Evernight

by Kristen Callihan

  “Your fangs,” she blurted out. “They weren’t long.” Holly cleared her throat. “That is to say, they weren’t there when we were… kissing.” There were times when she truly hated her curiosity. Such as now. How was this helping? She’d expire of mortification at this rate.

  Thorne’s eyes narrowed with a catlike smugness. “My dear Miss Evernight, you haven’t been replaying that lovely moment in your head, now have you?”

  Her face burned. “Forget it.”

  “Not on your life.” He took a few steps, dragging her through the horrid tunnel. “What is the true question you are bumbling into?”

  Holly took a deep, bracing breath. “I don’t understand how you can… Well, they’re quite sharp and…”

  “They retract.”

  “Really? I did not realize they could fully retract.”

  He made a sound of amusement through his nose. “See? Ever the scientist. I knew you had it in you. Well, my dear, I shall explain.” He stopped and rounded on her. “My fangs can both retract and extend. It is the equivalent of flexing a muscle. Although,” he lifted a finger like a professor at a lectern, “when I am angered or threatened, my fangs will extend on their own.”

  Thorne paused and gave her a small, patronizing smile. “As for the reason why my fangs were retracted when I kissed you—” his voice was low, intimate, and entirely annoying—“they would have shredded both your mouth and mine.” His smile grew into something warmer, disturbing. “And we wouldn’t want that.”

  Holly ignored the flush washing over her skin. “No,” she said somewhat thickly, “that would have been painful.” She glanced away from his too-steady gaze. “So you don’t like to…” Cease! Do not ask it! “Drink blood when you…”

  She couldn’t finish. Mortification had swollen her tongue.

  Thorne grinned wide, appearing almost boyish. “Miss Evernight, if I did not know you were ceaselessly analytical, I’d believe you had a naughty mind.”

  “Shut up.” She tromped along, no longer caring about the dank dark, but he caught her hand and held it fast.

  “Oh, no, darling, we cannot leave it at that.” He laughed lightly, and she jerked her arm, succeeding only in drawing him closer. He was wholly unrepentant. “You asked the question, now let me answer.”

  “Fine,” she snapped, wanting to kill him.

  Chortling, the smarmy bastard wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held her against him. Holly was too annoyed to do anything other than glare up at him.

  “Do you usually eat while you tup, Miss Evernight?” he murmured.

  “Well no…”

  “Neither do I.” His hand slid up her back, and it felt so lovely that she shivered. “However, I have been known to eat what I tup.” He glanced up at the low ceiling overhead, his brow furrowed, and nibbled on his bottom lip in contemplation. “Or is that, I tup what I eat?”

  “William Thorne,” Holly slapped his chest in irritation, “you are an utter beast!”

  When he laughed, it was with his whole body, the gleeful sound of it echoing through the darkness, obliterating the gloomy atmosphere. She gaped at him, drawn to the sight of his taut neck muscles, straining with his laughter. He grinned down at her, appearing more a young, handsome man than an outright fiend.

  “I am,” he admitted happily. “I can’t help it, Holly.”

  His gaze darted over her face, and the tension in his body shifted to something darker, languid, as both of them realized he held her still. His smile slipped, his lids lowering as he looked at her mouth. “I just can’t help myself around you.” It was a husky whisper in the silence.

  Somehow, she was closer, her lips feeling fuller, parting for him. God help her, but if he kissed her, she’d let him. Here in the dark, it wouldn’t really count, would it?

  Thorne dipped his head. The scuff of a shoe echoed loudly in the tunnel, and Thorne snapped to attention, rounding and putting himself in front of Holly.

  Like an apparition, the little man moved out of the shadows and into the light. They watched him shuffle closer. Dressed in a grimy and billowing sack suit that made it appear as though he’d shrunken within it, he was a boney thing, small and hunched. Tufts of white hair stuck out from beneath a battered bowler of an indeterminate color that sat precariously on top of his large ears.

  And though thoughts of trolls who lived under bridges to collect their dues ran riot through Holly’s head, Thorne seemed to relax and slapped his hat back on his head as he stood tall. The man came to a stop before them and blinked up at Thorne with wide eyes that glowed milk-white in the weak electric lights.

  “Invitation?” came a voice like rust, followed by a long wheeze through his beak of a nose.

  “Matilda gives her salutations,” Thorne replied amiably.

  The little man grunted. Still mumbling, he patted about his suit as though looking for something. He found it in his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick, silver disk. With a flick of his wrist and a little click, the disk unfolded to form a silver cup, composed of three collapsible rings.

  The man cocked his head to the side as he held the cup out to Thorne. “Dues.”

  Far from being lost in this odd interplay, Thorne stretched out his arm, exposing the delicate blue veins of his wrist. As with all demons, his nails could shift into claws with a thought. He grew one on his index finger and promptly speared his extended wrist.

  Holly winced, but Thorne did not, as thick, deep crimson blood poured from his vein into the cup. After a moment, Thorne pressed a thumb over the wound and held it, as the little man lifted the cup to his dry lips and drank down Thorne’s blood.

  Finished with his gruesome drink, the man licked the blood off his lips and grunted again. “Right. House rules apply.” He glanced at Holly, and she fought a shiver as that milky gaze travelled over her. It settled on her neck, where the puncture wounds from Thorne’s fangs seemed to pulse. “Esculents,” the man added with a sneer, “are the responsibility of their master.”

  Thorne touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgment, earning him yet another grunt. The man said no more but turned. “This way.”

  “What other way would there be,” Holly murmured close to Thorne’s clean-shaven cheek. “It only goes but one direction.”

  Thorne’s lips twitched. “Quiet. You’ll upset Freddie.”

  “His name is Freddie?” How positively cheerful.

  Though he fought a smile, Thorne shushed her again.

  “All right,” she murmured. “What was the point of the blood drinking?”

  “It’s a blood vow of sorts. In giving mine, I am promising not to harm Kettil or attack any of his workers during the duration of the fights.” He shrugged. “It’s a simple matter of security.”

  That this Kettil felt the need for safety measures did not ease Holly’s anxiety. They followed Freddie further into the bowels of the tunnel. Just when Holly thought she might scream with the need to get out of the subterranean hell, Freddie stopped at a spot and pushed at what seemed to be just another wall panel.

  A door slid open, bringing with it the sounds of laughter, shouts, and cursing.

  Thorne smiled at her. “Welcome to Kettil’s Cauldron, love.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  At first sight, Kettil’s Cauldron was nothing more than yet another dreary tunnel, save for the bright light that glowed at the end of it. Holly headed towards that light, holding Thorne’s hand as if it were an anchor.

  The scent of brimstone and blood thickened the air. Demons. Holly would soon be surrounded by them. Exposed. She wanted to turn and run. But she could not. One did not let oneself be fed from like a liquid buffet just to flee at the first sign of danger.

  It took all of her considerable restraint to refrain from touching the spots where Thorne’s teeth had sunk in deep. Those two little points throbbed in time with the beat of her heart. Memories of Thorne’s mouth upon her neck, his tongue sliding over her with little flicks, heightened her awareness. Her entir
e body was sensitized, her skin too thin and her flesh swollen and heavy. Beneath her fine cashmere cloak, the satin lining slipped and slid over the exposed tops of her breasts, and she repressed a shudder of tactile pleasure. As if Thorne felt her response—which likely he did, the rotter—he tightened his grip on her hand and tugged her closer to his side.

  “Touch it,” he whispered thickly against her temple. Her nipples peaked at the command. “Caress my mark like you crave another bite.” His tongue flickered over her skin, a crude lick that had her step bobbling.

  Holly wrenched her head away as much as she could without drawing notice, and his dark chuckle was a warm breath over her now damp skin. “They’ll expect these things, love. Expect you to be in my total thrall.”

  Heat suffused her, and she could not bear to meet his eyes, but she managed a short nod.

  “Touch it now,” he murmured, impatient, demanding.

  Unable to resist, Holly pressed two fingers against that throbbing spot. A bolt of luscious, aching pleasure and heat shot down her center. She nearly moaned.

  Thorne’s grip became a crushing thing. His breath rough and urgent.

  Wild thoughts swam in her head, of Thorne pressing her back against the damp stones with the force of his hard body, and simply taking.

  Perhaps Thorne felt similarly, for he mumbled something under his breath and doggedly kept them moving forward, their hips touching, their cloaks tangling with each step they took down the miserable corridor.

  The path took a sharp turn to the left, and the space grew close, the air hot. Sounds of shouting and laughter echoed. Thorne let her hand go in favor of slipping his beneath her cloak to curve around her waist. The sharp scent of fresh blood mingled with that of stale sweat. Holly’s throat closed on a wave of disgust. It was nothing compared to the sight that greeted her.

  The space opened up into a massive underground arena awash with torchlight and writhing with hundreds of demons. Sweat glistened on skin, teeth flashed on a grin or feral grimace. Most maintained their human appearance, but plenty of beings with grey skin and pointed ears were throughout the crowd. Attention centered on a small oval fighting pit at the center of the room. There, what appeared to be a female raptor fought with fang and claw against a tall, pale female sanguis whose black hair fell to her thighs in a tight cue.

  “Mistake that,” Thorne said in Holly’s ear, his voice now smooth and normal. He nodded towards the sanguis female. “Keeping her hair long. Easy target.”

  No sooner had the words left his mouth than the raptor flipped over the sanguis to land on steady feet just behind her. In a blink, the raptor grabbed that hanging strip of hair and spun the poor sanguis through the air, smashing her down onto the high iron railing that ringed the pit. Impaled, the sanguis screamed.

  Holly gagged and did not notice Thorne opening her cloak until the damp air hit her skin. She frowned at him as he folded the edges back over her shoulders, exposing her further. He gave her a slight, reproving look. Right. She was his ornament. Grinding her teeth together, she straightened her spine and thrust her breasts forward. Thorne’s hitched breath and flared nostrils were only slightly gratifying. The instant attention she garnered from the males around her, however, had her skin crawling.

  Being exposed set her nerves on edge. Noises sounded overloud to her ears, and despite Thorne’s earlier cheek, she wanted to cling to his arm like a limpet.

  Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, Thorne headed off, his walk peacock proud, his top hat tilted at a jaunty angle as if to say, “why yes, I am a pretty piece, and top of the mornin’ to ya for noticing!”

  Though she was loath to admit it, her Irish blood appreciated his showmanship.

  The crowd seemed to part for him. Some nodded at Thorne, giving a quick hello or a simple acknowledgment of him; others slid their gazes away as if they were fearful. But all seemed to know him. This was his world, and he belonged. Unequivocally. And because he did, not a soul seemed to question her presence here. They did, however, look her over. Until she felt covered in a sticky film of attention.

  Thorne made his way towards a box seat that overlooked the fighting ring at dead center. The box was bigger than those around it and swathed in black silk. Though there were about ten seats within the box, one held an obvious place of honor. Like a king holding court, there a man sat on a gilded, red velvet chair. He was rather large on all counts. And scruffy, for all the airs he put on. A battered stovepipe hat sat on greasy black hair that reached his wide shoulders, and a black-and-white checked waistcoat stretched over his well-fed gut.

  Perched as he was, all long-limbed and fat of belly, he reminded her of a great spider, waiting to draw innocent and guilty alike into his great web. He watched them approach, his beady eyes narrowing, and he licked his lips. Holly repressed the urge to draw her cloak back together.

  Two overly large bruisers guarded the entrance, but they didn’t so much as blink when Thorne moved past them.

  “Will Thorne,” the man said as they entered his box. “It has been a while, me boy.”

  “Well you know, Kettil,” replied Thorne with his easy smile, “one cannot stay away from your entertainments forever.”

  Kettil glanced at the two men who were lounging in the seats next to his. That was all it took from them to depart with haste. As soon as they did, Kettil gestured broadly to the vacated chairs. “Join me.”

  Though Thorne behaved the perfect gentleman, handling her into her seat, he put himself between Holly and Kettil. A move not lost on the man, for he made a small sound of amusement.

  “Wouldn’t mind a taste o’that. That lass is the jammiest bit of jam I’ve seen in an age, to be sure.” He leaned in, his fat nostrils round and porcine as he inhaled. “She smells off, though. A bit like metal and oil.”

  Thorne crossed one of his long legs over the other, a seemingly careless shift of position, but one that blocked Holly slightly from view. “She’s an acquired taste.”

  Of all the nerve!

  Kettil, however, grinned, exposing the needle sharp fangs of a sanguis. Holly had never seen such a plumped-up demon. The unfortunate image of a tick bloated on blood came to mind, and she fought another urge to gag. Down in the ring, they were hauling off what remained of the female sanguis demon. The crowd, now denied its bout, turned to each other, chatting, shouting, calling in bets. A fug of blue smoke hung in the air, crackling about the hum of electric lights.

  “Let me have a taste and find out then,” Kettil was saying.

  Charming.

  Thorne’s smile was bland. “Now you know I do not like to share my esculents.”

  Kettil, not so easily dissuaded, leaned forward, his beady eyes on Holly’s breasts. “Always thought that was uncharitable of you, Thorne. Not sharing.”

  Thorne gave an exaggerated sigh as he pulled a slender cigarillo and a cache of matches from his inner pocket. “Ah, well, you know how it is.” With the flick of a wrist, he lit the match, and fire flared right in Kettil’s line of sight, depriving him yet again of staring at Holly. “A taste here, a taste there, and suddenly there’s nothing left for me.”

  Thorne dropped the match and drew on his cigarette before blowing a cloud of smoke into the air between him and Kettil.

  The smoke did not seem to bother Kettil. No, he simply inhaled, visibly drawing it into his wide nostrils. Still staring at Holly, he licked his thick lips. “Perhaps you ought to rethink that. Especially with a morsel such as this. Put me in a charitable mood like.”

  As if he anticipated Holly’s need to strike out, Thorne set his hand over hers and pressed it into his thigh. “Have I brought the Kellermen twins round before?” he asked Kettil idly.

  Twins? Holly refused to react. Thorne eased his thumb under her hand and ran it in a slow circle around her palm.

  “You have not,” Kettil said, still sounding sullen.

  “Ah, gods, but they are a pair. Plump with sweet blood.” Thorne sighed expansively. “They have the
most exquisitely sensitive breasts and thighs.”

  Holly twitched. Vile pigs. The both of them. She told Thorne as much by flicking his thumb away from her palm. But his thumb merely returned and pressed hard against the center of her palm. Hold your fire, the gesture seemed to say.

  For only so long, she squeezed back.

  “That so.” Interest flickered in Kettil’s beady eyes.

  “Quite.” Thorne flashed his fangs. “They love being suckled.”

  A snort of irritation left Holly’s lips before she could stop herself. The blunt tip of Thorne’s thumb tapped her. Now, now, love. I’m working here.

  Holly dug a nail into the fleshy pad at the base of his thumb. End this nonsense now, or I will.

  He gave her hand a quick, minute squeeze. Fine.

  “I’ll bring them round next visit,” he assured Kettil. “As for now, I have something else that ought to interest you.” Thorne pulled a slim box from his outer pocket.

  She recognized that box. Why, that ruddy, sticky-fingered bastard. Holly stiffened in outrage; Thorne’s warning squeeze a distant thing in the face of it. But she held her tongue as Kettil grabbed the box and opened it with greedy haste.

  “Spectacles?” Kettil blinked in confusion. “What need do I have for a bleedin’ set o’glass peepers? And right thick ones at that.”

  As if he deserved to even look upon her exquisitely wrought creation.

  “Ah-ah.” Thorne lifted a finger. “You have yet to try them on.”

  Inwardly, Holly howled when Kettil’s grubby fingers smudged the finely polished glass as he fumbled to put them on. As soon as they were on, he gave a start of surprise. His mouth hung open as he peered about the room.

  “Why, every man is all aflame!”

  Holly grumbled. Thorne glared at her while answering in a smooth voice. “It is the spirit glow of demons. The spectacles make it visible. Quite handy for telling friend from foe.”

  “Quite so, laddie.”

  As Kettil gaped about like a lack-witted ape, Thorne leaned in close to her until his breath tickled her neck. “Nex stole an earlier model from the SOS last year. I find these a vast improvement, love.”