Demon Rising (Dark Rising Trilogy Book 1)

by DeAnna Browne

  “By yourself? Were you possessed?” Surprise and pain colored his voice.

  She actually thought she might have been. When she left that night with her father’s knife, she contemplated suicide. The pain was overwhelming, but she made it to the city. As scary as the first few days were, it was better than a past where she couldn’t trust herself.

  “You should have come to me. You could have stayed with us.”

  “They would have found me. You know that.” She pulled her knees up to her chest, trying to warm that cold empty spot in the middle of her chest that appeared every time she thought of that night.

  “I would have gone with you.” He lifted his hand as if to reach out to her, but stopped short.

  “It doesn’t matter.” The lie felt heavy on her lips. She grabbed the flashlight and turned it off. “We better rest while we can.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Sitting in a floral armchair with cats twisting around his legs, Darion wondered what kind of hell he was in.

  Lady Katherine sat across from him. Tears heavy in her eyes, she stroked a calico on her lap. “Can you tell me more about my cat, Sprinkles,” she asked, motioning to the dead cat that lay on an embroidered pillow on the coffee table in between them. Her aged face struggled to keep its composure. “I think it was those damn dirty Mundanes that got her. If it wasn’t for my security, they probably would have eaten her whole. If only the coven would exterminate them as promised.”

  Old and racist. What a peach.

  He ran his fingers through his short black hair that stood on end, while keeping his expression polite. That’s how he made his money: his reputation, his charm and lastly, his talent. He was the best pyromancer in the city, and charged for it. But some days, like today, he felt any good con man could pull this job off. “Exactly what are you seeking to know?”

  “Talk to poor Sprinkles,” Lady Katherine demanded. “Tell me what happened. Does she know who killed her?

  Does she miss me?”

  He strove to put on his best sympathetic face. “I will need to burn her remains to find your answers. The fireplace will do.” He moved to gather the deceased cat from the pillow.

  “Wait? Do you have to use her whole body?” she asked.

  “Can you leave her head possibly?”

  He covered a laugh with a cough and added several others for authenticity’s sake. “The more I have, the more I can see,” he answered truthfully.

  What does she want to do with a head? Stuff it and mount it?

  A contemplative look creased her brow as she pet the other felines meandering around the sitting room. He wondered if he should pity the rest of the cats or envy them. No one would miss him this much when he died.

  “All right. Go ahead.”

  Before grabbing the cat, he heard a scuffle coming from the hall. Magic pulsed, like electricity running up his arms. He recognized the voice and swore silently, before turning back to Lady Katherine.

  “Excuse me for one moment. I have a colleague that seems to have tracked me down.”

  “But what about Sprinkles?” Her voice rose to a cat like screech. “I have paid good money, you know?”

  “You never want to rush something of such great importance,” he said with a gentle tone. “Sprinkle’s spirit will stay strong. Be with him, while you can.”

  She appeared placated for the moment. Ignoring the commotion outside the room, she leaned forward speaking quietly to the deceased feline.

  He slipped through the door in time to find the body of her security guard falling to the floor. “I hope you didn’t kill him. This is one of my better clients.”

  “He’s alive,” Peter said dismissively, while brushing something off his expensive suit. His blond hair feathered to the side with way too much hair product. Not much had changed from their school days.

  Peter’s Soultorn, a neatly trimmed Hispanic man, rested over Lady Katherine’s guard, one foot pressed on the man’s neck.

  Darion had grown up around demons, but their presence unnerved him, no matter the host. He knew what dwelt deep within. The Soultorn studied him, licking its lips.

  “Stop,” Peter commanded. The demon sulked back against a wall lined with pictures of cats and bowed its head in mock obedience.

  “Hey, Pete. I heard the Ryma finally let you have a level four Soultorn as a pet.” Darion nodded to the demon standing by the wall. Ryma was the coven leader and Governor of the city “Finally got the training wheels taken off, huh?”

  “Not everyone just lets magic waste away.” Peter glared as he brushed his dirty blond hair out of his eyes. He was backed by a powerful Soultorn. He had the upper hand, and they both knew it. “Jeremiah wants you.”

  Darion leaned against a nearby coffee table. “I’m in the middle of something.”

  “The car is waiting outside.”

  Jeremiah always picked him up, as the drive uptown took a couple hours and several silver pieces in gas.

  “What’s this concerning?” Darion hated being treated like a second-class maid, running as soon as they said the word. But disobedience came at a cost, and he had run out of chances and excuses.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “You mean you’re not privileged to know. And here I thought they finally trusted you, giving you your own pet and all?”

  He pushed Peter more than he should, but he couldn’t help it. Peter had been a prick since he was ten years old.

  Peter’s sneered and shoved him back up against the wall. His hands sent a tingling sensation through Darion’s clothes. Darion could always get this idiot to rise to the bait, as he did now with precise timing. Peter’s magic was Spirit based, great at controlling demons. But he was never top of their class, and that’s why the demon stood frozen by Peter’s last command, only grinning at the chance of violence.

  Peter’s face burned with frustration. “It’s removing some girl’s Hand of Mary tattoo. It’s one of the few things your pathetic powers are good for.”

  “Of course,” Darion said while pulling power from his own demon, locked in a pentagram at home. He itched to strike out, release the fiery inferno burning inside of him.

  Peter let go of him, his dark eyes seething with rage. “I could finish you.”

  He might be right. Darion had never taken on a level four Soultorn before. “But you won’t.”

  The coven needed him. It was probably the only reason they tolerated him.

  “Just finish up and get in the car.” Peter motioned for his Soultorn, and they left without another word.

  Darion took several deep breaths, steadying the magic burning to get out, and replayed Peter’s words in his head. "Some girl’s Hand of Mary tattoo."

  What are the odds that the tattooed girl is her? Becca?

  CHAPTER 7

  It didn’t surprise Becca when the dream returned again. It always began the same, in her family’s barn with Caleb. His arms were warm and secure around her as he playfully tackled her onto soft hay. Her light laughter filled the barn, only silenced when his lips pressed against hers. The kisses, playful and sweet, began slowly. Bliss blossomed in her chest, flowing to every part of her body.

  It wasn’t going to last. It never did.

  The dream slowly morphed into something dark, every kiss leaving a rancid taste in her mouth. Caleb was no longer Caleb, but a black demon, twisted and evil. Its tentacles grabbed at her, consuming her. She startled awake.

  “It was just a dream,” Caleb murmured, rubbing her arm. “Just a dream.”

  Her heart raced as she struggled to breathe. She pushed Caleb’s arms aside and turned away. She hoped she didn’t say anything while dreaming. Could he know? She thought she’d drown in the doubt and shame of her past. She wished he would say something.

  “You okay?” he finally asked.

  Maybe silence was better. Becca avoided the question and checked her watch. “We need to get going.”

  His first night back and she was already acting like a frea
k. She grabbed the backpack, ignoring Caleb’s concerned looks.

  Without another word, they headed toward the city. Dawn peered out over the trees by the time they crossed through the gates. The city guards, with demon dogs at their sides, nodded them through. Two ragged Mundanes were of no concern to them.

  She couldn’t help her slight embarrassment as she approached her apartment building. Four stories tall, most of the windows were boarded up. There was no key to enter and the elevator had been broken since she’d arrived. The manager was fair, though, and on lucky days the water ran hot.

  Wood stairs moaned under their weight as they trekked up to the fourth floor. After the takeover, city maintenance had fallen apart. Magicians enjoyed the luxuries of modern electricity and appliances, and, for a price, you could have them. Magicians often spouted the doctrine of freedom and blessings of magic. But none of them had to take cold showers in the winter, or better yet, had to fight a rogue demon with their bare hands.

  “This it?” Caleb asked as she paused in front of 4G.

  “Home sweet home.” The sarcasm in her voice sounded empty and turned to a deep sorrow for what they both had lost. This was the only home she had left. Everything else was gone. Lost in thought, she unlocked the door and stepped aside to let Caleb in first.

  “I thought you said you lived alone, Becca,” Caleb said.

  She whipped out her knife. One of Nikko’s men reclined on her bed, a book in hand.

  He lowered the book and sat up. “Easy, girl.”

  “Get the hell off my bed, Grismo.” She didn’t have much, only a small studio apartment. Her only excess was a pile of paperback novels and a coffee pot that recently broke. But it was hers, and Grismo knew better than to sneak in.

  He raised an eyebrow. “What? You didn’t say that last time.”

  “There was no last time.” Her hand itched to slap his ridiculous smile.

  “That’s right. It was in my dreams. And you were fabulous by the way. Didn’t talk at all.”

  “Get out.” She spit out between her clenched teeth. She wasn’t in the mood for his jokes.

  “Come on, girl,” Grismo started.

  “Do as she says.” Caleb notched an arrow, pointing straight at him. “Grismo, is it?”

  Grismo raised both hands in the air. “Whoa. No need to get testy.”

  An arrow flew and stuck into the wall, inches from his head. Caleb usually wasn’t this short tempered, but they’d both been through hell. Grismo needed to leave.

  Grismo jumped off the bed, mumbling a string of expletives. “Tell your boy toy to relax.”

  Caleb was no one’s toy, but she enjoyed watching Grismo about to piss his pants. “What do you want?” she asked.

  Grismo kept glancing at Caleb. “Nikko wouldn’t like me dead, girl.”

  “A hole or two wouldn’t hurt, especially if I told him you were in my bed.”

  The last words appeared to have struck Grismo. He straightened his back and smoothed out his dark shirt. “Nikko wants his money and the bike. He sent me here when you didn’t make it back last night. He couldn’t have one of his runners actually taking off.”

  She took the bag off her back and found the envelope. “Here’s the cash. I got mugged and lost the bike.”

  Grismo took the money and began to count it. “Mugged, really?”

  “Long story. Give Nikko the money, and tell him to keep my cut to help cover the bike.”

  He laughed and tucked the envelope in the back of his pants. “You think your cut is going to cover it?”

  “I’ll work off the rest. He knows I’m good for it.” Her words snipped with annoyance. She couldn’t deal with the bike or Grismo right now. Her sister came first.

  “Don’t think you can tell Nikko how the deal is going down,” Grismo said, a dark edge entering his voice. “He’ll come and get you soon. I’m sure.”

  Caleb tensed and readied his bow.

  “You should leave. Now.” Becca bristled at the threat.

  “I’m not sure,” Caleb interrupted. “Maybe we should sell his body bit by bit, to pay for the motorcycle.”

  Grismo froze for a minute and laughed nervously. “I think I like you,” he said to Caleb and headed for the door.

  Caleb moved to the side to let him leave, the muscles in his neck still taunt.

  “Maybe this guy can survive you, after all.” Grismo shut the door behind him.

  Elizabeth paced the confines of her bedroom. The doorbell rang. She paused for a moment. It must be who Jeremiah was waiting for. She continued pacing, picking at her nails. She ached for her mother, someone to ease the knots in her stomach.

  The sun peered through the window, framed with lace curtain. It taunted Elizabeth, who had been trapped in this floral nightmare of a room. From the roses on the wall, to the iron flowers woven in the bed frame, and dried flowers on the nightstand, either Jeremiah or his maid, Paula, had a thing for tacky flowers.

  Elizabeth glanced at the unfinished letter on the desk, and the attempted letters that filled the wastepaper basket. Every time she tried to write home, the words felt inadequate. She was expected to write letters of thankfulness for this opportunity to get married, but gratitude escaped her.

  She had been on a strict schedule since arriving. Even walks were supervised. And now, her tattoo? Her uncle said her parents knew about removing her tattoo, but why? What was their reasoning?

  Jeremiah had told her no future husband would want her to have a tattoo. It could be hiding some evil lurking inside.

  At the time, she didn’t argue. Shock had overwhelmed any commonsense objections. Now, at the idea of someone burning her flesh, she could think of a million or two reasons to not go through with this. First of all, it would hurt.

  Second, why would her husband care if it protected his wife? She would wear her hair down for the rest of her life if she needed to keep it from him. When they discussed this arranged marriage at home, Jeremiah never said anything about removing her tattoo.

  Elizabeth jumped at the sound of the door. It was Paula, carrying in the tea. The older woman had a strong beauty that was lined with slight wrinkles. Brown curly hair framed her face with never a curl out of place.

  “Here, sweetie, something to calm you down and help with the pain.”

  I’m not your sweetie. Elizabeth bet this woman wouldn’t be so eager if she was to have an iron stuck on her skin.

  “I put honey in it,” Paula said, coaxing her into the chair.

  Elizabeth murmured a quick thanks and took the cup. She tried to remind herself that it wasn’t this woman’s fault she was stuck in here like a prisoner awaiting her doom.

  Paula sat across from her on the bed, watching her drink the tea.

  The sweet taste of honey overwhelmed the flavor, and Elizabeth savored the warmth down her throat. Maybe she could just talk to Jeremiah, convince him to wait until she met her fiancé. She took another drink then set the cup down and closed her eyes. The room spun slightly. She pressed a finger to the bridge of her nose, fighting off what felt like a migraine.

  “Paula, do you think we could do this later?” Elizabeth asked. “I’m not feeling that great.”

  “Of course not. The specialist, Jeremiah called, is already here.”

  Elizabeth fought her drowsy eyes. “I’d feel a lot better about it if I could talk to my parents first. Or write them a letter.”

  Every part of her felt heavy, though her heart beat quickened. Anxiety pricked at her skin. She wanted to run, but her limbs were not obeying.

  Paula stood and retrieved sheets from the closet, covering the bed. “Don’t worry about a thing. Jeremiah will take good care of you. He wouldn’t let anything happen to you.” She took Elizabeth’s arm and led her to the bed. “Come on dear. Let’s lie you down. They’ll be here soon.”

  Elizabeth tried to pull back but her arm felt like rubber, as if it wasn’t connected anymore to her brain. “My drink. Was there something—”

  Her
speech slurred as her vision became hazy. Something was wrong.

  “Of course sweetie. Jeremiah didn’t want you to have to be in pain during this. I told you, he’d take care of you.”

  “But, but—” Her screams of protest were unvoiced, muted inside her mind.

  Trapped in a body with no control, she was placed face down on the bed. Paula tied something around her wrists and ankles. This was wrong. No matter what Jeremiah said, this was wrong.

  Paula tugged at her hair and zipped down the back of her dress.

  People entered the room. Muffled voices spoke as if they were far away, yet someone approached her. She tried to squirm away, but hands steadied her.

  “Be still,” Jeremiah’s deep voice radiated through her body.

  She couldn’t fight the pull of her heavy lids and found peace in the darkness.

  Without warning, a scalding pain shot through her body. Her eyes snapped open. She couldn’t control the scream that erupted. The high pitched cry sounded animalistic. She arched, pulling against the restraints. Pain pierced her to the core as if severing some vital part of her soul, something that she had never known was a part of her.

  CHAPTER 8

  Darion closed the door on the crying girl, and a guilty relief washed over him. He leaned against the wall in the narrow corridor. Thank God, it wasn’t Becca.

  The young girl’s pale hair and full face was a stark contrast to his ex-girlfriend’s. The only similarity lay on the girl’s back. The Hand of Mary tattoo matched Becca’s exactly, down to the blue ink. He could only wonder what that meant. The powerful tattoo carried a complicated spell few knew and even less could afford.

  Soft cries traveled under the door. A nauseated feeling, which had been present in his gut since he first placed a hand on the girl, threatened to overwhelm him. He hurried to the bathroom down the hall and shut the door. Bent over the sink, he repeatedly splashed cold water over his face. He didn’t dare raise his face to the mirror. He loathed himself for working for the coven, especially Jeremiah.