Candy Houses

by Shiloh Walker

  “I don’t really have anything else going on right now,” I told the orin. “I can always use company.”

  I didn’t turn my head to look at her, but I was tempted.

  If she had known, if she had any idea the misery and pain she could unleash by using that book, would she have still done it? Illogical as all get-out, if you ask me, but people do crazy things for youth, strength, power and beauty. Plenty regret it later on, but when it came to demons, regrets didn’t do much good. You were already gone, past hope by the time you realized the danger.

  We want the girl, they told me, their voices as one, a low, vicious snarl inside my head that made my skull ache. We will have the girl. But we can wait.

  They started to fade, returning to the netherplains where the demons resided.

  Enjoy your…company. The last word was followed by a laugh that sent shivers down my spine. They disappeared, and immediately the air became easier to breathe and the ice in my blood thawed ever so slightly.

  I blew out a breath and crouched down by the girl.

  She was breathing. I could hear both her heartbeat and the soft, steady sounds as the air passed in and out of her lungs. She might have had her eyes closed, but she looked every bit as hard now as she had a few minutes ago when she’d been about ready to rip into me for interfering.

  A hard life.

  She’d led a hard life. I could see it in the stiff, rigid way she held herself, even in unconsciousness. I needed to touch her, but I was reluctant to do so. This could really only go one of two ways—either she wasn’t too far gone to save, or she was. If she was too far gone, I had to kill her.

  Even after all this time, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Even after all this time, it leaves me sick for weeks after.

  But my role in this was clear—it had been almost from the first. I am the way I am because I’m meant to help people. That means protecting them, from themselves, from demon predators and from the monsters that walk around in human skin.

  My hand shook as I reached out to touch her, but before I could make contact, I heard something.

  It hissed.

  Something brushed against the back of my neck, a hot, fetid breath of air. I didn’t wait another second. Rolling to the side, I scrambled to my feet just in time to face what had to be the biggest damn bocan I’d ever seen—nearly twice my height and easily three times as wide.

  Bocan—it’s the Irish name for the bogeyman and oh, holy hell, if you’ve ever faced one, you’d understand why people feared the dark for centuries on end.

  “How in the hell did you get here?” I muttered.

  But I already knew.

  Somehow, the orin were responsible. Responsible or involved. It was the only thing that made sense. The bocan weren’t strong enough to manifest in this world. They dwelled in the netherplains and they could only come from there to here if some being strong enough forced open a doorway.

  I hadn’t ever heard of any orin opening actual doorways, but they had known about this behemoth.

  Enjoy your…company, they’d said.

  They hadn’t been talking about the girl.

  They’d been talking about the bocan.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In his two-hundred plus years on earth, Rip had done some hard things, some ugly things. Hard, like watching friends die, watching children and innocent people die.

  Ugly…like walking around with blood coating his face and hands like war paint. It wasn’t the first time he’d been this way, but it was as distasteful and depressing now as it had been the very first time.

  He wanted a shower, desperately.

  He left the dead human in the alley, slipping away and using the shadows to hide himself.

  The paraisei had almost gotten away. At the last second, it had realized it wasn’t going to win against Rip and it had tried to flee. Rip had seen the black tendrils emerging from the host’s bodily orifices. He’d stopped it in time, in a very bloody fashion, and now he had a human’s blood staining his hands.

  It wasn’t the first time.

  It wouldn’t be the last.

  But he hated it all the same.

  The entire night was shot. By the time he got cleaned up, it would be too close to dawn and his particular prey preferred to sleep during the day.

  Another night. Wasted.

  Another day where he’d spend the hours thinking about what he had to do.

  God, I wish somebody else could do this one.

  A harsh wind picked up. Although it was mid-April, winter hadn’t totally given up and the night air had a cold edge to it. Rip might have enjoyed it, might have let it carry away some of death’s stink, except, over the blood and sweat and dirt, he scented something else.

  Greta.

  And—shit.

  I was pretty sure I hadn’t felt this kind of terror in a long time.

  I’m not really afraid of dying. Or at least, normally, I’m not. Remember that “hard to kill” thing I mentioned?

  I am hard to kill, but a bocan is strong enough to tear my head from my shoulders, and they are fast. That doesn’t sound like a fun way to go.

  Plus, if it got past me, who knew what it would go after next.

  They are killing machines. Big, dumb killing machines and I was facing this one totally unprepared. The knife I carried wasn’t long enough to kill the thing unless I was really, really lucky. I’m good, but with these things, being good with a knife isn’t enough.

  A sword would be better.

  A cannon would be better.

  Warily, I backed away, circling around and trying to lead the bocan away from the girl. I didn’t know if she’d be able to see it when she woke up. It depended on how far she’d dipped her toes into the waters of evil and death. I could hope that when she saw it, if she saw it, it might scare her straight, but I’m not really big on hope right now. Of course, if she saw it, it would know and it would be able to kill her.

  I didn’t like to think about the odds, not with the way the night was going.

  And to think I’d been bored just a few hours ago.

  “So how long have you been hanging around this plain?” I asked.

  The bocan didn’t speak. Their race didn’t have vocal chords. Other than the sibilant sounds they made when they breathed, they were quiet. They moved quietly, they attacked quietly and they killed quietly. Big, dumb, ugly…and quiet. They ought to be loud—only seemed fair. Something like this breathing death down your neck, there should be some sort of warning.

  It cocked its head. The dim light danced over the dull gold scales that covered it from head to toe. Those scales were like armor. It had been a while since I’d faced a bocan…probably two or three hundred years, but I hadn’t forgotten how big they are, how strong they are or how hard they are to kill. At least the last time I’d faced one I’d had a for-real sword.

  It came at me, a silent rush of death. At the very last second, I spun out of the way and felt the blast of air as it swiped out at where I’d stood only a heartbeat earlier. The thing’s hands ended in claws that measured close to three inches long.

  The skin along the back of my neck prickled as I once more started to circle away from the bocan, weaving around it in nonsensical patterns. It made another rush and this time, instead of moving aside, I went down and sliced upward. Black, bitter blood covered me as I managed to break its tough hide. It shuddered, but I figured out very quickly that while I’d hurt the demon, I hadn’t slowed it down. It slashed out as I scrambled away. Those claws got closer that time.

  And then again. This time it caught me. I bit my lip to keep from screaming as the claws managed to get me in the belly, slicing me open. Blood flowed.

  Shit—

  A hand came out of nowhere and grabbed me, hauling me aside.

  Dazed, I fell against the crumbled rock wall at my back and watched. I was in a state of shock, I think. I didn’t recognize the man at first…well, not consciously. My body probably would have, if I ha
dn’t been losing huge quantities of blood through the gashes in my belly. I whimpered and shrugged out of the blood-soaked jacket I wore and balled it up, pressing it to my wounded stomach.

  The flesh was already knitting back together. I could literally feel it, deep, deep inside. It was a bad injury. If I was still wholly human, I’d be dead already. As it was, I was losing a lot of blood. Even us pseudo-immortals get weak when we lose too much blood.

  Sinking to the ground, I watched as the man fought the bocan.

  He was a lot more equipped to handle the thing than I was, that was for sure. The bocan tried to gut him with those lethal claws but the man moved away, quick as a wish. I saw one hand disappear inside the long coat he wore—something about that coat, the way it stretched over his shoulders, tickled a memory. I wouldn’t look at his face. Thinking about it now, I know why I wouldn’t look, because I knew in my heart who he was, and I needed to prepare myself a little bit more before I actually looked at him.

  Instead, I focused on his hands…and on the very awesome weapon he’d drawn from inside that long, black coat. It was a black cylinder, maybe two, two and a half feet long. Yeah, I know, that doesn’t sound too flashy. It would do some serious damage to a human, probably even a number of manifested demons.

  But a nine-foot-tall bocan?

  Nope. Right up until he twisted it, I wasn’t impressed. But then he twisted it. I heard the whisper of metal as two edged blades appeared, one out either end of the metal cylinder.

  Now it was five feet long, and bladed on both ends.

  He used it like an artist. He moved like a dancer of death. The silver flashed through the air. His body barely seemed to touch the ground before he was moving off again. Eerie, deadly and oh so lovely to look at. In a rather morbid way, of course.

  Black blood stained the metal as he sliced through the bocan’s scales.

  The bocan hissed.

  The man just laughed. That laugh. I knew that laugh.

  Rip…

  Just before I passed out, I finally let myself look at him. I found myself staring at his familiar profile. An ache settled in my heart and it followed me as I went under.

  Rip had problems.

  He had all sorts of problems. He had one dead demon on his hands. He had one unconscious, young adult female on his hands. He had one unconscious, not-so-young adult female on his hands—and she was injured.

  His body screamed at him as he crouched beside Greta. Along his left arm, he had a series of gashes, three of them, each one of them a good seven inches long and deep. Very deep, because they weren’t healing fast. The bocan had managed to tear into his muscle, and the muscles had to knit together before the skin could. So he was still bleeding.

  But not as bad as Greta.

  She was pale, even paler than normal. That milky, fair complexion was ghostly and even though he knew she couldn’t die from the injury she’d taken, his heart skipped a few beats and then took up residence in his throat. To reassure himself, he laid a hand on her neck, felt the warmth and the life of her.

  It didn’t help much.

  He was going to relive the night’s events a thousand times over in the years to come—the nightmare of seeing the bocan come this close to gutting her, and he had been too far away to do a damn thing.

  What were you thinking?

  She had faced down a bocan with pretty much her bare hands. She’d had a knife. A paltry blade in her right fist as she’d circled around the demon. Bocans were too fucking big, too fucking strong, and that hide of theirs was like armor. Knives just didn’t cut it.

  He shot the dead creature a nasty look and wondered where in the hell it had come from. Bocans were uncommon in the world because they didn’t have the abilities a lot of other demons had—they couldn’t manifest, couldn’t possess. They just killed.

  A bocan. The paraisei he’d faced earlier. Something weird was going on. Demonkind didn’t ever gather together in one place for long—it attracted too much attention, the sort of attention that ended up them being sent back to the netherplains.

  What in the hell was going on?

  Greta shifted under his hands. Under her breath, she whimpered quietly and Rip, without even thinking about it, bent over her and pressed his lips to her brow. “Hush, angel. You’re safe now…you’re safe. Sleep…heal.”

  His heart broke a little as she burrowed close to him. Rip let her, even though he had to get to work—figure out what to do with the bocan. And the human—shit.

  Not having much choice, he reached up and fished his medallion out from under his blood-stained, black T-shirt. Fisting it in his hand, he sent out a broadcast call. I need help.

  He couldn’t take care of Greta, the human and the bocan. Not without getting noticed. It would be morning soon, and a man carrying a couple of unconscious women around was going to catch some attention.

  He was going to have his hands full just getting Greta someplace out of sight.

  The disc warmed in his hand, then there was a flash, a circle of light. A man emerged from the light, staring at Rip impassively.

  Rip didn’t flinch under the steely weight of the man’s gaze. “Morning is coming. I won’t be able to hide under the cover of night much longer and I don’t have time to deal with the bocan, the girl and Greta.”

  “You were not sent here to deal with the bocan, the girl or Gretel. Gretel can deal with the girl.”

  “Greta is hurt,” Rip snapped. “And I don’t walk away from those who need me—job or not.”

  “You’ve already wasted too much time on this job.”

  Rip bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “I’m sorry. If my performance has been less than satisfactory you could always fire me.”

  No, he couldn’t.

  Narrowing eyes that glowed like molten steel, the man shifted his gaze to the bocan. Another flash of light, but this was a dark flash. A circle formed in midair and on the other side of the portal, Rip could see into the netherplains. Dark, barren…a midnight desert that never saw the sun, that never saw any relief from the endless heat.

  The man inclined his head. Rip swallowed back his growl. The bastard was perfectly capable of getting the bocan through the portal on his own, but Rip knew he’d already helped as much as he was willing.

  “You’re too kind,” he muttered as he hauled the monstrous creature to the portal. Uneasy, he glanced at the huge doorway and then at the man who waited in silence. “You wouldn’t close that thing on me, would you?”

  No answer.

  Grimacing, Rip muscled the bocan through the portal and then dashed back through. The second he cleared the portal, it collapsed—so close behind him, Rip heard a strange, sucking sound, kind of like the sound a wine bottle made when the cork was pulled out. But louder. A lot louder.

  Something caught hold of his coat and he jerked away, only to fall to his knees as the material came free easily. It was also missing quite a bit of material in the back. The buttery, soft black leather had scorch marks all along the end.

  “You bastard,” he snapped, glaring at the man.

  “Help has been given. Waste no more time, Rip. This has gone on long enough.”

  “That’s not my doing,” he said through gritted teeth.

  But the man was already gone, the circle of light closing down behind him in the span of heartbeat.

  “Bastard,” he muttered. Striding across the grass, he knelt once more by Greta.

  Now if he could just figure out what to do about…

  But even as he started to try and figure that one out, Greta stirred. Then her lashes lifted and he found himself staring into bottomless blue eyes.

  “Rip?” she murmured, her voice husky.

  “Shhh. Take it easy,” he said as she started to sit up. “You’ve been hurt. You’re going to be down a few more hours, probably.”

  Greta frowned. “I feel fine,” she said. “Just kind of tired.”

  Rip shot a look at her belly. Through the ragged, bloody
tears in her shirt, he could see her belly. Soft, white…and whole.

  Well, hell. The bastard had helped a little more than Rip had thought.

  Unable to stop himself, he reached out and touched her, stroked his fingers along her smooth, unscarred flesh. “He healed you.”

  “Who did?” she asked, her voice low and hoarse.

  Rip just shook his head. “This helps. Now we can deal with your human…”

  They turned to look at the unconscious woman.

  But she was gone. Since the bocan was dealt with and there was nobody else around, they had to assume the girl had escaped.

  “Shit.” Greta sagged in his arms, a scowl tightening her face. “This is bad, bad, bad…”

  “The bocan is dead,” he said gently. “She’s safe enough.”

  A ragged sigh shuddered out of her and she stared at him from under a heavy fringe of lashes. “She had a book, Rip. And I don’t have any idea who gave it to her.”

  A book. He didn’t need to know what sort of book. There was only one kind of book that would have Greta worried.

  “She has one of the demon tomes,” he muttered, furious. He closed his eyes and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Bloody hell. Bad doesn’t quite cover it then, does it?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  So that’s how Rip ended up back in my life.

  Those books were a big deal and none of us liked it when they were being passed around like candy. I’d have to deal with this and I was desperately hoping Rip would be willing to help me out.

  “You are certain?”

  We walked down the sidewalk, keeping to the shadows. Me in my torn clothes, Rip in his bloodied ones—it wouldn’t do for us catch a whole lot of attention. Sliding a look at him from the corner of my eye, I said, “Hmmm. I don’t know…let me think.”

  I pretended to do just that, tapping my lips with my finger. Then I nodded. “Yeah, it was one of those books—the really bad ones. I think we should do something about it. What do you think?”