by Anya Bast
Teeth strong enough to crack human bones for the marrow.
“I know you,” he said in a low, soft voice, like a lover’s. His gaze traced the lines of her face and bitter vomit crept into her throat. “I’ve been hunting you.”
Images once again flashed through her mind of Angela’s ruined body, but this time they came from her own subconscious instead of the demon’s.
She choked down an anguished sob. “I’ve been hunting you, too,” she gasped through the demon stench a second before she brought her fisted blade upward, straight into the thing’s jaw.
The wound smoked and the demon screamed. She watched in surprise and horror as the stab wound opened even more, the flesh peeling away at the edges like burned parchment.
Blood dripped onto her chest, singeing a hole right through her shirt and burning her skin. Isabelle screamed and pushed herself away from him. In the melee, she’d forgotten about the blood.
She expected him to come after her, but the thing recoiled, screaming, and holding his jaw. Her realization came swiftly—for some reason the demon had trouble healing injuries made by her blade.
Looking down at the knife in her hand, she examined the beautiful, intricately etched copper handle and shiny blade.
Copper? Could it be?
Maybe she had a proper weapon after all.
Isabelle ripped her shirt off, trying to get the acidic blood away from her skin. While the demon turned away from her, nursing his injury, she wound the fabric around her right hand and wrist to protect her as she wielded the knife.
Just in time.
The demon turned and roared, his jaw nearly healed. The skin where she’d wounded him looked red and puckered but no longer smoked and bled.
She didn’t waste a moment. She rushed the demon and stabbed him in the chest, in the leg, in the arm, anywhere she found available flesh.
More smoking, burning wounds. More demonic bellowing. More acidic blood that Isabelle danced to avoid.
The demon backed away from her, obviously in pain. He roared again, this time sounding like a wounded animal. Boyle lifted a well-clawed hand and then disappeared.
Quiet. Silence.
Isabelle stood on shaky legs, staring at the empty space in front of her with wide eyes. All of her injuries rushed up to meet her…just like the ground. The last thing she remembered was the vision of the newly starry sky above her head.
And then darkness.
NINE
“ISABELLE?”
She winced as pain registered in her chest—a long, slow rip followed by a lingering throb. Her eyelids fluttered open and she saw Thomas’s head blocking the stars. Ignoring the pain, she focused on the important thing. “Thomas, you’re okay.”
“So is Adam. Shields kept us alive, but not conscious. We’ve all been out for a while.”
“Boyle’s gone,” she whispered. “How’s the child?”
“She’s fine, the woman and the non-magickal male are also okay, if a little beat up and upset.”
Movement caught her eye on her right side. “Hey, champ,” said Adam, limping toward them. “Just can’t manage to keep your shirt on, can you?”
She raised her right hand. She hadn’t lost her death grip on the knife’s handle even in unconsciousness. The blade was bloody and rusted in places and the material of the shirt she’d used as a hand guard was crispy and eaten away.
“I don’t think it likes copper,” she said, a wide smile spreading over her mouth despite the pain burning like bonfire in the center of her chest.
They were going to make that demon pay.
“COPPER,” MUTTERED MICAH, FROWNING AS HE RAN his finger down a page of printed text. “Copper…Oh, yeah, here it is.” He mumbled to himself for a moment while Thomas shifted impatiently.
“Demons are greatly injured by copper weaponry and have difficulty healing wounds inflicted thusly,” Micah read. “Copper is also known to cause a weakening of the beast’s overall magickal structure and an allergic reaction in the physical structure.” He looked up from the text with raised eyebrows. “Huh.”
“Huh?” Thomas glowered. “We were nearly killed out there. That information would have been useful, Micah.”
His cousin spread his hands, indicating the pages and pages of paper strewn across his desk. “I’m going as quickly as I can here, boss. You rushed off so fast after that lead on Alexander I hadn’t even had a chance to download all the documents yet.” He passed a hand over his tired-looking face. Thomas noted Micah’s eyes were bloodshot and he had five o’clock shadow.
“So no other metals, just copper?”
Micah nodded. “Apparently. I’ll keep looking for more information, but you have to know that some of it was corrupted. There are pages missing and—”
“Tell me what else you’ve found out.”
His face instantly lit up. “There’s lots of information here about their world. They reign supreme in their reality, having exterminated all other races. They’re cannibalistic, too.”
“Lovely.”
“It looks like there might be different breeds of demon, but the information concerning that is unclear. It seems like there are four genetic groups, each possessing unique personality traits. Their culture appears rooted in some way by how these different breeds operate. Did you know that they actually call themselves daaeman? That’s the name of their race. They call their world Eudae.” He paused with an expectant air.
After a moment Thomas ground out, “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
Micah rolled his eyes. “The Greeks called demons daemon, but with a different spelling. That Latinized spelling of d-a-e-m-o-n is very close to how the daaeman spell the word as d-a-a-e-m-a-n.” He pronounced the words differently. Daemon, Micah pronounced demon. Daaeman, he pronounced day-man.
“The Greeks also classified them into benevolent and evil categories, or races.” He frowned. “Maybe even breeds, I’m not sure. The benevolent demons were called eudaemons, like the name for their world.”
“Benevolent demons? The Greeks got that one wrong.”
Micah shook his head. “No. They didn’t get it wrong. Their race is like ours, some of us do horrific things, but that doesn’t make all humans bad. They’re a complicated species.”
His lips twisted. “Please excuse my unfair comment.”
Micah spread his hands. “You’re missing the larger picture, Thomas. Don’t you see? This suggests demons had contact with humans long ago. And, in fact, it says they did right here.” He brandished a sheaf of papers in his fist. “It says once there was a bridge between the worlds that daaeman could traverse. That they came to”—he squinted, reading text—“hunt, frolic, and fall in love.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Frolic? Demons frolic? They fall in love? Wait a minute, they frolicked and fell in love with humans?”
“Yes, and here’s where it gets really interesting. Apparently, long ago demons mated with humans and it looks like maybe, just maybe…their spawn were witches.”
Silence.
“Not possible,” answered Thomas in a controlled voice. His whole body had gone tight.
“According to these records, it’s very possible. There are legends of a sort of Adam and Eve couple, the first human woman and a demon male who fell in love and risked everything to have children together.”
Thomas instantly thought of the acidic blood that ran through a demon’s veins. “Demons and humans can mate?”
“No, actually. It’s not physically possible for a human woman to carry a demon’s child. They cooked up a spell to make it happen, a spell based on the elements.”
Shock rippled through Thomas as mysteries aligned. For so long they’d known nothing of their origins, even though the Coven philosophers debated different theories endlessly. As much as Thomas was loath to admit it, this had a ring of plausibility.
“This first couple had quadruplets,” Micah continued. “Each of those children inherited a propensity for one of
the elements. They were the first witches—earth, air, water, and fire. Other demon/human unions followed, and additional offspring were born through the use of the elements spell. This is the gene pool we’re descended from.”
It made an irritating amount of sense. Matings between witches and non-magickals almost never produced a child. The reason had never been determined, since biologically witches seemed completely human.
Micah continued. “The daaeman call witches and warlocks aeamon, their word for half-breed.”
Thomas jolted, remembering what Boyle had called them right before he’d hit them with that thunderclap of magick. “So let’s say, hypothetically, witch magick was born of demon magick. Do you think that witch magick would be powerless against demon magick because of that?”
Micah sat back in his leather chair, making it squeak, and placed his hands behind his head. He contemplated the question a moment before answering. “Witch magick is probably about half as powerful as demon magick. Plus, it’s fundamentally different in nature, having been warped by the element spell cast originally to allow the first pregnancies.”
“So?” Micah could pontificate for hours. Thomas just wanted a yes or a no.
He paused, lost in thought, then shrugged. “I think all bets are off. There’s no way to know why our magick is powerless against them.”
“So, the age-old question has been answered. Witches aren’t really human after all. The Coven philosophers will have fun with this information.”
“We have a foot in both worlds, but it seems we may be an amalgamation of human and demon.”
Thomas suppressed a shudder and changed the subject. “Have you found any other weaknesses besides metal?”
He shook his head. “If I had, you would’ve been the first I’d told.”
“I know.”
Micah leaned back over the scattered papers. “How are Adam, Isabelle, and the others?”
Thomas pushed a hand through his hair. “Adam and Isabelle have gone to see the doctor, but they’re mostly fine. The non-magickal, Simon Alexander, we sent home. Katie and her mother, Melanie, are here at the Coven, under guard. It’s the most we can do for them right now.”
“So what was Alexander’s connection to the demon?”
“The demon never had any direct interest in him. Boyle was using him as a way to get to the little girl, Katie. The demon had come into contact with Alexander through the motorcycle shop where Alexander works. Boyle rides a vintage Harley, apparently. That’s how Boyle became aware of the little girl. We’re not sure why he wanted her. We’re also not sure if the demon deliberately blew the intelligence to Mira, but I don’t see where that would have benefited him. Right now it looks like she picked it up by pure chance.”
“Sounds like Isabelle did a fantastic job out there.”
“We might all be dead if it weren’t for her.”
Micah smiled. “I hear admiration in your voice.”
Thomas grinned back at him. “I think she’s pretty damn hot, too.”
“Knew you did.”
STEFAN SAT ON THE EDGE OF HIS BUNK, HIS BLOND head—hair perfect even in captivity—bowed. Thomas had come to Gribben immediately following his disturbing conversation with Micah. Stefan held answers and Thomas hated that. It shifted the power into Stefan’s hands.
He hadn’t felt the need to bring Isabelle with him for this because Isabelle had specified she wanted to be included in any official Coven communication with Stefan. This was personal.
Thomas stopped pacing in front of Stefan.
The warlock raised his head, a smug smile spreading over his lips. “I touched her, you know. Isabelle. She let me feel her up before she attacked me. Her breasts are beautiful. They feel nice against a man’s lips, smooth and soft. Have you kissed them yet?”
Thomas stared down at him, teeth gritted as he tried not to react to the obvious bait.
His voice changed from honey-sweet to barbed. “I see how you look at her, that witch bitch. Was it coup de foudre? Was it love at first sight, Thomas? Or do you just want to fuck her? Either way, I hope you always remember I was there first.”
“You didn’t fuck her.” Tightly leashed rage laced the words. The warlock seemed to know what buttons to push.
Stefan smiled. “How do you know for certain?”
Thomas turned on his heel and paced away, trying very hard to keep his anger in check. Doing that around Stefan was difficult in the best of times; now it was nearly impossible. He wouldn’t lose his temper with Stefan again. It made him look weak, uncontrolled.
Stefan gave a soft laugh and leaned against the wall behind him.
Thomas turned toward the warlock. “I just spoke to Micah, who has finished examining some of the documents you provided. They point to a genetic and magickal link between demons and witches. Why didn’t the Duskoff share this information with the Coven?”
Stefan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and spreading his hands wide. “It is not like we’re friendly organizations, Thomas. This naïveté is irritating. Why would the warlocks share anything with the witches? What possible advantage would the Duskoff gain?”
“We’re enemies, but we still share a race,” Thomas replied through gritted teeth. “Unfortunately.”
Stefan gave him a slow smile. “And that is the core of what bothers you, is it not? Sharing a race? You worry that witches might be demon spawn. You are concerned that you and your Coven fight so hard to be a force for good, yet your magick may come from a dark and violent alien people. Has it occurred to you, Thomas, that warlocks may be truer to their parental nature than witches? Does it concern you that all witches have this propensity for chaos and mayhem because of our genetics?”
That’s exactly what had occurred to him, though he didn’t want to admit that to Stefan. So he got back to his reason for forcing himself into the same room with Stefan in the first place. “What more do you know about this?”
Stefan met his gaze. “I know it to be true. I can feel it in the center of my being. I feel it every time I take a life because the act fills me with such a sense of power. We are superior over the non-magickals, Thomas. Don’t you see? Embrace what you are and realize this truth.”
He had a wild glint in his eye and Thomas wondered for a moment if incarceration in Gribben might be stripping Stefan of his sanity. Of course, more than likely Stefan’s sanity had been shaky before they’d caught him.
Stefan leaned forward, his voice becoming impassioned. “The witches and warlocks could rule the non-magickals if we combined our efforts. Have you never considered the power we wield, Thomas? We could take over the world. Do you never think of the possibilities?”
Thomas regarded him for a long moment before replying, expression grim, jaw locked. “No, I don’t think about that. But I do think you have a complex about the size of your dick.”
Stefan’s face fell and he blinked slowly. His expression as he glanced away could only be described as vulnerable. “Control, Thomas. I have a complex about control. That’s something a warlock has a lot of.” His voice trembled.
For a moment, Thomas almost thought he understood Stefan. That scary second burned itself into his psyche. He knew Stefan’s history, knew the abuse he’d suffered at the hands of his biological parents, knew he’d suffered even more when he’d run away from France’s child protective services and survived on the streets. Knew he’d been shaped like hot glass in an artisan’s hands by his adoptive father, William Crane.
Control? Yes, he just bet Stefan had issues about control. So would anyone who had been so completely under the thumb of another his entire life. Bitterness stung the back of Thomas’s tongue. The last thing he wanted to have for Stefan was empathy.
“A warlock has control, you say?” Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Not here in Gribben.”
Unable to take the sight of him any longer, Thomas turned on his heel headed for the exit. Stefan’s crazy laughter followed him out the door and down the corridor.
Thomas could still hear it echoing in his head even when he’d left Gribben—with utter relief—and found sanctuary in the Coven library.
He sank down in the leather chair facing his desk, propped his elbows on the armrests and stared out the huge window at the end of the room, willing the sound of that laughter away. Stefan’s voice, his laughter, the edge of sympathy he’d felt for him back in the cell, all of it infected him. It made him wish for a shot glass and something hard and wet to fill it.
“Thomas?” A warm hand touched his upper arm. He turned his head to see Isabelle’s concerned face. He hadn’t heard her enter the library—a thing that no other witch would have dared do without permission, no other witch but Isabelle.
Thomas found he didn’t mind.
She’d changed out of her ruined clothes, into an ankle-length blue-patterned peasant skirt and a white blouse. Her hair hung long and loose over her shoulders. She looked beautiful, but then she always looked beautiful.
He stood, resisting the urge to catch her up and bury his face in her hair. He wanted to take her upstairs to his room and drown himself in her softness, scent, and curves. Sinking into her would drive off Stefan’s laughter. Her body, breath, and spirit could chase everything else away and leave only pleasure. She’d let him. Thomas knew she was his for the taking…but she’d been injured in the fight. “Are you okay?”
She nodded and touched her ribs. “It wasn’t a bad injury, just painful. Doctor Oliver fixed me up with the help of a few fire witches. But what about you? They told me you haven’t been in to see the doctor yet.” She glanced at his ripped and dirty clothes. “You haven’t even changed.”
“I’m okay. Just working.”
She forced him to turn toward her and pushed his hair away from his face. “You don’t look okay and you feel tired and troubled to me. Your emotions are…twisted. Why haven’t you been to the doc?”
“I’m not injured, Isabelle.”
“Then why do you feel so beaten up to me?”
