Accidentally Demonic (30 page)

“No, Casey. It was circumstance that ruined my chances—not you.”

“So what are the chances you’ll ever be able to find this shaman again?”

“I’ve had Darnell on the lookout for some time, but he can’t get a line on anything. No solid leads.”

“Okay, so here’s another question. If being mated to Hildegard has sucked hairy balls, why didn’t you just end it all like you wanted to in the first place? You know, have a friend stake you—hit the beach at high noon?”

His eyes didn’t waver, but his face grew softer, a contrast to his next statement. “As foolish and vengeful as this sounds, it became about beating Hildegard at her own game.”

Men. Win at all costs. “So you’ve stayed mated to her all this time, never had another relationship, can’t, you know, get jiggy with anyone—well, besides me now—all just to spite her?”

“Everything’s so much clearer now.”

Rolling her eyes, Casey scoffed. “I’m just talking this out. I’m a mere ex-human, feeling her way around in the dark closet of the paranormal. You guys have some absolutely mind-boggling rules and regulations. I’m just trying to understand. So here we are.”

“Here we are.”

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” he said on a grin.

“You do so. With that in mind, I’m just going to say it. Since you’ve been mated to Hildegard, have you, you know, exercised your marital rights?”

Finally, his eyes met hers. “Nope.”

Holy celibate. “You mean, you and—and—”

“Hildegard and I have never consummated a physical relationship. Only the one etched in blood. Close your mouth, and be careful with those needles. I wouldn’t want you to poke yourself with one.”

Squeeeeeeeee! “So last night . . .”

“Was a long time since 1298. Or maybe it was 1295. I can’t remember when I last engaged in the art of the humpty-hump.”

“But that’s centuries. . . .”

“Again, your talent for stark realism astounds me.”

“That you haven’t killed Hildegard astounds me.”

His look was pointed. “It wasn’t for lack of at least trying to be free of her. Besides, our clan has a strict policy about violence unless it’s warranted. Unfair acts of mating don’t qualify. And I didn’t necessarily want her expunged, just gone. But she’s always with me.”

“With you? You mean that metaphorically, don’t you? And I only ask because this kooky gig has some pretty strange nuances.”

“No, this kooky gig means it’s literal. When you’re mated by blood, you can always sense your mate. Sometimes it takes time to develop, but I can always feel Hildegard with me.”

Her mouth fell open again.

“Your mouth’s open again.”

She snapped it shut. “Explain
feel.
. . .”

“I can feel her presence, and sometimes her emotions.”

“Ah, well, that explains everything. Now I know why you’re always so cranky when it comes to the topic of Hildegard. Your cranky plus hers is cranky-palooza. So I guess that explains how you knew I was having trouble with the guy in the coffee shop?”

“Yep, and I should have suspected then that this went deeper than just you sharing some blood with Hildegard.”

“So you don’t just have one woman on your back, but counting me, two?”

“They say there’s strength in numbers,” was his flippant reply, riddled with sarcasm.

Hold up, now. How dare he make her seem like the burden here? How dare he be so fucking put upon—like she was anything even remotely like Hildegard. Okay, so she was similar in that she wanted to slam him until his brains fell out of his head—but that was where the similarities stopped and the hinky reigned free. And if need be, she could control those urges, and she sure as fuck wasn’t going to trick him, then stalk the living shit out of him so she could drink from him once a year. . . .

Uh, whoa—if she had Hildegard’s DNA, that meant she was in the same predicament Hildegard was in. If she didn’t want to end up in Hell, she’d have to drink from Clay—which made her far too much like Hildegard to stomach. Oh, the hell she’d be beholden to some man because he had what she needed.

But that meant . . . ding-dong—Hell calling.

And after all that, he had the clangers to make her feel as though she’d only added to his burden because of what
he’d
done?

Uh, no.

Casey dropped her knitting and popped up from the couch. “You know what? I don’t much like your tone. I didn’t do this—
you did
. I didn’t sack myself with another woman—you did. And to even hint I’m anything like that spiteful, twisted, blond horror show makes me want to pull your fangs out with—”

She was silenced—quite rudely, and definitely before she was done reading Clay the riot act.

But there were other things to attend to.

Like the cloud of red dust swirling around her.

And the hand on her mouth.

And the skin-blistering heat.

Jesus, she hated the heat.

CHAPTER 14

All righty, then.

Turned out, everything Sister Theresa had said was true.

Hell was hot.

Which meant a condo in Boca was out for retirement.

“Ya got yourself in a fine mess, eh?”

Casey whipped around, her bangs plastered to her forehead, her tight jeans and sweater clinging to her in sticky discomfort. The next time she wanted to impress a guy, it was going to be with loose clothing.

A man, graceful and slender, sauntered into the room, wearing a billowy T-shirt and brightly printed Bermuda shorts. The clack of his flip-flopped feet echoed in her ears, his long braids swayed with an invisible gust of hot air. “Who are you, and am I where I think I am?” Casey looked around in disbelief—not only was it butt-fuck hot, the air was filled with desperation, a helpless vibe that gripped the marrow of her very bones. It seeped from every surface of the room, spilling from the pores of the walls, suffocating her.

His laughter startled her, jarring and distorted. “Ya, mon. You where you tink you are. Where you be for eternity if you don figure dis out.”

Figure it out? Who the fuck could figure anything out in this heat? Shoving a hand into her matted hair, Casey pushed it out of her face with an impatient hand. “Figure
what
out? Who are you and what could you possibly want from me?”
And make it snappy before
puddle
and
grease
become synonymous with my name.

He winked a large brown eye playfully. “One of you has to go. Dat mean you need ta find da key.”

Or an air conditioner. Fuckall, she really hated the heat. “The key? Look, I’m not sure what this is about. . . .” And then it hit her. He must be another one of Hildegard’s flunkies—and enough was enough, already. First the fake Rick, now this weird version of Jamaica gone wild. A spike of irritation followed her next question, complete with language she thought only Nina was capable of. “Do you know that fuck- nut Hildegard? Have we knocked each other around on some sheets with something called a Bendy Bob?”

She’d caught him off guard, his look of confusion said as much.

Fear spiked. “Okay, so did Hildegard send you? Because I’m really okay with telling you that it’s the weenie way to do things. It’s like the head cheerleader, sending all the other cheerleaders to beat up the class dork for her or something. And if you
are
here because of Hildegard, give her a message for me, would ya? Tell her Casey said—I went buck-wild all up and down her man, and but good, sistah.” Frowning at her bold statement, she wanted to regret speaking so crassly, should regret it. Yet, 90 percent of her thought—
fuck. That.
It was Africa hot here—there was bound to be a certain amount of cranky.

He shook a finger in her direction, backing her up against a wall that shifted in a bulky, gooey mass, billowing in and out, emitting low groaning moans. His accent, thick at times, changed and was disturbingly clear when he said, “You betta watch your sass and focus on da ting you need to fix dis.”

Moving in closer to her, Casey held her body very still, keeping her gaze on par with his in enraged defiance. The walls groaned again, then began to mingle with pitiful wails, soaring and screeching in her ears. His body, pushing her against the wall that now swarmed, bulging and hot, pissed her off. “Look, Mr. Tallyman—how about we quit dickin’ around and you get to the point so I can go back home and you can get to those bananas. What
the fuck
am I fixing?”

Drawing a finger under her chin, he walked it up along her jaw and to the corner of her mouth. His eyes glowed red, spearing her to the wall. “Do you wanna be here foreva?”

She bit his finger—hard, but it only made him chuckle. “You got da spirit. I like dat.”

Lifting her chin up and away from him, Casey bowed her spine, trying to avoid the wall and touching this man. “What do you mean by forever?”

With a roll of her eyes, she sighed. She’d just gone ten rounds with a man who spoke in one-word statements that answered next to nothing and made about as much sense as electing a Kardashian for president. Her eyes narrowed, her fingers twitched, her head tingled. Hacked off and Casey were about to become one. “Get—to—the—fucking—point.”

“If you don wanna be here foreva, you gotta do sometin’ ’bout it.”

Running her tongue across her bottom lip, she cracked her neck. “Like?”

“Like get rid of Hildegard. There’s more at stake dan just Clayton.”

Those balls she seemed to acquire when reason took a backseat to her fury grew. Invisibly swishing between her thighs. “Who
are
you?”

“Das not for you to know. Jus know, you don know everyting.”

This had become like a bad episode of
Unsolved Mysteries
, and she was beginning to lose control of the manners she’d once so prided herself on. She gave him a hard shove, pushing him from her personal space. Her hands ached when she clasped them together to keep from placing them around his neck. If she could get some information from him that made any sense at all, it wouldn’t behoove her to get it while she slung fireballs and in general did the exorcist thing. If there was some way she could help Clay—help herself—then by fuck, she wanted to know. The fight for calm was on. But it was becoming a monumental task to hold it together.Yet she gave it another shot. Her teeth stung from gritting them when she asked, “What’s at stake?”

“Where’s da fun if I tell you dat? All you gotta know is Clay knows what I say, and so does someone around him. Ask him, why don’t ya?” He smiled then, sly with a secret only he had the answers to. Like they were playing a game of Clue, and she had to find the answer to who killed the maid in the wine cellar.

And it was the last thread of the very tenuous rope she swung from. “You motherfucking piece of shit! I said—tell me what you
knowwwww
!” she shrieked, lifting her hands high in the air, aiming for his head and launching a fireball.

Unfortunately, he was way better at ducking than Clay was. It crashed against the wall behind him, splattering and spewing hot sparks. If he was at all afraid, it didn’t show by the way he shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts and raised his eyebrow. Rather like he was asking if that was the best she could do.

So yeah, that made her crazier. His superiority chewed its way through every nerve ending in her body, raking at her overheated flesh like claws. A cry of utter frustration, total, full- on fury, exploded from her lips. Gasping from her escalating rage, the air that filled her lungs made her choke. It was thick and had a bitter taste like the noxious, gaseous scent of rotten eggs.

“Listen up! It’s fucking hot here. I hate the goddamned heat. If you don’t tell me what you mean, I swear by all that’s Kentucky fried, I’m going to wail you with a fireball the size of a meteor!”

Her impassioned threat didn’t faze him—not one itty-bitty bit. Because the son of a bloody bitch laughed again—this time with hearty abandon.

Something inside her broke free—tearing away and revealing a dark, dark door she couldn’t seem to keep from entering. Nay, instead she ripped through it, skipping and screaming.

Raising her hands shoulder level, she let ’er rip, lobbing off a slew of fireballs, letting them shower the room like rain. They shot from her fingertips like baseballs from a pitching machine. Eyes that had once been clouded by sweat now were glazed with the desire for vengeance, sweet and tangy. A long, whistling howl erupted from her mouth as her feet lifted off the ground, leaving her a vantage point from high above whoever this man was.

If he wouldn’t tell her what she wanted to know—all she could think about was making him tell her—twisting the information out of him until his eyes bulged and his breathing became staggered. She’d haul him up by his colorfully beaded braids and shake it out of him until he was left limp.

And that was when the vermin appeared.

Rats, fat and slick- haired, scattered in a million different directions, squealing and squeaking on the floor below her.

Wow. She’d summoned pestilence. If only Darnell could see her now.

Day-o.

While patting herself on the back she, of course, lost her focus and crashed to the floor below.

The very last thing she heard was the demon’s freakish laughter and the words, “De servant always knows.”

 

 

“CASEY? Casey—wake up!”

The rough demand rudely invaded her eardrums, but her body wouldn’t cooperate with the command. It was buttery soft and lifeless, and after what had just gone down—it might be better to play dead. Or at least unconscious.

His tone was edged with a hint of panic. “Casey—c’mon. Wake up, honey.”

Honey?

Heh.

It sounded like Clay, but then, the demon the other night had looked just like Rick. Her nose caught a whiff of Clay’s cologne, leaving her almost reassured—but not totally.