The Devil's Due (5 page)

The sensation of him sliding into me was somewhere between Heaven and Hell. On the one hand, he always felt so
right
inside me, as if his cock had been specifically engineered to fit me. Every sexual nerve in my body sang with that pleasure. On the other hand, I was ignominiously bent over the kitchen table staring at a cooling plate of eggplant parmigiana as my sweet, gentle Brian fucked me brutally from behind.

Emotions rioted within me, bumping into and tangling with each other so wildly that I couldn’t have named a single one of them. I tried not to lock my knees and elbows as I braced myself against Brian’s thrusts—I was dizzy and unbalanced enough without setting myself up to pass out.

A trickle of sweat ran down the side of my face, but I barely felt it as my concentration narrowed and focused on the place where Brian and I were joined. Every other sensation became inconsequential as I felt the tension building there, coiling tighter and tighter, until I thought I couldn’t stand on the edge of that cliff for another moment. And yet still I stood there, waiting for the fall, desperate for the fall, hardly able to breathe with the intensity of my need.

When the coil finally released, I screamed, the pleasure too much to contain—wave after wave of it weakening my knees until I could barely hold myself up. Dimly, I was aware of Brian reaching his own release, his cry seeming but a shadow of mine.

It wasn’t until the last wave of pleasure faded that I became aware of the rest of my body. I was drenched with sweat, shivering in a chill that was only partly physical. My arms and shoulders ached with the strain of bracing myself, and the elastic of my still-closed bra was digging painfully into the flesh at the top of my breasts.

After Brian pulled out, I tried to stand up, but my knees wobbled. If he hadn’t steadied me with one hand, I swear I might have fallen down.

I couldn’t even begin to absorb what had just happened between us, could hardly believe this was real. I struggled to find words, but before I could form a coherent thought, Brian had scooped me into his arms and carried me to the bedroom. There, he undressed me and tucked me into his bed, climbing in beside me and cradling me in his arms, once more the gentle, sweet lover I knew. And while I still reeled with confusion, Brian—typical male—fell fast asleep.

I lay beside him until his snores told me how deeply gone he was. He must have been exhausted by the intensity of what we’d done. I know I was, but I was far too unnerved to fall asleep. Instead, I slid out from under his arm, cleaned myself up a little, and got dressed.

My body was sore and achy as I slipped out of the bedroom and closed the door quietly behind myself. Our supposed dinner still sat on the dining room table, the mingled scents of sex and Italian food an unusual combination, to say the least. Numbly, I dropped onto Brian’s couch and tried to figure out what the hell had just happened.

Brian had never been anything like that before. Oh, every once in a while, we had a good, hard fuck instead of our usual tender lovemaking. The last time we’d made love, he’d left bruises on my wrists. But that time, it had been unintentional, a product of the passion of the moment and of our sexual frustration. What he’d done tonight had felt very much intentional—and premeditated. Was it because he was angry at me for being angry at him?

But no, no matter how dominant and rough he had been, I knew that there had been no anger in it. So what had motivated him to take me like that? And how could he possibly have guessed that a control freak like me would actually let him get away with it?

I gasped as an awful suspicion crept into my head.

Who was the one person who knew and understood me well enough, despite all my layers of camouflage, to guess I might get off on a little show of dominance? But no. He wouldn’t
dare
stick his nose into my love life like that! Brian must have figured it out for himself. He was, after all, a fantastic lover.

My hand shaking because I didn’t believe my own logic, I moved over on the sofa until I could reach Brian’s phone, then began scrolling through his caller ID log. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for: a call from my number, made at three this morning, when I’d been fast asleep.

“Goddamn you, Lugh,” I muttered under my breath as good, old-fashioned rage flooded my system. Right that moment, if I could have exorcized him and sent him back to the Demon Realm, I think I would have done it, no matter what the consequences to the human race.

I picked up some Chinese takeout on my way home so that I’d be prepared in the unlikely event my appetite came out of hiding, but it went straight into the fridge and stayed there. I tried to watch TV for a while, tried to keep myself from endlessly replaying the night’s events. It didn’t work, but my brooding didn’t exactly help me make sense of things, either.

I went to bed at ten, exhausted in body and mind. I wasn’t sure whether I was hoping to see Lugh, or hoping
not
to see Lugh, but whatever my hopes, he failed to put in an appearance. I slept until eight, and awoke feeling almost refreshed. Still confused, but refreshed.

I was sipping coffee, working my way through the Sunday paper, when the front desk called to let me know I had a visitor. Before I had a chance to work up a healthy head of paranoia, the clerk identified my visitor as Adam White. I can’t say the news relaxed me, but surprisingly enough, there were people I was even less eager to see. Go figure.

Naturally, I checked through the peephole when Adam knocked on my door, just to make sure there’d been no mistaken identity. When I confirmed it was just him, I opened the door and let him in. He was carrying a tattered nylon backpack over one shoulder, and after the most perfunctory greeting, he slung the backpack onto one of my dining room chairs and unzipped it, pulling out a manila folder bursting at the seams with papers.

“I thought I’d fill you in on what I found out about the Brewster kid,” he said, dropping the folder onto the table.

I was never at my best in the morning, and I was also never at my best when Adam was around. “You couldn’t have just called?”

He gave me a dirty look. “I thought you might actually want to
see
what I’d found rather than hear it over the phone,” he said with a nod at the folder. “If you’d rather I pack up my toys and go home …”

I huffed out a sigh. “No, please, sit down. Would you like some coffee?” Far be it from me to actually apologize, but I could at least make a peace offering.

“I’m never one to turn down coffee.”

I topped off my own mug, then poured one for Adam and brought it to him at the table. “Where’s Dom?” I asked, because Adam rarely came to my apartment without Dominic in tow. Which was generally a good thing, since Dominic made such a good referee.

Adam flashed me a wicked grin over the rim of his mug. “I left him at home to sleep it off. He’s all tuckered out, poor thing.” He winked at me, I guess just in case I didn’t get the layers of innuendo.

I willed myself not to blush, but my depraved mind conjured a picture of Dominic bent over a table, gloriously naked while Adam rode him. I then remembered what I’d done with Brian last night and had no hope in hell of quelling the blush.

Adam laughed. “Damn, Morgan. It’s so easy to make you blush, it’s child’s play. At least make me work for it.”

My eloquent response was an Italian salute, which of course only amused him more. If I didn’t change the subject pronto, this was going to get worse before it got better.

“I presume you found little Tommy Brewster’s MySpace profile?” I asked.

Adam visibly took a moment to debate the relative merits of talking business and making me squirm. Thank the Lord, he made the right decision.

“I guess you’ve been doing some research on your own?”

I shrugged. “Just really basic stuff. So, is it true?” He took a long slurp of coffee, then nodded. “Every word of it, though it was damn hard to confirm. The court system did its best to keep his identity hidden. If he hadn’t gone blabbing on the Internet, I’d never have found out who he was, even with my resources. I guess it’s a good thing for us he’s such a wack job.”

Somehow I doubted Claudia Brewster would see it that way. I cradled my coffee mug between my hands, needing the warmth to fight off the chill as I asked the question that had been bugging me since the moment I saw Tommy’s story. “Does it seem to you that demons have been involved in his life far more than they should have been, considering he’s not Spirit Society?”

Adam nodded. “Yeah. And the whole story about his origins is a hell of a lot weirder than what got reported in the newspapers.” He flipped open the manila folder and pulled out some eight by ten photos, which he laid out on the table in front of me.

It took me a second to figure out what I was looking at, and when I did, I felt like I was hurtling down the steepest roller coaster ever built. I must have turned several interesting, not-very-healthy colors, but Adam didn’t notice at first.

“Do you see anything unusual here?” he asked, with the nonchalance of a man who looked at pictures like these every day.

When I didn’t answer immediately, he looked up from the photos and saw my face. And he probably also saw how badly my hands were shaking as I gripped my coffee mug. He reached out and plucked the mug out of my hands before I dropped it, then hastily gathered up the pictures and shoved them back into the folder.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I forget sometimes that other people aren’t used to seeing things like that.”

I debated the alternatives of sprinting to the bathroom to puke my guts out versus staying at the table hoping I’d be able to keep my coffee down. The bathroom sprint was probably the wisest option, but stubbornness and a fierce desire not to look weak in front of Adam kept me in my chair. I swallowed convulsively a few times.

“So what was unusual?” I asked, my voice raspy and shaky. “Other than the fact that their internal organs weren’t internal anymore?” My gorge rose at the memory, but a couple more convulsive swallows forced it back down.

“Several things,” Adam answered. “For one, none of the four victims was wearing shoes. The bottoms of their feet were bruised and torn, and it wasn’t anything the demon had done to them. For another, they were all dressed identically, in nondescript scrubs.”

I was sure this was all fascinating information, and that there was a deep, profound meaning behind it all. But I was too busy fighting nausea to figure it out. “What’s your point?”

“This is just a hypothesis, and I could be wildly off base.”

“Okay.”

“But what if The Healing Circle isn’t the only demon-run hospital that’s more than meets the eye?”

In the process of investigating my own origins, we’d discovered that Dougal and Raphael had for centuries been involved in a kind of eugenics program, trying to breed the perfect demon host. Their definition of perfection being a superhuman body with the intelligence of a sea cucumber. My biological father had been an escapee from one of those programs, but now that Adam mentioned it, it seemed awfully naive to assume only one such secret laboratory existed. And Houston was the home of Haven Hospital, one of the more well-known demon-run hospitals.

“We have four unidentified victims, with no missing persons reports. Dressed in scrubs, no shoes, and with battered feet.”

“As if they’d been running away,” I mused.

“Exactly. So this ‘rogue’ demon was sent to chase them down.”

“And how close to Haven Hospital did the attack take place?”

“If you could have looked past the gore of the pictures, you’d have seen the hospital in the background of some of them. They didn’t get more than a couple of blocks before they were caught. The demon took out the adults first, probably assuming a three-year-old kid wouldn’t get far on its own. According to the papers and to Tommy’s MySpace page, the demon was trying to kill him. But I suspect the truth is the demon would have hauled him back to the hospital.”

I shuddered. “Unless this was another of those reject strains that the demons decided to destroy.” Raphael himself had given the order to kill off my father’s strain—and it was my father’s escape from that purge that led to my birth.

“I suppose that’s possible. Either way, the kid was rescued and got lost in the foster care system, until he decided to post his story on the Internet.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “And the fact that he remembers enough to post that story makes the demons behind the project nervous, so they … What? How do they get him to agree to host? Did you watch his registration video?”

“Yeah. There’s nothing to indicate any coercion. No signs of nervousness or reluctance. No furtive looks, body language completely relaxed.”

“So Claudia must be right. He
has
to have been possessed when he signed the papers.” I shook my head. “You know Sammy Cho. Can you imagine him lying about something like this? Even if he
tried
to lie, he’s bound to suck at it.”

Adam nodded. “You’re right,” he said, but he was frowning.

“What?” I asked.

“If someone in Dougal’s camp wanted Tommy Brewster bad enough, they could have arranged for Sammy to be possessed. Then he’d be both willing and able to lie.”

I chewed that one over. It would certainly work, but it was awfully risky. There are rarely enough demon-host-wannabes to require more than one exorcist at a time to do aura screenings, but it
did
happen sometimes, and if another exorcist got a look at Sammy’s aura—or if Sammy started avoiding multiple screenings to a suspicious extent—the demon could be in serious trouble.

“I’ll try to drop by Sammy’s office,” Adam said. “Given a few minutes with him, I should be able to figure out if he’s possessed.”

I nodded my agreement. When I had first contacted Adam about my own unwanted hitchhiker, he’d examined my aura, trying to find out if he could “see” Lugh. Unlike a human exorcist, he didn’t need a fancy ritual or a trance to see auras—he could do it with the touch of a hand and a few seconds of concentration.

With a very unhappy internal groan, I realized I knew who else we needed to talk to in search of explanations. I met Adam’s eyes, and saw that he’d come to the same conclusion.

“If you’d like,” he said with uncommon kindness, “I’ll talk to Raphael myself.”

I really wished I could take him up on the offer. The last thing I wanted to do was to talk to the scum-sucking demon who held my brother hostage. Aside from my fury for what he’d done to Andy, I also didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. He claimed to be on Lugh’s side, to want to put Lugh back on the throne where he belonged, but I still wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t betrayed us to Der Jäger.

“Thanks,” I said, and for once I actually meant it. “I appreciate the offer, but he’s slightly more likely to tell
me
the truth than you.” Only if he was telling the truth about being on our side in the first place, and only if he really respected Lugh as much as he claimed, but we might as well make that assumption if we were planning to question him.

“Let me know what you find out.” Adam gulped the last of his coffee. “And I’m really sorry about the crime scene photos. I should have known better than to show them to you.”

I gave him a suspicious look. It wasn’t like him to be this nice, or this conciliatory. He might not hate me, but he really didn’t like me. Perhaps he’d known better than to show them to me, but had shown them anyway, out of spite. “Didn’t your host warn you not to show graphic crime scene photos to a civilian?” I asked, and I’m sure he heard the undertone of suspicion in my voice.

The sudden hard glint in Adam’s eyes told me he’d heard it, all right. “No. He’s as inured to them as I am.” He grimaced. “And he asks me to extend his apologies as well.”

I had met Adam’s host during a brief time when Adam had transferred—most illegally—into Dominic to heal what would have been a fatal gunshot wound. I barely knew the human Adam, but I suspected he and the demon Adam were more alike than not.

“Tell him I accept his apology.”

Adam gave me one of those creepy stares of his. I’m sure he hadn’t missed the fact that I’d never actually accepted his own apology. But he didn’t call me on it. Instead, he shoved the manila folder with its ugly photos into the backpack, then left without saying good-bye.