The Price of Brimstone

by Allie Gail

  “How do you know? I'm sure there's a-”

  “Trust me.”

  “You know, you say that a lot.”

  “And yet you still make a point of doubting me.”

  “May I be of assistance, sir?”

  Holy fuck – I nearly spring into the air like a startled cat when I hear her voice right behind me. Whirling around, I eye her with suspicion. Where did she come from? Has she been right here in the house this whole time? She's still dressed in the same drab suit, so I'm guessing yes.

  “Judith isn't feeling well,” Loc tells her. “Would you have a look at her, please?”

  Still clutching my stomach, I take a nervous step back. “I told you, I feel fine.”

  “Are you in pain, miss?” There is no sympathy in her monotone voice. Nothing but stoic efficiency.

  “Obviously,” Loc answers for me.

  “Would you mind showing me exactly where it hurts, please?”

  I point while assuring her, “It really isn't a big deal.”

  “Can you describe the pain? Does it feel like a cramp that won't let go?”

  How does she know that? “Yeah, that's...that's pretty much it. For some reason, it doesn't hurt as much when I bend forward like this.”

  “If you'll excuse my bluntness, may I ask if you've recently engaged in intercourse?”

  “Of course we have,” Loc interrupts crossly. “What the bloody hell do you think she's doing here, interviewing me for Newsweek? What kind of question is that? I shagged her up one side and down the other, is that what you wanted to know?”

  I blush eighteen shades of scarlet, but to her credit, Cassandra doesn't even bat an eyelash. I've never seen anyone so skilled at maintaining a poker face.

  “It's likely your cervix is a bit bruised, that's all,” she tells me impassively. “Just keep a heating pad on it this evening and by tomorrow I'm sure you'll feel better. I'll make you some herbal tea.”

  “Oh. Um...okay. Thanks.” What else am I supposed to say? So we got carried away and had rough sex and now my insides are all banged up – sweet mother of mercy, I want to crawl in a hole and die. This is utterly humiliating.

  Loc gazes into his coffee with a vaguely troubled expression. Oh my God – is he feeling guilty? He is, I'm sure of it! If ever there was an emotion that's a cinch to read, it's guilt. My suspicions are confirmed when he avoids looking at me as he once again orders me to bed.

  “I'll bring you up something to eat,” he tells my retreating back.

  I can't help smiling to myself. This could prove interesting. Is it possible to guilt-trip a cambion? I never would've figured them capable of remorse. Might be worth milking, just to see how far I can push him.

  Shedding everything but my panties, I slip into a baseball shirt that I find in the dresser and then crawl back underneath the covers. Ten minutes later the door opens, but I'm disappointed when it's Cassandra instead of Loc. She's carrying a heating pad in one hand and a steaming teacup in the other.

  “Make sure you drink all of it,” she instructs woodenly.

  I sniff the amber liquid suspiciously. It looks like chamomile, but sure doesn't smell like it. Ugh. “What's in it?”

  “Just a few herbs. They'll help you heal quickly.”

  “What kind of herbs?” The stinky kind, obviously.

  Busying herself plugging in the heating pad and adjusting the temperature, she pretends not to hear me.

  I repeat the question a little louder. “What kind of tea is this?”

  Her voice is guarded as she tells me, “It's a homeopathic remedy. There's nothing in there that could possibly harm you.”

  “Did you make it yourself?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Oh. Cool. So how do you know about stuff like that? Did you used to practice natural medicine or something?”

  “No, miss. I practiced witchcraft.”

  Witchcraft! That explains a lot. Something tells me it wasn't just the healing arts she was dabbling in. To end up as a demon, she must've been fooling around with the black arts as well.

  She's gone before I can question her further, which I guess is just as well. Because I have no intention of drinking this funky-smelling brew, whatever it is. Cassandra may come off all helpful and subservient, but there is something brimming behind those flat, emotionless eyes.

  Hatred. It's plain as day. She hates me, and I don't know why.

  I'm fiddling with the remote, trying to find something on TV worth watching, when Loc comes in bearing a tray. He sets it in front of me and instantly I am ravenous. The food looks divine. French toast with maple syrup and fresh strawberries, plus a thick slice of luscious ham. Besides that, there is a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows. Just as he promised.

  Noting the full teacup on the bedside table, he gives me a stern look. “Drink the tea, Jude.”

  “No, thanks. You drink it.”

  “Do you really think I'd poison you?”

  “Not you. Cassandra! She gives me the creeps.”

  “You said the same thing about Silas.”

  “What do you want from me? Demons in general creep me out!”

  “So dramatic.” He tastes some of it, ostensibly to prove to me that it's safe for consumption. “There. Satisfied?”

  “Do you think I'm stupid? If a knife can't hurt you, I'm pretty sure a little Drano won't have any effect on you either.”

  His lips quirk up. “Why would you think she'd give you Drano?”

  I shrug. Does he really have to ask?

  “Believe me, Jude, it is in her best interest to keep you healthy and happy.”

  “Oh, really? And how do you figure that?”

  “There's no figuring involved. I'm not gambling with your life. As for Cassandra, there would be no end to her suffering if anything were to happen to you. I'd personally see to that.” He presses the cup firmly into my hands. “Besides, I watched her make the tea. It's fine. And it will help you to heal faster, so do us both a favor and drink it. I can't send you home in this condition. What would your brother say?”

  “I don't think you want me repeating what he'd say.” Giving him a sidelong smirk, I hold my breath and quickly gulp down every bit of the tea. It doesn't taste too bad, considering the way it smells. There's a slight aftertaste of something resembling ginger. “Does she live here?”

  “Who? Cassandra?”

  I nod.

  “No. Why would you think that?”

  “Then how'd she get here so fast?”

  “The doorway to Hell is more accessible than you might think.”

  How very reassuring. “Did you know she was a witch?”

  “I know she didn't bake pink frosted cupcakes for a living.”

  “Did she cook this?” I look down at the tray in my lap. No matter how hard I try, I just can't envision it.

  “No. Someone else did.”

  “Who?” I'm hoping he doesn't say Silas. Although picturing that walking corpse in a chef's hat and apron makes me want to giggle.

  “Thaddeus.”

  Thaddeus? Who's Thaddeus? “Well. You just have a demon for every occasion, don't you?”

  “Thad isn't a demon. He works for me as a personal chef and I happen to pay him very generously for his services. I have him staying in the guest house so he's always available when I need him.”

  Considering my grumbling tummy, that's good enough for me. I pick up my fork and dig in, asking through a mouthful of French toast, “Does he know what you are?”

  “Don't be ridiculous. Of course he doesn't.” Careful not to jostle the tray, Loc sits on the edge of the bed beside me.

  “Tell me something,” I say, cutting off a chunk of ham. “Just out of curiosity. How did Cassandra end up condemned to Hell? Was it because she practiced witchcraft?”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  “Yep. I asked, and that's what she said.”

  “Hmph. Now that's a very Disney way to sugarcoat it. No, I'm quite sure it was he
r little murder-for-hire business that earned her a nonrefundable ticket to the pit.”

  “Murder for hire? Like a hit man? Err...woman.” Again, I can't envision it. When I think of a hired assassin, I picture that guy from The Professional. Not some drab middle-aged woman. But then I have to remind myself that she isn't walking around in her original packaging. Wonder what she looked like before?

  “In a sense. I don't know much about it, but from what I've been told, her so-called 'witchcraft' extended far beyond love potions and the like. If one harbored a grievance, all that person had to do was cross her palm with gold. The targeted victim would end up wasting away and dying. The more money, the more excruciating the death. I hear she could make the bubonic plague seem like a picnic in the park. She didn't discriminate either. Women, children, the elderly...it made no difference to her. Gruesome stuff.”

  The ham sticks in my throat, and I cough into my fist. “Oh, nice. Classy. Are you sure I didn't just drink poison ivy pekoe?”

  “Let's not have that conversation again. You know I'd never let anything happen to you.”

  “Mm-hm.” Although it doesn't hurt right now, I rub my belly as a not-so-subtle reminder. When he winces, I realize that I was spot on about him feeling guilty. I can't believe it – the guy has a conscience! That's something demons don't possess. Maybe he's more human than I thought.

  “I'm sorry,” he murmurs, in a voice that's shockingly sincere. “I really am. Please believe me, it was never my intention to hurt you. Not like that.”

  Great. Now I feel guilty.

  “I know you didn't.” Rolling a strawberry around with my fork, I quietly add, “It definitely didn't hurt at the time.”

  Even though I'm not looking at him, I can sense that he's smiling. “No. You seemed to be enjoying it. Immensely.”

  “It was...” I bite my lip, trying to come up with the right words. But there just aren't any.

  “Yes. It was.”

  I side-eye him with a smile.

  He tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear with a touch so tender, I feel strangely wistful. I can't explain why. Maybe because this has to end far too soon. I can't allow myself to become attached to him. I just can't. This thing we share, whatever you want to call it, it can't last. The two of us are worlds apart. Even if by some miracle he wanted to, how could we ever have any kind of future together?

  Besides, passion isn't love. That much I know.

  But what exactly am I supposed to feel for the man (not a man, don't forget) who made love to me (poor choice of words) for the first time? I've just experienced the most intimate encounter of my life. How am I supposed to define this, whatever 'this' is? Something that's more than sex but can't be love – what would you even call it? Is there a word for this complex tangle of conflicting emotions?

  It was a business transaction, I try to tell myself. That's what it was. You got something, he got something, everyone walks away happy.

  And right now, reminding us both of that fact seems imperative.

  “Have you made any progress toward getting Claude Gilbert released?” I casually ask. Loc hasn't mentioned it, which leads me to believe he might be trying to gloss over that particular addendum.

  “I'm working on it,” he assures me smoothly.

  “I was afraid you'd forgotten.”

  “I haven't forgotten.”

  “Russ is probably worried sick about me. Max, too.” I wish I had my phone, so I could at least let them know I'm okay. I wonder if Loc would let me use his?

  “Yes. Well, we wouldn't want to worry poor Max, would we?”

  I blink, surprised by his overt sarcasm. Why would he mention only Max and not my brother? Is he jealous? Now there's another emotion that seems misplaced.

  “I don't want to worry anyone,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “Especially Russ. It might be a good idea for me to call him, don't you think? Just to put his mind at ease. He's probably combing the countryside looking for us.”

  “I'll take care of it.”

  “By take care of it, you mean...”

  “I mean I'll get a message to your brother.”

  I hesitate before meekly pointing out, “He isn't going to believe anything you tell him. Don't you think I ought to talk to him myself?”

  “I don't think that's a good idea.”

  “But-”

  “Can we not discuss this right now? Consider yourself on the clock. This time belongs to me.” His voice sounds edgy. It's as if the outside world is something he'd just as soon ignore. “You'll be going home soon enough.”

  “When?” I gently prod. I know how he feels. And it isn't as if I'm in a hurry, not really. But if he isn't going to at least let me contact Russ, then I need to get home as soon as possible. Everyone there is no doubt panicking. They probably think I'm being tortured, or worse.

  He considers for a moment, then reluctantly suggests, “Your birthday's in three days. At least stay with me through then.”

  He knows when my birthday is? I have to say, I'm impressed. That's not something guys usually remember. For whatever reason, the male species seems to have an inherent flaw in their DNA that prevents them from being able to read and comprehend a calendar. Not sure what that's all about, but someone ought to fund a study for it.

  Three more days though? “I don't know...”

  He puts an arm around me, and his voice melts into that sweet, seductive purr that could charm the habit off a nun. “Tell you what. Just stay through the sixth, and I'll make sure you're home in time to celebrate with your brother that evening. Best of both worlds. What do you say, love? Stay with me?”

  What do I say?

  I cave, of course. And far too easily.

  The problem isn't that I want to leave. The problem is, the longer I stay here with Locryn Price, the harder it's going to be to walk away from him.

  ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I'm confined to bed for the rest of the day.

  Not because I think I need to be, but because Loc insists. The way he fusses over me is touching, something completely unexpected. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was actually concerned for my well-being. I can't fathom why he's being so attentive.

  That's not to say I'm not enjoying his company, though.

  To my surprise, he stays by my side all day long, going out of his way to keep me entertained. Who knew a cambion could be such a charming host? Never once am I given an opportunity to grow bored. He shows me funny videos on his laptop. We play Quiplash until we're doubled over with laughter. He gives me a back massage, which he's very skilled at, I might add. We binge-watch old creature features while snacking on popcorn and critiquing the special effects. We chat like friends, always keeping the topic light, never delving into anything too profound or personal. I find that he's quite knowledgeable when it comes to world history, and I learn things from him that I never knew before.

  And when I finally fall asleep, it's wrapped snugly and comfortably in the sanctuary of his arms. With the errant thought running through my mind that maybe, just maybe, Locryn Price isn't the monster we all made him out to be. Maybe Russ and Max were wrong. Maybe Loc really had no hand in Owen and Skylar's disappearance, maybe he was just caught in the middle of something beyond his control and in the end, he was actually the one who stepped up to secure their release.

  Maybe he was only playing their game because he had no other choice.

  Maybe he's just misunderstood.

  Or maybe I'm a gullible fool doing a whole lot of wishful thinking.

  Morning finds me alone. And by morning, I mean somewhere along the lines of noon. Still, it's an improvement. I can tell by the position of the sun that it's not nearly as late as it was yesterday when I got up. The weather is clear and bright, the sky beyond the window a sheet of cerulean blue.

  Best of all, the discomfort in my belly is gone. I carefully stretch, twisting one way and then the other just to make sure. Nothing! Not even a twinge
. It's as if the pain was never there in the first place. How do you like that – Loc was right about Cassandra. Whatever her faults (and being a homicidal maniac is a pretty major fault), she did help. I have to commend her for that.

  I'm in the bathroom, leaning over the sink brushing my teeth, when I hear a light tap at the door.

  “Jude?”

  “Mrmph?” I reply through a mouthful of toothpaste.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  The door swings open and in strolls Loc, grinning at the sight of Colgate dripping down my chin.

  “Hydrophobia? Oh, dear.” Standing behind me, he snakes both arms around my waist. “I suppose it's too late to have you vaccinated at this point.”

  I roll my eyes before spitting inelegantly into the sink. “If I have rabies, I got it from you,” I tell him after rinsing my mouth.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Amazing.” Straightening, I smile at his reflection in the mirror.

  “No pain?”

  “None whatsoever. I gotta hand it to Nurse Cassie, she knows her stuff.”

  He chuckles while passing me a towel. “My father has a habit of calling her Cassie, too. For some reason it infuriates her. Of course, she wouldn't dare correct him. Just for the record, she detests hearing her name abbreviated in any form. Absolutely abhors it. Not sure why she's so bloody sensitive about it.”

  “If she hates it so much, why doesn't she just ask him not to call her that?”

  “Likely because she has no desire to feel the flesh stripped from her bones,” he comments blithely. Seeing my shocked expression in the mirror, he attempts to explain. “One thing you have to understand about Hell. There is no governing force, no social order. Simply put, it's survival of the fittest. The ones who end up in charge are the strong, the brutal, those with naturally tyrannical personalities. They dominate through duress and run things just as they damn well please. And the others...” Here he shrugs indifferently. “Just fodder for the whims of maniacs. The best way to avoid persecution is through obedience. Unquestioning obedience.”

  Yikes. When he puts it like that, I almost feel sorry for Cassandra.