Demon Rogue (The Half-Demon Rogue Book 1)

by Erikson, D. N.

  “You’re losing me, Argos.”

  “It was Charon,” Argos said solemnly. “That’s who died.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.” The car picked up speed as I got into the right lane.

  “Kal? You got the scary voice, Kal.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t do anything—”

  I ended the call.

  Yeah, don’t do anything rash. Or stupid.

  Didn’t anyone give him the memo?

  I was a demon.

  And that’s about all we did well.

  17

  My mind churned with so many dark thoughts that I didn’t notice I was being followed until it was too late. Figures that I would keep this storage space a secret, only to lead my darkest enemies straight to the loot.

  Then again, to them it probably looked like I was communing with nature in the middle of the Texas desert. There were no buildings around for miles. It was the kind of place tumbleweeds had abandoned.

  I cut the engine and got out of the car. No reason to be nervous about whoever was coming. They were here, about a half mile off, and there would be a fight. One of us would wind up dead, the other limping off to die a different week.

  Taking inventory of my current situation, I found that I still had the bloodied were paw, my .45, a repurposed eye drop container filled with Isabella Kronos’ blood, the Remkah Talisman, Nadia’s mother’s ruby necklace, and whatever wits remained in my skull. There weren’t tears. Me and Charon didn’t have the type of relationship.

  Besides, I wasn’t the sobbing type.

  But there was fury.

  If I survived until the following night, Athena was going to have a lot to answer for. But first, I needed to take care of whoever had followed me.

  Sweating from the midday sun, I took off the leather jacket and folded it neatly. I guess, for once, I should’ve been thankful that I wasn’t the neatnik type. After all, who carries around a severed paw for the better part of two days? But who knew how that would help me now.

  Although magic worked in mysterious ways.

  I brought my palm over my eyes to get a better look at my pursuers. They were close enough now that I could smell and sense the emptiness of their souls. It had been some time since I had been attacked by a group of Vanished. But Marrack clearly had been busy since his return to the living.

  With a weary sigh, I brought the .45 out. Their dirtbikes kicked up a storm of dust as they rode to a stop a hundred feet away. I could hear their footsteps march in lockstep, soulless unison. Headed my way.

  There was no use pleading for my life or reasoning. When a demon devours your soul, this is the result: a husk of a human being that becomes his faithful acolyte. Kind of like a warden relationship, except pure evil, absolute control and no remaining sense of self.

  When I stopped to think about it, they weren’t that similar. Other than the fact that Marrack could get the Vanished to do his bidding.

  The first one emerged from the dust. A short woman, slightly stocky, wearing punkish ripped jeans and a T-shirt that said Authority is for Pussies.

  I raised the .45 and fired, sending her into the dust. Her companions ignored the shot, and continued their march. I counted a half dozen more of them. They brandished tire irons, golf clubs, bricks—anything that was handy when Marrack took control of them.

  It was more of a shot in the dark than a coordinated attack.

  Three more shots, three more down. But I was out of ammo, having never reloaded after the previous escapades. I chucked the .45 at one of their heads, felling a large man with a direct blow to the temple.

  That left two, and they were closing fast.

  A baseball but cut through the dry air, clipping me in the shoulder. I grunted, rolling off the car hood. Reaching for my knife, I caught sight of a lead pipe headed straight for my skull.

  I shouldn’t have been so lackadaisical about this. But that’s what happens when I get angry. I look for fights. Look to get beat up a little, battered in the face.

  Putting my forearm up, I blocked the pipe with my wrist. Pain reverberated up my elbow, but the bone didn’t shatter. The older woman who held it reared back with expressionless bloodlust, ready to attack again.

  I quickly unsheathed the knife and stabbed her in the chest before she got the opportunity.

  That left only my baseball bat friend remaining, who got me with a blow to the back while I was trying to get my blade unstuck.

  Grunting and writhing on the ground, wind knocked clean out of me, I had to appreciate the irony. Brainless overconfidence leads to a brainless death.

  The wooden bat slammed against my hip, sending a shockwave of nerve pain through my legs. I twitched on the ground, wondering what it would feel like when the lights went out. I had no doubt about where my spirit would be sent.

  And it wasn’t anywhere good.

  Which is why I wasn’t ready to die.

  Channeling a primordial energy, I swung my legs awkwardly at the final Vanished, bringing the businessman in the well-tailored suit crashing into the desert. The black fabric was coated in a chalky red dust. His empty eyes focused on me as he crawled forward.

  The knife lay on the ground a few feet away, covered in blood.

  He tore at my ankles with his hands, using himself as the weapon now that his bat had rolled away.

  I struggled for the knife, but he clawed his way up my torso, so that his blank face was almost even with mine.

  Staring into the pits of his eyes, I shivered, despite the searing heat. This was why I didn’t use my own magic unless absolutely necessary. Death was mercy in comparison to this fate.

  He hooked me with a punch to the jaw. I returned in kind with a knee to his abdomen. He collapsed on top of me. I laid out for the knife, and just as I thrust the blade into his neck, I felt his teeth rip into my flesh.

  Jerking the blade to finish the job, I rolled out from beneath him, panting.

  I’d survived.

  But that wasn’t the problem.

  Staring down at my torn shirt, I saw a bleeding bite at the top of my chest.

  Which meant one thing.

  Demon bloodlust.

  18

  I staggered toward the hidden entrance to my storage facility. Brushing dirt away, I dug down about two feet before hitting the metal manhole cover. The wound on my chest stung heavily, and I knew that it was only a matter of hours—not days—before the lust would consume me entirely.

  Limping back to get my jacket, I laughed at how such a beautiful day could take a nasty turn. But there was no time for sentiment. Many clocks were ticking, and contemplating nature’s beauty would step exactly none of them.

  After a quick scan of the horizon told me that no more minions were in pursuit, I lifted the cover and began descending into the darkness. An old air-raid shelter built during the Cold War by a paranoid oil baron. Because clearly the first place the Communists would have nuked was the middle of Texas.

  But I had snatched it up for a song when I’d rolled into town. Always a good idea to have a place to store some of your more…interesting items. I’d made it a rule, no matter where I landed. A safe house had kept me from burning more than once.

  Forty feet down, my boots hit concrete. The air was cool, if musty. But for a vanity bunker, it was pretty good. I moved along in the dark, using the cracking walls as my guide. Ten feet later, I hit the thick door.

  I didn’t keep it locked. No reason to—wasn’t like someone could stumble in unannounced. Using a great deal of energy, I managed to wrest the door open. Candle lights flickered on in the room as I whispered a minor immolation spell. The Talisman flashed briefly. It wasn’t really for offensive magic, but it could do little parlor tricks in a pinch.

  The baron had style. I’ll give him that.

  Th
e bomb shelter was trimmed in gold leaf and avant garde murals. A luxurious king sized bed sat in the corner of the 15 x 15 room—a little palace beneath the desert. On the opposing wall was the magical armory.

  Everything I’d ever salvaged—the essence, or the item—lay along the shelves and on hooks. If you’re wondering why a man with such resources would continue to work—or be unable to pay his rent—I have found, from experience, that becoming too powerful or wealthy paints a large target on your back.

  Being mid-level management is often healthier than being CEO. And in the supernatural hierarchy, that was where my powers—although not my political standing—appeared to fall. Enough for others to fuck off and leave me alone, but not so much to inspire jealousy or schemes.

  Essence was transferrable. And not under pleasant circumstances. Better not to flash that type of bling in the magical neighborhood, so to speak.

  So I kept to the half-man, half-demon script.

  Illusion and reality were the same thing until proven otherwise. But illusion was about to come crashing down in a not-so-controlled demolition.The magical community would finally learn who Kalos Aeon really was.

  With an unsteady gait, I headed to the wall. Jewelry reflected the soft light; curved blades gleamed. None of these trinkets would be particularly helpful for my immediate problem. A quick look at my chest indicated my situation was more dire than I had first thought.

  Black bile spread beneath my skin, webbing its way through my veins. Soon it would spread throughout my body, infecting me with an insatiable, psychotic bloodlust. And that would spell the end of myself—and, likely, my remaining friends as well.

  I flung the cabinets beneath the wall open, ransacking them for anything useful. Over the years, I had accumulated quite the pharmacy. Sometimes clients died. Other times, they refused to appear out of fear. And occasionally the transaction went as planned, and I received distilled essence for my services.

  A sizable bear-skin flask, the size of a three-gallon container, sat in the corner of one of the cabinets. It was here where I stored the essence that I extracted as payment. In past lives, I used to drink it as soon as I received it. But I hadn’t done that for many centuries.

  My stiff fingers passed over a bottle of green liquid. I crouched, bringing my eyes closer to the Old Aramaic label. As best I could, my fuzzy brain translated the ancient script. It was hardly eloquent, but I was fairly certain it was a Demon Potion.

  The ancients had a way with words that I missed—and apparently, my modern mind could not currently understand. Nevertheless, I tore into the glass bottle, throwing the cork stopper over my shoulder.

  I downed the entire thing in seconds.

  A strange flush rushed through my cheeks. I thought I was going to vomit, but the sensation passed. Unable to consider any other options, I launched myself toward the king bed, faceplanting just in time for the room to go dark.

  *

  “Get up,” a gravelly voice said. I blinked, my face wet. A pale man in a black hood looked over me, carrying an oar. I wasn’t sure if he was prepared to strike me, or had been holding the paddle when he stumbled across my body. Dark waters lapped against my arm from the nearby river.

  I grunted, feeling my chest constrict.

  “You have the bloodlust,” the man said again, the hood moving slightly. “That is why you are here, unable to pass over.”

  I coughed, blood spewing across the gray soil. Everything was shades of black and gray. There was no sky, just a cavernous ceiling of rock. When my eyes focused, I saw a small boat lashed to the shore. My own robes were torn and tattered. A black bile had begun to spread throughout my chest.

  My hand gripped a golden chalice, sullied with blood and dirt. I grinned weakly.

  “I got away,” I said. When I tried to stand, I failed, falling to one knee.

  “A demon has no place in the Underworld,” the hooded man said. “It is my job to dispose of you.”

  “Demon? There’s no such thing.”

  “There is much you do not know.”

  “I know demons are stories from fools,” I said.

  “You will soon discover the truth,” the man said, tapping the oar against a rock. “If I do not end your suffering, the demon part will consume you.”

  I clutched the chalice tighter, wondering if I could swing it fast enough to fell this man and escape. Thoughts flashed back to me—entering the tent of Marrack, stealing his drinking cup. Being discovered. A rogue’s life was never easy, and it was often short.

  Instead of mounting an attack, I slumped into the wet shore, a rock digging into the small of my back.

  “Then do it,” I said with a bitter laugh, blood dripping from my teeth. “Finish me.”

  A tightness constricted my sternum. Angry thoughts swirled in my mind. I recalled being tossed from the tent, Marrack’s jaws ripping into my ribs. With a hesitant hand, I felt the wound. Bringing my fingers to my eyes, I saw a blackish blood staining my skin.

  I recoiled, dropping the chalice.

  “You have a strange aura for a mortal,” my new hooded friend said.

  “That what you always say before you kill a man?”

  “A man who passed by here many years ago, but did not cross, told me that a mortal crucial to the balance of the world would arrive on these shores. And I would have to make a choice.” The man in the hood shifted, staring out at the calm waters.

  The place was eerie. Like a ghost town, with a quiet turbulence and sadness roiling beneath the still exterior.

  “I do not believe you are not one for the Underworld yet, Kalos Aeon.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “It is the Ferryman’s job to know his passengers,” he said. “I am Charon.” He reached over, grabbing me with a spindly hand. Without energy to resist, I simply watched as he extracted a bone blade from beneath his black robes. Showing no hesitation, he carved a deep cut into his arm, followed by one in mine.

  I screamed as he did it, but he clung tightly. Then he pressed his arm against mine, our blood mingling.

  “You will never be fully cured of your bloodlust, but as your warden you are bound with me through eternity.” His rough voice uttered the words like an invocation. A strange power began to flow through my veins. “And I will guide you through your bloodlust, into the man you need to be.”

  He pulled his arm away, hiding it beneath the cloak. My wound stung, bleeding freely on to the gray shore.

  “Bind the wound,” Charon said, reaching back beneath the many folds of fabric. A tattered map fluttered down through the calm air, landing in my lap. “This will show you the way to the Earth’s surface.”

  My strength returning, I scrambled up, backing away. Noting the chalice was buried in the soil, I reached over to grab it.

  “Leave it,” Charon said. I didn’t want to, but I seemed to have no choice but to obey. “When you are in the light once more, travel to the sea. There you will find a woman who calls herself Delphine. But hurry. The poison within you will continue to move without an antidote. My essence can only slow its effects.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You will visit Delphine, because I command you to, Kalos Aeon.” The Ferryman slammed his oar against the shore, letting out a thunderous boom. “Now go.”

  Glowering, but unable to resist, I ran out of the Underworld.

  19

  I woke with a start. The candles had burned down to blackened nubs. Using my cell phone to navigate the bunker, I got out of the comfortable bed and stretched. Aside from a slight pain in my chest, it appeared that the bloodlust had dissipated.

  It had been many years since I had contemplated where this strange eternal life of mine had began. Latter events had warped many memories, but the antidote had brought that time on the Underworld’s shores back in crystal clear focus. Then, Charon had been a very di
fferent man. And in many ways, he was responsible for whatever I had become.

  A petty thief turned endless drifter. Always awaiting a destiny that was nonexistent. As lives went, it could have been better. But it could’ve gone worse, too.

  I had thought being free of him would feel different. That a weight would be lifted from my back, a part of my mind clear. But I found that little had changed. I still felt lost, only moreso because of recent events.

  It was time to get what I’d come here for, pack up and leave. The more time I spent here, the more danger Argos, Gunnar and anyone who had crossed paths with me were in. I’d say they could handle themselves, but that was less than true. If Charon was toast, that meant we were dealing with a big gun indeed.

  And Athena was directly involved, which meant no one was safe. Had she distributed the poison, or had there been another wrinkle to the plan that was still unseen?

  After so many years of secrecy, it would be difficult to believe that she would want to come into the open. The Crimson Conclave had always stuck to the shadows. That was what creatures of the dark did.

  I rummaged through the cabinet, locating a small pouch of silver dust. This was for dispelling magical spells and castings. I’d done the cloaking on Woden’s Spear myself, using some of my supplies. Now I would have to reveal it to the world in order to use it.

  As I pocketed the powder carefully, another idea came to me. I had not thought of her name in some time, but Delphine could help.

  But the problem with big guns was simple.

  They had even bigger recoil.

  Still, it was worth a shot.

  Whatever the fallout was, I’d have to handle that later.

  When I climbed out of the bomb shelter, it was nighttime. That left me with less than 24 hours before I needed to get the hell out of Inonda for good.

  Or get rid of Athena the Goddess Killer.

  The way I saw it as I dialed the number by heart, that was plenty of time.

  Delphine answered on the first ring.