Demon Dreams

by Nikki Sex

  I’ll have to discuss this with him later, without people around.

  I know what happened.

  Self-sabotage is a psychological phenomenon, but I never considered my casual thought of suicide as genuine. In the future, I’ll be careful. Even my demon took me seriously. Would he really have let me die?

  Unconsciously, I achieved the equivalent of shooting myself in the foot and stabbing myself in the back at the same time.

  Pretty damn impressive, when you think about it.

  Chapter 28.

  Bonded to the Beast Lord, I sense his overwhelming need, his inner wolf’s life and death adrenaline. He can’t restrain his passionate nature.

  Animal or human, he must defend and protect his mate.

  We spent part of last night hunting, killing, and feasting. Then, thanks to the magic of moonlight, Stafford and I screwed non-stop for hours. Passing out makes sense. I’m surprised I’m not comatose from exhaustion.

  As a doctor myself, I’d expect my patient to be weak and faint.

  The physician, a tall, slim man, gives me the “all clear.” By the time he’d arrived, my pulse was back to normal. Competent, soothing, and well-trained—he can find nothing wrong with me.

  Stafford’s fists clench, hard, round and lethal as wrecking balls. Glaring at the doctor, the Beast Lord wants answers, and he wants them now. What my mate really wants is a guarantee that there’s no chance of losing me again.

  “My Lord,” the physician soothes, “Your mate is extremely healthy. Her heart is strong.”

  “Then why the hell did it stop?” His voice is deep, hard, and intimidating as fuck.

  The less dominant wolf nervously licks his lips, begins a detailed overview concerning cardiac conduction and blood flow. Stafford, in love and newly mated, is overly protective. I’m certain that’s the doctor’s actual diagnosis.

  Not that the M.D. would dare say that to his King.

  Once we’re alone, Stafford couldn’t be more attentive.

  With far too much concern in his eyes, he arranges the delivery of a variety of food and drink. Enough to feed ten werewolves, it arrives, along with a tray table, fine tableware (not silver, of course), and linen napkins. After all that energy expenditure, we’re nearly as ravenous for food as we were for each other.

  My doting mate won’t let me leave our bed, so he joins me there. Side by side, we concentrate on satisfying our “other” hungers. I can’t blame him. It’s not every day your partner’s heart stops from a casual death wish—not that he knows that. I seriously freaked him out, but honestly, there’s nothing wrong with me…physically.

  I accept his excessive attention good naturedly, even though I feel anything but good natured.

  I feel like an imposter.

  Worse, I don’t deserve his generous consideration. I still need to confess the unwelcome truth of our raven army. I feel as guilty as if I’d recently acquired a raging STD, or committed a murder for shits and giggles.

  I imagine telling him my paltry excuse, “I didn’t kill anyone, I only enslaved them!”—which is no excuse at all.

  Once we eat, and the dust has settled, I explain what happened. I start at the beginning—even though Stafford knows much of this already.

  I describe my life as the non-shifting Alpha wolf in Faery, while my inner monster was lost in the void. When my angel father returned me to Earth, he used the Spirit-Orb to conjure an ancient demon. At his command, the demon trapped thousands of ghosts in a tangled ball of sorcery. My douchebag dad planned to use their power to destroy Earth’s protection, and to open a portal to Faery.

  “It was Toby who found and returned my demon to me,” I explain to Stafford, gesturing with my fork. “Remember how he suddenly arrived in that cavern? Once he was close enough, my demon jumped from Toby into me, kick-starting my heart.”

  Sitting beside me, my mate swallows a swig of beer. “I thought only humans or supernaturals could host a demon?”

  “That’s true, but you see, Wonder Dog once was human.”

  “Yeah?”

  “My father told me Toby pissed him off. As punishment, he turned him into a dog.”

  “Incredible.” He shakes his head, processing the stranger-than-fiction fact.

  “I could never have untangled that spell on my own. Without my demon, I’d be a ghost, suffering within a sorcerer’s spell for eternity.”

  Stafford embraces me suddenly. I hug him back, to calm him. I sense his thoughts: he’s remembering my death in that cavern, imagining what I went through. I still have occasional nightmares or flashbacks, but mostly, I’m OK.

  He pulls away, holds up his beer. “Let’s drink to him, then. To Toby, the human Wonder Dog, who saved my mate’s life.”

  “Here, here!” I raise my glass, take a sip of wine. “When I was in ghost-form, I could see my inner friend. He’s no Chris Hemsworth—closer to the hive queen in Alien, but he does have a certain charm. Want to see what he looks like?”

  “Sure.”

  “OK. Better hold your breath and brace yourself. Here goes, um…something.”

  I send him an image of my inner monster, he’s a misshapen cross between a giant raven and a dwarf. His skin the texture and color of coal, troll-like face, hunchback, crimson eyes, wings, and a raven’s beak.

  Stafford’s beast is fascinated, while the man himself calmly purses his lips in a contemplative manner. At least he isn’t running or screaming—not that I expected he would. He’s the kind of guy who eats possible threats.

  The Beast Lord’s no Little Red Riding Hood. He’s my big, bad, Alpha wolf.

  “Aren’t his blue-black raven wings glorious?” I ask.

  “They are.”

  Glad you like them as you have an awesome pair yourself, I think, carefully hiding my sardonic thoughts. As a matter of fact, the rest of our pack does, too. Isn’t that great? No need to thank me. Really. It was nothing.

  I clear my throat. “So, what do you think of my demon?”

  “He almost looks like a shifter, you know? Maybe one from another world.”

  “Hmm. Could be, but that’s the only form I’ve ever seen.”

  Taking a gulp of wine and a deep breath for courage, I describe what it felt like to be one of thousands of spirits suffering eternal damnation. Without details, I let him know that the time I spent within the demon’s spell was by far, the worst thing I’d ever endured.

  “Time passed differently in spirit form. Christ, words can’t express how hideous it was. Confusing, excruciating, degrading. As my body was successfully revived—I couldn’t have been down and out long. I was dead only minutes, yet it felt like forever.”

  He holds my hand, links our fingers. “Don’t talk about it unless you want. You’re here, now. You’re safe.”

  I give him a self-depreciating half smile. “Yeah, later I’ll tell Samara all my shit.”

  “Leave it then, dear heart. Rest. You never have to leave the Magic Lands again if you don’t want. Stay here, where it’s safe. I’ll look after you.”

  In a sudden spike of sizzling anger, I jump up from the bed. “Don’t say that! You don’t need to protect me. I can protect myself. I’m responsible for myself!”

  Confused, he pushes to his feet in alarm, but doesn’t come closer. Several expressions cross his face before he settles on a carefully neutral look.

  I feel his need to hold and comfort me, but uncertain, he keeps his distance. Still attentive. Still concerned, damn him!

  Why does he have to be so fucking nice? I’m prepared for his anger, but his sympathy will be my undoing.

  “Jan, what is it, sweetheart? What did I say?”

  “Don’t treat me like a victim!” I snap in fury, using anger to hide my fear. “I’ve been a victim before—I’ll never be one again!” This proclamation comes out as an unexpected snarl. “This wasn’t the same. It’s not the same!”

  “OK.”

  Disturbed, I pace as if plugged into a zillion-watt outlet. I feel
like a woman on the edge. I’m having a bad day AND the worst PMS ever.

  “I’m accountable for my actions. I’m in charge. I’m no innocent—I know what I’m doing!”

  “You do.” He agrees with alacrity.

  “I have a baby demon, for God’s sakes. He’s my responsibility. If I screw up, I only have myself to blame.”

  “You’re a strong, capable woman. You’re my mate, we’re the Spukani Pack Alphas.”

  “Then don’t try to rescue me. I don’t fucking need it!”

  “You’re not a helpless pawn, you’re not prey,” he observes, using his best soothe-the-psycho tone. “I never said you were.”

  “This stupid thing with my father’s spell is not the same!”

  “So you said. I believe you, sweetheart.”

  “Stop being so God damned nice to me,” I shout, then dumbfound myself with abrupt, inexplicable tears.

  In two quick steps, Stafford wraps his arms around me. I unsuccessfully try to shake him off—I don’t want his pity, or whatever this is, but he holds me tight. The man is so damned strong, he effortlessly raises me into his arms.

  Sitting down on the bed, he places me on his lap, cuddles me close. Once there, I cry like a girl, which when you think about it, is no surprise, really.

  “Shh, shh, you’re alright, honey,” he murmurs in soothing, loving tones, while gently kissing my head, stroking my back. “I’m here. It’s OK.”

  His kindness makes me feel worse.

  My inner wolf is baffled by my feelings, but happy to be in the Beast Lord’s arms. My inner monster sings his joy at my storm of violent feelings. As per usual, my demonic pal hasn’t a clue.

  Stafford assumes my out-of-whack emotions are the result of a flashback. He’s not totally wrong, but he isn’t right, either.

  I feel like an infant in his large, muscular arms. Burrowing into him, I accept his comfort, breathe in his scent. I can’t afford to get my demon worked up, so I do as I must to calm down.

  I accidently collared Stafford. He’d been furious I’d betrayed his trust, yet he forgave me and apologized for his reaction. He told me the magic of love overcame the magic of the collar’s compulsion. Will he forgive me this time?

  The Beast Lord is as reliable as his solid, steady heartbeat. Lethal to his enemies, he’s soft and sweet to me. Strong, caring, protective. He’s perfect.

  I want him.

  I need him.

  But I don’t deserve him. Not after collaring his United Packs, and enslaving every single one.

  Chapter 29.

  When my hitching gasps return to normal, I shrug on a cotton bathrobe, cross my arms defensively. “I’ve been a victim. I know all about feeling helpless from abuse. I’ve also had my share of poor-me-pity-parties. Why do you think I studied psychology? I’d hoped to sort my own shit out.”

  He rubs my back. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Sometimes the worst people impart the best lessons. They teach you the things about yourself you most need to know.”

  Stafford wisely says nothing.

  I drop into the armchair across from him. I need distance between us, or I won’t be able to tell this story. I need to envision my life as two separate people—who I was, and who I am now.

  “Once upon a time,” I begin, “there was an average girl, who worked twelve hours a day at the local Lord’s mansion. The girl’s father died fighting Napoleon in the early 1800’s. That’s when her mom began losing her mind.

  “One day, her mother managed to conjure up a demon, God only knows how. The girl’s mom was a hopelessly incompetent woman, so instead of conjuring a powerful spirit, she brought a newborn baby demon into our earthly realm. The resultant bonfire killed her mother, while the demon took the girl’s body as host.

  “The young woman preferred sex as a source of feeding for her inner demon. It was that, or um, meals involving blood, pain, or death.” I shake my head, take a deep breath. “She stole the lord’s prized stallion and told herself she was off to see the world. In truth, she was running away.

  “At first, all went well. Men,” I raise an eyebrow, “and women fell in love with the young woman the instant her demon fed from them. They provided her with anything she wanted.

  “Then one day, when nineteen years old, the young woman was kidnapped. You might envision rape, which would be fine for a woman such as she—after all, within moments her demon would’ve owned the rapist. But no, she was abducted as a housekeeper-cook-slave by a couple of violent men with ‘mommy issues.’

  “The 1800’s were a brutal time for children, particularly for those in poverty. I don’t know what transformed these two men into devils, or if they were born this way, but one in particular took out his childhood angst on the young woman. Whatever ill treatment they’d received at their mother’s hand, they tripled it upon her. Even worse, these abusers only got off sexually by assaulting kids under the age of ten.”

  Rage rolls off him in palpable waves. A vein stands out on the side of his neck, the muscles in his jaw work furiously.

  If he doesn’t stop grinding his teeth, he’ll crack a tooth.

  I know how he feels.

  I quickly move on, “The details, which I’ll omit, are worse than you can imagine. Sometimes she was locked away, alone in a cold, dark cellar, panicked from claustrophobia, and slowly starving. She was beaten and treated with contempt, while forced to work her fingers to the bone cleaning house and cooking. This was not only for the men, but also the children they’d kidnapped and brutalized.

  “The abused children were mainly boys, but sometimes girls. The innocents were sold to other pedophiles. Could there be anything worse? When the kids became too old for their sordid tastes, they sold them to brothels. Sometimes they, or their paying customers killed them.

  “Her demon learned to feed on fear, violence, blood, and despair. She was victimized by him as much as by the assholes who regularly used their fists on her.”

  Stafford snarls viciously, clearly unable to stop his beast from expressing deadly wrath. Leaping to his feet, he begins pacing with barely-contained fury.

  I wait patiently while he takes a few turns of the room.

  Eventually, he drops back onto the bed. When our eyes meet, his gaze reflects horror, rage, grief, and sympathy.

  Aiming for detachment, I say, “The girl was terrified of becoming possessed, of dying, of somehow making things worse. The longer it went on, the more uncertain she became. She was so damaged and full of self-doubt, that she did nothing at all.”

  Stafford’s posture is more relaxed, but his beast still throws off sparks of snarling, angry energy.

  “Are you alright?” I ask him. It’s a valid question. His wolf is very close to the surface, snarly, ferocious, and feral—not that Stafford or his inner animal would ever hurt me.

  Fists clenched, he says, “As much as I can be, considering the circumstances.”

  “Ah well, there’s worse to come.” I sigh. “You’re not going to like what I have to say. You may not even like me after this confession.”

  His expression softens instantly. Taking my hand, he lifts it, kisses my palm. “Never. I’m sorry. I hate what you went through, but I could never hate you.”

  “Good.” I take my hand back. “Hold on to that thought.”

  “We are bonded.”

  I snort. “You make it sound as if mate bonding fixes everything. I can name a crap ton of problems mating ties can’t fix. Taxes. Theft. Murder.”

  Slavery.

  “Bonding is the ultimate in trust. It does fix everything.”

  “Right,” I say, trying not to sound too skeptical. “At that time, the threat of becoming demon possessed was a very real fear.” I rub my palms on my robe. “Those two men were the first people she—”

  I pause, give a self-deprecating half smile. “I mean I. We both know who the victim is in this tale.”

  Stafford nods, his expression carefully neutral.

  I clear
my throat. “Well, those two were the first humans I intentionally killed.” The memory still gives me a rush of satisfaction and triumph. “By the heavens, death magic combined with justifiable revenge, was beyond glorious.”

  His eyes glitter with satisfaction. “I’ll bet.”

  “It was also justice. They never hurt anyone else, not ever again.”

  He nods, studies my face. “How long were you held captive?”

  I wait a beat, uncertain how he’ll react when I tell him. “Three years, six months, fifteen days, fourteen nights.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  It’s his third “sorry” so far. Now, he’s back to the tooth-breaking-jaw-clench thing.

  I shrug, rub my hands on my robe again. “The real danger was my demon. He’d learned all the wrong lessons, you see? It took time to undo the damage. Having fed exclusively on a diet of violence and abuse, he’d developed a taste for it. I had to replace his destructive urges with more positive appetites. Either that or rid the world of him by killing myself.”

  Stafford growls.

  “Yeah, that wasn’t my first choice, either,” I snort a half-laugh.

  Chapter 30.

  I take a large drink of water, sooth my dry throat. “I had to do something, so I resolved to focus on the virtues. It was up to me to set a positive example. Prudence, restraint, humility, wisdom, justice, persistence, kindness, patience, and courage. How else could my demon learn that power, magic, and energy can come from being good?”

  “I see.”

  “Unfortunately, during death magic, much of the deceased’s personality, their memories, their knowledge and experience is passed to me.” I wince. “Terrible stuff. So much darkness.” I let out a ragged breath. “I felt like I needed a couple of exorcisms. Ultimately, those memories were simply another challenge to overcome.”

  Stafford moves toward me. I hold up my hand in a ‘stop’ gesture.

  He wants to gather me in his arms, longs to comfort me. I don’t want comfort. Not now. Maybe not for a long, long time.