Red Demon (23 page)

Shay glanced sideways at her. “Would that make it less scary for you?”

Juliana gaped back, aghast. “I am not frightened!”

“Of course you’re not,
Auntie
.” Shay giggled. It was a ridiculous title, even if true. Juliana was fairly certain that, despite the years between them, her renewed body was at least several years physically younger than Shay’s.

“I’ll call Ari,” Emma said, flipping open a sleek apparatus. Juliana remembered Aristos shoving something much like it into her hand the night before, when Emma had still been channeling her spirit.

Emma lifted the device to her ear and then apparently began talking with Ari. “Okay, back in a sec,” she said, then folded the unit in half.

“Is that like a telegraph? You can actually speak to him from here?”

Shay began driving—much more slowly—back up the long drive to the main house. Juliana did her level best to relax, grateful when she saw Ari. She smiled, realizing he’d been standing there watching ever since their departure. He’d never even gone back into the house, obviously waiting until her vehicle vanished from his sight.

Emma noticed, too. “Look, he’s still on the steps.” She sighed dreamily. “He really loves you, Juliana.”

Juliana sank back against the seat, sighing, too. “He loves me.”

“He still loves me,” she repeated.

Emma leaned closer, looking her directly in the eye. “Sweetie, he never stopped loving you. Never.”

Juliana studied Ari’s broad-shouldered form, and tears suddenly prickled her eyes at an unexpected thought. With the overcast gloom, and the storm subsiding, she thought of what it must have been like for him the day after she died. How it must have been a morning much like this one.

“I will do anything in my power to take his pain away,” she murmured. “I broke him, and I know it. But now . . . I’m going to put all those pieces back together again. I’m going to mend his heart by making him understand how much I love him.”

Except, she fretted, some things never could be perfectly restored. Like when she’d torn her mother’s strand of water pearls. Their jeweler spent many careful hours re-stringing them, but the necklace never fell quite the same way along her bodice again.

She prayed only that Ari’s heart would prove more resilient.

S
able followed Sophie from a distance as she darted out of Starbucks. No way would he get careless when other Daughters of Delphi might be roaming downtown Savannah. He concealed himself as thoroughly as possible, although even that would be no match for Sophie’s spiritual sight if she focused it on him.

He followed her down Broughton Street, watching her swing her arms and whistle. Why did the freakish girl always seem so . . . happy? It was downright unnatural. He trotted lightly in her wake and then frowned when he noticed that Spartan Aristos coming out of the coffee shop. The warrior had his hand linked with that of a female, and not just any woman, either. He was with that obnoxious little society spirit, the one that he always saw lurking around Sophie’s home. Interestingly enough, he noted, that female was completely material and corporeal now.

He halted, smiling at his cousin’s fine handiwork. “So you did it, Layla,” he muttered to himself admiringly. “You managed to fulfill your promise to that polite wench. Well done.”

The triumph of evil was always worth cheering about—and watching its effect had always been his sporting pastime. So he should’ve been gloating in victory at his Djinn cousin’s success; instead, a disconcerting twinge of concern shot through his chest. For if Layla had infiltrated the Spartans’ midst, she might wish to harm Sophie or those she cared about.

No!
he raged at himself.
Sophie deserves whatever suffering Layla can inflict. She’s a mortal, born to suffer, bred to die, birthed for torture . . . by my kind.

He stomped a back hoof furiously, switching his tail, but still couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that overcame him about Sophie’s potential endangerment.

“What are you doing here?”

He spun a turn, cursing himself a fool for having let Sophie out of his sights for even a moment.

“Sneaky little bitch, aren’t you?” he growled back at her, working his face into a brutal, cruel mask.

She rolled her eyes, waving him off with a light, brazen laugh. “Oh, puh-lease, just stop with that stuff.”

He palmed one of his horns, cocking his head. She confounded him, always. “You should be afraid of me,” he cautioned.

“Yeah? Well just keep telling yourself that, Sable.” She walked much closer, grazing a hand near several of the horned protrusions that still littered his side. “If you’d stop barking at me all the time, I could probably get rid of the rest of these suckers.” She placed a fingertip on one of the sharp ends and said gently, “I know how bad they hurt, so just stay still.”

He sidestepped out of her reach. “Don’t do that,” he snarled.

With every spike that she’d healed before, she’d literally absorbed his suffering into her own empath’s body. Ever since that night, he’d been unable to forget that image—of her crying as she touched his hot, tortured form, literally feeling his pain.

She stood now, one hand still extended, as if half surprised that he’d stepped out of her reach. He trotted closer. “Just . . . don’t touch the horns, Sophie,” he said simply.

“What? You
like
to be in pain? That’s just stupid and way too macho.”

“I am not one of your Spartans! I have no need to prove my manhood at every turn.”

“Then you do enjoying suffering.” She nodded, sucking in her upper lip. “Yeah, makes sense. Demon. Check. Anguish as drug of choice. Got that, too.”

“You are a very strange person, Sophie Lowery,” he said honestly. “You confuse me greatly.”

She beamed at his remark. “I’m so glad! That’s a wonderful compliment.”

He shook his head, mystified. “And you seem stranger by the day. Why would you want to help a creature like me? I wish only to bring torment on you and your kind. Perhaps you’d do well to remember that the next time you try laying those healer’s hands upon my body.”

“And also like your kind, you trade in deceit and lies. Noted.”

“Your point?” He stomped indignantly, folding both arms across his chest, which was smooth and free of horns because of how she’d touched him.

“You like me.” She smiled up at him, her light blue eyes sparkling in pleasure. “A lot.”

He shivered, rearing back. “And you call me the liar.”

She shrugged, rooted to where she stood. “No, I just call it like I see it, Sable.”

A movement in the distance caught his attention. It was the spirit—well, Layla and the spirit, joined in one physical body—walking down the sidewalk with Ari.

“What force does Aristos bargain with?” he asked absently. “Does he even understand?”

Sophie frowned, tracking with his gaze. “That’s Juliana.”

“Is it?” he returned evenly.

“Do you know her?” Sophie stared up at him, a flash of surprise, maybe even concern, in her expression.

Inside his chest, his heart began to thunder, hammering at an accelerated tempo. He should warn her, warn all of them, he thought. The Spartans shared a common cause with him. Two, really: the desire to keep Ares at bay, and to live according to their own rules, not the god’s cruel will.

He gave his head a shake, trying to cling to his true nature, shoving aside the lying, half- human portion of his soul. Lately, that bastardized bloodline of his had become abominably irritating. He felt wave upon wave of malevolence rise inside of him like bile.
Yes
, he thought with satisfaction,
you are still wicked.

He smiled, welcoming it, inviting the rush of depravity. . . .

But not before grabbing Sophie’s arm, shaking it harshly. “Be aware of the darkness you entertain in your midst,” he hissed.

She stared up at him, her feathery black eyebrows lifting in confusion. Slowly she replied, “I walk in the light. You know that.”

He shook his head. “Because of the light in you, Sophie Lowery, evil follows you everywhere you go.”

Like me
, he thought, galloping out of the square.
Like me, drawn to you and always unable to stay away.

He turned back, his lips pulling into a twisted imitation of a smile as he gave one last warning. “Careful, Sophie. Something wicked this way comes.”

 

They’d wandered in and out of several brand- name stores, but it wasn’t until they left Broughton Street and started nosing around some indie designer boutiques on Oglethorpe that Ari got genuinely interested. Banana Republic had been an exercise in the sexually frustrated (himself) doing their level best to appear gentlemanly (occasionally himself).

While Em and Sophie had dragged Juliana back into the dressing room of that store to try things on, he’d been left with little else beyond his impatient imagination. It was rife with images of Juliana in that blue satin robe, hair tumbling all down her back. His hands working their way through those tresses and then skimming all over her body. Moving them over her breasts with long, careful strokes, then lower still, down between her legs, where he’d no doubt find a silky tuft of auburn that matched the hair atop her head.

Not exactly the sorta thing you were supposed to fantasize about while shopping in Banana Republic, but then again he wasn’t exactly the sorta guy who usually frequented that store. Nor was Juliana their typical customer, for that matter. What was up with that chain’s name, anyway? He’d done a few tours down in Central America, spent enough time to know that a banana republic was hardly a politically correct concept. And he’d never been particularly impressed by what anyone was wearing down in those regions, either.

While in the store, Sophie and Em had seemed determined to give him some sort of fashion makeover, with Soph muttering “
Project Runway
reject” at him under her breath every five minutes. That and “Slouchy black T-shirts don’t emphasize your physique. At least get tight ones.”

He’d plucked at the front of his tee, thinking that Jules had seemed to admire his look well enough earlier and she was the only one whose opinion really mattered. Still, a niggling bit of insecurity had gotten him trying on a few leather jackets, including a size XXL black duster that Sophie had discovered. She’d ogled him in it, saying, “Yeah, work it. Own it.”

He’d given her a blank look until Emma had explained, “Ignore her. She’s seen
Pretty Woman
way too many times.”

Finally, the ladies had decided to move on, with a wide-eyed and somewhat dazed Juliana in tow.

“It’s so . . . bright. All those electric lights and silver and mirrors . . . and that pounding music made my head hurt,” she said, hesitating on the bustling sidewalk. Saturdays were big shopping and tourist days in downtown Savannah, even with the aftermath of Hurricane Eric still causing the occasional downpour. “And the smells are . . . not very pleasant here on the street.” She rubbed her forehead, eyes fluttering.

“You all right, Jules?” He had his arm around her in an instant, afraid she might faint. It was a lot to process, more than a hundred years in the span of a few hours. For him, the past millennia had moved second by second, hour by hour, and although the years became a blur after a while, at least he had a human’s timeframe for processing them.

“I’m fine,” she said, smiling up at him, but he couldn’t help thinking she looked a bit pale around the feminine edges. She wore a flowing sundress that Emma had loaned her, one that fell to just above her knee because Juliana was at least two inches taller than Em. But the fit had been close enough, and given the other alternative—that high-necked Victorian gown—the dress worked.

He reached for her hand, looping it through the crook of his arm. It felt strange to be out here on the same streets where they’d once walked, she in her promenade dresses, parasol in hand, he in his fine suits and gloves. To touch her openly, with his bare hands, took some getting used to on his part. No wonder she blushed and hesitated briefly before sliding her hand firmly through his arm.

“We gotta find something that’ll work for you,” he said, lower so Emma and Sophie wouldn’t hear. They were forging ahead, leading the way. “Soon,” he added more huskily, making it clear that he had important plans in mind.

Juliana glanced down at her borrowed dress, smoothing it out. “I thought this was the fashion now.” She chewed on her lip, dismayed.

“I’m not talking about you putting clothes
on
. I’m thinking about plans for later.”

“Won’t clothes be useful for any outings?” she asked, eyes mischievous. “Or perhaps they’re no longer necessary in the twenty- first century.” She glanced about, noticing a young girl wearing what he would’ve generously termed “denim underpants.” The girl twitched her rear, the overall coverage scanty at best, lewd at level worst.

Juliana frowned at the outfit. “Although some young women display far more skin in public than we ever thought proper.” She shook her head in wide-eyed shock. “Strange bloomers, indeed.”

“Don’t worry; diapers aren’t really the rage in current feminine fashion.”

“Perhaps you should try a pair of those pantaloons,” Juliana teased, turning her full attention back on him. “They would undoubtedly accentuate those masculine portions I noticed earlier this morning.”

Darling, you should see me in my leather Spartan garb
, he almost blurted, wondering what she’d think about that tight loincloth—including how it emphasized said male endowments, and most spectacularly.

But that would mean confessing his full history, and the thought of making himself that vulnerable was like throwing cold water on the lusty flirtation.

They walked into an indie designer boutique run by one of Emma and Sophie’s friends, and one of Shay’s closest, he realized. The trio greeted the owner with happy trills of “Angelina Ballerina!” Then Emma introduced the coquettishly dressed woman as Angela O’Sullivan. Sophie immediately piped in, “A brilliant, brilliant designer! She’ll dress Juliana up right! She’s a total fashion muse.”