“When my stepdad died two months ago, I was so fucking happy.”
“That’s delightful.” I trilled a laugh and toasted Vincent with my drink. “Make her do something else.”
“What else did you have in mind?” Vincent Rose asked mildly but his emerald eyes darkened.
Vincent wanted to know how far I would go.
I looked around the VIP area and saw a few daemons milling about. Each person looked like they were trying not to pay attention to our conversation. I reached down to my boot and pulled out my switchblade, I ran my thumb over the smooth candy red handle.
Make her stab herself. Melanie whispered. I hadn’t realised that she’d crept up on me again, she was so real that I could feel her breath on the shell of my ear.
I don’t want to.
You owe me. I am dead because of you. You have to do it.
I proffered the knife to Gwen, fat tears rolled over her cheeks when she realised what I was handing her. She shook her head frantically, her lips quivered as they struggled to form words. No sound came out except for a whimper.
“Stab yourself,” I demanded. “Stab yourself in the stomach.”
Vincent looked delighted. “Go on, Gwen. You heard the lady.”
Gwen’s trembling hands took the blade from mine. Her painted red nails struggled to find the latch for the blade. When she finally flicked out the knife, it made her jump. Her knees buckled together, and it seemed that the only thing keeping her standing was Vincent’s daemon magic, cascading over her skin. Gwen raised the knife away from her body but the blade pointed to her belly button. With one sharp jab, she plunged the knife into her stomach. Her white crop top allowed for a macabre view of her skin as it gave way to the weapon, like butter. Blood spurted feebly and finally, Gwen the waitress’s legs collapsed. Her eyes were wide; her teeth began to chatter.
“Poor dear’s going into shock.” I said. “Give her some blood.”
Vincent raised an eyebrow but did as I asked. He took the knife from her abdomen with a hard yank. He didn’t even twitch when Gwen shrieked from the sharp absence of the blade. I bet it hurt worse to have a knife pulled out rather than going in. Vincent licked the blood from the blade, as if it was the most normal thing in the world and then knicked the skin of his thumb. He knelt to Gwen’s shaking form and popped the digit into her mouth, as soft and as gentle as a lover. The blood smeared on her bottom lip like lipstick and the skin on her stomach began to knit together. It had been a long time since I had seen someone heal in that way, and it never failed to fascinate me. I watched as the tendrils of dark magic unfurled under her skin like a gentle breath.
“I like watching the magic work.” I smiled as the energy in the room swirled into action, disturbed by Vincent’s power.
“What do you mean, Pet?” Vincent asked as he sat back down. His green eyes burned into mine. “You can see it?”
“What’s your name again?” I asked. I knew what his name was, but I wanted him to feel small. Insignificant. Vincent smiled pleasantly, his expression was shrewd as if I had confirmed something he had guessed.
“My name is Vincent Rose. I am the head of the Rose Family.” There was no pride in his voice, just a simple statement of fact. “You’ve tasted Pureblood.” He guessed. My eyes drifted to the space above his head, my attention caught on a stray lock of his hair.
Gwen the waitress moaned from her position on the floor and coughed, blood splattered onto the tile of the floor. Without a word, the Hellhound and another daemon I didn’t know grabbed her arms and dragged her away like a sack. A streak of blood left a path across the floor like a red brick road.
Vincent moved so quickly that he was by my side in a second. I had blinked and missed it.
“Consort of Haage…” He said absently; he reached forward and brushed the pads of his fingers down my cheek. A well of power sparked to life in my chest. Need roared in my veins but it had no outlet. The thing that made him a daemon, the connection to the dark magic that I had grown accustomed to seeing, called to me.
Come to me, child. The words rang out in my head, but I still did not recognise the new voice. I had felt when Vincent had tried to play with my mind, but I hadn’t felt the new intruder. It was as if they lived in the back of my mind, waiting for something.
“I feel empty, Vincent.” I whispered in a small voice. I reached forward and grabbed his cheeks. I wasn’t physically attracted to him. His forest green eyes shone with a madness that reminded me too much of the asylum.
It brought images of my own padded cell and the harsh hands of the Orderlies as they injected me with anti-psychotics.
But something about Vincent Rose called to me. His power was overwhelming and the lurking voice inside of my head demanded it. Our lips were a breath apart.
“You’re a vessel…?” He murmured, speaking more to himself than to me.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“You should ask Haage.”
“Haage left me.” I clarified dreamily. Lust poured from Vincent in spades and latched onto me. My head swam. My chest heaved and I struggled to focus. Damn incubi.
“Curious.” Vincent leant forward, his cool breath fanned my lips and my tongue darted out and wet them.
“Fill me.” I begged. “Fill me with your magic.”
Without a word or permission, I leant forward and pushed my hands through his beautiful auburn hair. We did not kiss. I did not want his embrace. I opened my mouth, unable to control my actions. The energy of the room began to twist and curl, covering my skin and rushing over my tongue like delicious wine. I wanted his magic. The glow inside of him that made him a daemon; that gave him power. I opened my mouth and breathed deeply. I was ready to pull the magic from his bones like peeling a plaster from skin.
The Hellhound gripped my torso and manhandled me away from the Elite daemon. The connection between Vincent and I broke like a rubber band. I recoiled from the painful snap.
I woke from my lust filled daze.
“What just happened?” I asked. All I could think about was Vincent, I could feel his essence as it crawled under my skin. Vincent wiped his hand across his brow even though there was no visible sweat. He swatted away a fawning succubus and straightened up, not wanting to appear weak.
“You are a brilliant creature, Ms Taylor.” He smirked, satisfied. “I believe we can come to an arrangement.” His stance demanded respect, but I had felt the way his power had shifted and swept towards me. I knew he was weakened but I couldn’t grasp the logic behind my reasoning.
My brow furrowed, “What kind of arrangement?”
“Join my Herders, for one week.” His green eyes glinted and shifted to pale blue ice.
“What’s in it for me?” I rearranged my skirt. “An arrangement is commonly beneficial to both parties.”
“You and Haage have parted ways. And common sense dictates that if you have been given Pureblood and it has turned you into… that… then you do not have long left at all.” He brushed broken glass from his pinstripe suit and I looked down to realise we had broken the coffee table. “Corrupted by Pure Blood. Not human but not daemon. You will only survive so long.” He shrugged. “Join my Herders for a week. One week. Until the Equinox festival. And I personally will champion your ascension.”
I thought about it for a long second. I didn’t need Henry. I could survive on my own.
I extended my hand to shake on the deal. Vincent ignored my outstretched appendage and pulled my body towards his. Our lips smashed together in an odd dance of power. A sex daemon’s version of a handshake. A deep kiss. More confused than anything, I waited until he broke the contact with a bright smile.
“Deal!” Vincent clapped his hands together and it was done.
Beatrix Klein, my roommate, had been most peeved when I returned her PVC dress covered in blood. She had made me stand in the bathroom, with the dress hung on the shower rail, as I hosed the blood from the plastic using the shower head. The water ran red but Trix di
dn’t ask any questions. She turned around, pissed, and started setting up the living room for her next tattoo appointment. Vincent had given me a card with an address and I was due to meet him that afternoon.
I watched as Trix pulled her peach coloured hair into a topknot. I noticed how a few baby hairs escaped, but she didn’t seem to care. She busied herself as I sipped my coffee.
“Are you pissed off at me?” I asked.
She snapped her lilac latex gloves onto one hand and grunted. “What makes you think that?”
“You’re more…ragey than usual.”
“Well, you would be ‘ragey’ too if your best friend whom you have sworn to protect decides to go flouncing off with some damn daemon in the middle of a nightclub.” Trix put her hand inside the other glove and paused long enough to shoot me a withering expression.
I shrugged. “It was kind of a last-minute thing.”
“You agreed to herd humans like a damn Biter?” She muttered. “I can protect you.”
I flinched from her reaction. “It’s just a week.”
“How many people?” Trix asked rhetorically.
I swallowed bile and closed my eyes. “Ten.”
“Since when have you become Ms Morally Grey. That’s always been my thing.” She said, her lip curled into a semblance of a smile.
“Trix, I have no idea what happened. One second I was talking and then when he got too close, I leapt on him. I don’t know what I am doing, I am flying by the seat of my pants here.”
“He’s an incubus, Taylor. Of course, you leapt on him. He’s chock full of the ole sex magicks.”
I sighed and leant back as I stretched my legs. “Have you ever…?” I wondered.
“In exchange for some daemon blood, on occasion.” She shrugged. We sat in silence for a few minutes as Trix prepped new needles for a client that would be due any minute. I had checked and it wasn’t anyone that I knew, and for that I was grateful.
“You said that Vincent called Henry another name.” Trix stated. “What was it?”
“Haage, I think.”
Trix jarred out of a trance, as if she had remembered something important and dropped a sterilised tattoo needle packet to the floor. She jumped up from her stool and ran over to the bookcase and pulled out a thick bound book with a determined gleam in her eyes. I watched with my arms crossed over my chest, defensive.
“I thought it was strange that Henry was interested in this. I just remembered.” Trix handed me the book. My hand ran over the black lettering, it looked as if it had been burnt into the cover. I heard whispers inside of my head, deep throaty voices that I didn’t recognise. They seemed to come directly from the book itself.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s called the Key of Haage.” She answered, biting her lip. “I knew I remembered the name from somewhere.”
“Haage was Henry’s name as a Pureblood.” I guessed in a whisper. “He didn’t even tell me his true name.”
“I honestly don’t get it.” Trix pushed her hands through her hair and shot me a look that was akin to pity. “You’re strong. Fierce as fuck. This man makes you lose your mind. He’s been fucking with you ever since you were too grief-stricken to realise he was taking advantage.”
Without a word and determined not to cry another tear in front of my best friend, I clenched the book to my chest and walked stiffly to my bedroom. I closed the door behind me, locked it, and sat on my bed. Without the portraits of Henry all around, I felt lonely. They had always watched over me when Henry wasn’t there. A comforting presence.
He never loved you.
Murderer.
“Shut up.” I hissed under my breath, I didn’t need to look up to know that my sister had attached herself to my shoulder. I opened the book, keen for a distraction. Vincent had given me so much information, whether he had known that or not, and I was thankful. The first page had a large scrawling picture of a butterfly, identical to the one on my wrist. I did not recognise the species, but it was black and the white markings looked a little bit like screaming faces. I shivered and tried not to think about it.
Haage, Ruler of thirty-three legions of Hell escaped soon after Lucifer fell.
I snapped the book shut and placed it on the bed. I took another deep breath. The book was a can of worms that I was too afraid to open, but also too selfish to turn away from. Tentatively, I opened the book again to a page further along.
Haage resided in the seventh circle of Hell. Lust.
His dalliance with humans created the first Incubi and Succubae masters of the Blaire family. The resurgence of the name Blaire first appeared in Scotland in the twelfth century.
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
He wasn’t my daemon any more. Why did I even care?
Although, Henry had marked me as his consort, he hadn’t done much to keep me around. He had slept with Lillian Blaire, and he had left me alone in a cold bed for her. Admittedly, I had done some questionable things in exchange for daemon blood when I was a Bleeder. I couldn’t exactly class what Henry had done as ‘Cheating’, but it still felt like a betrayal. He had left me. For her. Tears stung my eyes and I scrubbed my face with the back of my hand.
I searched through the cramped black ink for a mention of Lillian Blaire but found nothing.
Vincent Rose had mentioned that Haage had not been seen in a century so I could only assume that no one knew of the connection between Haage and Henry Blaire.
I closed the book and crawled on top of my covers to rest my eyes. I buried my head in the pillow, searching for some remnant of Henry’s scent from when he had laid on my bed. But that had been one time, and weeks ago at that. I sighed and tried to squish the dull heartache to the bottom of my thoughts.
You don’t need him anymore.
No one can save you.
If I ascended, as Vincent had promised, then I would belong to the Families. I would be outside of Damian’s reach. If I was a daemon, maybe Damian wouldn’t want me anymore for whatever nefarious purposes he had planned. I had changed since I had drunk his blood, but I had no idea what I had become. I felt as if hovered between human and daemon. I had tried to drain Vincent of his magic, the way a daemon would drain someone of their life-force. Without control. I had felt blind, lashing out in bloodlust.
I wished I could go back to the simpler days, when I tended bar in Soho and my biggest stress was if the checkout girl at Spar thought I had an alcohol problem.
Spoiler alert: I did. Addictive personality and all that.
I heard the door open and the low voice that implied that Trix’s client had arrived. Without another word, I took my parka off the hook on the back of my bedroom door, and slipped out of the house. I clutched the paper with the address that Vincent had given me, as if it was my only hope.
Part 2
“Young girls are like helpless children in the hands of amorous men.”
― Michael Bassey Johnson, Trials Of A Damsel
9.
I got the tube to Charles Street in Mayfair; home to some of the swankiest venues and hotels in the city. St George flags hung from the side of buildings, along with the Union Jack. The fancy Victorian architecture was marred by the occasional bout of scaffolding. I walked, pulling my parka up to hide my face from the biting wind. I reached Dartmouth House quicker than I had expected to. I hadn’t considered that the Rose Family had such lavish lodgings in one of the most expensive parts of London Town. Or how they acquired such real estate.
I walked up the concrete steps, past the roman pillars and knocked on the thick oak door. A few seconds later it creaked open enough for me to see a single eye and nothing else.
I cleared my throat. “Sophia Taylor. Here for Vincent Rose.”
“Use the employee entrance.” The voice was gruff, female, but dry as if it was seldom used.
“Where’s that exactly?”
“Black door on the left.” The front door slammed shut.
I stood back, a bit of
fended that I couldn’t even use the main door. It was the 21st Century for Hell's sake. I stepped back and my eyes roamed the building with disinterest and impatience. The black door was about ten steps away. Why they couldn’t have just let me in, was beyond my comprehension. I knocked once on the ‘servants entrance’ and then chided myself. I was a badass bitch. I could knock harder than that.
“Hellooooo” I called out.
The door opened and the same eye peeked through the gap. I swore under my breath and smiled sweetly, curtseying.
“Can I come in now?” I asked.
The door opened further and allowed me enough space to walk through. I stepped onto the black and white marble tile, even though it was clearly a mudroom it screamed opulence. The door clicked shut quietly behind me and I glanced at the snooty woman that wouldn’t even let me use the front door. Stood at around the same height at me, that was where our similarities ended. She was plump with hair that flicked around her ears. Her face was pale but she looked as if she should have been the owner of a ruddy complexion that belonged on the Yorkshire Moors.
She rubbed her hands on her trousers and gestured for me to follow her with the tilt of her chin.
“You’re the opposite of every daemon I have ever met.” I noted casually as I stared at the back of her head as she led me through a nondescript door. “Matronly.”
“You can tell I’m a daemon?” Clearly from Doncaster, I recognised the accent.
“You don’t have any of the sparklies floating around you. You suck them all up.” I waved my hands in a vague motion. The matronly daemon held the door open for me, inviting me to walk past. She was giving me an odd look and she shook her head in such a minute motion that I wouldn’t have caught it if I hadn’t been half high on daemon blood and deliberately paranoid.
“My name is Charlotte, I’m Master Rose’s housekeeper. If you need anything, you are to come to me.” She said, leading us down a hallway that deviated from the main house.
The Human Herders (Daemons of London - Book 2) Page 9