Demon Lord 6: Garnet Tongue Goddess

by Morgan Blayde

  GARNET TONGUE GODDESS

  (A Demon Lord Novel)

  Morgan Blayde

  © Copyright June 2016

  1

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  EPILOGUE

  COMING SOON: BLACK BLOOD BROTHER

  Acknowledgments

  To those who helped along314 the way: Sally Ann Barnes, Jess Cox, Denny Grayson, Caroline Williams, Chris Crowe, Steve and Judy Prey, Jim Czajkowski, Leo Little, Chris Smith, Chris Riley, and Tod Todd.

  OFFICIAL WEBSITE:

  www.morgan-blayde.com

  ONE

  “The only problem with the night before

  is the morning after.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  I was at the edge of asleep. One hand cradled the grip of the PX4 Beretta Storm compact, a semi-automatic lying under my pillow. Sleeping with my favorite handgun might one day save my life. Feeling warm and mentally buoyant, traces of whimsy swirling in my thoughts, I could only admire the way I’d yet to shoot myself in the head.

  I’m so damned gifted. Okay, so steel weapons get me hard. None of my sexual partners have yet complained.

  I rolled onto my back, one hand flopping to the side, exploring the sheets as I tried to remember who the lucky girl was last night. I felt a sheet-covered hip and traced a line along her ribcage. The angle of the ribs told me she was facing away from me.

  I rolled behind her, cupping her sweet ass. My hand slid to her breasts. I thumbed a nipple, feeling it harden, and gripped the delightfully generous tit, squeezing gently.

  Golden eyes slitted open in the back shadows of my mind. My inner dragon spoke to me. 32 C-cup. Nice.

  Before my inner dragon first made himself known to me, I’d thought this “appraisal ability” to be mine. I hadn’t known it was borrowed talent.

  The girl I groped breathed deeper, stirring awake. Her breath sighed out. I didn’t recognize the moan. She said, “Either fuck me or let me sleep.” I didn’t recognize the voice.

  My hard-as-steel cock spoke to me, too: Fuck, yeah, bury the bone!

  I tugged the sheet down to her hips, baring naked flesh. My visual range shifted from human to dragon, piercing the gloom of my Clan House bedroom. The room seemed to actually brighten. Drawing back to give her room, I rolled her toward me. My sleeping partner had her eyes closed. Her pale ashen hair—probably blonde—was styled in a pixie cut. I checked her ears to see if they had elfin points. Nope. Her nose was pert, her lips generous, her lipstick probably well faded. Not all details were available to me. Shadow lay along her face, and pooled in her throat and navel.

  I moved in and licked a puffy areole. Taking her scent, I found no indication of vamp or were-critter. Just human; not my usual taste. I wondered if this was technically slumming.

  “Ummm, nice.” She stretched. Her hand went under my pillow.

  I tensed between my shoulder blades, waiting to see if she were going to try and shoot me with my own gun. Stranger things have happened.

  “Umm, Caine? Why is there a gun under your pillow?”

  Wow, she has to be as drunk as me, and she remembers my name. That put her one up.

  Her hand came out from under the pillow—without my gun. I relaxed and smiled. “Women can be scary.”

  She pushed me on my back as she rolled on top, staring down into my face, her own features shadowed by her shift. Her hands found my wrists, pressing them down, capturing me. A light growl wavered in her throat. She grinded her pelvis into my mine. “Oh, you have no idea. I am going to have my way with you now. Just surrender to your fate.”

  My cock throbbed in joy. I said, “Okay.”

  Much later, naked, I slid from bed and ghosted from my room, into my suite’s common area. By then, I remembered I was at the Old Man’s demon compound on the Island. Magically shifting between here and my Malibu house, and my fortress in Fairy, I often forgot my location until morning coffee brought me fully to myself.

  I heard the soft pad of cat feet behind me as I went to the kitchenette.

  “Nice ass,” Leona said.

  She was just trying to spook me. The spirit leopard was a friend, more interested in my coffee than anything else—except for blood, but she knew I wasn’t about to open a vein for her; I’m selfish that way. If she expected me to jump at her presence, she hid her disappointment well.

  She bounded ahead of me, leaping up to the granite counter top to look me in the face. She asked, “Are your eyes open, kitten? You can make the coffee, right?”

  My glance went to the coffee maker. The LED timer was running, moments from engaging. I waved a hand at the machine, making a mystic pass. “By the fucking power of Castle Grayskull, I have the power!” I figured the reference to He-Man would be wasted on the leopard, but I couldn’t help myself.

  On cue, the coffee maker turned itself on.

  I dropped my hand to my side and went inside the kitchenette area. I got us two large cups from a cabinet, setting them next to the coffee maker.

  Leona stared at me, mouth gaping, white pointy teeth on display. “How’d you do that?”

  “Magic,” I lied. “There’s a new tattoo on the bottom of my left foot that gives me power over all coffee makers.”

  The pot gurgled agreement, backing me up.

  Minutes later, Leona had a steaming cup in front of her. She didn’t drink it, just savored the roasted scent that took her mind back to her carefree days in Brazil. I carried a steaming cup back into the living room and settled on the white loveseat. The leather felt cold under my butt, but I endured. The seat faced the balcony doors overlooking the back of the clan house. The brightening sky announced the coming of dawn. Normally, I’d still be in bed at this time, but I had a busy day today and had to accommodate people that didn’t sleep in until noon.

  I sipped at my coffee, set it down on the coffee table, and reached for the remote to the large TV dangling from the ceiling on steel struts. I thumbed the remote. The TV snapped and crackled on, ionizing the dust on the screen. Osamu had apparently missed it on his last dusting expedition. I surfed over to a news channel. There’d been another terrorist attack somewhere in Africa, a tourist hotel. Bodies were still being counted.

  Nobody’s going to be safe until everybody’s armed. You’d think the world would learn from the carnage in gun free zones.

  My bedroom door was on my right. A door on my left opened. Yawning, Osamu left his room. He politely covered his mouth and belted the silk robe he wore over black silk pajamas. My Japanese combat butler was old, but moved fluidly. He was almost as good with a sword as me. We both had access to demon swords that came when summoned, only his sword was better behaved than mine. My sword had recently b
een banished to a dark, empty dimension—I was punishing it for deserting me in battle with a dark fey queen who’d used shadow magic like mine—until I killed her.

  Lessons were learned. One has to be firm with inanimate objects or they get uppity.

  “Is everything well, Caine-sama?”

  “Fine.”

  “Can I get you some breakfast? Maybe a robe to wear?”

  I was already covered with ink—all my glorious magical tats. “I’m good.” I took another sip of coffee.

  My bedroom door opened and the nameless, naked lady stuck her head out. “I’ll take both.”

  Osamu’s eyes opened a little wider. “Ah, company. I shall see to matters in a moment.” He retreated to his room, probably to dress and find a robe for the lady.

  I looked over at her. “Don’t take this wrong, but who the hell are you again?”

  She frowned at me. “Teresa Monet. You didn’t forget our deal, did you?”

  “Deal?”

  She glared. “I hired you last night. You signed in blood—which I thought was pretty icky.”

  I shot her a stare of mock indignation. “My body—and soul—is not for sale! What kind of guy do you think I am?”

  Violently, she opened the door wider, setting her tits bouncing. I couldn’t look away. Nor did I want to.

  She said, “I know just what kind of guy you are. I’ve read your dossier.”

  My eyes narrowed. This was about a lot more than binge drinking and wild sex. I was suddenly glad I’d tapped the magic of my armor to send my gun back to where I kept it; she looked riled enough to shoot me as it was.

  I casually inquired, “Who do you work for?”

  “I gave you my business card.”

  “Like I know what I did with it.”

  Osamu’s door opened.

  Pulling back, Teresa hid behind my door, one arm reaching out.

  Osamu carried a silken robe to her, putting it in her hand. He asked, “What would the lady like for breakfast?”

  She smiled at him. “Coffee, buttered whole grain toast, and half a grapefruit. I’m going to take a quick shower, then I’ll be out.”

  Osamu gave a slight bow, acknowledging the order. Teresa closed the door on us. Osamu looked at me, raising an eyebrow. “And for you, Caine-sama?”

  “An Organic Rockstar energy drink and a Corpse Reviver.”

  Osamu stared, bewilderment etched into his face. “A Corpse Reviver? You need a necromancer?”

  “It’s a drink garnished with a slice of lime. One and a half ounces of gin, three-quarter ounces of Lillet Blonde, Orange Curacao, and fresh lemon juice. Combine in a mixing glass, add ice, shake, and strain into a coupe glass rinsed with absinthe. It’s good for hangovers, unless you drink more than three glasses. Then, it returns you to the dead.”

  Still sitting on top of the kitchen counter, Leona whipped her tail. “You can’t remember the lady’s name, but you can recite the recipe for any known drink?”

  I sipped more coffee. “There’s only so much space in my brain. I try to save it for things that are really important.”

  1

  TWO

  “I’m not Death; I don’t work for free.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  I dressed in black slacks and shirt, no tie. My new belt had Punisher long-toothed skulls along the length, superhero-y in a Goth kinda way. Marvel’s Punisher went around killing crooks because someone had to do it. I really identified with this character; in many ways we were similar, though he had no magic tattoos. And he worked for free.

  Sinful.

  A leather jacket and unshaved face completed my “look”.

  I no longer needed to strap on my PX4 Storm Berettas. Like my demon sword, I could now summon them to my hands from my armory, sending them back and forth for magical reloading. This made it seem like I was vulnerable.

  As if.

  I could fly on an airplane if I wanted. If I weren’t on the no-fly list—under numerous identities. There were a number of covert and not-so-covert government agencies that got nervous when I leave L.A. It’s why I do a lot of driving.

  I left my suite after breakfast. Teresa marched along with me, her heels clicking on the floor. Her tight little red dress matched her fresh coating of lipstick. She clutched her purse, half tucking it under the arm opposite me—as if I were going to steal it. I didn’t take her attitude personally; women were a suspicious lot, being prey and all. I mean, look at her, she made very attractive bait. It certainly got her laid last night after a lot of free drinks.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To see my father. He might have some work for me. And he gets cranky if I ignore him too long.”

  “You have a job, remember. I have a contract.”

  I stopped and turned to her, my best smile in place, the ice carefully kept from my gaze. “Can I see this contract? I really don’t remember what I committed to.”

  She’d stopped as well, her eyes narrowing. “Oh, no you don’t. I wasn’t born yesterday. This contract is going straight to my company’s legal department.”

  I started walking again.

  She hurried to catch up.

  “What company would that be again?” I asked.

  She was distracted from answering as one of the clan demons passed us in the hall. He had hoofed feet poking out from buff-colored coveralls. His forearms were hairy. And he was new. I didn’t recognize him, just the type. Forest demon, Celtic or Germanic. He was stag-horned, buff, at least six-foot-six, with rusty red hair. His eyes had golden irises with horizontal pupils. In passing, he offered us an easy grin and a nod.

  To look at him longer, Teresa rotated without stopping, coming around again to face forward. Her voice went whispery, climbing higher in pitch. “Is he real?”

  “Define real.”

  “A real demon.”

  “Looked real to me, but it could have been CGI, I guess.”

  We reached the main building, the hallway opening into an antechamber lined with black marble pillars carved into demonic shapes, memorials of clansmen who’d gotten themselves killed in the line of duty. Near the main entrance, four guards loitered, coming to a rough attention as they saw me. In the clan house, their living masks and cloaking spells were cancelled out, forcing them to look like the demons they were. The house magic didn’t allow subterfuge from members, or anyone trying to infiltrate.

  Teresa had seen all this last night, but had probably been too drunk to really remember.

  The two guards on the right were humanoid and reptilian: one a cobra demon from India, the other possessing blue-green elements of flying fish. The two guards on the left were mammalian. One was a minotaur, man and bull, easily eight feet tall, not counting the massive horns that added another two feet. Instead of street clothes he wore full armor plate, not at all burdened by the weight. The last guard had baby-goat horns barely poking out of his forehead.

  “Carry on.” I flicked fingers at them, letting them know they could go back to chilling. As long as they did their job, I wasn’t a ball-buster.

  We passed several of the carved pillars. High-gloss lapis lazuli walls supported a thirty-foot ceiling of the same material. Teresa stared at the etchings on the walls, murals of the bloody history of House Lauphram, going all the way back to the sinking of Atlantis. The walls tingled my senses with the magical equivalent of CGI. I made a point of not staring and engaging the magic, but hadn’t warned Teresa. Her attention triggered their animated side-show. She froze, captured by the drama.

  “I’m leaving you behind,” I warned, not slowing as I crossed the foyer.

  She broke away and ran to catch up.

  We crossed to the double doors of the Great Hall and entered. Five-tiered chandeliers hung overhead, casting down a dazzling white light. This was my throne room now that the Old Man had retired—with plans to marry my cousin, a full-blood dragon.

  The high ceiling and parquet floor—intricately designed with exotic woods
from Africa and Brazil—made the place an echo chamber where whispers and footfalls carried far. The side walls were incised with the name symbols of every clansman, living and dead. There were only few demons passing through, most of them being out and about, busy with clan business or guarding the grounds of the island compound.

  I crossed the huge space, passing the coral throne with its half-shell backrest. The Old Man liked it, but the thing wasn’t comfortable. I planned on having a new throne made, maybe something constructed of mammoth bones, encrusted with precious stones … nothing too pretentious.

  At the far wall, we entered another hallway. I expected the Old Man to be down in the War Room. He still handled a number of chores for me, especially dealing with the witches, vamps, and fey consulates in L.A., an “open” city, an international hub for supernaturals.

  The War Room guards gave me a quick glance, their gazes skittering on to Teresa, then coming back to me—as if asking if I was really bringing one of my whores into so sensitive an area.

  “Relax,” I said. “Apparently, she’s a client.”

  We went inside the round chamber. A bank of plasma screens showed graphic displays of the L.A. territories. Ours was highlighted in Mediterranean blue. Blood red indicated vampire strongholds and nightclubs. Ginger-ale green marked the areas claimed by magic-users like the “cleaning services” we sometimes employed to keep the preternatural community secret from humankind. Amber marked werewolf territories and those of other shifters.

  The fey weren’t represented. They visited, but kept no official presence here. They preferred Under-the-Hill, which hadn’t been part of Earth for thousands of years now—not since steel railroad lines had disrupted the ley lines in the ground over so many continents. The Irish called these mystical connections Fairy Paths. The Chinese called them Dragon Lines. Peruvians used the term Spirit Lines. The Australian Aborigines referred to them as Song Paths. What it all amounted to was a magical transit system and a source of power now considerably weaker than in times past.