Demon Chained (Shadowfae Chronicles) (4 page)

I don't wait for his expression. I'm not interested in guilt tonight. I jam the pistol barrel down my jeans and walk out.

Outside, music drenches my ears like acid, and I drag it in, letting it fill me, vibrate me, scour away the shock. My knee pops out as I descend the stairs, but I'm used to that and I kick it back in without breaking stride. I forge into the undulating crowd. People move away from me as I push past, but I'm used to that too.

Around me the usual late night shit is going down—at Unseelie Court, that means fucking, mostly, if you're not still dancing or snorting vampire blood or wheedling a hit of fuck-me-over from some greedy fairy—and it isn't helping my mood. The sting of Gavain's claw marks already fades, the immediacy lost, but my cock still twitches, impatient. Feeling neglected? No sympathy.

I crunch my elbows onto the glass bar, leaving a satisfying smear. I ask for a triple bourbon straight up, and drop it in a single fat swallow. Slow fire spreads in my gut, the aftertaste barely making a dent.

Getting drunk is dangerous when you're dead, and I tell myself I want only one. Any more than that and I'll be drunk for a week while it works out of my blood. My metabolism isn't exactly on top of things these days. I really want a cigarette, too, something black and strong, just to feel rough smoke sear my lungs, but nicotine just makes me glassy and paranoid like bad meth.

Can't drink, can't smoke, can't take a pill. Being dead sucks.

I slide the glass back onto the bar and turn away. Home. Shower. And as far as jerking off goes, hell, I've got all night.

"She is made of smoke, you know."

I halt, and close my gritty eyes. Knew I shouldn't have said 'hell'. But demonic compulsion hacks like dull razors in my veins, and I have to turn or I'll cramp. "What the fuck do you want?"

Kane sips his vodka cruiser, lime green liquid slipping into his mouth through a straw. He leans his elbow on the bar, casual, and blue sparks jump from his fluffy golden hair. "Your pretty black-eyed jewel. She turns to smoke. Fascinating."

I know better than to take his bait. "Yeah, well, I'm all fascinated out, mate. Can it wait?" The demon lord of Melbourne and he's wearing a fucking suit, for God's sake, with a shiny purple tie and golden cufflinks, like he works in a bank, or something. And he's drinking alcopops again. He has a thing about green drinks, the more sickly-sweet the better.

But he doesn't fool me with his naïve metrosexual act. Fact is, he doesn't need to wear leather and bike chains or drink double scotch neat to make his point. The Kane I know has flaming blue hair to his waist, skin like burnt toast and long pincushion teeth, and believe me when I tell you he has all the vile horrors of hell at his fingertips.

Wake-up call to self: the teeth should have been a giveaway. Next time, don't promise your soul to a guy with teeth like a blackwater eel.

He lifts a soft blond eyebrow at my attitude, and humidity shimmers with his mood, dampening my skin. Condensation beads on the glass bar, and he shifts his elbow in distaste. "I've a job for you, Tam. Are you busy?"

A fist of dismay squeezes my lethargic heart into spasm. I don't know for sure how long this crumbling body of mine will last. Whippy Turd still isn't dead, and you don't just walk up and whack a weird-ass crime boss like Joey DiLuca. It takes planning, deviant thinking, weeks of wicked sly fuckery. I don't have time for Kane's shit.

Besides, I've got my night all planned out. Whatever Kane wants, I'm not in the mood.

But he fixes me in that mild black stare, and I should just walk away, but somehow I can't, and my limbs judder with dread. I sigh, my mouth sticky with salt. "What? Just say it, okay?"

Kane smiles, revealing perfect white human teeth. Liar. "In the smoke girl's bag, there's a lamp. A brass one. With a lid."

I knew it'd be something petty and humiliating. He's playing with me, like he has all along. I think it amuses him to watch me rot. "You're shitting me. Lamp? As in, Aladdin-and-his-magic? Come off it, Kane, you can do better than that."

His fingernails gouge the label on his bottle, sharpening into mottled claws. "She has a lamp. I want it. Don't ask questions."

Like
why don't you get it yourself, you smug asshole?

I follow his gaze into the dim crowd, and there she is. Slender neck, tight limbs, a cute pointy chin, locking those sexy blue lips with some hot blond kid. He's got a great ass, legs long and lean in torn jeans, but it's she who seduces my eye. She shimmies her lithe body like a black-sheathed serpent. Now I'm staring, and not just at her legs. There's perfect abandon in the way she tosses her inky hair, stretches those supple white arms and moves her body to feel his skin on hers. Even her breathing is deliberate, like she's feeling every muscle fiber separately. She smiles into their kiss, enjoying every second of it, and warmth ripples under my skin, slow but definite. Something pricks at my stomach, too, soft little claws of discomfort.

Just a sec . . . yep. That's envy, all right. When I was alive, I could have had a woman like that. Maybe. If I got really lucky.

I search for this bag Kane's on about, and there it is, black and square behind her hip, the thick strap slung over the opposite shoulder.

I used to be a thief, among other things, before I died and got clumsy. B & E was more my style, but in this crowd I can snatch her no problem. Could be a lamp in there, I suppose, the bag looks big enough.

Whatever. Screw it. I'll do it right now, and then maybe Kane will leave me alone for a few days and I can get back to Whippy Turd and his kidnap-happy mates. Besides, look where that bag is. Maybe I can cop a feel.

Did I really just think that? You're a fucking class act, Tam. "Okay. When ya want it?"

Kane slurps his drink, deliberate. "Tomorrow will do."

Heh. Fooled ya. "It's after midnight already. Gives me an extra day."

But she's already leaving, shoving people aside and practically dragging the new love of her life towards the exit. I stumble a few steps, that bourbon already blurring my vision, but it's too late. She's gone.

Shit.

Kane smiles faintly, ash drifting from his hair. "You'll need it. Dawn tomorrow, Tam."

As always, sick terror scrapes my nerves. Blunt but effective. He doesn't need to add
or else,
or anything crude like that. I already know what'll happen if I don't jump to his whims, and anyone who says they're not afraid of hell hasn't been there.

I swallow salty phlegm, and follow her.

***

Chapter Four

Upstairs, Gavain clutches the metal rail, transfixed, watching Tam at the bar. Hunger hollows his guts, cold and desperate like stormwater, but the emptiness is nothing compared to the wintry chasm in his heart.

Absently he scratches at his forearms, where long-legged yellow bugs no one else can see suck his half-fairy blood, their tiny fangs stinging. He's been to see people about the bugs. Charlatans, vampire shamans, a Chinese herbalist who dripped lavender water in his eyes and forced needles between his fairy-sharp teeth. There are no bugs, Gavain. Forget them. They're all in your mind.

He drags bloody brown hair from his face, electric noise from the overdriven sound system slashing inside his ears. Kicks the railing, hard, the dull ache ringing in his shin like a painful memory. Should've said something, Christ, he's hit on enough guys to know what to do. Would've, only the pearly-girl turned to smoke, and the fae senses that plague him fever-mad scintillated, so bright it hurt his eyes and he couldn't concentrate on anything else. Could've, if he wasn't so shit scared that his thighs quivered.

Truth: Tam's a dark god of angry perfection, beautiful, tortured, so excruciatingly human. Gavain's a confused little half-fae whore. This equation does not reduce to zero. Error. Page not found.

Useless even to dream.

He stretches his shoulders, where the misshapen bones rub together. It hurts, where his wings should be, a deep ache in both his bones and his heart that nothing ever eases . . . well, almost nothing. Need seizes him, a dark and razor-taloned addiction. He fumbles in his back pocket and there it is, a dirty glass vial with brown grit crusted around the cork. The hellsauce roils inside, warm brown sludge like runny shit, laced with grimy froth.

Helltrip. His newest and most dangerous craving. A chug and a curse and he'll be there, sliding down and down into darkness and filth and mayhem. Helltripping is still new, just a rumor for most. It's hard to come by, but cheap. Because it isn't really your money the demons want, of course. Just your promise, your obsession, eventually your soul.

Hell stinks of ash and vomit, the sky bleeding scarlet over the black city like some apocalyptic sunset, and if you can last the night, you can do whatever you want there. Last time, Gavain woke up in a gutter in St Kilda, aching with cramp, covered in come and blood that wasn't his own. He remembers jagged slashing blades, screams, the creamy stink of slaughter, something hot and huge and crumbling fucking him, deep and dry so it hurt.

Some people are scared shitless of hell. Gavain just knows he belongs there.

As he slinks down the metal stairs, he fishes out a crumpled orange bill, his last twenty. Excellent-o. A jug of that golden fairy wine first, then, that burns his blood with bittersweet joy. Get drunk, careless, crazy, beaten up, screwed. The usual. There's a twist of shiny foil in his pocket, too, a line or two of crystalblue fairy lust. Sweet. If you're gonna get raped, might as well get so wasted you might enjoy it.

The bar is crowded, but Tam's already gone. Gavain squeezes in between a muscular green troll in leather and a drunken banshee who eyes him off around a sleek sway of magenta hair, her sweet violet lips whispering a song. He can smell her thoughts, lemon-fresh and curious, same as all the rest. Her name tastes like rose, holly, ruby, something red, and he checks a sigh. He doesn't care, doesn't want to know. "Bugger off, scarlet. I'm not interested."

She blinks at him. Her skimpy golden dress sparkles. "What?"

"I said, I don't do torture parties, little girl. Not for you and your sick frat-girl friends. Not for anyone. So get that damn songspell off me before I crack your face apart."

The music dies in her throat. Pink discomfort floods her cheeks, and she whirls away, her angry hum buzzing.

Truth: people don't like it when Gavain does that. They don't like their thoughts laid bare.

Well, Gavain's creeping fae-mad insight can crawl back under whichever fucking rock it came from, for all he cares. They all think the same thing, and it's never flattering:
Pretty child. Plaything. Crazy fairy whore.

He leans sharp elbows on the glass, inhaling the soothing smells of alcohol and ice and the doe-eyed bar slut's hair product. The music changes, darker, sweeter, pouring like scented water. The notes tickle his skin, summer raindrops. He flicks a scuttling bug from his cash and hands it over. The bar slut pours pale fae wine. Sparkling golden froth climbs in the carafe, fairy mischief dancing in bright bubbles.

His mouth waters, sorrow sweetening his spit. He doesn't bother to decant. The glass carafe clinks on his teeth as he swallows. The wine stings his throat, warm fingers of delight creeping into his blood.

"I hope that's not the last of your cash, sweetie."

Gavain swallows one more time, and lowers the still half-full carafe just enough to lick his lips clean. It's Delilah, Kane's demon rival, lithe and beautiful, her eyes fresh-cut green. The one who sold Gavain the helltrip for fifteen bucks and an unclean promise. Delilah, low-caste demon upstart, new in town. Already she and Kane are snarling at each other like warring cats over territory, souls, the best way to torture their minions, whatever it is that immortal demon aristocrats argue about.

Thick merlot hair curls to her shoulders. Her long dark limbs are graceful like a swan's neck and dusted with freckles. Sparks arc through the copper mesh that sheathes her body over black lace. Around her throat, a necklace woven of blue lightning crackles, and wisps of steam hiss upwards.

Gavain wrinkles his nose at the stink of hellfire. He plonks the carafe down, golden charm swilling. Already, mad fae esprit cavorts in petal-strewn circles in his head. His limbs twitch with the need to leap, twist, fly. "Leave me alone, Delilah. I've already got all the helljuice I need."

Delilah pouts her plump brown lips. "I've something you want more."

"Doubt that very much." He chugs another mouthful of fae wine, spilling golden froth over his chin. There's nothing he wants more than a few hours of blessed bloody peace in hell. Not unless it's Tam, and there's no point even going there.

Delilah watches him, smoke curling from her nostrils. "You're a shitty liar, fairy. See if you can go five minutes without thinking of him. Tam, isn't it, the slanty-eyed one with the cute muscles and the pulse deficiency?"

Fury savages Gavain's fragile nerves like a hungry rat. He grabs a handful of her hair and drags her face to within an inch. A growl boils up in his throat. "Fuck. Off. Don't you dirty his name in your mouth."

Her hot ashen breath stings his lips as she smiles. "Imagine it, Gavain. You know you do. Imagine what he'd be like. I can give you that."