Demon Demon Burning Bright, Whisperings book four

by Linda Welch

  Inept or not, three men with nasty, shining blades now surrounded me in a half circle, pinning me to the wall.

  Red smeared the floor where I had rolled. Blood slicked my palm and fell in micro droplets to the floor. I felt the pain now, as if a hot iron had been plunged into my flesh. I tried to push it away again and concentrate on the men who surrounded me. I would not die in Bel-Athaer.

  Then Chris was among them.

  I have seen Gelpha fight before. They flow, silently, effortless as a slow-flowing stream, or fierce and furious like raging rapids. Clad in nothing but his leather pants, Chris went through my Ninjas as if every movement were choreographed. I leaned on the wall, transfixed by the fluid beauty of his body in motion. Dipping, spiraling, swaying aside, sliding between them. A blade flew away and clanked to the floor, a body toppled and fell. A straight-armed blow with the flat of his hand sent another into the wall; he rebounded and landed curled on his side. The third tried to turn on the shadow at his back, but the shadow’s arm snaked around his throat and lifted him off his feet.

  It was over in minutes. Three men lay face down on the floor, disarmed, one unconscious, the other two stirring feebly. They were human; they didn’t stand a chance.

  A head popped around the wall at the top of the staircase. The hostel manager. Thank you, Jesus! Next second, he was gone.

  A blur, and Chris pushed me through the bathroom door which seemed to have opened magically. Trying to regain my balance, I staggered as the door banged behind me.

  “Lock it,” Chris said through the door.

  Lock it. Yes, lock it. My hand closed on the doorknob. I stared, willing a lock to magically appear. How can I… ? My gaze slid up to the bolt at the top of the door. I reached and engaged it.

  Chris drawled, “Come, gentlemen. Let’s dance.”

  I had to calm down. I slumped against the door, taking in shallow breaths, trying to slow my ferociously beating heart. My shoulder burned but no longer dripped blood.

  A thud, grunts, the soft whisper of scuffling feet. Then silence.

  “You can come out now.”

  I drew the bolt and flung open the door. Chris’ arms closed around me and pulled me tight to smoldering skin smooth as marble. His scent flooded over me, citrus and ginger. I felt the steady rhythm of his heart, looked into eyes gone satin-gray. His low, slow voice soothed, “There, there, Tiff. I have you now. You’re safe.”

  His arm covered my wound and it burned from his body’s heat, but it actually felt good, like a hot pad on a strained muscle.

  I hated the way my voice trembled. “Where are they?”

  A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Where they can’t bother you again.”

  I became intimately conscious of the lean muscles beneath his naked skin, the strength of his arms. I pulled back.

  “Oh well,” he said with a gleam of white teeth, “it was fun while it lasted.” His expression turned serious. “Come, we can’t stay here.”

  He suddenly moved back and raised his arm. “What’s this?”

  My blood smeared the underside of his arm, his armpit and ribs.

  “Um. That would be me.”

  “You’re hurt!” Storm clouds boiled in his eyes.

  Before I could blink, I was off the floor, in his arms, hurtling along the corridor. The door to my room banged open with such force, I noticed a crack running vertical to the door frame as he sat me on the edge of the bed. His hands were on my waist, peeling my hoodie up, when I found enough breath to protest.

  “Stop right there!”

  All seriousness, Chris narrowed his eyes. “If you wish.”

  His hands blurred and my sleeve fell away either side of my arm. Still joined to the shoulder, he had neatly separated it lengthwise.

  I held my arm out from my side. “Oh, yuck.”

  The Ninja guy’s blade had sliced open three-inches of skin. It looked like an envelope flap which needed gluing. And my arm was red down to the wrist, with drizzles spread over the back of my hand in a thick web.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I managed to tear my gaze from my arm, but he had disappeared.

  I checked my arm again. At least it had stopped bleeding and I didn’t appear to have lost much blood despite the stain on my sleeve. The weakness creeping through my body was shock. My hoodie, though, was ruined. I could take the sleeve off altogether, and the other one, and use it sleeveless. You can buy them made like that anyway. Who’d know I didn’t follow fashion, if I managed to get the stains out the rest of it?

  “Tiff.”

  Dazed, I looked up. Chris stood over me with a small white box in his hands.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Okay.” I jogged my arm up and down. “But you ruined my hoodie. I was thinking, though, I can - ”

  “You’re in shock.” His eyes softened, his voice lost its hard tone and gentled. “Relax, my Sweet and drink this.” He held a small brown bottle out to me.

  I squinted at the bottle. “Why? It’s not that Gryphon’s Piss, is it?”

  A smile tweaked his lips. “No, it’s not Gryphon’s Ale. Something more powerful to dull the pain, because I’m afraid I’m going to have to hurt you.”

  I took the bottle and sniffed. It smelled like seaweed stranded on the beach after the tide recedes. “You’re going to hurt me how?”

  “I’m going to suture the wound.”

  He sat on the bed next to me, opened the box and took out a small jar, gauze pads, roll of white, wattle-weave bandage, a long, sharp needle, a reel of brown thread and tiny scissors.

  I upended the bottle and swallowed the contents. And spent the next half minute trying not to gag it back up.

  I bet I looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights as I watched him try to thread the needle. “Can I have a Band-Aid instead?”

  “Afraid not.” He beamed as he managed to get the thread through the eye. “There.” He peered at me. “How do you feel now?”

  I suddenly felt peculiar, as if someone novocained my entire body. Lethargy flowed through me. My shoulders relaxed. My head kept wanting to flop on one shoulder. “Fine. I feel … fine.”

  Did I just slur? I couldn’t tell. “Where did you get that stuff?”

  Chris uncapped the small jar. “From the manager.”

  “Same one who was up here and looked the other way?”

  “They don’t get involved in this part of town, which is why he didn’t ask why I need the first aid kit.”

  “He needs a - sonuvabitch!”

  Chris pulled thread through the first stitch. The sneaky bastard had stuck me when I was distracted. The stuff in the bottle made me woozy but I still felt that first stitch. Yes, stitch. He sewed me up. A distant part of my mind wondered how bad it would be without the booze - or whatever it was - to numb the pain. Unfortunately, the numbness wore off before Chris finished tacking my skin together.

  Then he slapped some ointment on.

  God almighty! I wonder I didn’t go through the ceiling. My eyes popped wide, then flooded with tears. My nose chose that moment to run. When I found my breath, I used my other sleeve to mop up unladylike fluids.

  By then, a neat bandage circled my arm. “There.”

  I eyed him inquisitively. This was a day for surprises and Chris not the least of them. A sophisticated roué, a crazy biker, an efficient, no-nonsense medic. And I saw the true concern in his eyes.

  I kind of liked this side of Chris Plowman. Not that I’d admit it.

  I touched the dangling end of my sleeve. “Rip it off, will you. And while you’re at it, take the other one off too.”

  “I can sew it.” Chris held up the needle.

  I flapped the soggy material. “No thanks. This is going in the trash when I get home. I’d wash it but it won’t be dry before morning.”

  He replaced the supplies in the tin. “Take it off and I will personally launder it for you.”

  I lofted one eyebrow. “You can’t use a dishwasher but y
ou can launder?”

  He gave me a pitying look. “You obviously don’t know many gentlemen, my dear. But you would not, in Royal’s company. A gentleman does not perform menial household tasks, but he does know how to care for his wardrobe. One never knows when one will be stranded without one’s valet.”

  “How awful for one! Hand me those scissors and I’ll cut the damn things off.”

  He tore both sleeves off so fast I didn’t feel them leave. Then he took the cover off Gia’s bed, folded it and snugged it over my shoulders. He put his arm around me. “To warm you up, you understand,” he said, the old drawl back in his voice.

  I closed my eyes and reveled in the demon warmth which seeped through the cover.

  Okay, enough. I’d fall asleep in his arms if I didn’t move now. I shifted, parted my reluctant eyelids. “I want to be alone, get some sleep. You should take the kit back and get some sleep yourself.”

  “We could lie down together here. I’ll keep you warm through the long, lonely hours,” he murmured in my ear.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I muttered under my breath. I pushed his arm off my shoulders.

  He got the hint. I felt twenty degrees cooler when he eased away and rose to his feet accompanied by a deep, tragic sigh. The bed creaked, reminding me of the unyielding mattress.

  He took up the first aid kit. I followed him to the door so I could bolt it behind him.

  He stood in the corridor, wearing a winsome expression. “Are you sure?”

  Right then his door opened and a beautiful Gelpha with glossy cornflower hair waving to her waist and falling over her naked, perky breasts peeked out. “Thank the Lady you are - ” she began. Then she lifted wide, cerulean eyes and flushed beneath her pale copper complexion. She ducked back in and slammed the door so hard I’m surprised it didn’t explode.

  I snorted through my nose. “You didn’t waste much time. We’ve been here, what, three hours?”

  “I’m sure she’ll understand if I ask for a rain check.”

  “That’s what you call getting rid of one woman so you can bring in another?” I could barely contain my laughter. “Pu-lease, don’t expect me to be a corner of your love triangle.”

  Mock indignation brightened his eyes. “You think so little of me.”

  I tucked my chin in my neck. “Darn tootin’.”

  “It’s not my fault. I don’t invite their adulation.” He spread his arms and assumed a theatrical stance. “They are attracted to me like a hummingbird to nectar, a doe to the mighty stag, salmon to their spawning - ”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “I think you’ll find the stag pursues the doe, not the other way around.”

  I spun on my heel and went in my room.

  “I will stand vigil outside your door.”

  “Oh wow, my very own knight in shining armor,” I deadpanned.

  For a moment, as we bantered, I forgot the attack, but it hit me full force as I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling again.

  I saw the dead of Dun Falmor fall before me. Black-clad figures brutally slew the townsfolk at the orders of the Burning Man.

  The men who planted a bomb in my house wore tight-fitting black. My roommates identified them as human males.

  A dark night. Mel insisted she saw a burning figure in my backyard.

  A chill swept my limbs, turning them icy. I pulled the thin coverlet up to my chin. Tonight was not the first time Orcus tried to kill me.

  I sat up, stretched to reach the backpack at the foot of the bed and withdrew my Ruger. It was a reassuring lump beneath the hostel’s thin pillow.

  I woke to a god-awful ruckus, groping for my Ruger before my eyes were more than slits. The ceiling lamp swung violently, slashing the room with constantly moving bars of light and shadow, flickering like an old-fashioned black and white movie.

  I fought free of tangled sheet and bed cover, came up on my knees, and ducked as Gia’s bed flew over my head. It hit the wall and exploded. The metal headboard and springs clanged on the floor as giant wooden splinters speared the room like missiles.

  Gia flew at a tall, muscular man all in black. They slammed together body to body. The big man should have crushed Gia’s slighter figure, yet she held, straining against him. Her mouth opened in a grimace. Time stopped. I held my breath. Then Gia fell back. I saw the knife in his hand as she went down.

  She lay in a jumble of limbs, long night-black hair over her face.

  The man grasped the back of his hood and pulled it over his head. The mask came off with it. Royal smiled, a glitter of pointed teeth.

  I brought my gun up. “You’re not Royal.”

  That smile again. “Why do you say that?” his familiar voice asked.

  “Your teeth.”

  He laughed, as unpleasant as his smile. “These?” He gestured at his mouth with the bloody knife. “I got rid of the caps. I don’t need them any longer.”

  A hole opened inside me and the future I dared imagine poured out, a wailing storm of loss and grief. My dreams tossed in that gale, crying out for me to save them, to believe in them.

  He loomed over me. He looked bigger, and terrible; eyes glassy, vicious. The light still swayed above his head, one moment blurring his face with murky shadow, the next illuminating a stark, prominent landscape of harsh angles. “Do you know,” he said, “what we use them for? Why our teeth are sharp?”

  I shook my head, whispering, “No.”

  The knife dipped at Gia. “Ask her.”

  “I can’t. She’s dead,” I gasped out.

  “And so are you,” he said as he came at me.

  I woke sitting upright, drenched in sweat, my gun in both hands. My lungs stuttered for air, my eyes swam, tears on my cheeks.

  On her knees, Gia watched me from where she perched on her bed. “I hope you don’t intend to use that on me.”

  I let the Ruger fall on my bent knees.

  “A nightmare?”

  My voice sounded gritty. “Something like that.”

  “Chris told me you had … visitors. I decided to let you sleep.” She unwound one leg and climbed off the bed, then moved to stand over me. “But I should check your shoulder. Do you have a fever?” She held her hand out palm up, as if to feel my forehead.

  I flinched away and slid off the bed. I had to get out of the room where shadowy reminders of my dream gathered in the corners. Staggering to the door, I pulled my hood over my head.

  Outside in the corridor, I leaned on the wall and wiped my face with my fingers. My chest still heaved. My shoulder pulsed with pain.

  “What is it, Tiff?” Chris said.

  He stood beside me, barefoot, now wearing midnight-blue silk pajama bottoms. Where in hell’s name did he get those? He came closer and I pressed to the wall. I didn’t want him or Gia with me. I needed to be alone with the memory of my dream.

  His hand fell on my shoulder. “What happened? Did you and Gia fight?”

  I shook my head mutely, then managed to say, “Only a dream. But it was damn real.”

  He gently squeezed my shoulder. “Perhaps sharing will help.”

  The trauma of the nightmare still held me. I couldn’t shake the images which pounded through my head. I don’t know why I told him.

  I don’t know how I ended up leaning on his chest, hands loose at my sides, cheek on hot, smooth skin. His arms were around me, his hands swept up and down my back in a slow, soothing motion. My tiny inner voice said it wasn’t right, to let him hold me again. But it felt good.

  His smooth, lulling voice was balm to my ears and calmed my thudding heart. “Don’t worry. You’re safe. I won’t let anything harm you.”

  As I relaxed, I distantly wondered if he used his demon charm on me, and didn’t care. I relished the demon heat of his body as it enveloped me, the strength of his arms.

  The motion of his hands changed; they molded my shoulder blades, traced my spine, bathing me in penetrating heat. His breathing became heavy, hot on my neck as his hair flowed over my
shoulder. He cupped my buttocks and pulled me tight into him. My own breathing coarsened. He was aroused, and something sweet, warm and treacherous swelled deep in my groin.

  “There, Sweetheart,” he crooned.

  The endearment, from him, hit like a splash of cold water in my face. I put my palms on his chest and pushed. “Don’t call me that!”

  He lifted his hands from me. “Damn me, I forgot it’s his pet name for you.”

  Pet name? Royal called me sweetheart the day we met, before I became it in truth. My heart thrilled each time he used it. Sweetheart. An ache of longing rose from my chest to my throat. Royal, where are you? I need you.

  Chris swung so his back pressed the wall. He inhaled deeply.

  After a moment, he said, “Dream therapists say our minds pluck images from our memories and insert them in our dreams as reflections of our desires, fears and uncertainties. Supposedly, our subconscious is trying to tell us something. For example, being attacked stems from feelings of anxiety. Your anger, fear, or jealousy can manifest as a threatening figure. Nightmares are your unconscious trying to get your attention when you’re deeply troubled.”

  I brushed the back of my wrist over my forehead. “Well yeah. I am deeply troubled. I was attacked by a threatening figure, three of them in fact.”

  “So your dream makes perfect sense. Gia. An attack by a man in black. Those men tried to kill you. You’re afraid and you’re not confident Gia can protect you.”

  “I asked her to take me to Cicero, not protect me.”

  He went on as if I had not spoken. “But why, in your dream, did Royal betray you. Do you not entirely trust him?”

  “I… .” I bit my lower lip. “I trust Royal to do what he believes is right.”

  “But not always what you think is right.”

  Wait a minute! Was this leading to you don’t trust Royal but you can trust good ol’ Chris? I angled my eyes up. The merest quirk lifted one side of his mouth.

  “Listen, Sigmund, it was a nightmare.”