Untamed: Demon Soul

by Julie Anne Addicott

  I know I’m dreaming because the images are hazy, as though a smoky grey aura is clouding my vision. There’s sweat on my chest and it tickles as it runs down between my breasts. A dark figure stands at the end of my bed wearing a long, black hooded cloak that covers his eyes. Under the hood, I can make out the curve of his full lips and the stubble on his chin and jaw. The faint scent of cinnamon and ginger lingers in the air. He doesn’t speak, maybe he’s the angel of death. I’ve never asked him. I never quite get that far.

  The silence weighs heavily, like a blanket of fog that refuses to lift. Fear envelops me and my knees begin to tremble. The next thing I know, I’m running through the darkness and my heart is pounding like a jack-hammer. My mind swirls with a whirlwind of thoughts as I trip and stumble. I scramble to my feet. Through the canopy of the forest, rays of moonlight scatter the dry ground and highlight the undergrowth that stops me in my tracks.

  I clamp my eyes shut, and when I open them, I’m standing in the middle of a clearing surrounded by pine trees. A chill runs down my spine, before it clashes with the burn in my chest. Fire meets ice, and I’m stuck. Caught between clarity, and disorientation. When I drop my head, blood is pooling at my feet. I raise my hands and in them, I’m holding a long black feather covered in blood. Thick grey clouds hover in the sky before they part to reveal the silver crescent moon. When I tilt my head, the moon seems to laugh at me as if it knows all my secrets—all my fears. A moment later, a man with two, huge black feathered wings lands at my feet, I drop the feather—I wake covered in sweat.

  Another dream.

  The shrink says it’s because I won’t discuss my parents. Cress and Gavin think I’m crazy and living in a fantasy world because I’m afraid of reality. Flopping back onto the pillows, I sigh. As I drift off again, I hear something. There’s a creak of the floorboards. I pull the blankets up close to my neck and try to get back to sleep. It doesn’t take long for me to hear another creak.

  That’s definitely a footstep. I reach down the side of my bed for the knife. Of course, I keep a knife under my bed for nights like this.

  Who am I kidding? I’m delusional. The dreams I have will do that to you.

  Unless you ask my shrink, who says seeing your parents murdered, makes you paranoid. I call bullshit on shrinks.

  I sit up with the knife tight in my hand. This is no ordinary knife, it’s a carving knife. The type they advertise on late night television where you buy one and you get a whole set for free. According to the presenter, this knife can cut through a steel pipe like it’s butter.

  Damn, I am delusional.

  Barefoot, I tip toe to my bedroom door. I peek out and see him. He’s tall with broad shoulders. Shit, maybe I should hide. I swallow the lump in my throat. No more hiding. I swore after my parents were killed I would never be afraid of anyone again. If I have anything to say on the matter, this bastard is dead.

  I open the door a little more. His back is turned, and before I know it my legs are moving, and I’m lunging at the intruder like a deranged criminal. The knife is tight in my hand, and a scream is bellowing from my lungs.

  Do I stab him? No. Do I hurt him? No. Do I get close to him? Nope.

  The bastard turns around before I can do anything and grabs my wrist so tight the knife falls to the floor with a thud. There goes my weapon of mass destruction. He grabs my other hand and holds them both firmly in his. I struggle and scream, and he pulls me closer and spins me around so my back is against his chest and his hand is hard over my mouth.

  “Shh,” he whispers in my ear. His breath is hot, and his body, pressed tight against my back, is even hotter.

  I clench my jaw closed so I can bite him. As my teeth sink into his flesh, I taste blood. He curses and pulls his hand away. Taking the opportunity, I spin around and kick, aiming for his nuts. I fail dismally and get his thigh.

  I run back to my bedroom and futilely slam the door. I doubt a piece of wood is going to stop this guy.

  “Lola, open the door!”

  Oh no, I’m dead, so dead. “Get out of my house,” I scream.

  He laughs. “Open the door, Lola. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Bullshit, that’s a flat out lie, I know it. Who the hell is this guy? “Get out!”

  He effortlessly pushes open the door and I’m knocked on my ass. I scramble back toward the bed, choking on fear and gulping for air.

  I can’t see his features clearly although I can tell he has dark eyes and black hair. He’s wearing black jeans and heavy black boots. A weapons belt similar to a bandolier crosses over his chest. After a few moments, I realise he closely resembles the demons who haunt my dreams, the demon who murdered my parents—and the guy with wings at the club.

  But demons don’t have wings. What is going on?

  I inhale and prepare to scream again when suddenly, two huge black feathered wings appear. They are magnificent. The sudden sight of them renders me speechless. I’m left staring in complete awe at the guy from my dreams. Whether he’s an angel, or a winged demon, I am yet to find out.

  I scramble to my feet. “Get out,” I demand.

  Maybe my shrink was right after all. There is no way this can be reality. I shake my head and rub my eyes.

  He cocks his head and raises a brow. “No can do. You’re coming with me.”

  What can I say to this beast of a man? I want to scream, but there’s a voice in my head telling me to trust him. Maybe it’s the heady scent of cinnamon that lingers under my nose, or maybe it’s my subconscious searching for answers.

  He stands at the door, leaning casually against it, his feathered wings spread out covering the doorway and any chance I have of escape. He seems agitated, his eyes follow my every move, watching me closely as if I’m about to run.

  He crosses his arms. “I’ll give you two options, Lola. One, you come with me. Or two, I take you.”

  I put my hands on my hips and stand my ground. “I’ll give you two options you freak. Get out, or I’ll call the police.”

  He flicks on the light and the sudden glare causes me to squint. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust and when they do I’m startled by his beauty.

  Holy shit, this guy is hot. As in god-like hot. It’s his wings that slay me—they are truly magnificent. The feathers rustle as his wings extend, each one perfectly formed and shimmering under the glow of my bedroom light.

  I clamp my eyes shut and tell myself it’s just another dream. Just a dream. When I open them, he’s still there and there is no mistaking he is the guy from the club. How is it possible that he’s the same guy who was going to kill me, and the same guy I’ve dreamt about for over ten years?

  His eyes dart around my room. He takes two steps to my dresser, and hands me the cordless phone. “I choose the police.”

  Okay, now I’m confused. Still trembling, I dial for help while his eyes burn into mine. “Hello? There’s a, um, a man in my house,” I stutter.

  The calm voice asks, “Is he armed?”

  “No,” I say, watching him closely. He rubs at the stubble on his chin and raises his eyebrows.

  “Has he threatened you?”

  “Yes. No… wait, shit, um,” Has he? I sit on the side of my bed and tap my foot on the floor.

  “Hello, are you in danger?” I sense a hint of doubt in her tone.

  I get up and pace between my bed and the window. “Yes. I don’t know him. He broke in.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Lola Thorne, I live at 38 Main Street.” I glance up at the guy with wings and he’s still staring at me.

  The operator continues, “Is he still there, Lola?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  On the other end of the phone line she’s tapping away on a keyboard. “Is he attempting to harm you now?”

  I sigh loudly so she knows I’m annoyed. “No, but… he has wings.”

  The operator speaks slowly, “I’m sorry, Lola, is there a problem there or not?”

  “Yes. He
’s in my house. I don’t know him. I think he’s an angel… or demon.” I realise she’s already hung up. I stomp my foot on the floor. “Damn!”

  The demon-angel, or whatever he is, laughs. “Let’s go. I’m getting bored.”

  I cross my arms, defiant to the end. “No. I’m not going anywhere.” He sighs, obviously frustrated. “What do you want?” I ask.

  He rubs his chin. “Hmm… to kill you.” Well, now he’s threatening me. Shit!

  “Why?”

  He shrugs causing his wings to flutter, which momentarily distracts me from my anger. “It’s my job.”

  I rub my head still confused. “Why me?” The fear I had minutes ago is now replaced with curiosity. If I have an angel here, or whatever he is, in the flesh talking to me, there’s no way in hell I’m letting this chance go.

  Another shrug. “No idea. Your name came up.”

  I put the phone back on top of my dresser. “On what? Some angel database? I’ve done nothing wrong! I’ve never even had a parking fine.”

  Yes, here I am trying to explain myself to a hitman with wings.

  He picks at his fingernails, ignoring me. The light shines off his forehead, revealing three thin scars, each about two inches long.

  He glances up and shakes his head slightly. “I’m no angel, and there is no database. We need to leave.” He pulls the door open and steps aside. I consider making a run for it. No. He’ll catch me.

  I cross my arms around myself again. “Leave? Where to?”

  “Fucking hell. You humans are stupid, let’s go,” he says, with a nod toward the door.

  “I can’t leave. This is my home. I have friends, a job and… stuff.”

  Yeah, that’s right, stuff. This cannot be real. It doesn’t make sense. “I’m not leaving. You’ll have to kill me,” I say, plonking down on the edge of my bed.

  In one swift move, I’m off the bed and in his arms. As he takes off, a cloud of grey smoke appears and we mist through the ceiling of my house, and into the sky. I scream as loud as my lungs will allow, again he covers my mouth with his hand. I kick and punch with all the strength I have.

  Without warning, I’m falling. Cold air rushes past me as I plummet toward the ground from somewhere in the night sky. My head spins and I clamp my eyes shut and wait for the impact. Instead, he crashes into me. My chest slams into his. As he catches me, his arms tighten around my waist, and I grip onto his muscled shoulders. This time, I don’t struggle or make a sound.

  Not real. Not real. I repeat it over and over in my head.

  After thirty or so minutes, he lands on the ground with a thud. I look up at the hitman angel, that’s what I’m calling him. He only glares at me. His breathing is heavy, as if my existence is a hassle to him.

  I spin around searching for something familiar. “Where am I?” I ask. I’m surrounded by darkness, trees, and the eerie howl of wolves in the distance. “Take me home,” I demand.

  He continues walking ahead of me. “Come on,” he says, ignoring my request. I stay put but he comes back and grabs my arm and leads me into the night. After a few minutes, I see a swirling grey cloud. As we get closer I can smell smoke and more of that delicious woody cinnamon scent. I sniff a few times and wonder what it is and where it’s coming from. It reminds me of Christmas time when my mother used to bake gingerbread men and cinnamon buns.

  My thoughts are scattered and before I can comprehend what is happening, I’m in a bedroom fit for a King. The walls are covered in intricate brocade wallpaper. Two walls are adorned with oil paintings of angels and demons in battle that hang in ornate gold frames.

  I walk barefoot around the room on the unusually warm rich, polished hardwood floor and I’m in awe. From the ten-foot ceiling hangs an exquisite Gothic style black chandelier with small white candles, their waxy scent fills the room. Not enough to overpower the scent of cinnamon I now know is coming from the angel hitman, who is standing a few feet away from me.

  He points to the bed. “Don’t touch anything, just sit,” he says.

  I take a step toward him. “Let me go.”

  He shakes his head and stands in front of the door. “No. You won’t listen, so we do this my way.” He points to the bed again but I don’t budge.

  I shake my head. “Why not kill me then?”

  He rolls his eyes and puts his hand over his dagger. “Shut up, or I will.”

  I plant my hands on my hips and dare him. “Do it. I’m not scared of you, and I’m not scared of dying.” Liar! I hope he doesn't plan on calling my bluff.

  Instead of the dagger he pulls out a long silver sword. The edges glow neon blue as he raises the tip to my chest and memories of my parents come flooding back. Beads of sweat cover my brow. I don’t want to die, not even a little.

  Confusion crosses his face as he stares down at me. Can he read my mind? My stomach is in knots. I want to speak, but the air’s been sucked out of my lungs, leaving me breathless.

  His chest rises and falls with each breath he takes. “You really want to die?” He sounds confused.

  I shake my head and sit down on the bed. The satin covers are cold beneath my hands, and my thighs. I can’t tell if I’m shivering because of them, or because of him. He’s insanely gorgeous. His muscles are taut and well defined, and he looks like the type of guy who would grace the cover of a men’s fitness magazine. There isn’t a single hair on his chest, or his forearms which are covered in hundreds of inch long scars. On his right shoulder is a symbolic tribal tattoo of a wolf’s head, slightly disfigured due to a large thick scar that follows the curve of his arm, all the way down to his elbow.

  His left arm is covered in detailed black and grey tattoos depicting devils or demons, and a dragon, or flying monster that snakes up from his wrist to his shoulder with huge flaming wings. Across his collarbone, a tattoo of feathered angel wings stretches from shoulder to shoulder. The rest of his chest is covered in smaller tattoos, hidden beneath the leather weapons belt he wears.

  On his right hip, the three-foot-long silver sword hangs in a sheath, its handle intricately carved and engraved with the letter B, surrounded by small black stones. On a thick braided belt, are the hilts of a small dagger, and another short sword. Why does he need so many weapons?

  I glance down lower. Whoa! His black leather pants are skin tight, and the sheer size of his bulging manhood makes me blush uncontrollably. I try not to look, but he is huge. A familiar ache coils in the pit of my stomach, an ache I haven’t felt for years. When I squeeze my thighs together, I suddenly, and unexpectedly realise my body is betraying me by reacting to him in all the wrong ways. No. No, this is not happening.

  I clamp my eyes shut and when I open them, I swear he’s smirking. Damn him and his perfect, square jawline no sculptor on earth could emulate. Damn his perfectly arched brows, ebony eyes, and dark lashes. Damn you, angel hitman. Even the beautiful black feathered wings don’t take away from the lethal—and oh, so sexy—hitman look he’s got going on.

  When he turns his back to me, I ask, “Do you have a name?”

  He rummages through a drawer in the side table then slides it closed forcefully. “My name is Belial.”

  “Belial. Nice, so what now? Are you gonna kill me, or keep me here like some kind of slave?”

  He turns back to me. “Yes. I am going to kill you. Soon. And slave? I don’t need mortal slaves. I am capable of doing things for myself.”

  He paces the room for a few moments, until finally he stops and stares down at me again. I'm not sure what to make of the expression on his face. He looks slightly confused. He runs a hand through his hair and scratches his neck.

  When he drops his hand, I focus on the small thin scars that cover his forearms. “What happened to your arms?” I ask.

  He narrows his eyes. “Do you ever shut up?”

  I give him my best fake smile. “Do you ever answer questions?”

  He huffs. “No. Now stay, I’ve got work to do.” As he turns around, a warm gust of wind com
e from his wings, which are still fluttering as if he has no control over them. From behind, they join his shoulder blades and spread out, arching on either side. Down the centre of his wings, smaller, fluffy black feathers line his spine. Between, and above them, his back is covered in thick raised scars that look as though he may have been tortured or lashed.

  It makes me sick to my stomach to imagine what must have happened to him. I almost laugh, as I realise I’m pitying my would-be murderer.

  “Killing work?” I ask, still staring at his back.

  He slams another drawer shut. “Yes, it’s my job. I get a name. I kill. End of story.”

  I stand up. “Can I come?” I ask.

  He turns, unquestionably angry now. I focus on the floor, and my bare feet covered in black dust.

  He steps forward, closing the gap between us. “No, Lola, you cannot come. Sit, and don’t try leaving, the door will be locked from the outside.”

  I sigh. “When can I go home?”

  He walks toward the door as he speaks, “You can’t, you belong to me now.”

  I cross my arms. “I don’t belong to you at all. People will be looking for me. The police will find you,” I warn. Then I realise like everyone else, they probably wouldn’t see him.

  A smile spreads across his lips but doesn’t reach his eyes. Without warning, he grabs my hand, pulls me into him, and wraps his arms around my waist. Before I can blink, we’re in the sky again. Looking down there is no sign of the bedroom, only a swirling grey mist hovering above the ground.

  I’m pressed against his muscled chest, the heat radiates off his body as though he has an inbuilt furnace. I wrap my legs around his, and lace my fingers together behind his neck. He smells so good. Feels so good. What am I thinking? I turn my thoughts to Cress, she would think this guy is hot too. In every sense of the word.

  A sense of calm washes over me as Belial flies higher into the night sky. Scattered stars twinkle against a midnight blue backdrop, and wisps of smoky grey clouds hover like puffs of fluffy cotton wool. I'm not afraid now, and have the strangest feeling I belong here. I guess I have my dreams to thank for that.