by Kresley Cole
Now that they were seemingly out of danger, for some reason Carrow found herself talking to him. Though she knew he couldn't understand her, she asked him questions, then conjectured answers out loud. She made observations about the terrain, the declining weather.
Occasionally he shrugged without interest.
"I should name you Wilson the Volleyball. You understand as much as Wilson did and respond as infrequently. What's that?" She cupped her ear as if the demon had spoken. "No, no, you're right, Wilson was more hygienic."
She didn't know why she found it so pleasing to talk at Slaine—her dirty, befanged protector—but there it was. "Once I get back ..." She trailed off.
When he gave her a questioning glance over his shoulder, she sighed. "Well, things are going to have to change. With me. Right now, if the Andoain coven were The Love Boat, I'd be a mix between Julie the recreation chick and bartender Isaac."
Carrow had long been connected in the city, able to uncover all the sins in New Orleans, seeding revelry, then harvesting power from it.
"Now all that's going to be different." She'd have to budget her spells, not use them for frivolous things like better parking places or her fledgling attempts at mind control.
Excitement lacing her tone, she said, "I think I'm going to be ready for a kid after this. If I'd been immersed in my old life when this happened, I probably would've shirked my responsibilities." As her parents had taught her. "But after this adventure, anything will feel easy. Even raising a potentially murderous seven-year-old with control issues."
The demon seemed really keyed up, as if Carrow's chitchat was bothering him. No, that couldn't be right. She wasn't Carrow "Squeaky" Graie. She'd always been told she had a bedroom voice that men found pleasing.
He pointed at her and asked, "Demonish?"
"Do I speak Demonish?"
He nodded.
"Yeah, a little," she answered, then sounded out a few words, asking for some fermented demon brew, their beverage of choice.
In an instant, his body shot through with tension, and he ran a palm over one of his horns. Gaze dipping to her lips, he swallowed.
His reaction was so thunderstruck, she suddenly grasped that her demon drinking buddies had taught her something far more naughty than "Can I have a brew, please?"
In thickly accented Demonish, she'd just asked him, "May I fellate you, if you please?"
Would I please!
Her look of realization, then of irritation, revealed that she hadn't meant to say anything such as this. Someone had taught her the wrong words.
But now Malkom couldn't stop thinking about fitting his shaft betwixt her plump lips. He recalled how greedily she'd drunk from that canteen and nearly groaned imagining her working on his shaft thus. To finally know what that felt like...
'Twas almost better when she'd been speaking Anglish!
She crossed her arms and began to do so once more, her tone defensive.
Malkom exhaled, ignoring a twinge in the ribs she'd broken earlier. He hated when she spoke; he loved when she spoke.
The sound of her voice was so damned pleasing to him, especially since he'd been alone for so long. Every word she said was familiar, even with her foreign accent, but after so many years he could associate no meaning with them, only horrific memories of the Viceroy.
Malkom's torture had begun three weeks after the day he'd died. The vampire had released him from that cell after Malkom had killed Kallen, but only to break him.
The Viceroy had been determined to make Malkom more vampire than demon, to make him loyal to the Horde. Only so many Scarba rituals worked, and Malkom had been a valuable asset, one they wouldn't destroy until there was no hope.
At least, not fully destroy.
He'd tried to force Malkom to forget Demonish, to speak only the vampires' language. Each time Malkom refused, he'd had his tongue cut out. When he'd spit blood at them, he'd had his skin flayed to the bone.
Now, to communicate with her, Malkom would have to resurrect his knowledge of that language, braving those memories. He knew he'd pay for it, would be plagued with nightmares.
He gazed over at her, releasing a pent-up breath. Once again, he was struck by her beauty, nigh tripping over his own feet as he stared.
She glanced up at him, pink stealing over her high cheekbones. She tucked her hair behind her ear self-consciously and murmured something with a questioning look in her eyes.
How badly did he want to know what she'd said?
Very badly indeed...
She'd just been musing that there were more layers to this demon than she'd initially thought when they reached the opening to a mine shaft.
And here was yet another layer—a barbaric, grisly layer.
In front of the entrance, a dozen pikes rose up like a frontier fort's stockade. Atop the pikes were even more severed heads! Because you can't have too many!
He'd collected them from all manner of creatures—demons, ghouls, and monster Xs. So this was what he did with them. No wonder the other demons feared him.
Fegley hadn't been lying. What a risk Carrow would be taking to march right into this demon's den. If Slaine saw her memories...
Pensive, she gazed back down the trap-laden trail, looking out into a black and blustery nightfall. And still Slaine's den was preferable.
When she turned back, he grated, "Home."
He looked proud, pausing to give her time to admire all of his pikes. A large insect crawled from one head's slimy nostril. Beauty.
The demon also looked expectant, as if he suspected she would be wowed by his collection.
"Uh, love what you've done. Your curb appeal is unparalleled." She held his gaze. "And I mean that."
He frowned in incomprehension, then ushered her toward the opening. Just before they crossed the threshold, he paused again. With his hand over his chest, he said, "Malkom."
She blinked up at him. Intros? Really? "Okay, then, I'm Carrow."
With a nod, he sounded out "Car-row," then led her in.
Had he wanted them introduced before he took her home? Add a layer to the demon's tally.
Inside the mine, out of the wind, the air was as humid as in New Orleans and clean, compared to the dust bowl outside. Those lava-filled stones were dotted throughout, lighting the way—not that he would need help seeing in the dark.
Stone aqueducts lined the walls, with gathering pools at intervals, while broken barrels and ancient-looking carafes littered the sand floor. Where water seeped from the walls and coated those glowing rocks, steam hissed.
So these were the fabled water mines of Oblivion, with water pockets trapped like veins of gold.
As he led her deeper within, the shaft split, and they began following an offshoot from the main tunnel. Soon, she spied an area of even brighter light glowing a welcome up ahead. When they came to the end, she realized this terminus chamber was his lair.
A demon's lair. He truly was a ground-dwelling male. And he wanted to do her.
Inside was a collection of those glorious rocks, warming the area like radiators, illuminating it. He had a pallet on the ground, laid out by a fire pit with a spit for cooking. Did he eat meat as well as drink blood?
The pit itself was situated under a crack in the mine ceiling, which must funnel the smoke away. Cluttering the ground were ropes, chains, and blades, likely for those traps he'd pointed out. Large bones were scattered throughout.
Along one wall, cords of firewood were stacked. On another, he'd haphazardly piled up soldiers' assault packs, many of them splattered with crusted blood. There were dozens. Were those bones additional souvenirs?
Studying her reaction with that analytical look on his face, he pointed to the packs, opening his mouth as if to say something in explanation. But then he closed it.
When she gave an unconcerned shrug—she couldn't care less that he'd killed those mortals—he ushered her to his pallet, then went to fetch wood for a fire.
The demon had demonstra
ted courtesy when he'd introduced himself. Now he was displaying hospitality. Yes, he had a tendency to growl at her repeatedly and snap his fangs, but she kept thinking about that head he'd tossed at her.
Since she now knew it'd been a gift of value, she concluded this brutal demon had made an attempt at ... courting her.
If only she could understand him better. The language barrier was a problem. But he knew at least one word of English. Maybe he comprehended more? She needed to find out.
When he returned with the wood and hunched down by the pit, she gazed on, helplessly captivated by his body. The worn leather of his pants lovingly hugged those muscular thighs and narrow hips. His fingers were long and blunt-ended under his black claws.
As he started the fire with practiced movements, the sculpted ridges of his torso flexed under his chainmail, making that winding tattoo shift intriguingly.
That body is too, too much.
But, gods, the rest of him was a disasterpiece of hair and paint. Those braided hanks wouldn't do, hanging over his Valvoline-streaked face like a ratty curtain. And that scraggly stubble on his face? She'd kill to see what lay beneath.
He soon had a blazing fire started, and she leaned forward to luxuriate in the warmth, lids growing heavy. He exhaled, his eyes darkening on her, and a sudden jolt of power hit her like a Mack truck. He was satisfied merely having her here.
And just a thread of his happiness had powered her like this?
He was stronger than any other Lore creature, his kind the most vicious. Everything about him was magnified. It figured that he would be able to give her the most power.
She'd bet sex with him would make him very satisfied.
The demon was turning out to be an unpredictable, feral, bone-and-head-collecting, sexually ravenous happiness battery.
She swallowed. All I have to do is plug him in.
Chapter 13
My female, in my home. No longer would he pass nights alone down here. He had a mate, a companion.
As she leaned closer to the fire, the light flickered over her raven-black hair, the flames reflecting in her green eyes. She had the sultriest eyes. And he couldn't seem to pull his gaze away.
At last, his woman was with him. Here to be sheltered by him, to be claimed by him.
The idea of protecting her aroused Malkom. As did the idea of providing food for her. He could imagine her expressing her gratitude with her body ... or her mouth.
Eyes locked on her full lips, he stifled a groan, recalling what she'd said in Demonish. He envisioned her asking once more when she was on her knees, naked before him. In their negotiation earlier, she'd said nothing about his using his mouth on her—or her doing the same.
Malkom had never had his member sucked, had never received that pleasure. No matter how many times I was forced to wring it from another, he thought darkly, his muscles knotting with tension before he shook away that age-old resentment.
He'd always wondered how it would feel—wondered what was so remarkable about the act that it could make a male weak in the knees, could make him crave it again and again.
Could she be coaxed to satisfy his curiosity once and for all?
Maybe she would let him do even more this night? Yes, she'd stipulated no intercourse, but only out of fear that he'd hurt her. Naturally, he'd made no vow about that, because as soon as he'd proved he could touch her without paining her, he intended to take her body.
But he had vowed not to drink her, and he would try to honor his oath, at least until he could explain what the act meant to him, and why she could deny him no longer.
On the hike here, he'd realized that with this woman, the Thirst didn't rule him.
The sense of connection did. As he'd taken her neck, he'd never felt more bound to another in his entire existence.
But did I really make her head hurt from drinking her? He thought back to his youth, trying to remember his own reactions....
For now, he'd sate himself on animal blood, would be forced to even this night. Though he'd drunk her blood, he'd lost still more defending her.
Her stomach growled then. Reminded that she must be starving, he shot to his feet, promising to return with a feast of game birds for her to cook.
He held up his forefinger, telling her she should wait there. She would be safe within his den. Beasts avoided this place instinctively. And his foes like Ronath couldn't trace. Even if the armorer had learned that skill in the intervening years, he couldn't teleport directly into the mine shaft, a place he'd surely never been.
When she gave no response, Malkom scowled and held up his finger more insistently.
With a roll of her eyes, she gestured to the fire, plainly saying, As if I'd leave this.
Filled with a new purpose, he set out into the night, hunting swiftly, determined to provide for her. A half hour later, on his return, he stopped at a small collection pool to refill the canteen. As usual, he was uneasy beside the water. He began to sweat whenever he neared anything larger than a puddle, had since he was a boy.
For the first time in centuries, he forced himself to kneel so he could look at his reflection. Wondering how she saw him, he peered down.
He had horns and fangs; she did not. While her skin was smooth and clean, his was dirty, his face covered with stubble. His clothes were rough-hewn and tattered.
And those were merely the detractions that could be seen.
He could neither read nor cipher numbers, and his birth could not be lowlier. I was a slave and ill used....
I killed the only friend I ever had. With a scowl, he hit the water, scattering the reflection.
While he was gone, Carrow peeled off her boots and hose, casting a spell to heal her feet, courtesy of the demon. Once her skin was mended, she wiggled her toes in the fine sand.
And she still had some power left over. If she got enough happiness out of him, she could do some bigger spells, maybe even a three on the Wiccan scale of five. She had a particular one in mind.
Determined to keep some juice on tap, she decided she'd allow herself only one more healing—either the bite on her neck, the bruise on her chest, or her wrist. The wrist was healing on its own, and the bite mark wasn't nearly as bad as the first. This time he'd pierced her skin cleanly, with no tearing.
As if he'd gotten better at it. She shivered again, recalling how it'd felt. A spike of pain, then warm pleasure.
She gazed down at her chest, cringing at the bruised outline of the demon's huge hand. The discoloration stretched nearly from shoulder to shoulder. Chest it is.
Another spell, and the bruise disappeared.
Shortly after, Slaine returned with a full canteen and two dead fowl of some sort. They looked like a cross between a pheasant and a chicken.
His eyes briefly widened at her unblemished feet, then he tried to hand the "phickens" to her.
"What do you expect me to do with them?" She shrugged with an I got nothing expression.
He launched into another spate of low Demonish, this time using her name. She felt like a cartoon dog listening to its owner: "Blah blah blah CARROW blah blah."
"Whatever." She pointed to the canteen.
At length, he handed it to her. As she drank, he ripped off one bird's head as smoothly as pulling a cork out of a wine bottle. When he lifted the body to guzzle the blood, she spit out the water, about to throw up.
With a scowl at her reaction, he took the creatures outside, returning once the cheasants were cleaned, dressed, and doubtless drained.
She turned away as he spitted them over the flames. But once they began roasting, she couldn't take her eyes off them. Though she was starving, and the meat smelled so good, she didn't know if she could eat it.
Carrow wasn't a vegetarian by any means, but if he had handed her those birds before he'd killed them, they would've become pets. Part of her mourned CluckCluck and Chanticleer.
Even so, her mouth watered, her stomach growling loudly, and he smirked, his expression saying, Bet you're
glad you came with me.
"Lap it up, demon. Any more satisfaction from you, and I'll fry that look right from your dirty face."
As the birds roasted, she padded barefoot over to the pile of soldiers' packs, and began rooting for anything that might make life in hell a shade better.
Every pack had a name tag on it, but instead of Sgt. or PFC, every last tag bore the title Officer, like security guards. Officer Hostoffersson had an all-purpose knife and even a small Dopp kit. If I bean the demon in the head with that, would he take a hint?
Officer Lindt had carried no chocolate, but he had a flask. She opened the cap and took a whiff. Had to be Jack Daniel's.
The larger packs contained changes of clothes—black T-shirts, camo pants, socks—and sleeping bags. She'd be trying out one of those tonight. Ah, to sleep under the covers, with food in her belly and warmth all around? Without getting mauled by beasties? Luxury.
Surely once she was rested, she could reflect on everything more rationally, could determine the best way to free Ruby and all her friends and allies.
Carrow glanced over at the demon, wondering if he was tired, as well. Did a vampire demon sleep as much as other immortals? She found him staring at her, those blue eyes stark against his streaked face.
"I bet you didn't sleep much last night either, demon. Running around after me. And here I am."
Shrug.
She looked away from him to survey his lair. So this is where I'll be making time. The area seemed secure and protected from the elements. As long as the demon was gladdened by her very presence here, she could milk some energy, at least enough to keep him in check.
But it definitely needed a woman's touch. That's me—so domestic. With a sigh, she started straightening up. He didn't try to stop her, which was good since Carrow wasn't accustomed to entering into all these negotiations, much less miming them.
Instead he gazed on in fascination as she collected the animal—fingers crossed!—bones in her arms, carrying them like firewood to cast out into the main shaft.
Next she coiled the ropes and myriad chains, stowing them and the countless blades in an empty corner. Finished with that, she turned to his pallet. The one he sat on. "Shoo, demon," she said, waving him away. She got the sense that this amused him, but he did move.