by Anya Bast
Lady, they were like rabbits hiding in a thicket, hoping the fox passed them by. For a moment she balanced on the razor’s edge of panic and fought to control it.
Once more, Thomas’s magick flared along her skin. “They’re all in lines,” he added after a moment. “Like in a formation. You know how when a search party is looking for a body in the woods?”
“Yeah.” She swallowed. “Think they’re looking for us?”
“Or Boyle.”
She closed her eyes and drew a breath. “Can you remember the location of the doorway?”
He scanned the clearing. “It was dark, but I noted how many steps we took to this tree and in what direction.” He narrowed his eyes and scanned the immediate area. “Yes, I can.”
She had him point out the area where he believed the doorway to be and she sent another tendril of magick out to search for remnants of the sticky yuck that could be their ticket home.
What she found was not heartening.
It took her a moment to form the words and once she managed it, they came out shaky. “I don’t think the doorway is there.”
Thomas said nothing, but his arms tightened around her.
“It could be simply that my magick, like yours, works differently here.” She drew a ragged breath. “Maybe I’m just not detecting it.” They both knew the truth. Her magick was much stronger here and the clearing was saturated with morning dew, making it even more effective.
If the doorway remained, she would have noticed it.
“Or maybe I can’t remember the exact spot,” said Thomas.
“It’s possible, but I searched a pretty large area.”
In the middle of the clearing, the demons made a racket. One group began shouting in demonish, or demonese, or whatever they called their guttural language and pointed at something in the grass. The other smaller search parties changed direction and hurriedly closed in on the yelling group. All the demons were moving now…all of them moving closer.
Thomas and Isabelle held their breath. They’d found Boyle, that was clear enough. Hopefully, they wouldn’t search anywhere else.
A series a sharp yells and heated conversation met their ears. It was far too great a risk to peek their heads up to see what was happening, so Isabelle sent her magick out once more to try and glean information.
Oh, yes, they’d found Boyle all right. By the half-baked, fuzzy reflections she could get from the dew in the grass, he was nearly dead. The shouting grew louder and a thick, wet sound came from the direction of the demons. Isabelle flinched in surprise and her magick snapped back hard and fast like a rubber band.
He was now all the way dead.
“I guess Boyle is no longer a problem,” whispered Thomas.
“Unless he can function without his head.” Her voice came out barely more than a breath.
The yelling across the clearing lulled to almost nothing and then swelled. Isabelle and Thomas didn’t need magick to understand the tromping of demon feet now moved quickly in their direction. Isabelle knew with a rising sick feeling in her gut they weren’t getting out of this undiscovered.
Thomas pushed her facedown into the thicket with a harsh order to stay there, grasped the sword, and struggled to stand to greet the oncoming rush. Lady damn the man! He was injured!
She cast about for ways to use her magick as a weapon in this situation and came up empty since she couldn’t use her ability directly on the demons. All she could do was watch in horror as Thomas took a wide swing and sliced into one of their attackers.
Rough hands grabbed her and pulled her up. She glimpsed the demon Thomas had wounded — tall, muscular and dark-haired. He’d collapsed to the thicket, holding his side and bellowing in pain as his wound smoked and popped.
Her captor swung her around to face the ravening horde. They looked human…well, except for their massive size. They wore leather, the lot of them. Boots, pants, and jackets. Almost like a uniform of some kind. The largest of them, a hulking demon with long red hair and brown eyes barked something at her in their language. She could only glare in response, her hands fisting.
Thomas had been scuffling with them beside her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw three demons finally bring Thomas to heel, but not before he’d injured two of them. The demons wrestled him down, extracted the sword from him, and tossed it to the ground. Then they heaved him up fast and hard, making him groan in pain, and forced him to kneel next to Isabelle.
His hair fell over his face, concealing his expression, but anger rolled off him in biting, bitter waves. Blood soaked through the makeshift bandage her T-shirt made, dripped down his leg. Terror edged up her throat like a razor blade. He needed medical attention, damn it!
More shouting at them in the strange language.
“We don’t understand you!” bellowed Thomas. He flicked his hair away from his face and Isabelle glimpsed his eyes, snapping hot black with ire.
A demon with short brown hair and a handsome face angrily pushed his way through the throng and shoved the redhead, barking something at him. The redhead barked back. The handsome demon gestured at her and Thomas, growing louder in his protestations.
Chaos ensued.
Demon turned on demon, shouting and shoving. They gesticulated at her and Thomas constantly. One of them tried to rush them, but was held back by his peers. Obviously, this was a serious disagreement.
Obviously, it was over their fate.
Thomas took her hand and squeezed it a moment before the redhead raised his hand and sent a blast of demon magick toward them.
The scent of it burned along her nose and throat, making her choke — triple stronger than on Earth — and blackness enveloped her.
ISABELLE AWOKE WITH A JOLT AND GRIMACED. THE redhead pulled a capsule away from her face and she saw he’d waved something that smelled bitter under her nose. She tried to move her hands, but quickly learned they, like her ankles, were bound.
They’d dressed her, at least. That was good because being clothed in just her bra around a bunch of male demons hadn’t made her feel very warm and fuzzy. She now wore a dark blue tuniclike shirt in a soft weave of fabric that seemed a cross between silk and cotton.
The redhead said something unintelligible to her. She ignored him, too busy glancing around the room to locate Thomas. The room was surprisingly luxurious — soft dark green couches with tasseled pillows, granite tables, and plush throw rugs covering a polished stone floor. Gleaming swords decorated the walls. The décor appeared medieval and posh all at once.
It was a nice room, except for the fact Thomas wasn’t in it.
“Where’s Thomas? Where’s my friend?” she asked, interrupting his fruitless attempts to communicate with her. She knew he couldn’t understand her, but the question was involuntary.
“Pah, aeamon.” The redhead waved a hand at her in a gesture that needed no translation, turned, and walked out of the room.
Isabelle fell back against the cushions in defeat. Damn it, she had to find Thomas. If they hadn’t seen to his wound — and what was the chance of that? — he’d bleed out.
He’d die.
Her wrists were tied in front of her. She raised her hands and worried the rope with her teeth as fast as she could. Hell, she’d gnaw through them if she had to.
She’d managed to get the knots around her wrists undone and was busy laboring on the ones around her ankles when the door opened. Isabelle pressed herself back into the cushions, wishing she’d been able to work a little faster, and watched the new demon enter the room.
He stood close to seven feet tall and looked like a Viking on steroids — long blond hair, icy blue eyes, and a square, chiseled chin. Threat seemed to linger on the brutal curve of his mouth and sit all too comfortably in his eyes.
Viking demon didn’t seem to notice, or care, that her hands were untied. Why should he? There was no way she could best this guy in a fight. She was completely vulnerable to him, locked in this room with him alone. It didn’t matter if
she were bound or not.
The demon stopped in the center of the room and studied her. She braced herself for another barrage of the foreign language. “Where’s Thomas?” she repeated. She would ask until her throat was raw or he learned English, whichever came first.
“Safe.” He paused ominously. “For now.”
Relief flooded her, though she didn’t like the for now he added on. She jolted as the second most important bit of information registered. “You speak English?”
He inclined his head a degree. “I speak many of the languages of your people. It is part of my job.” His tone wasn’t particularly hostile — more matter-of-fact — but the expression on his face remained icy. “My name is Rue. I am an ambassador to the aeamon.”
She took a moment to reply, her mind wiped momentarily clean of thought. “Ambassador to the aeamon?”
His eyes glowed red for a moment and Isabelle lost her breath. “Why did you follow Ashe through the doorway?”
“Ashe? Do you mean the demon who called himself Boyle?”
The demon named Rue stalked toward her, shoulders hunched. Isabelle shrank back against the couch. “You know who I mean,” he bellowed. “The Atrika daaeman we killed in the field.”
Atrika demon? “Whoa! Hold on!” She held up a hand, as if that would ward him off. “We knew him as Erasmus Boyle, and we did not follow him voluntarily through the doorway.”
The demon’s massive hands came down on the couch at either side of her head, pinning her in place. The scent of demon magick came off him in cloying waves.
“You lie!” he snarled.
She startled backward, her head hitting the soft cushion. If she could get any farther back, she’d be inside the couch.
His teeth had started to lengthen and become pointed. “You came through the doorway to organize with the Atrika.”
Terror exploded through her body at the sight of his eyes, which now glowed a steady red. Isabelle knew with a vast amount of experience that glowing red eyes on a demon was never a good sign.
Isabelle sat forward, coming nose to nose with him, every muscle in her body vibrating with fear. “Look, I don’t know what the hell an Atrika is, but if they’re anything like Boyle, I want no part of them. An Atrika killed my sister. We were doing our best to return the favor. During Boyle’s death throes, the doorway he was trying to open appropriated his magick, went wonky, and sucked us through.” She drew a breath. “We are not here by choice!” She spat the last sentence and felt her face grow hot with anger.
He stared at her for a long moment, then turned, and stalked away. He crossed the room to a window that looked out over clear blue sky and stared out of it. Apparently, they were on a very high floor. She wondered which of the jagged gray skyscrapers that she’d seen before was the one she now found herself in.
“Tell me what an Atrika is,” she said, finally. She needed some answers. Any answers.
Not turning toward her, he clasped his hands at the small of his back and glanced down as he answered. The gesture was so much like Thomas that a lump formed in her throat. “You know this already.”
“I do not.” Her voice sounded low, cold and commanding. It was pure, unadulterated rage that made it that way. It filled the room like a general’s might.
He turned to face her, anger on his face. “Etaryi!” He snapped out the word like a curse. “They are one breed of daaeman!”
She rubbed her wrists, where the skin had been bruised from the rope. Her hands were shaking. “There are different breeds?”
“There are four. Each have different characteristics. The Atrika are the most bloodthirsty, the most violent. They are illegal here. We hunt them down and imprison or kill them.”
She looked up. “Demons so bad you had to exterminate an entire breed? Is that why you locked out Ashe?”
He stared stormily at her and she thought he wouldn’t reply. Then he paced away and said, “Since the wars have ended and their services as soldiers are no longer needed, the Atrika have organized into a mercenary group. He was their leader until we caught him and put him in prison for his atrocities.” He lifted his chin and sneered. “Then you foolhardy aeamon pulled him through.”
“Hey, we weren’t the foolhardy ones. The people who pulled Boyle through are like the Atrika in our world.”
Rue’s lips compressed into a firm line. His eyes glowed red, giving Isabelle momentary heart palpitations. “If that is true, there could be an explanation. You know that aeamon are bred from us?”
“Yes.” She swallowed the unfortunately. It wasn’t a good idea to insult a seven-foot demon to his face.
He nodded. “It is possible there are aeamon who have inherited the Atrika genetic traits. They can be like children, always grasping and wanting. They care nothing for the suffering of others and are slaves to their own selfish whims.”
Inherited the Atrika genetic traits. Her mind reeled from that bit of information.
“What breed of demon are you?” she asked.
“Ytrayi. Leader class. We have strong magick to call and overdeveloped aggression, like the Atrika. Unlike the Atrika, we have the restraint and control to manage it. We have…honor.”
This was all very interesting, but Isabelle had a far more pressing matter at the forefront of her mind. “So you understand that Thomas and I are not these people, right? We don’t want to ever deal with an Atrika again. We’re sorry we were pulled through the doorway, and, really, we just want to go home.”
“This cannot be allowed.” He turned once more, placidly hooking his hands at the small of his back and staring out the window.
Darn, and she thought they’d been making friends.
While his back was turned, Isabelle worked the rest of the knots around her ankles. Just as she was about to ease from the couch and pick up a long piece of jagged scarlet-colored crystal from a nearby table — a bit of artwork, she assumed — and bash him over his head, he turned to face her. “I should kill you now, but we may have need of you.”
“Wait a minute!” Her mouth went dry. “We don’t want to conspire against you or harm you in any way.” Like they could. “My friend and I just want to go home. Please.”
Talking to the piece of artwork she’d fantasized about whacking him over the head with would have had more impact. He strode past her and out the door. The lock turned on the other side, seeming to echo through the room.
Isabelle sagged against the couch in defeat, fighting a swell of nausea from being in a locked room. She drew a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut. Now was no time for a panic attack. She pictured Thomas here in the room with her and her anxiety eased. Isabelle opened her eyes, steadier now.
But where was Thomas really? Had they left him to bleed out somewhere in this building? Had they decapitated him like they had Boyle? Nausea threatened once more.
She took slow, deep breaths in through her nose and out her mouth. The demon had said they might need her. Logic said the same would be true for Thomas. Likely they hadn’t killed him…yet.
With short, jerky movements, she pulled the rest of the rope around her ankles free and hurled it across the room with a bellow of pure frustration. That task accomplished, she slid from the couch and grabbed the heavy crystal sculpture from the table near her. Hugging it to her chest, she prowled the room, looking for a way out.
TWENTY-SIX
THOMAS WOKE WITH THE STENCH OF DEMON MAG ick in his nostrils and his cheek against something hard and cold. He pushed up, grit digging into his palms, and groaned at the pain shooting through his thigh.
When his eyes flickered open he glimpsed the interior of what seemed to be a cell in the dim light. An iron door with bars at the top. Concrete floor and walls. Ratty, folded-up blanket to serve as a bed.
He raised magick, power flickering over his tattoo and down his arms, tingling the base of his skull. It came weak and sluggish because of his injuries, even in this place where his magick was more powerful. All the same, the pavement near
his head pulsed as he manipulated it.
Good. This place wasn’t like Gribben.
A footstep sounded to his left. That’s all the warning he got. A booted foot struck his injured side and Thomas’s world went white hot with pain. He grunted, nearly tossed his cookies, and held onto consciousness with every last shred of willpower he possessed. Unconsciousness now could very well mean his death.
“We have your female,” came a heavily accented voice. “If you cooperate, we will not hurt her.”
Isabelle. Shit.
Thomas forced himself to turn over onto his stomach, agony spearing down his thigh and through his middle. At least that pain wasn’t a quarter as bad as when the speaker had kicked him. He forced himself to focus upward, seeing a blond man staring down at him. “What do you want from us?”
“Why have you come to ally with the Atrika?”
He frowned. “The what?”
“Your female tried also to feign ignorance, but we know that’s why you’ve come. That’s the only reason any aeamon comes here.”
His mind whirled at the influx of information. Did that mean witches had come here before? No, warlocks, most likely. Not witches. Had they achieved it?
Thomas’s vision blurred. He blinked and the demon came back into focus. “We came here accidentally. When we fought Boyle with copper, the spell he was cooking to open a doorway became unstable. We were caught in the maelstrom.” He drew an unsteady breath, feeling lightheaded. “There is no attempt on our part to ally with any Atrika.” Whatever the hell that was.
The demon took three menacing steps forward, his boots crunching on the grit of the floor. “Do you think we don’t understand your goals? You forced the demon to open the doorway and then tried to kill him once you had no more need of him.”
If Thomas had not been bleeding to death and at the mercy of a seven foot demon in an alien world, he would have laughed. “You think we forced Erasmus Boyle to bring us here? You actually think us capable of that? We just spent the last three weeks trying to stop Boyle from doing whatever he wanted.”
