Taming Demons for Beginners: The Guild Codex: Demonized / One

by Marie, Annette

  My mind seized with panic. I had to do something. I had to help.

  I grabbed a can of spray paint and shook it as I jumped in front of Zylas. Squeezing the nozzle, I prayed for some small blessing of luck—and blue paint spat from the can. I swept it across the pavement, drawing rushed lines.

  Tahēsh stalked closer, taking his time, laughing quietly.

  I threw the can aside, grabbed Zylas’s shoulder, and heaved. “Get up! He’s coming! We have to get away!”

  Zylas groaned faintly and lifted his head. His eyes, tight with pain, gleamed dimly, and he pushed up on his elbows, blood running everywhere. His arms shook under his weight.

  Tahēsh was almost on us.

  “Zylas!” I yelled. “You have to protect me! Get up!”

  His head turned in my direction, his teeth bared.

  Ready? I mentally called to him. His eyes burned in answer and red light lit his hands and feet, veining across his limbs.

  Tahēsh’s giant foot crunched on the pavement inches from the drying paint.

  “Luce!” I screamed.

  The two-foot-wide cantrip I’d painted on the ground blazed as bright as the sun. Tahēsh bellowed, recoiling from the blinding radiance.

  Zylas’s arms caught me, crushing me against his chest. Red power flashed and a spell erupted beneath his feet.

  We were blasted into the air. The incandescent cantrip and crumpled dumpster shrank as we rocketed five stories above the earth. At the apex of our ascent, we seemed to float on the icy wind—then we began to fall.

  I clutched Zylas’s neck as we plummeted toward a rooftop. We slammed down, his feet smashing through concrete, legs bending to absorb the impact. A sound rasped from his throat—part agonized groan, part fierce snarl. Crimson power rippled over his lower legs, and he launched forward—unbelievably fast, his movements powered by magic.

  As Tahēsh’s infuriated roar sounded behind us, Zylas leaped again. We soared across a wide road and hit another rooftop. Below were dark streets and brown train tracks. A rattling transit train snaked along the tracks like a silver serpent.

  Zylas dashed across the roof and sprang one more time. We plunged downward as the Skytrain sped beneath us, streaking away. We hit the last car. Zylas slid wildly across the slick metal roof—we pitched off the back—

  Metal screeched and we jarred to a halt. Zylas hung from the back car, his claws embedded in a steel edge, his other arm locked around my waist.

  The train sped along the tracks, carrying us away from the Eastside and the demon king.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  We hung off the back of the train for a few minutes. When a grassy bank replaced the buildings and streets, Zylas swung sideways and let go.

  We dropped off the elevated track and fell fifteen feet. He landed on the grass and crumpled, his arms constricting around me as we rolled down the slope. We came to a halt beside a paved bike path, and the moment we’d stopped moving, he went limp.

  I shoved onto my knees and touched his arm. His skin was cold. “Zylas?”

  Sprawled on his back, he squinted at me. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth and his eyes had gone dark as night. The rest of him was a gory mess that my brain denied was real. A horror movie prop, not a hideously wounded living being.

  “Are you safe here?” he rasped.

  I dragged my horrified stare off him and looked around. Cars zipped along the street at the top of the knoll and distant pedestrians ambled along the wet sidewalks with umbrellas.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  He let out a pained breath. Red light sparked over his limbs—and his arm disappeared from beneath my hand. His body dissolved into crimson radiance that swept into the infernus. Suddenly alone, I crouched beside a patch of dark blood on the grass, my hands hovering over a demon that was no longer there. All my limbs went weak and I slumped forward, trembling violently.

  So stupid. I’d been so stupid.

  I wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn’t stop staring at the blood-drenched grass. Zylas was badly wounded. Fatally wounded, if he’d been human. I wasn’t sure what a demon could survive. He had amazing healing magic … if he could use it. Could he heal himself? Or was it too late? The last time I’d seen his eyes dark like that, he’d been near death.

  Fresh panic swept through me. I sprang to my feet and sprinted up the slope.

  Zylas was dying. He needed help and I was the only one who could keep him alive—if I was fast enough.

  * * *

  I bounced impatiently on the balls of my feet as the cab driver held out my credit card and receipt. I snatched them from his hand and ran into the motel parking lot, not caring what he thought. With dirt and splattered stains—Zylas’s dark blood—all over me, I already looked like a freak.

  It had taken me fifteen minutes to hail a cab, get a ride back to the motel, and pay. Had too much time passed? Was it already too late? I hadn’t seen any other options.

  I fumbled in my coat pocket for the key card to my and Amalia’s room, jammed it through the lock, and shoved the door open. The drab room was dark and empty, the two beds unmade, our bags open against the wall, and the TV Zylas had dismantled shoved in a corner.

  Kicking the door shut behind me, I ran into the bathroom and turned the shower on full blast. Icy water sprayed into the tub. The infernus chain tangled under my jacket when I tried to pull it out, so I unzipped my coat and threw it aside. Clutching the metal disc, I stuck my arm under the water. Warm. Getting hotter.

  “Zylas.” I spoke and thought the words as intensely as possible. “Come out. I have something to help you.”

  Nothing happened. No. I couldn’t be too late.

  I kicked my shoes off, set my phone on the counter, and stepped into the tub. Scalding water soaked my socks. Flinching, I held the infernus under the spray. “Zylas, come out, please!”

  Hot water flowed across the metal—and a red glow suffused it. Instead of leaping energetically toward the floor, the magic spilled straight down. Zylas took form almost on my toes, his back to me as he faced the showerhead. The water ran red with blood.

  His legs buckled.

  I grabbed his shoulders but his weight dragged me down too. I thumped onto my butt, the demon half in my lap, his head against my shoulder and his back between my legs. Water cascaded over his torso, blood running everywhere. Steam rose from the spray and wherever the blood-stained liquid touched me, it burned.

  With effort, I propped him up to get his face out of the water. “Zylas?”

  A muscle in his cheek twitched but he didn’t open his eyes. “It is hot.”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  He lay limply as the water washed over him. My gaze darted across his torso, trying to assess the severity of his injuries, but I couldn’t begin to guess. Five punctures straight through his abdomen, four deep tears in his upper arm, and shallow slices across his chest, nearly cutting through the leather straps of his armor. And who knew how much internal damage from impacts? A terrifying amount of blood was swirling down the drain.

  “Zylas …” I swallowed against the catch in my throat. “Will you survive?”

  “You will not be rid of me this easily,” he growled.

  “I’m not trying to get rid of you.” A sob built in my chest, fueled by guilt and furious regret. “I’m so sorry.”

  He watched me through half-lidded eyes the color of cooling coals. “Sorry?”

  “I thought you could beat him. I thought it would be easy for you. If I’d realized … I never would’ve tried to get you to fight him.”

  “Easy?” His mouth contorted with disgust. “You are zh’ūltis. Can you not see?”

  “See what?”

  He twitched his hand to indicate his body. “Why would you think I am stronger?”

  “But … but you said …”

  He pulled himself upright and leaned against the shower wall, one leg hooked over the tub’s edge. Resting his head against the tiles, he fixed a cold, indeciphe
rable stare on me. “Tahēsh is Dīnen of the First House. I am Dīnen of the Twelfth House. I am the weakest of them all.”

  My throat closed. “I’m sorry. I should’ve realized you had no chance against Tahēsh.”

  “No chance? Insulting me more, payilas.” A hint of crimson glowed in his dark eyes. “I can kill anything. Any of them. I did not become Dīnen by losing. I survive because I never lose.”

  “But you just lost really badly.”

  “Kanish!” His hand snapped out and he sank his fingers into my hair. Teeth bared, he yanked my face toward his. “You are the reason I lost! You forced me to fight him when I could not win!”

  I trembled, afraid to blink. He wasn’t hurting me—but he wanted to. I could see it in his face, in the twist of his lips, in the curved canines that could rip through my soft skin with ease. Terror gripped my body like icy talons.

  He released me and slumped backward. Tilting his face into the water, he closed his eyes.

  I sucked in air to calm my palpitating heart and mumbled, “I don’t understand.”

  He shifted more under the hot spray. The water wasn’t running as red now.

  I tried again. “You said you never lose, but you also said you couldn’t win against Tahēsh.”

  “Winning,” he growled softly, “and not losing are different things. If you lose, you die.”

  I exhaled slowly. “So you never lose? How?”

  “If I am not certain I can win, I do not fight—and I wait. That is how I have survived the other Dīnen.”

  “What do you wait for?”

  “Dh’ērrenith. It means … assured victory.” His eyes opened, luminous scarlet. “I wait until they are weak, distracted, injured, alone. I wait until they have forgotten to watch for me. I wait until I can strike from behind, from above, from wherever they do not see me. And I kill them. I never lose.”

  I stared at him, chilled despite the hot water.

  “Until you,” he added with a sneer. “Now I have lost.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I made a mistake.”

  He ignored me.

  Swallowing, I climbed out of the tub, water dripping from my drenched clothes. I pulled a towel off the rack, grabbed my phone, and left Zylas to soak up the shower’s heat.

  Shivering in the cool air outside the bathroom, I sent a quick text to Amalia, telling her I was back at the motel and wouldn’t be returning to help with the demon hunt. Then, casting wary looks toward the bathroom, I hastily shed my wet clothes, dried off, and pulled on yoga pants and a sweater.

  I was just putting on a pair of socks when Zylas walked out of the bathroom. Droplets glistened over his skin and his hair was plastered to his head, his small horns more prominent than usual. He was tugging on the buckle of the strap that ran over his right shoulder. The leather gave way and he pulled off the armor plate that protected his heart, as well as the fabric piece under it, and dropped both on the floor.

  Nervously, I watched him unbuckle the bracer on his left arm and peel off his fabric sleeves. They joined the pile on the floor.

  Naked from the waist up, he sat cross-legged in the middle of the carpet. Slashes and punctures scored his torso in dark lines. Unbelievably, the bleeding had stopped. Eyes half closed, he seemed lost in thought. Then he pressed a hand to the floor.

  Crimson veins snaked up his arm. Magic ignited beneath his palm and spiraled out into a rune-filled circle, and the air went cold. The faint light leaking through the windows dimmed until all I could see was the glowing spell. He studied it as though checking its accuracy, then laid back.

  His lips moved in a soft rumble—an incantation in his mother tongue. Power rose from the markings in a red haze, coiled over him, and gathered in his wounds. With a final whispered word, the spell flared. The magic sucked into his body and he arched off the floor, jaw clenched and muscles straining. When all the power had sunk inside him and the spell had faded, he slumped, panting.

  Staring unabashedly, I crept toward him. His wounds were gone like he’d never been injured. Not even a scar remained. Breathing hoarsely, he sat up and kneaded his right bicep where it’d been sliced open just moments before.

  I minced closer. “Does it still hurt?”

  He ignored me. Climbing to his feet, he rolled his shoulders, then leaned down and pressed his palms to the floor. My eyebrows rose at his flexibility. He held the stretch for a moment before straightening—then he leaned over backward. My eyebrows climbed even higher, and when he pressed his hands to the floor again, body folded in a tight backward arch, I swallowed hard.

  He pushed off the floor and casually resumed a standing position, as though bending his spine in half were completely normal. Frowning, he rolled his right shoulder again, water dripping off his skin.

  I skirted around him and into the bathroom, shut off the shower, then gathered a pair of towels. Back in the main room, I shook one out and draped it over his shoulders.

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “You should dry off,” I mumbled. “So you don’t get cold.”

  Shoving the towel off, Zylas stepped away as though my nearness offended him. My shoulders sagged. Clearly, I was not yet forgiven for almost getting him killed. Not that I deserved forgiveness that easily.

  “You can lie down if you want.” I waved at the bed. “If … if that would be more comfortable than the infernus?”

  Leaning down, he unbuckled the greaves that protected his shins. He pulled one off and examined the damage from scraping across asphalt.

  I mopped up the carpet as best I could, then carried the damp towels back into the bathroom. When I came out, Zylas was reclined on my bed. His toffee-toned skin contrasted boldly with the pale blue duvet, the lines of his upper body unbroken by clothing or armor.

  In all objectivity, I had to admit his body was … beautiful. The difference in his skin’s tone and texture was subtle, but it gave him an airbrushed look. Combined with his sculpted muscles, he was as perfect as a magazine photo—except for his dimly glowing eyes, small horns, and tail hanging off the mattress’s edge, its barbed end twitching like a cat’s.

  He made an angry sound, startling me out of my slack-jawed reverie, and rolled onto his stomach. Head turned sideways, he glared at me with one eye.

  Face heating, I hastily busied myself by tidying up. I hung my wet clothes in the bathroom, straightened up my suitcase, and collected Zylas’s discarded gear, stacking it in the bathtub to dry. Lying on his stomach, he watched my every move, radiating hostility.

  I picked up his armguard. A round, spiky sigil was engraved on it, and recognition sparked through me. I lifted my infernus to peer at the symbol in its center. They were identical.

  “What’s this?” I asked, pointing at the sigil on his armguard.

  “The emblem of my House.”

  His House. The sigil must have appeared on the infernus after we’d formed our contract. I gazed down at him, his arms folded and cheek resting on them. Fighting the urge to creep away and hide in a corner, I set his armguard on the bedside table and sat beside him.

  “Zylas …” I took a deep breath. “Once Tahēsh has been stopped—by other mythics—I’ll start researching a way to get you home.”

  “Why not now?”

  “It’s part of blending in. All the guilds are hunting Tahēsh. Until he’s stopped, anything I do will draw too much attention to us.”

  He assessed me coldly, then turned his head the other way. I wilted. Zylas had probably hated me all along, so I didn’t know why his resentment bothered me so much.

  Pointedly ignoring me, he kneaded his right shoulder to work out the stiffness. Without thinking, I pressed my thumb into the muscle that ran alongside his shoulder blade.

  He shot up onto his hands and knees, teeth bared. “What are you doing?”

  “Sorry!” I yelped, flinching backward. “I—I was trying to help …”

  He glowered at me, then sank back down onto his stomach. His tail snapped sid
eways, betraying his agitation. “Go away.”

  I started to get up—then hesitated. He might have healed his injuries, but he was stiff and probably sore. Drawing in a steadying breath, I put a knee on the bed, then pressed both hands to his back and ran my thumbs over his shoulders with firm pressure.

  He hissed like an angry snake. “Go away.”

  “My mom would spend hours hunched over faded grimoires,” I said determinedly. “I used to give her a massage a few times a week. I’m pretty good at it.”

  He snarled and started to rise, but I found the muscle that was bothering him—a tight band that ran from his neck to his shoulder blade—and dug both thumbs into the knot. He tensed in place. As I pushed into the muscle, he sank down under the pressure until he was lying flat again.

  Angling his head, he watched me work on the taut muscle group. His muscles were so toned it was easy to trace their lines and follow the tension. I kneaded his stiff shoulder, then worked down his back. He didn’t move, warily observing as though I might pull a knife and jam it through his ribs. Maybe, in his mind, that wasn’t a far-fetched possibility—nothing in our contract prevented me from hurting him.

  Shifting onto the bed, I started on his left shoulder. As I searched out the tightest muscles, my mind skittered wildly over this bizarre situation. Massaging a demon was quite possibly even stranger than feeding a demon homemade cookies … especially since his back was all stunningly defined muscle and smooth, unblemished skin. Unease trickled through me and I peeked at his face.

  He was no longer watching me. Instead, he gazed vaguely at the wall, eyes half-lidded, jaw relaxed, breathing slow.

  Pleasantly surprised, I hid my smile and kept going. My hands were getting tired, but the ache in my fingers was nothing compared to the pain he’d suffered because of me. Resolutely, I massaged his left shoulder then shifted down that side of his torso. When I couldn’t find any knots, I lightly traced his muscles, searching for tension.

  His shoulders lifted and fell in a deep breath. I glanced up. His eyes were closed. My hands stilled, but he didn’t move.