Mariketa—Crow and Kettle, as they'd been dubbed—were the gang's favorite "aunts." Ruby was secretly Carrow's favorite as well. How could she not be? Ruby was fearless and bright, an adorable little girl dressed in ballerina punk.

  Dixon frowned. "She could pass as your own."

  Like many in a coven, Carrow and Ruby were related, though more closely than usual. The girl was her second cousin, and she belonged to the exact three castes that Carrow did, with her strength in the warrior caste. Just like me.

  Ruby's green eyes blinked open. "Crow?"

  "I'm right here, sweetheart." When Ruby's tears welled, Carrow felt a pang like a blade in her heart. "I've got you."

  Ruby's body tensed against hers. Eyes wild, she cried, "Mommy t-told me not to kill them! B-but when they hurt her, it ... it just happened." She was beginning to pant, her breaths shallowing.

  "Shh, you're all right now. Just breathe easy." When Ruby got overly excited, she would hyperventilate, even passing out on occasion. "It's okay, everything's going to be al
l right," Carrow lied, rocking her. "Just breathe."

  "They swung a sword at her neck!" Her chest heaved for air. "I saw her ... d-die. She's dead—" Ruby went limp once more and her head fell back. Unconscious.

  "Ruby! Ah, gods." Amanda was truly gone? And Ruby's father had been murdered by rogue warlocks before she'd even been born.

  Orphan.

  The coven didn't usually spell out things like godparents or custody. Immortals not actively at war didn't have to worry much about leaving behind orphans. But if Amanda had gone to battle, she would have expected the closest blood relation in the coven to care for her daughter.

  That'd be Carrow, the House hellion. Poor Ruby.

  Though Carrow had been treated so callously by her own parents, she would do right by her responsibilities. She stared down at the girl's ashen face with a new recognition, a momentous feeling of a shared future.

  Carrow had long had a unique and curious talent—the ability to sense when another had just become a part of her life forever, when their destinies would eventually be intertwined and shared.

  In that instant, Carrow became witch plus one.

  But she couldn't even get herself out of this shithole, much less a child!

  "Action and reaction," Chase said. "You get us our target, and the two of you will go free." Though tension thrummed off him, his voice was monotone, his accent barely perceptible. "Otherwise, she dies."

  Carrow stiffened. Against Ruby's hair, she murmured, "I'm going to take you home soon, baby." She turned to Chase. "I'll have the use of my powers?"

  "Your torque will be deactivated for the mission," he said.

  Not that Carrow would be able to spellcast even without her torque. She needed crowds and laughter for power to fuel her spells. Here she'd been tapped out, as useless as an empty keg.

  "You'll depart tomorrow, remaining in Oblivion for six days." Dixon continued over Carrow's sputtering, "Tonight I'll assist you in collecting your gear. You'll be allowed a shower, and we'll provide you with a dossier on your target."

  "Nearly a week in hell? How am I even supposed to get to Oblivion?"

  Dixon answered, "Your sorceress cellmate, Melanthe, the Queen of Persuasion, can create a portal."

  That's right. Lanthe could open thresholds to anywhere.

  "We'll briefly deactivate her torque—under SWAT supervision. And of course, we'll keep Ruby here to make sure all goes according to our plans."

  There went that idea. "I want Lanthe and Regin released as well."

  The doctor shook her head. "Impossible."

  If they truly set Carrow free, then she'd come back for the two of them soon enough. "I want the Order's word about releasing me and Ruby."

  The woman said, "You have it."

  "Don't want yours," Carrow said in a scoffing tone. "I want his."

  Chase turned to her once more. After a hesitation, he gave a nod.

  "Then we have a deal," Carrow said.

  He narrowed his eyes, as if she'd just proven a point. "Not even a qualm about betraying one of your own species?"

  "A demon is not one of my own species," Carrow snapped. "You make us sound like animals."

  Without another look at her or the girl in her arms, he strode out of the room, saying in a chilling tone, "Because that's all you are."

  Chapter 3

  "She's not coming back, is she?" Ruby whispered as Carrow held her, rocking her in the bottom bunk. She'd awakened just a couple of hours ago, immediately bursting into tears.

  "Amanda's gone to Hekate, sweetheart."

  "Can we bring her back?"

  "No. You know that's forbidden." At times, Carrow forgot the magics stored in Ruby's trembling little form. The girl had exceeded even Mariketa's abilities until Mari had recently come into her powers.

  Apparently, the last time Ruby had cast a spell, she'd tortured and killed twenty men.

  "Don't go tomorrow, Crow."

  Carrow had explained that she was setting out to hunt a demon. In exchange, these mortals would free Carrow and Ruby. "I don't want to leave, but I don't really have a choice. Hey, in a way, this is just a mercenary mission. I go out and do some magic, and I get something in return." The girl would understand an arrangement like this. The witches were mercenaries, taught at an early age to sell their magic. "And the sorceress will take good care of you."

  From the top bunk, Lanthe gave a feigned pissy exhalation.

  Earlier, with a clipped "Oh, very well," she'd agreed to look out for Ruby. Carrow suspected Lanthe might actually like kids but kept that fact secret, protecting her street cred as a wicked sorceress.

  After all, she was the notorious Queen of Persuasion, a sorceress who could compel others to do whatever she bade them. To be deemed a "queen" meant that she was the best at her talent in all the Lore.

  Though Sorceri and witches shared a common ancestry, many of the Sorceri class belonged to the Pravus, an alliance of evil factions that warred with the Vertas, the relatively good alliance that Carrow affiliated with.

  Before allying, loosely, with the Vertas, Lanthe and her sister had fought on the Pravus front line.

  Still, Carrow felt a level of trust toward Lanthe. She usually had a good sense about people, and the week she and Lanthe had spent confined together in this cell felt like a lifetime.

  They'd played tic-tac-toe in the condensation on the steel walls, gabbed about the hotness known as King Rydstrom, Lanthe's new demon brother-in-law, and commiserated about the man drought they were both presently gasping through.

  Carrow had had lovers—more than a couple, less than a handful—and a single night on Bourbon Street could score her another one. But she had her reasons for her current coitus hiatus....

  "What will happen when you get us free?" Ruby asked.

  How much confidence the girl had in her. "I'm going to take care of you myself. You'll live with me." Mental checklist, item eighty: find us some new digs.

  Witches with kids didn't get to live at Andoain. Carrow had felt a pang at the thought of giving up her sorority-style life there—and her coveted suite with a private bath—but when she'd looked at Ruby's tearstained little face, she'd easily decided that it didn't matter.

  "We'll get a pad near Andoain so you can still go to spell school there. I'll pack lunch"—bag leftover pizza—"for you every morning."

  Lanthe made a sound of disbelief from overhead.

  "I will. And when you get old enough, I'm going to teach you all about the Street that is Bourbon."

  Ruby yawned, her puffy lids drooping. "I heard some witches talking about you a couple of weeks ago. They said you were rutterless."

  Now a chuckle from the top bunk.

  "Rudderless?" So true. "Maybe so. But I'm not going to be anymore." How's it feel to be a rudder, kiddo?

  "Will you hold my hand until I fall asleep? And stay here till I wake up?"

  "You got it." Maybe the reason she'd never done well with responsibilities in her personal life was that she'd never had any practice? Carrow had led armies—but she'd never had another depend solely on her.

  In minutes, Ruby was out, her countenance relaxing, her brow smoothing. Carrow waited a little while, then eased from the bed to recheck her pack and begin studying the dossier.

  When Lanthe slunk down from her bunk, Carrow noted yet again that the sorceress looked flawless, displaying no signs of a week's worth of stress, discomposure, or even wrinkles. But then Lanthe wore typical Sorceri garb: a metal bustier and a mesh skirt, held together with bits of leather.

  Her dark hair was a mass of braids in the wild Sorceri style. The only things missing were her metal gloves—with built-in claws—and the half mask that would normally adorn her face.

  Carrow found it interesting that the mortals left their prisoners in their own street wear for the most part. She herself still wore her jewelry and club duds.

  "They're going to double-cross you," Lanthe said.

  Did Carrow suspect Chase would go back on his
word? Of course. But she also knew she had to operate under the assumption that he would release her and Ruby. What were two witches to them? And more importantly, what other choice did Carrow have? "I don't know that for certain," she said as she began rooting through the pack Dixon had offered her earlier.

  At once, Carrow had demanded to go to the facility's PX store for her own supplies. While the Order might have a dandy assault pack for soldiers to make an incursion, they didn't have an all-purpose Carrow pack for witches bent on seduction.

  So after a few hygienic tweaks to her gear—and her first shower in a week while her clothes were dry-cleaned—she was ready.

  "In any event, witch, I think you waste your time."

  "Look, I might not trust that they'll keep their word about releasing us," Carrow said. "But I trust one hundred percent that they'll keep it about killing her."

  Lanthe sighed, gazing over at Ruby. "Well, then, let's see this dossier."

  They sat on the floor with their backs against the wall. Fitting. Carrow opened the folder to the first page, a summary of her destination and its peoples.

  "I still can't believe they're sending you to Oblivion." Lanthe shivered.

  "Come on, it's the only place you can get fresh vemons this time of year."

  Oblivion was one of the hell planes, a place of such limited resources that only the harshest demons could survive. In this case, water was scarce. No rain fell, and the few collections of water were underground.

  According to the dossier, the Trothan culture was a chaotic mix of slavery, violence, and cruelty—its members brutal. Yet they had a deeply entrenched class system in their society.

  Carrow's lips thinned. She wasn't a big fan of classes in any form—educational or social. She herself hailed from a "noble" family, but had buried that little tidbit about herself. And it's not like my folks will out me.

  When Carrow turned the page to the summary of Malkom Slaine, her "target," Lanthe said, "A vemon, the most dangerous of all Lore creatures, was created out of a Trothan, one of the most barbaric species of immortal?"

  Though Carrow knew demons who were civil, engaging, and hot, she'd never met a Trothan.