Leader Of The Pack

by Karen McInerney

  As my mind raced, the tension between us grew—I could almost feel the air crackle—until Tom broke it by taking a step back. “You should get some rest,” he said, and I found myself wanting to close the distance he had opened between us. “Tomorrow will be stressful.”

  I paused for a moment, looking at Tom’s silhouette, wanting with every cell of my body to wrap my arms around him and pull him into my bedroom after me. But he’d stepped back.

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

  Tom nodded, and we retreated to our separate rooms—Tom to sleep, and me to wait.

  I have rarely spent a longer two hours in my life. Even though I was relieved that we would be breaking my father out of the garden cottage shortly, and saving him from almost certain death, I was anticipating Mark’s arrival with both excitement and dread.

  I eased back into my jeans, traded my wrap top for an old Madonna T-shirt I found in one of the drawers, and waited, trying to ignore the fresh blast of Tom’s erotic scent that came through the vent every time the heat turned on. As I sat alone in the darkness, watching the red numbers on the digital clock as they crept toward the appointed hour, my mind kept going back to the name Mark had given me. Ashmodei. What did that mean? What was he, exactly? And why did he have such a hold on me?

  Under normal circumstances, without my laptop and an Internet connection, it would have been impossible to do any research. But I was in my mother’s house, with perhaps the most complete occult library in Austin. Since I wasn’t going to be sleeping anytime soon, I decided, it wouldn’t hurt to see what I could find out. Even if I couldn’t find the name, I could at least research creatures with a tendency to catch fire and sprout wings, and had access to weird, removal-proof magic rings.

  I cracked my door, checking for a light under Tom’s. The hallway, thankfully, was dark, so I closed the door behind me and crept down the stairs to the office where I knew she kept her reference books.

  Like my mother’s filing system, the book collection in my mother’s office was rather haphazard. If it had been my library, everything would have been organized, if not alphabetically, at least by subject, making things easier to find at a moment’s notice, rather than stacked on every available horizontal surface. Then again, if it was my library, the subject matter would have tended toward accounting, not spells and herbs. And there probably weren’t a lot of references to supernatural names in Principles of Accounting, Volume Six.

  I found a couple of dusty volumes dealing with supernatural creatures, but while I found several fascinating entries in the A section, including Asdeev (a white Persian dragon) and Ashuaps (a distant Canadian cousin of the Loch Ness monster), there was no reference to Ashmodei.

  An hour later, I had gone through every reference book I could find, and had discovered all kinds of disturbing things about baboon gods, magical seals whose favorite food was human hands and feet, and an intriguing creature called the Skunk Ape, but nothing related to the name Mark had given me.

  I had accidentally tipped a short stack of hardbound books over and was eyeing a book titled Gods of the Ancient World with interest when my mother appeared at the doorway in her star-clad robe.

  “What are you doing in here, sweetheart?” She squinted at me through sleep-puffed eyes.

  Damn. I cursed myself for not being quieter. “Looking for something to read,” I said. “Having a hard time going to sleep.”

  “So you’re up reading about magical creatures and ancient deities?”

  I followed her eyes to the books that were open on the desk behind me, and blushed.

  “They’re all open to the letter A,” she said, peering at the pages. “Are you looking for something specific, dear? I would have thought werewolves, of course, but we’re in the wrong part of the alphabet.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, reaching over to close the books. “Sorry I woke you—I’ll head on up to bed now.”

  “What are you looking for?” she asked. “It involves your father, doesn’t it?”

  “Indirectly,” I said without thinking.

  “Tell me, Sophie.”

  I could tell by the tone of her voice that I wasn’t going to get back upstairs without giving her something. And she’d know if I was lying. I decided to commit the sin of omission. “Someone mentioned a name the other day, and since I couldn’t sleep, I figured I’d come down and see if I could find it.”

  “What was it?”

  I hesitated for a moment—I’m not sure why—and told her. “Ashmodei.”

  Her eyes narrowed a little bit. “I’ve heard the name before, and I think I know what it refers to. Who mentioned it to you?”

  “Oh, one of my clients,” I said.

  “Strange. I thought all you businesspeople talked about was money,” she said, turning to scan the bookshelves. “Ah, yes. Maybe it’s in here.” She took down a thick, red-bound tome that was so well thumbed that all that remained of the gilt letters were a smattering of gold flecks. She cleared a spot on the desk and opened it, flipping through the onionskin pages and bending down to study the type. “Let’s see here. Amduscas, Apepi, Apopus …” She flipped another couple of pages. “Ashmodei.” She ran a finger down the page and looked up at me, puzzled. “It’s not here. Maybe I was wrong.” She turned the page, then stopped. “Wait a moment.”

  “What is it?”

  “I remember now—Ashmodei is a derivation. I just can’t remember the original name—but it was pretty close, I think.” She studied the page, slowly moving her finger down the text. Suddenly she stopped. “Aha.”

  “What?” I asked, trying to peer over her shoulder at the tiny print.

  “Ashmodei is only one of this entity’s names. Ashmedei is another, but the primary listing is under Asmodeus.”

  Entity. I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. Not that I should have been surprised, really—from what I’d seen of Mark, he clearly wasn’t your run-of-the-mill CEO. “But what exactly is he?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know the answer.

  She sat back in her chair and looked at me with something like pity in her eyes. “Asmodeus, my dear, is a demon.”

  My stomach contracted, and I felt the room spin around me. “A demon,” I repeated in a faint voice.

  “And not just any demon,” she said. “His origin is unclear—some say he was originally of Persia, born of Zoroastrianism. But whatever his past, he is known as one of the kings of hell, and as the demon of lust.”

  The demon of lust. I thought of Mark, and his magical Duraflame properties. And the wings—the wings of a fallen angel? I closed my eyes, trying to wrap my brain around the whole idea. Your client, and sort-of boyfriend, is the demon of lust.

  My eyes snapped open. “That’s impossible.” Because demons didn’t exist. Couldn’t exist.

  Then again, werewolves weren’t supposed to exist, either. And if Mark was the demon of lust, that would go a long way toward explaining my libido’s ability to trump any and all rational thought whenever he was in the room.

  My mother fixed me with a shrewd brown eye. “How exactly did this name come up in conversation, Sophie? Most people don’t bandy around the names of major demons. Particularly not people who are entrenched in the material world, like most of your clients.”

  I stared at the hooked rug on the floor, focusing on the dust bunnies gathering near the frayed edges, afraid to meet my mother’s gaze directly. “I… I don’t remember, really.”

  My mother’s eyes moved to the ring on my finger, the one with the iridescent moon on it. Then she turned back to the book on the desk, peering at the text. “I’d forgotten about this particular individual, but it’s all coming back to me now. There are several stories about Asmodeus, you know. But two in particular that stand out.”

  “Which two?” I asked, although I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  She turned to the book. “The first story is from the Book of Tobit. In the Old Testament.” She paused for a moment, sca
nning the text before she continued. “Apparently Asmodeus fell in love with a woman named Sarah, many, many centuries ago. And it was a very jealous love.”

  “How so?”

  My mother looked up at me. “Asmodeus drove Sarah’s suitors away. And he didn’t just shoo them off. He killed them. Seven of them.”

  I swallowed, thinking of Mark, his deep blue eyes, his sexiness, the way he made me feel utterly wanton. Was he really the demon of lust? And had he once been so infatuated with a woman that he’d murdered his competition? My mind flicked to the medieval paintings I’d seen on his office wall. They’d always seemed out of place before, for a successful, young, hip CEO. I’d always chalked it up to a collector’s interest in medieval art—after all, they’d all been of a woman in a weird-looking headdress. But was it possible that they were all paintings of his beloved Sarah? After all, if it was in the Old Testament, the monks probably did tons of illustrations of her … could he have somehow collected them, so he’d always have her with him?

  No, Sophie. You’re making assumptions. It’s probably a coincidence.

  “Not a very nice demon,” I said, finally.

  “No,” my mother echoed. “Not very nice at all. Then again, demons aren’t known for their kindness, generally.”

  “What was the other story?” I asked, anxious to move off the subject of jealousy-induced homicide.

  “Ah, yes. There is another thing Asmodeus is known for.”

  “Other than dispatching problematic suitors?” I asked lightly. But my mind was reviewing the events of the last few days. Tom’s motorcycle accident—and the limb that had fallen just as we were about to kiss. Had those been coincidence? Or was Mark somehow responsible?

  Mark had been jealous of the time I was spending with Tom, I thought, even if it did concern freeing my father. But he also knew Tom was seeing Lindsey, so it’s not like I was two-timing him. There was no reason for him to feel threatened. Besides, if Mark was this—this demon of lust—then why hadn’t he tried to get rid of Heath, too?

  “It’s not so much a story as a legend, really,” my mother began, “but in this case, it may be relevant.” She took a deep breath. “According to some sources, Asmodeus bestows special rings on those who follow him.”

  I covered my ring with my other hand and swallowed the cantaloupe-sized lump that had developed in my throat. “Oh?”

  “And do you know what those rings have on them?”

  “I don’t know. Diamonds?” I guessed, knowing it was hopeless. “Rubies? Giant emeralds?” Shimmering moons?

  “Planets,” my mother said quietly.

  My eyes darted to my ring. It was the moon, not a planet, I told myself. And he’d given it to me because I was a werewolf, not because he wanted to turn me into one of his followers, or acolytes, or whatever you call them.

  “Who gave you that ring?” she asked softly.

  “Mark,” I said. “You knew that. I told you.”

  “Mark’s last name is Sydney, right?”

  I nodded.

  Her finger ran down the page. “Alternate spellings: Asmoday, Ashmodei, Asmodeios, Asmodeu, Chammaday, Chashmodai…” She looked up at me. “And Sidonay.”

  I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes, feeling the world fall out from underneath me. “So you’re saying my client is a demon,” I said.

  “He’s more than your client, dear.”

  I didn’t bother to contradict her. We both knew she was right.

  The problem was, demon or no demon, Mark was my father’s ticket out of jail. And he was going to be here in—I opened my eyes long enough to check my watch—less than fifteen minutes. “Mom,” I said. “I know you’re probably not crazy about me spending a lot of time with a demon. Assuming he is a demon, that is. It’s all just speculation at this point—we don’t have proof.”

  “The Devil card came up in the spread I did for you the other day.”

  “Tarot cards aren’t proof, Mom.”

  “Well, then, shall we try to remove that ring again?” she asked.

  I hid my hand from her. Whether Mark was what my mother said he was or not, the ring he had given me had some definitely weird properties. The last time she’d tried to get rid of it, by cutting it with clippers, there had been something like an explosion, and I was afraid a second attempt would leave me an amputee. But the ring was bizarre; even when I transformed into my werewolf form, it somehow managed to change size with me. It had not left my finger since the moment Mark slid it on.

  “And you mentioned Mark made something of a magical entrance when you were at that werewolf compound last month. Didn’t he do battle with one of the spirit allies?”

  “Maybe he did,” I admitted. “It still doesn’t mean he’s the demon of lust,” I said stubbornly. “And even if he is, I need him.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, no. Sophie … has he already put you under his spell? How did I miss it? Oh, my darling …” All the blood left her face. She looked like someone had shot her.

  “No,” I said, “I’m fine, Mom. It’s nothing like that.” Although I wasn’t completely sure I was telling the truth. The way I felt when I was around him, as if I had no control… could I be under an enchantment of sorts? “The thing is,” I said, “I need him. He’s my only hope of getting Luc out of jail.”

  “How is he going to accomplish that ?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, glancing at my watch. “But he’ll be here in about fifteen minutes.”

  “You can’t let him do it, Sophie.” Her voice was flat.

  “But it’s my only option,” I said. “If I don’t, they’re going to kill him.”

  “What about the trial? Surely they won’t condemn an innocent man … or werewolf.”

  “It’s rigged, I’m afraid.”

  “We should call the French werewolves, then,” she said, thinking fast. “Have you gotten in touch with the Paris pack yet?”

  I swallowed hard. “I tried, earlier tonight. But they killed Luc’s assistant before I got there.” I omitted the fact that they’d tried to kill me, too—my mother had had enough surprises for one night. “And I have no way to get in touch with them.” My mother paled, and I reached for her hands. “Mom, don’t you see? It’s the only way.”

  Her eyes welled with tears, but she shook her head resolutely. “You can’t do it,” she said.

  “Once we’ve got my father free, I’ll talk to Mark, tell him I can’t see him anymore.” I felt a wrench thinking of it—demon of lust or no demon of lust, I’d gotten rather attached to my sexy, witty client. Not to mention the fact that a breakup would probably mean my losing the Southeast Airlines account. And, potentially, the partnership I’d worked so hard to achieve.

  My mother shook her head. “Sophie, this cannot continue. I still love your father—I always have, and I always will—but he’s not worth your life.” She paused, her dark eyes boring into me. “Or your soul.”

  “Who said anything about souls?” I said. “You’re jumping to conclusions here. All he said was he’d help me spring my father, that it would be a piece of cake.”

  “He won’t do it for free, you know. He’ll use it as leverage. Has he started talking about you belonging to him?”

  Yes, he had, in fact—and it was more than a bit annoying—but I didn’t say anything.

  “He wants to own you, Sophie. Body and soul.” She pointed to my finger. “You’re already wearing his ring.”

  “I’ll give it back,” I said.

  Her eyes were haunted. “If you can,” she said. “If it’s not already too late.”

  As she spoke, the purr of a car’s engine sounded from outside. I peered through the blinds as the black stretch limo came to a stop outside the house.

  “Don’t go,” she said. “Please, sweetheart, don’t go. I’m sure Heath will figure something out for the trial. I can’t let you walk into the arms of evil.”

  “Mom, I have to try. I promise I won’t agree to anything. If he tri
es to make me, I’ll just tell him to take me home.”

  “That’s likely to happen,” she said.

  “He came to help me once, and didn’t ask anything in return,” I reminded her. “If he can get my father out…”

  “Please,” she said. The desperation in her voice was deeply unsettling.

  “I have to try,” I whispered, and headed for the door.

  “Wait!” I paused, turning back toward her. “Before you go, I want you to take something with you.”

  As I stood in the doorway of her office, she hurried to the kitchen. She returned a moment later and pressed a small bag into my hand.

  “What’s this?” I asked, looking at the handmade drawstring bag. It was tied with a red satin ribbon, and its cheery floral pattern made it looked like a sachet.

  “Salt,” she said.

  “Salt?”

  “It’ll help you resist him, if you get into trouble. Demons hate it. If I had time, I’d put together something more thorough, but for tonight…” She bit her lip. “I wish you weren’t going, but if you have to, just keep it with you.” Her eyes were wet with tears. “If you need it, hold it against him. It should keep him at bay.”

  I took a deep, shuddery breath. Keep him at bay? Demon or no demon, Mark was one of the sexiest men I’d ever encountered; I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep him at bay. And if I did, I would think dressing in flannel pajamas would be more effective than a bag of salt. I tucked it into my purse—whether I wanted to admit it or not, this talk of demons and souls had rattled me. As did my mother’s obvious fear.

  Still. What choice did I have? I couldn’t leave my father to die.

  “I’ll take my cell phone with me,” I said. “If I need you, I’ll call.” I stepped forward, giving her a big hug and a kiss. “Wish me luck,” I said.