by Larissa Ione
That the demon stood a full foot taller and had a mouthful of sharklike teeth didn’t matter. The male’s nudity was more disturbing than anything. Nightlash pecking order was determined by the size of their genitals, and clearly, this one would have to look up to see the bottom rung of the social ladder.
Which was probably why he had to take his pleasure wherever he could get it, even a shithole like this.
“The only rule in a blood gallery is that you can’t kill or torture the humans,” Wraith said. “So if I want to plant my seed in every female here, you can’t say dick about it. Maybe I’ll find your mate and take her while you’re banging that guy you were sucking on.” He gave a pointed look at the other demon’s cock. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate the, ah, sizable difference between me and you.”
The Nightlash gnashed his teeth and closed the distance between them. “Cocky maggot.”
Wraith clenched his fists and got right up in the male’s face. “You ready to bleed?”
Violence was prohibited in the blood gallery, but aggression permeated the air, ramping up Wraith’s need to let off some steam with a good fight. Or, he thought, as he eyed a glassy-eyed male human leaning against a wall in the back, with some drugged-out blotto. Though he’d definitely make the guy put on some pants, because while Wraith fed on male humans, they did nothing for him sexually. Hell, even if they did, he couldn’t get off with one. Seminus demons could only climax with a female.
The Nightlash snarled. “Watch your back, Sem.” He’d said “Sem,” like he’d been spitting out something nasty. And judging by the humans he’d been wrapped up with, he probably was used to spitting out nastiness.
Wraith flipped the other demon the finger. Growling, the Nightlash strutted off, heading for a human male with an orange collar around his neck and a crack pipe between his lips. All humans wore color-coded collars that corresponded to whatever drug or drugs they favored. Red for heroin. Blue for powdered cocaine. Yellow for alcohol. Pink for Ecstasy. Here, in a blood gallery, humans traded sex and their blood for all the free drugs they could handle. And since many species of underworld creatures, including vampires, could only get high by ingesting the blood of a human who had recently smoked, injected, ingested, or snorted drugs, blood galleries had become increasingly popular.
Something tugged at the hem of his jeans, and he looked down to see a scrawny, red-haired woman at his feet. She was naked, like pretty much every human in the place, her body covered in bite marks, her pink and yellow bands standing out starkly against her pale skin.
“Want some?” she murmured in Russian.
He closed his eyes. He didn’t feed on human females. He didn’t fuck human females. But that’s what E and Shade were asking him to do.
“I can’t,” he rasped.
“That is what you are here for, yes?” The woman’s hand slid up his thigh, and he came back into focus with a jolt.
His eyes flew open. He’d avoided human females since he escaped the hellhole his mother had raised him in, but now his reasons seemed stupid. He’d not wanted to hurt them, he’d not wanted to deal with the memories. But these females didn’t care about being hurt. Hell, they might even like it. As for the memories…those could be dimmed by taking in enough medicated blood.
Something wiggled in his jacket, and Mickey popped his head out of the pocket.
Wraith sighed. “What the hell are you doing here, buddy?”
The redhead giggled and slurred, “Is that a weasel in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
A vampire approached, a big male who kept a wary eye on Wraith as he went to his knees and hooked a large palm around the redhead’s thigh to drag her against him. Never taking his gaze off Wraith, he fisted her hair to yank her, back to his chest, and sank his teeth into her throat as he began to fuck her. The woman moaned and melted against him, her pleasure creating a pink flush in her too-pale skin.
Mickey nudged Wraith’s hand, and nausea swirled in his gut. What had he been about to do? Lose himself as thoroughly as that human? As that vampire? He hated vampires, hated himself for being one. If he could stake that bastard right now he would.
But if he stayed here and let himself sink into oblivion, he’d be letting his mother win. She’d wanted him dead from the moment he was born. He’d fought to live, and though he’d done some incredibly stupid things to get himself killed, something deep inside always kept fighting.
Besides, who knew what would happen to the little weasel if Wraith gave into this insane weakness?
So fuck it. He was going to live. He was going to find Serena, take what he needed, and rock on.
And once he was nicely charmed, he was going to start taking out vampires. Starting with the Vamp Council, which had been torturing Eidolon for years.
Oh, yeah. Let the good times roll.
Scene #2:
This scene takes place on the train back to Alexandria…
Wraith left Serena in her room — at her insistence. He’d wanted to stay with her, watch over her, keep her safe. But she’d begged him for some time alone, and he got that. Besides, his room was next to hers, with a door between them so their compartments connected.
They could have shared one, but with his illness getting worse, he wanted privacy when he needed it, like a few minutes ago, when he texted the demoness again. He still hadn’t heard back from her, and he was getting antsy.
Then there was the issue with his brothers. Shade had called, said Wraith should get Serena to The Aegis as soon as possible if he couldn’t take the charm. Basically, Wraith had until they got back to the States to make his move, and if he failed, Serena must be protected.
For the fate of the world.
No pressure.
Problem was, he didn’t trust The Aegis, not when Byzamoth knew every move she made. And worse, he didn’t know if he’d even make it back to the States. He needed to tell her the truth — about his illness, anyway. She needed to be prepared to take care of herself.
Now changed into jeans and a long-sleeved Hard Rock Cafe Cairo T-shirt, he mustered what felt like the last of his strength and headed to the dining car, where Serena said she’d be.
The train had been shooting down the tracks for an hour now, and he wanted to do a walk-through of all the cars before he sat down with Serena. He didn’t sense any dark presences on the train, but that didn’t guarantee something malevolent hadn’t boarded with them. Fallen angels were first-rate evil with an arsenal of mysterious tricks up their sleeves.
He did a sweep of the train, his facial dermoire earning lots of dirty looks, but ultimately, he sensed nothing out of the ordinary. Well, nothing too out of the ordinary. He was pretty sure one of the coach passengers, a Japanese tourist traveling with a dozen others, was ter’taceo, some species of demon like Wraith, that appeared human. Most were harmless, and this one had only blipped on Wraith’s radar because he’d been actively feeling for demonic presences. Whether or not the demon sensed Wraith didn’t concern him. Demon etiquette usually meant that no one acknowledged the other in a human setting.
It wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye on the guy, but when it came right down to it, Wraith had sensed a lot more evil radiating from pure humans on the train. At least one of them was a Dark Soul, a killer of his own kind.
Handy how his vampire senses told him more about humans than his Seminus instincts ever would have. Still, he’d give them up in a heartbeat if it meant ridding himself of everything that made him a vampire, from his fangs to his driving need for blood. He didn’t mind the drinking — hell, he liked the taste of blood. What he didn’t like was how it reminded him of what he was. And he hated having to put his mouth on any human.
Any human but Serena.
His mouth watered at the memory of how she’d tasted last night. Her kisses were always sweet, her skin always flavored with vanilla spice, but wh
en he’d been between her legs…he’d been as close to heaven as he’d ever get. The feel of her on his lips and tongue, her essence sliding down his throat like mulled wine…gods, he could do that all night long.
Better if he could bite her right there on her inner thigh. That way he could drink his fill of her completely, and her pleasure would be magnified by about a million times. At least, that’s what he’d heard. Under the right circumstances, a vampire’s bite could be a sensual treat, but done in such close proximity to sexual organs, orgasms were more intense, longer, and, some claimed, a full-body experience.
Man, he’d love to give her that, to watch her as she came apart under his touch, his tongue. His body hardened and his canines throbbed as though preparing for exactly that. His nostrils flared, seeking her scent, which he caught as a faint draft of vanilla from ahead. Baring his teeth, he honed in on her scent, until the shocked gasp from the old lady who’d looked up as he walked past her seat.
Cursing to himself, he spun around, avoiding eye contact with the woman who had witnessed his elongated vamp chompers, and dropped his phone. He crouched down, letting his fingers brush her feet. His long-sleeves hid the glow of his dermoire as he channeled his gift into her, giving her a brief nightmare full of people with vampire fangs. When he finished, she’d think his teeth had been part of that dream, or, at least, a figment of her imagination.
Palming his phone, he stood, tucked it into his jeans, and then reversed course once more, heading for the dining car. A cramp in his stomach made him weave drunkenly before catching himself on the back of a seat, reminding him that he was running out of time.