Fire and Fantasy: a Limited Edition Collection of Epic and Urban Fantasy

by CK Dawn

  “Must be hard to be you,” he said, eyeing her lithe body and forever erect nipples with the prescribed amount of admiration indicated in last month’s memo.

  “Boy, do not test me. I’m in no mood.” She took a swig from the decanter of vodka, grimaced, then sipped at the crystals of Scotch and brandy before grabbing the unobtrusive bottle of faerie wine and curling into one corner of his couch.

  “So,” she said once she’d settled. “How’s tricks?”

  “Same ol’, same ol’. You?”

  “Can’t complain. Oh wait, I actually can.” She glared balefully at him and pulled at the faerie wine with an appreciative hum. “You won’t pay me my money and refuse to do your job. What’s up with that?”

  “Fucking Haydon,” Fel muttered correctly assuming who’d ratted him out to Gemma.

  “I am,” Gemma assured him. “Every chance I get. Little shit squeals like a girl whenever I lay a finger on him.”

  Remembering the stories of Gemma’s preference toward extensive foreplay consisting of fear and degradation, and remembering too that his best friend had hungered for the demon’s heavy-handed touch, Fel tried to maintain a blank face. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say, yummy?”

  “Music to my ears,” she confirmed absently. She twisted a lock of her hair around one finger, her smile growing at the thought of her newest pet. Her gaze—approaching lustful—met Fel’s deliberately passive one and she refocused with an unhappy sigh.

  “Flannacán, where’s your work ethic? Where’s your pride? Time was you’d go to bed hungry before letting any potential client slip through your fingers.”

  “I got my regulars.” Fel perched on top of his bureau and watched his swinging feet, hoping the action underscored his sincerity.

  “Sylvia and Deloris? Economy’s forced even them to cut back. New business is where the money’s at.”

  “Nothing good is popping up on the radar,” Fel hedged, following an instinct to protect Dragon he hardly understood.

  “You bleed that stone!” Gemma barked, her pretty mask giving way to the greed and ruthlessness of her true face.

  Fel steeled himself as the husk of the demon she was—the only thing of her former life left to her—cleaved through the papier-mâché façade of humanity she wore.

  Her skin wrinkled before his eyes like a shriveling apple and ripened to a furious red that looked almost black in the early afternoon light. Her hair and crown hardened into twenty spiral horns with ominously glinting points, their tendency to straighten and stab was legendary.

  “Milk her,” the Gremory demanded. “Or,” she took a big inhalation and let it out, her eyes blinking against the sting as her aspect reformed into less nerve-wracking lines. “Else.”

  Before K'Davrah ravaged the landscape and the unfortunate souls inhabiting it, Fel could’ve taken her and won. Even weakened from undertow’s influence, Flannacán of old could have met a fully realized Gremory, triumphed, ended his day in drink and song, and forgotten about the battle on the next.

  But he was not who he was, might never be so again and the demon, while diminished, ruthlessly commanded other avenues to make up for her magical lack. She was the same as she ever was: a force to be reckoned with.

  “No problem, boss.” He smiled magnificently, slipped off the dresser and reached into the abbreviated refrigerator housed on the floor of his closet to offer her a bowl of stuffed olives.

  She took two and popped them into her mouth. “Your branch of peace notwithstanding,” she mumbled around a mouth full of olive, “I expect you to produce results.”

  “Whatever you say, Gem,” he said, reasoning that if Dragon was a paying customer, he could have her. As much as he wanted within the bounds of his daily rate. Would that be enough to satiate his irrational need for her?

  She cannot afford us, his libido mumbled clearly resentful of the monetary obstacle. She shouldn’t have to, other, more ephemeral parts of him insisted with unprecedented outrage.

  “You’ve got two weeks.” Gemma stood. “I’d say let’s shake on it, but I got something better in mind.” She recorked the bottle of Faerie wine and dropped it on the couch.

  “I thought you liked it,” Fel said warily. He took several, what he hoped were casual, steps away from the demon to place the bowl of olives on the bureau.

  Gemma noted his actions with hooded, intent eyes.

  “I lied,” she growled. “Carlos and Goat can’t brew worth shit.”

  Fel watched as she slowly transformed into her demon form, pushing through each layer of her humanity like a diver piercing surface tension. In the end the wizened, red skin covered a creature nearly seven feet tall and more beast than anything else. Two pendulous phalluses hung between a pair of skinny, absurdly bowed legs dotted with coarse, black hairs. From the waist up, Gemma hulked. Her round, basket-ball abdomen had an outie belly button that looked like a blunted spike and her barrel chest and equally cylindrical arms were so packed with muscle that reaching for a dropped pencil seemed beyond her.

  But Fel knew the truth, had witnessed her in action and knew her capable of amazing speed, flexibility and at least half the strength she possessed when she had all her powers: enough to easily subdue her fourteen-thousand-pound pet bull elephant in full musth.

  She also possessed the occasional hankering for miscellus blood. For most blood takers, the fae were not a palatable vintage. That combined with the fact that most fae were downright dangerous to hunt kept away all those who thirsted. Gemma insisted the peat prevalent in Fel’s homeland gave his blood a smoky flavor she just couldn’t resist.

  She smiled and pretended to fluff her crown of horns flirtatiously. “Come give mama some sugar.”

  “I’d rather fuck Goat,” Fel sneered, judging the distance between him and the CRA standard-issue dagger he kept under his pillow.

  “I’ve had Goat and…not bad actually. I’d rather fuck her too, but she’s not here. You are and I’m feeling peckish, so come on, dearie. Give us a kiss.” She pursed her lips at him and smacked them together several times like she entreated a recalcitrant puppy.

  Fel ignored her and dove for the dagger. At his best, a powerful descendant of the legendary House of Sun, the figure of Fel lunging for his weapon would’ve been a pretty blur. K'Davrah took that away from him, left him with nothing but crumbs of his former strength—more than humans and most miscellus, less than any serious takers. Much less. Undertow took everything else.

  As he landed on the bed he felt the heat of Gemma’s body cover his own. Her arm encircled his neck and her grotesquely long feet with prehensile big toes—like a monkey’s— manacled his ankles to the bed.

  “Fight,” she commanded, her sore-ridden lips oozing into his ear. “Better that way.” The last was a barely intelligible mutter that didn’t mask her excitement.

  Her talons threaded through his hair, dug into his scalp and made furrows into his skull to keep him still and his head and neck turned to the optimum angle.

  Fel tensed as rows of jagged teeth ripped through his flesh. He clenched his jaw against the pain and vowed to remain stoic until Gemma finished.

  He didn’t factor in the greedy slurping sounds that echoed around his seedy motel room.

  His enraged screams tore out of him, burning his throat like they were comets with fiery tails.

  Gemma shackled his flailing wrists with one knobby-knuckled, long-fingered hand, preventing him from reaching for his knife. Her erections slowly stiffened against his ass and she began to grind her pelvis, stilling briefly to fart long and loud.

  “Oh that’s good,” she groaned.

  “You fucking bitch!” Fel screamed, bucking at her weight, the fingers of his restrained hands frantically reaching for his dagger.

  She released his neck long enough to say, “Because I’m gassy or because I’m not hitting the right spot?” Her wildly rotating hips ceased circling and started to pulse like a jackhammer. “Better?” She clamped onto his neck again, he
r tongue cleaning away the blood that had pooled with a few oily strokes.

  Forcing his body to relax Fel growled, “Just make it quick.”

  “Sure baby, whatever you say,” she muttered before pulling on his open vein like it was a straw in a margarita.

  Her guttural moans of excitement and her erection ramming against him made Fel’s flesh crawl, but he stayed calm—even when he felt hot liquid saturate his sweats—waiting for her to slip up.

  When the fingers around his wrist loosened, he grabbed his knife from under the pillow and backhanded it into Gemma’s side.

  The demon pin-wheeled off of him with a surprised squeak. “Damn, baby!” She looked down at the hilt of the foot-long dagger protruding from between her ribs. “Was all this really necessary?” She motioned to her newly acquired titanium appendage.

  Fel levered himself off the bed, dragging a corner of the top sheet with him to staunch the bleeding at his neck. The wound would heal in about twelve hours, baptizing him like a third-degree burn in the process.

  “Get the fuck out.” He pulled open his sock drawer, dug around for his Glock, pointed it at her and fired a shot between her eyes.

  Gemma’s head jerked backward at the impact. She recovered quickly, blinked and wrinkled her nose as if a bit of dust got in her eyes.

  “Now don’t be like that,” she said, rubbing them furiously. “Goddamn gunpowder fucks with my allergies.” She sniffed a couple times, coughed and spit a wad of mucus on the floor. She pinched one nostril closed and blew, then repeated the procedure with the other, breathing a gusty sigh of relief when Fel’s bullet flew out of the hole in her head along with the spray of boogers.

  “Get out,” Fel said again and pointed his gun at her penises.

  “Okay, I’m going.” She expelled several breaths, sounding like a woman in labor until her body downgraded to frail humanity in the space of a few seconds. She faced him, naked, and used glamour to increase the hair of her bush.

  “Yes?” she asked when her pubic hair mapped a thick trail to her belly button. Her flawless skin glowed at him enticingly, but he was no human to fall so easily for her lure.

  “Or maybe this?” she asked with an elaborate hand flourish. Her pubes fell to the floor like ashes, as did the long strands of jet black hair she preferred.

  “Fuck,” she muttered, striding to the mirror over the bureau and frowning at her bald reflection. She pulled Fel’s knife out of her side, cursing roundly at the thick, black sludge that leaked from the laceration. “I look ridiculous,” she groused with a pointed glare in his direction. She materialized her crown on her bald head. “Well, that helps.” She grinned brilliantly at the picture she presented, turned and pranced naked out his front door to the hobgoblin elevator operator, holding the doors open with his head deferentially bowed.

  “Oh.” She stepped behind the hob into the elevator and reached around him to fondle his oversized package. “I’ll be in touch.” The pun elicited a feral grin, which she flashed at the hob’s visibly trembling body. Her lethally pointed teeth glinted in the fluorescent lighting. “I’ll definitely be in touch,” she murmured again as she grasped the poor hob under his arms and lifted his neck to her mouth.

  Fel slammed his door closed and squeezed his eyes shut against Gemma’s words echoing direly through his room accompanied by an overwrought organ solo—another glamour. He let loose an enraged roar as the last of the echo faded away, but it wasn’t enough to purge him of his hatred for Gemma, what she’d done to him today and the unimaginable things she did to Charlemagne to keep him and Fel in line.

  The last time he rescued Charlemagne from one of her hell holes, blood bugs had eaten the flesh from one hand and were fighting with several newly hatched Jacks for the rights to his arm and shoulder while milk ants converged over his exposed bone.

  The memory was enough to send him over the edge and he raked the decanters off the bureau with one sweep of his arm. The dresser mirror went flying into the closed door and he punched the Taj Mahal cutout into splinters.

  Fel tore the room to pieces. His anger kept away any casual callers and lit the room up like a nuclear explosion. The heat his fury generated bowed the walls of the fifth floor of the Yorktown until they groaned, curling the wallpaper in wide strips that flanked five-oh-one and five-oh-three like bangs.

  In the office on the lobby floor, Muhammad drew the corners of an old blanket around his shoulders for comfort though the heat suffusing the hotel was overwhelming.

  The hob elevator operator looked warily at the shaking cage of the elevator as he wound strips of gauze around his shredded neck.

  The power Fel’s rage generated was a pale imitation of the magic he once wielded thoughtlessly—a fact that pounded through his skull like a migraine. When he lay, sweating and shaking on the floor, too weak to flinch, a spook spider descended from its eerily glowing web to land on his big toe. It puffed up to the size of a ripe tomato before snapping back to its original size with a resounding “Boo!”

  “Beat it,” Fel mumbled tiredly.

  Seeing that its prey was not scared stiff by its hunting technique, the spider crawled back to its web.

  Fel slowly stood and made his way to the bathroom in a few stiff, jerky steps. The face in the mirror looked almost haggard and the stylized garden of scars on his arms and chest stood out in frank relief. He released the sheet he used as a bandage and winced as the fabric, glued to his torn flesh with his drying blood, fell away. He turned on the tap and cussed Gemma long and loud as he rinsed the worst of the blood, the mirror revealing only an angry looking scar.

  He hadn’t been able to heal like this since before the war.

  He gripped the porcelain sink to still his shaking hands and examined his wound more closely. It was soft like undercooked layer cake, but it was more than he’d seen any miscellus accomplish in decades. A profusion of incomprehensible and unanswerable questions overwhelmed him, but he only needed the answer to one.

  His magic was back? His heart pounding with such joy, he fought to hold back tears. To be himself again, to walk the lush pathways of the Sun, see the few members of his family he could actually tolerate, finally have a decent meal and a proper drink…

  He laughed out loud as he imagined himself lying on a bed of dove moss, his belly full and his skin warmed by the champagne rays of the sun. He could see Tosh again, he thought with a smirk. See if she was still as beautiful as she had been in his dreams. See if she regretted dumping him for that well-connected ponce, Sasha. He could have a nice long chat with Gemma; one the demon would never forget.

  Still smiling, he closed his eyes and attempted to shake off the wound Gemma had inflected like a Labrador shaking briny ocean water from its coat. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the warrior he had been before undertow and the war took everything grinning back at him.

  Instead, the same old junkie stood before him, confusion etched in the lines bracketing his eyes. Though the familiar sensation of his magic running through his veins like fur over his skin was absent, he tried to heal himself again, this time watching his reflection for changes.

  “Work!” he shouted at himself, balling a fist and punching his reflection until it was nothing more than unrecognizable shards and his knuckles were bloody.

  Chest heaving, he chastised himself for falling for what must be Gemma’s newest method of torturing her employees. It was effective, he’d give her that much, and added this latest insult to the mental tally he kept of Gemma’s sins against him.

  “One day…” he promised to his broken reflection. But not today. Today he needed to walk the walk and pay off his undertow debt.

  No way he’d be able to see Dragon today looking like this. He glanced at his shredded knuckles and sighed. Not unless he shot up and used that magical high to fix himself all shiny again.

  Gemma’s semen made Fel’s sweats stick to his left cheek, reminding him in the most repulsive fashion where his reliance on undertow had gotten him: under
Gemma in more ways than one. He indulged in a fantasy that flipped their positions, taking it to the sky’s-the-limit outcome that had Gemma chained and servicing her pets. The image of her on her knees in front of that idiot, piece-of-garbage Haydon while the elevator hob reamed her ass made him smile.

  He reluctantly dismissed the hob’s gleeful shouts and fluttering fur coat and tried to imagine what Gemma could be doing to make Charlemagne unable to take the heat off of Fel—even for a few days—while he raised the money he owed.

  After a minute of staring sightlessly at himself, Fel gave up, but not because he couldn’t come up with any ideas. Just the opposite, actually, thanks to that Pan bullshit. Even a hint of Gemma committing some of the atrocities he saw during the war made jagged resentment cut through him. After all that he’d sacrificed and the blood he had spilled to “preserve freedom,” the thought that it could be happening again, this time with Gemma at the helm, was like a punch to the gut.

  That Charlemagne would willingly stand still for that was ludicrous. Fel knew that Charlemagne hated everything Gemma stood for. Knew too that the sick attraction he indulged all those hundreds of years ago shamed Charlie like nothing else, which meant that Gemma’s shenanigans really did have him by the short hairs.

  He used a damp washcloth to blot the area at his neck, wondering if the demon had indulged in a hit of undertow to be able to work this kind of magic. Either way, shedding Gemma would take patience, which meant business as usual until he sussed out what was what, which meant working Dragon until either she or Gemma popped.