Demon Blessed

by Nikki Sex

  These two are intimate.

  Mated.

  They say wolves mate for life. When they find their life partner, their magic joins in an inseparable bond. I see the psychic link between them, it’s an infinitesimal golden thread.

  It’s beautiful. Fascinating! I wonder what my demon thinks of it, but he remains silent. No images. No impulses. Apparently, no interest.

  Hm. That’s not like him.

  “My name is Samara,” the woman says. “It’s perfectly safe to get out of your car. Please don’t be afraid of Quentin.” She gazes down at the enormous wolf with an indulgent smile. “He’s going inside now to change back to human. You know he’s a wolf shape-shifter as I am, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say, after exiting the car. “My friends were both bitten by a werewolf. It’s why we’re here.”

  “What? Oh, no! Without being given a choice? How horrible.”

  Owen steps out of the front passenger seat, wearing a shy smile. “I’m Owen.” He shakes Samara’s hand. “Scary as it was, I’m pretty sure it’s the best thing to ever happen to us.” He gives an accepting shrug.

  “Ah,” she says, gray eyes gleaming.

  The wolf slips away, toward the back of the lodge. Toby jumps out of the car window, rounds the car and flies over to effusively greet our hostess. Hope must have taken his car harness off.

  “Hello, I’m Jan,” I say, as Samara shakes my hand warmly. “This gregarious fellow is Toby, and this is Owen’s sister, Hope.”

  The moment Samara sees Hope’s face, however, her eyes widen. Taking an unconscious step back, she’s clearly shocked. I could swear the woman recognizes her. Impossible, but that’s how it seems to me.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  Samara doesn’t answer my question. Instead, she smiles, takes Hope’s hand, shakes it. The woman acts perfectly normal, even though something has seriously disturbed her tranquility.

  Why did she so clearly react?

  It’s not by chance Samara is here to greet us. I expect she’s been chosen for her welcoming manner. No doubt she’s a good judge of character.

  I imagine how she views us.

  Owen has the unfinished appearance of a teenager. His manner is shy yet open and trusting.

  Hope and I appear to be around the same age. Pretending to be young can be a challenge. I act too controlled for a girl of twenty-two. If I’m not careful, irony or amusement—observations only a mature person could grasp—show in my eyes or expression.

  When you’re two-hundred years old, you can’t help but view the world differently.

  What does Samara see?

  Two young women, one plain, one stunning. Hope has that exotic look. Add her innocence, combined with her profoundly acute focus, and I suppose her sea-green gaze could fluster nearly anyone.

  “Please, come inside,” Samara says, guiding the way. “Have you been driving long?”

  “Only about an hour,” I say. “Toby is well-behaved, can he come inside, too?”

  “Of course.”

  We all stare at the beauty of the building. Every part of this place has been lovingly and skillfully constructed.

  The interior of the lodge is spacious. Welcoming despite its size, it smells of seasoned cedar and the subtle scent of werewolf. We walk into a vast open area that could comfortably accommodate perhaps six-hundred men and women dancing. It’s decorated with a mixture of modern furnishings and native works of art made from wood and wrought iron. Tongue-and-groove oak floors are brightly decorated with woven wool carpets. The fireplace looks to be at least five feet wide and seven feet high. It’s so big you could probably burn an entire tree in there.

  I watch our hostess, as she leads us to comfortable leather chairs and couches near the fire. Samara’s attempting to conceal her tension and excitement. Why? Humans with magic are rare. I suppose they want to increase the size of their pack.

  I wonder if it’s because of Hope. The woman’s seen her before, for sure. How? In a vision?

  Samara assures us refreshments are on the way. For now, she’s making us comfortable, answering questions about the lodge and generally being accommodating. Samara is one of those people who continually seems upbeat and happy. Her persona is genuine. Nothing about her is fake.

  “Spukani means ‘sun’ in Salish, one of the local First Nation tribes,” she explains. “Spukani Lodge was built over a hundred years ago.”

  “This place is so cool,” Owen says.

  “It’s huge,” I observe. “Where is everyone?”

  Samara grins. “Many are working; some are around but are keeping away. We have a rule not to overwhelm our guests with too many new faces. Most of our visitor’s journey here one at a time. For three of you to arrive at once is a welcome surprise.”

  “You’re pleased to have new people come here?” I ask.

  “Me? Yes, but it’s not my decision, of course. Our Alpha has the final say. Anyone who joins our pack must understand what they are getting into. As you’ve been exposed, you already have inner beasts. The moon will be full tomorrow. For you, becoming lycanthrope is not a choice. In such circumstances, I’m certain you’ll all be very welcome to stay.”

  I don’t bother to explain I haven’t been infected. Let her run her normal “greeting new people” pitch first. I’ll take it from there.

  “Every person has a different experience passing through the magic land’s ward,” Samara says. “I’ve never known anyone who didn’t enjoy the process. Was it alright for you?”

  Hope nods, but says nothing.

  Owen also remains silent.

  I’m not surprised. The private memories they would’ve re-experienced while in thrall to enchantment wouldn’t be easy to discuss. In my case, I need time to evaluate exactly what happened.

  Moving though the barrier—being thrown so fully into my past? It was too damned weird. I’m still a little distracted by the encounter.

  I smile wryly, remembering unexpected insights. Were those perceptions real? I don’t trust magic not under my control. And as for soul-searching? Well, I’d rather it be my idea.

  “I imagine the experience is intensely personal for everyone,” I observe philosophically.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Do you go through that every time you travel in or out of the witch’s ward?”

  “Not so much anymore. Mostly just the first few times.”

  I give her a wry smile. “That’s good.”

  A huge, thickset man with hands as large as shovels arrives. Jesus, he’s massive—probably six-foot-six and three-hundred pounds. Gray-streaked dark hair, he looks like the head of a biker gang. Is this the alpha?

  I dismiss the thought when I see his friendly grin. He’s bringing a tray of large mugs, a pot of coffee, sugar, milk, and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. Yum. They smell delicious. They’re rolling out the red carpet here—bringing out the big guns in an attempt to set us at ease.

  Truthfully? I think it’s working.

  Chapter 26. Demons and Devils

  “I’m Quentin, Samara is my mate,” he says, setting the tray on a coffee table, while suggesting everyone help themselves.

  I smile as I imagine the big guy in the kitchen preparing the coffee. It pleases me that the man in this arrangement is serving us. It shows there are no hard core traditional roles for men and women, which I consider to be evidence of a superior social environment. When roles are inflexible, people can be bullied for going against the status quo. Why shouldn’t he bring the coffee?

  Testosterone radiates from every inch of his body, rather like heat from a furnace. Comfortable in his masculinity, Quentin sure as hell has nothing to prove.

  Like his mate, physically he appears near seventy, too. Quentin has dark hair, friendly gray eyes, and a thick, black beard. His easy smile and soothing manner are probably why he’s part of the greeting committee.

  He doesn’t fool me.

  Everything about this guy screams power. Retirement age o
r not, this wolf has raw strength, and an innate ruthless savagery that would make King Kong or Godzilla jealous. And those friendly, gray eyes of his? I’m damned sure they can be as hard and sharp as flint.

  He’s pack muscle, no doubt about it. A wolf who helps insure his alpha’s orders stick.

  “This place is so beautiful, so magical.” My comment is deliberately typical of what a first timer might say. I’m trying to be as inoffensive and normal as possible. No need to upset the werewolf, right?

  Samara smiles appreciatively. “It is, isn’t it? That’s the result of a previous pack member’s conjuring. Marikri, an amazing woman, worked that magic over three hundred years ago.”

  “Wow!” Owen says, his features awed.

  Hope nods. “She must have been smart.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Samara agrees.

  “Exactly how different is it out there in the magic lands?” I ask. “Everything seems so pure, I feel as though we’ve gone back in time.”

  “You felt it, then?” Samara beams a warm smile at me. “That is exactly the case. Once all the world was filled with life and magic. Our ancestors killed animals to live, but they always thanked the spirit of the animal. They gave back what they took from the land. Here everything is so alive. It’s a place where one’s own magic flourishes and grows. You’ll see. One of my greatest pleasures is simply lying down in a meadow or digging into the purity that is our earth.”

  “What happened to the woman who cast the spell?” Hope asks.

  “She’s passed on, of course, but from the moment Marikri set that ward we’ve been protected. Nothing evil can pass through that barrier. Here, the land is pure—completely untarnished.”

  Uh-oh. Nothing evil can pass through that barrier?

  “Interesting,” I say casually, but I don’t feel in the least bit casual.

  I curse an inward blue streak the second I realize—I definitely can’t sense my demon! Has he become stuck in the witch’s ward?

  For a long moment, I imagine my inner friend caught in some horrible limbo. Starved for energy. Unable to escape.

  As my anxiety levels spike, both werewolves turn to look at me with curious interest. I swear I can almost visualize their wolf ears pricked forward. They’ve heard my pulse speed up, my heart drumming in my chest. Can they also smell my fear?

  I’m worried as all get-out. Has my inner friend become trapped in the magical barrier? If so, will it kill him?

  I curb an overpowering impulse to immediately jump into my car and speed back there. My demon, my lifelong, murderous friend.

  I don’t want him to die!

  For the first time, I face the thought of surviving without my inner monster. To be normal. To live my life on my own.

  It’s what I’ve always wanted, isn’t it? To be free?

  I’ve lived in so many places and seen so many things. I’ve observed self-interest and self-sacrifice in times of war, crisis, death and tragedy. I’ve seen the absolute best and the absolute worst of humanity.

  I know people.

  Long ago, I decided that there’s evil in all of us. The value of a person can be measured in how he or she defies or directs the energies of such evil. “By their fruits you shall know them,” the minister advised our congregation when I was a child. It seemed obvious to me, even then.

  All my life it’s been a relief to believe any wrongdoing I’m guilty of is due to the influence of my inner demon.

  That the sins I have committed are not my fault or responsibility.

  I didn’t know.

  It’s a lie. A clever lie that I have secretly told myself for years. Without my demon within, who will I blame whenever I screw up? All this time, trying to be “good.” For the first time ever, I realize my demon has been my defense.

  The devil made me do it.

  It’s a good excuse for doing something I intended to do anyway. Always nice to have someone to blame.

  Maybe this is why the devil was invented—also perhaps why Lucifer seems to be befriended so easily. People can always make excuses for their actions. What better rationalization is there? Surely, no mortal can resist the lure of a dark angel's evil seduction.

  Where are these stupid thoughts coming from?

  That damned witch’s spell has thrown me for a loop. I’ve never realized so much about myself all in one day.

  What a mind fuck. I don’t have time for this shit.

  A distinct impression colors my thoughts, diverting and absorbing my attention—my inner friend is trying to communicate. I grin as a tingle of arousal centers along my inner thighs. An image of werehorses flash into my mind, along with a potent feeling of lust.

  Thank God, my friend is still with me!

  Werehorses?

  I ruthlessly curb a desire to laugh out loud with relief.

  My goofy demon. Seriously, what is he thinking? Him, me, and…two horses? This is his idea of humor. It’s funny—but not funny. He’s up for sex with anything magical. But who cares? He’s alive.

  Although my demon has no idea why I was upset, he’s letting me know he’s here, and it’s OK. Murderous, amoral, happy to create mayhem—he’s not evil per se.

  It seems the witch’s ward agrees with me.

  My demon thinks he’s good. Maybe that’s the real difference between right and wrong; good and bad; black and white. What is the intention behind the action?

  I sip my coffee, smile and nod as the others speak. Deliberately and forcefully, I push the whole episode out of my mind.

  My priority is to get Hope and Owen settled in their new lives. Why did Samara act weird when she saw Hope? What was that about? I’m not leaving here until I find out.

  I also need to inform the scary pack alpha of the mystery concerning a werewolf and a vampire working together. Why did they torment them with human teeth, but not kill them? Why waste flesh and blood when you’re breaking every vampire and wolf law already?

  I’m a little worried this magical place is actually a trap. What if that spell only allows me to go one way?

  As much as I don’t want to, I need to leave Canada, preferably tonight. It will break my heart, but it’s safer that way.

  I’m starting to believe Hope and Owen will be OK with these people. Residing here must be better than living on a city street, in any case.

  Just as I begin to genuinely relax, the distinct metaphysical signature of a ghost makes small hairs on the back of my neck rise. I turn my head, look up and blink more than once.

  No way. More firsts.

  A blast of cold air makes me shiver as something I’ve never seen before dashes right by me. It’s a large white wolf—an animal spirit, stuck here on the earthly plane. I didn’t think there was such a thing as an animal ghost.

  Apparently, there is.

  Why hasn’t it crossed over?

  The pure white wolf moves to sit beside Hope on the couch. Intent and mesmerized, the ghostly creature doesn’t take his gaze from her. He’s here for Hope, but why?

  Hope hasn’t a clue that the wolf is there. Everyone else is also oblivious.

  An animal ghost!

  My mind whirls. It makes no sense. Hope could have nothing to do with a dead wolf. Unless…for a heartbeat my mind flies through possibilities, trying to fit pieces of the puzzle together.

  “Why are you here?” I ask the spirit, using the mental speech I reserve for ghosts.

  The wolf says nothing, but he turns his gaze toward me. I visibly jerk in both shock and surprise as he does.

  What the fuck?

  The pure white wolf has red, red eyes.

  Chapter 27. One Damned Thing After Another

  The world tilts.

  Heart, mind and soul, everything seems to be reeling. Talk about unsteady! I feel like a fighter in the ring, about to begin my tenth round. I’m taking one punch after another, never quite able to catch my breath.

  The last few days have been all too much.

  I had a frightening dream where I was
watched by a red-eyed raven while evil crawled up my spine. I feed from a red-hot cowboy, healing his emotional pain.

  I rescued two siblings after a werewolf and a vampire teamed up to attack them—an impossible circumstance in itself. One of the victims had Down syndrome, which was miraculously cured by my demon. To top it all off, now both humans have magic.

  I crossed a freakish magical barrier to seek out a werewolf pack, two dangerous activities I’ve successfully avoided all my life. Also, Hope inexplicably knows about my raven dream and my demon.

  Over the last two-hundred years, I’ve never seen an animal ghost. Today one is sitting right across from me. And what do I find the white wolf spirit has? The same blood-red eyes as the creepy raven of my nightmare.

  I have to get out of here.

  In the last 48 hours so much has happened. I’m stressed, fatigued, and haven’t had nearly enough sleep. I figure I’ve had about all the surprises a girl can take.

  Too bad for me.

  The knockout blow is yet to come.

  Samara says, “It’s my responsibility and pleasure to show you around, introduce you to the others, and help you decide if this place is a good fit.”

  We all nod.

  Quentin stands. “But it’s my duty to interview and investigate everyone who arrives here. I search for outstanding warrants for arrest, debts, angry relations—that kind of thing. A criminal record doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll be excluded, though. Can I please have your driver’s licenses?”

  “My sister and I never learned to drive,” Owen says.

  “OK. You have no other ID?”

  They both shake their heads.

  He pulls a notebook and pen out of his back pocket, hands them to Hope, and asks her to write her name and address on it. She stares at it blankly for a moment, before Owen takes the pad from her and carefully scrawls both of their names in legible capital letters.

  Hope, of course, can’t read or write.

  “We don’t have an address,” Owen says. “We’ve been living on the street.”