Demon of Vengeance: Chronicles of the Fallen, Book 4 Page 9

  Sebastian sat there, his hip pressed to hers as he leaned across her, his expression inscrutable. His palm was braced on the mattress beside her hip, pinning her in place. He regarded her with such intensity she fought the urge to squirm.

  “What are you?” His question came out of left field.

  She sucked in a sharp breath. How could he know? How had he figured out that she wasn’t—

  “I know you don’t trust me, not yet. But in order for me to do my job, in order for me to protect you to the best of my ability, you have to tell me what you are.”

  He waited. She swallowed. He cocked an eyebrow. She blinked. He was clearly growing impatient by her continued silence. Still, she couldn’t do it, couldn’t tell him what had happened to her, what she’d seen in the mirror the day she’d learned of her father’s death.

  Eventually, Sebastian heaved a sigh. “Mark my words. I will find out, Phoebe. I don’t know what you’re so afraid of, why you fear telling me. But I’ll find out.” He stood and bent over her. And then he flattened his hands on either side of her shoulders, pinning her as he got in her space. “I will find out. And I’ll still stand beside you. I’ll protect you anyway. Even if I have to protect you from yourself.”

  He dropped a soft kiss on her forehead, shocking her speechless, before he straightened and moved toward the door.

  “If you can get up, can get dressed on your own, and meet me downstairs in twenty minutes, I’ll take you back to Mexico tonight. Otherwise, the trip will have to wait until you’re stronger.”

  “I don’t have any clothes,” she pointed out, cursing when her arms shook violently, threatening to give way as she pushed up on the bed once more. Phoebe squawked in surprise when a stack of neatly folded clothing appeared beside her without any warning.

  Why did she get the feeling she was in over her head? Way, way over her head.

  “Thank you,” she said, gritting her teeth in determination. Perspiration beaded her upper lip as she managed to get into an upright position. She clutched the sheet to her chest with one hand and reached for the pile of clothing with the other. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me, Sebastian. You’ve been…beyond kind.”

  He stopped halfway across the room and slowly turned. The smile he sent her nearly stopped her heart.

  “Sweetheart, there are three very important things you need to know about me…know and remember above and beyond anything else. First, I don’t have an altruistic bone in my body.”

  Phoebe blinked.

  “Second, when I want something, I won’t ever stop until I get it. Not. Ever.” He paused, stared at her for a long moment, stared hard, as if to make certain she not only heard but completely understood every last word. A heavy sense of foreboding settled in the pit of her stomach and she frowned.

  “And third… I. Want. You.”

  The smile he gave her left her with no doubt in her mind over what he’d meant by that last remark. And then he vanished. A long moment later, she sucked in a shuddering lungful of air. That old adage about frying pans and fires came back to her once more.

  “What did I just get myself into?”

  Chapter Six

  Ashïek strode inside Stolas’s great hall, flicking a cool glance at the Charocté near the door. He noted the one crouching at the end of the dais waiting to rush forward to serve Stolas’s every whim, as well as the one hovering beside a smaller door at the rear of the room. Disgust simmered through him. He’d never understood Stolas’s need to surround himself with servants.

  No, perhaps slaves would be a better term. Slaves, the finest in crystal and tableware, excessive furnishings, and objects brought back from Earth. All on display for everyone who entered Stolas’s domain. As far as Ashïek was concerned, it was just overkill. Every last piece of it. Just like this mausoleum. Ostentatious.

  Ridiculous.

  The bastard was clearly overcompensating.

  But Ashïek kept his thoughts to himself and his face carefully blank. Stolas might be an egotistical little prick, but he was also Lucifer’s grandson. As such, he had a hell of a lot more wiggle room than most, and Lucifer’s ear.

  You’d think that would be enough for a demon, wouldn’t you? As Ashïek approached the long polished black table, he rested his hand on the pommel of his sword and tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Your highness.”

  Thanks to his rank in Lucifer’s army, he didn’t have to offer a more elaborate greeting. Not like the Carpathï currently dusting Stolas’s onyx floors with his knees. Ashïek would rather have his head removed than be forced to kneel before this entitled asshole.

  He took the seat Stolas irritably motioned him toward and hid his smirk over Stolas’s position at the head of the table, and the throne-like chair the prince occupied. Ashïek’s attention flickered over Sïnsobar, the only other notable demon present. The Carpathï, a skin-shifter of great repute, met his stare for a split second before returning his attention to Stolas’s feet. The skin-shifter’s arms were crossed over his chest, his fists pressed to his shoulders.

  Distaste for this submissive, groveling position left an unpleasant taste in Ashïek’s mouth. Yet one more example of Stolas’s insecurities, his need to maintain such rigid formalities. Truthfully, the demon prince was powerful. But his strength and his standing had come by his bloodline—he’d not earned it.

  Not the way Ashïek had.

  “I am not pleased with your report,” Stolas snarled. With a wave of his hand, he motioned to the Charocté near the rear door. The slave bowed low and opened the door admitting another demon. The Animagi hobbled inside and across the room.

  Ashïek arched a brow at the minion’s condition. For reasons unknown to most, Dimiezlo had curried special standing in Stolas’s legions.

  Oh, how far the mighty had fallen.

  The fur coating the creature’s goat-like legs was matted with dried blood. His face was a pulpy mess. The skin covering his chest was a sheet of solid pink, fresh skin newly grown from where the old had been peeled away. When Dimiezlo reached the dais near Sïnsobar, he prostrated himself on the ground without a sound, not an easy position given the anatomy of his lower body. His back was flayed open with dozens upon dozens of fresh slashes. The skin on his wrists was ringed with blisters and burns. Ashïek knew of only one metal that would leave that kind of damage on a demon’s skin. Quini. Double the torture, double the fun.

  But the most heinous of his injuries came not from the wounds to the minion’s flesh. His horns had been removed…torn from his head, very slowly, judging by the bloody uneven stumps. One of the most severe and vicious punishments that could be meted out to a demon.

  Oh, they’d grow back. Eventually. And that was yet another form of torture. Regeneration of a body part was, oftentimes, more excruciating that its removal. But regeneration of horns?

  Ten times worse still.

  Dimiezlo must have seriously pissed Stolas off.

  “I will not accept failure again, Sïnsobar. Am I clear?” Stolas berated the kneeling demon, spittle flying from his black lips.

  The skin-shifter glanced sideways at Dimiezlo, his focus on those bloody stumps. He turned a bit green around the gills, and forced a visible swallow. “Yes, your highness.”

  “Leave,” Stolas commanded, his fury making the veins in his forehead and neck bulge and his face turn a darker shade of red. “Both of you.”

  Ashïek looked on, unimpressed, as the two minions shimmered away in a heartbeat. He understood all too well Stolas’s purpose in summoning him here at this moment, and in staging this little show. Dimiezlo’s torture had been designed to teach Dimiezlo a lesson. Dimiezlo’s appearance had been a warning to Sïnsobar. And the entire performance had been orchestrated to intimidate Ashïek.

  Apparently Stolas had missed the memo. It took a hell of a lot more than that to put a Hunter like Ashïek in his place.


  “Would you care for some wine? Perhaps something more substantial?” Stolas asked, suddenly the epitome of a gracious host.

  That was the other thing about Stolas. The only thing predictable about Stolas was his unpredictability.

  Ashïek declined with an abbreviated shake of his head.

  Stolas’s expression soured, most likely because Ashïek had thwarted the opportunity for yet another pompous display of gluttony. With an irritated sigh, Stolas settled back upon his throne. He braced his elbows on the armrests, and tapped his fingers together.

  “How are your plans coming along?” he finally cut to the chase, a condescending, narcissistic king passing judgment on his lowly, incompetent troops.

  Bloody arrogant little prick.

  “You know I don’t discuss my activities…with anyone.”

  Stolas’s eyes flickered red and the muscles in his jaw clenched. He took another deep breath, and his eyes changed back to their customary black.

  “I trust you do not anticipate any…complications?”

  “I always anticipate complications. That’s why I always win.”

  Hatred seethed in Stolas’s expression. His nostrils flared and he dragged in another breath, let it out slowly. Ashïek toyed with the idea of asking him if the breathing technique actually worked or if it was all for show.

  “I have had word the Guardian has disappeared,” Stolas said.

  “She will resurface.”

  “Sïnsobar reported she was on her way to the ruins.”

  Ashïek held his tongue, waiting. He hadn’t been able to figure out why Stolas was so concerned with this particular human. He already had possession of the Sword of Kathnesh. What difference did it make what this woman did, or where she went?

  “I want to know why. What does she hope to find?”

  Again, Ashïek remained silent. His lack of response was getting under Stolas’s skin. Ashïek didn’t think he would have cared one way or another but, quite frankly, he was beginning to enjoy himself. Just a bit.

  “I don’t have to tell you what will happen if she somehow finds a way to take the sword from me, do I? Especially not now that Temptation’s Halfling bitch is pregnant,” Stolas spat those words out like they were poison upon his tongue.

  Ah, so his little fertilization experiments aren’t going so well.

  And just the fact that Ashïek knew about those experiments was yet another reason why Ashïek never discussed his plans with anyone, nor would he willingly surround himself with prying eyes and ears. As long as even one other being knew what you were up to, nothing was a secret. Ever.

  “I don’t want the Guardian or the Fallen anywhere near that temple.”

  Ashïek tilted his head. What was Stolas so worried she’d find? Perhaps this temple warranted a closer look.

  Stolas shifted in his seat, drained the goblet on the table before him, and then set the crystal stemware aside. “Sïnsobar said the female is cloaked with a dampening spell. An extremely powerful one. So powerful, in fact, that at first he mistook her for human.”

  Now that finally stirred his interest. So the new Guardian wasn’t human? At least, not fully. Interesting.

  But the old Guardian had been.

  And he’d died like one. Bleeding and screaming. A lot.

  But she wasn’t a Halfling either, judging by Stolas’s lack of rush to acquire her. That meant her mother would have been a demoness. But who? And where would the mother have found a cloaking spell? Whose grimoire had she taken a peek into? Not to mention, a cloaking spell with the kind of power to last at least two, nearly three, decades? He could only guess at one such spell book. And only an idiot would attempt such a feat.

  An idiot…or one damned determined female looking to protect her offspring.

  “One other thing. I have a special…project for you.” Stolas let a self-satisfied smirk roll across his thin lips. “I have someone I would like you to spend a little time with. Someone I want you to exercise your considerable talents on.”

  “And who would merit my time?”

  Stolas drew the moment out, as if savoring it for all it was worth. “The Demon of War.”

  Ashïek slowly straightened in his chair. “I don’t have time for games, Prince Stolas.”

  “This is no game.” Stolas leaned back in his seat, steepling his fingers before him. “When your portals went awry and the Fallen’s mates escaped—”

  “My portals did not go awry. Your scheme failed because you trusted the wrong gutter trash when you allowed Mortikaï in on your plot.”

  Stolas growled low, snapping his teeth. Ashïek wasn’t intimidated, or amused. Stolas’s carelessness could send them all on a one-way, torture-filled trip straight to Oblivion should Lucifer ever find out.

  “I commissioned another, shall we say, more…motivated minion to portal the Demon of War straight to my dungeons,” Stolas finished as if Ashïek had never spoken aloud.

  Ashïek gritted his teeth. Great. Another loose end. He was done dealing with loose ends. “And the demon you commissioned?”

  Stolas waved a careless hand toward the far wall. Ashïek turned in his seat to look at a severed head atop a polished golden spike in the corner.

  Finally, the prince had done something right.

  “I’ll take War with me.”

  “You will torture him here.”

  “No. You want War to suffer? It will be done my way, on my terms, in my domain.”

  Stolas looked like he was about to burst a vein. Frankly, Ashïek didn’t give two shits. Nothing in this mausoleum was safe. Even the conversation they were currently engaged in left him uneasy. Too many ears equaled trouble.

  Finally, when Ashïek refused to relent, Stolas conceded petulantly, “Fine. Have it your way. But I will require proof he is being dealt with…appropriately.”

  “Proof you shall have.” Proof, but nothing that could be traced back to Ashïek.

  “It is done then. And, General, when you bring me the Guardian,” Stolas went on, his condescending tone grating on Ashïek’s last nerve, “you can keep Vengeance’s head for your trophy wall.”

  “I don’t want his head,” Ashïek sneered, slowly rising from his chair. He stared down the length of the table at Stolas through cold eyes, determination to defeat his nemesis deadening him to all else. “I want his wings.”

  * * * * *

  Phoebe opened her eyes and blinked around her living room. Sebastian released her hand, and she stepped forward feeling like a drunken sailor regaining her sea legs. The falling sensation that accompanied shimmering wasn’t unpleasant, not as Sebastian had warned. It just took some getting used to. Now that she wasn’t sick from venom poisoning, the experience was actually enjoyable. In fact, it was almost…fun.

  “Make it quick,” Sebastian warned as he moved farther into the room.

  “I will.” She’d glanced over at him as she’d spoken. But she stopped to watch him, confused. He held himself rigid, a vicious looking dagger palmed and ready, as if imminent attack was anticipated.

  Clearly, he’d lost his mind.

  Who would attack them here? Shaking her head, she retrieved a spare backpack from the closet, then crouched to dig through the baskets of folded clothing near the foot of the stairs. She really should take these upstairs and put them away before they left. After removing several changes of clothing and undergarments and stuffing them into the huge bag, she turned to the coffee table.

  As she sat on the couch to shuffle through the papers stacked there, she caught movement from her peripheral vision. Completely baffled, she watched as Sebastian eased from one shadowed corner to the other, dagger still at the ready. Her lips parted and her brow puckered when he suddenly jerked the long drapes near the French doors away from the wall and peered behind them. The only thing missing was the dramatic “ah, h
a!” at the unveiling.

  His shoulders relaxed, ever so slightly, only to tense once more as he began stalking on hunter’s feet toward the shadows in the kitchen. He paused for a moment, then flipped the kitchen light on and leaped into the room in an obvious battle stance. His stare darted this way and that as he searched for…something. When he didn’t find whatever it was he was looking for, he slowly relaxed, a look of consternation darkening his brow.

  Fascinated, entertained despite her promise to hurry, Phoebe leaned back against the couch, the papers in her hands forgotten as she observed his odd actions. She watched as his eyes narrowed once more, and he slipped from the kitchen, intent on the stairs.

  She couldn’t take it anymore. And she couldn’t hide the humor from her tone. “Sweet Kinich Ahau, what are you doing?”

  Sebastian paused long enough to shoot a curious glance her way. “Sweet what?”

  Phoebe absently waved his question away, “Mayan sun god. Now tell me what you’re doing?”

  “Shh.” He padded past her, constantly, warily searching.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered back, stifling a giggle.

  “I’m looking for that damned little monster,” he hissed.

  Phoebe twisted around and went up on her knees to keep track of him. She braced her forearms on the back of the couch. “What monster?”

  Sebastian paused at the foot of the stairs and peered up into the darkened recesses. He placed one big boot on the bottom step and eased up like a master burglar. Or an assassin on a mission.

  “Sebastian,” she insisted, louder now. “What monster?”

  “Your cat,” he snapped, his voice filled with disgust.

  She straightened, and then pushed to her feet. “I don’t have a cat.”

  His head whipped around, and he peered at her with a truly alarmed expression. Like he might fly to her side and shimmer her out of there in the next instant. “Damn it. Maybe it was a shifter. Or a comptestra. I knew I should have fried it when I had the chance.”