Demon Touch

by Doranna Durgin

  "So you keep running," he said, "which isn't safe. It just feels safe for a little while. Or you take a stand, and then you are safe."

  "Oh," she said bitterly. "You say that as if it's just so easy. Don't you get it? Nothing stops him."

  He gave her his darkest smile. "I will."

  Chapter 5

  Deb stood in shock, absorbing Alex's words—and fighting the impulse to grab his jacket and race out to the bike and run.

  Even if she had no idea how to start the bike.

  He spoke into her silence. He stood there in this mundane kitchen of pale yellows and little flowered curtains and cracking linoleum floor, with no apparent awareness of just how he filled it or how he smoldered while he was at it. "You need food," he said. "You need rest. And then we'll decide how to deal with this guy."

  "But why?" she blurted, so suddenly at a complete loss—so suddenly immersed in the surreal nature of it all. Nothing seemed familiar; nothing even seemed real. "Don't even tell me it's because it's your fault he found me. It's not enough."

  He gestured at her hand, where she still clenched, all unaware, the small knife. She lifted it; looked at it. A thing of beauty, it was, finely crafted antler handle, a gleaming blade with a dagger point, one edge sharp all the way to the hilt and the other fading into a spine with alternating grooves. A visible temper line marked the metal, reflecting faint layers of glimmer and darkness.

  "Deb," he said, "this is what I am. This blade and I…" He shook his head. "I used to work iron—specialized welding for gates and furniture. Creative stuff." He shook his head, the smile wry. "And then this fellow came by and asked me to destroy this blade. I wasn't into it, you know?"

  "It…" She looked at it again, turning it in the light—seeing the beauty and quality of it. "You were a maker."

  Relief showed in his eyes, that she understood. "I don't know how I didn't see it in him, but…he tried to kill me with the thing, and I took it from him. Don't even remember how it happened, but there he was, dead. And then suddenly…well, the blade feeds. It drinks—flesh, blood…all of it. So suddenly he wasn't there at all."

  A gleaming clean floor, where there had been blood.

  She took a step back, staring aghast at the blade in her hand. The shaky note found its way right back into her voice. "What is it?"

  He took a breath, watching that distance appear between them. "Demon blade," he said, sounding resigned. "That's what it tells me. It wants. It feeds. And it finds people in trouble." He shook his head, then drove home the final truth. "It doesn't care about them so much as it uses them—an excuse to do what it wants, in the name of doing good. But Deb…" He took another breath, a deep one, his eyes closed, his jaw tense. "I care. And I care about you."

  Temper flared. "You don't even know me!"

  passion and need and curling warmth

  It struck him as well as it did her—she saw it in his widening eyes, the body that stiffened as though taking a blow. But he managed a rueful grin in response to her assertion. "You don't think so? I've seen you in that store for months now. I know your smile, I know your eyes when you're lost in thought. I know you keep a mitten box for the kids in winter and that you help the stray cats in the parking lot. I know you make up discounts on the spot for those who need them."

  Her jaw didn't drop, but her mind stuttered to a brief, astonished stop—the clash of what he'd just said with her reaction to what was. The no this isn't happening and there's no such thing as a demon blade and memory flashes of Alex holding weapons that came from thin air when all he ever seemed to have was this knife.

  All of that didn't seem to matter as much as what she'd seen over these past months. "Oh yeah?" she said. "Well, you're the one who helps people change headlights in the parking lot and who closes car doors for the little old men who probably shouldn't be driving. You're the one who admired that kid's junker…you're the one who always says hello to the dogs at the car windows."

  His expression shifted—surprise, a little embarrassment…a faint sign of hope. He spread his arms—a gesture of surrender, a gesture of peace…an invitation. "Deb," he said, "you're the one holding the blade."

  It stopped her short—all the unspokens in those words. Trust me, as I'm trusting you. Believe in me.

  She swayed, the lure of him hit so strongly—sensations whispering through her body, that hint of what could be, should be.

  "Deb," he said, ragged—standing there with the effort of restraint written all over his body—muscles tense, shoulders tense, a hard swallow in his throat. But giving her that first move.

  One step, then two—and then the final distance, closed all at once. She lifted her face to meet him, her hands already pulling at his shirt; his touch drifted along her shoulders, skimming with restraint—down her arms even as their mouths met in a hard and seeking kiss. She gasped with surprise as that gentleness turned demanding, hands closing around her waist and lifting her right off her feet.

  Her legs wrapped around his hips. She cried out as he met her with a shift, a jerk of response, and let herself fall briefly back against his grip—arching into him, hearing his grunt of surprise—secure there, leaning back against his supporting hands. He brought her back up and she wrapped her arms around his neck, tightening her legs around him.

  He groaned and cupped one hand behind her head, angling his mouth over hers to gain better access. Her hair came loose from its ponytail and he threaded his fingers through the hair at her nape and—

  Trapped. It didn't matter that she knew why. Gary's hands in her hair, controlling her, forcing her, kissing her hard enough to bruise and bloody—then flinging her aside.

  She found her feet on the floor, her body ready to bolt, her mind already there.

  And Alex, startled and wanting and yet…waiting. Standing, instead, with understanding in those sharp dark eyes. Standing, simply, with his hands out to his side—that same gesture. Peace. Surrender.

  An invitation to what could be…what should be.

  Alex closed his eyes and thought about the panic he'd seen in Deb and marveled at the strength she’d shown her attempts to fight it. To come back to him.

  It was the hardest thing in the world, to take a step back. To stay just out of her reach, his hands where they were, his body aching for the touch of her. To hope she would take that next step toward him.

  She did. And by the third step she understood, and by the time they reached the narrow stairs, she no longer waited—she crowded him, her hands touching his chest, slipping in under his shirt, gliding along his flanks, his torso, skimming the waist of his jeans.

  And so he led her, without once touching her. All the way up the stairs, down the short hall to the sparsely appointed bedroom and its twin bed. There, beside the bed, he stopped—hands so pointedly held in neutral, a little shrug in his shoulders. It's up to you.

  As words unspoken, they came through loudly enough.

  She pushed him back on the bed; he let himself fall there. And made himself watch instead of bouncing right back up when her hands went to the hem of her shirt, stripping it off in one smooth motion. Her fingers hesitated at the snap of her jeans; she eyed him, assessing him—and then smoothly stepped free.

  Alex swallowed hard; he shifted, seeking ease and only making it worse—and knowing she had to feel safe. Without taking his gaze from her, he raised his arms—up over his head, as if at gunpoint—might as well be—and took firm hold of the bed frame.

  Her eyes widened slightly; her breath caught. She understood the offering perfectly. It's up to you.

  She smiled—slowly, a curve of that beautiful mouth from sweet to something else altogether. Alex felt it right down to his toes—which she exposed in short order, pulling off his boots and letting them clunk to the floor, running her fingernails up the seam of his jeans so he closed his eyes, stiffening against the pressure—forgetting to breathe while he was at it.

  But he didn't move his hands, and when he opened his eyes and found her w
atching, he understood the test. He caught her gaze…said nothing. Meant everything. Bring it on.

  Her hands found his waistband, played with it—dipping fingers beneath, caressing the snap, caressing him through the tough material and letting her fingers scratch the texture of it along the way. She touched herself, an absent trail of fingers down her neck, between her breasts, fingers spread across her stomach—her skin flushing, her attention completely on him.

  Bring it on. Had he thought that? The more fool, he.

  A sudden motion and she straddled him. When he sucked in a breath and lifted his hips to reach her, she gave him a sharp look and, reassured, returned her attention to his chest—pushing his shirt up to examine his ribs, finding the small raised tattoo over his heart that had come with the blade…bending down to lick it while her hair brushed his chest.

  He squirmed. He by golly squirmed, and he made a noise he hadn't heard from his own lips before, and he thought, dimly and suddenly, that it wasn't going to be the first of those. Not as he squelched another impulse to reach for her, wrapping his hands around the plain bars of the headboard, pressing his head back into that flat pillow…just feeling. Hands and light fingernails and lips and tongue, as if she had to acquaint herself with every part of his body—following the contours of his chest, scraping lightly against the hair concentrated there and arrowing down his abdomen, and then following that, too. And all the while moving against him, taking pleasure from him, a silent and thorough conquering of his body—and hers. For when he opened his eyes, he found the flush gone high on her cheeks, her eyes gone bright and dreamy, and her mouth…

  Bring it on. Oh, definitely a fool. She bent to lick a nipple; he sucked in breath. She breathed over his ribs; he bit his lip. She slipped her hand down to find a spot beside his hip bone that he hadn't known existed and ah!—that noise again, and louder this time…a pleading note to it. She tugged his jeans down, followed with his briefs, and lavished such intimate attention on him that he gasped and clenched the headboard bars and turned his head to the side, and he made that noise again…and again…and again. Lost in it, lifting his hips to seek her touch when it eased, legs starting to quiver and sweat gathering along his neck and temple.

  When she disappeared altogether, he blinked hard, struggling for focus. He found her stripping what little remained of her clothes—and while he sought composure, she dug his wallet from his jeans and riffled through it to find the emergency condom.

  This so totally counted as an emergency.

  And then she glanced at his hands—reassuring herself…reminding him. When she settled over his thighs again, the warmth of her, the softness of her…it nearly undid him. She made a soothing noise—an understanding noise. A confident noise. But no, of course she couldn't just apply the damned thing. She had to play with him, she had to explore the feeling of their skin on skin—touching him, moving against him…her own breath coming short until he did more than squirm—he arched for her, he thrust for her, he closed his eyes and gripped the bed and cried out for her.

  Please—

  He felt her shift, felt her hands on him, knew it was coming—and yet the sudden soft enclosing warmth wrenched another cry from him, and another, and then suddenly it was no longer her and him, it was them, and it was her soft cries mingling with his harsher voice, and it was her, gasping the words—the demand. Hold me!

  In an instant, he released the bed and found her hips. He slammed them together, fully and completely, and again, and she made a surprised sound, a sharp sound, a sudden, "Oh!" and "Oh!" and louder, rising with it—and then a cry he only heard half of because she closed down around him, stiffened and quivering, and that unfamiliar sound burst anew from his throat as he lost himself to her.

  Lost.

  And maybe just a little bit found.

  Chapter 6

  Deb fell asleep draped over his chest.

  Not for long, and not deeply. Just the perfect doze, flirting with complete sleep while perfectly aware of where she was. How she felt. Who she was with.

  When she lifted her head, his hand shifted down her back—as dozy as she, and just maybe as dazed.

  His image from moments earlier lingered luxuriously in her mind's eye—Alex, giving her the moment, giving her the control. The obvious strength it had taken from him. The trust he'd given her—and how it had played out through his body. The extremes to which he'd allowed her to take him.

  I know you, he'd told her. In some ways, maybe not at all. In others…clearly so.

  And maybe, if she had to admit it, she knew him, too.

  So here she was with him, in spite of knowing who he was and what he was.

  Maybe because of it.

  Beneath her, he made a mindless noise of contentment, his hand curving over her butt cheek. She brushed the hair from her eyes, and hunted for a clock on the basic little bedside table. The glowing numbers confirmed her sense of early morning.

  She also found the knife. Tidy, smug, and sitting beside the clock.

  He responded to her noise of surprise, turning his head…grunting an acknowledgment from his place of contentment. "It does that," he said, and ran his hand over her hip. How convenient for him that he was still inside her, shifting to life again. "I shouldn't have left it downstairs. It's probably cranky."

  "It saw this," she realized. "Everything we…" She couldn't quite finish it.

  His eyes opened from their half-mast sleepiness. "Actually," he said, "I believe it showed us things that haven't yet happened. But we can fix that." He, too, glanced at the clock, and quite obviously made up his mind, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear. "We," he said, "will fix it all."

  For the moment, she let herself believe it. And she let him touch her, stroke her, and worship her into a state of intense satisfaction, not the least of which was his deep groan and gasp of release, lingering in her mind to send her back to sleep.

  When she woke again, this time from the most profound of sleeps, the day had grown into sunshine and a brisk wind moving leafy shadows against the window. She wore one of his T-shirts; sometime during the morning, he'd climbed back into his jeans. Not, she thought, through any need to put distance between them. More like habit. Not willing to have the day sneak up on him and leave him unprepared for—

  He grunted, a surprised sound—jerking in his sleep. His hand closed on air, grasping nothing. His nostrils flared; his mouth twitched. He made a sound of distress and she'd had enough.

  "Hey," she said, nudging him. "Shh. It's just a dream—"

  He shot awake, his eyes gone wild and big, his breathing a gasp.

  "A dream," she repeated.

  "No," he said, and suddenly his expression reminded her of only days earlier, when he'd come in on the vandal at the store—when he'd realized the guy was still there. Sharp and fierce, a predator come alert. "The blade—"

  "What could be," she whispered, and shrunk back into herself. "Gary?"

  His gaze shot to hers with an involuntary abruptness that told her she'd guessed right. Something's changed." He rolled out of bed even as he reached for the blade—she saw it, whether he meant her to or not, that he didn't grasp it so much as it moved to his hand. "Get dressed," he said, all business—if only he hadn't glanced her way, let the worry of it show. Let the caring sneak out.

  She scrambled for her pants. "What?" she said. "What did it show you?" Surreal to be saying those words out loud, as if that was the way the world worked.

  "Here," he said. "It happens here. I don't know how he found us—but it doesn't matter. We won't be here." He slipped the knife in at the small of his back, and it sheathed itself on the way; his boots were a matter of jam and stomp over bare feet. "Ready?"

  Ready? She laughed, short and dark. "I thought I was supposed to stop running."

  He turned on her from the doorway, caught her eye—stalked right up to her. He didn't take her upper arms like she thought he might—that same restraint he'd shown the night before. Leaving her that
space. But he might as well have, the way his voice hit her, his gaze hit her. "Do you trust me?"

  It startled her. "I—"

  "Do you trust me?"

  She thought she'd never seen anyone as frightening as he was in that moment.

  But she thought again how he'd given himself to her, how he'd made himself completely vulnerable to her touch and her whim and her need—and some scared little piece of herself crumbled away. This man, she trusted. Not in spite of who he was…

  Because of who he was.

  She stood on her tiptoes and quietly, gently, kissed him—right on that hard, grim mouth. It didn't yield to her; she didn't expect it. Not with the moment before them. But when she settled back to her heels, his expression had softened. He took a deep breath. "We choose the moment to meet him," he said. "It isn't now." He leaned down, took her mouth in a sudden, unexpectedly sweet kiss. He disengaged with a smile crooking his mouth, his face still so very close to hers. "It's not running. It's repositioning."

  "I'll remember that," she said, and her voice barely made it to the surface.

  She followed him down the stairs at a jog. He grabbed his jacket; she grabbed her messenger bag, and shoved her feet in the shoes she'd snagged on the way down. He stopped just long enough to rifle the cupboard for some sort of toaster pastries, ripping them from their individual wrappers and pushing one at her even as he bit off a huge chunk. At her hesitation, he said, "We haven't eaten. We haven't had enough sleep. These'll help for a while." He grabbed a quart of juice from the fridge, shook it up…drained half of it from the bottle and handed it over, too. "Fortified," he offered, so deadpan she almost didn't get the absurdity of the situation—almost didn't laugh out loud.

  But she did, and he grinned back, a fierce and ready grin, and then he left her to check what was happening outside the front door

  Deb finished her pastry, took her last gulp of juice, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Ready for repositioning, sir!"