Demon Chained (Shadowfae Chronicles) (7 page)

Pain will do the trick, but let's face it, pain is pretty fucking unpleasant. Trouble is, when you're dead, picking up isn't quite the same game it used to be. I might look okay from a distance, but up close, they all prefer themselves a guy who isn't bleeding and losing bone fragments. Shallow, but true.

Oh, I'm sorry, am I grossing you out? Just telling it the way it is, folks. Welcome to my world.

Idly, I picture her as I walk, the smoke girl, not that secret image I still have of her naked and wet—that one's for later—but as I first saw her, jagged black hair flying, eyes wide and beautiful, those sweet blue lips shaping open in surprise. As I walk I turn my new bag over in my hands, trying to feel the slide of satin, maybe absorb a wisp of her somehow, seeing as I'll never touch her again. I press the bag to my nose and inhale. I can't smell it, but I pretend that I can, all spice and smoke and woman. I close my eyes, the better to imagine her.

And that's when some prick rams his knee into my groin.

Bile explodes into my throat, there's a swift lava burst in my balls. Dry heave, acid searing my tongue, my stomach a knot of distantly screaming nerves. My eyes burn and flood, and I stagger on watery legs.

The next blow smashes into the base of my spine, and flesh splits with a sick crunch. I crumple, my knee joint squelching awry again. The agony's a slow burn, but I can feel it all right, and fury washes my blood with ice water. I twist, the pain a sweet wake-up to my nerves, and through a wet reddish haze I glimpse the smug blond smirk of Whippy Turd DiLuca before someone else punches me in the face.

It throws me backwards, and I skitter on my hands like a broken crab, my skull rattling. Warm sour blood gushes over my lip and into my mouth. I fumble blindly for my pistol, but someone wrenches it away, cracking my knuckles back like rotten sticks.

Son of a bitch brought a friend. Fair enough. I would've, in his place. Where the fuck's my bag? It's gone, fallen, lost.

Shit.

They're doing a nice job of kicking the crap out of me, and healing is not my strong point. Still, these assholes can't kill me, not again. At least, I hope they can't.

But Kane can. If I don't bring him that lamp.

"Hold the fucker still." Whippy yanks back the slide on a big fuck-off .45, snapping a round into the chamber.

His big-ass troll sidekick drags me to my knees and twists my arms behind my back, his thick scaly fingers sponging into my forearms. There's the bag on the ground, half-open, brass glinting inside. I jam my heel into the troll's fat ankle and lunge for the bag—now my nerves are awake, I've got a few of my old moves back—but Whippy stomps on my hand, mashing stinging grit into my palm and knocking the bag aside.

The lamp tumbles out, and the lid clinks off, rolling onto the wet concrete.

The troll snarls, spit spraying, and wrenches me to my knees, yanking my head back with a fistful of my hair. It hurts, glorious. Not too hard, fucknuts, you'll rip it out and I won't be so goddamn pretty anymore.

"Can't kill you, can I?" Whippy jams the barrel into my cheekbone and grins, broken orthodontics shining. "Doesn't mean I can't pretend. Swallow this, you crazy fuck."

I grit my teeth. Great. Another hole in my head. I'll never get laid again. "Your mother, asshole."

His smile widens, and the shot cracks like thunder.

Only it isn't my head that jerks like a puppet's and splatters brains out the back. It's his.

***

A hollow whisper echoed in my head, calling my name.

I jerked upright in bed like I'd been stung. Luke's coarse blond hair tumbled over my thighs. "What was that?"

"What was what?" Luke wriggled up to suck me again, teasing my hard knot of nerves with those supple lips.

Mmm. He's really quite good at this . . . but I was sure I heard something.

Someone messing with my lamp, that's what. Lid coming off, nasty meddling fingers creeping inside. Could have sworn.

I twisted my feet in the sheets, trying to listen, but concentrating with Luke licking between my legs wasn't easy. He pushed my thighs further apart and slid his tongue inside me, that little knob of metal rubbing in a very sweet spot.

Gentle pleasure swelled, and a groan welled up in my chest. It couldn't be. Door locked, cupboard closed, lamp safe and hidden. Must be imagining things. "I . . . I thought I heard something."

"TV, maybe. You okay?" He ran the tip of his tongue over me, his lips shining wet. He was a sweet kid, really. I like a boy who takes pleasure in his work.

"Uh-huh." I closed my eyes, relaxing a bit as he pleasured me. Next I'd go down on him, taste that musky flavor, feel his hard flesh quiver in my mouth. Mmm. Lamp safe. Has to be. Don't worry.

His warm fingers slicked over my entrance, dipping inside. Sweet Jesus. I sure as hell wasn't imagining that. He moved back up to suck me again, searching with his fingertip for that special place, and worlds of sensation ripened all over my body, staggering. "Oh, fuck." I gripped his hair to pull him closer and fell back on the bed, lost.

***

Chapter Seven

Gavain flits closer on ultralight feet, leveling my pistol at the troll. His ruby eyes flush with rage, but his aim's dead steady. "Hands off. Now."

Cautious relief warms my skin, and my pulse flutters, stirring thick blood. My hero. This is a side of Gavain I've never seen. He's strong, confident, aware. He almost looks like he gives a shit. Who knew? This time, I can't pretend I'm not pleased to see him.

I've got leverage, with one foot braced beneath me, and I try to twist free, but the troll's too big. He just growls and squeezes a massive hand around my throat, reminding me what a nice convenient thing breathing is.

Gavain hops nearer, silent and delicate. God, he can move like a butterfly when he needs to. Hypnotic, the way he glides, light like a fairy but sleek and dangerous too, the muscles in his slender limbs tense. It's a damn shame he never grew wings.

The troll grumbles, his chest rumbling against my back.

"Keep it shut, idiot, you're giving me ideas. D'ya think this thirty-eight would even put a dent in your bonehead skull?" Gavain's jagged teeth shine, his berry lips curling back into a crooked snarl. "Maybe not. But can this snarky faeborn freak leap over there and chew your throat out before you crush this guy's larynx to muck?" He throws the weapon away and crouches, thighs quivering and claws bared, ready to spring. "Bet your scaly green ass I can. Wanna try?"

Bonehead growls for a moment, his rough nails cutting soft dents in my throat, and then he shoves me into the gutter and barrels off into the night, his fat feet splashing.

I scrape my face off the asphalt and wobble to my feet, my muscles jerky and unreliable. Bile still stings in my mouth, and I lean my hands on my knees and cough it up. It scorches my throat, and pale lumps gleam like little oysters in the stain. Nice.

I ease my back straighter. Vertebrae crunch under my palm, and my fingers squelch into ripped flesh along my ribs where the prick kicked me. The pain arced a bit of life along my nerves, but it wasn't enough to reverse the decay, and that warning smell hits my nose, sweet but bordering on sickly.

Gavain scampers over on all fours, dark hair falling in his narrow face. His bare arms shine with sanguine sweat, and in the streetlight he glows like a fiery angel. He crouches before me, peering beneath the knotted mess of my hair, and sniffs, checking me out. "Christ, Tam. You look like shit."

"Should've thought of that before you saved my ass." Hell, it's the best I can do in the circumstances. I've never been a damsel in distress before, and Gavain's not a guy you associate with fuck-it-all courage like that. That he should dredge it up from nowhere for me is even more of a shock. I always thought he was shallow as piss on concrete.

Part of me wants to smack his pretty head and ask him what the hell he thinks he's doing. I mean, teasing Whippy's prick at Unseelie Court so I can creep up on him is one thing. Shooting the bastard in the head for me is quite another. But asking Gavain for reasons is useless. Half the time, I don't think he understands himself.

His berry eyes glint up at me, guileless. There's a slant to them, like mine, just an exotic little tilt up at the corners that makes him look wild, those dark reddish lashes improbably long and fine. Looking at them makes me want to swallow, though there's nothing in my mouth but slime.

He chews softly on his bottom lip. "You okay?"

"Yeah." I don't want to look at him anymore, and I turn away, stumbling.

There's Whippy, limp on the concrete in a bloody puddle, his blond locks streaked with lumpy red flesh. Told him that bullet had his name on it. See you in hell, shitball. For a moment, it itches like a mosquito bite on my ass that he's dead and I didn't do it. But better this, than stealing oxygen that should have been my Katie's. Fuck him.

I fumble my phone from the concrete beside him. A few scratches, but unbroken. Gavain sniffs on the ground like a dog following scent, and plucks up a tarnished shell casing. Sweet. One less piece of evidence. My blood's everywhere, but I can't do anything about that now.

I crawl over to my lamp and scrabble it up, my knuckles crackling like rotting bamboo. Water beads on its shiny brass surface, and I try wiping it off but only leave a greasy smear. Scoop up the lid, plop it back into place, stuff the whole thing back into the wet bag . . . whoa.

My vision clouds over, pale like dry ice, and I see the smoke girl, staring at me, black eyes wide, hair wild in a dark halo. She whispers, urgent like a threat or a warning, but I can't hear her.

Whatever. Piss off, lady. If you weren't so damn sexy, I wouldn't be in this mess. I blink a few times, and the weird picture fades. Maybe my brain's finally rotting away. Lobotomy, corpse-style. Great.

I clamber to my feet on wobbling ankles. As my head reaches vertical, a wet bubble pops inside my ear, and a wave of dizziness dumps me like a rip over a sandbar.

I reel, warm fluid spilling down the side of my face. Fuck. I reach up to wipe it off, but my arm won't respond, and I'm stuck with shaking my head like a wet dog trying to clean myself up. My jawbone pops loose, and I bite it back into place with a sick crunch. Jesus.

Gavain's retrieved my pistol, and he grabs my arm to stop me from falling, his delicate fae fingers firm. "Dead flowers, Tam. Don't snap them. Let me take you home."

I'm temporarily half-deaf in one ear now, and his voice sounds muffled like it's covered in wet dirt. I try to shrug, but it doesn't work properly and I overbalance again. He catches me, his thin arm around my waist this time. He's strong, for such a wiry little shit.

I cough, wet and flavorsome, his body sliding against mine as my lungs jerk. "I'll be fine, mate. Don't sweat it."

Yeah, right. I'm cool. Nothing to see here.

"Hot shower, right? Tingle, sting, shiver, whatever. Make you better." Gavain props me up against his hip. He's taller than I am, and my head bumps his dusky shoulder. My sense of smell sparks distantly, blood and molten iron. He drags hair from my face, arranging it over my shoulder so I can see, and now his brilliant red gaze slides away, shy. "Let me, Tam. Help, I mean."

With the alternative involving stumbling into a gutter somewhere and leaking all over the road, I can only give in.

He slips his arm around me and tucks his hand under my armpit, and I half-stumble with him along the puddle-strewn footpath to the main street. He feels good against me, just the distant play of his muscles beneath his damp shirt, his hard arm hugging my back, the way his hair tumbles into my face and he keeps tugging it away. He's slender, hot, alive, that dark metal scent inviting. I want to taste him, bury my face in the curve of his neck, run my tongue over his throat and swallow.

Way too long since you got laid, Tam. Keep it real.

On the tram, I sit on the cold plastic bench and grip the upright steel bar for support. The white fluoros flicker too bright, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Sight's the one sense that never deserts me. I don't know why it works like that, and right now I'd trade blindness for this sick dizzy shit. I want to throw up, my stomach no doubt eating away at itself and giving me a good kick in the lower intestines every so often just for fun. My muscles squelch when I move, and my skin's breaking up where the bruises are and a mess of fevered sweat everywhere else.

Stimulation is what stops the rot. I need to wake up these damn nerves, spark them into life again before I melt away. Gavain's shower is sounding pretty damn good.

"What the hell's wrong with him?"

I rip my sticky lids apart. Pretty girl, red lipstick shining, a thick blond ponytail over her shoulder, staring at me like I'm dripping on the seat. Which I am.

Gavain grins, toothy and insane. He's only part fae, so his glamour can be erratic, and sometimes it wears a bit thin. She's seeing some weird hybrid, the real thing leaking through his handsome human guise like a stain. "He's a reanimated corpse. I dug him out of a landfill just now and stuck his dick in a power socket. Got a problem with that?"