Demon Marked (32 page)

“They're not going to earn shit now,” muttered an older man whose face was a mass of ruined flesh, slashed with so many kill scars it was hard to guess at their number.

“Yeah.” Douglas winced. “Reggie is going to kill them for letting Ginger escape. I mean, we ended up with the book and
you
, and I say all's well that end's well, but ...” He shrugged and grinned at Reggie, not nearly as terrified of the other man as he should have been. To Douglas, this was just a big game.

Still, a part of Emma was relieved to hear the cult members weren't really cult members. One less pile of shit to clean up.

It was also nice to think that there were at least a few Conti Bounty employees who hadn't defected to the drug-running faction. It was still a nightmare, but not as horrible as she'd feared. Somewhere out there were people who would be working to stop Little Francis ... as soon as they found out what he was up to. Hopefully that would be before she was forced to work demon magic in order to save Andre's life.

Please, please ... Sam.
Emma sent out a silent call to her sister, praying Sam had received her message.

“Douglas has done some good work.” Francis smiled at Douglas, who beamed under the slight praise. “And he's got a lot of good friends.”

“It was my second cousin on my mom's side who blew up the family plane,” Douglas said. “He's amazing with explosives.”

“And cheap. I never dreamed killing the old man would be so affordable.” Little Francis made the pronouncement without the slightest bit of shame, but Emma didn't miss the impact his words had on several of the Conti men. Whether they agreed with Little Francis's plans for the family or not, many weren't happy that their patriarch was dead.

God. Uncle Francis was dead. Strangely, it made her want to cry. She'd never been that close to the man, but she'd seen how much Andre loved his uncle when she was sifting through his memories. This had to be tearing him up. She wished she could have spared him that pain, spared him all of this.

The door behind her opened. Emma spun in time to see James, one of the youngest Conti family bounty hunters, a kid who couldn't be more than seventeen, bounding in the door, her purse in his hands.

“You ready for this?” James asked, shooting nervous looks around the room, as surprised by the underdressed state of the men as she'd been.

“Perfect timing. Bring it here and head back downstairs,” Little Francis said, holding out a hand in James's direction. “We don't need any virgins hanging around.”

“I told you, I'm not a virgin,” James mumbled as he handed over the purse amid low laughter from some of the Death Ministry members. Still, he didn't seem too upset to be leaving the party.

“Yeah, right, and I'm not hairier than a fucking poodle,” Little Francis said. More laughter from the gang members. Who knew they had such healthy senses of humor? “Get out of here. We don't need a cherry messing with the vibes.”

Emma fought the urge to roll her eyes.

Jesus. H. Stupid. This was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever been a part of. Little Francis had no idea what he was doing. Virginity didn't “mess with the vibes” any more than clothes did. It seemed like Douglas had latched on to every television cliché he'd seen on
Demons of New York: Supernatural Victims Unit
and run straight to Little Francis without bothering to employ anything he'd learned while earning that degree he was so proud of.

“Now, Miss Emma, we're going to do two things at once here.” Francis nodded to Douglas, then motioned to Anthony—who was still fully clothed and had his gun aimed in her direction. “Anthony here is going to give you your spell book.”

“Sounds good,” Emma said, trying to pay attention to Francis, though her eyes were all for Douglas.

The small man crossed to Andre and reached down beside his chair, pulling a pair of gold pellets from a small cooler Emma hadn't noticed until now. A part of her knew what the pellets were and what Douglas intended to do with them, even before he tugged the gag from Andre's mouth.

“Run, Emma! Get out of—” Andre's words ended in a strangled sound as Douglas delivered a sharp karate chop to his throat. As Andre choked and gasped for air, Douglas shoved the two pellets into his mouth, then forced his jaw closed with surprising strength.

“Swallow the pellets, don't bite, or that much Hamma will kill you.” Douglas hung on tight as Andre tossed his head back and forth, trying to throw off the man who held his jaw closed. But he couldn't, not with the rest of his body tied to a chair.

“No! Stop!” Emma's hands fisted. “I won't do the spell if you—”

“You'll do the spell,” Francis said. “You'll do it or we'll tell Dr. Finch to keep the antivenom in the cooler downstairs. Those pellets were only wrapped with half the amount of cellophane we're supposed to use.”

Emma's eyes flew back to Andre. Douglas had covered his nose now. He couldn't breathe. He was going to have to swallow the drugs or risk suffocation.

“They're going to get down in his stomach and burst,” Francis said. “He's got ten, maybe fifteen minutes, and I've got guards all over the first floor. If you try to work some other spell and screw us, there's no chance of you walking out of—”

“There they go! Down the hatch,” Douglas said.

“No!” She had to get to Andre and find some way to get those drugs out of him. Emma made it three steps closer to the chair where he was bound before the sharp report of gunfire filled the small room. Only one shot was fired, but one was all it took.

Emma cried out and fell to the ground as the bullet burrowed deep into the muscle above her knee. Blood—hot and thick—flowed out to soak her jeans as she clutched at the area just above the wound, gasping as a fiery worm of pain squirmed through her flesh. Still, she was pushing back to a seated position, determined to reach Andre, by the time she heard him suck in a desperate breath.

Her eyes flew to his face, taking in his slightly parted lips and flushed cheeks. He'd swallowed the pellets. It was too late.

“Anthony, you son of a bitch. You shot her,” he mumbled, his words thin and breathy. “I'm going to kill you.”

“I'm sorry,” Anthony said, real fear in his voice. “Andre, I swear I only—”

“Fuck you. You're a dead man.” Andre's eyes found hers, taking what was left of her breath away. She' d never dreamed a man would look at her that way, as if he saw all the way to the heart of her and wasn't repulsed by what he saw. “Don't do whatever they're asking you to do. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said, fighting the urge to lunge for Douglas when he shoved the gag back into Andre's mouth.

Already, the slightest hint of gold shone at his temples. The drugs were hitting his system. Fast. There was a very real chance she could lose him, that he'd die right in front of her while she struggled to perform whatever miracle these fools expected her to pull out of her ass. Even the thought of it was enough to make her feel the entire world was crumbling.

She didn't realize the soft sobs filling the room were hers until Anthony knelt down beside her and laid her purse and a clean white handkerchief on the floor near her feet. At first she thought the handkerchief was to mop off her face, but then Anthony gestured toward her leg with the barrel of his gun. “Tie this above it,” he said, regret in his strange eyes. “It will help stop the bleeding.” He backed away quickly, as afraid of her as he'd been before, despite the fact that he'd shot her in the leg.

Good. He should be afraid. They all should.

Emma snatched the handkerchief from the floor and tied it swiftly and efficiently around her thigh. Then she reached for her purse, digging through until she felt the familiar leather of the grimoire against her fingertips. She pulled it out, sparing only the slightest attention for the intricate etchings on the front. For the first time, the swirls of the demon runes didn't affect her in the slightest. She didn't feel tempted or frightened; she was too scared for Andre to feel anything but desperation.

“What spell do you want me to cast?” she asked, lifting impatient eyes to Little Francis when he hesitated for a second too long. “Hurry. It might take me longer than ten minutes to translate the words, and if Andre dies before I finish the translation you'll have nothing left to bargain with. I don't care if you kill me. You know that, right?”

“Kind of figured. You're the depressed type,” Francis said. “I was going to threaten your roommate to make sure you played nice, but she escaped and Mikey got his do-gooder hands on her. But then Andre showed up and I had a feeling he liked you a lot.” He smiled, a canine baring of his yellowed teeth. “I didn't realize you two were in loooove, but—”

“Tell me what you want,” she said, hating that Francis and the rest of these wastes had heard words she'd wanted to keep between her and Andre.

He'd become so incredibly important to her in such a short amount of time. She could feel the connection they'd forged humming in the air between them, knew that Andre was watching her, could feel how worried he was about her leg, how much he wanted her to do whatever it took to get herself to safety. Even if it meant leaving him behind. She hoped he could feel that leaving wasn't an option for her. They were going to walk out of here together or not at all.

“We want the living-forever spell for everyone in the room,” Douglas said. “The one that will make us invulnerable to disease and death.”

“You want the immortal flesh spell.” Emma raised her eyebrows. “You're sure about that? You want to live forever?”

“We figure ruling Manhattan will be a lot easier if we can't get killed. And when you're kings ... why not live forever?” Francis crossed his arms and stared at her, as if waiting for further argument.

He'd be waiting a long time. “Fine. No problem. Get whatever blood you've got ready and make a circle big enough for all of you to fit inside.”

The immortal flesh spell was one of the easier spells to translate, and did, if the writings were to be believed, make people invulnerable to disease and death. It didn't, however, make them invulnerable to damage. If one of these men were shot or stabbed, the bullet holes and open wounds would never heal. And if someone were to sever their heads from their bodies or, say, blow them to bits in a massive explosion ... Well, their “immortality” might be a hell of a lot shorter than they were expecting.

She'd help arrange the details herself,
after
she and Andre were safely away from this place.

“I want Dr. Finch up here with the antivenom,” Emma said as she watched Douglas finish up the circle, pouring red liquid from a gallon container out onto the carpet.

The cold, metallic smell of blood flooded the room, making her stomach ache and a primal breed of fear itch along her skin. The smell of blood had always terrified her. She wondered whether some part of her mind remembered the first time she'd smelled that smell, when it had been her own blood flowing out to coat an altar.

“Sorry, can't do that,” Francis said, actually putting some effort into sounding “sorry.” “We need to make sure we get what we need before you get what you need. That's just the way it works.”

“So I'm just supposed to take your good word that you won't kill us both as soon as I give you what you want?”
Or what you think you want, you sacks of shit.

“My word is good.”

“I'll be sure to remember that at your father's funeral.”

Anger sparked in Little Francis's eyes before he smiled. “Hey, I promised him I'd take care of things here while he was away. I never promised not to blow up his plane somewhere over Canada.” There was something reptilian in his face, something that assured her all her fears were founded.

“I won't work the spell until I see Dr. Finch standing next to Andre's chair with a needle full of real antivenom, not whatever shit you shot me up with earlier today.” Emma returned his smile, forcing herself not to look at Andre. If she saw his spark getting worse, she'd lose what was left of her ability to reason, and they'd both be screwed. “So you go work on getting that rounded up, and I'll start working through the spell to make sure I've got the translation correct.”

“You're not in a position to make demands,” Francis said, all traces of civility vanishing fast.

“Neither are you.” Emma looked up from the book she'd been about to open. “You need to work harder at making me believe you're going to save Andre's life. A lot harder.”

Little Francis's lips pressed together until they were nothing but a puckered white line at the bottom of his face. But finally, after a stare-down that lasted less than four or five seconds, he turned and gestured for Anthony. “Tony, go get the doc and the real antivenom. Get them back here in less than five.”

The panic coursing through Emma's blood abated the slightest bit, just enough for her to feel how bad her leg hurt beneath her makeshift tourniquet. She cast a quick look down at where her jeans clung to the skin beneath, coated with her own blood. Thankfully, the flow seemed to be slowing. She wasn't going to bleed out on the floor, but she'd have plenty of blood for casting if the immortal flesh spell required demon-marked blood. She'd have to look and see. It wasn't a spell she'd paid particular attention to, and she couldn't remember whether—

Emma's fingers froze and cramped as she flipped open the book and stared down at its pages. They were blank. Every single one. Someone had glued the cover of the grimoire around a blue, lined notebook, one of the small ones like Father Paul had always carried in his front pocket to write down the names of the people he'd promised to pray for. Had it been Ginger? Had she suspected something fishy was going on and taken steps to protect the book she knew could be used as a tool for evil?