I curl CeCe's lips back and glare at the bleached-blonde, bulbous-breasted-wet-dream holding her glass out for our bartender. Sheesh, you'd think a demon of seduction would be more sympathetic to my plight. Not like I can talk to the bartender; a púca often gives good advice, and Satan knows they have charming personalities, but they can't be trusted and their advice always comes with a price.
"Another green steam to abjure the sensual chains that bind, my luv?" The gorilla's voice is all lusty deep male as he locks eyes with the succubus.
She hoods her eyes and smiles wickedly at the bartender before turning to me. "If you can't drink from this Gaire guy's manly charms, dress yourself in him, imbibe with another, and get over it. I see no issue here, Doppie."
"Don't call me Doppie! You know I hate it! How about I start calling you Sucky?" I glare at her and suck in a dramatic breath, and she knows I don't need it; she knows I'm threatening her.
The reaction I get makes me smile. Sucky leans out of the line of my suckage and raises her brow. "You really don't want to go there, do you?" The dream demon curls long slim legs under the bar and hooks them around the legs of her stool.
Although my actions are just a smartass threat—there is no way I'm shedding CeCe and donning the succubus—I pretend to misunderstand her comprehension. "Yes, I do! I want to roll around on that big red-silk bed of his and writhe in pleasure. And I don't like being refused!"
She seems to relax, her posture unstiffens and she even smiles at me. "You know what humans say 'tomorrow is another day.' So take your ugly black self into that diner in the morning wearing major doppelganger attitude, sweetie. And hey, if you can't make any headway, I'll be happy to jump into his dreams tomorrow night and assist, K?"
On the other side of the room a loud crash steals Sucky's attention as one of the berserkers bursts from a metal cage and takes down three tables as he rolls across the room, blood spraying, fists flying, and all angry spittle growls. The flesh-tearing ogre stands in the open door of the swinging cage roaring laughter over the encouraging crowd. He grabs the bars on either side of the opening as the berserker gets two feet up under him and bellows a threat riding a wave of acrid, carnage breath over the crowd. Half the clientele respond in testosterone injected frenzy and the rest vary in their levels of amenableness.
I crinkle my nose at the smell without acknowledging the useless action because I feel the hair on the back of CeCe's neck stand straight out, and it isn't because of the cage fight action. If I were the real CeCe, I'd be hyperventilating right now. I'm still holding onto Sucky's casually dropped comment about entering Gaire's dream.
I tap her shoulder a bit too hard and my words are a bit too harsh. "You most certainly will not get anywhere near Gaire! The only way you would ever be entering his dreams is if I'm wearing you. Got it?" I think I just growled.
Both of her brows shoot up. Her lips pucker a scowl and her head shakes disgust at me. "Oh my, sweetie, tell me you are not in love-"
"I'm not!" I shout while I mentally scold, Damn it, you are so screwed.
The felled berserker scrambles across the bar, and with an abhorrent war whoop, dives for the cage, slamming it into the wall with his girth. The deep throaty laughter of the ogre dances gleefully with the cheers from the crowd.
Sucky's head whips from the cages to the entrance of Purgatory and when I follow her gaze, a moan escapes CeCe's peppermint-glossed lips. "Just what I need." I glare at my mother for all of two seconds before I turn to watch the púca saunter up, Sucky's drink clutched in an oversized hand with long fingers and sharp claws.
Two bouncers: a werewolf, who is licking his maw, and a very smelly sewer troll named Stoner, wobble across the room toward the cages and the fight taking place there. The sound of fists hitting flesh makes my mouth water. I can only imagine what it's doing for the werewolf whose main diet is flesh.
"I added it to your tab," the púca's voice warbles. Sharp slimy-green teeth click behind loose lips spread in a smile for the succubus.
The bartender, now a very impressive, ugly, gray goblin watches my mother take the stool beside me.
"I'll have what she's having," Mother points at me, "and a large bubbly, please."
The goblin's black eyes sparkle. "Another green steam, add a brew!" the púca shouts at a mixer mid-bar, then points at me. "Unless you'd like another, dearie?" When I nod he shouts, "Make that two geenie's, Kris!"
The mixer, a wiry elf with orange hair and long pointed ears, raises a knotted thumb and then nods. His ears poke out from under a brown, pointed hat, and as he leans in to pour the two shots a green ball on his hat falls over one eye.
Mom's not wearing anyone at the moment. I loathe our natural body shape. It's black smoke, dense, and rolls like heavy fire-smoke as she moves. Our only facial features, two bright red eyes and a circular hole with long gray teeth protruding are revolting. Two appendages, with four-finger hands, hang to the bottom of the cloud of smoke, and we have no feet; we glide.
"I see you're still wearing the slut," my mother says.
While contemplating the relationship, I have with Mother—wishing her someone else's little cloud of hell—I try to ignore her. I don't know why our kind decided to make us call our guardians Mother instead of Father. We have no sex. We are singular creatures; a demon's closet faux pas so to speak—a summoning spell gone so terribly awry.
"I assume the real slut is still in Europe?" Mom presses.
It used to be, fledglings were left to fend for themselves, and killing was a personal preference by the darkest of our breed. But in today's world it's almost impossible to pass off the sudden appearance of other-halves. I get it. So far I've been lucky, but if I mess up...
Yesss," I hiss. Complete consumption of the Identical be damned; if they think they can turn me into a more hideous mythological creature with a tenth as much freedom by threatening me with extinction, so be it. I'd rather be consumed by my brethren and Become No Longer than take another's life for the mere amusement of it. I won't stop doubling up.
"At least she still smells fresh," Mother pokes.
"There you go," Sucky whispers in my ear. "She sounds like the proper one to assist you with your little sexual dilemma."
"In A Midsummer Night's Dream!" I hiss.
"Oh, now that's Mommy's little girl." Sucky laughs.
"Do your customers like the cold side of you?" I spit.
"I have no cold side, sweetie. You, on the other hand, are sounding quite vendetta-ish."
Our bartender slaps two coasters on the bar in front of Mother and me and sets our drinks down, covering the bar logo, a picture of a black hole painted between a pearly gate and bonfire, PURGATORY stenciled in red over the dark hole.
Mom hammers her shot and sucks down half the bubbly. "So, honey, tell Mother what's tormenting you."
I glare at the succubus.
She laughs. "Not enough hours in the day, huh, Luv?" Sucky slowly drains her shot, rises, straightens a black skirt so short I can see naked butt cheeks, and wiggles her fingers as she saunters toward the door.
Mother watches after her as the werewolf and troll toss two berserkers out the front door, and Sucky jumps back when a splash is followed by a spray of sewer water. I'm a tad bit disappointed the succubus doesn't get wet.
"I don't like your friends, dear." Mother's form billows and wavers beside me as she sips the brew. "So, what happened above the diner with the half-breed? You did not look...pleased when you left."
I stare hate at my guardian/mother/warden, whatever, and even though the first thing I want to scream is 'what the hell do you mean, half-breed?' right before I scream 'you were following me...again?' I calmly say, "I personally don't care what you think of my friends, Mother. Sucky serves a purpose. I am well tutored in the art of seduction." Body trembling, still pretending, I add, "And I like sex. It's a nice high, feeds the hunger, ya know?"
Mom's hypnotic red eyes are doing an arc across the bar from me to the door. I notice they lin
ger at the entrance with each pass, as though she is expecting someone. When six vampires, four male, and two female, walk in all white skin and black clothing, Mom's gaze passes right over them and to the cages where a round of fights has come to a finish and payment is being exchanged.
Two words—half breed—tag my inner thoughts like a repeating catch in a sound bite. I watch a segmented reflection of CeCe in a mirror behind bottles of intoxicating fluids on the other side of the bar. It, her, CeCe's reflection, calmly signals for another green steam, and I count the seconds before I can continue without the fear of looking anxious. "Did you say Gaire is a half-breed?" I ask, eyes still on púca, like I could care less. But my dark side is quivering, uneasy, fearful enough to raise prickles along CeCe's arms. I watch the fine brown hairs lift in their follicles.
Mom puts up two sooty fingers and lets our bartender know she'll take another shot as well. "Yes, a half-breed. I felt it. So what is he?"
CeCe's eyes blink several times before I can reign in the human side. My mother snags the tell and runs with it. "You didn't catch it, did you? Well, it's nothing to be ashamed about. It's hard to read half-breeds," she says as we both pretend to watch the púca fly toward us, an eagle now, and two drinks clutched in the birds talons, not a drop of green steam hitting the floor. "Anyway, what happened over the diner?"
The fanged-immortals secure a table on the side of the room furthest from the cages. Another púca, all bare chest and alluring dark-skin, with the head, arms, and torso of a human and the body and legs of a horse, trots over to the table with a laminated menu. I catch images of young men and women as the waiter lays the menu on the center of the table.
Three of the vamps, two females, and one male shake heads in a no thank you gesture, and with a show of fangs, order type-O processed. The waiter nods and while the other three immortals study pictures on the menu of non-processed beverages, the centaur dressed púca prances to the bar with the drink order.
"We didn't do much," I tell Mother, and smile at the Eagle. It hovers with massive wings fanning—coasters fly about—and sets drinks in front of us. "He cooked me breakfast, we talked, and I left."
"What? None of that well-educated art of seduction?" Mother looks amused.
I push a laugh over CeCe's lips—weak attempt since Mother saw me spin gravel all the way out of the parking lot in CeCe's car. "Actually that's all it was. I'm baiting this one," I lie. "He's reluctant. I think it's the age thing." I laugh again. "Humans have way too many hang-ups. Anyway, it's more fun to see how long it takes. And I have a few weeks before I have to give up this body." I lift my shot glass in a toast, she clinks the base of her glass against mine. "Why not have a bit of fun with it?"
We both chug the shot before she answers. "Well, I do hope you will be discarding this outfit soon. I'm quite bored with it. And be careful, alert. Mix breeds can be tricky."
"Doesn't matter," I flippantly say, although it does, "nothing can kill us but ourselves, and it isn't a doppelganger. So I'm in for the thrill, right?"
For the first time, ever, my guardian says nothing. She faces forward; her smoky form absorbs the stool beside me as she settles. I glance up. Her bright red orbs are piercing, and even though I'm watching her through a reflection in the mirror behind the bar, they penetrate. I can tell her body has stiffened. Mother averts her gaze and still she says nothing.
I don't say anything, either, but my mind is roiling with thoughts of what Gaire is and what he could possibly do to me.
SIX
Gaire
I'd followed CeCe tonight, directly to the sewers and Purgatory, Down Under. I've been hiding by a metal ladder leading up to a storm-drain exit. I have a good view of the entrance to the bar. Nothing exciting has happened since she went in. The time seems to move like a slug on dry pavement.
It's blessedly dark down here, only a dim ray of light pours from Purgatory's small window above the door. A gloomy, luminous stream melts into the area around and below the entrance. It adds a surreal atmosphere to the dank and murky scurrility of the sewer where creatures slice darkness, a flickering stream burbles by, and street noises from above add reality.
The fetid air is deeply spiced with all things moldy and decomposing; the smell of death. I feel at home, but not safe. Most of the underworld knows what I am, what my kind is capable of, the threat we bring Down Under. But even worse, some of the older creatures may know my clan, my immediate family—they may know of me because of the reward.
My family has promised a Lifecard to the creature who aids in my capture, dead or alive. It entitles the bearer freedom from attack by way of retribution. There are very few Down Under stupid enough to challenge me without the reward. That's why I run. They will kill me when they find me.
The southern states, especially here in the sewers, and places like Purgatory are no-kill zones; our kind is not allowed here—as written by Them who watch over the underworld—mainly because we cannot control our lust for flesh. In a one on one confrontation we always win, and very little is left of the body afterward.
The best of the best of us are called south—infrequently—to extinguish those inextinguishable by any other course of action. The summons always arrives on the monster of fatal unpredictability, and this is why I choose to hide in the southern states. To control my thirst for flesh would be considered impossible, yet I have done so for thirteen years.
I'm pulled from my thoughts by the arrival of a Berserker, who goes by the name of Vicen. He comes down the sewer south of me, head turning this way and that. I slide further behind the stairs and watch as he enters Purgatory. Vicen deals in human trafficking. Sells some, uses others. I'd watched him try to stop CeCe on the street above ground earlier. She'd sloughed him off. I'd approached him. He knew what I was immediately, but I let him live. He'd promised to stay away from her, and me.
The only reason CeCe would meet him here is if she's one of the humans he prostitutes, unless she's not who she wears. But I'd know it, sense it if she were a shape-shifter—any shape-shifter. I need to find out for sure. I should just walk away, move on like the other times when things felt wrong, but I can't this time.
Can't or won't? My father's voice invades my conscious thoughts.
Can't, I mentally respond. What if she's the one? What if she's a possible mate? But I'm fooling myself. She's not a shifter. I've sensed them before—she smells different. Damn it, she's captured my curiosity. The need and lust I feel are overpowering. I have to find out what she is. The only way to do that is to bed her. If she's otherworldly, she'll feel my darkness and show herself.
And if she doesn't, you'll kill her, my father's voice warns.
CeCe
A berserker I know struts in, all muscle, murky eyes, and albino features. Vicen's presence is formable; heads turn, an atmosphere of anticipation falls over the bar as he goes straight for the cages.
All eyes follow Vicen; mumbles burble like the sewer stream outside the door, undefined, volatile. The smell of blood, sweat, and demon tears are thick in an atmosphere rattled with tension-packed pheromones. A surrealistic light pulses and multicolored creatures exude a lust for the unknown.
Purgatory crackles excitement as lycanthropes, berserkers and other creatures group around cages and wagering becomes physical, oral, and unruly.
An Indian with cold black eyes, a set jaw, and long, jet hair, breaks from the pack and strips down to a hairless, muscular body, beautifully sculpted; light reflects off his dark skin. His face contorts, skin rolls over bones that pop and reshape. The Indian heaves with the effort this change brings on. Usually it's a quick process, but this one is drawn out. Long tresses of hair fall damp around a pain-contorted face and almost touch the ground as he bends at the waste reaching for the floor with one hand, the other wrapped around his midsection. Arms lengthen—noise in the room melts around the spectators like candle wax—and talons replace fingers; claws on paws the size of dinner plates dig into concrete as a black wolf, four times its hum
an weight, shakes from head to tail and clears the betting floor.
I have never seen a wolf this large and I'm mesmerized by the impressive creature.
On padded paws, the beast paces, gazes at his opponent's supporters, and growls of intimidation rumble in his chest. The crowd splits and the wolf's black eyes shoot daggers at the blond berserker. Slowly, words of encouragement rise in volume until they rush from the patrons for both parties.
Saliva drips from the wolf's maw as the creature kicks up dirt on a damp floor with its hind quarter. The air becomes cloudy around the wolf's paws, but I am staring at the animals distracting eyes. They look like lightning bottled up within a black night.
The wolf's opponent hoods steel-gray eyes and spreads a grin at the animal's exhibition. Sharp, pointy, metal teeth catch and reflect light from a fixture over the cages.
The wolf raises its head and howls a retort. The lycanthrope shifters join in with human bellows of threat-driven support.
I know the berserker. In fact, I'd had a confrontation with him earlier right before dropping Down Under. Berserkers are a nasty bunch, but this one is wicked cruel and gets off on the pain of others.
He'd approached me several times trying to work out a business deal for the human bodies I double up on. Evidently, sex with a human pays very well among the otherworld creatures, especially if the human is less...breakable. I'd told him several times I wanted no part of it, and then he started following me. Every time I went Down Under he'd show up and give me a sales pitch like he did earlier.
This time, I'd pushed him off with a threat to bring the matter before the doppelganger elders. He'd laughed, right before telling me half the board was on his books. Then he sauntered away, taunting, 'You'll come around'.
But tonight he'd walked in here, glanced at me, barely acknowledged me, and quickly turned away—probably the fight, but still, so not like him to use a good audience to make a point. With Mom beside me, it's even weirder. She's one of the board members on his books. She even encourages me to take him up on his offers, said it would build relationships Down Under. I still refuse, mainly because I double up. I don't kill my hosts; don't want to pimp out their doubles, either. It doesn't seem right.
Beyond Secret Worlds: Ten Stories of Paranormal Fantasy and Romance Page 23
