Demon Chained (Shadowfae Chronicles) (30 page)

"I know you don't." He lets me go, and chill seeps into my arm where his fingers used to be. "Love me, I mean. Like me, even—"

"It's not that." I force my eyes open, make myself look into his face and talk like I should have done long ago, but words desert me and I'm stuck with stupid explanations that make no sense. "I should've said something ages ago. There's nothing wrong with you. I'm just no good for you."

"You are good for me." His ruby gaze holds steady, glimmering with pride, and he licks his finger and holds it out for me to see. A pink smear of his spit, no brown hellstain, no banshee blue. "All day. Look."

I open my mouth, and close it again, speechless. A day. He's clean for a day, and gives me the credit. Imagine if he went a day without getting beaten up. "That isn't me, princess. You've done that yourself."

He shakes his head, confident. "You make me better."

Wet hair plasters to his elegant cheek, and I want to brush it off, feel his skin under my fingertips again, let him know that even though I can't give him what he wants, he doesn't have to be afraid of me. Warmth steals over my heart, sneaky and indefatigable as a thief. I flush. And I thought woman troubles were difficult. "Gavain—"

"It's okay." He shifts closer, and his fever haunts my skin with memory. I'd forgotten how dark and sweet he smells, how his skin gleams in the night. I breathe in, cocoa and strawberries, and my senses strain, greedy. My blood's still alive, still flowing, and it burns me now. Touch me. One last time, so I know it's real.

He traces sharp claws over my bloody cheekbone. His lashes flutter closed, and my breath catches as he brushes his lips against mine. Slick, hot, taut. I grab his hair and hold him there, and for a precious few seconds we kiss, his tongue curling into me.

And then, he backs off, with a lost little sigh. He knows. And he accepts it, like he accepts everything else. "I'll be around."

"Sure." My voice rips apart in my throat. I don't know what else to say. I'm losing something I never knew I had, and my heart stings like poison. "Me too."

Tears shimmer in his eyes, tinted with blood. He tries a smile, but it's broken, along with his heart, for all I know. After a moment, he just gives a loose little shrug and flits away.

I blink away my own tears, and grip the lamp tighter. The warm, empty metal doesn't soothe me. Already hot dawn washes the gloom, and in the distance, magpies corkle. Soon, the sun will be up, along with my time.

I walk the last few steps to the door and push it open. It's heavy, and my fingers smear blood on the cool handle.

Inside, it's air-conditioned. My wounds sting afresh, poison nipping, and goosebumps shrink my skin as moisture evaporates, leaving blood, sticky and black. It's always cold in here. Downlights shine sepia on mahogany floorboards, the creamy walls fresh under a distant white ceiling. Somewhere, a TV chatters, bright music and sound effects.

I walk in, past a high hall table holding an empty blue vase, a pale painting of some nondescript seaside, a bright green pot plant. Spotless, dust free, oppressive. The stink of hellfire roasts my nose, harsh and ashen like the end of the world.

Pale light filters through the window in the lounge, reflecting on the wide television screen. Kane's watching cartoons, his golden-blond head tossed carelessly against his white leather couch. It's the one with the bird and the scrawny grey coyote, and as I approach, the coyote tears open a big box labeled ACME BIRD SEED and spreads little yellow grains in a line across the road.

I sit on the floor next to the coffee table, the lamp in my lap. "Five bucks on the coyote."

Kane doesn't turn, or flick the TV off. "You've got no money."

"True." The bird skids to a halt in a puff of dust and snorts the seed like a line of blue. Great kids' TV.

"The bird always wins anyway," Kane adds.

"You're kidding me."

"No."

The coyote takes a shot at the bird with his rocket launcher, but the bird scoots off and the fucking thing backfires, frying the coyote to a steaming black crisp. Learning curve, pal.

Kane watches the charcoal coyote topple, and only when the picture telescopes and the music comes on does he thumb the 'off' button on the remote and turn to me. He's wearing a different suit, grey with a green tie. His black eyes light on the lamp, and gleam. "Clever child. Give it to me."

I stretch my legs out on the floor, and my palms skid in bloody slime. "You never told me there'd be competition."

"You never asked. Give it to me." Impatience tightens his mouth, and his nails dig into the soft leather arm.

"Delilah, no less. Very persistent."

"Diligence is no substitute for talent. Give it to me." Angry ice glitters in Kane's hair. The temperature drops about five degrees, and I shiver.

Why am I baiting him? The deal is done. I've lost. But strange warmth wriggles under my skin, compelling me. I can't let her go just yet.

I roll my neck, joints cracking. The light in the window leaches brighter, and for a moment it blinds me. Simple, pure, like the feeling in my heart.

Katie, in hell, spitting at me like a wildcat. Gavain, his last tear-bright kiss searing my conscience. Jewel, smoke and jasmine, spending the rest of eternity watching fucking cartoons with Kane.

I blink. The room bleeds back into focus, and I know what I've gotta do.

My throat swells, but my voice is calm. "I was tempted to say 'fuck it' and give it to her, if you must know. You know what stopped me?"

Kane's nails judder longer, flooding with green like his ugly pot plant. He shrugs, careless.

In the window, the first sliver of sunrise paints the sky orange.

It's morning. My time's up. Already I can feel it, the tug deep inside my bones, and it feels like home. I've been there before. I know what it's like, and I'm not afraid anymore.

Demons lie. That's why it's called hell.

Forgive me, all of you. I'm doing everything I can.

I wrap the lamp in my arms, hugging it to my chest, and squeeze my eyes shut for the last time. "Nothing."

Kane screeches like a wounded banshee, and flames lick ripe agony into my skin, but he's too late. In the stink of smoke, my body rips apart, soul rending from flesh, the most horrible agony. The lamp slips through my spectral fingers, but I scrabble and fight and drag it with me. Kane wails in frustration, and as I slide downwards into the gibbering darkness, I can't help but scream in triumph.

***

Gavain crouches in the street outside Kane's house, hugging bruised knees to his chest.

Tam doesn't come out, not yet. Gavain can still taste their kiss, still feel Tam's dusty hair on his fingers, the honey softness of that fevered skin. Tam smelled of smoke and jasmine, the wild tang of woman. Sweet envy, golden and wonderful.

A car skims by, tearing shreds from the jagged city silence. In the gutter, a flabby green spriggan wriggles happy limbs, drugged blue drool bright on his lips. Tam doesn't come out.

Gavain uncrosses his arms and crosses them again, the other one on top. The sun drifts higher, a slow heat-shimmer rising from the road. An early schoolgirl saunters by, her striped uniform starched fresh, her pierced lip shining with purple gloss. She drags curious eyes over him, flushes, looks away.

Tam doesn't come out. Gavain sits, his tired eyes stinging in the sun, and after a while he unfolds aching limbs and wanders away, tears spilling over his lashes.

***

Chapter Thirty

I jerked awake, burnished sunlight stinging my eyes.

Grass tickled my nose. I lifted my head and rubbed my itching cheek. Grime caked my nails, smelling faintly of blood, and silk caressed my hot skin.

I was dressed. He was gone.

I sat up, raking grass from my hair. Maybe I'd dreamed the whole thing. I stretched my arms and winced, my muscles sore. I sure wasn't dreaming the ache, the jellyish weakness in my legs, the mess sticking my thighs together. Lazily, I recalled his dirty, sensual touch, the delirium of our kisses, the hot torture of him inside me. Oh, my. Let's do that again.

I grinned, and squinted at the morning sun, and leapt to my stumbling feet in shock.

Sunrise. My lamp. I was still here.

I whirled, left and right. No one. Just the park, the smell of mown grass, swelling traffic noise and the early morning chortle of birds.

My sleepy brain fogged. No demons. No nasty laughter and taunts. No gleeful poking, wishing, demanding.

How was this possible? Tam's time had passed. I should be stuffed back in my lamp right now, awaiting some demon's whim.

But here I was, still sleepy and well-loved in the park, the sun at least a few hours above the horizon. Which meant . . .

Breath sucked into my lungs, My throat constricted, trapping it inside. Air crackled between my buzzing cells, and involuntarily, I smoked.

Vertigo slingshotted me skywards. Branches lurched drunkenly in my vision, leaves slicing through me.

Holy crap. I smoked. By myself.

I tumbled, disoriented, thrashing like a cloud of dying insects. I scrabbled for the lamp, for something to give me direction, but there was nothing. The world was empty, bereft, cold.

My soul shuddered, and I crashed back to earth and coalesced in a pile of crusty grass clippings. My skin smarted like a thousand wasp stings, but I didn't care.

I can smoke. I can wish for myself. I'm free.

Tam's dead . . .

I shook my head, rattling the cobwebs loose, and clambered to my feet. No. It doesn't have to mean that. Maybe the Kane demon's sleeping, or lazy, or too drunk to bother with me.

But where was my lamp? There's always my lamp, always somewhere to take root and tell me where to go. But I'd felt nothing. Like a magnet with no poles. All force and no direction.

Sickness threatened my non-existent breakfast. My nerves screeched at me to smoke, to flee, to scream and run in circles tearing my hair out.

I sucked in air, exhaled, again, careful not to hold it too long. Calm down, Jewel. It's okay. There'll be an explanation. Think.

Tam's gone. I've got my powers back. I've no new master.

But no lamp.

Therefore, my lamp is safe, at least from grasping demon hands. Somewhere even I can't get at it . . .

Wherever Tam went, he took the lamp with him. And unless he gave this Kane person my lamp—which obviously he hadn't—Tam was only going one place.

Hell. My odd-sweet lover languished in hell. And so did my lamp.

An icy rod pierced my spine, and blood drained from my limbs to flood my heart with terror. He'd missed his deadline, and the demon dragged him down to hell. All because of me. If I hadn't seduced him out of selfishness, he'd be okay.

Either that . . .

My mouth twinged with an odd, sour mixture of delight and disgust. Either that, or he'd done it to save me. Told demon boy to go screw himself, and jumped over the edge just to keep me happy.

Well, I wasn't happy. I tightened my chin against a wailing conscience. I wasn't letting him get away with this. It wasn't his decision to make. I couldn't let him die—for good or otherwise—out of some selfish sympathy for me.

I remembered the dark river of emotion that flooded me when we loved. Maybe it was just the sex. Maybe I was lampblind. I didn't care. My jaw clenched, and tears seethed again. Javier died because he gave my powers away. Now, I had all my magic at my disposal.

No way was I losing another one. Not without giving it my best shot.

Damn it, Tam. When I find you, I'll kill you myself.

I scrabbled in the gritty lawn for my sandals and pulled them on, urgency knotting my veins. I couldn't smoke to hell. But I knew someone who could. Someone who I knew would crawl to hell and back—literally—to see Tam alive again.

I had no idea how we'd get Tam back. No clue how we'd even find him once we got there. But I've never been one for plans, me. We'll make it up as we go.

I focused on an image of ruby fae eyes, sucked in a wattle-scented breath, and smoked.

***

I coalesced into the scent of coffee, rich and mouthwatering. Wooden floorboards slapped my feet. Dim glass lamps glimmered on the red velvet booths and mahogany tables of a café, the window shaded by tasseled scarlet curtains.

Gavain blinked at me, and gulped his latte, froth evaporating on his lip. He was wearing the same steel-grey T-shirt and jeans, his cinnamon hair rusty with blood. Before him sat two more coffees, pale and steaming in tall glasses. Tears stained his bruised face. Maybe his gaze brightened a little when he looked at me. Maybe I was imagining it.

"Blossom," he muttered, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

I glanced around. The place was deserted, and the fat coffee man goggled at me from behind the counter, a white dishcloth hanging limply from his hand. I flashed him a magic-sparked glare. "You didn't see me."