Demon's Delight (15 page)

F
OR
a Yama, to descend into the Victorian capital of Avvar was akin to traveling back in time. Millennia had passed since Yamish-kind had been so primitive, and Khira sincerely doubted they'd ever been as dirty as humans.

The carriage in which she rode through the twisting, fog-shrouded streets was, thankfully, a Yamish vehicle masquerading as a human electric car. Though many humans still used horses for transportation, they had developed these contraptions in the last few years by repurposing Yamish technologies they'd obtained in the Avvar Accord.

Two generations had passed since that famous treaty, signed after humans stumbled upon the hidden cities of the Yama, thus ending her people's long and splendid isolation. Understandably, the Yama wanted nothing to do with their ridiculously emotional “discoverers,” but the emperor made the best of a bad situation, ceding old technology to the humans in return for them allowing Yamish deportees to settle in Avvar's slums.

This was an improvement over letting Yamish rebels infect the general populace with their antihierarchical ideas. Additionally, helping Queen Victoria reign supreme over her neighbors ensured that human wars wouldn't spill into Yamish lands. The less the races interacted, the better for everyone.

Happily, Khira's faux electric carriage was in no danger of breaking down. It plowed through the mud and dung with no worse effect than the seeping of the stench inside the glass windows.

The air that carried the stench was frigid. For the first time, Khira felt sorry for the banished members of the lower class. The
rohn
didn't have it easy living here.

Her companions, the two black guards the minister had promised her, were dressed like
rohn
in plain gray robes and trousers—upper class
daimyo
being rare enough visitors to attract attention. The guards appeared at ease among the squalor of streets so narrow every turn put them at risk of scraping the walls. One guard operated the vehicle while the other sat beside her in back, but whether to protect or control her was hard to say. Neither guard had welcomed her insistence on accompanying them.

“You know what I need?” Khira repeated for the second time.

“Yes,” said the guard who sat beside her, his awareness of the insult revealed by the subtle gustiness of his voice. “Adult male. Twenty-five to thirty. Healthy. Poor. No social ties.”

“And you realize a healthy human will not be as vigorous as a healthy Yama?”

“Yes,” said the driver. “Trust us, Dr. Forette. We have experience with these people. And we've done this sort of thing before.”

Khira didn't apologize for asking. It was too important to be sure. The Blacks were an elite military regiment, answering directly to the emperor. Only the smartest, strongest, most loyal and ruthless Yama could hope to enter their ranks. The two who had been assigned to her seemed true to form—too true. Their blandly handsome faces were such mirrors of one another, she was certain they had been cloned from some previous assassin extraordinaire. Though she understood the desire for consistency among the royal guard, the geneticist in her was offended. Cloning was hardly the way to safeguard biodiversity.

Besides which, these two gave her the chills.

“This should do,” said the driver, wrenching the wheel so hard the car bumped onto the pavement.

Khira flinched as a mud-coated dog yelped and ran away, but she gritted her teeth and said nothing. She was smart enough to know she was only as in charge as the emperor's guards let her be. Peering out through the noisome fog—the product of shortsighted humans continuing to burn coal in their factories—she saw they had pulled into a rubbish-strewn alley near a public house. Its sign rather grandiosely proclaimed it T
HE
K
ING'S
A
RMS
, though the area clearly had not seen any sort of king in centuries—having sunk from simply poor to demoralized. It was a good choice on her guards' part. The inhabitants of this place weren't likely to be missed. Gas lamps flickered gold behind the pub's greasy windows, luring a damp and hunched clientele inside.

Bundled as they were, it was hard to tell, but none looked like what she would have called healthy.

“Bother,” she said. “I'm going to have to go in.”

The guards exchanged a glance. “All right,” said one. “But make it quick. You're not dressed for this.”

“Five minutes,” she promised. “If I don't see what I need by then, we'll go.”

 

Harry Wirth, a.k.a. the King of the Costermongers, stared into the dregs of his beer and sighed. He propped his elbows on the end of The King's Arms bar, shoulder-to-shoulder with his fellow drinking men.

In truth, he had no reason to sigh. He'd completed the purchase of a house today, a three-story marble-front near Queen's Park. Just last week, he'd added another dozen carts to his fleet. It had been years since he'd gone hungry for any reason besides being too busy with work. His accountant's pretty daughter had let it be known she wouldn't mind walking out with him, and he suspected she'd marry him as well, if he asked.

He had everything he'd dreamed of as a half-starved workhouse boy. Every comfort. Every security. Every sign of respect he'd known how to want.

And what did he do to celebrate but jam his workman's cap on his head and shuffle back to his old, bad haunts.

He felt so empty he could have cried.

Instead, he signaled the barkeep for another pint.

It was too damn bad if he wasn't happy. He had what he'd always wanted, and that's what mattered. Tomorrow, he'd be back to business and forget the gaping hole that was growing inside his heart, forget he didn't love his accountant's daughter, forget he worked so hard he ended every night as tired as a dockworker. Most of all, he'd forget he didn't have a single friend to slap him on the back for his accomplishments. He was the boss. He was the
king
. That would damn well have to be enough.

“Hoo,” said Old Dick the barman as he set the frothing mug in front of Harry. “Would ye look at that? We got some hoity-toity demons come slummin'.”

Harry followed the old man's rheumy gaze and lost his breath in shock.

He didn't think the rest of the crowd had spotted her, but the most beautiful woman Harry had ever seen had just stepped inside the pub. He knew she had to be a Yama; her features were too perfect to be human, too delicate. Her skin was so pale and smooth she glowed, and her straight, satiny hair shone black as night. She was tall and slim, her figure wrapped in a floor-length, dove-gray mink. Harry's groin began to tighten in spite of knowing what she was.

Right then, she looked more angel than demon to him.

He watched her, too mesmerized to turn away. The hands that held her coat together wore long white kidskin gloves, probably to prevent her from accidentally touching any humans and being tainted by their energy. Her gaze scanned the crowd, her profile exquisite. He couldn't imagine she hoped to find anyone she knew here. Clearly, she hailed from her people's upper ranks, and The King's Arms—warm and bright though it was—wasn't clean enough for the lower ones. Yama of every class were fussy about such things, as Harry had cause to know.

The woman said something to one of the two male Yama beside her—servants, to judge by their dress. One servant shook his head and pointed in Harry's direction. Tension coiled in Harry's chest. He knew the woman was going to look at him…and then she did.

Her face was absolutely serene, a pool of lovely stillness nothing had—or could—ever ruffle. Her lips were red and pouting, her brows and lashes dark as coal against her alabaster skin. She blinked at him, and even though her eyes were the alien, rim-to-rim silver of all her kind, they jolted through him the same as if she were human.

He couldn't stop his reaction, no matter what his accountant's daughter might expect of him. His cock pushed against his woolen trousers in a slow, hard rise. Obeying instincts older than time, he straightened up from the bar and put his shoulders back. Her gaze slid down him and up again. Part of him knew he was displaying himself to her, was offering himself by means more primitive than words.
I'm good enough for you,
his pose was saying.
See how tall I am. See how strong. You want to go slumming? Give me a try.

He removed his worn workman's cap and set it on the bar. Still she didn't look away. From the soles of his feet to his prickling scalp, his body pounded with desire. He'd never wanted a woman with this immediacy and force. He hadn't known he could.

The female demon's lips parted.

Now,
he thought, his mind beyond logic.
Come to me.

She blinked at him again, those thick black lashes sweeping over her inscrutable silver eyes.

Then, to his amazement—though, indeed, he shouldn't have been amazed—she turned to her male companions and gestured them ahead of her out the door.

 

“What now?” Khira asked her guards, doing her best to conceal the sense of off-balance oddness ticking in her breast.

The one who drove opened the motorcar's back door, holding it politely ajar for her. “Now we wait until he comes out.”

Khira lifted her coat hem above the mud and stepped inside, her entrance followed closely by the second guard. Her shoes were ruined, but she hardly cared. She kept seeing the man…the
human
staring back at her.

He'd been so rough-looking—hypermasculine almost, with thick, shaggy light-brown hair and shoulders every bit as broad as those of her genetically tweaked guards. His harshly sculpted face had borne the shadow of a beard, a coarseness no Yamish male would have permitted. Within his baggy clothes, he was tall and strongly built. His strange human eyes were green beneath his heavy brows—like copper burning in a flame.

His expression when he met her gaze had been openly challenging. She shivered as she recalled it. She didn't think she'd want to approach this particular human alone.

Hidden by the weight of her cultured mink, her thighs hummed at the memory, as if his air of danger had actually aroused her. Khira shifted uncomfortably. If that were true, it wouldn't do at all. He was a subject, she a scientist. Desire had no place whatsoever in that relationship.

“Are you certain you can get him?” she asked the guard who'd remained on watch outside. “He looked strong.”

“He's a human,” the guard dismissed. “He'll never have a chance to fight. And if he did by chance resist, no one would notice in this weather.”

The guard was right. The fog had thickened until she couldn't see the front of the motorcar. The few electric streetlights that hadn't been broken out by stones were mere confusion, their illumination petering out before it reached the ground. It was fortunate the car was equipped with global positioning scanners. They'd need them to navigate through this.

“Good,” she said. “I want this acquisition to go smoothly.”

Despite the firmness of her voice, something deep inside her didn't feel good at all.

 

Harry had never been one for overindulgence. He hated the idea of losing control and shaming himself. With the abrupt departure of the Yamish female—a cut direct if ever he'd seen one—the potential charms of sinking into a drunken stupor evaporated completely.

He was no Casanova, and he'd been turned down on occasion, but never so summarily.

Leaving his second pint untouched, Harry paid Old Dick, put on his cap, and shouldered mirthlessly from the Arms.

Maybe the walk to his new house would relax him enough to sleep. Maybe he'd forget he ever saw the beautiful demon.

He grimaced as the dank November air slapped his face. The fog, or “Grims,” as Avvarians liked to call it, had been bad this week. The city's center smelled like the pit of hell, sulphur and sewage and who knew what else. Grateful for the barrier of his scarf, Harry pulled his coat collar up as well, but the chill wasn't all bad news. Cold weather meant good business in hot pies. As long as his employees could bear it, profits would be up.

He stepped off the pavement to cross the nearest alley, braced for the gritty, icy squelch of mud that swamped the cobbles underneath. His boots were up for the challenge—thick-soled army issue with stiff leather. The Grims swirled around his ankles like a hungry cat. He was lucky he knew this city like the back of his hand. Otherwise, he'd never find his way home.

“Hallo!” called a cultured male voice. “I say, could you help? I'm frightfully sorry to bother you, but we're lost.”

Harry stopped and turned, waiting for the shadow the voice belonged to to come out of the alley.

“Thank you,” said the as-yet-indistinguishable figure. “What with the fog, we've gotten turned a—”

Without warning, someone stepped directly behind Harry, too close for the proximity to be a casual mistake. An arm began to swing around Harry's neck. Almost before he realized he was being robbed, instincts from a hundred half-remembered street fights came to the fore. Twisting free of the choke hold, Harry stomped a foot that suddenly found itself in the wrong place.