Demon Marked (2 page)

“What about the police?”

“They haven't done anything illegal.” She shrugged and started up the machine, holding it closed as hot water blasted the glasses. It wasn't staying shut on its own anymore, the dishwasher just one of the things that was falling apart around the pub since her brother's “disappearance” five months before.

Since her brother's
death
. But most people didn't know Stephen Quinn was dead. No one but Emma, Sam, Jace, and a handful of Italian mobsters—Jace's family—knew the truth, and they meant to keep it that way. The last thing Emma needed was police sniffing around, wondering why the former owner of the Demon's Breath was still missing in action.

“They're just drinking,” she said.

“So far. But who knows what they'll do after they've had a few.” Ginger slammed back the whiskey shot and took a deep breath. “Why couldn't they come in when Jace was here?”

“Don't worry. We'll be fine.” Emma watched Ginger pour herself another shot without saying a word.

According to rules, Ginger wasn't supposed to be drinking while she was bartending, but Emma wasn't going to tell. Hell,
she
wasn't supposed to be drinking, either. She was still a year away from the legal drinking age of twenty-one, but no one questioned her right to imbibe.

Emma didn't look underage. Despite her shoulder-length blond bob and soft brown eyes, she looked hard, edgy, and far older than her years. Sam said it was because she was too skinny for a woman who was five-eight. Emma knew it was because she was too messed up for a girl who was still a teenager.

But then, when you spent the first couple of years of your life in a hospital after nearly being
killed
by your own parents, you sort of got a head start on the messed-up thing. Emma, Sam, and Stephen had all been scarred by what their parents had done when they were kids—using them as human sacrifices for their cult's aura-demon summoning ritual—but Emma wondered whether she wasn't the most twisted of the three.

The aura demons—invisible demons most people believed were an urban legend—had been banished from the earth last March, but their mark on the Quinn family remained. Sam, though legally blind, had prophetic dreams, as well as moments when her eyes changed colors and she was literally able to
see
men and women who were on the verge of major psychic shifts in their lives. It was creepy to watch Sam's brown eyes turn blue, but nothing compared to Emma's own demon mark.

Sam's mark hadn't mutated something at the very heart of her. It didn't drive her to steal in the name of survival. It didn't make her feel aged and rotten on the inside—a wine gone bad that no one would ever want to drink.

“I'm going to have another shot. You want one?” Ginger asked.

Emma's stomach cramped. No, a shot wasn't a good idea. It was time for her to get something real to eat, something more than beer and stale pretzels. “No, I'm good. But you go ahead.” She couldn't care less if Ginger was trashed on the job.

In fact, it worked in her favor if her roommate and coworker was too smashed to pay much attention to Emma as she prepped for closing at three thirty. It would make it easier for Emma to sneak away and find something to sustain her. Or maybe she wouldn't have to go out to find food. ... Maybe she had something suitable right in the bar.

Emma's eyes drifted back to the Death Ministry thugs. There were five of them, each one scarier than the last. Still, they were paying customers, customers who looked like they were running low on tequila.

“Check on the frat boys again, will you? I think they need another pitcher,” Emma said, waiting until Ginger turned away before grabbing a bottle of Jose Cuervo and slipping out from behind the bar.

She let a little wiggle creep into her walk as she crossed to the darkened corner. Her low-heeled biker boots thumped on the bare floorboards, catching the rhythm of whatever angsty, techno-pop tune the frat boys had selected from the jukebox. She'd never been dancing at a club, but she imagined this was the kind of crap they played at the places where young men and women went to grind against complete strangers for a few hours every Friday and Saturday night.

It was painful listening, and for the hundredth time Emma was glad she had no urge to grind against another person ... at least not in a public place, and not for the reasons the average twenty-year-old girl would press her body up against someone else's in the dark.

“Looked like you guys were running low.” Emma plunked the fresh tequila bottle in the middle of the Death Ministry table.

A shiver raced along her skin as five pairs of flat, cruel eyes tracked up her body—taking in her tight black jeans and black tank top on the way up to her face—but it wasn't fear that made the blond hairs on her arms stand on end. It was excitement ... anticipation.... Oh, yeah, these men were bad. Plenty bad for her purposes.

She'd bet one of their lives on it.

“We didn't order another bottle.” The man who spoke had bright blue eyes and seemed a little younger than the rest, but his face was still heavily lined with kill scars.

He'd taken a dozen lives, if those ruined cheeks were anything to judge by. Surely not all of those people had deserved a grisly death. Odds were at least a few had been innocents. The Death Ministry was notorious for taking out an addict's entire family when drug tabs weren't paid in a timely manner—using moms and dads and sisters and brothers to get the message across that unpaid debt to the DM was a bad idea. It was one of the major reasons for the occasional violent clash between the gang and the Conti family. The Contis didn't make a habit of killing innocent people. They also didn't like losing money. For every demon killed or mutilated by the Death Ministry in the name of acquiring more drugs to sell, the Contis had one less demon body to turn in to the city. The demon-control agencies wanted their specimens taken alive or not at all.

“Yeah, I know,” Emma said, cocking her head in Blue Eyes' direction. “Consider it a gesture of good faith. This bottle is on the house, provided you guys don't make trouble while you're here tonight.”

“Make trouble? What kind of trouble would we make, blondie?” guy number one asked.

“Vanish,
chica
. Leave the bottle.” The speaker was a brown-skinned man with a Mohawk and a low opinion of women. He didn't bother to look at her when he spoke but kept his dark eyes trained on the tiny dance floor, where one of the prostitutes writhed to the pounding beat.

Most of the other men had shifted their eyes elsewhere as well—unimpressed by the skinny blonde with the crooked nose and mud brown eyes—except for the young guy. The blue-eyed dude with the crew cut and a sprinkling of acne across his wide forehead was still looking—and he would do just fine. More than fine.

God, Emma could already feel how good it would be, how much stronger she'd be afterward.

Her heart raced as if she'd downed a triple shot of espresso instead of a couple of light beers, pounding so hard her ribs ached. Her pulse thudded unhealthily in her ears. It had been too long. She should have taken care of this sooner, before she needed it so badly. But she always tried to put it off, to find a way to keep from committing the same, necessary sin.

That was the thing about
necessary
sin. ... It was just so ...
necessary.

“Exactly.” Emma stared at her victim through lowered lashes. “I'm sure you boys aren't anything to worry about. I'm just going to take out the trash. Be good while I'm gone. Or ... not.”

Emma turned slowly, maintaining eye contact with Blue Eyes until the last second before sauntering away. On her way back across the room, she did one last sweep of the bar, making sure Ginger was occupied and none of the other patrons were paying attention as she slipped through the thick plastic strips separating the pub from the storage room. All eyes were elsewhere. She was clear. No one would notice the thug slipping out behind her and think about playing hero.

Hurrying across the cracked brown tile, Emma headed for the silver door and the back alley beyond, certain the man was behind her. He didn't seem to be the sharpest knife in the case, but he was smart enough to read the interest in a woman's eyes and horny enough to go for a chick who barely filled out an A cup.

Or maybe he was simply frugal—preferring to get his pussy for free instead of paying for it like his buddies were intending to do. Not everyone cared to spend their hard-earned money on prostitutes.

Emma could sympathize. Money had always been tight around the halfway house growing up. Father Paul worked as a chaplain for a hospital, and collecting weird kids was an expensive habit. There were nights when everyone went hungry for
traditional
sorts of food. No one ever had their supernatural needs unmet, however; Father Paul made sure of that. He considered it a holy calling to provide for the strange children in his care, to teach them how to manage their inhuman powers, to control their baser cravings, to feed their unnatural hungers with the appropriate sort of food.

Food.
Damn, she was hungry. The dark craving that had been her companion since the day her parents offered her as a sacrifice surged through her body, making her fingertips itch and burn.

“Come and get it,” Emma whispered under her breath as she slipped into the shadows behind the bar.

The alley was wide and clear except for two small Dumpsters and an oversized ashtray—the city made sure the streets were kept tidy to prevent infestation by demons who made their nests in tight, crowded places—but it was still dark. It wasn't a place where a woman should walk alone. There were predators in Southie who didn't need teeth or claws, who used fists and knives and guns to dominate, steal, and kill.

She wondered what kind of weapon Blue Eyes was packing—the trademark DM knife or something with a little more firepower. Either way, it wouldn't matter, not as long as she got him close enough to touch before he whipped anything out.

Anything other than his dick, of course. Emma didn't mind when men whipped out that particular “weapon.” A man with his dick in his hand was a man with his head in the clouds. Or maybe someplace less wholesome than the clouds, someplace darker, more dangerous ...

The door creaked open, and Blue Eyes stepped out of the bar, his movements confident but careful. He was a man used to watching his back, accustomed to keeping one eye peeled for possible threats. But she was one “threat” he would never see coming. They never did, not one person in all the time she'd been stealing from the wicked.

“Over here,” she said, her voice trembling a bit. The man turned toward her, looking even scarier in the shadows. “What's up?”

“You said you were taking out the trash. Figured I had something that needed to be thrown away.” He held up the nearly empty tequila bottle, and his features twisted into what Emma supposed was meant to be a smile.

“That was thoughtful of you.”

“That's me. Thoughtful.” He closed the distance between them in four long steps and reached out, cupping her breast in his hand and squeezing, making his intentions abundantly clear.

Guess he wasn't much for verbal foreplay. Good. She wasn't, either.

“So you want to do this here?” she asked, running one hand up into his greasy hair as he pulled her close, willing her fingertips to find the pressure points on the skull that made her job so much easier. She had to make sure he was one of the bad guys. It was what Father Paul had insisted upon, and she'd never gone against his teachings. She'd never wanted to. She might be a killer, but she wasn't a monster.

“Fuck yeah. Here's good.” He laughed and tipped the tequila bottle back, emptying it before throwing it against the bricks behind them.

“Good, I—” Emma groaned as he slammed his mouth down on hers, his tongue probing between her lips, sending secondhand tequila rushing into her throat. It was swallow or gag, but Emma regretted her decision to drink as soon as the tequila hit her stomach.

Her belly clenched and cramped, and the dark craving grew even stronger, sizzling along her nerve endings, making her fingers feel like they would catch fire at any moment. The telltale blue light erupted from her hands before she could control it. She'd waited too long. She couldn't remember feeling this weak, this needy, even in the months she'd been Ezra's captive. He'd known what she was and helped her survive, bringing her suitable “snacks” every few days.

Thankfully, the thug's eyes were closed, but he'd notice the pale blue glow sooner or later. She had to hurry.

Forcing her attention away from the thick tongue that moved sluggishly in her mouth and the meaty fingers squeezing first her breasts and then her ass, Emma concentrated on the hands pressed against Blue Eyes' greasy head, sending her intention out through her fingertips.

Almost immediately, images flashed on her mental screen—Blue Eyes' rat hole of an apartment near the ruins, the interior of a nearly empty fridge, a pile of dirty laundry he'd dug through to find his shirt for the evening. The mundane flooded in first, as it always did, but Emma swam deeper, sending her mind into the man she touched, the need within searching for what it craved.

She found it seconds later—the pale face of a little girl with a split lip, bleeding from where one of Blue Eyes' fists had connected with her face, the gutted corpse of a man he'd shoved out of a boat into demon-infested waters, the mascara-stained cheeks of a woman who screamed as his hand fisted in her hair.

Emma had seen enough. More than enough.

Silently, she reversed the flow of her energy, no longer diving into her victim, but swimming to the surface, pulling his evil along with her. The sin-filled memories flowed into her fingers, up her hands, surging through her arms and into her chest, where her heart slammed against her ribs, her body working to disperse the energy to her demon-altered cells.