The Devil's Concubine (The Devil of Ponong series #1) (2 page)

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The town of Levapur clung to the edge of a cliff high above
a turquoise harbor on the Sea of Erykoli. The narrow band of flat land close to
the cliff edge had been seized by the Thampurian colonists. Beyond their
compounds, the hillside began a steep ascent to the Ponongese neighborhoods.
Past the buildings, the cloud-cloaked mountains of the interior range rose to
sharp peaks.

The border between
the jungle and Levapur was indistinguishable in places. Troops of monkeys and
lizards and colonies of bats lived as comfortably in town as outside it.
Brightly plumaged jungle fowl scattered as QuiTai walked through the small
flock foraging in deep weeds between two apartment buildings. She hoisted the
hem of her sarong above the deep, meandering rut of orange slurry that ran sluggishly
downslope. When monsoon rains fell, the tiny trickle became a river.

Casmir
huffed as he led the way through the increasingly steep alleys.

Her
shoulder blades itched every time Ivitch grunted behind her. She hated being
followed. They did it for their safety, not hers. She couldn’t decide if that
amused or annoyed her. As they climbed upslope through the alleyways, the space
between the buildings became too narrow to walk side by side, but even where
the gaps widened neither of the men drew closer to her.

Finally,
the hills grew so steep that they had to leave the alleys and take the road
that climbed the hillside in sharp switchbacks.

By the
time QuiTai and her silent escorts neared the stone bridge over the Jupoli
Gorge, the closely packed buildings of Levapur had given way to lush plants.
Pink blossoms the size of her hand fell from overhead to cover the path with
wilting petals. Although shaded, the torpid air under the jungle canopy was
much hotter than in town, so thick with humidity that it felt like a weight
against her chest.

Far below
the stone bridge, the Pha River churned between narrow limestone cliffs. Anyone
foolish or unlucky enough to fall into the river would be swept several miles
downstream by the torrent before hurtling off a cliff and dropping three
hundred yards into the treacherous waters of the Ponong Fangs, where the Sea of
Erykoli met the Te’Am Ocean.

Over the
sound of the water thundering through the gorge, she could hear the chug of the
steam engine at the base station of the funicular that ran in stages up the
steep mountainside to the plantation terraces carved into its slopes. Before
she reached the station plateau, she veered from the upslope road onto a narrow
path that ran along the southern rim of the gorge. She went around a stand of
banana trees and stepped onto a wide timbergrass bridge that jogged left,
right, and then left again to thwart demons and spirits who could only travel
in straight lines.

She heard
Ivitch step onto the bridge behind her as she passed through a vine-covered
moon gate. Then he shouldered past her, knocking her hard enough that she had
to grab the bridge railing.

The
werewolves threatened and blustered, but knew better than to take their
posturing beyond that. She had the Devil’s protection, and she was his most
ruthless weapon against any werewolf who dared challenge his authority.

The scent
of damp dogs and mold hit QuiTai’s nose as she entered the Devil’s house. She
was glad that he didn’t insist that she live with the pack. The feeling, she
knew, was mutual.

The
clatter of tiles came from a corner where four men sat around a game table. Another
dozen large hairy men slumped on stained sleeping couches, as if drunk on
humidity. They panted in the stifling atmosphere but didn’t dare open the
windows to allow the breeze to flow through. Yet something had changed in the
den. The men didn’t bicker. They lolled on the furniture as if a collective
sigh of relief had eased their tension; and yet, eerie discomfort prickled over
her as it did when the jungle went suddenly silent. What they waited for was a
mystery to her.

The pack slowly
came to their feet as QuiTai stumbled over a pair of muddy boots abandoned in
the middle of the floor. She could feel their low growls creep over her skin.
The men circled and sniffed, a habit that grated on her nerves. After two
years, she’d have thought they would have grown used to her, but some races
could never overcome the primal fear her scent and fangs evoked. Not to mention
the more specific reason they had to fear and hate her.

“Slayer,” a
narrow-eyed wolf spat dry, as if he wouldn’t even waste fluids on her.

She placed
the fresh jellylanterns around the room in their wall holders; when the room
was illuminated, she almost wished she hadn’t. Beer bottles, muddy clothes, and
bones littered the floor. That didn’t surprise her. She’d seen their stone
fortresses back in their mountainous homeland Rujick, and understood why their
women lived in their own keeps.

“I smell
QuiTai. Don’t keep me waiting any longer, woman,” a deep male voice barked from
behind a sliding door at the far end of the room. The door panels had once been
rice paper, to allow light between the two rooms, but were now boarded over.

She raised
an eyebrow to the men who still circled her. The pack parted.

She left
the sliding door open when she entered the Devil’s chamber.

The room
had once opened onto a deck that cantilevered over the Jupoli Gorge, offering
breathtaking views of the Pha River below and the waterfalls thundering off the
opposite canyon wall. QuiTai had stood there to marvel as clouds of iridescent
blue butterflies clung to treetops and flocks of bright birds flew past.
Occasionally, a troop of monkeys would climb the long, thick stilts that
secured the house to the hillside to play on the deck until the scent of the
werewolves scared them away.

But a few months
after the full moon massacre, the Thampurian soldiers had captured Petrof during
a hunt and dragged him down to their fortress. Four agonizing days later he
limped back to his den. He never said what happened, but in the past year, the
doors to the deck had been shut off with thick wood screens, then covered with
blinds, and finally boarded over. The ocean breeze no longer penetrated the
stuffy room, but beams of sunlight squeezed between the warped window boards.
Motes of dust drifted through them and disappeared into the deep shadows.

Casmir and
Ivitch followed QuiTai as far as the open door. It was odd that the others didn’t
press close to steal a glimpse of their leader like they usually did.

A shadowy
figure on an ornately carved, high-backed chair at the far end of the room
stirred.

The power
of his presence flooded through her as it always did. She felt so alive with
him. He was impossible to please, but she alone shared his most private side.

“I sent
Casmir and Ivitch to fetch you over an hour ago,” Petrof said. He leaned
forward into a faltering ray of light. Blond highlights glinted in his red
beard. Thick, dark auburn chest hair curled over his shirt collar. Much
brawnier than the average Ponongese, his build was almost lithe for a werewolf.
He was not the largest of the pack, but he was the most cunning, and by far the
cruelest.

“Your
business required my attention, Petrof.”

His eyes
narrowed. Good. She wasn’t the only person in the house who knew the Devil’s
real name, but only she dared to use it.

“The way
she defies you, she must think she’s in charge around here,” Casmir said.

“Remind
her of her place,” Ivitch said.

She knelt
beside Petrof’s throne on a thick maroon carpet. His red-rimmed eyes had gone
feral, never a good sign. The moon was already in him even though it was not
yet full. Flies buzzed over the remains of a meal left on the floor. The scent
of mountain trails and blood clung to his skin. Fear stole her breath. Had he
worked up the courage to leave his room? She paused to gather control over her
voice before speaking.

His hand shot
out. Ragged nails scraped QuiTai’s throat. He came to his feet and lifted her
by her throat as he growled. From the corner of her eye, she saw Casmir and
Ivitch laughing at the threshold of the room.

Petrof
bared his teeth at them. The crushing pressure on her neck increased. He’d
grasped her throat many times, but this was different. Panic spiked through
her. His big hand could easily crush her neck, and he always kept his elbow
stiff so that she couldn’t lunge at him with her fangs and inject her poison
into him.

“Petrof… there’s
a disturbing rumor that independent smugglers brought a shipment onto the
island,” she croaked.

He slowly
sank back into his seat, but didn’t release her. He focused on her face again.
She said, “Smugglers who dare to openly challenge your power.”

“What did they
bring?” Petrof asked.

She
swallowed against the pressure of his hand. “Rumor says a few big crates, but
no one seems sure. I’ve told all my sources to bring me news.”

His grip
tightened. “Who are they? Did they bring it in through the harbor, or did they
use one of the coves?”

QuiTai
coughed as her lips tingled. He eased his hold enough that she could gasp fresh
air into her bursting lungs. “That, also, I do not know,” she was finally able
to say.

“She’s
wasting your time,” Ivitch said to Petrof.

QuiTai
wished she had shut the door. “Someone dared to challenge the Devil. Rumors now
are as elusive as maishun spirits, but as with any good tale, they will be
repeated, and someone will remember something they saw. We will find these
smugglers and make examples of them.”

Ivitch
snorted. “She acts like they’re smoke wraiths.”

“Answers
don’t simply come to me. I have to hunt them down.” She gave the wolves a
challenging stare. “You understand,” she said.

“Kill her now.”
Ivitch reached for the doorjamb and leaned over the threshold into the room.

The low
rumble of Petrof’s growl made QuiTai’s hairs stand on end. She made an effort
not to show it. “Ivitch, if you have the names of the smugglers, tell us.
Better yet, bring them before our master. But remember: the last time you
chased monkeys up a tree, they flung their shit at you.”

Petrof
chuckled, and his grasp on QuiTai’s throat finally dropped. She laughed too: it
was always safest to match his moods. Since he’d shut himself away from the
world, he’d become even more unpredictable.

Ivitch stepped
back. He might be stupid, but he had at least the sense to rein himself in.
After the last killing, no one dared enter the Devil’s private chamber without
his permission.

QuiTai
picked up one of the bones on the rug near her with her thumb and forefinger. A
scrap of bloody sinew dangled off the end. She tossed it onto a brass tray and
reached for another. Clouds of flies spiraled up and then returned to crawl
over the grisly pile.

“Information
will cost money, Petrof.”

“The Devil
takes money; he doesn’t give,” Petrof said.

“Think of
it as an investment,” she said.

“I said
no. Don’t try to use your wiles to make me change my mind.”

It always
amazed QuiTai that he had no idea how his own syndicate worked. Every time she
was forced to use her own coin to keep his business running, she resented it a
little more. If only he’d stop hoarding his fortune.

She forced
herself not to glance at the wall behind Petrof’s messy bed. What appeared to
be an intricate wood mosaic beyond the mosquito netting was actually a puzzle.
With the right moves, the center of the design would open, revealing his safe.
Over time, she’d worked out the complex sequence of sliding pieces, but the
biolock inside could only be opened by the touch of his fingertips. If she ever
figured out how to break that lock, she’d pay herself back the thousands of
coins that the Devil owed her.

Her temper
flared. Usually she had no problem controlling it, but for the past week she’d
been restless and couldn’t seem to quash her rebellious thoughts. Worse than
not understanding his own business, Petrof didn’t understand her. He demanded
her advice but never respected it. It had always been so; but now she sensed that
their long alliance was strained to the point of breaking.

She could
survive without him if he cast her aside. But it would be difficult to find a
lover to replace him. There was something addictive about bedding someone so
dangerous, even though it was foolishness to let her desires overrule her
brain. And the idea of the Devil was as important to her future plans as was the
actual man. Sometimes even more important.

Until
then, she hadn’t been sure whether she would answer Kyam Zul’s note. Now she
realized how much she needed a brief escape from the werewolves. She might not like
Kyam, but at least he could argue with her without getting violent. And he was
always interesting.

She forced
her voice in a casual, light tone and said, “On an unrelated note, I’ve decided
to hire that itinerant Thampurian artist to paint my portrait.”

“The good-looking
one?” Ivitch asked.

She didn’t
dare show how furious she was with him. Had he seen Kyam in the marketplace?
Maybe Ivitch simply remembered seeing him around Levapur, or had witnessed one
of their verbal battles.