by Nikki Sex
This is a game changer.
Owen and Hope are still deeply asleep, so I stand, walk into the kitchen, and switch on my percolator. I savor the smell of freshly brewed coffee, but I hate the loud clanking whir of an espresso machine.
My demon and I have sensitive ears.
With the rhythmic sound of a tailor using sewing shears, Toby follows me, his toenails clipping evenly upon my floating wooden floors.
I get out a large mug from a cupboard, one with pictures of mice inside and cats outside. I bought it to see my canine friend’s disgusted reaction. It had been worth the trouble. Teasing my gentlemanly dog is one of my favorite things.
“So you think you’re pretty clever, do you?” I say out loud to my demon. “I admit you surprised me. I don’t know how you did it.”
He can’t reply, of course, but I get the impression he’s still smug as hell. Demons zero in on areas of fear, anguish, and vulnerability in order to torment their victims. Who would have known a creature capable of causing the absolute destruction of another, could also repair injuries and heal pain?
It makes sense, though, when you think about it. Demons are masters of the supernatural. Creating and destroying really are two sides of the same coin.
They sense precise vulnerabilities. Why do they have to use that knowledge for evil? Why not for good?
I’ve been worried about my inner demon for years. He knows enormous power can be obtained through immoral actions. Years ago, and more than once with countless rational justifications, I’ve been forced to kill. Sometimes the world is a better place when certain people stop breathing.
A pulse ripples through me, a memory, an impression which I quickly suppress. Murder—even in self-defense—is a bad lesson for my inner monster to learn.
Killing is fun.
His thought or mine? Who knows anymore?
I get out a mixing bowl, milk, self-rising flour, sugar, butter, eggs, and blueberries, and mix pancake batter.
Carbs are easy on the stomach. Originally, I’d thought of chicken soup or even Jell-O, but that’s not necessary now. Owen and his sister will both find pancakes easy to digest. They could use a big meal. If they get this down OK, I’ll try them on stronger proteins, perhaps chicken for lunch.
I wonder what other differences I’ll discover when those two wake up? I hope the smell of pancakes rouses them.
As I mix, I consider how my life has changed.
I’ve always been careful in terms of what my demon is exposed to—vigilant, in fact. As though opening Pandora’s box, he can’t “unknow” the sublime joy of bloody murder. Yet we can’t avoid every facet of life.
As our enemies died, we took everything, we fed, and fed from their deaths until we choked on their power.
The blood alone was enthralling, but the consumption of memories and energy from a human soul?
Terrible. Wonderful.
Absorbing the life of someone who continually commits evil acts is an appalling idea. Who wants to feel what a psychopath feels? It taught us to murder, to cheat, to steal, and the delight of living without a moral compass.
I have to admit, though, killing can be a nearly addictive buzz. Death magic, like blood magic, is a real thing. The scalding rush of power from consuming someone completely causes exultation and rapture. It’s extraordinary, yet also dark and unpleasant.
Getting even, tormenting someone who deserves it—torture, revenge, whatever. It may be wondrous at the time, but later—like a stabbing needle—guilt and shame pricks at you. It makes your conscience bleed, and the small voice inside your head scream.
Morality is innate and difficult to ignore.
I get out a frying pan, turn on my gas cooktop, put in butter, then spoon three pancakes into the pan. Once they are almost ready to flip, I liberally place blueberries in each.
Now, as a matter of policy, I carry a stun gun, pepper spray, and as a last resort a silver knife to stab in some non-lethal part of an attacker’s body. Silver weakens and incapacitates most paranormal creatures.
I want no more deaths at my hands.
My soul is stained enough.
My demon’s instincts are overpowering. He’s smart, he can think—but he prefers to feel. To him, humans taste delicious, while the energy of a paranormal creature is even more enticing.
He longs to kill, torture, terrify, and feed. He doesn’t understand why I stop him from doing what comes naturally.
This is why I can’t be anything less than perfect—a circumstance which is seriously annoying, not to mention boring. No getting drunk, no losing my temper or letting my emotions run wild. In fact, no letting loose ever.
I need to be in control at all times.
Except for moments of blessed release and feeding, I can’t afford to let my inner demon out.
Yet now, perhaps, I can review that decision. Last night, he erased Webb’s anguish and suffering. He sifted through Owen’s memories and linked himself to both siblings. I’m a little worried—is this connection permanent?
A bond with a submissive personality can only affect my inner monster for the better, but how will a link to a demon affect the boy?
“Why?” I ask my inner friend. “Why heal the girl?”
I only get vague impressions, but I already feel certain I know the answer.
For some inexplicable reason, he wanted to make Hope’s brother happy. He knew Owen’s pain, his guilt, his shame. Nothing would make that boy happier than having his sister be normal…at least I’m pretty sure that was my demon’s understanding.
After all these years, my inner friend shows signs of compassion. This has to be a first for demons everywhere.
I flip the pancakes. Once cooked through I fill a plate until there is a large stack. I doubt we can eat them all. I get out a bowl, put in hot water, and put the jug of maple syrup inside it so it will warm.
I think of Owen and Hope. They’ll be hungry, and I long to nourish my two non-children children.
They’re mine. Mine to feed. Mine to protect.
It’s a left field, somewhat maternal instinct, this desire to care for them. Is it mine or my demon’s? Either way, the idea makes us both happy.
Toby stares at me, longing and expectant, his tail-wagging. I cut two pancakes into pieces and place them in his bowl after they cool. He asks so nicely, who could resist? But I’d planned to give him some anyway.
He eats delicately, savoring one small piece at a time. Weird dog. Toby adores human food, and he especially loves pancakes.
I wonder what Owen’s response will be, and what Hope will feel and think? How in the world can I keep my demon secret while explaining to them what happened? Wounds healed, Hope no longer with Down syndrome. It’s a mystery.
I frown, remembering my need to place these two with a wolf pack. I’ll have to do this immediately for the full moon is tomorrow night. They’ll both survive the change.
A pang tightens my chest—sorrow, loss. Once they’re gone, Owen and Hope will no longer be my responsibility.
They’ll no longer be mine.
Not all supernaturals can sense when someone is lying, but an alpha pack leader most certainly can. My only protection while visiting the wolves will be avoiding having to speak full truths.
What in the world will I tell Owen and Hope?
My demon healed them, but they must never know.
Chapter 17. Owen
After I eat breakfast, I wake Owen with a gentle shake. He dreamily opens his eyes, sees me, smiles. “It’s you,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m alive?”
I grin and keep my voice low. “You sure are.”
A flash of raw concern twists his features. “Is my sister OK?”
He moves to sit up, but I press him back with one hand on his chest, easily holding him down. “Hope is fine. That’s why I’m speaking softly. I don’t want to wake her. Rest there for a moment.”
He nods, replies quietly, “OK.” He smiles. “Good. Really good. I don’t know how
to thank you, but why aren’t we in a hospital?”
“I brought you to my house due to the nature of your attack.” I meet his worried, green-eyed gaze. “Can you tell me what happened? What you remember?”
He grimaces, his face whitens.
“Never mind. Forget it for now. Hey, are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“OK. We’re going to let your sister sleep for a bit. I had to cut off your clothes, so I have a bathrobe for you.”
My face averted, I assist him in getting out of bed. His every limb trembles. I help him put the robe on, keep an arm around his waist, and walk him to the bathroom. He messes around in there for a while.
I sit on the bed, watch Hope breathe, and smile at her normal features. Her skin is clear, in her sleep she looks so peaceful.
We did this.
When Owen comes out, a bit steadier now, he wants to see his sister. Concern, love, and the need to protect her reflect openly in his expression.
What a great brother. I’m surprised to find myself experiencing the sin of envy. It’s not one of my troublesome vices, but I wish I’d had a sibling like him as a child.
I shake my head. “Later,” I whisper. “When she wakes up.”
Taking his arm, I guide him toward the kitchen. He’s taller than I am, maybe five-foot-ten, but awkward, underdeveloped, teenagerish-slim. He’s not yet attained full growth.
I breathe in deeply, wrapping my senses around his raw, earthy magic. There’s an elusive, yet distinct pleasure in having him near. What’s that about?
His eyes brighten when he sees my dog. “Hey, boy,” he says, reaching a hand toward Toby.
“Owen, this is Wonder Dog, Toby. Toby, meet Owen.”
“Wonder Dog?”
I grin. My smart, nearly human, often annoying and somewhat demanding housemate is a phenomenon. “Yeah, he’s pretty special.”
“Oh,” he whispers as he pets my dog. “You’re so beautiful.”
Always flattered when I refer to him as “Wonder Dog,” Toby is pleased initially, but the somewhat feminine term “beautiful” has him rolling his eyes. Still, my springer spaniel graciously accepts Owen’s hand and walks with him, welcoming our guest’s attention.
Owen is pretty steady on his feet, despite his initial shakiness. He sits at the table in front of a plate of pancakes.
His blond hair is tousled, his body language trusting. Magic surrounds him like stars in a clear night sky. He’s the one who is beautiful.
Bemused, I shake my head. What have we done, and how in the hell did we do it?
Owen peers up at me with his big green eyes, dazzles me with a grateful smile. “I’m starving.”
“Good. Eat.”
He inhales eight pancakes with butter and maple syrup before setting down his fork, leaning back in the chair, and finishing his meal off with a large glass of milk. He’s a growing boy. It pleases me to assist him in that undertaking.
“That was delicious. Thank you.”
“You are most welcome. Do you feel up to talking to me about what happened last night?”
My visitor slides his chair back, looks away. As though for support and encouragement, Toby glides up to the boy to rest his muzzle on his thigh. Troubled, triggered, or simply on edge, Owen pets my dog for some minutes while he gets his thoughts together.
I wait patiently, but he doesn’t say a thing.
“Look, Owen, you don’t have to go into details of the attack. I already know you were bitten by a werewolf and a vampire.”
His eyes widen. “You know that?”
I nod.
“How?”
I shrug. I scented vampire and werewolf on his clothes and gnawed flesh, but I refuse to tell him that.
“I thought you’d think I was crazy.”
“Not at all.” His shocked stare makes me feel the need to explain. “Supernatural creatures are out there.”
“Vampires and werewolves! Until last night, I thought they were all fiction. You’ve seen them?”
“Many times.”
“Huh. Do you know any vampires or werewolves, you know, personally?”
“Mm…no.”
Biting his lip, he asks, “So the movie Twilight is all true?”
How to answer this one?
“Er…I don’t really know if it is or not.”
“OK.” Nodding, he seems to take this in his stride.
“There was no one else around during your attack?” I ask. “No one at all?”
I need him to explain to the best of his ability. This will be important to relay to the alpha when I see him. Due to size and strength differences between the sexes, a pack leader is more likely to be male. However, IQ, political cunning, and temperament can play a big part. If preferred by the pack, sometimes a female will win a dominance fight.
“One lady vampire. One big wolf,” the boy confirms. His brows draw down, and he shifts nervously. “No other creatures, but there was a man there, too.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Oh, yeah?”
Owen nods. “He was mumbling to himself…giggling and laughing. Sometimes he’d scream as if he was on fire. The sound of him screaming scared us to death.”
Becoming silent, Owen’s expression changes. His eyes go blank, his jaw tightens. I can tell he’s back in the memory.
“Anything else? Something you heard, or saw—” I hesitate, recalling my frightening dream, “—or smelled?”
“Smelled?” His gaze flies to mine, his nose wrinkles. “Yes, there was a terrible, terrible stink. It came from the crazy man.”
Remembering my nightmare, I find it difficult to sit still. “What…um, what did it smell like?” I ask tentatively.
He shakes his head, his face twists with disgust. “Like rotting, putrid meat…and shit. I mean, poo.” He stares at me anxiously, worried about swearing.
I smile. “Don’t worry about cursing on my account. I’ve been compared to an injured sailor when I’m upset. So, the man smelled like shit?”
He grimaces. “And something even worse. It was the most God-awful thing I’ve ever smelled.”
“Ah,” I reply, and I try not to flinch as a brutal memory returns.
Sentient foulness crawling up my spine. The scent of corruption along with excruciating pain. Unwholesome. Wrong. Evil. It moves with small, sluggish feet, scuttling up my back, along my neck. Foul breath fogs my face as it crawls. The stink!
I know exactly what Owen’s talking about. His description of the smell gives it away. Fear presses heavily on my chest. It sits like a boulder, crushing me. For a long moment, it’s difficult to breath.
We both remain quiet a few minutes, not moving. Each of us stares into our past, remembering something malicious, repulsive, and obscene.
I finally sigh, then ask, “Do you recall anything anyone said? Did you hear a name?”
“The wolf couldn’t talk—he was a wolf, but the vampire called the gibbering, weird man Legion. Legion called the vampire ‘vampire’ and the wolf ‘wolf.’ Legion gave the orders, the directions for them both—” He shifts with discomfort. “You know…to do what they did.”
I hear Owen’s heartrate spike as he licks his lips. I don’t want to interrogate him too long. The kid needs a break.
Toby nudges his hand, diverting him at exactly the right moment. God, I adore my sensible dog.
“OK, that’s fine. We’ll talk about it later. I’d like a description as well, but there’s something else—”
“What?”
“I need you to come and have a look at your sister. Do you feel strong enough to walk back to her bed?”
“Sure.”
“Look, Owen, you’re going to be very surprised. Do you think you can keep quiet and not react loudly? I don’t want to wake her. It’s best if she wakes on her own.”
He tenses with fear. “Is it bad?”
I smile. “No, not at all. It’s good.”
We walk through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the guest b
edroom. Hope is sleeping peacefully on her side. I walk to the head of the bed, gesture him closer. Biting his lip, he takes soundless steps until he is beside her.
Owen takes one look at her face, gasps with shock, then stares at her for some time. His hand reaches out, but he pulls back before he touches her.
Tears run unashamedly down his cheeks.
Fully aware of how completely his life has changed for the better, I motion for him to come with me. After witnessing his joy, my own eyes sting.
We retrace our steps to the kitchen.
Prudence, restraint, humility, wisdom, justice, persistence, kindness, patience, and courage.
The litany runs through my mind. In ancient Greece, the virtues were identified to assist a person to find true happiness. Philosophers suggested joy was attainable by both natural and supernatural powers.
I had always assumed the mention of “supernatural” to be a reflection on God. I’d never considered a greater power would work through an unholy alliance of my demon and me.
What I’m struck by is how many virtues come naturally to Hope’s brother. He’s kind, patient, and highly courageous. His innocent heart had been hurt by the injustice dealt to his sister.
Smiling, I can’t help but notice. Owen has found true happiness. Well. If anyone deserves it, he does.
Chapter 18. Raven
Owen isn’t embarrassed at crying. He’s too joyful. Wiping his tears with the sleeve of his bathrobe, his face shines with awe.
“God is real. I prayed so many times. He decided to answer my prayers.”
“Ah,” I say as an inner glow warms my chest.
My demon is awfully pleased with this appellation. I suppose he thinks he is a god, although I doubt he’d accept even that label. The reality is my dark inner angel is much more likely to be considered a member of the other team—perhaps the devil himself.
Logically, I’m not a believer, and yet, I am. I attain a singular joy from entering a church. In my own strange way, I’m certain of the existence of something beyond me. Believing in God is not about logic; it’s about faith. After all I’ve been through, after all the souls I’ve seen cross over, how could I doubt?