by Nikki Sex
My stomach roils unpleasantly. I drop the cookie I’ve been nibbling back onto my plate, suddenly feeling ill. I’m not sure if my physical reaction comes from me, or is a form of protest from my inner friend. He and I must talk.
The detective’s eyes stay hard on mine.
“You have to kill this guy, John. Kill him without doubt, hesitation, or mercy. Do it with a gun from far, far away. Demons can transfer into another person through touch. Some demons can jump across short empty spaces. If you’re too close to someone demon-possessed, the evil spirit could transfer to you.”
I pause to let him comment or ask questions. Mouth tight, I presume with the thought of shooting a man out of hand, he says nothing.
I shake my head. “Some fates are worse than death.”
I wonder how John would feel if he knew I had an inner demon? Betrayed and confused for sure. Demon-possessed or not, John Joseph wouldn’t kill me.
“See it as a kindness.” I shrug, raise an eyebrow, then slant him a sardonic smile. “Let me put it this way: if you were possessed by this particular demon, I wouldn’t hesitate. If I had a gun, I’d shoot you myself.”
Chapter 56. Double Trouble
It’s late in the day before I get back to my office. Danvers and Abruzzo are both there, even though it’s past time to knock off. Still floating on a sense of achievement and a psychic energy high, I grin at them.
Distracted by the buzz, and slower than usual, it takes me a while to realize these two have been waiting for me.
Danvers crosses his arms. “What’s this I hear about you joining the Vancouver Police?”
“What?”
Abruzzo adds, “Yeah, we heard you’ve been out there solving murders.”
My smile broadens. Ridiculous to be grinning like a fool while discussing murder, but I’m not discussing murder. This is about me. Extraordinarily pleased, I shamelessly bask in their teasing praise and attention.
“You heard that?”
“I caught Detective Joseph on his way out, down in the foyer,” Abruzzo says. “I cornered him, you know, just making sure he’s treating our youngest MacLeod’s colleague right. He was appreciative of your valuable assistance.”
“No way! He told you that?”
Abruzzo frowns. “Well, not exactly.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”
Danvers joins in, amused by Abruzzo’s difficulties. “Getting anything out of Detective Joseph takes skill.”
Abruzzo grins. “I admit I had to pry it out of him.” His broad shoulders lift in a shrug. “However, he did say you were ‘very helpful’ in the investigation, Jan.”
My mouth drops open in shock. “He said that? He actually said very helpful?” I ask, astonished at his use of “very,” when “helpful” would have been more than enough to get his point across. I feel so special! I know it’s prideful—to my mind one of the lesser sins, but I can’t help but feel exceedingly flattered.
John Joseph spent an extra word on me.
“Swear to God,” Abruzzo says, putting his hand on his heart. “Coming from him, it’s high praise. What happened?”
I sit down and give them an abridged version, without mentioning names or demons. They would read about it in the news soon enough. Shocked and horrified, they shake their head, scowl, and wonder what the world is coming to.
We spend the next half an hour kicking back, discussing cases, and shooting the breeze. To top it off, my boss calls to tell me how pleased he is with the success I had with the Zheng family. Thank God, he hasn’t heard about the Vancouver Police murder investigation. I’ve talked about that enough for one day.
“Janney, my girl, another job well done,” Mr. MacLeod says. “The Zheng family paid in full as per their contract. You’ll get a nice bonus. Any idea on how you plan to spend the money?”
I chuckle. “I’ll probably spoil the love of my life…”
“Oh?” His tone changes from the cheerful bearer of good news to one of strong interest. “Do tell.”
“I’ll introduce you some time. Toby is a wonderful companion. We’ve been living together for three months.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes. He’s the best Welsh springer spaniel I’ve ever had.”
His abrupt burst of laugher is loud through the phone. It’s not often I tease my boss and catch him out so completely.
I leave work knowing although there is a demon on the loose in the city, all seems right in my world. Still floating on a cloud of happy, boundless energy, I briskly walk home, talking to my inner monster the entire time.
It’s not until I’m about to enter my apartment I finally understand what’s on his mind. My monster friend is upset at the idea of anyone killing the human horse Legion rides. He hopes his new soon-to-be-demon-friend will remain in Vancouver, never to return to the demon lands.
Over my dead body.
For the first time ever, my inner demon has tasted the energy of another of his kind. Of course, he’s fascinated. He wants to connect and interact with the evil spirit currently visiting our earthly plane.
The mind boggles. Double demons. Double trouble! About as helpful as double D’s on a woman who is under five-foot tall and size zero.
How could I have missed the obvious?
More importantly, how can I prevent them from meeting?
My demon is a toddler in demon years. What chance would he have compared to a powerful, fully grown evil spirit? When I consider the harrowing notions my demon would absorb, it freaks me out.
Demonic possession? I’d rather be dead.
Connecting to one of his own kind would destroy all the progress we’ve made over the years. My demon would learn a million ways to terrorize people, possibly wiping out any pleasure he’s found in being good. Particularly if he bonded to that demon—brutal murderer that he is.
We go up to my apartment, pick up Toby, and drive to Stanley Park. My demon, as always, focuses avid attention upon my dog. Sometimes I get the idea that Wonder Dog knows all about my demon as they’re best buddies.
Toby must remain on a leash in the park, but that’s no hardship. After today’s energy infusion, I could run a marathon, and not feel tired.
After a long, fast jog, we feed swans the stale bread I brought with me, and continue chatting—at least, I do. The possibility of meeting the other demon is discussed and examined from every angle.
Regrettably, my inner monster is a nagging, stubborn fellow once he’s made up his mind. He’s the opposite of the energizer bunny who begins with a bang, then slowly winds down. My demon starts slowly, sending me the odd impression or sensation. As time goes by, he virtually reverberates with tedious and often harrowing impressions.
How do I get out of this?
My demon ultimately gets his way, unless I think of something I can use to divert him. But what in the world could possibly be as compelling as another demon?
With no resolution in sight, we leave the park at dusk, before closing.
Toby and I enjoy the beef and vegetable stew I had cooking in a slow cooker all day. After dinner, I call Hope and Owen, looking forward to speaking with them. Actually, I hardly get a word in edgewise while they both excitedly talk non-stop.
I miss them, but if I concentrate, I can get a sense of them. The three of us are connected in many ways, thanks to my demon. With his ability to heal I’d started to think of my monster as a blessing in disguise.
Now I’m not so sure. Two demons in Vancouver. What will I do if they meet? Will I end up using one of my little silver knives on myself?
Absolutely.
I’d take the advice I gave Detective Joseph, to kill the demon’s human horse without doubt, hesitation, or mercy.
I shower, change, and hop into bed—but not to sleep. I’ll either read or watch TV, if I can find a show my demon wants to watch.
I feel a sudden psychic tug. An image of Stafford pops into my mind as the phone rings. It’s an unlisted number, but I’m
not surprised when I discover the Beast Lord on the other end of the line.
No caller ID? More like caller Psi-D!
I snicker at my silly humor. “Hey.”
“Hi, sweetheart.”
Several minutes of silence slip by, but neither of us seem to notice. I don’t know if it is due to my huge energy feed today, but our connection is ridiculously strong. It’s as though we’re together in the same room.
We don’t need words to communicate.
John Joseph would love it.
A cool night breeze rustles through the trees, while the magic lands are alive with a myriad of nocturnal sounds. Instinctively, I close my eyes and turn my face toward the wind. I’m intensely aware of every scent as a stream of smells flow past.
My eyes flash open with surprise. Jesus, I don’t even have to concentrate to see what Stafford sees; feel what he feels. I’m there with him!
“I miss you,” he says.
“I miss you, too,” I agree, reeling from a flood of acute lupine senses. “You’re outside right now?” I ask hesitantly.
“Yes. I’m returning to the lodge after speaking with the horses.”
Stunned, I say nothing.
Just how far does this bond go? It’s far stronger than it was initially. Can he see and feel me, too? If so, I’m in deep shit. I should be extremely disconcerted, but I’m not.
Not in the least.
Chapter 57. Addicted
I’m about to further question these circumstances, when a surge of fondness toward Stafford rolls over me in waves. I care for him. I’m concerned about his happiness. A tiny flash of fear and a huge blast of affection swells my heart.
I think I’m in love.
“I know it’s doubtful you’ll ever be able to shift into a wolf, but I don’t care,” Stafford says. “The heart wants what the heart wants. I want you, Jan.”
My own heart leaps at these words. He’s such a romantic! A little choked up, I can’t think of a suitable reply.
Stafford continues, “Nothing in life is perfect, but what you and I have is pretty damn close. When will you come home to me, or do you want me to come to you there?”
I smile so fiercely. If I keep this up my mouth will be sore. “I have to work, so maybe you should come here.”
“Right now?” he asks hopefully.
Immediately, I think, but I manage to resist saying it. Whatever happened to the concept of keep my distance? I have a demon—the biggest secret a person could have in the paranormal world. Enjoying a love affair, much less a relationship, is still dangerously unsafe.
“Not tonight,” I struggle to make myself reply. “It’s too late.”
The silence between us returns, magnifying our attraction. I feel his aching hunger to touch me, just as I crave touching him. I view a flash of his bedroom—all deep blues, grays, and creams. My breath catches. His room is heavy with his primal male magic.
Another five or ten minutes’ pass, it doesn’t matter. When I shut my eyes, I could swear I’m sitting right beside him on his bed.
“You smell good,” he says.
“Mmm, so do you.”
It’s true. The sensory memory of our recent time together is so profound, it’s as though I’m there with him. I feel him. I smell his delicious masculine scent. His animal energy connects to mine in a constant low-level hum—a heady, magical current.
I hear a soft whimper of desire—I pulse with hunger. Surprised, I realize the sound is coming from me.
A sense of possessive need, passion, and raw arousal floods my veins. My heart drums, my breath is ragged. My body responds as though all afternoon I’ve engaged in heavy, edgy foreplay.
It isn’t until the soft fur of his wolf brushes against me from the inside, that I snap out of it—not that I return to myself. Floating on a sea of enchantment, I only come back enough to realize that something is terribly wrong.
Have I become magically enthralled?
Shit.
What the hell is going on?
What worries me most is I’m not the least bit upset by this metaphysical connection. I feel giddy, euphoric, and stupidly in love. Stafford is mine. I am his. Part of this is real, but a large part of it…
Fucking magic tricks!
The little burst of fury I momentarily feel vanishes. I’m not even sure I was mad. I can’t be angry. I’m far too glad.
Compelled to be happy through the use of magic?
Being this deliriously joyful goes against every survival instinct I have, down to my deepest core of self-preservation. Damn all metaphysical enchantment to Hell! No wonder I’ve avoided supernaturals all this time.
But the pull I feel toward Stafford, is it all trickery?
Or not?
I was drawn to him from the beginning, before he became a werewolf. Hell, I was thrilled to take his last name, because it reminded me of him. Perhaps I’m genuinely in love with the Beast Lord.
Is it love? Or has Stafford enthralled me?
Stafford.
Simply thinking his name sends a thrill of electricity and pounding need through me. I want to be with him, to hear his voice, to sleep with him, marry him, and to have his babies—damn him! He excites me, but in some inexplicable way, he also calms and relaxes me.
With him, I’m at peace.
Stafford makes me feel safe, happy, and loved. By his side, I’m not even afraid of anyone finding out about my demon—which is tantamount to a death wish. An Alpha’s priority is to protect his or her pack. As Beast Lord this urge will be even stronger. To keep his wolves safe, it’s his job to kill the demon-possessed.
Damn him and his stupid bond.
Oh, now the shoe is on the other foot. I feel victimized. Manipulated.
From one point of view, I guess I’m finally collecting some well-deserved karma. All those decades of feeding on people during one night stands, and addicting my lovers to me?
Well, it looks as though it’s my turn to be addicted.
Chapter 58. Charmed
I slide out of bed, put on my bathrobe, start to pace back and forth with the phone to my ear.
Toby quietly slips away. Smart dog. He and I have similar philosophies. When someone is in a bad mood, I prefer to let them enjoy it without me.
Self-righteous and in a fury, I want to be angry. I need to show Stafford how much his high-handed magical meddling has pissed me off. I know he’s the dominant Alpha male Beast Lord, in charge of all the wolf packs, but I don’t have to obey him.
I won’t let him go around charming me.
Oh, I want to yell at him…
…but I just can’t.
“Tell me about this bond,” I say, without a single drop of angry heat, I’m annoyed to realize. “I know this metaphysical link you placed between us means you’ll always be able to find me, but what else does it do?”
“That’s all it does, that and you can’t go too far away from where I am or you’ll become ill.”
I pause mid-stride, thinking. “This magic of yours doesn’t control me?”
He snorts a laugh that has nothing to do with humor. “Do you feel controlled?”
Hmm, he has a point.
For an instant, I wonder what he’s thinking…suddenly I know. I read Stafford’s thoughts as if they’re my own.
When I communicate with a ghost, it takes only moments for vast amounts of information to transfer back and forth. We don’t need words, although words can be a part of it. It’s a combination of images, feelings, and simply knowing.
Stafford’s thoughts and emotions are highly ordered, and decidedly male.
Evidently, it’s best to be blunt and direct when dealing with him. Beating around the bush won’t do. Like many men, I don’t think Stafford can read the subtitles or sense subtlety as easily as women can.
He’s not that sneaky.
The man’s mind isn’t complex—this is the beast part of him, I think. The wolf who finds life simple. Thanks to his inner animal, he’s not confound
ed by philosophical complexities. Right or wrong are tangible for a wolf. Does it aid survival? Then it’s right.
And yet Stafford is not his beast. He suffers human dilemmas. Right now, he’s fraught with a tangle of conflicting emotions.
I sense his intention to be a good leader, but there’s a number of problems he’s dealing with. Stafford both hates and loves his position as Beast Lord. He adores a battle, but deplores the need to kill.
Over time, he’s killed many.
He feels both triumphant and shamed for defeating Long Claw. He knew the new alpha needed more guidance. The guy was a dick, but Stafford feels responsible for the man’s death.
When the time is right, I’ll explain that Long Claw was a murdering rapist. Then he’ll feel better.
Longing for the comfort and joy of a mate, Stafford spent decades yearning for a daughter or a son. The wolf in him wants an entire litter of puppies to fawn over. A lifetime of deprivation has made him greedy.
Now, so near to success with his artificial womb, he sees me as the mother of his children. All twenty of them probably, if he has his way.
Images stream by in a flash; toy train set, dolls, electric cars, science experiments. Like Christmas morning, his mind is full of toys. With so much love in him, the man would make a great father.
Of everything I glean from his mind, Stafford’s thoughts about me are the most tangled. We were great together. Why did I run from him in the first place? My addiction story rings true, but not as the whole truth.
He doesn’t understand me.
It hurts him to know without the bond I’d leave him again. He understands the notion if you love someone, set them free—but he doesn’t want to risk losing me again.
He hopes to make me love him.
I also frustrate the hell out of him. He can’t comprehend my secrecy and lack of trust. Why won’t I confide in him? His imagination covers many possibilities; I have a husband (or two), I’m older than 200 years, I’m a witch or part vampire…