A Demon Bound (Imp Book 1)

by Debra Dunbar

  A shadow touched my thigh and moved up to block the sunlight on my back. I rolled over and thought how incredibly sexy this was to be lying here sweaty and nearly naked, squirming as I shifted on the lounge with Wyatt standing over me. Wyatt’s eyes roved and I adjusted the bikini top making sure to give the girls a good jiggle. My eyes roved too and I really liked what I saw at this angle.

  Wyatt’s eyes stopped and he frowned.

  “What on earth did you do to yourself?” he asked, horrified at the raised red welts in slashes across my body and arm. At least they weren’t oozing any more. “Did you have a fight with some barbed wire last night? Or that bear that tore up Boomer?”

  “I should have stuck with the treadmill,” I said, skirting the topic.

  “They look awful,” he continued, clearly not willing to let go of this one. “I know how quickly you heal; you must have been practically cut in half to still look like that.”

  “I’m fixing them very slowly,” I confessed. “I kinda need to lay low and watch it, so I’m going to look nasty until later tonight. It wasn’t that bad, really.”

  “Why do you need to lay low?” he asked.

  Ugh. Why couldn’t he just stand there and look sexy?

  “I’m a demon, Wyatt. If I make my presence here too obvious, there are things that will come to take me out.”

  That scared look flashed across his face, again. My gut tightened in reaction; here we go again.

  “What things? You’re a demon, what in the world would be able to take you out?” he asked.

  “I’m not immortal. Damage this body enough and I won’t have time to fix it or create another before I die.”

  “Humans wouldn’t come after you for healing yourself,” he persisted. “What would?”

  “Angels,” I admitted. “If they detect us, they come and kill us.”

  Wyatt stared at me a moment. “Angels.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I just let the word hang in the air.

  “So, how did you get these injuries?” Wyatt finally said, breaking the silence.

  “Barbed wire,” I lied. No sense in making him an accessory after the fact.

  Wyatt studied the cuts in silence and nodded.

  “Do I need to burn up another mouse for you? Or something larger, like a squirrel perhaps?”

  Ha, ha. Very funny. Actually I was relieved that he was somehow beginning to take all this horror film weirdness in stride.

  “Nah, I’m good. I’ve got fresh coffee in the kitchen. Grab yourself a mug and pull up a chair.”

  Wyatt looked amused.

  “It’s got to be one hundred degrees out here and you’re drinking hot coffee?”

  “I like it hot.” I told him. “Throw some ice in it if you want though.”

  Wyatt disappeared into the house. I loved that he was so comfortable around and inside my place. Like he belonged here. He’d know right where the coffee mugs were, where in the fridge I kept my special stash of cream. I wished he was as familiar with the upstairs portion of my house as the downstairs.

  I heard him return with his coffee and the scrape of the lounge chair he pulled up.

  “I’ve got to go over to Mom’s this evening for a family dinner,” he said conversationally. “Amber’s home from college. Her birthday is Tuesday and we’re celebrating.”

  “Amber is your younger sister, right?” I asked. I could never remember human family relationships. Back home, no one knew or cared who their parents or siblings were. We were raised in group homes and didn’t have these complicated family trees to keep track of.

  “Yeah, she’s nineteen,” he paused for a moment as if considering whether to continue. “I did have an older sister, but she died before I was born. Rachel was three when she drowned in a neighbor’s pool. I wasn’t born until five years later, and Amber was born five years after me.”

  “Your folks are divorced?” Humans always seemed to get divorced. I couldn’t figure out why they got married at all.

  “No, Dad died when I was ten. He was installing a two–twenty line in the garage for a dryer hookup, and he somehow electrocuted himself.”

  Okay, that was really freaky, given all the electrocution occurring yesterday. Clearly, it was a coincidence since it had happened fourteen years ago.

  “Anyway,” Wyatt continued, “have any ideas on what to get a nineteen year old girl?”

  I moved down my sunglasses so he could clearly see my raised eyebrows.

  “Okay, I guess it’s gift card time.”

  “How about those stuffed animal pillows I see on TV?” I suggested with amusement.

  Wyatt laughed. “Amber isn’t the cheerleader, pink, cutesy toy kind of girl. She’s more geeky– Goth wannabe.” He paused and grinned. “A gift certificate for body piercing and a tramp stamp?” he laughed. “Mom would kill me.”

  In the end, he decided the gift card was the safest option.

  I enlisted his help in giving Boomer a much needed bath, and then we brought the horses in from the heat and made sure water buckets were fresh and hay bags were full. Wyatt headed off, and Boomer and I ordered pizza and settled in to watch TV. Watching one show at a time was pretty boring, so I had installed four TVs next to each other on the wall in a square arrangement. Wyatt said it looked like something from A Clockwork Orange.

  I watched each channel’s news simultaneously, but there was no report on a dead man found in his house in eastern Frederick County. The guy did look like a vagrant, so it could possibly be weeks or even months before anyone discovered his body. He didn’t look the type to have social commitments where his presence might be missed. I decided I should just forget about it and relax.

  Chapter 7

  My Monday morning always starts with the six o’clock Zumba class at the gym. It’s packed because the instructor looks like a Latin god. Everyone loves to get in their early–morning eye candy, and they desperately try to attract his attention with their spasmodic hip thrusts. I try to never miss the Zumba class since I believe comedy is a great way to start your week.

  This class, I positioned myself amid a group of tittering soccer moms. It was great fun, although I had to hold myself back from turning it into a giant mosh pit slam dance. Last time I did that, they kicked me out for a month. Today, I enjoyed watching an eighty year old lady — with a cane no less — shimmy, her boobs flying like weapons around her waist.

  After the class, while everyone else lined up to flutter their eyelashes and thank the hot instructor in rusty high school Spanish, I headed out and did my real workout. There was a flyer for a Judo class and I fantasized for a moment about taking it and beating everyone into a bloody mess. I’m so competitive though that I know I’d be sparring and lose control and pop someone’s head off. That would be a lot of fun, but it wouldn’t be a good thing for my continued life in this realm. No Judo for me.

  I was joining Michelle for lunch and meeting her at an end–of–lease walk through, so I actually showered and pulled on the clean shorts and tank top from my bag. I just watched while she inspected the oven, fridge and carpet. I can’t remember the last time I did a walk through. Usually Michelle only called me in if she thought the tenant might get violent. This guy was harmless. Short skinny balding guy on government disability supplements. He was moving in with his daughter. His eyes flickered to me every few seconds, and if I moved, he jumped in alarm. It was kind of funny actually, so I made a point of moving a lot.

  “The toilet paper holder came off the wall, but I put a new one on,” the tenant pointed out, practically shaking with anxiety. Did he think we were going to yank it off the wall and shove it up his ass? We just wanted a decent apartment and money, not his personal pain and suffering. Sheesh.

  We ended up deducting a carpet cleaning and some dry wall repair from his security deposit. No one gets out for free. We’d find something to charge even Martha Stewart for. Hot glue mark or excess faux stained glass on the lighting fixtures. The guy didn’t argue, and in fact
thanked Michelle and me profusely as Michelle handed him a check and collected the keys.

  “Mexican?” Michelle asked as we locked up and walked toward the commercial area of downtown. This apartment was actually in a decent neighborhood close to the trendy eateries. I think I could get fifty more a month for it now.

  “No way. I need a salad or I won’t be able to shit for a week,” I replied.

  “Lovely visual there, Samantha.”

  I got my salad. Michelle had a ruben and enough fries to feed a small nation. I don’t know where she put it. She always ate hearty, never seemed to work out, and was thin as an international model. I guess good genetics and height made all the difference. Michelle and I discussed work, as we usually did on our lunches. We debated trying a new plumbing contractor, talked about upcoming leases and who might renew versus who might move out. We commiserated about the tenant who was always losing his keys. We charged him for the copies at an exorbitant rate, but keeping spare sets and having someone run them over at very inconvenient hours was wearing on us. I wondered if one of those numerical locks would help. He’d probably forget the number, but at least we could just tell him over the phone rather than having to run over there in the middle of the night. Maybe we could still charge him each time he called for the code. Finally, as we were finishing up, I approached the topic I really wanted to discuss.

  “I’ve got a relationship issue and want your advice,” I said.

  Michelle stared. We seldom discussed personal stuff. I didn’t even know if Michelle had a steady boyfriend right now or not.

  “What, like someone tried to spend the night? Or actually had the nerve to want more than a hook–up in a dark alley? You need to know my advice on where to dispose of the body?”

  Okay, that was hitting a bit close to home.

  “Wyatt and I made out Friday night, but I freaked him out and things didn’t end well. He’s still coming by my house and we seem to still be friends. Do you think I’ve ruined my chances and we’re only platonic now?” Crap, I sounded like one of those whiny, desperate letters women wrote to magazines.

  Michelle squealed like a murdered rabbit.

  “You guys made out? Finally? I want details. Details, girl, details!”

  Great. Now I regretted saying anything at all. I imagined having this conversation with my foster brother, Dar. He’d laugh his head off, then advise me to haul Wyatt into my basement, tie him up, and do whatever I wanted until I got bored with him. He’d think my extended vacation was making me weak and vulnerable. There are no girlfriend talks at home, and this was making me kind of squirmy.

  “We were kissing outside a bar, up against my car, and things got a bit intense. I really freaked him out. “

  “Was he into it at first? What freaked him out? How did he react?”

  Hmmm, how to explain this one.

  “I was doing some stuff to him that he had never done before. He was into it at first, but then I got a little carried away and it was too much for him. I could tell he wanted to stop, so I did. After I stopped he didn’t seem as scared. He seemed angry, but not smash–my–head–against–the–car angry.” How was that for vague?

  Michelle sighed. “You’re not going to give me the details, are you?”

  “Nope,” I told her.

  Michelle looked disappointed.

  “Girl, I always figured you were into the really kinky stuff, but Wyatt seems to be more of a bread and butter guy if you know what I mean.” She wiggled her eyebrows. I wondered if Michelle was into the really kinky stuff. Probably not the same kinky stuff as I was.

  “What happened after?” she prodded. “Before you guys left to go home. You said he’s still coming over?”

  “We talked a few moments. I tried to explain things. I apologized over and over like a damned broken record and swore up and down it would never happen again. He called to wake me up Saturday morning and tell me to get my lazy rear down to the barn for our ride. He seemed cheerful, but cautious and nervous at times.”

  “Have you guys talked about what happened since then?”

  “No, but when something comes up that reminds him, he still gets that scared look. He’s starting to tease me a bit about it though. Is that a good sign?” I was pitiful. The other demons would never let me live this one down if they found out.

  Michelle nodded thoughtfully.

  “I think you should be a little flirty with him. Make a comment, then back off and don’t pursue it. Let him know you’re interested still, but let him make the move. But give him lots of openings where he can make a move, though. He needs to be the one to initiate it, so he feels like he’s the man.”

  I had no idea what the hell she was saying, but I smiled and nodded and swore to myself I’d never do this again. Be flirty, but not too flirty. Give him openings to initiate sex, but not too obvious. Fuck this. If I had to do all this crap just to have Wyatt, I might as well fall back on my traditional approach. The one Dar would advocate.

  I ran a few errands and headed back home late afternoon to see Wyatt heading down my driveway. I pulled alongside and thought about incapacitating him, stuffing him in the Corvette’s tiny trunk and dragging him into my basement. I didn’t have any decent rope, but I did have a lot of duct tape.

  “Hey,” I said to him, restraining my impulses.

  He leaned into the car resting his forearms on the window edge. Seven inches away. I could lean over and kiss him. Or grab him. But I was supposed to let him make the moves per Michelle, the love doctor.

  “What are you doing tomorrow morning?” he asked.

  “Eating oatmeal. Reading the paper. Taking a shower. Naked. With a loofa sponge.”

  Was that flirty? Or too flirty? Shit, I didn’t know how to do this thing. Wyatt did laugh though, so maybe it was the right thing to say.

  “Come over to my place around nine. I want to teach you how to shoot.”

  “With a gun?” I was a bit confused. I couldn’t imagine why I’d ever need to shoot a gun.

  “Yes, with a gun,” he said.

  “Because I clearly need some way to defend myself?” Did he think I was in need of human technology for protection of my person? After everything that happened between us?

  Wyatt reached in the window and ruffled my hair. It was the first time that he’d touched me in an affectionate manner since our ’incident’.

  “No, I just thought it would be fun. “

  “I didn’t even think you shot real guns. Just the computer game ones.” Maybe that was insulting, I though too late.

  “How do you think I killed those groundhogs last fall? The ones you asked me to get rid of?” He laughed. “Did you think I stabbed them with a screwdriver, or caused them to spontaneously combust?”

  I hadn’t considered how he killed them. They were there, putting big, horse–tripping holes in my pasture, and then they were gone. How they got gone never crossed my mind.

  “Okay, I’ll be there” I told him. Didn’t Michelle say I should take an interest in his hobbies? At least this was more palatable than sitting on a couch, waving some little plastic thing around in front of the TV.

  The next morning, I locked Boomer in the barn to be out of the way of any bullets that might loop around the house and whizz onto my property. Satisfied that he was safe, I proceeded to walk down to Wyatt’s.

  Up close, the dilapidated Cape Cod looked like a damned shack. The paint was peeling, and the window sills and eaves showed signs of significant rot. One broken window had a plywood board nailed over it from the inside. Was Wyatt so poor that he couldn’t make even basic repairs to his house? He never complained about needing money, or doing without, but his house was in shambles. From the outside, it looked like he hadn’t done a thing in the two years since he’d bought it. Perhaps his home repairs had started on the inside? It would take a lot to fix this place up, so maybe he was just doing a little at a time? Either way, the place made me feel anxious inside, like I should find a way to sneak Wyatt
more money, or arrange for a contractor to show up free of charge. How could I manage this without offending his pride, I wondered? Then I wondered why I gave a shit about Wyatt’s falling down house or his pride. That wasn’t like me at all.

  It was just as bad in the back yard. There was a dangerously rickety deck off his kitchen, grey with age and full of splintered, bowed planks. He had an equally rickety card table set up on the ground in front of the deck with a target out in my back field. There were cigarette burns, and bottle rings on the card table. An assortment of guns was laid out like at a flea market sale.

  I’d seen guns in movies before but had limited experience with them up close. I remembered a huge long gun about two hundred years ago when I had popped over here for some fun. It was a stupid weapon. It took forever for the guy to get it ready, and then it was just as likely to explode in his face as fire. It never seemed to hit its mark either. I’d pretty much written them off after that. They looked awesome on TV, but I know the liberty producers take with reality.

  Wyatt introduced me to the guns. No really, introduced me. Like we were at a cocktail party. I got to meet Mr. Shotgun. I learned about smooth–bore barrels, the difference between gauges and calibers. This particular one was a 12–gauge, which was supposed to be the most common and thus easier to find and purchase ammunition. It was also a pump action which, according to Wyatt, was more reliable than the semi–automatics, whatever they are. Evidently, I was going to get up close and personal with Mr. Shotgun (whose first name was Remington) before I got to meet the other weapons at the party this morning.

  Wyatt handed me Remington and I just looked at him. The gun I mean, not Wyatt. I stuck the butt end under my arm and grabbed the barrel with my left hand, my right hand on the bottom of the gun holding the trigger.

  “Here, let me show you,” Wyatt said moving behind me. “It’s not loaded.”

  I think I stopped breathing when Wyatt put his arms around me. He moved the butt of the shotgun to the hollow in my shoulder, putting his left hand on mine and moving it back to the appropriate position. We stood there with his arms and hands against mine, the entire front length of his body pressed against my back and rear, and his lips so close to my ear that my hair moved with his breath. A slow warmth built low in my abdomen and eased down between my thighs. Maybe we could stay this way all morning.