Demon Blessed

by Nikki Sex

  With bad weather in mind, I wear a skirt with deep pockets, leather boots, and a light jacket. Each boot holds a silver knife. I’ve discovered various ways to hide my arsenal of stun guns, pepper spray, and sharp pointed objects.

  Not to kill—I never kill. I’m more of a wound-them-and-run-away kind of woman. My philosophy is, if I’m armed and ready, I won’t need it. It’s working, so far.

  Stafford has agreed to spend tonight with me in my apartment. Out of consideration for my sensitive, prudish dog, later I’ll arrange for Toby to stay with a lady who walks him for me sometimes.

  My inner monster is overjoyed at our impending sleepover. I’ve cleverly distracted him from wanting to search for the other demon.

  An entire night with Stafford.

  We couldn’t figure out why his bond works as it does on me. In the end, we decided we didn’t care. Metaphysical sex is marvelous. How much better will it be with us alone together in the flesh?

  I’m enjoying my first committed relationship.

  Do I have secrets? I sure do, but someday I might figure out how to tell him. Time will pass, life will be good. The right moment will present itself.

  It may take another hundred years, but what’s the hurry? We both might live forever. And tonight, will be wonderful.

  With all this glorious love making, energy, and pleasure, have I forgotten about the other demon creating murder and mayhem in Vancouver? Um…kind of. I can’t really forget, I’m simply a little unfocused.

  An innocent mistake.

  What I didn’t realize was that today would be the day that everything went south. The shit slid downhill, alright—down past rock bottom and straight to Hell.

  The morning seemed so promising.

  I’m alone in the office when my phone rings. “St. John here.”

  “Hello, Janney.”

  I smile instantly. Jonathan MacLeod’s voice rolls over me in a soft caress, recalling hours of philosophical discussions we’ve had over the years. He cares for me as a friend, perhaps even like a daughter.

  “Hello, sir.”

  He’s all business. “I just had a visit from a very interesting man. His mother recently died, and he’s heard of your abilities. He came straight to me—how he got past my personal assistant, I have no idea. He paid three times your fee—in cash, thank you very much, and he’s asked to see you immediately. He’s in the Gold Interview Room.”

  See? Right then I should’ve known something was up. No one gets past Brenda Gagnon. Ferociously protective of her boss, the woman is on to every trick.

  I spent the weekend with werewolves in Spukani Lodge, the Shangri-La of magic lands. Combine that with quality time spent untangling an evil spirit’s enchantment, and a night of ghostly love-making (the spirit moved me!)

  Is it any surprise I’m somewhat addled and off my game?

  “The Gold Interview Room, eh?” I say, foolishly ignoring the glaring obvious. “So this new client is dedicated to his mission and loaded to the gills?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Excellent.”

  “That’s not all.”

  “No?”

  “This is a powerful, dangerous man, Janney. Although he’s courteous, and his persona seems extraordinarily civilized, there’s something about him. I explained that you’re young, a little shy, but gifted. I told him I wanted another staff member in the room with you, while you have a consultation with this guy.”

  “But—”

  “No buts about it, Janney. He promised not to frighten you, but I held fast. I know you don’t like anyone else around when you work. That’s unfortunate. Abruzzo is sitting in with you on this one, alright?”

  He wants my agreement, but I say nothing.

  The silence stretches, becoming increasingly awkward.

  I’m sure Mr. MacLeod senses my mutinous heart protesting right through the telephone. I hate the idea of any co-worker watching me work, particularly not my friend and colleague.

  Knowing I’m psychic is one thing—actually seeing me speak with ghosts is another. Abruzzo and I have a good relationship. Why would I want to jeopardize that?

  “Don’t fight me on this, Janney. I won’t back down.”

  I sigh. My boss knows me too well. “OK.”

  “This guy takes his Greek heritage seriously. His name is Leonidas Sparagis, if you please. You’d think he’d shorten his name to Leo or Leon, but apparently not.”

  I think of my demon, a creature who is very sensitive about what I call him. There’s probably a reason this Greek guy is so touchy.

  “Meh, we all have our little quirks,” I observe philosophically. “Hey, the customer is always right. I’ll be sure to address him as Mr. Sparagis.”

  “I know you’ll give him value for his money. You always do, but Janney—” He hesitates.

  “Yes?”

  “This man is accustomed to getting what he wants, when he wants it. Be careful.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  He ends the conversation. I hang up.

  It’s out of character for my boss to worry about my clients to this degree. Who in the world is this guy? Someone rich, powerful, scary…perhaps supernatural? Or a man with underworld connections in armaments, drugs, and the sex trade?

  Hell, maybe he’s a politician “legally” accepting pay-offs from all three.

  After dealing with a pissed off alpha werewolf, then separating mystically bound ghostly murder victims from a demonic spell, I’m kind of looking forward to managing an ordinary human being—dangerous or not.

  Then again…this guy may not be human.

  He can’t be the demon; no one could miss that smell. He can’t be a vampire—they sleep during the day. If it’s a shifter, I’ll contact Stafford.

  “You know the drill,” I mutter to my inner monster, as I grab an amethyst crystal from my desk drawer and put it in my pocket. “Abruzzo will be there—he’ll be discretely armed. If this guy is supernatural, let me handle it. Remember, no one can know about you. You did great when those werewolves fought. OK?”

  I receive no answer, no impression, emotion or image. In fact, my demon friend has been unusually quiet all day. If he’s bored or taking a day off, that’s fine by me. Maybe he does sleep, and this is what it feels like when he does.

  Never mind. I can deal with a client on my own. Bad guys don’t attack people in a busy workplace. I’ll interview him surrounded by roomfuls of fellow employees, while guarded by Abruzzo.

  Nothing bad could possibly happen.

  Chapter 62. Scaring the Mice

  The door is wide open when I innocently stride into the Gold Interview Room. Everything’s the same as always. Buttery cream carpet. Walls a lighter cream. Decorative highlights in crisp whites and gold.

  Yeah, it’s all the same, yet totally different.

  Transformed completely, in fact.

  Freezing mid-step, I stumble. As though slamming into a rock wall, I come to a complete stop—right along with my heart.

  So many ghosts! I’ve never seen so many! The place is jam-packed. The weight of them press upon me, but I block them out and ignore them. I’m used to restless spirits. They are not what disturbs me.

  Shocked to insensibility, I blink, then blink again.

  The man sitting on the white couch is a physical force. I can’t take my eyes off him. I can see him, sure, but more importantly, I can feel him right down to my bones. His energy saturates every inch of space in this room.

  Even the air resonates with his imposing presence, not to mention his naturally seductive intensity.

  Shit. Vampire.

  I never expected a vampire in the morning. I thought sunlight burned them, and they slept during the day. Apparently, that’s not the case with this Greek vamp. On the other hand, today is cloudy and overcast. There’s no sunlight in this room.

  Dread speeds my heart; my body turns cold as ice.

  He came for me. Why is he here? Can he sense my demon?

&n
bsp; To distract myself from panic, I focus on him. Arms draped across the back of the sofa, boots flat on the floor, legs spread wide, my new client looks as comfortable and commanding as a king on his throne.

  Hot damn. He’s the most handsome creature I’ve ever seen.

  They say the magic of vampirism makes a vampire become better looking as they age. If so, this guy must’ve been born at the dawn of time.

  Appearing to be in his early thirties, his hair is black, his skin is as deeply golden as the room. Unless dark-skinned or deeply brown at turning, most vamps have pale skin. How did he keep his golden tan after centuries?

  Intense and penetrating, his shockingly blue gaze cuts right through me. Long, thick black eyelashes frame his incredible eyes. Why do men seem to get the long sexy eyelashes? What’s that about?

  As if Mr. Gorgeous needs them to be attractive.

  I’m surprised to see his five-o-clock shadow. Did he die like that or like humans, do vampires regularly need to shave and cut their hair?

  His presence fills the room. Even seated the vamp looks so damn big. He’s probably a head taller than most men. He has a tough, warrior’s body—not that he needs that, either.

  If you’re strong enough to lift a small car and throw it, what more do you want? Long legs, thick thighs, muscular calves for sprinting into battle. Broad shoulders and chest, narrow waist and hips.

  Whew. OK. Make that two small cars…and an eighteen-wheeler.

  There’s absolutely nothing soft about this guy. He’s all solid, rock-hard muscle. No fat. No sign of weakness.

  And his power level? Let’s just say he’s off-the-charts.

  Well, at least he has nothing to do with the foul stench of my nightmares. There’s darkness in him, but not the bitter taint of pure evil. Great. Why doesn’t this make me feel better?

  Probably because for the first time in decades, my existence hangs by a thread.

  To stand next to him is to stand near death.

  Simply the way he holds himself screams danger. Somehow, I remain motionless as the primitive part of my brain screams, run, run, RUN!

  My demon stirs. Uncurling inside of me like a lazy lion, he wakes with strong, lustful interest. Thanks to him, my ice-cold panic dissipates as he heats my body at the thought of feeding on a potent supernatural.

  Ohshit, ohshit, ohshit, ohshit!

  I can’t deal with my inner friend right now. I have problems of my own.

  Like the fact that I seem to have completely forgotten how to breathe.

  With the manners of a gentleman, the powerhouse languidly stands as I enter the room. He wears a finely tailored three-piece suit, black on black. The material is glossy and superfine. As he moves, it shines dark blue, then black, and back to dark blue again. It reminds me of a raven’s wing—an extremely uncomfortable comparison, considering my red-eyed raven nightmare.

  He’s mesmerizing! My attention is fixed on him.

  Unsurprised by my dumbfounded expression, he gives me a mocking smirk. The vampire must be used to the effect he has on people. Especially human psychics with lustful inner demons (not that he knows about my demon).

  If he does, I’m dead.

  With his smoking-hot vampire mojo, the oh-so-sexy paranormal must overwhelm anyone and everyone. I suspect he has this effect on every female. Or male. Or transgender. Hell, even lesbians want to take him to bed—you get the idea.

  As I stand silently stunned, his smirk turns into a broad smile of enjoyment.

  His smile is swoon worthy. Extraordinary.

  It takes what little breath I have left, away.

  For a moment, despite his powerful magic, the vampire seems charming—even though he’s obviously amused at my expense. Primal, sensual, and intensely masculine, I can’t help but be drawn in by his beauty.

  This right here is an example of magical fascination.

  Now I know. Stafford didn’t enchant me. What the Beast Lord and I have is as natural as it gets for people like us.

  Oh, yeah, vampire tricks or not, when the vamp smiles he’s drop-dead gorgeous—if you can manage to let slide that whole, “I’m-a-ruthless-killer” thing.

  Unfortunately, when he looks at me he likely sees a short-lived creature, both ignorant, and disposable. I’m a gnat that he’ll swat if I annoy him—or more like a chicken. I’m food or entertainment. Like watching a monkey play cute monkey games in a zoo.

  That is, unless he’s hungry, and views me as a meal.

  This guy’s superior attitude is entirely understandable. He’s at the top of the food chain. Clearly no one has screwed him over in like, well…forever.

  I don’t doubt his Greek heritage. Judging by his Roman nose, his ancestors came from somewhere in the Mediterranean. His black silk shirt is open at the neck; his features are captivating, his jaw strong.

  God dammit.

  This always happens to me. How can I be massively attracted, and utterly repelled at the same time? Friggin’ cognitive dissonance. It’s the story of my life.

  I’m seriously conflicted. My inner demon wants to fuck him. While part of me totally understands this desire, most of me wants to run away screaming.

  I wonder what’s behind door number three?

  “Ms. St. John, I presume?”

  Not yet able to speak, I nod.

  With fluid grace, he holds out his hand. His voice is low and soft as silk. Erotic, sure, but I only sense danger.

  I draw a deep breath in a futile attempt to steady myself. I don’t recognize his sexy accent, but English was not his first language, that’s for sure.

  Social responses eventually take over. A smile curves my lips, yet I hesitate for a long, long moment.

  I really don’t want to touch him.

  Forcing myself, I extend my trembling right hand.

  The instant his firm palm grips mine, the heavy press of his power almost brings me to my knees. I’ve never known anything as ancient as he is. Just how old is he? A thousand years? Two thousand? More?

  I’ve heard tales of creatures this long-lived and unstoppable. Stories that make the Terminator seem like both a pussy and a quitter. Hell, faced by this guy, even Darth Vader would run the other way.

  I survey the room to check out the ghosts, and my heart sinks. The evidence is all around me.

  Shit. Jugulo!

  I’ve heard about Jugulos—I’ve just never had the dubious pleasure of meeting one.

  Jesus H. Christ, is he here for me?

  Jugulo is Latin for throat slitter. My new client is a vampire assassin. It’s a Jugulo’s duty to kill humans possessed by demons. For all I know, this is the guy who tortured and did away with Hitler.

  I’m not demon-possessed, but I have a demon. I very much doubt this vampire would appreciate the difference.

  Why is he here? There’s no way his mother died recently. If he knew about my inner friend he would have captured or killed me already.

  Whatever the reason, unless I outsmart him, I’ll be forced to give him anything and everything he wants.

  I must be more cunning and careful than ever before. The old ones are nearly impossible to fool and know a lie when they hear one.

  Fuck, fuckity fuck!

  “Mr. Sparagis, how do you do?”

  My voice is barely above a whisper. “Nice to meet you,” is my normal greeting, but I don’t say that. Meeting him is not nice at all. I can’t hide my fear, but perhaps my timid persona will serve me well.

  Acting frightened—which, in this instance, is no act—I nervously lower my eyes.

  My body language communicates loud and clear: What a big meanie. Don’t you feel bad? You’re scaring poor little ol’ me. I’m young. I’m human. I’m no danger to anyone. Gnat. I’m a gnat. Less than a gnat.

  “Shall we sit down?” he asks.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Excellent, let him take over and run the show. That’s what he’s used to doing anyway.

  Chapter 63. A Rock and a Hard Place
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br />   I demurely sit across from him on the opposite couch, pull my amethyst crystal out of my pocket. It’s only then I notice Abruzzo unobtrusively watching. He stands in the back corner of the room, his concealed weapon under his jacket, oblivious to what’s going down.

  He can’t help me. He’s only capable of becoming another victim.

  I force a faint smile, my friend smiles back.

  “Ms. St. John, I understand you are gifted with the ability to see ghosts.”

  I nod.

  “Is my mother here? She’s recently passed and I’m concerned for her.”

  Recently dead, my ass. Unless she was a vampire, too?

  Deciding to keep an open mind, I grip my crystal, timidly peek through my eyelashes, and very carefully scan the room. Lots of ghostly women alright. None recently dead.

  “No, she isn’t,” I reply.

  I tightly grip the crystal as though it’s a talisman against bad luck. This vampire has a veritable army of spirits around him. I’ve never seen so many ghosts in one place. I make no attempt to communicate, or draw their attention. No sign of Hitler so far—not that I’m seriously looking for him.

  Why haven’t these people passed on? Are these all the Jugulo’s victims, or are these the ones whose lives are still in some way unfinished due to him?

  He tilts his head. Eyes the color of a clear summer sky study me intently. “Do you see any ghosts?”

  Swallowing nervously, I nod.

  Arching a dark, scornful eyebrow, he makes no attempt to hide his disbelief. “Tell me what you see.”

  Humans with magic are rare. They’re sought after by shifters and vampires alike. I don’t give off any magical signature, so he doubts my ability. If I see ghosts, does that mean I’m magical?

  If so, similar to Stafford’s bid for power, this vampire may decide to keep me. Power in the paranormal world, is like wealth in the human world. That makes me a valuable commodity.

  To tell the truth, or not? Either way, I’m screwed.