Through a Crimson Veil (9 page)

He hooked his towel around his neck, and hanging on to the ends with his hands, he considered her. “Your actions were nothing like what that bastard did.” His voice was even, unemotional, but he couldn’t quite contain the glow of his eyes. “Even if you kept pushing until I didn’t care about anything but jumping you, it wouldn’t be the same thing. You were teasing me, trying to make
me
take action.” Conor looked away. “He restrained her, used force to take what he wanted.”

Mika traced designs on her thigh with her index finger. She knew this was a volatile subject, one she should probably leave alone, but she had questions. “Who called him out of Orcus?”

“What?” The word was a warning. Too bad she’d never been good about heeding them.

“The veil keeps demons inside unless someone calls them forth. Who summoned your father?”

Conor didn’t reply, but the tense silence told a story.

Leave it alone
, Mika thought. But she didn’t pay attention to her own suggestion. “Why did your mother invoke his presence?”

Conor’s expression became more forbidding, and his body was so tense that he nearly vibrated. Mika didn’t say anything, although she had a comment or two she was dying to make about the fact that his mother had shared any of this with him. Maybe she was wrong, but she didn’t think it served any purpose to tell a child he was conceived through rape. It had colored McCabe’s view of what he was, had made him hate the part of himself that was Kiverian.

When he spoke, his tone was as tight as the rest of him. “She was a college kid dabbling in rauthima.”

Mika was shocked into momentary silence. Was he aware of what his answer revealed? “Women who practice rauthima only call demons forward for one reason.”

“I know that,” he snarled. “She changed her mind.”

Okay, Mika decided, it was definitely time to shut up. She was ignorant of what had happened and it was unlikely that Conor knew the full story either. But his existence proved the vishtau had been in play between his mother and father—he wouldn’t have been conceived if it hadn’t—and that would have complicated an already charged situation.

Rauthima was practiced by a very small group of women who had some magical ability. They believed their powers increased if they had sex with a demon, and while not every member of the cult had the ability to perform a summoning, a majority did. This sect had never been wellknown in the Overworld, but they were notorious in Orcus—and reviled. There was nothing a demon hated more than having their freedom stolen from them, and the ritual these women used to call them forth did exactly that.

Mika grimaced. The rauthima summoning was a random call, but it ensured that the male who appeared wasn’t just ready for sex, but was aroused to a frenzy. Then, as soon as he finished his orgasm, he was returned to the Other World without even a minute to clear his thoughts or speak to his summoner.

Conor’s mother, however, hadn’t pulled just any demon. Against all odds, she’d somehow managed to call forward a male with whom she shared the vishtau, and that bond would mean
overwhelming
sexual desire. A human woman, especially a young one, could easily be frightened enough not to feel that need, but a Kiverian male who was already whipped up to the point of mindless coupling would immediately be aware of it.

Ugly was probably too mild a word for what had happened.

Conor should never have paid the price for the circumstances of his birth. But he had. That was obvious.

Mika leaned over and kissed his shoulder, before resting her cheek there. “You’re not to blame for anything that
happened before you were born,” she said quietly. He stiffened and she kissed him again. “Nothing is your fault,” she added.

“Leave it alone, Mika,” he replied. His voice held a thread of weariness.

With a sigh, she did leave it alone, but Conor was
her
vishtau mate and she wanted to heal the damage that had been inflicted so many years ago. She shifted until her body rested against his, and enveloped him in a loose embrace. If anyone needed physical comfort, it was Conor McCabe. When he relaxed into her, wrapped his big arms around her, Mika knew she’d been right.

Somehow during this conversation, there’d been another shift in their relationship. He’d reached something inside her, and now his needs were as important as her own. This was
so
not good. In the end, she’d hurt him; there was no doubt about it. As much as she might wish otherwise, she couldn’t abandon her mission. The Council had insisted she give them her promise to retrieve the spell from McCabe no matter what. And
a demon would die before going back on her word.

She couldn’t break her oath and lose her powers; they were too much a part of her. But it was more than that. The idea of going back on her word was repellent. The only loophole she had was if Conor didn’t have the incantation. But her instincts said he did.

Mika kissed his shoulder again, a silent apology for her imminent betrayal. “Did I tell you that I have a cousin who lives near Crimson City?”

She was almost being honest; three hundred and fifty miles was fairly close. But she felt sick over the falsehood anyway. Why did things always have to become so complicated?

“Actually, she’s more like a little sister to me,” she continued. “After her mother became ill, she lived with my dad and me for a while.” This part was true. “When I’m
safe from the demon that’s after me, I’m going to see her. That’s number one on my list.”

“You’ll see her soon, Mika,” Conor said. His arm tightened around her shoulders. “I promise you that.”

“Thanks. I’m sure I will.” Mika added a silent thank-you that he hadn’t asked why she was bringing her cousin up out of the blue. She’d blurted the information instead of transitioning smoothly, but maybe he thought talking about his mother had made her think of her family.

This was enough of seriousness, she decided, enough of regret and angst; it was time to shake, rattle and roll his world. She turned so that she could put her mouth against his ear. “McCabe,” she said in a voice just above a whisper, “I came three times in the shower and I still ache for you. Just so you know.”

Then she hopped off the weight bench, shot him a grin and escaped before he could recover.

Conor wanted to take someone’s head off. Thanks to Mika, he’d never be able to walk into his bathroom again without thinking of her. Of her body, long and lean, pressed against the shower wall. Of her soft mouth open, her chest heaving as she gulped at the air, feeling the water play over her—

“Damn it,” he said, stopping his thoughts.

A breeze tugged at his open jean jacket, which he pulled back into place. It wasn’t cool outside, but the garment hid the weapons he carried. Not that he needed them. He could take out most anything without the aid of a gun or blade. A vampire moved close and Conor eyed him with anticipation, but the creature obviously meant to try nothing.

“Chickenshit,” Conor muttered. Who cared that his eyes were probably glowing red enough to show through his contact lenses? He was spoiling for a fight. The streets were full, but everyone was giving him a wide berth. Did they all have to show common sense tonight?

It didn’t help that he was picturing Mika wet and naked
beneath him. Shit, how he wanted her. And the damn thing was, he’d had his chance. Mika wouldn’t have said no. He snarled at a hooker who minced toward him, and the woman immediately pivoted and returned to her spot against the side of the building.

It was late, but this part of Crimson City still buzzed. Tourists mixed with vampires and werewolves, and he bet more than half the humans were unaware of with whom—or what—they were mingling. Stores were open, selling anything and everything at exorbitant rates. Their big, brightly lit signs competed with the skywriters beaming advertising to the masses. Cars cruised slowly up and down the boulevard; some of whose occupants were looking for a parking spot, others for a quick blowjob.

This was a bad area, a seedy area, but no one seemed to care, or to worry about their safety. The tourists were too busy oohing and ahhing over the stars embedded in the sidewalk, and that made them ripe targets. But tonight, they weren’t Conor’s problem.

He’d parked more than a mile away from the bar, hoping he could walk off some of his excess energy, but it hadn’t helped. Conor knew he had to get his head on straight before he reached Hole in the Wall to meet his contact. The way he felt right now, all it would take was someone bumping into him to set him off, and that could cause repercussions he wouldn’t want to face—even in his present mood.

Mika Noguchi. A week ago—hell, three days ago—he hadn’t known she existed; now he couldn’t think of anything but her. If he’d ever been this obsessed with a woman, he couldn’t remember it. Everything about her appealed to him, and he didn’t even care that she was half demon. What the hell; so was he. She’d teased him, taunted him, pushed him, talked with him—she’d even risked her life believing that she protected him.

And she’d stood down for him.

That’s what hit him the hardest. Mika had apparently cared enough to stop goading him this afternoon. His control had been hanging by a thread and she’d known it. One more touch and he’d have had her on her back. He would have been on top of her, inside of her, before she could blink. The monster that lived within him had been screaming for her flesh, straining to join with her.

She hadn’t been frightened, but he had.

Conor wasn’t sure if anything could scare Mika. The closest he’d seen was when she’d caught him holding her panties. As he’d pressed her into the wall, there’d been a flash of wariness—not fear, not even then—but she’d dropped her gaze, stopped challenging him. And that had shaken him enough to drive the Kiverian back inside its cage. He didn’t want her to ever be submissive with him. No, he liked her daring him, glaring into his eyes, invading his space, and yeah, even laughing at him, tempting him, provoking him…

He swerved around three women who’d stopped short and began shrieking over the name on one of the stars. Mika would have gotten a kick out of this. Too bad he’d had to leave her home, but until he figured out just who the hell was after her and neutralized the threat, it wasn’t safe for her to leave his protection.

Yet
she
was worried about
him.

The knowledge gave him a strange warmth. No one had ever been concerned over his well-being, not even as a child. But Mika cared; she’d fussed over him as he’d gotten ready to leave. Conor wiped a hand across his mouth, trying to get rid of his smile. Either she was the best thing that had ever happened to him or the worst. He wasn’t sure which.

Demons lied, he reminded himself. She might only be pretending to be troubled by the attack on him. Ben, his former mentor, had told him repeatedly to never trust anyone until they’d demonstrated their integrity beyond a
shadow of a doubt—and even then, he’d said to beware. Mika hadn’t proven a damn thing yet. Even if she had dived forward to save his life.

It could have been a selfish act, since he was her defender. Maybe she’d thought that by protecting him, she was protecting herself. That could be why she was worried about him leaving the house.

He’d nearly slipped. The urge to reassure Mika had been so strong, he’d started to tell her that he could defend himself against such a threat. Luckily, he’d stopped himself in time. She’d become suspicious when he used the word
assassin;
his explanation would have made her even more so.

Conor sighed silently. He wanted to question her, since she obviously knew things about the demon who’d tried to take him out, but he wasn’t sure how to ask without tipping her off. Somehow, he had to find a way. Mika lived in Orcus; he might never have access to such valuable firsthand information again.

As he left the tourists behind, the crowds on the sidewalk thinned and part of Conor relaxed. Too many people left him tense, edgy. He’d always wondered if that was a demonic trait or a personal one, but there’d never been anyone to get answers from. Until now.

The lighting grew more sporadic, the lamps fewer and farther between, and he became more at ease. He’d always felt at home in the darkness, and that
was
a demon thing.

Conor paused and took a deep breath. He had a better handle on his frustration now. It continued to simmer in the background, but it wasn’t clawing at him, not at this moment. Of course, it helped that Mika was miles away.

Taking another deep breath, he studied the area. He was a couple of blocks from the bar, but he had plenty of time before he’d arranged to meet his contact. Ben had told him years ago that nothing happened in Crimson City that Nat didn’t know about, and Conor had always found that to be true. If Nat couldn’t provide a hint of what was after Mika, no one could.

Mika. Conor found himself reaching beneath his jacket for his comm unit and stopped. Damn, he had it bad. Calling just because he hadn’t heard her voice for an hour? Shaking his head, he let the denim settle back into place.

Conor took a few steps, then stiffened. He zeroed in on the energy sig, identified it. Rogue vampire. Something about the way it approached suggested an assault. At last, someone stupid enough to take him on. He suspected his grin was feral.

Come on, you son of a bitch, let’s go,
he thought.

He didn’t bother drawing a gun, and he had no plans to use energy blasts or fire; he was putting this one down bare-handed.

Mika yawned, bored already, and slipped the book back into place. She eyed the shelves and took a deep breath. Did McCabe really need so many damn references? After more than an hour of searching, she’d only made it a third of the way through the bottom shelf. It was a tedious task, since she had to check each volume carefully to make sure nothing was tucked inside.

If only she knew what format the spell was in, everything would be so much easier. Was it part of a grimoire? Was it written on a napkin and stuffed in some drawer? Even if the incantation had originally been part of a book, that didn’t mean it still was. All Conor needed was the words. It could even be on a memory stick slipped in his computer, but Mika didn’t think so. She knew her vishtau mate well enough to guess that he’d have it on paper. Somewhere.

She reached for the next dusty book and crossed her legs, cradling the ancient text in her lap. Her eyes drifted to the computer and she thought about checking her messages. Instead, she forced her eyes back to the tome in front of her. The members of the Council weren’t the most
patient of demons, and she’d be wise to accomplish as much as she could before they instructed their minion to meet her for a report.

With a loud sigh, she flipped open the book and started leafing through it. Some of her boredom vanished as she realized the text wasn’t English, but in something archaic. It was demonic, too. Where the hell had he found this?

Some instinct told her McCabe could read this book, and that intrigued her. How had he learned when he hadn’t grown up in Orcus? Even she had to concentrate to make sense of what she was looking at, and she’d received some education in the tongue.

Now that she had an idea of what she was perusing, it was easier to decipher the weird spellings and odd handwriting. Her training in the old language was incomplete, but she knew enough and could guess at the rest. Unless she was misinterpreting badly, this was a magic primer. But what she read reassured her—everything here was earthbased. She continued scanning anyway, just in case.

Mika was nearly at the end of the volume when she turned the page and found a sheet of paper. It was folded in half and she put the text on the floor to open it.

McCabe’s writing was easily recognizable after having gone through his desk last night. His boldness and assurance came through in each slash of the pen, but there was an immaturity in the way the letters were formed that made Mika think he’d written this when he was much younger.

The sight of instructions on how to kill a Kiverian dismayed but didn’t surprise Mika—Conor carried a lot of hate for his father. She found it easy to imagine a teenage boy intending to avenge his mother by killing the demon who’d sired him. McCabe hadn’t grown out of this desire, though—he still wanted his father dead.

With care, she refolded the paper and slipped it back into place. Conor talked about keeping his evil side caged, but Kiverians weren’t inherently monsters; they were simply
dark. It was easier for them to justify malevolent actions than it was for many other demons, but their course wasn’t preordained or anything.

Strangely, he’d put himself on the path he loathed. She’d told Conor she was worried about him, that he needed to learn to integrate his demon nature with his humanity. This proved she had cause for concern. If Conor murdered his father with the coldness and calculation his notes indicated, it would be his breaking point. She felt sure of that. He would become what he most hated, and there would be no way for him to contain it. By denying that part of himself, he’d guaranteed there was nothing to keep it in check should the worst happen. And with each action he took afterward, it would become easier and easier to ignore his conscience.

McCabe wouldn’t believe her if she told him this, though. He was so certain his self-control would hold no matter what.

Mika brought a hand up and rubbed her forehead. Somehow, before she left this world, she was going to have to help Conor learn to accept his nature and forgive his father. She dropped her arm and sighed. While she was at it, maybe she’d negotiate world peace too. That couldn’t be any harder.

He was ready when the attack came. The rogue’s first blow would have killed him—if Conor had been completely human. His grin widened. This might be an interesting fight after all.

He used his speed to avoid the second strike, sending his opponent flailing into space. A boot to the vampire’s ass sent the creature to the ground, but he rolled to his feet almost instantly. “You’re not human,” he said. “Not going to be so easy a lunch.”

“No shit,” Conor replied. “You gonna run like the coward you are, fang boy?”

It was the
coward
part that was the right button. Conor could see it in the vamp’s eyes, but the vampire didn’t move and Conor didn’t either.

“What are you?” the vampire asked.

Conor didn’t answer verbally. Instead, he sent an illusion into the vampire’s mind—one he knew would cause fear. Some demons could project imagery over their real bodies, but he’d never been able to do that. The best he could manage was to make one person think they were seeing something they weren’t.

In the deception, he shapeshifted into a being with large, leathery wings and black eyes that glowed red. He increased his size, making his body huge, and added fangs and claws. For the hell of it, Conor also covered his illusory form with dark, impenetrable scales. It was cliché demon, but going with the obvious worked best.

For a minute, he thought he’d laid it on too thick and that his opponent would run, but then the vampire gathered his courage. Conor watched him sail past. He sighed; the creature had tried to attack the illusion. He quit projecting—he wanted to work off some frustration, not watch an acrobatic act.

He got his wish.

The next attack came at full power. Conor used his forearm to block the strike and delivered a hard blow with the heel of his hand to the vampire’s throat. The two combatants broke off, circled, came at each other again.

Conor found his own momentum used against him as he went sailing over his foe’s shoulder. He rolled as he hit the ground and came immediately to his feet, but his attacker was there first, ready to land a punch. Conor grabbed the vampire by the arm, whirled him into the side of a building. The vamp’s shoulder hit the corner, but while Conor was able to bang him against the brick once, he couldn’t hold him there.

The creature hissed and dove at him. Conor went down,
the vampire atop him. With his hand at his enemy’s neck, he turned, getting on top, but it only lasted an instant before he was on his back again. Conor grunted as they rolled and he took a punch to his kidney.

Enough of this shit, he decided. He used his Kiverian strength to push the vamp back. The creature stumbled but didn’t fall. It didn’t matter. Conor was on his feet, ready for the next attack.

He blocked three blows in rapid succession before he delivered a roundhouse kick to the vamp’s chest. Conor moved closer, and used the ridge of his hand to strike his opponent. The vampire moved and Conor’s blow went off target. Damn.

With a quick whirl, Conor avoided a fist to his face and let loose with a front kick, leaving his attacker staggering. Conor ducked, avoiding another swing at his head, then used his demon strength to leap in the air and elude the foot aimed at his knee. He came down behind the vampire, and hit the side of the creature’s neck before grabbing an arm and twisting it. Conor drove the bastard’s head into a brick wall several times before the vampire broke away.

Then came the moment of truth: As he launched his next attack, the vampire left himself wide open. Conor pulled his arm back, then drove his hand into the creature’s chest and tore out the heart. Time seemed to hang suspended before his opponent fell to the ground.

It didn’t take long before a dead vamp turned to dust, but Conor didn’t feel like dealing with the remains for any amount of time. The same demon power he had that froze living things also worked in reverse—it speeded up physical processes. He directed that energy to the heart he held, turning it to powder. Then, crouching down, he touched the corpse and did the same thing.

At last Conor straightened, looked down at the pile of coarse particles on the sidewalk and tugged the sleeves of his jacket back to his wrists. That was the nice thing about
killing vampires—once they turned to dust, there was nothing to worry about.

A quick glance verified that there were no witnesses to the fight. Conor rolled his shoulders, easing the kinks. There were a few sore places, but nothing that wouldn’t heal in an hour or two, and the physical exertion had done a lot to work off his frustration. Taking a deep breath, Conor headed for the bar.

As he neared it, he slowed. Once, it might have been a neighborhood tavern, but those days were long past. The building’s red brick facade looked bleak, without even a splash of graffiti to add color. But then, the local gangs would think twice about irritating the owners and regulars of this establishment. Conor opened the heavy, wooden door and stepped inside.

Hole in the Wall was mostly a werewolf hangout, and the shadowy, almost nonexistent lighting made them feel at home. He paused, his eyes scanning all occupants. The place was mostly filled with the dogs, but Conor picked up the energy of the occasional vampire and human too. Not the brightest move to come here. Why chance catching the attention of this group of killers?

Aside from the dimness, there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that gave the place away as a hot spot for monsters; it could be any booze joint in America. The wooden floor was battered and scarred, booths ringed three walls of the building, and tables filled the open floor. Along the fourth wall was a long, highly polished bar with stools.

Satisfied that everything was normal, Conor began searching for his contact. Nat—no last name—wasn’t easy to spot, not even for a half-Kiverian hunter. It took two sweeps of the room, and even then Conor didn’t think he would have succeeded if the man hadn’t moved. Nat stepped out of a crowd waiting at the bar and, with a jerk of his head, signaled for Conor to follow.

The table the other man chose was in a corner at the back, somewhat secluded. Conor found it interesting how the best seat in the house remained open, but then Nat had that kind of luck. If the word
luck
applied.

The man was an enigma, someone Conor had never been able to pin down. For starters, he couldn’t read Nat’s energy signature and that was weird. Demons read
everyone’s
sig, even other types of demons, but this man’s pattern remained ambiguous. One moment Conor would pick up vampire energy, the next it would be werewolf or human or some type of demon. As many times as he’d met with Nat, Conor had never had a clear idea of what he was.

Even the man’s appearance was changeable. Tonight, his hair seemed to have reddish highlights, but at other meetings it had been totally dark. If Nat were human, his age could be anywhere between thirty and forty-five. If he wasn’t human, there was no way to guess. Conor knew one thing, though, his contact had the eyes of a predator; they were watchful, always taking in his surroundings. This was no innocent.

A waitress came over, and Conor ordered a beer then waited impatiently as Nat bantered with the woman. For someone so gregarious, it was strange the way he’d vanish. There were times when Conor searched high and low, times when he’d needed information badly but was unable to find a trace that Nat existed. On other occasions, the man practically flagged him down to pass on intel.

Everything about Nat raised questions, but his information was always one-hundred-percent accurate. Conor wasn’t going to risk alienating his informant by probing too closely. Not yet.

Finally the waitress left, and Nat turned to him. “So,” Nat said quietly. “What do you need, my friend?”

Conor quirked a brow. “Since when do you resort to bullshit,
my friend?
”

The corners of Nat’s lips turned up, but the expression was so slight, very few would have caught it. “As charming
as ever, McCabe. It’s a wonder you haven’t driven her off yet.”

Although he was careful to display no reaction, everything in Conor went still. “Her?” he asked.

“Your houseguest.”

Raising his other brow in question, Conor didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure what his informant was aware of, but he’d do nothing that might put Mika at greater risk. The fact that Nat knew about her strung Conor’s nerves tight—and made his demon side rage within him.

“Play dumb all you want,” Nat said, “but you didn’t sneak her into your house. Lots of people are aware of her presence.”

“People, or things?” Conor asked, tacitly admitting that Mika existed. His contact was right; he hadn’t brought her into his home covertly. Hell, he’d seen Mrs. Howell, his elderly next-door neighbor, peeking out her window.

Nat nearly smiled. “Both.”

The waitress returned, halting conversation. Conor stood, dug some bills out of the front pocket of his jeans and paid for the drinks. He added a generous tip, which earned him a smile of thanks, but the woman was enthralled by Nat. As Conor sat, waiting for the flirting to end, he opened his beer and took a swig. His source seemed to be in no hurry.

Mika was like a damn lightning rod. It shouldn’t surprise him that others noticed her. Her life, her vitality, shone from her, and even he found himself fascinated: He wanted to watch her, to be part of her orbit. Maybe all Mahsei were like her, but Conor doubted it. Mika was special.

He raised the bottle to his lips. If it were only sexual attraction, it would be easy. But it wasn’t. She had him engaged on so many different levels, he didn’t know which way was up. And he was beginning not to care.

Mika was half demon, half Japanese and complete trouble. Damn, if he didn’t want more of her brand of chaos.

A chuckle made him lower his beer back to the table and
focus on the man sitting across from him. “What has you so amused?” he snapped.

When Nat only shrugged, Conor scowled. He was willing to bet his preoccupation had been obvious, and Mika was a vulnerability he couldn’t afford. He might have faith in his contact’s info, but he didn’t know or trust the man.