Demon Marked (33 page)

“So where do we need to be?” Little Francis asked, closer than he had been a second before.

Emma tilted the book toward her, hiding the blank pages, struggling to keep the panic from her face. “In the circle. Everyone who wants to be transformed by the spell should stand inside the circle.”

“Everybody in,” Little Francis ordered. “Let's get this shit done and start owning this city.”

“Be careful not to smear the lines,” Douglas added, scurrying around the edge of the circle. “And leave your boxers and briefs on the outside. We don't—”

“Keep your pants on,” Emma said, grateful for the distraction Douglas provided. She slammed the book closed just as Little Francis took a step in her direction. “You don't have to be naked. Nudity isn't mentioned in any of the spells.”

“Of course it isn't mentioned.” Douglas propped his hands on his hips and shot a glare in her direction. “It's understood that clothing is removed before entering a magic circle. It's like a microwave dinner. Everyone knows you take it out of the cardboard before you put it in the oven.”

“You're an idiot,” Emma said, mentally scrambling for a plan B. She couldn't tell Francis the book was empty. That would lead him right back to Ginger, the last person who'd laid hands on it. Francis would let Andre die and go after Ginger, knowing that Emma would work the spell to save her friend's life. And Mikey would let Francis have her. Obviously he didn't know that his uncle was dead, or the family business was falling apart.

She had to think. Think!

The voice inside her head was her own, but the thrill zigzagging through her body was all darkness. Her mark wanted the lives of these men even more than she did. But why? She'd fed the aura-demon hunger more in the past day than she usually did in a month. Why did it want more? Why did it lust to hear the sounds of the demon's lexicon spilling from her lips?

Better question: Did it matter? Andre was going to die if she didn't get rid of these men and get him the antivenom he needed. She couldn't let that happen, even if it meant becoming more of a monster than she was already.

“I have a college degree,” Douglas huffed. “You may be the demon girl, but I have dedicated hundreds of hours to study.”

“I've never seen anyone take their clothes off before a ritual.” Emma fingers grew cold as she mentally tracked her way through the words of the spell she'd once hoped would be her salvation. The irony that—only a few hours ago—she'd discovered a way to feed that would have eliminated the need to work demon spells was not lost on her.

But that was the story of her life: hope followed closely by disappointment, followed up with a healthy dose of horror.

“She's trying to ruin everything, Francis! I swear!” Douglas stomped his bare foot.

You have no idea, little man.
Beneath her skin, darkness bubbled and leapt, thrilling to the ancient words streaming through Emma's mind, urging her to speak, to cast, to free the hunger to feed as it never had before.

“We'll keep what we've got on,” Francis said, sounding frustrated. “Just get in the circle, Douglas, and bring Andre with you.”

“What?” Emma's head snapped up. No. They couldn't. If he was inside the circle, he'd suffer the effects of the spell along with the rest of them.

“I can't lift him and the chair,” Douglas whined. “He's heavy.”

“Somebody get Andre in the circle,” Francis said. “Pete or somebody.”

“No. Don't!” Emma struggled to stand despite the agony pulsing in her right knee. “Don't put him in the circle. He doesn't want to be immortal.”

“How the fuck would you know?” Francis asked, losing patience with her, as well. “Who doesn't want to live forever?”

“Lots of people. And I know Andre doesn't.” She stood, wavering on one leg, desperately searching for something that might sway Francis. “He's Catholic. We talked about it when we were at the church earlier. He—”

“I'm Catholic.” Francis laughed and gestured for the large Death Ministry man squatting by Andre's chair to continue. “The good thing about being Catholic is that you can always ask for forgiveness later.”

“Please. Don't. He—”

“I don't know how dumb you think I am, Emma, but I'm smarter than I look,” Francis said, his face utterly serious, not seeming to understand that he'd just insulted himself. “Whatever you do to us, you do to your new boyfriend. That way we can all be sure we're getting what we asked for.”

Emma caught Andre's eye as he was lifted and carried toward the circle. It was almost as if he
knew
that she didn't have the spell book. His sad eyes told her he realized they were both out of options. His skin was growing golder with every passing minute, and she had no spells, nowhere to run, and a bullet above her knee that would ensure she didn't get far even if she tried.

But Andre couldn't know that she did have a spell up her sleeve, a spell that could have saved both of their lives if only she could have convinced Francis to—

Gunshots sounded outside the door, echoing down the hall, making everyone turn in their direction and draw the weapons stuffed in the backs of their boxer shorts. Francis was still outside the circle, but so were Andre and the guy charged with toting him over to join the rest of the men. Two big men against one wounded woman. Not great odds, but they were better than any other odds she was going to get. It was now or never.

Emma raised her hands and spoke, the guttural words of the demon language flowing from her tongue as if she'd been uttering them all her life. And maybe a part of her had, the part that belonged to the demon realm, that celebrated death and rejoiced in carnage.

As she finished the spell and the darkness came spilling out of her mouth like some biblical plague of locusts, Emma fisted her hands at her sides and fought to hold on to the other part of herself. The human Emma who could feel empathy and love, who had finally lost her heart to a man she would do anything to save.

A
ny lingering doubts about the existence of demon spells and dark magic faded as Emma spoke words in a language Andre couldn't identify, then opened her mouth, releasing a shimmering stream of... flies.

Or something that looked a hell of a lot like flies.

Tiny black, buzzing dots rushed toward the blood circle and the men standing inside it, swarming over their bare skin, covering them until every man looked like a shadow of himself. Shadows that writhed and screamed, colliding with one another in a desperate attempt to run from the biting, stinging specks of black.

But there was nowhere to run. The blood glowed bright red on the floor, creating some kind of invisible fence. Each time one of the men drew too close to the markings, he was repelled back to the center, back into the heart of the swarm.

And then there were more screams—raw and feral—and gunfire and beneath it all the buzzing from the horde.

You're losing your mind.
Andre closed his eyes and shook his head, struggling to clear it. Surely he was hallucinating. The Hamma in his bloodstream was making him see things that weren't happening, making him imagine all this. He swallowed against the nausea rolling through his midsection, blinked away the spark-infused sweat rolling into his eyes.

“Holy fucking—Shut it down! Shut it down!” Andre looked up in time to see Francis lunge for Emma, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her like a doll. Her head snapped back and forth, her eyes rolling back in her head. “Stop that shit. Now!”

Andre struggled against the rope binding him to the chair, rage banishing the effects of the drugs for a moment as he fought to gain his freedom. He was going to kill Francis for touching Emma, then kill him again for ripping their family apart, then kill him again for murdering his father and poisoning him with Hamma claws, then—

“Fuck this shit.” The man who'd been dragging Andre's chair toward the circle bolted for the door, knocking Andre over in the process.

He hit the ground hard, shoulder bruising, breath rushing from his chest, making him even more highly aware of his racing heart. He felt about ten seconds away from a heart attack. He needed that antivenom, but he wasn't a fool. Francis didn't intend for him to live. Whatever Dr. Finch was bringing up here, it was probably another breed of poison. His only chance of survival was to grab Emma and run for the door and hope they could find a cab willing to take them to the nearest ER.

He could do it. If he could only gain his freedom while chaos still ruled.

Shoving away the rotten feeling spreading through his insides, Andre brought his knees to his chest, caught the bottom of the chair with his heels, and shoved. Simultaneously, he lifted his arms as high behind him as he could, silently thanking his trainer for making him stretch after every lifting session.

One try, then two, and finally the chair flipped beneath him, the back digging into his spine for several painful inches before it completed its turn from right side up to upside down. He was still bound to the middle and unable to use his hands, but his feet were free. He could run. Or at least walk. He rolled onto his stomach and scrambled into a standing position, swaying as his guts cramped hard enough to make him moan. The rush of the Hamma was coming faster now. The pellets must have burst in his stomach. He had to hurry; he had to get to Emma before he was too sick to be of any help to her.

He stumbled across the room, dragging the chair behind him. Francis now had the woman he loved by the neck, his thick hands squeezing so tightly that Emma's face had flooded red and her veins stood out in sharp definition. He was strangling her to death. The realization gave Andre the strength to run the last few steps. He hurled himself at Francis headfirst, ramming into his cousin's rib cage hard enough to send a flash of light streaking behind his eyes.

They fell to the ground, and Emma collapsed beside them, coughing as she struggled to breathe. Andre slammed his head into his cousin's, barely noticing the pain as skull knocked against skull. He didn't have the use of his hands; there was no choice but to use his head.

He was rearing back for another attack when a burst of electricity exploded inches from his face. He looked down to see Francis's eyes bulge wide. His cousin had been hit with a stun gun. A gun set to full strength if the bowing of his spine as the pulse surged through his body was any indication. When he fell back to the floor, he was completely motionless but for the twitching of his eyelids. Francis wouldn't be a danger to Emma or anyone else for several hours. It was time to get out of here, time to—

“A little to your left,” a male voice said, one Andre recognized but didn't fear. Who was it? If only his reeling head would clear. “She's right by your—”

“I know. I can see her.” A woman's voice this time, coming closer. “Check on Andre.”

“Andre, are you okay?” The man was so close now that it seemed the words had been shouted directly into his ear.

Andre spun toward the hands busy at his wrists, and the world spun along with him. His vision wavered, and it took several seconds for his eyes to focus in on the face of the man untying him. When he did, his relief was so profound, he could have cried like a goddamn baby.

It was his cousin Jace, one of the few people he had no doubt he could still trust.

Jace finished freeing him from the chair and pulled the gag from his mouth. “Francis gave me an overdose of Hamma.” Andre forced the words out, though his tongue felt thick and unwieldy in his mouth. “He said Dr. Finch had some antivenom, but—”

“Fuck, I stunned him on the way in. Let me go see if he had the antivenom in his bag and I can shoot you up myself.” Jace slapped Andre on the shoulder before turning to where his wife knelt by her sister on his other side. “Sam, I'm going into the hall. I'll be back in two. Maybe less. Francis is down at about sixty-three degrees, and the rest of them are trapped in the—”

“I can see them, all of them,” Sam said, her usually brown eyes glowing an eerie blue. Just like the blue light that came from her sister's hands when she was feeding her demon mark. “Just hurry and get something for Andre.”

Andre met Sam's strange eyes and, for the first time, those eyes connected with his, holding his gaze for a tense moment before she turned her attention back to her sister. She could see him. Despite the fact that she'd been blind since she was a child, Sam could really
see
him. If the stories he'd heard were correct, that probably wasn't good news. Sam could see only people who were on the verge of a major transition in their lives.