The Demon Creed (A Demon Outlaws Novel) (Entangled Edge)

by Paula Altenburg

  She might as well wait for him in a tea shop where he would not need to hide her presence. This was a place for women to sit while their men conducted business elsewhere in town. Her fearfulness surfaced in unguarded moments and kept his demon on edge, making it difficult for Creed to move around unobserved.

  He escorted her up the stairs to the tearoom, his hand a light touch on her elbow. Inside, the room was bright and cheery. The walls were white stucco, the floor a rich, terra-cotta tile. Wide beams crisscrossing the low ceiling carried hanging baskets of flowers. The tables and chairs were handcrafted from mesquite, solid and plain.

  She chose a table by the window so she could watch the street. He ordered her a pot of tea and some biscuits at the counter. From the corner of his eye, he watched her remove her bonnet and set it on the chair beside her.

  She looked very pretty, all white-blond hair and luminous eyes, and Creed had not yet recovered from a hunger for her that had multiplied over the past few nights. The thought of being away from her, even for a short while, with evening approaching, unsettled his demon even more. Once he took care of his errands, he would see about finding them a room for the night.

  “Aren’t you having anything?” Nieve asked when he did not join her.

  “I will when I come back. I have some things to do first,” he replied. “I won’t be long. Wait for me here.”

  He left Nieve in the tearoom and walked the short distance to the town’s one hotel, where he booked them a room and deposited their belongings.

  His next stop was the general mercantile. He bought his boots and asked a few questions that the clerk had no answers for, and immediately forgot being asked.

  Since they’d moved farther from the shadows of the Godseeker Mountains, and into former demon territory, the tales of spawn had become less prevalent, and of Willow specifically, almost nonexistent. Most of the stories Creed had been hearing were secondhand and obvious rumor.

  Tales of slavers, however, were not. They passed through these parts on a regular basis, and even though Creed believed any trail leading to Nieve’s son was long dead, he would never take the hope of someday finding him away from her. He’d continue to stop in each town and ask questions.

  This outpost’s sheriff was not at the jail. A young deputy was on duty instead. His friendly smile flattened when Creed introduced himself and asked if he knew anything about slavers in the area who dealt in children.

  The deputy rested a long leg on the sheriff’s desk as he lounged in his boss’s chair. Creed made himself amiable. The farther he moved from the Godseeker Mountains, the less cooperative law keepers became. Many towns had formed their own systems of justice in the years since the goddesses’ departure and did not yet see the need to incorporate others.

  “You’re a long way from home, assassin,” the deputy said. “We don’t get many of you in our town. If you’re hunting slavers, you’re out of luck. The sheriff locked the gates on the last ones to try and come here to do business. That was when we still had a demon roaming the area.”

  Creed thanked him. He then moved on to the local saloon, his next usual place to flush out information.

  The farther into the desert a man went, the earlier in the afternoon business was conducted. When demons had ruled here, people tended not to travel the streets after dark.

  Even though night was still well away when he walked into the saloon, the crowd was thin. He made his way to the bar, asked his questions, and received the same answer he’d gotten at the sheriff’s office.

  As he started to leave, already thinking of Nieve and whether or not they would stay in town for the night or move on, he noticed a young man sitting alone, not far from the door. Brown hair hung to the collar of a plain shirt that had cuffs too short for his long arms and bony wrists.

  The boy hadn’t been there when Creed entered. He was certain of it. But the boy also had a familiar look to him. Creed was good with faces, but he could not recall where he had seen him before. He didn’t like that either. His memory was good.

  The boy rose from the table, stepping into his path and blocking his exit in a manner that Creed would never have tolerated from an older, more experienced man. As it was, it did not make his demon feel friendly. Nor could he seem to read this boy’s intentions.

  Creed waited for him to speak.

  “Are you buying or selling?” the boy asked.

  That question was not one Creed had expected. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ve been asking about slavers who deal in children. Is that because you’re interested in buying them? Because I have several to sell.”

  He had Creed’s complete attention now. “If I say yes, I’d want to know where you got them. Can you prove that you have a legal right to sell them? Do you have papers?”

  The boy’s face became sly. “No papers, but I do have the right. They’re brothers and sisters who don’t add much value to the family business. They won’t be missed.”

  This type of exchange was hardly a rare one. Plenty of families had too many mouths to feed. Creed was about to explain that there had been a misunderstanding when it occurred to him that perhaps he was the one who had misunderstood.

  Something about the boy didn’t ring true to Creed. He had the look of a farmer, but did not seem to be local. His accent wasn’t quite right. His hands had a particular kind of gritty stain to them that spoke of time spent in the mines, not behind a plow. The bartender was taking no notice of their conversation either, and he would have displayed more interest in what was happening if he knew the boy personally. He might even have tried to warn him that he was dealing with an assassin because Creed knew he’d been pegged as one the minute he walked through the door. Bartenders paid attention to that sort of thing.

  Still, Creed was about to brush the boy off, and tell him he was not interested, when he thought of the children the boy claimed to be selling. And he became curious as to where they’d come from. Or if they even existed.

  “How many are you offering for sale?” Creed asked. “And are they boys or girls?”

  “Two boys and a girl.”

  Creed was now very curious as to what the boy’s game was.

  “I’d want to see them first,” he said. Nieve was waiting for him, but she’d be safe enough where she was for a while longer. He did not want her involved in this.

  The boy shrugged as if that was more or less what he’d expected to hear. “Follow me.”

  He led Creed through the streets, and once past the gates, a short distance from town.

  …

  Nieve tried to remember the last time she’d been in a tearoom. It had occurred in what seemed like another life, and to a different woman.

  She sipped her drink and ate one of the biscuits Creed had ordered for her. Her overwhelming desire for him had not dissipated over the past few days. As another night approached, it began to consume her thoughts.

  He did not seem to care who was in control when they were in bed together. Rather he was fascinated by, and indulgent of, her assertiveness, as if he understood her fear of being compelled and dominated.

  She could not get enough of him. For that reason, neither could she believe that she was not being compelled in some way. In her heart a part of her did not quite trust him.

  The plump, friendly waitress returned several times to make certain she had everything she needed before finally leaving her in peace, but Nieve could tell by the interest lurking in her cheerful brown eyes, and her hovering manner, that she’d return before long. Nieve did not want to answer a stranger’s questions, no matter how kindly meant they might be, or to have to think too hard about anything. She stared into the delicate cup she held, swirling the leaves that had settled at the bottom.

  The bell above the door tinkled, disrupting and scattering her thoughts. A young girl, perhaps twelve years old, with lovely, honey-brown curls and blue eyes that looked almost purple, came into the tearoom.

  “Excuse me,” the girl sa
id to the waitress. “Are you hiring?”

  Nieve watched the exchange, idly at first, then with more interest.

  The waitress was sympathetic but firm. “I’m sorry, darling. No. But if you’re hungry, I can give you something to eat.”

  “Thank you.” The girl smiled at her, and the waitress blinked several times as if enchanted. Nieve could understand her reaction. There was something about the girl that drew a person in and made them want to take care of her.

  “Go have a seat and I’ll bring you something from the kitchen,” the waitress said.

  The girl looked around the almost empty room. Her shy gaze fell on Nieve, then shifted away, as if she were too embarrassed to make eye contact.

  Nieve could not sit there and do nothing. The sight of a young, hungry girl in outgrown clothing slapped her with the reminder that she was a mother. The child reeked of hardship and neglect. Kindness killed no one.

  “Would you like to join me?” Nieve said to her.

  The girl nodded. She came over and edged into a chair, perching on the seat as if ready to run at the first sign of danger, and Nieve’s heart melted.

  “My name is Nieve,” she said. “What’s yours?”

  “Thistle.”

  The waitress brought Thistle a large mug of hot kyson milk and a plate of cookies. The girl thanked her, and the older woman patted her shoulder before leaving them alone. Nieve pretended not to notice as the girl slid some of the cookies into her pocket.

  “Where are you from?” Nieve asked.

  The girl took a drink of her milk. She held the mug carefully in both hands, as if warming them, although the day was far from cold. “I don’t really remember. I’ve moved around a lot.”

  “You can’t be here by yourself.” Nieve could not see how that would be possible. The girl was too pretty, and too close to womanhood, to be roaming desert towns alone. Nieve wondered if Creed could help her somehow. Her hand went to the bulge in the seam of her skirt. She had money. If Creed would do nothing, she could give some of it to her.

  The girl cast a furtive look around her. “I’m not alone. I have brothers and sisters with me.”

  That was why she had put the cookies in her pocket rather than eat them all, even though she was hungry. Nieve could see it in her pinched face, pretty as it was. She had other mouths to feed.

  Nieve nudged the plate with the remaining biscuits on it toward her. “Why don’t you take these for them?” she said. “I’ve had enough.”

  The biscuits disappeared with the cookies. The girl leaned across the table. Those purple eyes embraced Nieve with gratitude. “Do you have any children?” she asked.

  Nieve’s heart constricted. “A son.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Asher.” Nieve cleared her throat, which had gone dry and sore. “I call him Ash for short.”

  “My little sister is sick,” Thistle whispered. “Our mother disappeared a few weeks ago. I’m the oldest and I don’t know what to do for her. Could you help me?”

  Nieve could hardly refuse. Only the thought of Creed, and what he might say, kept her from agreeing at once.

  “How old is she? Does she have a fever?” Nieve asked.

  “She’s three.” Worry pinched Thistle’s forehead. “I don’t think she has a fever. She just won’t eat. More than anything, I think she misses our mother.”

  Nieve thought about Ash. What if he were the one who was ill, and missing his mother, and no one would offer him anything—even a little bit of money and comfort that could easily be spared?

  Creed would understand that she had to offer her help.

  “Where is she?” Nieve asked.

  “Not far. Just a few minutes’ walk outside of town.”

  Nieve glanced out of the window, but saw no sign of Creed. She didn’t know how much longer he would be, but when he returned, if she was not yet back he would only have to wait a short while. She would explain the situation to him. He’d understand that she could not abandon a child in distress. She would make certain the child was not ill, and perhaps leave a little money with Thistle to help ease her conscience.

  Nieve gave the waitress a message for Creed, saying that she had not gone far and would return shortly. Then she took Thistle’s hand and allowed her to lead the way.

  The direction they took led them off the main road and deeper into the desert. The walk was farther than Thistle had implied, and the terrain difficult to navigate on foot. Broken chunks of granite, and red-and-yellow-blossomed prickly pear cacti, littered uneven hillsides overgrown with bear grass.

  Just when she began to think she should turn back, and questioned the wisdom of having come in the first place, they came around the bottom of a knoll to find a clustered stand of singleleaf ash.

  From out of the trees a woman appeared. Tall and slender, with waist-length black hair, she was older than Nieve, and might have been quite beautiful if not for the coldness in her eyes that spoke of an ugliness inside her. Thick tresses of her hair lifted in the dry wind, twisting like angry serpents.

  Nieve wondered if this icy woman was the mother who had abandoned Thistle and her siblings. If so, she looked nothing like her daughter. It was difficult to imagine her as caring for any child, let alone one who was ill.

  Thistle tugged on her hand, urging her forward, although reluctance made Nieve drag her heels.

  “I brought her,” Thistle said to the woman. “Her name is Nieve. Her son’s name is Asher. Ash, for short.”

  “Asher,” the woman repeated, as if committing it to memory.

  “Is this your mother?” Nieve said to Thistle. She hoped the girl would say no, and that this was a misunderstanding of some sort. She did not want to believe she had been duped with such ease.

  “Thank you, Thistle,” the woman interrupted before the girl could offer any explanations. “You can let go of her now.”

  As Thistle released Nieve’s hand and went to stand beside the other woman, Nieve’s protective instincts toward her thinned. An icy chill spread outward from the pit of her stomach to gnaw at her extremities. The younger girl’s calm, peaceful demeanor never altered. That alone, from the very beginning, should have alerted Nieve that things weren’t what they seemed. She’d been coerced into coming here—manipulated against her will—by a fresh-faced child.

  She looked at Thistle with new eyes, and could scarcely credit the fact that she had been tricked by someone so young and innocent. She could not begin to imagine what the motivation behind the deceit had been. If it was money they wanted, Thistle could have compelled her to hand it over back at the tearoom.

  “The girl is half demon,” Nieve said. A part of her hoped to be contradicted, although she knew she was right.

  The black-haired woman rested a slender hand on the girl’s shoulder. “So am I. So is the assassin you’re traveling with.”

  Caution increased the chill Nieve was feeling. This was not about her at all, then. It was Creed the woman wanted.

  She did not acknowledge the comment that Creed was half demon. He did not reveal that to anyone. In fact, he denied it. “If you wished to speak with him, all you had to do was approach him. There was no need for this subterfuge. He’s no threat to you,” Nieve said.

  “He’s a half demon masquerading as an assassin. That makes him a threat to us all because he’s not being honest with anyone.” The woman’s thoughtful contemplation of Nieve held a hint of contempt. “Perhaps you should ask him if he’s being honest with you about his search for your son. Did you know he was turning half demons, including children, over to the Godseekers for judgment?” She smoothed a hand over Thistle’s curly head. The girl’s expression remained serene, yet was so frightening now that Nieve could not catch her breath.

  “You’ve seen firsthand how persuasive we can be when we want something. Haven’t you wondered what the assassin could possibly gain from helping you find your son?”

  …

  Creed trudged over the rough terrain wi
th the boy, well aware that this was some sort of trap. Not a professional one by any means, but intriguing enough to keep him engaged in the game—although glad it did not involve Nieve.

  The boy’s name was Stone, and Creed still could not shake the sensation that he’d seen him before. There was no doubt he was spawn, but he did not use compulsion. Of that much Creed was certain. The surface had barely been scratched regarding emerging half demon abilities, however. Creed remained cautious as to what this boy’s might be, but hardly concerned.

  He was more interested in their surroundings. The hills they maneuvered were, in fact, more remnants of Old World buildings, hidden by time and reclaimed by nature. Stone did not try to climb them, which was wise, but skirted their base.

  Creed had been somewhat distracted as he’d examined the ruins until they came around the base of one grassy knoll and approached a scraggly copse of ash.

  Then he saw Willow. The trap—and the game—took on a higher level of sophistication, because standing behind her was Nieve.

  Creed dared not look at Nieve. His demon could sense the confusion and fear in her, although it remained more watchful than hostile. Creed hoped that meant any danger to her was not immediate.

  He pinned his attention to Willow. The last time he’d seen her, she’d commanded a feral, mutated child to tear out a man’s throat. He hated to think of what such a creature could do to delicate, defenseless Nieve.

  “Every assassin and Godseeker in the Godseeker Mountains is looking for you,” Creed said. “You’re very popular with them.”

  Willow smiled as if the thought entertained her, which no doubt it did. The news could hardly come as a surprise. “Men do love me.”

  “You understand, of course, that I have to take you into custody for judgment,” Creed continued.

  That seemed to amuse her even more, and she shot a sidelong glance at Nieve. “Of course.”

  “There’s no point in involving others. You’re the one I’m after. Let the woman go. If you do, your young friend here,” Creed gestured to Stone, who had remained in a watchful position beside him, “is free to go, too.”