The Price of Brimstone

by Allie Gail

  And yet, I'm as thrilled as if I just scored a winning lottery ticket.

  I nibble at the muffin, finishing my breakfast while he lapses into silence. What's up with Loc today? He seems oddly preoccupied. He's reverted back to gazing aimlessly out the window, with a distant look in his eyes that bothers me. I've always had trouble reading him, but right now there is little doubt that there is something weighing on his mind.

  “Is something wrong?” I finally ask. The tension in this room is more than palpable. It's suffocating.

  Without looking my way, he replies smoothly, “Nothing's wrong, my dear. Why do you ask?”

  “I don't know. You seem distracted.”

  “Distracted?”

  “Yes. Distracted. Like you're worried about something.”

  “Nonsense,” he mutters.

  “So nothing's bothering you?”

  “No.”

  “Hm. Well, that tree you've been staring at for the past five minutes must be hella fascinating then.”

  He doesn't answer.

  “Just pondering the meaning of life?” I persist teasingly.

  Crickets.

  “All right. Something's up, Price. Now I know you love being a universal man of mystery and all that, but you should know that me being the naturally inquisitive type, I am fully prepared to nag you relentlessly until the end of eternity. So how about in the interest of time, you cut to the chase and go ahead and fill me in now, mm-kay?”

  Nothing. Not a word! What am I, invisible all of a sudden?

  “Loc! What is it?”

  “What is it?” Snapping his head in my direction, he abruptly stands and slams both palms on the table, causing me to jump. “What is it?”

  Sucking in a breath, I shrink back. Whoa...I've never seen him lose his cool like this before. And just because I was badgering him a little? He should be used to that by now! What's he getting so pissed about?

  Before I have time to reflect on where his sense of humor has run off to, he's cleared the table with one broad sweep of his arm. I am stunned, unable to utter a sound. All I can do is watch as dishes and coffee and a crystal pitcher of orange juice go crashing to the floor, spattering my legs and feet with sticky droplets. There are shards of shattered glass everywhere. They sparkle like diamonds where the sunbeams are streaming in.

  Mesmerized by the sight, I yelp in surprise when Loc grabs my waist with both hands. He lifts me up onto the table, plunking me down hard on the polished oak, and I am too shocked to do anything other than stare at him wide-eyed.

  “It's this.” He slides a hand beneath the shirt to snag the hem of my panties, ripping them off in one savage yank. The scrap of pink cotton is tossed to the floor, along with the mess of broken china and juice and bits of food.

  What the actual hell...

  “It's this, Jude,” he repeats. Unzipping his trousers, he pushes a hand inside and – oh my God – begins stroking himself. “I need this. I fucking need this, right now, and you're going to open up your legs and give it to me. Do you understand? You're going to give me what I need. Because you're the only one who can. Aren't you? You're the only one who can give me what I need. So fucking give it.”

  Holy shit! I don't know what's happening here but...is it wrong that I'm getting seriously turned on by it?

  “I told you to open your legs,” he snarls, jerking me closer so I'm teetering on the table's edge. I instantly obey, mewling a whimper when I feel his ramrod-stiff cock pushing into me. I'm sore from last night, but in some strangely deviant way the discomfort only enhances the pleasure. His lust is fueling mine, stoking the embers of burning hot desire.

  And then I'm being fucked like an animal on a kitchen table in broad daylight. And I couldn't be happier about it.

  He's panting against my ear as he drives himself deeper, growling his approval. “Christ, Jude, you're always so wet. How do you stay so fucking wet for me?”

  “I...want...you,” I gasp. What else is there to say? It's as simple as that.

  “You want me, do you? Like this?”

  “Ye-ess...”

  “You want me to just keep fucking you? Hm? Until we dry up and crumble into dust – is that what you want? Is it?” He pumps harder, and there is a wild desperation in his mania.

  “Mmm...”

  “You're driving me crazy, do you know that?”

  “Locryn.” I reach up to envelop him in my arms, weaving my fingers through the softness of his raven locks and this, unexpectedly, is what does him in. He ejaculates with a long, low groan as I kiss and lick and nuzzle his neck, savoring the taste of him.

  “Beloved,” he murmurs quietly, his voice barely audible. And I wonder, not for the first time, why he uses such endearments when he has no idea what they even mean.

  “I hope you don't think I'm cleaning up this mess,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood. What's got him acting so strangely? This behavior is two cans short of a six-pack, even for him. I can't tell if he's angry or melancholy or just stressed out about something.

  He looks at me in surprise, then chuckles, and for a moment he is the same Loc from last night. “Leave it. One of the perks of having a staff of demons at my disposal.”

  “Oh, I'm sure they'll appreciate it.” I make a move to slide down off the table, but he stops me.

  “Wait.” Hastily tucking himself back into his trousers, he zips up and then carries me into the living room before setting me on my feet. “Don't want you to cut yourself.”

  Funny how he can be very considerate when he wants to be.

  I reward him with a light kiss, but just as I'm pulling away he cradles my head firmly between his hands and kisses me back. I mean, really kisses me. Like Romeo with Juliet, like Rhett Butler leaving for war, like Ryan Gosling in The Notebook. With the sudden and violent release of some long-repressed desire, an obsession concealed over a lifetime and left to build to epic proportions. His tongue is making love to mine, consuming me, branding me as his, ravishing my mouth with a sense of urgency that leaves my knees weak and my head swimming.

  It's amazing and sensual and deeply intense and over far too soon.

  And when he releases me, I discover for the first time in my life that swooning isn't just something they use in romance novels as purple prose. It's an actual thing.

  Steadying myself, I take a deep breath and exhale in a shaky rush.

  Whew.

  He searches my eyes for one fleeting fraction of a moment, then abruptly turns his back on me. Draping one arm across the mantel, he stands there gazing into the fireplace at the crackling flames.

  I scramble through my addled brain, stumbling for something to say.

  All I come up with is, “My. You're certainly...enthusiastic today.”

  Without moving, he replies, “Yes. Well. I'd stay and show you just how enthusiastic, but as I said before, I have a very pressing engagement to keep.”

  What is he doing? His voice sounds strange. Why won't he look at me?

  I touch his arm and he turns to face me, though he seems reluctant to do so. He's gone from staring at the fire to scanning the floor, going out of his way to avoid making eye contact.

  “You look very handsome,” I tell him, straightening his tie.

  He says nothing.

  “There's something about a guy in a suit,” I go on, hoping he'll snap out of the dark funk he's in. “Just makes a girl melt, you know? So do me a favor and don't be gone too long. The minute you get back, I plan on jumping your bones again. Just so you know.”

  That's when he lifts his gaze to meet mine.

  I instinctively drop my hands.

  Something's wrong. It's his expression – or lack thereof. His face is a mask of cold hard granite, every emotion closed off and locked away. Eyes empty and void. Very much the epitome of my father's description. The true face of a demon.

  “Bet I can guess where you're going,” I chirp, a little too brightly. Because I must be imagining things, right? After a kiss like that,
he couldn't suddenly turn all frigid on me. No way. “You're going to meet with a lawyer to take care of that whole Claude Gilbert situation. Aren't you?”

  “Who?”

  “Are you kidding me? Claude Gilbert! The man possessed by Belphegor, the one unjustly serving a life sentence through no fault of his own...remember him? It was part of our bargain. Don't tell me you forgot!”

  “Oh, him! Of course, of course. That...well, all that's been taken care of already. Did I neglect to mention it, darling? Must have slipped my mind.” His voice is cordial, but there is an underlying chill to it.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. As promised, the man is no longer incarcerated.”

  “You're kidding! Already?” Okay, then everything is fine. He followed through, just like he said he would. “I'm impressed! So what happened? How'd you do it, how'd you get him out so fast?”

  “I didn't get him out. His body was removed when the guards found that he'd bitten off his own tongue and choked to death on the blood. Must have been a fun bit of entertainment for them, don't you think? At least it broke the monotony. Although I'm told there was a lot of blood to mop up.”

  I freeze, convinced that I must have misunderstood. Or that he's making some horrible, tasteless joke. “I'm...sorry?”

  “I told you he would be set free, and so he has been.” He smiles, but it doesn't reach the eyes that have inexplicably hardened into ice. “Claude Gilbert is no longer behind bars, unless you count the iron fence that surrounds the cemetery.”

  What?

  “You're welcome,” he adds sardonically.

  I stand there, unable to move, barely able to breathe, struggling desperately to process the callous words. But I can't. I can't make myself believe that he just said what my ears are insisting they heard. I can't. I can't.

  I can't.

  His voice filters vaguely through the buzzing in my head, and it sounds muted, like it's coming from somewhere far away.

  “Well, I'm off. If you need anything, Silas is around here somewhere. Be a good girl until I get back, won't you? Ciao, darling.”

  I can't speak. Can't move. I'm riveted to the floor, too stricken to even protest about being left in the company of that horrid ghoul.

  And then he strolls away, leaving me to second-guess everything.

  Something seriously fucked up is going on.

  Part of me is screaming that I need to wake up and stop being so naïve. That I've been outwitted, humiliated and used. That I should have listened to Russ from the start. That cambions are exactly what he said they were, nothing but master manipulators and evil to the core.

  But the other part of me, the part that spent precious hours in the arms of one, stubbornly and vehemently refuses to believe it's as simple as that.

  Gabby used to say that everyone has some good in them, if you just look hard enough. And although I'm sure she never threw non-humans into the equation while spouting these little homilies, I still think she makes a valid point. There's got to be some truth in there somewhere.

  Yes, I am gullible. I admit it. I know I still have a lot to learn about life. And that my experience deciphering the opposite sex is limited at best. But I also know what I saw in his eyes last night. What I felt in his kiss just now. He promised he'd never hurt me, and yet he did.

  He lied to me.

  And in his own mind, he doesn't even see it that way.

  Oh God, I'm so confused!

  I should leave, the pragmatic side of me reasons. Take advantage of the fact that he's gone and just take off, get the hell out of here. Why stick around? What's the point of prolonging this? I could call a cab to take me into some town that has a bus station.

  Great idea, but there are two major flaws with it. No way to pay, and no way to call even if I could. Twenty bucks is all the cash I have on me. My debit card is at home. Owen has my cell phone. And I haven't seen a telephone or a computer anywhere. Was that by design, I wonder? To keep me isolated? Am I a prisoner here?

  There's one way to find out.

  Heading back upstairs, I decide to take a quick shower and get dressed before I end up running into Silas. I don't trust that guy. Last thing I want is for him to find me half-naked and alone. I don't know if the walking corpse is even into girls – he doesn't strike me as the Casanova type, at least not with a living person – but I sure as hell don't want to take the chance.

  I return to find, much to my amazement, that the mess in the kitchen has been cleared away. You'd never know that half an hour ago the morning brunch was scattered across the floor. Everything is neat and tidy and sparkling clean, without a trace of sticky residue remaining. That was...I mean, damn. That was fast. I wasn't even gone that long! How'd they do that?

  Say what you want about demons, but they are incredibly efficient, I'll give 'em that.

  Shaking my head in bewilderment, I begin my search. In lieu of a means of communication, I am looking for keys to one of the vehicles. I have to get to town. Because there is one person who might be able to help make some sense of this.

  I want to talk to Sonia again.

  Before I leave I have to know what, if anything, she saw.

  The first place I check is the key holder on the wall in the front foyer. The hooks, predictably, are all empty. So I start rummaging through drawers. Cabinets. Closets. Bookshelves. Everywhere I can think of. If I can't find the keys, then maybe I can find something I can use. An old cell phone. A laptop. A tin can on a string. Something.

  I don't find any of that. I do, however, come across something strange. A stack of unopened mail. All addressed to Thaddeus Belmont.

  I thumb through the stack, frowning. So apparently Thaddeus is a real person. I'd begun to suspect that he wasn't. But if he's only employed here temporarily, then why is his mail coming here? Why is it not marked c/o Locryn Price? And why is it stuffed, unopened, behind some plates inside a china hutch?

  Come to think of it, I haven't noticed a postal carrier out this way. Not even once. Did someone put a stop on mail delivery?

  Is this even Loc's house?

  So many scenarios are running through my head, I don't have time to sift through them all. I'm frantically rifling through the cutlery drawers in the kitchen when I am startled by a shadow that wasn't there before.

  Silas.

  I don't know at what point he managed to slink in without me seeing him, but there he is. Casually leaning against a counter, arms folded across his chest, watching me through the dark sunglasses that never leave his face.

  Shit.

  I slam the drawer shut and turn to face him, doing my best to play it cool. I won't let this goon know that he freaks me out. Lifting my chin, I look directly at my reflection in his shades and tersely announce, “I need to make a trip into town. Do you know where the car keys are?”

  He holds up one fist, opens it, and the keychain dangles from his middle finger as if he knew all along what I was looking for.

  Son of a bitch! “May I have them, please?”

  Breaking out in the wide, skeletal grin that never fails to send chills down my spine, he shakes his head slowly from side to side.

  Great. So Lurch has been instructed to keep an eye on me, I take it.

  I keep my voice cool and curt. “Would you mind driving me, then? That is your job, isn't it?”

  The last thing I expect is for him to comply, but to my surprise, he bows and makes a sweeping gesture towards the front door.

  All right. So I'm going to town after all. With a babysitter, unfortunately, but I'll take what I can get. Once we're there, I'll just have to play it by ear.

  We take the Range Rover. I sit in the back and it seems to take twice as long as last time because it's just awkward. We don't speak the entire way. I'm not even sure that Silas can talk. I've never heard him utter a sound. Not that I expected him to suddenly get all chatty or anything, but you'd think he could at least turn on the radio. Anything to break this uncomfortable silence.

 
“Pull over right here,” I instruct once we reach the historic district. The moment he does, I jump out without a word and start walking. I don't look back to see if he's following. If he is, then that's just too bad. He'll have to physically restrain me if he wants to stop me, and I don't think he wants to do that in the midst of all these people.

  In spite of my determination, I am nonetheless brought to a screeching halt. Not by Silas, but by a red and black CLOSED sign dangling on the opposite side of the psychic's glass door.

  Oh, no way. You've got to be freaking kidding me!

  Even knowing it's a futile gesture, I tug at the door. It's locked, naturally. Dammit! Dammit, dammit, dammit! Why does she have to be closed today, of all days?

  Wait a minute. I'm so stupid – today's Sunday. How could I forget that? Of course she's closed.

  Huffing a sigh, I check the hours posted on one of the windows. No, wait – according to this, she should be here. She's supposed to be open Tuesday through Sunday, 11 a.m. 'til 9 p.m. Has she taken a late lunch then? Maybe skipped out to run an errand?

  I stuff my hands into the pockets of my coat, idly re-reading the hours while trying to decide what to do next. Wait and see if she comes back? Maybe she won't be gone long. I could ask one of the other shopkeepers. Maybe they would know. If nothing else, I could at least borrow a phone to call Russ.

  “Hey,” a voice close to my ear says. “You lookin' for Sonia?”

  I turn my head to meet a pair of green cat-eye contacts. They belong to a girl of maybe sixteen or seventeen, petite and strikingly pretty, with Goth inspired makeup and razor-straight hair that's half purple, half black. Her nose is pierced on one side, along with both eyebrows. The long black trench coat she's wearing practically swallows her tiny frame.

  She looks like she belongs onstage belting Evanescence into a microphone, rather than window shopping along the sidewalks of a sleepy Colorado tourist town.

  I flash her a grateful smile. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Any idea when she'll be back?”

  “Aw...shit, girl. You ain't heard?” Raising one hooped brow, she pops a cigarette between crimson lips and casually lights up.