by Nikki Sex
Taking a deep breath, I decide it’s safer not to lie. “I see lots and lots of ghosts.”
His dark, imperious brow arches with suspicion. “Describe one of them.”
Yeah, but which one?
Spirits are wandering around as though in the pits of Hell, their mouths open with silent, blood curdling screams.
The entire ceiling, the walls, and floor are covered, chock-full of maimed, dismembered ghosts. I feel as though I’m on a movie set of the “Walking Dead.” Luckily, I can’t hear them unless I purposefully tune in.
The moment I focus on them, however, I also smell them. The scent of old blood, sickly burnt or rotting flesh, bad breath, and fetid seeping wounds.
Yuck.
They’re all maimed and disfigured, most likely, through torture, not battle. Missing fingers, arms, toes and eyes—they crawl, they stumble, they moan, and writhe.
One has an axe in her back, many have slit throats. Two or three hold their own severed heads in their arms, while the eyes in their bodiless heads roll back and forth wildly, endeavoring to see.
I wonder which of these spirits would least offend my dangerous new client? I finally pick the one who doesn’t look as though his death was violent. Mentally, I cross my fingers for luck.
I lick dry lips. “There is a deeply tan boy with black hair, blue eyes, leather sandals and a tunic. I guess he’s maybe eight. There’s no blood. No sign of physical injury. I can’t tell how he died. Of all these restless spirits, he remains the closest.” I nod my head to the right side of the vamp where the boy is. “The ghost is standing by your side.”
It happens so fast, I’m not even sure how it happens.
In a blur of speed that my eyes are unable to track, the vampire has me against a wall. His vivid blue eyes are dark and wide; his expression furious. Angry heat radiates from his body which is pressed close and hard against my own.
“Liar!” he screams. “Liar!”
Both of his hands are around my throat. Slowly and carefully, he squeezes the life out of me. My lungs burn with the need for oxygen, my fists flail uselessly against his rock-hard torso.
If he wanted to make it quick, I’d already be dead.
So much pressure! My head feels like it’s about to explode. My neck where he squeezes, burns as though it’s on fire.
Wow, what a reaction. Gee, was it something I said?
I slide a glance toward Abruzzo, but he does nothing. His gun remains holstered. Eyes wide and blank, utterly motionless, my colleague is still smiling.
Well, shit.
Abruzzo’s body is here, but he is gone. The Jugulo rolled my friend’s mind before I arrived—like a bulldozer over pizza dough.
Of course, he did.
My colleague couldn’t have helped me against a vampire anyway. It’s just as well he’s safely in a trance. I hope he’s allowed to return to normal. Meanwhile, my attacker is inexplicably furious.
“You see an eight-year-old boy in a tunic?” His voice is like thunder. “I don’t believe you!” The vampire repeats this more than once as he throttles me.
I say nothing.
I can’t.
Air has to pass over my vocal cords before I can make a sound.
The stupid thing is, I haven’t the slightest clue what I did wrong. Maybe the throat slitter doesn’t believe the kid is dead.
Throat slitter.
More like throat choker—the crazy, moody bastard. A lack of oxygen makes me punchy. If I could make a sound, I’d snicker. At least my gut-wrenching fear is gone.
See? I’m an “always look on the bright side” kind of girl. I have to be. Otherwise I’d have been dead long ago.
As my vision tunnels and I’m about to lose consciousness, he loosens his hold and backs off.
When he releases me, I fall to my hands and knees, gasping and coughing. I completely sink down, intending to collapse, and roll into a ball on the carpet.
Before I do—the mad bastard grabs my arms, pulls me to my feet. He thrusts me back against the wall, holds me there. He grips my biceps so hard, I’m sure the blood can’t flow.
I struggle to regain my breath. I cough and choke, inhaling deep, lung-filling gulps. How could I ever have taken the simple act of breathing for granted? I savor the sensation of air moving in and out of my lungs.
Wondrous!
Minutes pass before my ears stop ringing, and I’m able to breathe somewhat normally.
Uh oh. My fear is back. It’s proof I’m still alive.
What’s my demon doing during this? I can’t believe he didn’t react. I guess he took my admonition to heart about “staying out of it.”
If I live through this, I’ll inform him that near-death scenarios involving vampires is one time I don’t mind him taking over. My demon is supernaturally fast and strong. With him in charge, and the amount of energy I have on board, we might’ve gotten away.
For a little while, anyway.
I’ll be safe if I run to the magic lands. Vampires can’t cross the witch’s spell. If I get a chance to escape.
The vampire glares at me. “Tell me about a different ghost you see,” he demands. “Tell me their name. Tell me how, and why they died.”
Dazed, I stare at the countless number of spirits.
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.
I eventually pick a man who appears to have been a Spanish conquistador in the 16th century. He seems as good as any. He’s standing nowhere near the vampire, unlike the boy.
Mentally, I project to him, “What is your name?”
“By the will of Christ our father, I was christened Calderón García-Iglesias.”
“How did you die?”
“I was possessed by the devil. The Señor captured me and cut out my tongue. He used torture in an attempt to banish my demon back to its Godless realm. Then he slit my throat. My body was burned to ash, my ashes thrown into a river.”
Torture. Bummer.
“What was your crime?”
“Murder. Bloody, mindless murder. I killed oh, many, so many.”
“I appreciate you telling me. I’m afraid the Señor will kill me next.”
“If he knows of your demon, he will.”
“You see my demon?”
“I do. I will pray for you.”
Now, there’s an odd thing to say. Poor fellow. He should be praying for himself. Before I respond, he asks, “If you please, will you give Señor Sparagis a message for me?”
“If I can.” If the Señor listens and doesn’t strangle me again.
“Por favor, will you please thank him for killing me?”
“Uh…right. I’ll do that.”
“Will you also ask him to forgive me?”
I frown. “Do you feel you need his forgiveness?”
“Yes, yes, for I am sorry, very sorry.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Your word on this?”
“I promise.”
Telepathic communication between myself and a ghost can be practically instantaneous. The whole conversation takes maybe three seconds. I wish I hadn’t made that promise. Now I have to tell the unpredictable bastard.
Who knows how this moody, arrogant strangler will react?
Chapter 64. Peas in a Pod
“Well?” He gives me a little shake. “Do it. Speak to a ghost—if you truly can.”
“I already have.”
One dark eyebrow arches in disbelief.
I stare at his lithe, muscular body, and his perfect features. I’m struck by his incredible beauty even while fully conscious I’ve never met a more lethal creature in my long life.
The powerful essence of what he is rolls off him in waves.
Untamed. Uncontrolled. Primal.
Like a leopard or a tiger in the wild. Stunning. Fascinating, but deadly as hell.
I clear my throat. “I spoke to Calderón García-Iglesias, a man I believe was a Spanish conquistador. He tells me he was possessed by the devil.”
The va
mpire’s face becomes unreadable, but I can see I’ve surprised him. The human mask he wears slips as he does that absolutely motionless, not-breathing-still-as-a-statue thing only a vampire can pull off.
I swallow nervously. “He says you captured him, tortured him, and slit his throat. Then you burned his body and threw his ashes into a river.”
I have the satisfaction of seeing Sparagis’s expression change from doubt to motionless shock, until his face shines with pleasure and certainty. His power caresses me, while his full lips tug into a boyish grin.
I’ve made him happy, alright.
What a relief.
He’s so damn charming and attractive. I long to please him. In fact, he’s the nicest guy ever. Why did I imagine he’d hurt me? He’s so yummy, so handsome, so hot, and incredibly kind!
I adore this wonderful vampire.
Shit. What the fuck?
I snap out of it when I hear myself think “wonderful” and “vampire” in the same sentence.
Whew. He’s captivating and sexy as hell, but one taste of his glamor makes my brains disappear. This shit is potent. Talk about dangerous! Which is worse, losing my life or my mind to this asshole?
I can see through it, but I’ll need to be vigilant.
Lust—hot and urgent—suddenly slams into me, setting my body on fire, sucking the air from the room. I can barely breathe. My nipples tighten, my whole body tingles as I flush with liquid heat. A heavy, needy throb begins lower, between my legs.
I know exactly where these impulses are coming from.
Great. Just great.
My inner monster loves this guy. Of course, he does! Violent. Deadly. Powerful and unreasonable. They’re two peas in a pod.
Stupid demon. Not five minutes ago, this murderous vampire nearly killed me. Is there a scary, temperamental assassin in our midst? Yes? Well then, here’s a good idea: Let’s fuck him.
Sheesh.
The vampire studies me with undisguised interest. Like he’s watched a cat recite the times tables. Or a puppy, using a long pole for balance, tightrope walking on two legs. It seems the insignificant gnat he almost killed did something interesting.
He stares at me. “I’m impressed.”
Hmm. Although his voice is sexy and seductive, there’s a cold, calculating light in his eyes I don’t like. He’s so distant and emotionally cut off.
I can’t imagine him forming an attachment to anyone, much less (God forbid) a human.
What’s going through his testosterone-packed body, and that brain-filled with-someone-else’s-blood, of his? His expression is thoughtful. Why? Is he hungry? Or curious? Whatever he visualizes, I suspect I’m in the picture.
As long as he isn’t pissed off, I don’t care.
“Your ability is extremely rare.”
“Um…thank you.”
I put a hand to my throat, remembering the feel of being throttled and his unpredictable temper.
If I hadn’t stupidly promised the ghost, I wouldn’t risk saying more. It’s not that I don’t tell lies. I do—all the time (as long as I can get away with them). But lying to a restless spirit who is going to pray for me?
None of my many created personas would stoop so low.
I lick dry lips. “Uh…Señor García-Iglesias wanted me to thank you for killing him.”
“He did?”
“Yes. He also asked me, to ask you, to forgive him.”
This puzzles the Jugulo—the assassin—Mr. Sparagis, whatever. This information falls into his thoughts, soft as a windless snowfall, light as a pleasant dream. His blue eyes soften; his full, firm lips twitch into a contemplative smile.
I suppose it’s not every day he is gratefully thanked by someone he tortured and executed. Nor is it common for the vamp to be asked for forgiveness from his victims.
Killing stains the soul. Slaying so many, over an extended period, must destroy self-respect and sense of worth. Historically, public executioners live short, unhappy lives.
He’s been a murderer for a long, long time. His soul must be black as the burnt depths of Hell. Does this request mitigate the blood on his hands or make him feel better about himself?
“Thank you” and “forgive me.” Four words make the treacherous psycho stop and think.
Perhaps the vampire has simply been doing his job. Maybe he hasn’t considered the point of view of his victims for centuries.
He’s thinking about them now.
A hint of vulnerability shows in his hard, self-contained features—if only for a moment. When exposed like this, once again, he seems quite human.
Maybe he isn’t all bad.
His cold-hearted mask suddenly slips back over his face. All too quickly the asshole is back.
A fierce, heavy frown mars his features. “It is not my place to forgive him.”
“If not you, then who?”
His jaw tightens, he says nothing.
The vampire’s cold arrogance and reticence annoy me. I did what was asked of me. I fulfilled my promise to Calderón García-Iglesias’s ghost, but it’s not enough. The least this vampire can do is put this troubled spirit to rest.
I give him an irritated glare, ignore the risk, and decide what the hell. “I don’t know what you’ve done or why you have so many ghosts following you,” I say. “It’s not up to me, but would it hurt to give Señor García-Iglesias a break? Whatever his sins, for some reason he wants you to forgive him. It’ll only take a second. Where’s the harm?”
The Jugulo sees reason with this logic. He nods. “Fine. How do I do this?”
“Well, do you forgive him?”
“Of course,” he snaps impatiently, flinging his arm and hand outward, as though I’m intentionally wasting his time. “There is nothing to forgive. All who are possessed by a demon, suffer. He is not to blame for the actions he was forced to take, while being ridden by an evil spirit.”
The instant he says these words, the invisible light to another realm opens. It’s obvious by the vampire’s unchanged expression that even with his formidable powers, he can’t see or sense the portal.
The departing spirit’s joy spreads through me like the warmth of a noonday sun on the first day of spring. For a moment, I hear sweet music, as a spark of light filters through the tower of disembodied spirits.
I close my eyes as magic showers me, my demon, and my new client. Instantly, my bruised and sore throat heals.
My demon must have used that energy to repair the abraded flesh. It feels so much better, but I hope it isn’t obvious to Mr. Grumpypants.
The vampire’s face lightens with pleasure and surprise. “What was that?”
My mouth drops open. “What did you feel?”
“Magic.”
I’m amazed he recognized Heaven’s Mana. Many feel euphoric, but none have been consciously aware of magic. On the other hand, being a paranormal creature, I shouldn’t be surprised.
“Señor García-Iglesias crossed over. He’s gone somewhere...maybe to heaven.”
The vampire is dumbfounded. “How? Why?”
I shrug. “It seems he was waiting for your forgiveness.”
My client’s immediate reaction startles me. His hands rest firmly upon my shoulders, he turns me directly toward him, steps close.
“Look at me,” he commands. When our eyes meet, he gives me the full force of his power.
I gasp as a flare of raw magic sizzles and crackles around me like a downed power line. My demon hums with approval. My whole body buzzes as the vampire’s otherworldly energy rolls over our metaphysical tongues.
Good Lord, he tastes divine.
Obediently, without conscious thought, my gaze locks with his. His eyes fascinate me. Their color comes alive, sparkling with glints of raw energy. They look like deep blue opals under bright light. So, so pretty.
His voice lowers, becomes deep, seductive. “You will do exactly as I say.”
Oh, no I won’t. Crap! He’s attempting to enthrall me with vampire mind tricks. Lu
cky, they don’t work on me, thanks to my demon.
“Yes,” I reply, as calmly and robotically as possible.
“You now belong to me. Do you understand?”
No fucking way.
“Yes.”
“You will make an excuse to your superior, a reason why you are leaving. You’ll be gone for a long time. Tell them about a sick relation or something—you know how to do it. Act naturally, then come with me.”
Uh oh.
I feel every ounce of the throat slitter’s magic, with all his considerable power, yet he still can’t roll me because of my demon. I’m safe from magic compulsion, but what good is that?
I still must pretend to be under his spell. I’ll have to go with him and do exactly as he says. If I don’t, he’ll know I’m immune to his power. He’ll realize I’ve tricked him.
Shit a fucking brick.
Now I’m in more danger than ever. What about poor Toby? Who’s going to feed and take care of Wonder Dog while I’m away?
Stafford. Owen and Hope will care for him, too.
I reach for the Beast Lord, psychically traveling down that amber thread of connection—the bond we have. Just a touch to reassure myself he’s there, and I can contact him.
Warmth and earthy animal magic echoes soothingly back to me.
Whew.
OK. When the vampire sleeps, or leaves me alone for a few minutes, I’ll tell Stafford what’s happening. I won’t risk even mental communication, not with the Jugulo watching. He can’t know about my connection to the Beast Lord.
My brand-new boyfriend (I have a boyfriend!) will help me escape when the blood sucker sleeps. Does he sleep? He must. But it’s morning. Why isn’t he asleep right now?
Maybe the vampire will just let me go?
Talk about wishful thinking. My new owner is like a human hiking through the woods who suddenly finds an unmarked bag with ten-thousand dollars in it. What would he do? Pick it up and take it home, of course. Wouldn’t you?
I have magical powers. To my newest client, I’m a lucky find—a virtual four-leaf clover. Damn it.
After this turn of events, simply to survive, I must stay with Stafford in the warded lands. That is, if I manage to break free from this moody bastard in the first place.
Stafford.
For a moment, the thought of being fully committed to the man I love makes me ridiculously happy. Once I escape, every bridge will be burned. There goes my job at MacLeod International. If I don’t live in the magic lands, Sparagis—determined, arrogant assassin that he is, will find me again.