The Darkling's Kiss: Part Two: The Daemon Unleashed (The Daemon's Descendants Book 2)

by Charlie Richards

  Much to Philippe’s disconcertion, he even felt a spike of anger toward Kalylle. Hadn’t he said he’d always get permission before binding him?

  Shit! I gave him permission, even if it was to stun and not bind. I should not be thinking like this. These thoughts are not my own.

  Even knowing that didn’t completely help. It just made him tenser, knowing he’d have to remain even more vigilant. Running a hand through his nearly white hair in agitation, he glanced around at his surroundings. He noted how the short hallway opened into a sitting area.

  The servant returned. Philippe’s gaze shifted to the door two seconds before he walked through it. The elven servant cleared his throat softly to get the others’ attention.

  “The lady is willing to see Master Philippe.” When everyone started moving toward the door, the servant held up his hand. “I’m sorry. The lady will see only Master Philippe,” he clarified.

  The darkling’s brows shot up, and a quick look at Kalylle and Deantmore confirmed what he felt from them. They were surprised, too. He nodded as he forced a smile and gazed at Kalylle, trying to reassure him. He turned away from his friend’s searching gaze.

  “Lead on then,” he commanded, waving his hand.

  Philippe schooled his features. To himself, he readily admitted that he didn’t know what to expect. Hoping that some god would be willing to listen to the pleas of a deamon’s spawn, he prayed he could handle it.

  The elf led him into a solarium, bowed, and left the room.

  He glanced around at the vines and trellises. All around him flowers climbed wood, creating arches and walls. Paths weaved amongst the trellises. Large shrubs, small trees, and bushes lined the walkways. Looking around, he searched for his hostess. Philippe frowned. He could feel her presence amongst all the flowers. She had an air of expectancy, as though she waited for him to find her.

  A test!

  Irritation tore through Philippe, and he hissed through clenched teeth. After a shake of his head, he headed off down one of the paths. Twice he had to stop and reassess where he felt her presence amidst the flowers and trees. Finally, the path opened into a small clearing. Five curved stone benches formed a circle around a marble fountain. Philippe found himself amazed that something like this could be built in the trees.

  Pushing the thought aside, Philippe settled his narrowed gaze on the woman seated on a far stone bench. She appeared to have a slender figure, garbed in a dress of varying shades of deep blues and greens. Her skin looked as black as night and matched the hair cascading in thick waves over her shoulders. Her smooth elven skin belied the advancing age Philippe guessed she must be. Her clear blue-eyed gaze, which watched him with interest, surprised him the most.

  “You are Feline’s mother?” he blurted out. He couldn’t believe he’d just said that.

  So much for tact.

  To his surprise, the woman burst out laughing.

  “Feline?” She lifted a slender black brow. “Is that what she called herself?”

  Philippe knew he didn’t need to answer, so he kept his mouth shut.

  “She always loved that name,” the seer revealed.

  Still uncertain what to say or do, Philippe hesitated.

  The woman continued to smile, the move lighting up her blue eyes. “Have a seat, Philippe,” she instructed, sobering. She indicated a bench next to her.

  Slowly, he rounded the fountain and settled on the bench near her.

  “I am Ta Kale,” the elven woman told him. “I don’t normally accept guests without invitation. It’s only because of your honorable conduct toward my daughter that I decided to meet with you.”

  “It’s fortunate that I met her before Crood,” he muttered quietly.

  A small smile curved the corners of her lips. “What brings you and your companions to my door?”

  He hesitated again. How should I explain? “You have heard about the impending war with the dwarves?”

  Straightening, she nodded slowly. “Many lives will be lost if it’s allowed to take place.”

  “We’re trying to stop it,” he told her.

  A frown etched tiny lines into the corners of her mouth, and she lifted a haughty brow. “And you think I can devise a way to do that?”

  Irritated that she jumped to conclusions, he frowned. “No,” he growled. “We know the how. What we need you to do is to devise a way to locate my missing soul.”

  The black elf sat very still for a moment. Finally, she blinked. “Excuse me?”

  Rising from the bench, Philippe glared. He rested his white hands on the edge of the fountain. Standing stiffly, he snarled, “I am a darkling, Ta Kale. For reasons of my own, I’m helping the wizards stop this war. There are people who don’t like my involvement.” He transformed his glare at the water into a cold smile, which he directed at Ta Kale. “I was caught by a rebel wizard and her friends. She ripped out a piece of my soul. The angel piece.” Lowering his voice to almost a rasp, he whispered, “I made them pay for what they did to me.” Renewed anger ripped through him. “But the damage was done.” He hissed the admission. “In order to track the war’s origins, I need my soul.”

  The anger eroded his control. Striding away from her, he placed the fountain between them. He gripped the edge again, needing something to hold on to, and forced himself to take slow, even breaths. He waited for her response.

  Ta Kale rose from her bench and began to circle the small clearing slowly. She occasionally stopped to finger a leaf or adjust a vine’s growth on a trellis. As he watched her, he struggled to regain control of his temper. He concentrated on the sound of the fountain’s running water as well as his racing pulse, slowing it. After several moments, he looked up to find Ta Kale staring at him across the water.

  “Your internal struggle is great,” she commented. Before he could reply, she asked, “Do you know the spell that did this to you?”

  Philippe frowned, trying to understand her question. “The spell?” He shook his head, replying impatiently, “I’m not a wizard. I don’t know any spells.”

  “The runes, Philippe,” she pressed urgently. “We must know the runes used to create the spell. Do you know the symbols?”

  Philippe stared at her without seeing her. He thought back to when he was chained, searching his memory for the stones that were used. There had been seven of them, but he was only certain of five. “Most of them. If I see them again, perhaps…” He let his thought trail off. “Why does it matter?”

  As she spoke, she slowly made her way around the fountain toward him. “The stones will tell us where your soul has been sent. We must know where to start looking.”

  Amazed at her brazenness, he watched her stop directly in front of him. Reaching up a hand, she traced a finger down his cheek. She whispered softly, “There’s such pain and sadness in the lines on your face.”

  Philippe felt the daemonic lust slam through him at her touch. Grabbing her hand, he pulled it away from his face. “Not…a good idea,” he hissed. Turning away from her, he put some space between them. Running a hand through his short hair, he took a ragged breath and glared over his shoulder at her. He ignored the mild surprise he saw on her features and asked, “You need to know what those runes are, right?”

  Ta Kale nodded.

  “Then let’s go.” Before she could reply, Philippe strode from the clearing. Once again, he found himself surrounded by hanging vines and flowers.

  “Wait.”

  “What?” Philippe growled, pivoting to stare at her.

  “Follow me,” she commanded.

  Philippe realized with surprise that the seer wasn’t the least bit intimidated by him. Her tall figure moved with slow confidence as she turned down another path and walked away from him. He’d been certain he’d chosen the same way that had led him into the garden. Hesitating, he followed her warily.

  The deep green and blue dress Ta Kale wore quickly distracted him. Suddenly, he found himself appreciating the sway of her hips as she walked. Since
he realized the desire he felt surged from his daemon, he gave himself a mental shake and forced his gaze to the plants around him.

  I do not want her.

  In a shorter amount of time than Philippe thought possible, to his relief, the garden trellises fell away. He stopped just beyond the greenery and gazed around a small kitchen and dining area.

  Ta Kale pointed at the table. “Have a seat, Philippe.” Without waiting for him to obey, she turned to the servant, who’d materialized from one of the room’s several doorways. “Bring Philippe’s companions here, please, T’ Pan.”

  The elf nodded curtly and disappeared again, as silently as he’d come. “Can I get you some refreshment? A mug of ale, perhaps?”

  “Water’s fine,” Philippe responded softly. When the elven woman arched a brow in question, he forced a small smile. “Ale is also a bad idea.”

  “And yet you drank it with my daughter,” she stated as she pointed to the pitcher on the table he hadn’t noticed. “There’s water.”

  He filled a mug that had been next to several others by the pitcher and stated, “I didn’t have this problem with your daughter.”

  “Of course.”

  The servant, T’ Pan, appeared again, this time leading Kalylle and Deantmore. The pair glanced quickly around their surroundings before resting their gaze on Ta Kale. The black elf woman stared back. T’ Pan silently turned and left.

  Glancing between them, Philippe indicated the table he sat at. “Join me.” Kalylle immediately obeyed, although there was a question in his deep blue eyes. Deantmore followed the wizard’s example. Once both were seated, Philippe asked, “Do you have your rune stones with you, Kalylle?”

  The wizard smirked. “Does any mage willingly let them out of their sight?”

  Philippe accepted the foolishness of his question. “Will you spread them across the table for me?” He felt the surprise—and resistance—the other man hid. Quickly, he explained, “Ta Kale says we need to know what stones were used in the spell that tore my soul in order to figure out where my soul was sent. If I see them again, I think I can tell you.”

  Kalylle licked his lips, still clearly uncertain, then pulled a pouch from his belt and held it in his palm. He glanced around the room. “Wizards don’t normally show their stones to others,” he told them. “One wizard can learn a lot about another by studying their stones.”

  Deantmore’s gaze swept around the room. “We’ll not speak of what we see,” he promised. “Agreed?”

  When his eyes rested on him, Philippe nodded his agreement. The elven Second-in-Command turned to Ta Kale. She smiled before giving one slow nod.

  Kalylle emptied the contents of the small bag onto the table. The stones clinked against each other as they tumbled out. Philippe stood, leaning toward the pile of small, gray stones. They were thin, less thick than the length of a quarter of a thumbnail, and they varied in shape. He noticed that some were circular, a few square, but most had between five and eight sides. Sifting through them slowly, he pulled out the symbols he recognized.

  “These here were lined up next to me to cast the spell,” Philippe murmured. “But the shapes were different.” He furrowed his brows as he stared at the five stones in front of him, thinking back.

  “It took five stones to cast the spell?” Kalylle asked quietly.

  Philippe shook his head, feeling frustrated. “No, seven, but the other two aren’t here. One looked like this.” He drew a circle with an X inside it. “But the last one, I can’t remember.”

  “Relax,” Kalylle soothed. “It’ll come to you.” He hesitated, then explained, “The one you drew is the symbol for death. I don’t carry that stone anymore.”

  “Death?” Philippe frowned. “I wouldn’t have thought that.”

  “The circle represents the circle of life, or a person’s life force,” Kalylle told him. “The X through it symbolizes a canceling out of that life force.”

  Another thought pushed its way into Philippe’s mind. “How would another wizard learn about you from your stones?”

  “The rounder the stone, the more powerful the wizard is at casting spells with it,” Deantmore answered for him.

  Philippe’s brows rose, staring at the scattered rune stones. Very few stones were square. “Impressive, Kalylle.”

  “You mentioned a seventh symbol,” Kalylle said, changing the subject. “If you could…tell me about your experience. Perhaps I could help.”

  Philippe instinctively knew to what Kalylle referred. He’d shared memories with the wizard before. He shook his head, not willing to discuss that option in front of the others.

  “Perhaps another time,” he muttered, rising from the table.

  Ta Kale’s voice broke the silence. “If you’re not going to help us, we cannot help you.”

  Feeling manipulated and out-of-control, anger seared through him. He spun around, glaring at those staring at him. “Fine,” he snarled. “I woke up chained to a stone table with symbols etched into the surface. I was naked. Their warrior carved shallow wounds all over my body, filling the etchings with my blood.”

  Philippe’s pulse quickened as the memories returned in force. He shuddered as he mentally returned to that point in time, remembering the fear, the rage, the need to escape. Grabbing the back of a chair tightly in his gloved hands, he struggled to stay in the here and now, to keep his voice even as he continued to explain.

  “Demara said my blood activated a holding spell. I couldn’t break the chains, no matter how hard I tried. She lined seven square rune stones on the table next to me in hollowed out notches.” He tensed, hating remembering what had been done to him. Turning his head, Philippe focused on Kalylle, giving him what he knew was a cold, feral glare. “After taunting me, Demara started her spell. She summoned a brilliant, white light, which entered my body. Searing agony enveloped every inch of me. I could feel and hear the tearing. When that light lifted, it took part of me with it.”

  Losing control of his strength, Philippe heard the crack of the wood under his hands. He shuddered, feeling somewhat mollified even as he met Kalylle’s gaze. How dare the wizard make him live through the experience again!

  “I could feel the tearing, Kalylle,” Philippe hissed. “Feel it! Even beyond the agony. I could hear it, too.” The anger and shock from the moment returned in full force. His voice rose to a roar, and any vestiges of control slipped away. “The light disappeared, taking part of me with it!”

  Lifting the chair he clutched, with a cry of rage and anguish, he threw it at the wall. Kalylle and Deantmore ducked, probably on instinct, since he hadn’t chucked it in their direction.

  Kalylle rose and quickly rounded the table toward him. Deantmore followed more slowly. “Easy, Philippe,” the wizard rumbled. “Calm down.” He rested his palm on Philippe’s shoulder, rubbing lightly. “You’re safe here. No one here will harm you.”

  “But you’re not so safe, Kalylle,” Philippe warned coldly, tensing under the other man’s touch.

  The wizard’s eyes widened as he jerked his hand away and backed up a step.

  Philippe knew the other man realized his mistake. Kalylle had moved too close, too quickly…and he no longer had the protection of his magic. The daemon within Philippe knew it, too.

  With the daemon in control, Philippe lunged at Kalylle. He wrapped his hands tightly around his lover’s slender throat. The man’s blue eyes narrowed as he struggled for breath. Philippe realized he didn’t feel panic from the wizard.

  Pain suddenly stabbed through Philippe’s side. When he looked down, his grip loosened a little as he stared at the dagger buried in his lower torso. He felt strong arms wrap tightly around his neck and chest, and he realized that Deantmore had circled behind him. Growling in anger, Philippe shifted his grip to Kalylle’s robes, and he threw the man out the door and into the gardens.

  Reaching over his shoulder, Philippe grabbed the elf’s tunic. He stepped back and tossed the other man over his shoulder and onto the floor in fro
nt of him. Dropping a knee on Deantmore’s sternum, giddy pleasure filled him when he heard the elf gasp.

  Deantmore responded by lifting his legs, wrapping his feet around Philippe’s waist and pulling. One leg curved around the dagger’s hilt, and the blade embedded in his flesh moved. A fresh wave of agony spiraled out from the wound.

  Stumbling backward away from the elf, Philippe howled. He shook his head, struggling to regain focus. Spotting movement, he growled in rage as he watched Deantmore rise to his feet. He saw the elf swing and caught the man’s punch. Swinging the man around, Philippe twisted the elf’s arm behind his back until he heard a satisfying pop.

  Deantmore cried out in pain, and Philippe released him.

  The elf cursed as he turned to face him again. “We come here to help you, and this is how you repay us?”

  The human in Philippe regained enough control to stay his hand. He paused. Frowning, he struggled to regain control. I shouldn’t be doing this. He glanced toward the garden and could just make out the mage’s robes amidst the trees. Kalylle lay unmoving.

  Oh, gods. What have I done?

  Philippe began returning his focus to Deantmore when movement caught the corner of his eye. The flat of the elf’s sword blade across his skull drove him to one knee. Blackness hovered on the outskirts of his vision. Rage returned in force. With one hand he grabbed the man’s ankle, pulling the man’s leg toward him. With his other hand, he gripped his attacker’s thigh and shoved.

  Deantmore lost his balance and fell backward, his head hitting the table on the way down. With his broken arm cradled close to his body, the man stared up at Philippe. The darkling slammed a fist into the other man’s face, and the elf lay still.

  Rising, Philippe searched the room. His gaze finally fell on Ta Kale. The black elf stood where he’d last seen her, across the room next to a deeply scarred counter. He rounded the table, holding her gaze as he approached. To his daemon’s glee, she didn’t retreat. Instead, she stared at him serenely—her right brow lifted slightly as if studying him with moderate interest.