Demon Rogue (Brimstone Magic Book 3)

by Tori Centanni

  “I gave you what you asked for, Dani Warren,” she said.

  Ice shot down my spine. I’d only given her my first name, but she obviously knew who I was. Hell, she’d probably looked me up when I’d come by earlier and the receptionist had claimed she wasn’t around.

  “I didn’t ask to be drugged,” I shot back.

  “I’m sorry.” Se bowed her head. “But I have to protect myself.”

  I tossed my flame at her. She vanished.

  I stared, dumbstruck. She’d disappeared into thin air. That wasn’t possible, not if she was a witch. She might have used some kind of illusion spell to make it look like she’d disappeared and then slipped away. But I was standing in front of the only door.

  I took a step toward the space she’d occupied to examine it for signs of a trap door or something.

  The store’s alarm blared overhead.

  I swore, grabbed my coat off the hook, and hurried out of the shop. I got in the car, quick to leave before the mundane authorities arrived. Whatever magic trick Jade had used to get away, I wasn’t going to learn her secrets tonight.

  I was back on the road before I thought to check my arm. I pulled over and took a good look at my right upper arm. There was a black, quarter sized flame inked into my skin, which was red and puffy around the new wound of the tattoo.

  And then a cop’s lights blared on behind my car, along with a siren. I cursed, hoping to hell this guy hadn’t seen me leave the tattoo parlor.

  I reached into the glove box for Silas’ registration. I checked the date and noted it had expired two days ago. Of course it had. Damn the luck.

  A cold chill ran over me.

  I studied the tattoo more closely but it didn’t look strange, beyond being new and a little red. It didn’t look cursed. But appearances could be deceiving, especially where magic was concerned. And Krissy’s tattoo didn’t look cursed, either.

  The cop checked my license and noted my registration had lapsed. I explained it was a friend’s car and I’d let the friend know. He wrote me a ticket for unlawful parking that was going to cost me almost half of what Krissy had paid me that afternoon.

  I took the ticket and drove carefully, keeping to the speed limit, hoping to get home without tempting fate.

  Sadly, fate had a way of throwing obstacles into my path.

  Chapter 5

  “I’m not cursed,” I said, twisting my arm to get another look at the black mark on my skin. I hated it. I felt violated, almost as badly as when I’d been possessed by a demon. Jade had marked up my body without my consent and that alone was bad enough. “That’s absurd, right? It’s just a tattoo.”

  “Anything can hold dark magic if the magician is skilled enough,” Penelope said, tilting her head to study the mark on my arm.

  The tattoo burned a little but as I’d never had one before, I didn’t know if that was normal.

  “She was a witch?” Penelope asked, poking at the wound with her sharp nail.

  I winced and yanked my arm away. Penelope was a crow shifter and her fingernails, while not as sharp as talons, were filed to fine points. “I don’t know what she was. Her aura wasn’t a witch aura but it was…weird.”

  Penelope raised an eyebrow. As a shifter, she didn’t see auras like witches did, but she could sense supernaturals in other ways. “What do you mean? One is either a witch or not a witch. There’s no in-between.”

  That wasn’t strictly true. Plenty of witches who had only a little witch blood would consider themselves kitchen witches or even mundanes, unable to cast spells but perfectly capable of brewing up a potion or two with an old family recipe.

  I tried to figure out how to explain it. “When I looked at her, it was like her own aura couldn’t decide. And then there was her magic. She used witch magic to curse me, I could smell the herbs. And she used some kind of sticky drought to paralyze me. But then she vanished into thin air, like a noble faerie.” I shook my head. It didn’t make sense. “How can she have so much disparate magic?”

  Penelope recoiled, physically moving back against her kitchen counter, away from where I stood in her living room. “Is she a skin shifter?”

  “How do you mean?” I asked.

  Penelope clamped her mouth shut, suddenly looking away as if she’d said too much. She had a long neck and tan skin, and dark raven hair that was up in a stylish bun. She wore a black tunic with lace on hem and cuffs and a pair of black leggings. Even in leggings, she had way more style than my jeans-and-t-shirt self could hope to achieve.

  “What’s a skin shifter?” I asked.

  “The term originally referred to Native American magicians who wore the skins of animals to shift into their forms. Skin walkers, and the like. It is a sacred rite among some of their tribes.”

  I frowned. “That doesn’t sound bad.”

  “It’s not. But skin shifters are different. They are power-stealing mages who don the skins of other supernaturals in order to steal their powers.”

  My stomach churned at the thought. “That’s disgusting.”

  “If a skin shifter is in the area, I must go,” Penelope said, and headed for her bedroom.

  Penelope’s apartment layout was the mirror opposite of mine, with the bed on the other side. Although if you looked the way our units were decorated, you might not be able to tell they were even in the same building.

  I followed her into her room. She was in her closet, fiddling with a safe. “What are you doing?”

  “Fleeing the area until it’s safe. My kind’s skins are highly prized by such barbaric magicians. The ability to transform and fly are powers that many earth-bound creatures envy.”

  Couldn’t deny that. There were plenty of times being able to take to the sky would have saved me a lot of grief. Not to mention the cost of gas.

  “Almost no one even knows you’re a shifter,” I pointed out. Like me, Penelope played her cards close to her chest. She was wary of revealing her nature to others. Which, if there were evil magic users who’d happily skin her alive to steal her magic, I could understand.

  She slammed her safe shut. “I will seek answers. In the meantime, I suggest you keep a low profile. If this person who cursed you is a skin shifter and she learns of your magic…”

  A cold chill ran down my spine. I’d shown Jade my magic when I’d conjured demon fire to throw at her.

  “Wait, that doesn’t even make sense,” I pleaded, even as Penelope began to strip down. Shifters could not shift their clothes, although Penelope was good at weaving illusionary clothes when necessary. “Why would a skin shifter curse me?”

  “If atramancy is the power she stole, perhaps she’s practicing for something bigger,” Penelope said, yanking off her shirt and tossing it into a black laundry bin just inside her closet.

  “Atramancy?” I felt more and more out of my depth by the minute.

  “Ink magic. Infusing spells—or curses—into ink. It’s an ancient trick witches used to use to make contracts in their favor.” She shot me a scolding look. “Surely you’ve heard about it. Or are witches so quick to forget their history?”

  “There are as many kinds of magic as there are people,” I shot back. “I can’t know them all.”

  “In your profession, I would suggest you learn.” She finished stripping down and shut her closet. I didn’t want her to leave. I had too few allies and if I’d been cursed, not just branded with an ugly little tattoo, I was going to need all the help I could get.

  “How can I tell if the tattoo is really cursed?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose luck will tell. Now, if you would close my window after my departure so the rain doesn’t ruin my room. Safe paths, Danielle.”

  In a blur, Penelope shifted into a sleek, black crow and flew straight through the window. I stared after until she was nothing more than a spot in the sky. Then I shut the window and went back to my own apartment to try and figure out what evil magic had been inked into my skin.

  * * *

  After
an incident last month, I’d gotten a second cauldron and spell kit to keep in my apartment, in addition to the ones I kept down in my office. I tended to do more magic in the office but it didn’t hurt to have supplies closer at hand.

  I gathered ingredients for a quick hex-canceling spell: jasmine, star anise, caraway seed, and rose water. I ground the herbs in a pestle and tossed them into the cauldron with a splash of rose water. Often I’d spit in the spell if it needed something of me but this time, I pricked a finger and let a drop of blood fall onto the wet mash. Smoke rose from the cauldron, bright green in color. I wafted it over me, especially my shoulder, and chanted, “Dispel the spell” until the smoke dissipated.

  I then soaked a rag in the concoction and once it was wet with the brew, pressed it against the tattoo. Pain exploded in my arm. I dropped the rag and it hit the floor with a wet plop. The tattoo burned like I’d pressed a hot poker against it.

  I stared into the cauldron. It looked like an anti-hex potion and smelled fine, but I must have messed it up somehow. Maybe a bug or animal hair got into the mix and ruined it. Once my arm stopped hurting too much to move it, I dumped the contents of the cauldron down my sink and rinsed it out. I wrung out the rag and tossed it into my laundry hamper and washed the pot.

  I was out of anise, so I’d have to hit the store before brewing another anti-hex spell. I settled for slathering a lotion-like healing salve over the wound and covering it with a bandage.

  I did a cursory search for skin shifters, but most of what came up that wasn’t porn was stuff related to video games. Sometimes the internet was your friend, sometimes not.

  I searched for atramancy as well, and garnered far fewer results but about the same amount of information. With a sigh, I grabbed my sword and pulled on my leather coat, happy that it covered the tattoo. At least I could keep anyone from seeing it.

  I checked the microwave clock. It felt late but it was only one a.m. Plenty of time to go beat answers out of people.

  I didn’t make it two blocks before sirens blared to life in an alley as I passed. I stepped back, assuming the cop car hiding there was about to pull out into traffic and chase down a speeder. Instead, the car door opened and shut. A woman in a police uniform approached me, expression serious. She pointed to my sword.

  “That a prop?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I lied. “I’m in a play.”

  She nodded like that made sense. “You know it’s illegal to carry a sword.”

  I did know that. I usually did my best to avoid people like her who also knew that and might feel inclined to do something about it.

  “It’s just for a play,” I argued. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten hassled by mortal cops, but twice in one night was unheard of.

  “Even so,” she said. She looked around and then leaned in, as if about to share a secret with me, her new sword-carrying actress friend. “Look, I like the theater, okay? So why don’t you take the sword to your show and leave it there. Or transport it in a car trunk or something next time. Just don’t let me catch you walking around with it on your belt again or I’ll have to write you a ticket.”

  I nodded and quickly made haste down the block, waiting until I’d gotten far enough away to duck down a side street where I was less likely to get hassled a third time.

  Arms grabbed me and a knife’s blade pressed against my throat before I heard footsteps behind me. My heart hammered into my ribs. I struggled to turn and see who was behind me. I could only see the sleeves of their sweatshirt.

  “Lachlan?” I croaked.

  The arms loosened. “No.” The voice was low, male. His arms were strong.

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  “You’re not the changeling,” the man said and the knife dropped. He pushed me away from him in disgust.

  I whirled and raised my sword to attack. The man had a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder and carried a bow along with his knife. He wore a black hooded sweatshirt and dark jeans. The hood was pulled over his head, crusty with the reddish brown of dried blood. Like Lachlan, he was a red cap. He just wasn’t one I knew.

  He was also the second faerie I’d run into in an alleyway in two days. That was another unsettling coincidence and I didn’t like where that was going.

  “What changeling?” I asked.

  He scowled. “None of your concern, witch. Mind your business or I’ll bathe my hood in your blood.”

  “Your hood needs a good wash on the warm cycle,” I said. He sneered. “If you tell me who you’re looking for, I might be able to help. I’m a PI.”

  “And I am an honored Redcap of the Unseelie Court. I need not the help of mortal witches who tinker with magic.”

  “I wouldn’t say tinker…” I said, annoyed. The fae’s arrogance grated on my nerves and I didn’t have time for this crap anyhow. I had a skin shifter to find and curses to lift. “Forget it. I have my own people to track down.”

  “May your path be straight,” the redcap said.

  I muttered that it probably wouldn’t be and continued down the alley.

  If I couldn’t get three blocks without getting stopped, it was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 6

  I spent the next two hours haranguing my contacts for any information they might have on skin shifters. Finally, an exasperated warlock suggested I speak with Belinda Langley. Which is how I found myself driving to Seattle at three in the morning, hoping that Belinda was a night person like most witches.

  Belinda was an older woman who lived in a small house on Capitol Hill, which used to be the cool neighborhood back when the broke gays and goths could afford to live there. Some still did, but most had been forced out of Seattle’s center into the suburbs or as far north as Everett, where I lived, thanks to rising rents.

  Belinda largely avoided local witch events and kept to herself, but I’d met her about a decade ago, when I was a teenager. I doubted she’d recognize me even if she remembered me.

  Her house was a narrow two-story craftsman with a porch held up by blue pillars that matched the siding. The trim was white and a little grimy but the front yard was neatly manicured with cobblestone-lined flower beds. I didn’t see any herbs growing, which was strange for a witch who gardened (fresh herbs could make spells more potent) but maybe she kept those around back.

  I knocked and was surprised when a woman with dark hair and only slightly-lined skin opened the door. She was svelte, in skinny jeans and a button-up plaid shirt. Only a single gray hair flew free from her mane. For some reason, I’d been picturing an old crone, like the witch who gave Snow White a poisoned apple.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “I’m Dani Warren. I’m a witch,” I said, though she no doubt could see the glow around my aura. “I was hoping to ask you about skin shifters.”

  She sucked in a breath and then quickly checked the street behind me, as if she were scared someone might be around to overhear. Then she ushered me inside.

  Her living room was larger than I’d have guessed from the exterior, with a big sectional around a fireplace, a television mounted to the wall above it. An arched doorway led into the kitchen. The aroma of something fragrant and herbaceous cooking on the stove filled the air.

  “There’s a skin shifter in Seattle?” she asked, rubbing her shoulders as if trying to get warm, though the house was a pleasant temperature.

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure that out,” I said. “I was told to speak to you.”

  Her shoulders tensed and she peered out the window before quickly closing the blinds. “By whom?”

  “A warlock at the Lighthouse,” I said. The Lighthouse was a bar near the waterfront in Everett. It hadn’t started life at as a supernatural haunt, but the creepy ambience and the salt-water smell seemed to draw in witches, warlocks, and shifters and eventually the place was purchased by an enterprising shifter who decided to take advantage of its appeal and cater to the arcane crowd. It was probably the one supernatural club
I’d ever been to that wasn’t species specific. Witches, vampires, shifters, warlocks, all drank there together.

  “What makes you suspect a skin shifter is in the area?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  Cold washed over me despite the warmth of her home. Goosebumps erupted on my arms. She was seriously freaked and it was freaking me out. “I’m just considering the possibility. But skin shifters are witches, right? There’s no reason a witch should be afraid…”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand. Skin shifters collect magic. Every witch has different skills. Every skin might add to their repertoire.”

  I shuddered, my stomach roiling at the thought. I pictured a skin suit like the one in Silence of the Lambs, only made of supernatural parts, pelts from shifters stitched to pale skin from vampires, and felt sick. “How do you know so much about them?”

  She pulled up the sleeve of her shirt to reveal a long, nasty-looking white scar running from her elbow to her wrist. “One tried to skin my arm. Well, all of me, but the arm was where he started.” She stared at the line in her skin. “I managed to beat him with a binding spell that nearly killed me. It took all of my energy and even then, the Council had to come get him post-haste before it wore off.”

  I swore under my breath. “I’m sorry.”

  She leaned in and whispered, “To tell the truth, I used brimstone to enhance the binding spell. It wasn’t illegal back then but I don’t like to speak of it, especially these days.”

  “You did what you had to,” I said firmly. The Council’s laws against any magic involving demons or the Underworld—including brimstone, a substance from the Underworld that could enhance one’s power—were fairly recent and entirely too strict.

  She waved a hand. “It was two decades ago now. He killed two of my friends and hunted me down like an animal.” She shuddered. “That particular monster is no more. The Council strung him up for his crimes. But I would prefer to live out my days without encountering another of his kind.”

  I nodded, swallowing. “This witch didn’t try to skin me, which I guess is a good sign.”