Demon Seed (9 page)

“You know my mother.”

His eyes narrowed.

A flurry of beating wings and squawking birds drew his attention.

Jacinta followed the direction of his gaze, but the high windows showed nothing save branches swaying and bits of blue sky. A flock of green and yellow parrots soared into flight.

Demon jerked to face the boat’s stern. “We have company. Get to the bedroom and stay there. Do
not
make a sound. And, Jacinta, I
will
tan your backside if you disobey me this time. Go.”

Not liking his order one bit, Jacinta retreated to the top bunk bed, edged the floral drapes apart, and watched the approaching five canoes. How had he heard them? The small boats had no engines, and no sound heralded their approach.

Yanomami hunters.

She checked the quivers of arrows stacked at the rear of each canoe. Her stomach cramped at the familiar darkened tips. The arrows had been dipped in curare. The lead warrior, identifiable because only he wore a toothed necklace, had a bamboo blowpipe strapped to his square loincloth.

Unlike the Yanomami who dwelled deep in the forests, those who lived on the river had strayed from the old ways and no longer attacked unprovoked or stole brides. River Yanomami had adopted Western ways, wore jeans, T-shirts, and shoes. These warriors sported bare chests, war paint, and bare feet. They lived in the forests.

Jacinta stole back to the engine room in time to overhear Demon greeting the native Indians in understandable but crude Xirianá. She liked not the expression on the men’s faces and knew that even though Demon possessed great warrior skills, he had no chance against so many.

According to Sister Helen, every river boatman kept a stash of weapons. Fredo had to have arms somewhere. Jacinta eased open the drawer closest to the wheel and sagged with relief. In the long drawer she found a machete, two wicked stilettos, and a .38 double-action derringer with a three-inch barrel. She checked the gun and sent thanks to the Lord when she found the weapon primed and loaded. After tucking the pistol into her boot, she stuck a knife under her belt and retrieved the baseball hat from a shelf. Jamming the cap low on her head, she spied one of Demon’s jackets hanging from a hook.

A furious shout rang out, followed by a babble of raised male voices. Worry hurried her actions; she grabbed the jacket, shrugged it on, and risked a quick glance through the window.

The native warriors had drawn their bows, and the leader had his blowpipe in his hand. Her stomach quailed.

One curare-tipped dart would paralyze someone of her weight in less than a minute. It would take three minutes for the curare to work on Demon, but soon after, his lungs would stop functioning and he would not be able to defend himself.

What chance did she and Demon stand against so many armed Yanomami?

A machine gun might even the odds, though she doubted it.

The sun was shining, and a slight breeze lifted the humidity.

The sky was blue and clear of clouds.

Trees swayed.

The feel of him inside her, the memory of the desire in his eyes, the way he cherished her sang in her veins.

Jacinta took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

All in all, not a bad day to die.

Chapter Five

Crap
. He was so fucked.

Demon widened his stance, set his arms akimbo, and stared down the more than half a dozen South American Indians screaming obscenities and priming arrows into wicked-looking bows. His focus on the obvious leader didn’t waver, not for a second. Not when the first arrow twanged off the railing and skittered to a halt inches from his left boot. Not when the leader of the warring party put a blowpipe to his mouth and blew. Not when the dart zinged so close to his temple that it lifted the stubborn forelock that refused to be tamed from his forehead.

Wildlife protested the sudden invasive attack.

A cacophony of noise shattered Mother Nature’s peaceful symphony. The high-pitched squeals of wild pigs drowned the shrieks of predatory birds protesting the disturbance. Branches snapped, hooves thundered, hogs belched and grunted, and foliage shook. A herd of swine stampeded into the forest, capturing the attention of the chief, who licked his lips.

The men hunted game and, from the expression on their faces, had gone without sustenance for a while. Demon attempted a cordial greeting in their language.

The crash course in Xirianá hadn’t accounted for different dialects, and what Demon thought had been a pleasant greeting set these primitive warriors howling—literally.

“You just told them they were dung.” Jacinta, wearing his heavy camouflage jacket, sidled close to his side. She kept her voice low and spoke in Portuguese. “I will tell them you are my father and that you do not speak their language well.”

“Do it.” Damn her for disobeying a direct order and not staying put. Next stop, he’d arrange to have her flown stateside and kept in a safe house. But Demon knew that wasn’t an option, not unless he abandoned his mission. Jacinta was the one bait Pedro Nunez wouldn’t be able to resist. “Ten to one they understand Portuguese. Translate for me as we go along, but use Gaelic when you talk to me. Apologize for me. Tell them that I intended no insult.”

He didn’t listen to her translation but kept his eyes trained on the men, flicking a peripheral glance at both banks every few seconds. Satisfied no other threat existed—human, anyway—Demon turned his full concentration to the hostiles.

He counted nine Yanomami in total.

All spoiling for a massacre.

And he’d bet any odds their arrows were curare tipped. The poison caused a delayed paralysis beginning with the extremities and ending with the lungs and heart. You fucking lay there dying, unable to move a muscle, and felt every organ shut down, one by one.

“They thought we were gold miners.” Demon glanced at Jacinta and blinked. She had plastered engine grease over most of her face and neck and had donned the baseball hat from the day before. “I am your son, Juan. I told them we run a tavern down the river and are hunting jaguar meat. It is a delicacy for the Yanomami. The chief sent a warrior to the bank to check my tale of wounding one earlier.”

The warriors hadn’t backed down from their aggressive stance. Seven poison-tipped arrows were aimed at them, and the chief and one other warrior still held their blowpipes at the ready. Demon couldn’t translate the rapid back-and-forth between Jacinta and the chief, so he kept a surreptitious eye on the lone canoe approaching the bank.

Now they were flanked on both sides and had no escape route.

They stood no chance if the situation turned deadly. And it was all his fault. From now on, he kept his greedy paws off Jacinta, even if his stones blued and rotted and his dick fell off from disuse.

“They want us to hunt the jaguar with them. And the wild pigs.” She touched her side, and Demon noticed the almost imperceptible tremor in her fingers. “These men are after game and brides. They are asking if we have whores frequenting the tavern.”

“I’m assuming refusing is not an option.” Demon gritted his teeth. “Tell them that my woman does not allow whores in the tavern. Tell them that I will go with them. That you must remain to guard the boat against pirates. Don’t think for a second about deviating from that order.”

He understood why she’d donned the disguise now, and swept her a surreptitious glance. The jacket concealed her curves and the grease and oil covered her hairless skin. Unless the natives had a quadruple dose of stupidity, they would soon wonder why she wore such heavy clothing in this heat.

Her nostrils quivered. She swallowed and then dipped her chin and began speaking. She hadn’t shown an ounce of fear, save for those few moments on the beach, but he could smell the dread pouring off her now.

The second the chief replied, Demon knew his plan had backfired. The leader had done what he would’ve, and ordered three men to remain behind with Jacinta. His gut cramped, and he took his time—checked the anchor and stowed the loose ends of a tarp, while the three warriors boarded the houseboat.

None of his maneuvering slowed the pace of events. Demon had no time alone with Jacinta, no time for recriminations about not telling her about her lineage, no time to warn her of Emilio’s true identity, no time to do his duty and ensure her safety. The humidity increased by the minute, and the sweltering sun beat down from a cloudless sky. Sweat dripped tracks in the black engine grease swabbed over her cheeks.

How long would it take for them to wonder about her jacket?

The chief had given Demon’s GLOCK to one of the warriors staying with Jacinta but allowed him to keep his two knives. Demon rejected the bow and arrow they offered him and requested a blowpipe. The men snickered, the chief scoffed, but Demon kept his expression stoic. It had been worth a try.

Jacinta kept her anxiety under control, translating the conversation in a calm voice, but she clenched her jaw every time the men jeered at something Demon requested.

When the chief ordered Demon to strip down to his boxers, he didn’t protest, having expected the action. Raucous comments erupted from the warriors, and two of them jostled their exposed testicles. One went so far as to free his cock and stroke himself erect.

Any notion of mercy vanished in an instant. Demon battened his fury into the recesses of his mind and evaluated strategies. He pinpointed the sun’s position and estimated that it was past two. Darkness came early in the Amazon all year round. He had maybe a couple of hours at most to deal with the situation and get back to Jacinta. If the three brutes guarding her didn’t figure out she was female during the time he was gone, she would be okay.

He had one enemy: time. The Yanomami would be dead before the sun set. How they died depended upon what happened to Jacinta. Resolved, Demon quickened his pace, stalked to the stern, and jumped to the bank. When he broke into a sprint, shouts erupted. The chief barked an order, and within less than thirty seconds, two natives flanked him and jabbed spears into his ribs. Demon slowed but didn’t stop moving and suppressed a grin—he’d effectively taken the lead from the chief.

Who didn’t like his actions one iota. The man made a dog and pony show of stabbing at Demon with his spear and then jabbed the weapon in the direction of the forest.

Demon didn’t hesitate. He dashed into a thicket of trees. Just before the houseboat vanished from view, he glanced over his shoulder and choked off a snarl. The three men flanking Jacinta held knives to her throat. They caught his gaze and grinned. One circled his dagger’s tip around the base of her neck.

Rage sizzled the blood in Demon’s veins, and he saw red, literally. Sheer willpower and the raw fact that her life rested on his abilities allowed him to bring his wrath under control.

The chief shouted a command, and a warrior jabbed Demon in the back. He broke into a four-minute-mile sprint, an easy pace he could maintain for hours.

They stopped often so the men could track the jaguar. Demon made no attempt to help—too busy assessing the environment and planning the return massacre.

For about three miles, the jaguar followed the riverbank, but when they approached a series of rapids, the cat veered toward the jungle. Demon analyzed his position. Six men—the most dangerous, the two who carried blowpipes. He’d have to take them out first. Problem was, they were at opposite ends of the line.

The humidity had sweat dripping off his flesh in rivulets, and the warrior in front of him grinned when he slowed, bent in half, his chest heaving, and groaned. Hoping the word he’d been taught for rest didn’t translate to some humongous affront to the man’s machismo, he moaned, “Por favor, rest.
Un minuto
,” and then pleaded for the same in Xirianá.

The chief sneered, muttered something obviously derogatory, and gestured to the two warriors bringing up the rear, and to another, obviously ordering the three men to remain with Demon while the others went ahead. The three men immediately surrounded Demon, spears at ready.

A big cat’s roar shattered the relative quiet.

A deafening cacophony of squeals and shrieks erupted.

The jaguar had found the herd of swine.

The chief grunted orders, and then he and the other warriors sprinted into the jungle in the direction of the strident dissonance.

Demon waited until the chief and the other two males vanished from sight.

Then he upchucked.

Spewed vomit at the men’s bare feet.

They jumped out of range, spitting curses in his direction.

Demon had unlaced his boots seconds earlier. He had a throwing knife in his left boot and a pistol strapped to his right ankle. Still bent at the waist, he gripped the dagger with one hand and curled his fingers around the .38 with the other.

From his upside-down position, he glimpsed the blowpipe-carrying a-hole—the one he’d deemed the more dangerous—had picked a broad leaf off the ground. He propped a foot on a rock and swiped at the vomit on his instep.

Demon couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity. He threw the knife straight at the man’s balls, shot the warrior to his left in the groin, jumped the thug directly in front of him, and finished the tango off with a quick neck twist.

Blowpipe A-hole was doubled over on the ground, features contorted, teeth bared, mouth open in a silent scream of agony. Demon put him out of his misery and turned his attention to the warrior he’d shot. No doubt he’d bleed out before the sun set. Demon hurried the process.

Figuring he had maybe three minutes before the rest of the party returned, Demon grabbed the blowpipe and three darts and shimmied up the nearest tree. He made it halfway to the top before he spied the chief’s tooth necklace bouncing in and out of visibility. They had heard the shot, all right.

Not wanting to risk the chance of a second shot being heard downriver, he took out the chief and the warrior bringing up the rear with the blowpipe. The last man standing took cover behind a wide tree trunk and fired off two arrows in rapid succession. Only by dropping to the packed dirt did Demon elude being wounded and paralyzed.