Devil’s Kiss

by Zoë Archer

  He picked up his discarded robe and slid it on. “There should be something, some sound, no matter how few servants are about.” From a small table, he removed a pistol and quickly loaded it with powder and a bullet.

  At the sight of the weapon, her heart began to pound painfully within her chest.

  In a few swift strides, he crossed to the door. “Do not go anywhere,” he warned her before guardedly opening the door and slipping out, pistol at the ready.

  She stood motionless beside the bed, fighting down swells of fear. Flames danced around her free hand, a ready weapon.

  Moments later, he returned. His face was a hard mask. “Get dressed.”

  All of her clothing was in the dressing chamber. After allowing the flames around her hand to disappear, she darted into the smaller room, scooped up her clothes and jewelry, and hurried back into the bedchamber. Whit tugged on fresh clothing found in a press: buff doeskin breeches, a laced shirt, matching russet wool waistcoat and coat.

  “What did you find?” Her hands flew at the laces of her bodice, drawing the crimson wool closed.

  “Nothing.” He pulled on a pair of supple brown jackboots, buckled his sword, and tucked the loaded pistol into a pocket. “I couldn’t find a damn soul. Whitston is empty.”

  Alarm crawled through her. She did not know what it could mean, but concerning Wafodu guero, anything could happen. None of it good.

  She stood by the window, using the last of the daylight to tie her cloak. As she did, movement caught her attention. Glancing up, she looked out over the deserted, formal garden, its clipped hedges mostly bare, the fountains dry. Nothing there. She must have been mistaken, or confused the flight of a curlew for something more sinister.

  Then her gaze drifted farther. To the lake that lay just beyond the garden.

  “Whit.” Her dry mouth made her words barely more than a rasp. Licking her lips, she tried again, this time with more force. “Whit!”

  He was at her side in an instant. Followed her gaze, and swore.

  Dark shapes moved just beneath the surface of the lake.

  “Fish?” she asked. “Otters?”

  “That lake isn’t stocked for fishing. There are no otters near Whitston.”

  “What—what are they?”

  The shapes held mass, and water moved around them in thick ripples. Whatever they might be, they were large. Numerous. And heading toward the closest shore.

  “I think I see some kind of claws,” she breathed.

  Whit moved from the window. He grabbed his satchel and swung it over his shoulder. “Do you have everything?”

  “Yes.” Her hand closed around the handle of her battered rucksack.

  He gave her a clipped nod, and they both slipped from the chamber into the hallway. They moved so quickly, she hadn’t time to glance over her shoulder and consider the room that had, for the span of a few hours, contained her greatest happiness. Now a heavy drape of malevolence hung over everything.

  Silence heavy as eternity choked the house. No one had lit any lamps or candles, not even a rushlight. Whitston Hall had seemed empty before. In the growing darkness of sunset, it became a yawning black cave. The white sheets draped over furniture glowed dimly, and no matter how much she and Whit tried to muffle their footsteps on the thick carpeting, even these soft sounds echoed far too loud.

  Together, they hurried down the main stairs. Not a single person met them there, nor in the entry hall, where the marble floors rang with Zora’s and Whit’s departing footsteps. She winced at the sound.

  He pulled open the heavy front door. Colder evening air stung her mouth and nose, but she paid it little mind. They hastened down the steps to the gravel drive.

  “The stables,” he said tersely, and she followed him as he jogged swiftly away from the main house. As she ran, she did glance over her shoulder and barely suppressed a gasp. The house was entirely dark, not a single light appeared in any of the windows, yet she was certain that hunched, shadowed shapes moved from room to room on the second story. Where she and Whit had been not a minute earlier.

  Whit led her to a long stone building, also unlit. Inside the stables, nervous horses chuffed and stamped in their stalls. She and Whit saddled two fresh horses, the task made difficult by the near blackness. He handed her the reins to his mount. He moved swiftly from stall to stall, opening the gates and urging the remaining horses out. The panicked animals cantered from the stables, disappearing into the night.

  “Don’t know what’s happening here,” he said low, “but I won’t leave those beasts to be hurt or worse.”

  She made a final adjustment to her mount’s tack before leading the animal out of the stable. They hurried out of the stable with full night descending. The moon had not yet risen. Everything was dark.

  Shapes rushed toward them. The horses shied and whinnied in terror. The animals pulled hard on their reins and broke free. She lost track of them in the darkness. Whit drew his sword.

  Zora reached for her fire magic. A weapon, and illumination. Yet she almost wished she could unsee the creatures that surrounded them now. They were an unholy mix between men and legged serpent. The creatures held the vague shape of humans, standing upright on two legs. Glistening scales covered their bodies, firelight tracing the jagged edges.

  The heads and faces ... they were the most horrible. They had no hair, only more scales running in a ridge from the crown of their heads all the way down their bodies. Slits for ears and nostrils. Mouths full of yellow fangs. And each had a single, monstrous eye. Not a serpent’s eye, but a human’s, as large as a saucer and webbed with blue and red veins.

  One of the creatures lunged. Whit struck back, parrying the blow with his sword. The blade only glanced off the demon’s scales.

  Several creatures darted toward Zora. She pushed them back with a blast of flame, yet their bodies didn’t catch fire, only smoldered.

  Whit attacked more creatures that circled close. His blade struck them all hard and true, but all he managed was to shove them back a little. None of them were cut or wounded, though the sword was sharp.

  Three paces in any direction was all she and Whit would have before coming up against the encircling demons. Not nearly enough distance from the creatures. The demons showed no signs of retreat, waiting almost patiently for either Whit or her to make a move.

  The foulest betrayal—surely Whit felt it, for this had been his ancestral home. Now defiled by the Devil.

  “The horses.” She pointed to a hedge about fifty yards away, where the two saddled horses had stopped and nervously pawed at the ground. If she and Whit could just make it to the horses, they might have a chance of escaping with their lives.

  Neither her fire nor his sword had enough strength to fight the two dozen creatures encircling them. Not on their own ...

  “Give me your sword.”

  He shot her a warning glance. “The pistol fires once. This is my only weapon.”

  “Not for long.” She held out her hand.

  Yet he hesitated.

  “Trust me,” she said.

  And just like that, the sword was in her hand. She couldn’t marvel at the fact that he did trust her so readily, so completely. All she had was this moment, when she drew deeply on the fire within her. She reached for it now, concentrating on the sword in her hand.

  Flames raced down her hand, over the hilt of the sword, then covered the blade. She held it out to Whit. “It won’t burn you.”

  “It’s them I want burned.”

  He took the sword from her, gave it an experimental swing. The flaming blade cleaved a path of light and heat through the air. His smile was sharp, deadly, full of killing intent. With the blazing sword in his hand, his body coiled and ready, and his face hard, he was the scourge of the underworld—more terrifying than the creatures surrounding them.

  In an instant, the stalemate broke.

  Four demons rushed Whit. He stepped into the attack, striking in a fast series of slashes. The creatur
es shrieked as his flaming sword now cut into their bodies. One lost an arm. Another took a wound to the throat and fell to the ground, black blood pouring from its neck.

  Whit snarled, darkly triumphant. He sent Zora a quick glance of thanks before turning his attention to a new group of charging demons. His movements came swift and lethal, tracing patterns of fire and black blood through the air. She once saw a stained-glass window showing Archangel Michael with his fiery sword. Whit was more beautiful, more magnificent, for he wasn’t glass, but real.

  He wasn’t the only one who could fight. Rather than depleting her power, endowing Whit’s sword with fire magic had renewed it. As two creatures darted toward her, Zora lashed out with a bolt of flame. She cleaved them apart into stinking, smoking pieces, their bodies writhing in mindless death throes.

  Yet there were more. Always more. Fast and thick on every side. They lunged forward, claws swiping, and she beat them back. Again and again. Her fire was strong, yet it could not reach far enough to take down more than a couple of demons at a time. They swarmed like locusts, the air filled with the sounds of demonic gibbering.

  The creatures wanted blood. Her blood, and Whit’s.

  Not in a million sodding years.

  “Throw me your powder!” she called to him.

  Without taking his eyes off the three demons he battled, he snapped the leather cord of the powder flask that hung across his chest and tossed it to her.

  “Gun, too?” he shouted back.

  “Won’t need it.”

  He did look at her then, briefly, questioningly, but the demons pressed closer and his attention returned to his own fight.

  With her teeth, she pulled the plug from the powder flask’s spout. She gripped the flask and flung her arm wide, throwing an arc of gunpowder into the throng of demons. At the same time, she used her other hand to shoot a bolt of flame directly into the gunpowder.

  A fiery blast split the air—and tore into a dozen demons in a wide, blazing scythe. The creatures howled as explosive flames ripped through them, shredding their bodies. Blood sizzled as it sprayed. Zora threw up an arm to shield herself from the force of the explosion. Dark drops splattered over her clothes, her face. Looking up, seeing the devastation she had wrought, she didn’t mind the mess.

  With the demons temporarily stunned by Zora’s improvised weapon, Whit seized his opening. He cut a swath through the creatures trying to flank him.

  They recovered enough to lash back with claw and fang.

  A demon edged closer to Zora. She danced away, avoiding its talons, but her cloak caught on the creature’s scaled arm. The fabric ripped into tatters. It swiped at her again, and she winced as its wrist grazed her arm. Scales sliced into her. At once, pain boiled through her, hot and thick.

  At the sight of her blood, the demons’ frenzy grew.

  “Keep them at a distance!” she shouted to Whit. “Their scales cut like knives!”

  He swore when he saw the ugly wounds on her arm. Fury rekindled, Whit launched into a series of attacks. He spun and slashed, cutting down creatures with calculated rage, carving a path of escape.

  Pain was everywhere within her, clouding her eyes, burning her veins, but she wouldn’t give in. She sent another arc of gunpowder out into the remaining demons, set it ablaze. A blast of devastating fire. Half a dozen more fell, another half dozen retreated, cradling their wounds.

  “Zora, now!”

  She and Whit ran, dodging claws and scales. With the demons in hard pursuit, they sped toward the horses.

  Her vision misted with pain, everything was a blur of sound and movement. She stumbled and fell to her knees. Strong hands pulled her up. Whit’s worried, blood-smeared face swam into her vision.

  “Keep going,” she gasped.

  He nodded, tight-lipped and grim. Whit’s grip was tight and steady as he held her hand. Until, at last, they reached their horses.

  Zora tried to mount up, but her limbs were pain stiffened. Once, twice. An action as easy and instinctive as breathing became clumsy, foreign. Then Whit was with her. He swung up into the saddle, then pulled her up to sit behind him.

  “Arms around me,” he ordered.

  She managed to get her arms up and wrapped around him. He felt hard and solid, and she leaned against his broad back as one might lean against a stone battlement. He tied the reins of the other horse to the saddle and took the powder flask from her hand.

  “Hold tight to me. All right?” When she didn’t reply, he said again, harder, “Zora. Answer. Will you hold tight to me?”

  “Yes,” she said, but it came out slurred. Still, it was enough, for she felt him kick the horse into motion.

  The world became small, the world became giant. She knew Whit’s strength, felt his taut stomach beneath her hands, the tight yet fluid movements of his body as he moved. He twisted in the saddle, striking down attacking demons with his flaming sword. The horse surged below her, and all around came the sounds of the demons hissing, shrieking.

  Up ahead, in darkness, lay freedom. The demons were all earthbound, could run only as fast as a human. If she and Whit could make it far enough on their horse, they could outpace the creatures. But she felt them close behind, the force of their rage and need to kill.

  Whit sheathed his sword as they rode beneath the large, outstretched branch of a huge oak. The moment they passed the tree, he turned in the saddle and threw the powder flask up toward the branch. He pulled his pistol, drew a breath, and fired. Smoke and a flash from the pistol’s breach, but a larger explosion from the powder flask. It caught the tree branch in exactly the right spot at exactly the right time. The thick branch came crashing down onto the pursuing demons. Only a few were caught beneath the branch, but the rest screamed and reared back.

  “Lucky shot,” she mumbled.

  He didn’t laugh. They rode deeper into the night, and the demons’ shrieks of frustrated anger faded.

  Gone. Escaped. They had done it.

  There was a rushing sound in her ears, and her veins felt full of burning pitch. Agony, everywhere. She closed her eyes to it, closed her mind. She just wanted to drift away where there was no pain. Where there was nothing ...

  “Damn it, Zora,” Whit snarled. “You’re staying right here.” He grabbed her wrist and shook her.

  She cried out, feeling as though the blood that coursed in her veins had been replaced with broken glass.

  He hissed, and she knew her pain hurt him, as well. She wanted to tell him that it would be all right. If he just let her go, the hurting would stop. The darkness would be over, and everything would be sunlit rooms and massive beds and the wonder of their bodies and their hearts and nothing could get to them, nothing could pain them anymore.

  She tried to speak. No words came from her mouth. She tried to tell him with her eyes, but they would not open. Her arms were locked around him as if in spasm.

  Can’t move my fingers my hands can’t see can’t talk this is what dying feels like or maybe this is death and there’s too much to say and too much to do Whit Whit please Whit ...

  They had fled the demons but she could not escape the darkness. It took her. The world disappeared.

  Chapter 16

  Whit rode on, searching for shelter. The night and empty road stretched out, limitless, treacherous. He needed to find somewhere safe, somewhere he could tend to Zora’s wounds. He refused to think of her as a dead weight. She was injured. Unconscious. He would hunt down a refuge and nurse her back to health. No other option existed. He shut his mind down to anything else.

  The demons did not give further chase—his one consolation, when all others were gone. Lights flickered in the distance, signs of habitation. Once, he might have ridden toward them, believed they offered safety. He trusted nothing now. Not the promise of security. Not himself. Only Zora. And she lay quiet and motionless against his back.

  Rage and fear the likes of which he’d never known pulsed through him. The demons had hurt her. Badly. And in the shadow
of his ancestral home. The basest desecration. He vowed that he would hunt down the rest of those creatures, flay them as they yet lived, then give them the rare privilege of choking on their own intestines.

  A shape emerged from the darkness. Riding closer, he discovered it to be the ruins of a church. He remembered the place from some of his youthful ramblings. Crumbling stone walls rose to pointed gables, and black, empty eyes stared where round windows once admitted heavenly light to the worshippers within. A relic from the time of England’s papacy. The roof had long ago vanished. No one would be inside.

  Outside the arched doorway, he pulled the horses to a stop and swung down. Zora was a still, slight weight in his arms, her head lolling back to expose the fragile pulse in her throat. She had always been fire and strength—had fought the demons like a warrior queen—but as he carried her into the church, he felt the vulnerability of her body. The terror frosted around his heart, piercing that muscle with spikes of ice.

  He strode up what had once been the center aisle of the church. The wooden pews had either rotted away or been carried off by looters. Weeds poked through the remaining pavers on the ground. Beneath his boots were patches of long brown grasses. Above his head, stars shone cold and distant.

  The nave was empty. His toe connected with something that went flying. It shattered against a transept wall. A bottle. Acrid fumes of spoiled wine spilled out. He vaguely remembered coming here as a youth to drink wine pilfered from Whitston’s cellars. So the church had not always been deserted. But tonight, only Whit and Zora took shelter here.

  A brazen sinner such as he finding sanctuary in a church. The irony might have made him smile, could the muscles of his face move into any form other than a grim scowl.

  No stone floor remained where the altar had been. Some particularly idolatrous image must have adorned its surface and had not survived the purging. Wild grasses now composed the floor. Kneeling, Whit carefully laid Zora down. A brittle, autumn scent rose up from the ground.

  He pulled off her torn cloak, tugged the laces of her bodice to loosen it. She lay still and compliant as he pulled up her sleeve. Ugly wounds scored her arm—black, foul gouges marring her dusky skin. Bending closer, he cursed his lack of light, but to strike a flint might attract unwanted attention. He had to make do with his imperfect vision. What he saw made him curse again.