Demon's Daughter (Demon Outlaws)

by Paula Altenburg

  “I’m no thief!” Indignation quivered in the feminine voice.

  The bushes parted and her head poked through, and Hunter could not help but stare.

  She had the face of a goddess, with smooth, golden skin and full lips a deep shade of ripe-apple red. Thick black hair absorbed and reflected the light. Her eyes, dark as a moonless night, gazed up at him in reproach for his lack of chivalry.

  If this was his thief, she was not at all what he had expected. Or been led to believe.

  Hunter quickly collected himself. He had seven—six now, he corrected the thought—beautiful sisters, and he was not easily swayed by a lovely face. Even though he had not seen them in a number of years, he remembered this feminine trick quite well. They played most men for fools.

  That didn’t mean a man could not enjoy being made a fool of every once in a while. He had loved his sisters. He liked women in general. But they were far from the fragile creatures they sometimes portrayed.

  “I need help,” the woman repeated.

  Here was the test. “You have another leg, I assume, and two arms. Come out where I can see you first.”

  Her glossy hair hung in curls to her hips, he saw when she emerged upright from the bushes. She favored her right leg, although it was hidden beneath her long skirt so he could not see an injury. He noticed no weapon, which meant nothing. The blouse and skirt could hide any number of interesting but dangerous things.

  She dropped to the ground, drawing her knee to her chest and rubbing her ankle.

  Hunter hesitated. She did not appear badly hurt, and that made him more suspicious. On the other hand, if she posed a real threat to Hunter, Sally would have indicated so by now.

  Although granted, a sand swift’s interpretation of a threat and Hunter’s could be two vastly different things.

  He dismounted, tossed the reins over the sand swift’s neck, and walked toward her.

  She bore an air of innocence difficult for most women in this day and age to feign. Even Blade’s ladies, although lovely and kind, had faces filled with too great an understanding of a harsh world.

  This woman’s eyes contained not even the slightest hint of fear. She couldn’t possibly be the thief. Not with this guileless, trusting demeanor. For an instant, he had an ugly vision of what it would mean to turn a woman this young and lovely over to Mamna, and by default to the demons, and it was not nice.

  A memory of his sister’s swollen belly, and the fear and pain etched on her dead face, also arose. Miriam might have given her innocence willingly to the demon she had professed to love, but their relationship had ended badly for her.

  It had ended badly for the demon, too. Hunter had made certain of that.

  He hesitated, looked at the sand swift standing calmly nearby, and then opted to give the woman the benefit of the doubt. “Where does it hurt?”

  He crouched down beside her, eyes shifting to her ankle, and that brief opening was all she needed. The heel of her palm came up with lightning speed, connecting with the bridge of his nose. His head flew back and red stars burst from the blackness behind his eyes.

  Acting on instinct alone, he rolled to the side and shot to his feet. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, surprised to find she hadn’t drawn blood, and equally certain she had held back. The blow had been well aimed.

  She was on her feet now too, no longer favoring her leg. She was tall, he noted. Almost as tall as he was, but with the fine-boned delicateness of a woman, making the power behind the controlled blow she had delivered all the more surprising.

  So much for guileless and trusting eyes.

  He was more entertained than angry. He could accept that he had been played for a fool. She was good, he granted her that, and her restraint said she had not tried to kill him.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said to him. “All I want are your packs.”

  The pain behind his eyes ebbed to a dull, throbbing ache.

  “And if I don’t give them to you?” he asked, curious as to how far she would take this.

  Faster than he’d imagined possible, one of her booted feet caught him high in the ribs, toppling him to the ground. His hip landed on his six-shooter, and he forgot the pain in his head in favor of new ones.

  She walked to the sand swift and worked at the fastenings that secured his belongings to the saddle. The indifferent sand swift showed not the faintest trace of agitation or aggressiveness toward her.

  So much for loyalty and protection, too.

  Much of his entertainment from the situation vanished. So did his good nature. If she wished to be treated like a woman, she should act more like one.

  He went in low, intending to hit her in the center of her chest with his shoulder to knock her down.

  She was quick—but so was he. He grabbed her arm as she tried to sidestep, hooking her feet from underneath her with his ankle. With a twist of his upper body, he hauled her off-balance, rolled her over his throbbing hip, and hurled her into the deep waters of the small lake at the side of the path.

  The thief came up gasping, her hair streaming down her face, her wet blouse transparent. Hunter took the time to enjoy her appearance, and let her know he did, while rubbing his ribs where she had kicked him. His hip, he suspected, was already blue.

  Enough was enough. Now that they’d both had their fun, he had to decide what to do about her.

  Wincing a little, he extended a hand to help haul her from the water. He braced himself, fully prepared for her to try and pull him in too, but he was not prepared for her strength even though he’d had a healthy sampling of it already.

  He shot headfirst into the lake.

  He got his feet beneath him and surged to the surface, flipping his hair from his eyes. His hat floated nearby. It was not a gentlemanly thing to do, but this was no lady. He gave her a hard push, sending her into deeper water. Then he grabbed a handful of her wet hair, and wrapping it around his wrist, hauled her head under water.

  Her arms flailed, but she didn’t strike hard enough to bruise. He collected his hat and settled it, dripping, back in place.

  A few bubbles drifted up, then a few more. Hunter considered releasing her. Although Mamna hadn’t specified alive—that was an assumption—and his ribs and hip hurt like hell, he did not really want her dead. Being a thief did not make her spawn. Everyone needed to eat. But he hated wet boots.

  He counted to ten.

  Suddenly, the temperature of the water began to rise. Then the surface of the water boiled, stinging his skin through his pants. He dropped his hold on her hair and paddled a few paces backward.

  She burst from the water, sleek black hair plastered to her cheeks and breasts, anger crackling like a halo around her. He did not have a chance to enjoy it this time. The flames that shot from her eyes had him floundering for shore.

  As did the amulet around his neck sputtering unexpectedly to life.

  …

  The woman who had been brought before Mamna for judgment today was especially lovely. For that alone Mamna would have condemned her to death.

  But this woman had made condemning her particularly easy. She had arrived through the slave trade, destined for one of the remote mining areas, and was well aware of her worth on the market. She had spoken ill of the priestesses, and that was enough.

  The amulet hidden beneath Mamna’s clothing throbbed. Only the Demon Lord knew she possessed it, and even he did not know the source of its strength. If he did, he would kill her.

  “Clear the circle,” she commanded.

  The guards stiffened, understanding what she intended to do a few beats ahead of the crowd, then hastened to do as directed.

  Around the dais, a shallow trough had been carved from the baked desert earth and lined with tile to hold water. Four points had been marked inside the circular trough—north, south, east, and west. The dais sat to the east, the land of the goddesses, and represented their mountain. The center of the circle was the desert, the land claimed by the d
emons. Tied to a pole at the center stood the woman on trial, limp from both fear and the morning heat.

  Buckets of water, collected from goddess rain and drawn from the temple’s cistern by the priestesses, were poured into the trough. The water would help contain the demon Mamna intended to summon with her amulet, but she would need to be quick before it evaporated in the dry heat.

  The crowd had gained numbers, morbid curiosity drawing people out to see what would happen next. It had been several years since Mamna’s last public demon-raising. Then, the man on trial had been savaged and partially eaten before Mamna had called it off.

  The woman remained stoic, defiant by her silence, although her face had lost its color. Mamna might have found it in her heart to pity her if she had not despised her so deeply. Demons could be gentle with the innocent, and Mamna had it on good authority that this one was not one of them. Traders, before bringing slaves through the desert, spoiled the women to avoid having them stolen away.

  When the trough was full, the priestesses stepped back and blended as best they could with the crowd. No one could now cross the circle, not that anyone would willingly try.

  Summoning a demon took more of her amulet’s power than she liked. The amulet, in turn, drew from Mamna. Sweat beaded her forehead, running down the sides of her face. Her shaved scalp itched under the cap she wore to protect it from the sun. Gradually, the sounds of the crowd and the condemned woman’s heavy breathing muted to a dull background noise.

  She directed her thoughts through the amulet and into the boundary beyond the mortal world, then from there, into the desert territory the demons had claimed. Once inside their territory, she searched for a demon. When she found one, she called it to her.

  Its vague, shadowy form appeared, then solidified. It crouched on the ground before the dais, its wings folded tight against massive shoulders. Thick red bone plate covered its body. The tips of the horns on its bent head grazed the hem of her gown, but when it straightened and stretched, its true size expanded to something formidable. The amulet grew hot against Mamna’s flesh in a spontaneous defensive response, and her skin seared beneath it. She ignored the pain.

  The majority of the crowd withdrew several yards, widening the distance between them and the circle. A few brave souls who had seen demons raised before stood their ground, but looked ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.

  The demon blinked flaming eyes filled with hatred, then swept them over the crowd before turning its attention on her.

  Confident in the control the amulet gave her, Mamna did not flinch. She had faced the Demon Lord more times than she could count. This demon paled in comparison.

  Her bent fingers gripped the arms of her throne. “You stand on priestess ground. By his command, you will do as I say.”

  Slyness entered its eyes. It rolled its head back and forth on its shoulders, examining the silent onlookers, then it slid a long, high-arched foot toward the circular trough filled with rainwater. Shrieks of terror rippled through the crowd, and the people closest to the circle trampled those behind them in a panicked stampede to escape.

  Mamna watched the crowd with contempt. Then she recognized something was wrong. The amulet around her neck had lost its heat and the normally steady throbbing became erratic.

  The demon’s head whipped around, sensing the sudden shift in dynamics inside the circle, and she chastised herself for her inattention. This was not the time to show either fear or a loss of control.

  She gestured to the bound woman who trembled and made small, animal noises deep in her throat.

  “This woman is accused of treason,” Mamna said to the demon, in a hurry to end matters she wished she had not begun. “Conspiracy against the leaders of Freetown is conspiracy against the immortals. She is yours to do with as you please. What will it be, Demon?”

  It stared at Mamna. She stared back, unflinching. Slow seconds passed. Then it turned to examine the bound woman, choosing an easy reward over a confrontation it might not win. The woman had slumped forward in a faint.

  “I will have her,” the demon decided, and the glint in its hot eyes said it would not be easy for her when it did.

  Mamna released the demon, thankful that no one could see the fright now licking her insides as it vanished. The amulet regained its steady beat, although it did not seem as strong to her as before.

  She addressed the guards. “Turn the traitor loose in the desert. Give her no food or water.”

  If the heat or wild animals did not kill her first, then the demon would return for her. No mortal would dare go to her rescue now that she had been claimed by it.

  Stone-faced guards untied the woman. As she revived, her low, panicked wails built to a crescendo of shrieks.

  Mamna signaled for one of her priestess attendants to help her from the throne-like chair, which was far too big for her, but another formality she was unwilling to forsake. These were symbols of all she’d attained in the years since the goddesses had abandoned her.

  Her legs, unsteady from a combination of age, deformity, and unease, wobbled as she passed through the heavy curtains covering an exit behind the dais. Pausing for a moment to hide from view within the folds of fabric, and ignoring the fading screams of the condemned, she drew the amulet from her dress and ran nervous fingers over its varnished surface.

  Tiny fractures marred its previously smooth finish.

  She tucked it away again, anxious now for complete privacy so she could examine the full extent of the damage, and thrust the curtain aside.

  Mamna dismissed the hovering attendants with a wave of her hand. She would make this walk back to her city residence alone to prove she was unafraid.

  As she stepped onto the weather-beaten, oil-soaked plank sidewalk, a tall, bone-thin old man dared to approach her.

  “Excuse me,” he said, twisting his hat in his hands.

  His clothes were of good quality, although they had seen better days. That meant he had to be from the north, a region once wealthy because of its gold mines. But now that the goddesses were gone, demons made it dangerous for anyone wanting to do business to travel there. Northerners rarely found their way to Freetown.

  More and more had been cropping up of late, she had noticed. The discovery was disquieting.

  This northerner wore a small, amber-colored amulet around his neck that she recognized as something the goddesses had once given out freely to favored companions. She had one herself. It gave no protection from demons but grew warm if an immortal lurked nearby, which explained how he had survived a trip through the desert.

  A Godseeker as well as a northerner, then. He had that certain light in his eyes, and the presence of the goddesses clung to him. They had serviced the goddesses as little more than male whores, and believed that gave them the same privileges as priestesses. They dispensed justice in the mining regions and their assassins were the best in the world.

  She hated them.

  She waited for him to continue speaking, too cautious to simply dismiss him before she knew what he wanted from her.

  He lowered his voice. “The goddesses are returning. We must gather an army for them.”

  Godseekers believed the goddesses continued to favor them, even if from a distance, but this one had just witnessed Mamna summon a demon and condemn a woman to death. Why would he think she would welcome their return?

  “The goddesses are long gone from the world,” she said. “You feel the lingering touch of their presence, nothing more.”

  It was true. Once one had been touched by the goddesses, the goddesses could never be forgotten. She knew that far too well. And because this world had been touched by them, their presence would be felt here forever.

  But the goddesses themselves were gone.

  The light in the old man’s eyes brightened. “One goddess remains,” he insisted. “She will bring the others back. They will forgive you your dealings with demons if you join her army and fight for her. You will no longer be a slave to t
he Demon Lord.”

  Mamna tapped her fingers against her thigh, alarmed by the Godseeker’s words. Sweat trickled down her back, and her sensitive skin itched under the rough hrosshair gown. She did not want him to be overheard or for such stories to spread. Had he not witnessed what happened to people who plotted against her?

  “I am no slave to the Demon Lord. I command demons. They do not command me. The goddesses are gone,” she repeated, more sharply this time. “I witnessed their departure myself.”

  He stepped closer, crowding her with his greater height and invading her personal space. Mamna did not care for it. It highlighted her deformity and challenged her authority. She scowled up at him, but he was so wrapped up in his message that he did not notice her displeasure.

  “One remains on the mountain,” he insisted. “She challenges trespassers and collects alms for the temple.”

  The noise from the market faded, overwhelmed by a roaring in Mamna’s ears.

  “An old priestess and her bastard, thieving daughter live on the mountain.” Impatience frayed her temper, and her heart was now beating so rapidly she felt off-balance, as if all the blood in her twisted body had rushed to her head.

  How had the spawn survived all these years in the crumbling temple of the goddesses, she wondered for the thousandth time since learning of the thief on the mountain. Worse, how could that silly old hag have kept it?

  Desire might have had an advantage over the other priestesses in that she had not been born homely—she had become scarred later in life when her looks had not mattered so much to her—but she was still an old fool with a soft heart. She always would be.

  Stubbornness set the Godseeker’s jaw. “She is a goddess, not a thief. She is the one who will lead the Demon Slayer against the demons. This is our chance to fight back, and to send them away. This world does not belong to them.”

  Nor had it belonged to the goddesses, Mamna could have argued. An immortal was an immortal, regardless of any distinction. But the Godseeker’s beliefs, like those of all fanatics, would never change.

  “Even if you are right, she is still only one goddess while the demons are many. If they could drive the other goddesses from the world, then this one can have no hope of standing against them alone.”