Turned

by Julie Kenner

  Man, do I love Boston.

  I kept walking, fighting the grin that would surely piss these drivers off more. It probably was the deep, dark demons inside me, but something about mucking up the general flow of traffic gave me a nice little buzz in my belly.

  I hadn’t seen Deacon when I was driving, and I still didn’t see him once I was walking. My general state of mind was alternating between worried and frustrated. With a large smattering of scared thrown in. Scared of what he’d become. Scared that he couldn’t come back.

  “Hey!” A guy in a battered green Toyota slowed beside me. “Psycho bitch! Get yo’ fat ass off the road.”

  Okay, now, that just ticked me off. For one thing, I no longer had a fat ass. And for another thing, however accurate the psycho-bitch label might be, that was just plain rude.

  I didn’t pull the sword, but I did push my coat back and rest my hand on the hilt of my knife. “You want to get out of the car and say that to my face?”

  Apparently he didn’t, as he simply shot me the finger and hit the accelerator. Asshole.

  I shoved my hands in my pockets, primarily because what I really wanted to do was curl my palm around my knife. I wanted another fight. I’d had a taste that day, and I wanted more. Needed more.

  Human. Demon. I didn’t care. I just needed to toss a bone to the dark that was rattling up inside me.

  Except I did care. Kill a human, and I would be just like the beasts that writhed within me.

  But kill a demon . . .

  Then I got that nice, sweet hit of the dark. A thick, oily pleasure so intense it was almost sensual. Demon blood. Demon essence. I was so all over that.

  Too bad there was never a demon around when you needed one.

  I was bemoaning that little fact when two short siren bursts startled me. I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and turned around to find myself face-to-face with an officer on a bike that wasn’t nearly as cool as my dearly missed Tiger. I made a mental note to find time in and around the whole saving-the-world thing to swing by my apartment and pick up my bike.

  “Officer!” I said, utilizing the full extent of Alice’s perky good looks. “I’m so glad you’re here. My car broke down, and—”

  “There’s no pedestrian traffic on the bridge,” he said.

  “Right. I know. But—”

  “Let’s get you back to your car, miss.”

  Since I already knew that Deacon wasn’t back that way, I wasn’t particularly happy with the officer’s backtracking plan. “No, really, I just need—”

  “You’re holding up traffic, miss.” He glanced down at the holster on my thigh and the strap of leather that formed part of the sword’s scabbard. “Am I going to have trouble with you?”

  I exhaled, because, really, what else could I do? “Yeah, Officer,” I said, flexing my fingers as I imagined my knife. “I kind of think you are.”

  His eyes went wide. Apparently most hooligans don’t admit that they’re going to be trouble. Fortunately for my officer friend, I realized that I didn’t have to gut the poor guy in order to get my way. As part of my handy-dandy demon-sponge persona, I’d absorbed a whole array of demonesque attributes. Bloodlust, for example. Get me around the scent of human blood, and I become absolutely ravenous. And not for french fries and a milk shake, either. I’d learned to control it—to a point—but I still wasn’t thrilled about having such crazy nosferatu tendencies. I wasn’t crazy about any of these traits, actually, as each and every one tainted my soul.

  I might not be a demon yet, but I was no longer fully human. Instead, I was one of a kind, and while I’m all for individuality, trust me when I say that in some circumstances, it sucks.

  Still, if you’ve got it, you might as well use it. And one thing I had was a way to sexually enthrall men. A perk derived from killing an incubus and one that I intended to utilize on my friend the traffic cop.

  “Put your hands where I can see them,” he said, shifting his stance so that his legs were shoulder width apart, and his hand was on his gun.

  “Sure,” I said, breathing low, my eyes on his face, as I tried to dredge up my inner sex kitten. I have all these traits, but they haven’t been part of me for long, and I was still learning how to control and compartmentalize all the swill whirling around inside me.

  I lifted my hands, palms out and fingers spread wide. My thumbs rested just beside my breasts, and I let a slow, sensual smile ease across my face. “Like this?”

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Higher,” he said, not yet as glassy-eyed as I wanted him. I drew in a slow breath, which had the effect of both centering my power and lifting my boobs. In my old, flat-chested body, that would not be a big thing, literally. Alice, however, had an ample rack, and I was more than happy to use it.

  I focused again on his eyes and slowly moved my hands, taking one step forward as I did. I suppose I was technically lifting my hands, but I sure wasn’t doing what he asked, because I pressed them softly to his shoulders. He didn’t protest, and his eyes now had that glassy lust-filled look. I bit back a smile, the essence inside me preening in satisfaction.

  “Is this okay, Officer?” I asked, in my most innocent voice. And then, before he could answer, “How about this?”

  I brushed my lips over his, moving my body in closer as I did so. He was tense at first, and I tried to relax. Tried to exude sex and pleasure and sensual allure. I’ve never been a flirt, much less a flirt with serious mojo, so trust me when I say that it was a new thing for me. But it worked. Somehow, I managed to pull it off. I know because he opened his mouth under mine. He sighed, and the hand left the gun to slide around my waist.

  Success flowed through me, all warm and gooey, but I realized then that I didn’t know what to do next. Yes, I’d managed to enthrall the man, but so what? I still needed to find Deacon. So what was I supposed to do with this guy in the meantime?

  His tongue slid into my mouth, and he pulled me tight against him, his growing erection suggesting that he’d be open to pretty much whatever I suggested. Cars rolled by, slowing and honking. Undoubtedly there would be pictures of this cop kiss all over the Internet any second. I hoped the poor guy wouldn’t get fired, but since my bigger goal was preventing the Apocalypse, his employment issues weren’t my primary concern.

  Getting on with finding Deacon was, though, and I gently pushed him away. “Someplace a little more private, maybe?”

  “Please,” he whispered, the sound low and guttural, with no indication that he was fighting. Nothing to suggest that he wasn’t willingly going with the program.

  A bitterness welled up in me, and I almost laughed. Weak-minded idiot. I frowned, not liking the direction of my thoughts. I was using this man, and I scorned him? What was wrong with me?

  I almost broke the connection, but common sense prevailed. “Motel,” I said. “The Dublin.” I rattled off the name of a dive I knew on the other side of the bridge. The place was a hotbed of iniquity, and I’d done more than my share of product trafficking in the dimly lit lobby. At the very least, maybe this guy could bust someone and call the evening a success.

  “Now,” he said, sounding desperate.

  “I’ll follow you.”

  “Here,” he said, pulling me closer, displaying a strength I wouldn’t have guessed from the skinny frame. “Now.”

  O-kay . . .

  Maybe I’d turned the charm on a little too high?

  “Soon,” I said, trying to ratchet back without cutting him off. “And with privacy.”

  “Screw privacy,” he growled, then reached down to cup my crotch.

  I jumped, because I totally wasn’t expecting that, and when I did, the connection snapped. “What the fuck?” he said, and I took a step back, reaching for my knife as he reached for his gun.

  I got to mine first, pressing the tip up under his chin. “Still,” I said. “Don’t fucking move.”

  Fury flared in his eyes, and for a moment I wondered whether he was going to survive this
little encounter with Lily Carlyle, über-chick. Because that look in his eyes sparked something in me, and I wanted him dead. I wanted him gone. I wanted his blood spilled on the asphalt, and I wanted to tilt my head back and revel in the scent of it.

  Oh God . . .

  I took a step back, disgusted with myself, and as I did, his hand closed over the gun. I drew in a sharp breath, my body bracing for the bullet’s impact. But it didn’t come. Instead, he let out a wail of pain so intense I thought it would burn up my soul.

  Out of instinct, I jumped back, my knife tight in my hand, and I saw then the cause of his pain—a sharp blade protruding from his groin. And before I even had time to process that horror, the blade ripped upward, slicing the officer straight down the middle. The halves of his body fell away, revealing a wiry demon crouched behind him, his overlarge teeth forcing his mouth open in a perpetual sneer.

  “Bitch,” he growled, though I could barely hear him over the squeal of tires and the crunch of metal hitting metal as cars careened to a stop beside us.

  “Holy shit—”

  “What is that thing—”

  “I’m going to be sick—”

  “Call 911. Somebody call 911!”

  The explosion of voices swirled around me, but I stayed focused on the creature that was lashing out at me with the long, lethal blade.

  “Pretty neck on the pretty girl. Cut the neck, take what’s around the neck. Take the head, too.” Thick, green slime oozed from its mouth as it spoke, and even though I’m über-girl with my powers and my chutzpah, I’ll totally admit that I was scared shitless. Because this dude meant business.

  And the really scary part? He had nothing to lose. Beneath the thin fur that covered his lanky, wolflike body, the mark of the Tri-Jal burned bright. A snake consuming its own tail.

  The Tri-Jal were the worst of the worst. Demons who were little more than attack dogs serving their masters’ bidding. So far, I’d only seen Tri-Jal demons with the mark hidden at the base of their neck, beneath a fall of hair. Tri-Jals that still had enough sense of self that they could move among humans.

  But this demon . . . Well, it was nothing but a servant, and its master had branded it as such.

  So I was wary, yeah.

  But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I wanted it, too. Wanted the fight. And wanted to absorb the essence of one of the baddest of the bad.

  I lunged, only to find myself immediately yanked backward. I yelped, then heard the leather of the sword scabbard snap. I was free, and I whipped around to find that the demon had brought his buddy to the party—a second snarling, wolflike creature was right behind me, an identical brand upon his chest.

  Worse, the new addition to the party had my scabbard, not to mention my sword. Fuck.

  Not thrilled by this turn of events, I dove to the ground—my left hand closing around the hilt of the gun dropped by the eviscerated officer. I rolled onto my back, and fired two shots in quick succession, managing to nail the new demon right in the gut. The force of the blast knocked him backward, and although I knew that a gunshot wasn’t going to kill the demon, it was damn sure going to slow him down.

  My first friend, however, wasn’t slowed in the least by my attack, and he lashed out at me with his blade. I thrust up with my left hand, blocking it with the gun, the clang of metal against metal harsh against my ears and the force of the blow reverbing down my entire arm.

  He thrust again, and I rolled to the side, the point of his blade landing so close to my ear I could feel the swoosh of air as the steel passed. “The key,” he hissed. “Give me the key and keep your neck.”

  “Fuck you,” I said, whipping my leg out so that he fell back. I hurled myself at him, wanting the fight. Wanting the power. And, yeah, wanting to nail the gnarly little beast who’d gone and made an already screwed-up day that much worse. I landed hard on his chest, then slammed the gun against the side of his face, relishing the sound and feel of the skull bones cracking under my blow. He howled, and as he did, I thrust my right hand—and my blade—straight into his heart.

  Around me, I heard the cries of bystanders—Oh God, oh God, oh holy God—but they meant nothing to me. Though mere feet away, those people belonged to another world. Another world that didn’t want this life and didn’t need to see it. A world I told myself I wanted to return to, or at the very least wanted to protect, if not for myself, then for Rose.

  Except right then I didn’t.

  Right then, I wanted the dark. The demonic essence. The blackness that had filled the beast, as thick and dark as the familiar black goo that oozed out of him.

  And even as life ebbed from him, the dark filled me up. I tried to fight it, because this darkness was beyond anything I’d experienced before. The coarse pain of the Tri-Jal. The sweet pleasure of torment. The need to rip, to rend, to destroy utterly.

  I tried to stand, tried to fight, but I couldn’t. The world was red.

  Raw.

  It was pain and fury, and I wanted to lash out and kill. I wanted to fucking destroy, starting with the loudmouthed sheep who stood on the bridge bleating like useless little children. Run, I screamed in my head. Run from me. Run far; run fast.

  I heard the wail of approaching police cars, and through my hazy vision I could see the lights of the four approaching vehicles. An elderly woman in front of me thrust her hand out, pointing at my face, then opened her mouth and screamed loud enough to wake the dead.

  And sure as hell loud enough to knock me out of my funk.

  I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t the scariest thing out there, but I honestly wasn’t sure of that anymore. I looked normal, after all, but the dark was in me. And that was pretty damn scary.

  The people beside her took up the cry, and, too late, I realized that it wasn’t me to which they were pointing—it was what was behind me.

  I whipped around and found myself face-to-face with the demon I’d shot. Needless to say, he was a bit ticked off, and was showing his displeasure by coming at me hard and fast with a sword identical to his buddy’s.

  My reflexes are pretty damn fast these days, but apparently they aren’t fast enough. Because even though I thought I’d moved within a split second of seeing him coming, still the sword went straight through me, sliding in just under my rib cage on my left and emerging through the soft fleshy part at my waist on the right side. The demon was close, his stench nearly overpowering, and he wrapped his free arm around me, holding me tight, and pressing so hard against my knife hand that I couldn’t move it.

  I still had the gun, though, and as we were positioned, the muzzle was pressed hard against his belly. I pulled the trigger, anxious for those few seconds when he would flinch in pain, readying myself to move the second I could.

  But absolutely nothing happened.

  No bullet, no smell of gunpowder, no horrific eardrum-bursting blast.

  Just one measly little click.

  I was screwed.

  More specifically, I was skewered. A human shish kebob entwined with a demon, unable to move, to run, or to fight.

  Worse, I knew what was coming—the quick thrust upward with that lethally sharp blade. The same exact thing that had happened to the officer, who was moldering, dead, on the hard concrete surface.

  Only me? I wouldn’t be dead. Disemboweled. Doubled. Fucked-up for life and in constant, eternal, horrible pain.

  But I wouldn’t be dead.

  And like the thought of burning forever in hell, that scared me even more than the monster holding the sword.

  NINE

  I tried to struggle, but it was useless, and when I felt the demon’s muscles tense, I knew the end was coming. He was too strong, and I wasn’t ready for this. Wasn’t ready to be thrust into pain and torment and—

  Swoosh!

  Something hard and fast swooped through the air and tackled us, the force of the blow knocking the demon backward and wrenching his hand free. I collapsed to the ground—the sword still penetrating my flesh, the pain d
ownright agonizing—but I was in one piece, and I figured that counted for a lot.

  I rolled to my side, fighting the pain and determined to see my savior. And, yeah, to get the damn sword out of me so that I could fight the son of a bitch.

  Of course, my mysterious flying blur of a savior was already down with the fight-the-son-of-a-bitch plan.

  Deacon.

  I smiled, the pain seeming to lessen simply by virtue of this one thing—one thing out of so many thousands—that had gone a little bit right.

  Deacon had come to save me.

  He was a man again, or at least mostly. He still had wings, thin yet strong, like the wings of an ancient beast or mythical monster. The rest of the monster was gone, though. At least physically. He might have Deacon’s face and chest and coal black eyes, but the rage and fury—the pure intensity—that rolled off this new Deacon was ten times beyond anything I’d witnessed from him before.

  He had no sword, and so he’d moved in close to the wolf-beast that had skewered me, tackling him, pummeling him—basically tormenting the creature even though slamming a blade through the beast would have easily done the trick. Deacon didn’t want that, though—I could tell.

  He wanted the fight. He wanted the fury.

  He needed the brutality both to fuel and fight something dark that still grew within him. I understood that well enough; I’d been there myself.

  At the moment, Deacon could do whatever the hell he wanted because I was still stuck in place. That was an inconvenience I needed to remedy, and fast, and so I held my breath, then grabbed onto the blade right where it entered my body. The metal was sharper than any advertised Ginsu knife, and it sliced my palms as I slowly drew it out, which had the added benefit of marking the blade as mine.

  When I killed with it, the demons would stay dead.

  I was so going to kill with it.

  “Deacon,” I yelled, as the Tri-Jal grabbed one of Deacon’s wings, then thrust his fist through the thin, strong membrane that formed the actual wing. Deacon roared, low, furious, and full of pain and the promise of payback. I anticipated that he would exhale a gust of fire as he had with Penemue, but none came. Instead, he kicked out, thrusting the Tri-Jal backward before rising high into the air.