Dominic (14 page)

luminescence as bril iant as the sun.

The skin of this hand was sensitive. Even the soft drift of the surrounding air over its nerve endings was disturbing as he reached out toward his

victim. He took the base of the creature’s silver-green throat in a choke hold.

The demon hissed at him, trying to scuttle away, but the dagger that had fel ed him held him pinned to the ground like an insect.

“How did you know I would be here?” Dominic demanded. “I’l make this quick if you answer. If not…”

A furious string of curses and denials spewed from his victim’s lips.

Flattening his palm at the scaly neck, Dominic located the sluggish pulse in the hol ow at the base of the demon’s throat. For that was where the

soul reposed. His hand warmed, heated, throbbed. Seethed with the insistent, furious clamor of souls he and his predecessors had already imprisoned

there.

The creature’s eyes widened, its slitted pupils swel ing. Its body bucked and shivered. Its silver tongue flailed as it cursed him with its last breath.

An excruciating pain like the sting of a hundred wasps encompassed his palm. He groaned as yet another soul slipped inside him. Within his

uniform, his cock was tumid, but he hardly noticed, long since inured to the shameful sexual thril that coursed through him with the taking of each soul. The

mirrored light of his palm burned bright for a few seconds and then dimmed.

With the flash of a blade in his left hand, he hacked off the demon’s head directly under the jaw, severing mind from body. Leaving it lifeless.

Soul ess.

He stood, grimacing.

Then he moved on to the other three that remained.

Moments later, he slipped his right hand back into the glove. None had confessed any information regarding how they’d known to find him here.

But somehow they had.

13

Else World

G
etting to his feet, Dominic staggered, nearly pitching over atop the last of the demons he’d just kiled. He was losing blood. Pressing his left hand

against his side, he felt a sanguine stickiness seep between his fingers.

He stepped over one of the decapitated bodies and turned to make his way toward the temple. Toward home, where it would be safe to

recuperate. With plodding, determined steps, he forced himself to keep going, but al the while his mind raced.

No matter how many demons he kil ed, more came. Always more. He carried with him a constant sense of frustration and failure because he could

not eradicate them. Could not even locate the source that spawned them. There were no eggs, and the females’ innards of the species were identical to

the males’. No one knew how they duplicated.

They couldn’t simply spring from nothing. For centuries something had brought them to life and drawn them here to attack him and his people.

What was it?

When he woke later, he was lying on his monastic pal et in his solitary alcove. Judging by the light streaming in from the aperture overhead in the

temple, it was noon. He’d somehow made it here last night. A few hours of rest had restored his health far more quickly than it would have the average

Satyr.

His stomach rumbled. He was hungry.

He reached across his chest and ran his gloved hand along his damaged ribs. Within his palm, he felt the malevolent hum that informed him he

stil held his captives. He only vaguely recal ed cleansing his wounds when he’d arrived here last night.

He’d obviously staunched the flow of blood and sewn himself shut, for the jagged tear in his side felt largely healed and was now only a jagged

pink line. Another set of scars was the least of his concerns.

Footsteps clattered beyond his chamber, crossing the temple floor. Someone was approaching. Judging by her scent, it was a woman. One he

knew. She entered, and he sat up, causing his head to swim and his side to throb.

His eyes traveled over her with jaded suspicion. Like al females in Else World, she wore clothing made of a translucent fabric that left her body

largely visible for the pleasure of males. Her breasts were firm and high, her legs slim.

She removed her hood, revealing her face. Her skin was unlined, unwrinkled. Although she was considerably older than he, she appeared to be

his equal in age. She was stil the beautiful woman he remembered from that day fifteen years ago. A day that had irrevocably changed both their lives.

For it was then that the Facilitator had come to their home bearing the stunning news that Dominic was a Chosen One—the successor to the

previous demonhand, who’d died only an hour earlier. Until that moment, no one in his family had known.

At ten years old he’d been taken to his predecessor’s deathbed, where he’d dutiful y accepted the burden of the souls into his right palm. In

exchange for giving him over to the temple, this woman had been gifted with riches. With a title. Lifelong youth.

He rubbed the bristle on his jaw, annoyed. “Go away, Mother.”

Her hand tightened on the hood she held, and she wrinkled her nose. “You stink of death. And sex.”

“And you of wealth.”

She traced a manicured fingertip along the bumpy line of semiprecious jewels that edged the neckline of her saffron gown. Stil more studded its

hem. “I paid for what I have.”

“How exactly?” He pushed to his feet, his face impassive as he awaited an answer that wasn’t forthcoming. Standing unabashedly naked before

her, he stretched his arms overhead, wincing.

She nodded toward his sliced ribs. “You’re wounded?”

“Spare me any false concern,” he gritted. “Say whatever you came to say and then go.”

“Did you rape her?”

In a flash, he had her backed against the wal , his forearm hard against her throat. “What do you know of that business?”

He’d used his right arm, and the wrist of his glove pressed at the underside of her jaw. She gazed toward it from the corner of wild, frightened eyes

that were remarkably similar to his own.

“Yes, you should fear me, Mother. I’ve learned much of destruction and death since you last saw me. Now speak.”

Choked words tumbled from her lips. “I know you crossed over last night at the behest of the Facilitator. I know that a Chosen One was brought

forth. I only wondered if its mother was raped. As I was by your predecessor in order to bring you into the world twenty-five years ago.”

His eyes searched hers, and then he slowly relaxed his hold. He hadn’t known. Had never considered things from her point of view. Perhaps they

had
both paid for what he was.

Going to the corner of his room, he turned a lever positioned over the basalt slab that had been hol owed to form a sink. The spigot high above it

trickled merrily into the rock basin. He leaned from the waist and dunked his head, enjoying the bracing chil of its waters. Straightening, he reached for

toweling and then briskly rubbed the moisture from his face and hair.

“How is it you come by this knowledge of my whereabouts?” he asked with his back to her.

“From me.”

He turned to see the Facilitator standing in the doorway of his alcove. His mother scooted toward the relative safety the elder afforded.

Dominic threw the crumpled towel to his pal et. “You summoned her here? Why, after al this time?”

“It’s my place to deliver today’s news to you,” his mother informed him, brave now that she stood in the Facilitator’s shadow.

“What news?”

“The glad tidings that you’re soon to be wed.”

Dominic laughed, a grating, skeptical sound. It died away as he realized she was serious. His hard eyes shot to the man beside her.

“Come with me,” the Facilitator instructed.

Scowling dangerously, he made to fol ow, but the older man stopped him with a glance that encompassed the entirety of his person in one blink.

“Clothe yourself first. Your betrothed awaits.”

He ground his teeth. What new misery was this?

Throwing on leather trousers and boots, he fol owed the pair to the central temple. It was the first time in a month he hadn’t donned the disguise of

the regiment’s uniform.

The two Acolytes awaited them there alongside the large obsidian disk in which he’d first observed Emma a month ago. Its inky surface had

already been awakened, and the il usion of a flat, gold disk the size of his head rotated endlessly upon it, displaying the ornate decorative carving on each

of its sides.

“The missing amulet,” the Facilitator explained, gesturing toward it. “We broadcast its image continuously to the other temples and outposts so

that others may be on the watch for it, should it come their way.”

Upon his command, the Acolytes softly clapped their pale hands. In response, the amulet disappeared to be replaced by the image of a stunning

young woman with two long blond plaits. The lower half of her face was veiled, and her nubile body was draped in a traditional virgin’s gown.

Glistening white fabric sheathed her arms from wrist to shoulder and fel from there to her sandaled feet. The gown drew together at her waist,

where it was secured with what appeared to be a diamond closure. Above and below it, her breasts and genitals were on display beneath a scant

covering of gossamer fabric. At the back of the gown, a froth of opaque pink trailed off in a meticulously arranged train that meandered several yards

behind her.

Eyes modestly downcast, she stood prepared to meet her fate.

A gaggle of what he assumed to be her relatives loitered in the background, obviously having gathered to witness the occasion of their meeting.

Murmurs and whispers floated amongst them. He could wel imagine what they made of his bloody, largely unwashed appearance.

“My betrothed?” he queried in a mocking tone.

“The offspring of King Feydon and one of his concubines here in Else World,” he was informed.

The Facilitator flicked his hand, and the girl’s veil drifted away as if by magic. “This marriage wil bind the Satyr and the Fey more closely. It’s wise

to secure al ies in this time of war. Her family does you a great honor in offering her.”

“Cey!” one of the relatives in the background scolded. At that, the girl’s frightened eyes darted up to catch Dominic’s and then as quickly dropped.

“She doesn’t appear especial y eager to have me,” he commented dispassionately. An understatement, for his trembling betrothed was terrified of

him. An unwil ing pawn in this, as he was.

“Can you present us with any suitable female who
would
be eager?” his mother inquired.

His mind leaped to a remembrance of Emma. Of how she’d kissed him last night. How she’d covered the evil in him with her own hand. Emma,

who was already wed. His fists clenched.

“No.” He shrugged. “Making such a presentation to me is fol y, for I’m not in need of a wife.”

At his words, more whispers and agitation ensued from the virgin’s relatives.

The Facilitator eyed him; then, bowing to the image in the mirror, he bid a lengthy and courteous farewel to the woman and her family. While

Dominic looked on, appearing anything but cooperative, the Facilitator calmly assured them that he would cooperate in their wedding plans.

Once the last bow and scrape had been executed, the two Acolytes clapped their hands in unison, and the image faded away.

“Why this sudden herding of me toward marriage?” Dominic chal enged.

“There has never been a female demonhand,” said the Facilitator. “It concerns us.”

Dominic’s tensed. “How did you know?”

“The new Chosen One is
female
?” his mother gasped at the same time.

The Facilitator nodded, ignoring his mother’s outburst. “I observed her Birthing. Last night, through the conduit of the mirror.”

Dominic’s heart began to pound. “How? The mirror in Carlo’s bedchamber was shielded. I saw him cover it, as is traditional during Moonful.”

“See for yourself.” The Facilitator gestured toward the obsidian mirror. Taking their cue, the Acolytes brought it to life again.

Rustling noises emitted from it, but its surface remained dark for a long, potent moment. Then, as if a curtain had been ripped open, two figures

came into view, replacing the blackness.

A man and a woman. Him. And Emma. They were in a bedchamber, standing with their naked bodies pressed together. He was behind her, one

hand at her hip and the other cupping her swol en bel y. His lips were tracing her shoulder.

She seemed to be gazing at them, an audience she could not see. Her hand was reaching toward something that was out of the mirror’s range.

She was attempting to struggle away from him, even as she extended a hand toward the real him, now, without knowing she did so.

Masculine fingers came into view at the side of the mirror, moving toward the dressing table. There was a clinking sound as Carlo col ected his

belongings.

“No! Don’t leave us!” Emma’s voice pleaded.

At that, his own reflection roused, and he watched his hand lift from her hip to her breast. His thumb strummed her nipple.

Carlo’s anguished, disembodied voice answered her. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” A door opened and then slammed. The sound of him quitting the room.

“Did you notice?” The Facilitator’s voice broke in. “The mirror in that room was obviously covered when you began. Then its cover was removed.

Purposely, by an unseen hand. It was done only after you’d fal en under the moon’s spel and could be caught unaware.”

Upon his desertion, Emma’s hand faltered and dropped. Her expression fil ed with a poignant mixture of rejection and fear—the two sides of the

carnal coin she’d been offered last night—for one man had rejected her, and she’d feared his replacement.

Oblivious, Dominic’s reflection held her fast against him, wrapping her in his arms, his body focused only on its zealous need to mate itself to hers.