Demon Blessed

by Nikki Sex

I wonder what name he uses in the human world? Maybe Long Claw doesn’t ever leave the magic lands. If so, I’m glad for it. He’s the type to consider outsiders the “inferior” human race.

  Long Claw assumes Hope and I are grateful for his attention. He completely ignores Owen, Eugene, and Goth Girl. Is that because Eugene is less powerful? Owen is submissive, so I guess dickwad considers he’s less of a person. Goth Girl is damaged, imperfect—not good enough for him, either.

  What an asshole.

  He openly stares at Hope and me, his eyes raking our bodies, lingering far too long on our breasts. His lips suddenly curl into a snarl. Long Claw turns away as though he’s picked up the scent of two-week old garbage.

  Really? He did not just do that! What is his problem?

  I guess I’ve been found wanting.

  Sure, I’m somewhat plain. I don’t have Hope’s curvy shape or generous bust, but I’m a person. People deserve to be treated with respect. Maybe this isn’t the case if they don’t have a memorable face and good figure? Or is it because I register as utterly human with no magic?

  Apparently, with some bastards, the river runs quite shallow.

  I know the type. Entitled and superior, to him women are lesser things—objects to possess. He’s far more important, all women are there to serve him, yadda, yadda. Long Claw has all the charm and charisma of petrified dog shit.

  Why hasn’t someone cut this guy down to size?

  The fact he’s a powerful alpha could be the problem.

  Without intervention, the strong and powerful will always dominate the weak. This “natural order” appears to be in the nature of humans, and beasts alike. Life can be a competition, where everyone is out for themselves. You’re the hunter or the hunted. The master or the slave.

  I may be naive, but I don’t subscribe to this philosophy. I believe there is the seed of goodness, at times greatness—even in the worst of us. If we’re all out for ourselves, why do firefighters run into burning buildings? Why have people jumped into freezing rivers to save perfect strangers from drowning?

  Nevertheless, in my opinion there’s a special type of bad karma for people like Long Claw who use their power or position to be assholes.

  Prick.

  How did this man become such a self-absorbed bully? They say some folks cut the heads off others so they can appear tall. The way Long Claw overcompensates, ten-dollars to one, he’s hiding serious insecurities, probably even from himself. I wonder why?

  He’s a puzzle alright.

  According to the virtues, for the sake of teaching tolerance to my demon, I should look at this asshole with compassion and understanding. Didn’t Long Claw meet his parents’ expectations? Was he regularly intimidated as a child until rather than being the victim, he chose to be the bully? Perhaps he decided to be the stick wielder, rather than be the one regularly beaten.

  For a moment, I allow myself an inner smirk, while thinking a bad thought. It’s the type of a snarky criticism I never say without first thinking: “Is it kind? Is it true? Is it necessary? No? Then don’t say it.”

  Well, I won’t say it, but I’ll think it.

  Maybe Long Claw has a small claw down where he thinks it counts. Rather than a long claw, he may have something more in the order of a small fingernail.

  I could be wrong.

  After a couple of centuries, I see things differently than most. I chose my bedmates according to their aura and energy levels. I can assure you a strong, pleasant aura has nothing to do with good looks, height, or cock size.

  In the end, physical appearance is just that: physical. What does weight matter? Or breast size, or if someone is disabled, or considered ugly?

  As years go by most people figure out what really counts.

  A person’s smile is important. The way someone looks at you and how they make you feel is important. Being able to tease each other, laugh together, and connect—these things are important.

  You might buy a book for its cover, but when it comes down to it, you won’t want to cuddle up and comfortably read it in bed unless it’s your kind of book.

  The expression on Long Claw’s face! Somehow he conveys distain, superiority, and arrogance—all at the same time.

  When I lived in Germany I learned a wonderful word that unfortunately doesn’t translate into English. They say backpfeifngesicht, meaning: a face that needs to be punched.

  Long Claw’s the biggest backpfeifngesicht I’ve ever seen. What a jerk. Remarkably, he also has a couple of ghosts haunting him; one male, one female, both with their throats ripped out.

  Unlike Goth Girl’s concerned spirits, these ghosts are vengeful and pissed.

  They’re looking for payback.

  They crouch over Long Claw’s shoulders, one on eachside of him, their mouths near his ears. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they whisper dark thoughts non-stop. Gripped tightly to him, they remind me of the carved figures that adorn Notre-Dame de Paris.

  Like a couple of malevolent gargoyles, they’re metaphysically linked to this man they despise. They remind me of those drawings of the devil sitting on a person’s shoulder, guiding their victim into temptation.

  The messages they pass to Long Claw are quite likely being received by his subconscious. Like water eroding stone, subliminal commands can wear the strongest individual down over time.

  These two are up to no good.

  Interesting.

  I’ve known unhappy spirits, and even physically active poltergeists, who made it their mission to destroy their killers. After talking to these ghosts, I advise their murderers to give themselves up or to make restitution to the families of the people they’ve killed.

  Every ghost who remains on this plane of existence has a reason for what they do. They’re like normal people in that way.

  “Why are you here?” I send to Long Claw’s ghosts mentally.

  Hands gripping the alpha’s shoulders, the male ghost raises his head. He stares at me for a long moment, sending me a flurry of splintered images. I get the idea Long Claw has raped and killed, but I can’t understand the specifics.

  Finished with me, the ghost goes back to whispering to his enemy.

  I have so many questions. Is this ghost the mate of a woman who was forcibly taken then murdered? Did Long Claw kill them both? But I send nothing more to either of them.

  As with Goth Girl, I’m too distracted by the party.

  Besides, what is there for me to say? These two don’t need or want me. Focused and intent on their goal, they already have a plan.

  Long Claw’s greedy, creepy eyes all but undress Hope. Clearly, he likes what he sees. He flexes his magic and power to impress her, but she’ll need to transform before she can feel it.

  Hope gives Long Claw calm, innocent eyes. I’m unable to read how dominant she is.

  “You’re Hope,” he says. It’s not a question.

  “Yes.” Her reply is unruffled.

  He winks at her. “I’ll be seeing you real soon.”

  After delivering this mysterious, scary promise, he swaggers back to where his pack sits and eats. As he and his vengeful spirits pass, his energy makes goosebumps rise on the back of my neck.

  A fog of confusion mars Hope’s face, while both Owen and Eugene are distinctly alarmed. I totally understand. Long Claw is creepy.

  Where is Hope’s protective white wolf spirit when she needs him? I wonder if the animal would’ve given the asshole a painful ghostly nip.

  Curbing my inner panic, I apprehensively moisten my lips. Turning toward Goth Girl I intently regard her, observing her reaction to Long Claw. As a recently changed wolf from only three months ago, she must have a more informed view of events.

  Goth Girl shows no surprise or alarm. Her untrusting and unloving gaze demonstrates she knows exactly what is going on, but won’t get involved. Goth Girl is a keen spectator, watching the world through cynical, wary eyes. Everything she sees confirms her beliefs about people.

  Goth G
irl likes it that way. For her, self-destruction and hatred toward everyone and everything (including herself) has become the safe and comfortable norm.

  My gaze returns to the unpleasant alpha where he stands and laughs with male members of his pack. The female shifters are seated at another table. Is this by choice or pack decree? Maybe they aren’t allowed to join the boy’s club.

  Still, the women of River Run pack smile and chat; they seem good friends. No doubt, they prefer to be as far away as possible from Long Claw.

  Over the years, I’ve observed that danger has a shape and a feel to it. River Run Alpha is magical, but his power trailed over my body with ugly menace. The smell is wrong—the taste bitter.

  Fingers of fear walk up my spine. Hope is an innocent. Long Claw is selfish and dangerous as hell.

  I look down at the meal I was enjoying only minutes before, and discover I’ve lost my appetite.

  Chapter 47. Contest

  Long Claw stands in the middle of the room, radiating malicious fury. “I challenge the Alpha of Spukani pack!” he shouts.

  The power from his pronouncement burns over my body like a strong, hot wind. The crowded room with everyone talking, laughing, and eating, suddenly falls silent. Meanwhile, the expressions on the faces of the two troubled spirits haunting Long Claw are ecstatic.

  I sense their joy.

  They sought to make Long Claw challenge Stafford. They want him to battle the Beast Lord—they want him to die.

  At the other end of our table, Stafford lazily rises to his feet. “I acknowledge Long Claw, Alpha of River Run pack.” His voice rings, radiating megawatts of power. With purposeful strides, he walks to the center of the room, faces his contender.

  Legs spread, fists clenched, the two opponents face each other from about six feet of distance. Stafford stands quietly, his dark gaze locked onto Long Claw’s amber eyes.

  The vast space, filled with people, falls into unnatural stillness. The hush of motionless calm is an illusion. Primal energy from every paranormal in the room hums in anticipation.

  My inner monster is eager and excited, too.

  Violence! Blood! Flesh! Death!

  This is exactly the kind of scenario I try to keep my demon away from. It has all the elements of unavoidable disaster. If I’m not careful, my inner friend will take control the moment he falls victim to his demonic urges.

  Only twice before has he taken me over.

  I fear what he’ll do if he gains control while surrounded by all this power. Any action on his part has the potential to end us.

  “Keep it together, buddy,” I murmur anxiously under my breath to my demon. “This is not the time or place.”

  Stafford breaks the silence. “No pack challenges are to be made in the week before the full moon. The blood of our beasts runs hot at this time. Such tests and trials must be given with cooler heads—this is the law.”

  The Beast Lord’s tone is like an icy wind. His magic ripples over the audience, making them shiver. Eyes wolf-amber, he never once blinks, or looks away from Long Claw.

  “It is your law, not mine.”

  “The decree has been extant for sixty years.”

  Long Claw sneers. “You murdered the Spukani pack alpha—our alpha—during the full moon. Then you changed the law.”

  Stafford doesn’t deny this.

  Wow. This is news to me. He made a full moon challenge? Then fought his predecessor to the death?

  I’ve always been good at reading people, but due to our bond, I can sense Stafford’s emotions. He’s angry, yes, but I also feel regret. I wonder. Since he became the Beast Lord, how many challengers has he had to kill?

  Long Claw looks to his audience, while stabbing his finger at Stafford. “This made wolf has kept all four of the new wolves for himself!” Placing his hands on his hips, he spins slowly, making eye contact with many pack members. “He’s marked the plain one. Who will he take next?”

  Uh-oh. That was why Long Claw turned his nose up at me—he scented Stafford’s bite. Shit. I am the reason for this fight. Well, me, and Long Claw’s ghosts.

  Stafford sighs tiredly. “All new shifters remain at Spukani Lodge for the first six months, you know this.”

  “And your mark?”

  “Before I became wolf, Jan and I were lovers.”

  “You had no right to mark anyone.”

  “I have every right. Jan is mine.”

  “You can’t keep all the women. You’re not even wolf born!”

  “Born or made, we are lycanthrope, every one of us. My position was won through successful challenge—”

  “You mean successful murder!”

  “The challenge was made; our laws were followed.”

  “So you say.”

  “Leave your complaints for the next meeting of the Council. Tonight, is a celebration.”

  “Fuck you! You are nothing! Less than scum. I am wolf born, my family was here before Marikri cast the ward three-hundred years ago. We have continued throughout the generations. You? What are you? Where is your line? You were born nowhere near the magic lands!”

  Wolf-born verses wolf-made. Guess there’s trouble in paradise. How typical. Discrimination is everywhere, even among lycanthropes.

  “Can’t you feel it?” Stafford says. “Moonrise is in less than thirty minutes. Such foolishness! Now is not the time. We will transform before the battle is over.”

  “Good. My wolf will enjoy tearing your throat out.”

  “I didn’t want this.” Stafford shakes his head tiredly. “You have a learning disability, don’t you?”

  His voice is deceptively calm, while he unbuttons his shirt. Everyone else in the room begins to remove their clothes, too. Shifters are naked before and after they shift. No wonder they get past inhibition, shyness, or embarrassment.

  This “I’m-the-leader-of-the-pack gig” doesn’t sound so hot when seen from this light. It seems that a “made” wolf is considered the less powerful shifter. If that’s the case, maybe Stafford suffers pack challenges all the time.

  This Beast Lord duty must piss him off.

  His wolf may be a killer, but Stafford is an honorable man. He doesn’t have a vindictive or murderous personality. How much do these deaths lessen him?

  Long Claw is too stupid to live. It’s obvious the Beast Lord is far more powerful than he is. Anyone with an iota of psychic awareness would sense Stafford’s incredibly strong aura. Failing some major mistake on the Spukani pack Alpha’s part, this is a fight the dumbass can’t possibly win.

  Darwinism in action.

  “I, Stafford St. John, Beast Lord of the magic lands, do hereby declare this challenge for leadership to be fought to the death.” His penetrating stare meets his opponents gaze. “Be it on your head.”

  The two ghosts haunting Long Claw hug each other exultantly. They dance and cavort with joy.

  Ah. Clever. I can guess the bitter spite and envy these malevolent spirits have been pouring into their enemy’s ears. This is the outcome they hoped for.

  Everyone in the dining area begins moving tables and chairs. Some are taken out of the room; some are stacked on top of each other.

  A woman virtually glides to the edge of the room, feminine power vibrates from every inch of her body. A thick curtain of jet-black hair sweeps back over her head. Her face is as round as a full-moon; her skin dark, her eyes slightly slanted. Is she Eskimo? People don’t use the term anymore, they say Inuit.

  Perhaps their shaman is an Inuit.

  Inuit Woman cuts her wrist with a decorative knife, then begins to drip blood, while walking around the outer circle of the room. The entire time she quietly chants, but I can’t understand the language she speaks.

  People crowd around the fighting circle, all vying for the best view. The combatants continue to undress until they are naked. I can’t help but check out Long Claw’s claw.

  Wow. I sure as hell lost that bet.

  As a wolf, Long Claw might have long claws—but if
he was named according to what he has between his legs, he’d have been called “Ridiculously Monstrous Claw.”

  It’s not what you have, but what you do with it. I’ve known plenty of guys with small members who were beyond incredible in the sack. More importantly, they were nice people, too.

  Big dick or not, Long Claw would be a lousy, selfish lover. He’s the type.

  A quiet, unassuming man brings the combatants loincloths to fight in—one white, one black. Long Claw winds the white cloth around him, tucking himself in. The material hides his massive claw away.

  “What’s happening?” I ask Eugene. “What’s that woman doing?”

  “That’s Maloo, Spukani pack shaman. She’s using magic to put a ward around them. The only power within the circle is what each contestant can draw from themselves. All pack support will be severed. This will ensure no one can enter, and neither combatant may leave.”

  “They can’t leave the spelled area?”

  “No. They’re imprisoned within. The cost for breaking the circle is one or more deaths.”

  “I see.”

  For an instant, I’m thrown back into the dream experience of being a wolf—glorying in the kill, delighting in fresh blood, meat, bones, and death. I discovered the happiness only an animal could comprehend in nature’s perfect balance between hunter and hunted, predator and prey.

  In this challenge, the strongest, most powerful alpha will win—the weaker one will die. This is a natural order, the law of the wild.

  The shaman completes her circle, nods to her alpha, then steps back from the magically warded area. Raising her hands as though gesturing to the heavens, her voice rings with power.

  “Let the contest begin!”

  Oh, God.

  It’s like setting off a powder keg, or lighting a billion matches at once. The magic, fury, excitement, and strong emotion from five-hundred supernaturals blast through me—power rolls off them in potent waves.

  I hunger! I need!

  I shut my eyes against the memory of the last time my demon took over, but it doesn’t help. Violence, blood, and death remains locked in my mind’s eye.

  My stomach tightens with anxiety, my heart beats wildly. I long to feed.