by Jill Braden
The werewolves threatened and blustered, but knew better than to take their posturing beyond that. She had the Devil’s protection, and she was his most ruthless weapon against any werewolf who dared challenge his authority.
The scent of damp dogs and mold hit QuiTai’s nose as she entered the Devil’s house. She was glad that he didn’t insist that she live with the pack. The feeling, she knew, was mutual.
The clatter of tiles came from a corner where four men sat around a game table. Another dozen large hairy men slumped on stained sleeping couches, as if drunk on humidity. They panted in the stifling atmosphere but didn’t dare open the windows to allow the breeze to flow through. Yet something had changed in the den. The men didn’t bicker. They lolled on the furniture as if a collective sigh of relief had eased their tension; and yet, eerie discomfort prickled over her as it did when the jungle went suddenly silent. What they waited for was a mystery to her.
The pack slowly came to their feet as QuiTai stumbled over a pair of muddy boots abandoned in the middle of the floor. She could feel their low growls creep over her skin. The men circled and sniffed, a habit that grated on her nerves. After two years, she’d have thought they would have grown used to her, but some races could never overcome the primal fear her scent and fangs evoked. Not to mention the more specific reason they had to fear and hate her.
“Slayer,” a narrow-eyed wolf spat dry, as if he wouldn’t even waste fluids on her.
She placed the fresh jellylanterns around the room in their wall holders; when the room was illuminated, she almost wished she hadn’t. Beer bottles, muddy clothes, and bones littered the floor. That didn’t surprise her. She’d seen their stone fortresses back in their mountainous homeland Rujick, and understood why their women lived in their own keeps.
“I smell QuiTai. Don’t keep me waiting any longer, woman,” a deep male voice barked from behind a sliding door at the far end of the room. The door panels had once been rice paper, to allow light between the two rooms, but were now been boarded over.
She raised an eyebrow to the men who still circled her. The pack parted.
She left the sliding door open when she entered the Devil’s chamber.
The room had once opened onto a deck that cantilevered over the Jupoli Gorge, offering breathtaking views of the Pha River below and the waterfalls thundering off the opposite canyon wall. QuiTai had stood there to marvel as clouds of iridescent blue butterflies clung to treetops and flocks of bright birds flew past. Occasionally, a troop of monkeys would climb the long, thick stilts that secured the house to the hillside to play on the deck until the scent of the werewolves scared them away.
But a few months after the full moon massacre, the Thampurian soldiers had captured Petrof during a hunt and dragged him down to their fortress. Four agonizing days later he limped back to his den. He never said what happened, but in the past year, the doors to the deck had been shut off with thick wood screens, then covered with blinds, and finally boarded over. The ocean breeze no longer penetrated the stuffy room, but beams of sunlight squeezed between the warped window boards. Motes of dust drifted through them and disappeared into the deep shadows.
Casmir and Ivitch followed QuiTai as far as the open door. It was odd that the others didn’t press close to steal a glimpse of their leader like they usually did.
A shadowy figure on an ornately carved, high-backed chair at the far end of the room stirred.
The power of his presence flooded through her as it always did. She felt so alive with him. He was impossible to please, but she alone shared his most private side.
“I sent Casmir and Ivitch to fetch you over an hour ago,” Petrof said. He leaned forward into a faltering ray of light. Blond highlights glinted in his red beard. Thick, dark auburn chest hair curled over his shirt collar. Much brawnier than the average Ponongese, his build was almost lithe for a werewolf. He was not the largest of the pack, but he was the most cunning, and by far the cruelest.
“Your business required my attention, Petrof.”
His eyes narrowed. Good. She wasn’t the only person in the house who knew the Devil’s real name, but only she dared to use it.
“The way she defies you, she must think she’s in charge around here,” Casmir said.
“Remind her of her place,” Ivitch said.
She knelt beside Petrof’s throne on a thick maroon carpet. His red-rimmed eyes had gone feral, never a good sign. The moon was already in him even though it was not yet full. Flies buzzed over the remains of a meal left on the floor. The scent of mountain trails and blood clung to his skin. Fear stole her breath. Had he worked up the courage to leave his room? She paused to gather control over her voice before speaking.
His hand shot out. Ragged nails scraped QuiTai’s throat. He came to his feet and lifted her by her throat as he growled. From the corner of her eye, she saw Casmir and Ivitch laughing at the threshold of the room.
Petrof bared his teeth at them. The crushing pressure on her neck increased. He’d grasped her throat many times, but this was different. Panic spiked through her. His big hand could easily crush her neck, and he always kept his elbow stiff so that she couldn’t lunge at him with her fangs and inject her poison into him.
“Petrof… there’s a disturbing rumor that independent smugglers brought a shipment onto the island,” she croaked.
He slowly sank back into his seat, but didn’t release her. He focused on her face again. She said, “Smugglers who dare to openly challenge your power.”
“What did they bring?” Petrof asked.
She swallowed against the pressure of his hand. “Rumor says a few big crates, but no one seems sure. I’ve told all my sources to bring me news.”
His grip tightened. “Who are they? Did they bring it in through the harbor, or did they use one of the coves?”
QuiTai coughed as her lips tingled. He eased his hold enough that she could gasp fresh air into her bursting lungs. “That, also, I do not know,” she was finally able to say.
“She’s wasting your time,” Ivitch said to Petrof.
QuiTai wished she had shut the door. “Someone dared to challenge the Devil. Rumors now are as elusive as maishun spirits, but as with any good tale, they will be repeated, and someone will remember something they saw. We will find these smugglers and make examples of them.”
Ivitch snorted. “She acts like they’re smoke wraiths.”
“Answers don’t simply come to me. I have to hunt them down.” She gave the wolves a challenging stare. “You understand,” she said.
“Kill her now.” Ivitch reached for the doorjamb and leaned over the threshold into the room.
The low rumble of Petrof’s growl made QuiTai’s hairs stand on end. She made an effort not to show it. “Ivitch, if you have the names of the smugglers, tell us. Better yet, bring them before our master. But remember: the last time you chased monkeys up a tree, they flung their shit at you.”
Petrof chuckled, and his grasp on QuiTai’s throat finally dropped. She laughed too: it was always safest to match his moods. Since he’d shut himself away from the world, he’d become even more unpredictable.
Ivitch stepped back. He might be stupid, but he had at least the sense to rein himself in. After the last killing, no one dared enter the Devil’s private chamber without his permission.
QuiTai picked up one of the bones on the rug near her with her thumb and forefinger. A scrap of bloody sinew dangled off the end. She tossed it onto a brass tray and reached for another. Clouds of flies spiraled up and then returned to crawl over the grisly pile.
“Information will cost money, Petrof.”
“The Devil takes money; he doesn’t give,” Petrof said.
“Think of it as an investment,” she said.
“I said no. Don’t try to use your wiles to make me change my mind.”
It always amazed QuiTai that he had no idea how his own syndicate worked. Every time she was forced to use her own coin to keep his business running, she re
sented it a little more. If only he’d stop hoarding his fortune.
She forced herself not to glance at the wall behind Petrof’s messy bed. What appeared to be an intricate wood mosaic beyond the mosquito netting was actually a puzzle. With the right moves, the center of the design would open, revealing his safe. Over time, she’d worked out the complex sequence of sliding pieces, but the biolock inside could only be opened by the touch of his fingertips. If she ever figured out how to break that lock, she’d pay herself back the thousands of coins that the Devil owed her.
Her temper flared. Usually she had no problem controlling it, but for the past week she’d been restless and couldn’t seem to quash her rebellious thoughts. Worse than not understanding his own business, Petrof didn’t understand her. He demanded her advice but never respected it. It had always been so; but now she sensed that their long alliance was strained to the point of breaking.
She could survive without him if he cast her aside. But it would be difficult to find a lover to replace him. There was something addictive about bedding someone so dangerous, even though it was foolishness to let her desires overrule her brain. And the idea of the Devil was as important to her future plans as was the actual man. Sometimes even more important.
Until then, she hadn’t been sure whether she would answer Kyam Zul’s note. Now she realized how much she needed a brief escape from the werewolves. She might not like Kyam, but at least he could argue with her without getting violent. And he was always interesting.
She forced her voice in a casual, light tone and said, “On an unrelated note, I’ve decided to hire that itinerant Thampurian artist to paint my portrait.”
“The good-looking one?” Ivitch asked.
She didn’t dare show how furious she was with him. Had he seen Kyam in the marketplace? Maybe Ivitch simply remembered seeing him around Levapur, or had witnessed one of their verbal battles.
The Devil’s eyes narrowed. “QuiTai?”
“Ivitch seems to fancy him.” She forced a blatantly fake yet innocent smile.
“I like Thampurians less than you do,” Ivitch said.
“Not possible.”
“What does he look like?” Petrof asked.
QuiTai tossed the furry skull left over from Petrof’s dinner onto the tray and wiped her hand on the carpet. “He’s a typical Thampurian snob. Surely you’ve seen him.”
“You know I haven’t left this room for over a year.”
So he didn’t want her to know that he’d conquered his fear of the world outside long enough to leave his den. He was the only person she knew who had ever left the fortress alive, but something horrible had happened behind those stone walls, something bad enough to make a werewolf too scared to hunt with his pack – until now. Maybe enough time had passed that his terror had faded. Or perhaps that fear had never been real; she had only his word for it.
Perhaps he thought she still accepted the common wisdom that werewolves could only shift under a full moon. In the years they’d been together, she’d figured out the wolves could shift anytime they wished. That was fair; she had secrets from him too. She hoped hers weren’t as easy to figure out.
Petrof’s glazed eyes moved from Ivitch to QuiTai. “I don’t like you being alone with anyone.”
“In his bedroom,” Ivitch said.
Ivitch, she decided, should have a fatal accident – and soon.
QuiTai peered into the gloom over Petrof’s shoulder. For now, she’d drop the issue of the portrait. Eventually, she’d convince him, or she’d find another way to meet Kyam Zul. For some perverse reason, she felt that she had to talk to the Thampurian. As if it were fated.
“QuiTai!” Petrof snapped.
She knew now how sea captains felt as they negotiated the treacherous currents of the Ponong Fangs, the only deep water passage in the Ponong Archipelago that linked the Sea of Erykoli to the Te’Am Ocean. As with the Fangs, there was only one safe path through this conversation. One false step, one wrong word, could spell disaster. Whatever Kyam wanted from her, he had better be prepared to pay handsomely for it, because she would surely pay a price herself for meeting him.
“Why don’t you accompany me then, Ivitch? If Mister Zul acts improperly, you can rip out his throat.”
Ivitch tugged on his attempt at a beard. “You think I’m stupid? If I do that, the Thampurians will know a werewolf killed him. I’d strangle him so they wouldn’t know who to hang.”
“How very cunning of you. Did you come up with that on your own, or did you have help?”
“The Devil told us –”
“Shut up, Ivitch!” Petrof said.
There were times when it was safer to act as if she hadn’t heard anything. “If you’re against the idea, Petrof, I won’t have him paint my portrait. It was a whim, one that I can easily forget.” She shrugged, as if it were of no concern.
“Is he handsome?”
She held back a sigh. Once Petrof fixed on an idea, he rarely let it go. It was better to be truthful, in case he had seen Kyam. “The sea dragons are an attractive race, when they aren’t sneering. He’s tall and broad-shouldered. His face is not so plain as to be ordinary, but not too pretty either. He keeps healthy and fit. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Petrof lunged from his chair, took her down, pinned her to the carpet. His nose bumped hers. “Keep taunting me and one day you’ll regret it, you cold-blooded bitch.”
The game between them had begun as it always did.
A grin slowly spread across her face as desire for him welled through her body. His big hands crushed her thin wrists. He didn’t rub or grind against her, but the anticipation had both of them breathing hard. Petrof was dangerous and unpredictable, traits she knew she should despise, but she’d developed a taste for the edge he brought to the bed.
“It’s my nature to be cruel,” she said.
Petrof stroked her hair. His lips pressed close to her ear. “Yes, my little avenging demon, you did warn me when we first met.” His fingers clutched her hair. “How I wish I could see your mind working. I imagine it’s a sliding puzzle with thousands of little moving pieces.”
“Crack her head open and find out,” Ivitch said.
Petrof’s growl rumbled through the room. If Ivitch had been smart, he would have closed the door and walked away. “Leave them alone now,” Casmir told Ivitch as he reached for the door. “The master will decide when the time is right.”
Ivitch shoved him back. Casmir leapt onto him and dragged him to the ground. She heard furniture knock over. Petrof flinched when the wall between the rooms shook from the impact of a body against it. Soon the pack was merrily brawling.
“Click, clack. I can hear the gears in your mind whirling from here, QuiTai. Why are you quiet?” Petrof asked.
“It’s hard to appreciate your touch with the boys roughhousing in the next room.”
Petrof grinned as she struggled to free her wrist from his grasp. Finally, he let go. “Your tale of smugglers had better be true.”
“Send your pack to question their dealers. Someone will fetch the same rumor I heard.”
Suspicion lingered in his eyes, but he rolled off her. “Close the door, woman. The moon isn’t the only stirring in my blood.”
~ ~ ~
Petrof sank onto the small stool in the bathing chamber with a drawn-out sigh. QuiTai dipped a sponge into soapy water and scrubbed mud smears from his neck. Dark auburn hair covered his muscular chest, thighs, and back.
“I assume from the state of your floor that you’ve eaten,” she said.
“The pack hunted for me.”
The dirty suds trailing down his wide shoulders told a different story. She didn’t mind that he lied to her. She wasn’t even offended that the pack kept secrets from her. They were his men, not hers. They made their loyalties clear in any number of ways, including making sure that no one else on the island dared sell black lotus to the Devil’s concubine.
Petrof captured QuiTai’s hand and broug
ht it to his lips as he twisted around to face her. “You’re quiet. When you’re quiet, it means you’re thinking, and when you think, wise men reach for weapons.”
“I’m thinking about the smugglers.” One lie in exchange for another.
“I want results.”
He tugged her close as he stood. She felt him stir against her. His wet hand grasped her bottom. She closed her eyes as his beard scraped her cheek.
“I have further business tonight,” she said.
“With whom?”
“No one in particular. It’s just that something feels odd in town, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. I’m... if I observe, maybe it will come to me. I don’t know. It’s so elusive that I can’t even be sure that it’s real.”
That was the part that bothered her most. A faint suspicion that Kyam Zul was somehow involved flitted on the edge of her thoughts. It could simply be coincidence that he turned to her now; but she did not believe in coincidence.
QuiTai slightly shook her head. Kyam was the last person she wanted to think about when she was with her lover.
“You’re imagining things,” Petrof said.
If it wasn’t something he could touch, he decided it didn’t exist. She knew better. “It might be important,” she said.
“Does it have anything to do with the smugglers?”
“I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure that out.”
He released her from his hold. “When you flatter me, I instinctively check my balls, and then my safe.”
QuiTai gave him a playful push. “Now who is flattering whom?”
Petrof rubbed his head with a towel until his hair stood up in spikes. He wiped water drops from his thighs and then wrapped the cloth low around his waist so that his muscles showed to their best advantage. He stalked toward her. “Every morsel of lies from you is wrapped in only enough truth to make it easy to swallow. I’m not sure why I keep you around.”
QuiTai ran her finger down the trail of hair from his navel to his groin. At the top of the towel, her hand stopped. She tilted her head and smiled at him. “You knew what I was when you chose me.”
