Devil's Punch (Corine Solomon #4)

Devil's Punch (Corine Solomon #4) Page 18

We fell together onto the bed, and he wrapped his arms around me. Fast and frantic, I came over him and worked to a quick finish against his trembling thigh. He petted my back with clumsy hands, his eyes dazed. His lashes fluttered toward his cheeks. Once, twice. I’d never seen him so utterly undone.

This Chance could destroy me. And he was irresistible.

By the time Greydusk came back, we had tidied up, Butch was done eating and taking his stroll around the patio, and I was decently covered in Chance’s shirt.

The demon paused on the threshold, sniffed, and sighed. “It reeks of copulation in here.”

Fire washed my cheeks. “Hi to you too.”

“I suppose one must be thankful you have one another with whom to sate these urges. It would be disastrous if you succumbed to a Luren. Gilder or Lash, for instance.”

“Disastrous for whom?”

“Everyone. If you take any native as your lover, you make him—or her—your consort here in Sheol, should you ascend.”

“Anyone who tries to touch her comes through me,” Chance bit out. “I need better weapons, demon.”

His eyes were scary-fierce, primal in intensity; I’d seen the last of my hypercontrolled, calculating ex. That genie was out of the bottle for good. I suspected he’d always had these tendencies, carefully leashed, but something in Sheol—demon magick maybe—seemed to draw it out of him. Neither of us might be entirely ourselves, but I didn’t regret what we’d done. Not when I felt so good.

Greydusk studied us for a moment longer and then shook its head. “I was afraid of this.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You’ve chosen him as your consort. That will affect his thinking. He can’t help but respond to the ancient magick.”

“Is there anything I can do to stop it?” I asked.

“No. Once chosen, the consort belongs to the queen until death.”

“But I’m not the queen.”

“Near enough.” Greydusk thrust a package toward me. “Clothing for both of you. I’ll wait in the next room.” It turned with precision for such long limbs and went out.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Chance answered in reflex, and then he gazed at his curled fist as if surprised. “No. I’m not. Tell me you’re mine. To guard and keep and protect. Please.” The last word came from him on a pained groan.

I sensed it wasn’t the time for questions or exceptions. Quietly worried, I took his hands in mine, stilling them. Unfurling the tight fingers. “I’m yours.”

A heavy sigh slid out of him. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This place fucks with my head.”

Just like Greydusk warned.

“I know. But we have a week to find Shannon and get out. I’ll keep you safe if you do the same for me.”

“I promise,” he whispered.

Dark City

Before we left, Greydusk took us to the armory.

The guards at either side of the door were beautiful, like all Luren, but at this point, the effect was starting to wear off. I imagined our sojourn here was sort of like a supermodel convention. At first you’re totally overwhelmed by the sheer amount of physical perfection surrounding you, and then slowly you build up immunity. You started wondering if any of them could sing or hold a decent conversation. And these demons looked like the answer was no to both questions; their eyes were pretty blank.

They let us pass because they had orders not to impede us, I supposed, or maybe Greydusk had some pull. Either way, I stood marveling at the range of weapons—not that I knew how to use any of them. But Chance was in his element. He tested several blades before choosing a set of gloves that glimmered faintly with magick. Since he usually fought bare-handed, the gloves would help. They weighted his blows with knuckle guards, and I was sure the spell would make his strikes more effective.

“Can you tell what these do?” he asked the demon.

Greydusk took them and whispered in demontongue. In response, the gloves spat fire and then ice. How cool.

“They augment your strikes with elemental strength. There are two effects on the gloves, but you choose which to use with a command word. Only one can be active at a time.” The demon set the gloves down, and then whispered to Chance, I guessed to prevent activating the magic.

“I don’t need a weapon,” I said.

“Perhaps not. But what about an athame?”

Those generally weren’t used for stabbing or fighting; they were ceremonial blades used in rituals, though some witches kept them sharp in case a spell called for a small blood sacrifice. I had the one I’d purchased in Laredo, but one from Sheol might help with my casting. It might also come with a price.

“Will it show in the human realm if I cast spells here?”

Greydusk cocked its head. “You mean will it be evident you’ve been using demon magick?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course, Binder. The only energy you can access at this time belongs to us—and you shape it through your father’s lineage.”

“Wait—so I’m casting my mother’s spells via dear old Dad?”

“Essentially, yes.”

Crazy. But it was also making a mess of my halo. By the time I got out of here, the other practitioners in Mexico City would put me on the Most Wanted List. I shoved that worry aside and joined the demon where it stood before a polished, lacquered shelf. Blue velvet sheathed this athame; it was carved of smooth obsidian with ominous sigils etched all the way down the blade. The handle shone like sanded bone—I hoped it was ivory—and the symbols circled the hilt as well, which was banded in shining platinum. The whole knife looked old, well preserved, and priceless; it was also razor sharp.

“Sybella would allow me to take this?”

“Perhaps allow is the wrong word,” Greydusk said.

I grinned. “She doesn’t even know we’re in here, does she?”

“Not as such. She did not expressly forbid it, however.”

Which just went to prove how careful one had to be in dealing with demons. If they did this to each other, imagine how much more thoroughly they could screw humans, who weren’t used to crossing all the t’s and dotting all the i’s in a verbal agreement. I resolved to be on my guard.

Before I could talk myself out of it, considering the damage I might do to my spirit, I forced myself to think of Shannon. If this magical athame could help me save her, I couldn’t afford to be squeamish. It would be selfish not to grasp every advantage. And that brought me right back to making evil choices for the right reasons. Stomach churning with dread, I snatched the artifact off the shelf. It seemed to nuzzle into my palm, not exactly a movement, but a vibration, eerily in sync with my heartbeat.

“The more you use it,” Greydusk told me, “the more it will attune to you, and the more powerful your spells will become.”

“I wonder why the magick still hurts here, if it’s different than the energy I use in the other world.” The human one. Which was already starting to feel far away.

I didn’t ask in expectation of an answer, more musing aloud, but Greydusk gave it real thought. “Since I don’t know why it hurts you to cast, I can’t be sure, but I’d speculate it’s because those channels—neural pathways—are already cut.”

“What’s done cannot be undone,” Chance murmured, easing into his gloves.

Between the gauntlets and the black clothing he’d donned earlier, he looked like a beautiful enforcer, capable of the most delicious mayhem. Before, I’d always thought him elegant, not brutish, but his expression held traces of the latter. He wanted to hurt someone, and I wasn’t sure why.

It’s Sheol, a small voice whispered. It’s turning him. He doesn’t belong here.

This sounded like the same person who had explained about Sybella’s motives. Who are you? I asked. But the voice didn’t reply. Maybe I was going crazy.

With nod at Greydusk to acknowledge the explanation, which made as much sense as anything, I tucked the athame into the back of my pants. Fortunately, my clothing was nondescript, black as well, which—along with brown—lower-ranked demons wore a lot. Darker colors didn’t show dirt and blood.

And that ought to indicate just how I foresaw the day going.

Greydusk led us unerringly to the exit, and true to Sybella’s word, her people did not interfere. I wouldn’t come back here before my week was out. There must be someplace safe for us to hole up while we searched for Shannon. I’m sure the Luren knight expected us to make use of her lavish hospitality, but I preferred staying out of her reach as much as possible.

Sometimes I sensed eyes on us, though. We were definitely being watched. I whispered to Greydusk, “Can you lose her spies?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Outside the Luren compound, my tension eased a little. The whole way I’d thought Gilder or Lash would pop out to restrict our passage or to scream “THIEF.” They hadn’t. At least we’d cleared the first hurdle.

Our demon guide chose the most circuitous path I’d ever seen, applying itself to my instructions. Soon, I was hopelessly lost—and so were our pursuers. I hoped. Traffic teemed around us. In this way, it was a city like any other. But the citizens—they were strange and shocking. I didn’t let my eyes linger long, as staring had to be rude even in Sheol. Oddities gnawed at my senses, reminding me forcibly just how far from home we were.

As if he sensed my unease, Chance twined his fingers with mine. “Where to?”

At first I thought he was asking me, but then I saw his gaze fixed on Greydusk. Who set the pace as it considered. I had no resources here, except the Imaron’s knowledge and willingness to help. Some queen. But as Kel had told me, the mark of strong leadership wasn’t the ability to do everything yourself; it was being capable of recruiting key personnel, and I was doing okay for my first day on the job.

“You could probably tell us,” I said, as the idea struck me.

Chance’s expression brightened. “You want me to turn my luck to it?”

“If you can.” He’d managed it in the tunnel, but we were in the city, surrounded by demon magick. In Kilmer, due to the demon magick that sealed the rest of the town away from reality, Chance had trouble with his luck. That shouldn’t be the case here, though, unless those who took Shannon had known to shield her. Since Chance’s ability wasn’t one I’d encountered before, it was safe to guess they wouldn’t have planned for him.

“I’ll try.”

The air crackled with power, and he closed his eyes. Greydusk watched with apparent fascination as Chance spun in place. It took several moments, but he eventually said, “That way, pretty far, I think.”

“Still in the city?” the demon asked.

Chance shrugged. “How would I know?”

“What’s the fastest way to travel?” I asked.

Please tell me it’s not that Klothod-fueled carriage.

In reply, Greydusk summoned something like a pedicab, but it was pulled by a hulking, red-skinned demon. I noted the resemblance between this cabbie and Caim, which made it Hazo caste, lower in rank than the knight.