by Brenda Huber
“So Temptation, Vengeance, War and Lucifer’s own personal assassin. What about you? What were you the demon of?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he held her gaze. “I was the right hand of Lucifer, the Bringer of Death. I was the Collector of Souls.”
That pushed the breath from her lungs.
“So you were Death,” she concluded. Another Apocalyptic figure. Great. Just friggin’ great.
“I am called the Seer,” he replied stiffly.
Hit a nerve there, did she?
“But you no longer follow Lucifer, either?” Even though she was nearly positive of the answer, she still needed confirmation.
“Correct.”
Well, there was a plus.
Then her eyes narrowed.
Wait.
“You said Ronové was a Collector—”
And Niklas had, by his own admission, been a Collector too.
“Yes,” he murmured, leaving her to draw what comparisons she would once more.
Chewing her lip, she twisted her ring, round and round and round. Carly peered around the room. Looked anywhere but at the man. Demon, she corrected. But even with that reminder, she still had trouble assimilating the facts. She needed her wits about her, and, when looking at him, she felt at a distinct disadvantage.
“Why?” She shook her head, leaning back in her seat, crossing her arms. “Why are you telling me all these things? I’m assuming this isn’t exactly standard demon protocol, dumping your whole story out there on the first date, so to speak.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Why would she say something like that? Man, this headache was really getting to her, dulling her wits.
His gaze became earnest. Piercing. “I’m telling you these things in hopes that it will save your life. You have to understand the world you live in. The real world. You have to understand that you are in grave danger. Right now, you, more than anyone else. Ronové will be coming for you.” Why did he sound guilty about that? “It’s my job to protect you now, and if you know the facts, understand the score, it just makes my job that much easier.”
The black demon—if it really had been Niklas—might have looked like Ronové. But, as she’d thought previously, he had acted nothing at all like the beast who’d captured her and tied her to that tree. Then or now. Granted, he’d fought the other demon with vicious fury, killed those other twisted monsters with a complete lack of mercy, but he’d done so only in self-defense. They’d attacked him first.
And he’d saved her. Brought her here, kept her safe, just as he’d promised. He’d been careful and soothing with her. Gentle. Her eyes narrowed. Well, all but for that one moment when he’d punched her in the face.
With everything else, she’d nearly forgotten that. She fingered the tender ridge of her jaw. “You punched me,” she accused.
Oh yeah. That was a whole lot of guilt in those blue eyes.
“Sorry about that,” he offered, wincing just the slightest bit. “I could have tried mind control, but it doesn’t always work. And sometimes…well, sometimes there can be lasting…side effects. I didn’t want to take that chance.”
She chewed that one over. Lasting side effects sounded a whole lot worse than a bruise. Lifting her chin, drawing herself up, she ordered in the most imperious tone she could muster, “Don’t do it again.”
He dipped his head in acquiescence, but humor and admiration sparkled in his eyes.
She might not be big on trusting strangers, but she was a firm believer in actions speaking louder than words. So far his actions had gone a long way toward redeeming him, at least in her opinion.
That reminder gave her the courage to ignore any parallels she might draw between the two demons and the fortitude to continue her questioning.
“What about the others in the clearing?” She briskly rubbed her arms. Her skin was cold and clammy, though it felt like it had to be at least ninety degrees in the room. “What were they?”
“Those were also demons. A lower class of minions, easier to influence. Easier to control. Ronové has been gathering a legion of them.”
Lacing his fingers over that wonderfully defined abdomen, Niklas leaned back and adopted the expression of a patient teacher willing to answer any and all questions no matter how difficult or silly. She looked to his hands, and what they rested on. His muscles clenched tight. His knuckles turned white. She caught her attention dipping to— No! Not again. She jerked her guilty gaze back to his face. She would not strip the man, demon, whatever he was, with her eyes.
Niklas cleared his throat. When he continued on, his voice was oddly hoarse. “While most are free to come and go, some demons—powerful demons that could potentially precipitate the end of the human race—are trapped within Hell’s realm. In order for them to breach the barrier, they must be summoned. The ritual is called Ritus Niger Noctis. The Rite of Black Night.”
“And that’s what I saw? At the park? A summoning?”
Niklas nodded, solemn. “Whenever summoning a demon from Hell, a human sacrifice is required,” he stated without visible emotion. “View it as an exchange of sorts. A soul for the soulless.”
Then something else occurred to her. A frown darkened her brow. “So you were the Collector and Xander was the Slayer.” She nibbled on her bottom lip, piecing together what she’d learned so far. “By profession, the both of you would be able to travel between Earth and Hell whenever you wanted, right?”
Niklas huffed out a short, exasperated breath and shook his head. “Do you always fly from one line questioning to the next?”
“Usually, yes,” she replied without dissembling. “Answer the question, please.”
“Yes.”
“Can you still travel between planes?”
“Yes, but we don’t. If we returned to Hell, we’d be hunted by the entire population. Here, on Earth, we only have to worry about an occasional demon that stumbles across us, or the demons we hunt down ourselves.”
“You said Lucifer gifted you each with powers?” At Niklas’s grudging nod, she pressed, “What powers did he give Xander?”
Again, he paused. As if determining how much to reveal. At length, he carefully replied, “Xander could always tell whether someone is telling the truth or not.”
She toyed with her ring again, twisting it, taking comfort in the warm, smooth silver. She knew she was being rude, firing so many questions at him, but curiosity was eating her alive.
He frowned at her hands. “Who gave you that ring?”
His sharp question caught her off guard. “It belonged to my mother. Why?”
If she hadn’t been watching him so closely, she might have missed the infinitesimal way the bunched muscles in his broad shoulders relaxed. “You twist it when you are anxious or upset. It grounds you, calms you.”
Uncomfortable with his observation, she tucked her hands into her lap and changed the subject. “What was your sin?”
“You ask a lot of questions, tá’hiri.”
“My downfall, curiosity. I have so many questions, they just sort of spill out before my mind has a chance to censor.” She gave a tiny shrug. “You want me to believe all this, then I need all the facts.”
One corner of his mouth twitched upward. His eyes glinted. Was that approval, admiration, or amusement?
“My sin was arrogance.” He crossed his arms, probably unaware of how defensive the gesture might look to others. “And a lack of control over my carnal urges. My eyes were once a brilliant, sapphire blue. I spoke to others with my eyes, could influence others to my will with but a glance.
“But I saw only the physical beauty of others. I never took the time to look deeper. Never saw that others’ worth lay not in the shape of their face, the shade of their hair, or the pleasure their bodies could give me, but below the surface—in the st
rength of their loyalty, the depth of the well of compassion in their soul, and the purity of the love in their heart.”
She stared at him, fighting to hide her incredulity. The shade of blue might have changed, but he still held the power to speak with his eyes. At least, his eyes spoke to her. On a level that left her achy and breathless. Needy.
Compelling her to all kinds of carnal thoughts.
“So what’s your power?” Carly asked, desperate to change the direction of her thoughts.
His warm gaze skimmed the length of her body, intimate as a physical caress, and her blood heated. Her heart pounded, just a little harder. He blinked. A puzzled expression crowded his brow.
“I see emotion.”
“What do you mean, you see emotion?” She tensed, suddenly feeling exposed. “How? Is that like a psychic reading or something?”
Niklas lifted a brow. That single twitch of muscle combined with the wry twist of those magnificent, sensual lips spoke volumes.
“Sorry,” she muttered, abashed.
“I see emotion like a swirl of color tinting the air around a person. An aura, if you will. Every emotion is a unique hue.”
Her eyes widened. “You see this with everyone?”
Niklas nodded, clarifying, “Every human.”
“So, like, anger is—”
“Black,” he murmured, propping his ankle upon his knee again.
“And fear?”
“Gray.”
“Sadness?”
“Blue.”
“Blue, of course,” she said, nodding.
“The depth of emotion determines the darkness of hue.”
She licked her lips, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa. Her hands clenched in her lap until her ring bit into her flesh. Her throat felt suddenly dry, and tight. “Desire?”
He surveyed the air around her again. A bemused expression lit his face. He tilted his head slightly to the side, considering. And then, slowly, his lips curled on a smile, dangerous and wicked, making her heart skip a beat.
“Red,” he murmured. He skimmed the air around her with more concentration, as if something was suddenly clicking into place for him. “Vivid. Pulsing.” And then his eyes met hers. “Red.”
At that very moment, she was positive that same vivid, pulsing red was creeping into her cheeks. The room became unbearably hot. Carly shot to her feet and hurried to the window. Her nails lightly scratched at the base of her throat. The burning itch seemed to be spreading, creeping into her chest, making it difficult to breathe.
Air. She needed air.
She struggled with the window. It wouldn’t budge.
Before she could turn away in defeat, scalding heat suddenly scorched the length of her back. Long, well-muscled arms stretched on either side of her, lifting the stubborn window with little effort.
Gasping, she whirled around, coming nose to chest with Niklas. Instinctively, her hands braced against him, her palms connecting with his abdomen. The heat of his bare skin seared her. Tilting her head back, she stared up at him. As if drawn by some invisible force, his head slowly dipped. For a sliver of time, they stood immobile. Barely breathing.
Lips.
So.
Close.
“What does tá’hiri mean?” She could barely find her voice. Despite his wild claims, despite the very real possibility that he’d told her the truth about being a demon, her body continued to respond to him in a way it had never responded to another.
“Tá’hiri,” he whispered, his warm breath fanning her lips, “means ‘little lioness’ in the language of my creation. I called you tá’hiri that first time in the park because I saw in you great courage and determination—an indestructible strength of spirit.”
It didn’t make any sense. Knowing what she knew—knowing what he was—she wanted him still. This was wrong. On so many levels, this was wrong. Yet she was helpless to resist. For once, just this one time, she wanted to experience life. She wanted to touch and taste. She needed to feel. She wanted to take the emotions she always kept bottled tightly up inside and just let them pour out.
Instinctively, Carly moistened her lip. Her fingertips curled into him, and she savored the bunch and ripple of solid muscle beneath velvet skin. The heat radiating from him—the raw desire glinting in his eyes—promised complete and utter possession. When he kissed her, there would be no holding back. He wasn’t the kind that would tolerate temperate passions. Instead, he would demand absolute surrender with incendiary possession. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her head swam.
Was this it, then? Would she finally learn what it felt like to be kissed senseless?
Chapter Five
Getting close to her probably wasn’t the wisest choice, all things considered, but he crossed the floor without conscious decision on his part. He would just help her lift the window. At least, that was the excuse he used to justify his proximity. His arms—so unbearably empty and longing to feel her warmth—reached without his consent. His body—hungry for the soft press of her generous curves—leaned into her without his permission.
With a soft gasp, she whirled into his embrace, and he lost all power of reason. Lost himself in her. In the alluring scent that was so uniquely Carly. In the gentle curve of her lips. In the strength of spirit locked in her fragile body. In the warm, compelling brown of her eyes.
Her soft palms connected with his abdomen. Slid up, skimming his flesh, sending a shockwave of desire racing through his body. Everything else ceased to exist. Logic, caution had no place here.
Nothing held more importance than the imminent contact of their lips. The air around her throbbed violent red, like the dancing flames of Hellfyre licking away at his control, and he finally understood. The red tint to her emotions had not been his own desire reflected upon her, influencing his vision, but her desire.
Her need for him.
Well, this was one hell of a complication. Denying his need, his hunger was difficult enough. Knowing that she wanted him in equal measure was a heady aphrodisiac, leaving him alarmed—and, God help him, elated. Certainly aroused beyond restraint and all good sense.
Niklas, demon that he was—known for his ruthless control, his single-minded determination—was completely helpless, unable to resist this one tiny human female.
He had no business kissing her, no right to even think about it, and yet he lowered his head, his lips parting in anticipation. His breath caught in the back of his throat as that anticipation built to unbelievable proportions. The tip of her tongue darted across her lower lip, leaving behind a glistening invitation. Her eyelids drooped, and she leaned into him. Her fingertips curled into his bare shoulders, pulling him closer. No siren’s summons could have been clearer. His hands moved to the curve of her hips, sliding up, slipping just beneath the hem of the soft T-shirt she wore. His T-shirt.
My woman. That dark, layered voice echoed in the back of his mind. Primal. Unyielding.
If he hadn’t been so lost in his need for her, the unwavering, dangerous voice of his other self might have startled him with its unfamiliar tones of sheer possessiveness. As it was, it merely reinforced his hunger, encouraging him to take what she offered.
Take and demand more still, consequences be damned.
Her skin was so delicate, surpassing the finest silk. He stroked his fingers over the curve of her waist and the planes of her stomach, then curled them around the bottom of her rib cage and groaned from the sheer pleasure of having his hands on her at last. Niklas tilted his head until little more than a hairsbreadth separated their mouths. The very tip of his nose brushed hers. He drew her breath into himself, greedy. His focus locked on the lush, soft pink swell of her lower lip. Just a taste would be worth the risk of burning.
Without warning, her arms went limp, sliding down between them. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed against him, unconscious.
His lips connected with the top of her head as her nose hit his chest.
Alarm swam through his veins. Selfish, bitter disappointment warred with concern.
So close, that layered voice mocked him.
He scooped her up in his arms, flew across the room and settled her upon the sofa once more. Her skin radiated heat, more than what passion had kindled. She was burning up. Her cheeks flushed an unnatural rosy hue. Why hadn’t he noticed, damn it? Why hadn’t he been paying attention to the signs of fever burning bright in her eyes? Why hadn’t it clicked, the way she’d kept rubbing and scratching at the wound Ronové had inflicted?
Tugging the collar of the T-shirt down, he swore again.
Ominous black streaks snaked out from the cut at the base of her throat, spreading rapidly across her flesh like grasping tendrils of death. And the scratch itself had turned a sickly, grayish color.
Demon venom.
He should have suspected. He should have anticipated.
But he’d been so confused by her aura—so shocked and anxious over his own reaction to her—he’d let himself get distracted.
Niklas left her side long enough to dampen a cloth in the bathroom sink. He returned and placed it upon her forehead. Pushing her hair from her brow, he studied her. Her lips were rapidly taking on a bluish tint as the venom restricted oxygen saturation in her blood cells. Her face, now beaded with perspiration, had been leached of all color. And the air around her shimmered orange. Brilliant, pure orange. She was in pain.
A lot of pain.
His gut clenched.
There was no antidote for demon venom, and if he let it continue to invade her body at its current rate, she’d be dead in a matter of hours. If she had even that long. The only way to save her was to remove the poison from her system before it spread any further. Like snake venom, it had to be sucked out, quickly and efficiently.
Unfortunately, in human form, he would be susceptible to the toxin. While it wouldn’t kill him—his human body continually regenerated and anything short of beheading would simply slow him down—demon venom would leave him weak. Vulnerable.
