Demon's Hunger (21 page)

He realized his breathing was harsh and fast, and he focused on that, on each and every breath, slowing it down until the steady pull and blow was under control. Until he was under control. Mage of illusion, weaving a front.

"We need to keep her alive," he said, his tone as barren as a drought-parched plain. Because they needed answers, needed to know for certain exactly what she was, what threat she posed.

Needed to know if she was part of some grand plan that involved bits of bone in red charm bags and dead humans and a plot to bring the Solitary into the mortal realm.

On the most primal level, none of that mattered. In truth, he needed to keep her alive because he couldn't bear the thought of letting her die.

"Dain, I think she's a succubus," Javier said, stepping forward so they stood face-to-face. "But I don't believe she's the killer."

A succubus. A legend.

Jesus. When he'd asked Javier to check it out, he'd been thinking of the serial killer. How had everything gotten so freaking twisted?

Dain raked his fingers through his hair. "I need to help her." He glanced at the others, each in turn. Just let one of them try and nay-say him. "Tell me what you know. I need to help her."

"I don't know a hell of a lot." Javier shrugged. "The definition on Wikipedia calls
succubi
'female demons.'"

"Wikipedia? What the hell kind of reliable resource is Wikipedia?" Dain growled.

"A convenient one," Javier snapped, clearly offended. "And it wasn't the only place I checked. Not by a long shot. I've been researching this nonstop since last night. The archives are pretty bare on this one, and trust me, I looked hard. There's a lot of conjecture and tall tales. Very little fact." Javier snorted. "History paints succubi as night demons, spirits that come to men while they sleep to steal their breath—and their lives."

"Steal their lives? How?" Clea asked, moving closer to Ciarran.

"By having sex with them." Javier spread his hands as Darqun made an inarticulate sound.

"Perfect. Sex as murder weapon." Dain grunted. "Well, history paints sorcerers as wizened, white-bearded old men with star-speckled pointed hats and big wands."

"So what's your point?" Javier frowned.

Dain looked around the group. "That
is
my point."

Just because a story labeled Vivien as a demon didn't make it true. He wanted proof. He needed proof. And until someone slapped him upside the head with some solid evidence, he was going to believe that Vivien was good.

"You say that history paints them as night demons, but are succubi truly demons?" Ciarran asked.

"Most of the original texts disappeared along with the Ancient, but from what I can find through online archives and databases, yes and no. Succubi are the female form of the demon, with males outnumbering them ten to one. But some texts refer to them as 'female energy beings,' not inherently evil, though centuries have passed since the first was described, and nothing good has ever been attributed to them."

"Enough with the history lesson, Jav," Dain snarled, losing patience, wanting to be in there with her, wanting to fix this, to make her well, keep her safe. But how was he supposed to do that if he didn't know what the enemy was? And what if the enemy was Vivien? Christ. "How the hell do I feed her?"

He couldn't deal with this, couldn't handle it, for a multitude of reasons. Because of Moria and Ciel, their loss at demon hands still a poorly healed wound in his soul.

Because he was sworn to uphold the wall between dimensions, sworn to combat the demon horde. If Vivien was demon, she needed to be sent back, or killed.

Fuck that.
Fuck that
.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. A red haze seemed to cover everything. She was bonded to him, her soul with his.

"Easy, Dain," Ciarran murmured.

Vivien was… Vivien. Smart and strong. Brave and beautiful. So vitally alive.

"Right now, all we know is that she's an energy being," Darqun said. "She's an energy being who sucks the life from her prey. Clea says she's starved for energy, and you want to keep her alive. So how the hell do we feed her?"

Dain stared at him, feeling the question come at him like a million wasps, pricking him into stinging awareness. He closed his eyes, drew a slow breath, and opened them once more. He knew the answer deep in his gut and had no desire to face it.

"What do we know about how a succubus feeds?" he asked, his voice low and controlled.

"I don't think she has to kill to feed. A lot of the stories just talk about the succubus having intercourse with a sleeping male. Most of them don't say a word about killing him. She just needs to draw the life force." Javier met Dain's gaze; then he dropped his chin and slapped one palm against his thigh a couple of times, clearly weirded out. "So, um, yeah… she can probably just, you know, have sex with a guy about a dozen times, and that should give her the juice she needs."

"Have sex with a guy?
What
guy?" Dain snarled, feeling like every primitive part of his psyche was on high alert.

Holding his hands up, palms forward, Javier took a step back. "I dunno. A guy."

"Take her out to a bar or something. She'll have no trouble finding someone." Darqun grinned. "Hell, twist my arm and I might volunteer."

Dain stared at him, feeling a black rage overtake him. The thought of Vivien with a guy, any guy, especially Darqun, made him sick. Sick enough to kill. Christ.

Darqun's smile faded, and his brows rose. "Sorry, my man. A joke in poor taste."

Scrubbing his hand back and forth along his jaw, Dain faced the lousy truth. He wasn't taking Vivien to a bar. Not by a long shot.

"She'll feed from me."

All eyes swivelled to him, shocked, wary.

"Yeah, um, probably not a great plan, Dain," Javier said. "You wanna feed a she-demon
your
energy,
sorcerer
energy?"

"I'm with Jav on this one," Darqun agreed.

"I'm sorry, my man." Javier shook his head, his tone solemn. "But you need to go find a mortal and stick him in her bed."

Dain moved before he could think, before he could even draw breath. His forearm slammed across Javier's throat, pinning the other sorcerer against the far wall.

"I'm thinking that she fucking doesn't lie down with anyone but me," he snarled.

Javier yanked on his forearm. Dain froze, realizing what he'd done. With a conscious effort, he mastered the lacerating rage that clawed at him, dropped his arm, and stepped back.

"I'm thinking she'll die if I don't save her." He fisted his hands at his sides, forced his voice to a more level tone. "I'm thinking
I'll
die if anyone else touches her."

There was a moment of silence at his admission, the words hanging like storm clouds on the horizon.

"She can harm you if she chooses to," Ciarran said. "She can draw too much, drain you."

"Can she?" Dain asked, his mouth twisting. She'd already harmed him, already wormed her way through his barriers and made him care. Already drawn forth emotions he had believed long buried, harm of the most insidious kind, unplanned, unintended, but harm nonetheless.

And he couldn't even blame her for it, because he'd let it happen, let her mean something to him almost right from the start.

He looked at Clea, wondering how she faced the dark part of Ciarran's soul. "So what's the plan? How do I do this without endangering myself or anyone else?"

"Vivien can build a wall," Clea said. "In her mind, Dain. She needs to see it, real and solid, build it brick by brick, to stop the flow when she takes too much. She doesn't have to drain you."

The words were quiet, intense, and Dain had no doubt that Clea spoke from experience. He stared at her, feeling suddenly awkward. Feeling as though he was seeing her for the first time.

Was that what it had been like for her and Ciarran? Had she drained him? Was she dangerous to him?

If so, how had Ciarran brought himself to
trust
her, to believe she wouldn't suck him dry?

How the hell was
he
supposed to trust Vivien? She was a succubus, whether she knew it or not.

But maybe Ciarran
hadn't
trusted anyone but himself.

All at once, Dain remembered lashing out the first morning he'd met Vivien, the dark rage that had swelled from the charred demon bone to lick at him even as the flames devoured Vivien's house, and he recalled Ciarran's words of advice:
Build a wall Hold it back.

So the ability to close down the flow must work both ways.

Vivien moaned then, a low sound of pain that carried through the closed door into the hallway, sending his pulse ratcheting up a notch.

His thoughts swirled like a cyclone and settled on one thing.

He didn't need to trust Vivien.

He just needed to trust
himself
.

Vivien curled onto her side, the terrible gnawing in her gut spreading through her body, bright spikes of pain. She was cold and so hungry, and she wanted Dain.

With all her heart and with every sensitized nerve ending in her body, she ached for Dain.

Okay—she panted as the pain crested and waned—she needed to analyze. Evaluate. Investigate. Another wave came at her, and she breathed through it, just as she did when she ran her five miles three mornings a week.

The lost time, the strange hunger, the feeling of her body's cells and tissues sifting like sand…
What was wrong with her
?

With a moan, she shifted on the bed. She could think only of the all-consuming hunger.

Dain. Dain. Dain.

He could help her; he could fix this. If he would only come to her. If—

The bedroom door opened, and light from the hallway spilled into the room. She turned her head. Just that small movement was almost more than she could manage. She had expected Clea, but it was Dain, standing tall and broad in the doorway, haloed by the light.

Her heart wrenched, an ache that was not an ache, a joy that was bittersweet.

Touch me. Kiss me. Put yourself inside me and make me whole.

She hungered for him.

He stepped into the room, closed the door behind him.

There were no lights on in the bedroom, and the drapes were pulled shut. A thin sliver of late-afternoon sunlight broke through a slit between the heavy panels, casting the room in an insipid glow.

Dain took a step forward, his eyes locked on hers. There was no expression there, nothing, and that frightened her far more than anything else.

"What's wrong with me?" she asked, feeling certain he knew the answer.

How crazy was that? He wasn't a doctor. And his friend Clea wasn't, either. She'd mentioned that she'd completed two years of medical school before moving on to other things. But for some reason, Vivien was convinced that Dain knew what unnamed condition was tormenting her, knew how to fix it.

He moved to the edge of the bed. She could smell his skin, citrus and spice. So delicious.

For a moment, he just stared down at her, his expression strangely blank, remote. A suspicion nudged her that he was holding himself back, holding himself apart.

His mere presence made her burn, made her feel alive, calling to the hunger inside her, feeding it and assuaging it at the same time.

He leaned in, slow, careful movements. His fist knuckled into the mattress close to her head, bearing some of his weight. Without thought, she tipped her face enough that her cheek touched the side of his wrist. The contact made her gasp, warmth and light and a crackle of energy sparking against her skin.

Unexpectedly, her gut clenched, not in pain but with lust. Hard-edged lust. This was insane. She wanted him despite how sick she was, how terrified. She was so eager for him that she hurt, low in her belly, like she would die if she didn't make love with him.

There were a million reasons why this was sheer madness, but they didn't seem to matter, melting away in the face of the crashing desire that washed away her fears.

Oh, God. Oh, please.

Her gaze shot to his. Anticipation heated her, and she wanted to taste him, needed to taste him.

Kiss me.

Shaking his head, Dain slid his arms underneath her thighs and shoulders, then rose, lifting her against his chest. She whimpered, pressing her face to his neck, and breathed deeply. The scent of him intoxicated her.

"I'm taking you home, Vivien," he said, his breath ruffling her hair.

She felt dizzy, weak, the room spinning, or perhaps she was spinning.

Home. Yes. No… wait… She had no home. But she
did
. If Dain was with her, she was home. Oh, God, what was she thinking?

"The loft, Vivien. I'm taking you to the loft. We need some privacy for this…"

For what? The question skipped away.

"Okay—" She broke off, gasping as a wrenching pain tore through her, so sharp she felt certain it would rip her in two.

Panting, she tried to ride it, to breathe through the torment. It would end; if she could just hang on, it would end.

She buried her face in his neck, let her mouth open and trace her tongue along his skin. She had never tasted anything so good. A moan slipped from between her parted lips, and she felt his muscles tense. Certainty rode her. If she could just have Dain naked against her, his heavy body pressing down on her, his mouth on hers as he pumped into her deep and hard, then the pain would end.

"Hang on, Vivien." He strode to the bedroom door, balancing her as he opened it. She buried her face in his shoulder, aware of him striding through the house, aware of a slap of cold air as he carried her to the car. She heard the roar of the engine and the harsh rasp of her own breathing as she shivered and pressed the base of her skull against the seat back.

The trip back to the penthouse passed in an endless river of pain, of hunger such as she had never known. She was vaguely aware that they were driving, moving, the scenery flashing past at a dizzying rate, but her entire focus was consumed by the ripping agony that twisted and writhed inside her. She was empty, aching with that emptiness.

She wasn't even aware of how she got to the loft—

Dain must have parked the car and carried her—but her next coherent awareness was of the butter—soft leather couch at her back and the spill of late-afternoon sunlight through the banks of windows.

Vivien whimpered as he began to draw away. She couldn't bear it if he left her, wouldn't survive it. She
knew
that.

She felt hot, wild, more than a little desperate. All she wanted to do was tear the clothes from his body, run her tongue along his smooth skin, kiss his lips, and, yes, lower. She wanted to lick him, suck him. A pulsing desire pounded through her, wrenching aside the pain and leaving only a dark and undeniable need.

Vivien stared up at Dain and felt her heart twist like a wrung-out rag. She couldn't stand it, couldn't bear the need to be held by him. It wasn't just a physical ache, but an emotional void, a feeling that if he left her, she wouldn't survive it. On some level, she was linked to him,
knew
him, knew his regret and anguish for all the hurts and imagined failures of his past, the shining honor of his heart and the goodness of his soul.

Terror sluiced through her. How had he come to mean so much to her in such a short time?

Another wave of pain came at her, blanking all thought, all reason. There was only the pain, the dark, sucking bog of agony that pulled at her until she was consumed by it.

"Don't leave me," she whispered. Everyone had left her. Always.

"I won't leave you." Christ. Dain felt like the promise was ripped from him, leaving a gaping wound. Bad enough that he uttered the damned words; worse that he
meant
them with everything he was.

He
wouldn't
leave her. He couldn't.

He was so tied up in her agony, feeling it slithering from her body into his, a connection that made him feel desperate to take it away. All he wanted to do was keep her safe, keep her whole, protect her from everything, even herself.

She didn't even know what she was, and the truth was, neither did he. In a thousand years, he'd never encountered the aura she was throwing off. Yeah… Clea was right. Dark and light magic, mixed, like Ciarran, only not like Ciarran.

Talk about a goddamned riddle.

One thing he
did
know was that he needed to help her, care for her.

Love her.

No. Not that.

Not that.

Dain pulled back, stared at her, the beauty of her body outlined by her tailored clothes. The perfect curves of her breasts, her waist, the flare of her hips, and those long, long runner's legs, toned and strong. Christ, she was so sexy.

His emotions were in turmoil, carrying him feet first down a luge course with no safety brake. He strove for the cool distance he always called up when he was with a woman. Control. He needed to be in control, but right now he was clinging to the edge of a cliff by his fingernails, and the earth was crumbling away.

Because, with Vivien, distance wouldn't come.

He wanted to share with her, to
feel
. Wanted to know emotion and connection as he came into her. She made him feel alive, more alive than he had felt in centuries.

Christ, he was so screwed. She was a succubus, he reminded himself.
A succubus
.

A succubus who had no idea what she was, no idea what she needed to take in order to survive.

What he needed to give to her.

It had come down to that now. To need. Hers. His. It couldn't be denied. He didn't want to deny her.

But his magic was depleted, by the wounds he'd sustained at the hands of the
hybrids
and by his own stupidity in failing to seek rest when he needed it.

There was genuine danger in this deed.

She could drain him to the point of exhaustion, and if he was wrong, if everything was a sham and she was well aware of what she was, then she could take the opportunity to kill him.

Praying-mantis style. Bite the head off her lover during sex.

He could do this
. If Vivien pulled too much, he'd build the damned wall and stop her just as Clea and Ciarran had described.

A thought slammed through him, that his brothers in the Compact had
trusted
him to do this. Despite all recent betrayals and the poorly mended tears in their brotherhood, they placed their trust in him.

Dain's gut clenched as Vivien writhed on the couch in silent misery, her face pale, her eyes shadowed. She was in such pain, and he couldn't bear that.

Leaning close, he touched her cheek, felt the flicker of magic spark in him, through him, into her. Just a taste. She sighed, a sound of release, and he touched her again, a soft stroke of his hand, a taste of his magic, and her expression shifted, changed. His touch had eased her.

"How're you doing, love?"

"Better." Her voice was low and husky. "When you touch me, it's better. The pain goes and I just feel…" The words trailed off as she raked her gaze along his body, and he got her message loud and clear.

Hunger roared through him, cutting loose the moorings of his control. Slowly, Dain unbuttoned his shirt, slid it off his shoulders, then his shoes, socks, jeans, liking the way she watched him, the heat and aching need she revealed. Naked, he came to her, calling every reserve he possessed, holding in check the maelstrom of passion and emotion buffeting him.

And it didn't matter that she was succubus, that she needed to feed from his energy. This was wholly about that and not about that at all. It was about his need to take care of her, keep her safe. It was about the fact that whatever the hell she was, she mattered to him more than he dared admit even to himself.

He wanted her any way he could have her.

Leaning down, he slid one hand under her shoulders to raise her up and caught the hem of her sweater with the other, peeling it up and over her head in a smooth drag. She arched up, licking along the inside of his forearm.

"You taste so good," she whispered.

Methodically, he moved to her slacks, undid the button and zipper, shimmied the cloth down her thighs, her calves, his hands skimming hot flesh as he went. Her skin was gorgeous, white and pink and gold, the swell of her breasts and her hard nipples tantalizing and lush.

He wanted to fall on her, lose himself in her, take her to heights that made her quiver and scream.

Pliant beneath his touch, she watched him, her eyes dark, more green now than hazel. Her gaze roved his naked body, hungry and hot.

"Oh, my God, you're so… amazing," she breathed, scraping her nails over his chest, his collarbone, to the cap of his shoulder, where she traced the outline of his dragon tattoo with her index finger.

"I like this," she whispered, her voice tight.

Her chest rose and fell in shallow little panting breaths, each one raising her breasts toward him, a temptation. He sent her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, what he feared was little more than a harsh grimace.

Suddenly, she surged upward, reaching for him with a sexy little moan that made his balls tighten and his cock swell.

He caught her wrists and straddled her, using his strength to subdue her and press her back to the couch. Apparently, she liked that. Her eyes were sultry as she watched him, her body undulating beneath him.

Dragging her hands up above her head, he let his weight come fully against her as he kissed her mouth, her neck, running his tongue along her skin, tasting her.

She was sweet, so damned sweet. He wanted to claim her, love her, make her shudder and moan.

Desire kicked him, and he kicked back.
He
was in control.
In control
If he let her take too much, she'd kill him.

The power of his magic gathered and swelled, called by her, by him, by the passion that swirled around them, through them. He could feel the trail of it weaving through the air, and if he let it, the magic would flow from him into her, connecting them.