Red Demon (45 page)

“That’s one big baby,” Shay replied.

“Or maybe two smaller ones,” Sophie said, then popped a hand over her mouth as if she’d just blurted something she’d seen but knew she shouldn’t reveal just yet.

S
able stared down at the woolen piece that Sophie had just handed him. “What is this?” he snarled, turning her gift in his scarred palms. She’d returned home and discovgift in his scarred palms. She’d returned home and discovered him lurking at the end of her street.

“It’s a scarf, silly.” She beamed up at him innocently.

Right then he noticed the little tag that she’d sewn on the edge: HANDMADE FOR YOU BY SOPHIE!

She rushed onward, ignoring his silence. “It’s just that this is supposed to be one of the coldest winters we’ve had in years.” She made her eyes as big as saucers. “
Hello?
Global warming, anyone? You go around shirtless constantly, and even here in Savannah it’s gonna be really chilly, so I thought I’d make you a scarf to keep you warm until spring.”

“I go around shirtless,” he muttered, parroting her words. “You thought you’d keep me warm until spring.”

“Well, not
me
, duh. The scarf. Although you should think about getting a coat or turtleneck.” She assessed him and then waved off the idea. “Maybe a leather vest, though?”

“Would you please shut up?” he roared.

She startled visibly, reminding him of one of her fostered cats that always lurked around her front steps. They way they’d arch their backs, ready to bolt if anyone became too noisy or cross with them.

“I guess I annoy centaurs and demons just like I do my own family sometimes.”

Those words, for some reason, stabbed him hard. A ringing, hollow pain filled his chest. Surely she didn’t believe her loved ones felt that way toward her? And if she did . . . he’d just reinforced the thought.

“I am not annoyed, Sophie. My question is simple.” He kept his voice even, not screaming in her face, not railing at her harshly. No, he spoke, at least for him, very gently. “I’m unclear why you crocheted this scarf for me, a creature of heat and darkness. My body burns by its very nature.” He patted his bare chest. “I am fire. I’ve no need to guard myself against the winter winds.”

“But even you must get cold sometimes?” She peered up at him, genuinely concerned. She reached a soft hand and touched his withers. “I don’t want you freezing to death this winter; honest I don’t.”

“You are . . .” He was going to say
considerate
,
kind
.
Thoughtful
.

But then all those words burned up on his tongue.

Wait one blasted moment
, he thought. What was he doing, being so reasonable and pleasant with the obnoxiously nice girl?

As if coming back to himself, he hurled the scarf at her violently. She was caught off guard by the throw, and the scarf slapped her in the face, tumbling into a small puddle by her feet. Without a word, she squatted down and retrieved it, ringing it out.

“You know,” she said, “I picked the color black because of your coat . . . and your hair.”

“I don’t have any hair,” he growled, touching his bare scalp self-consciously.

“You used to.”

He made his face a mask, gave her no reaction at all. How could she know what he’d looked like twenty-five hundred years ago? She’d not even been alive when he’d still been glorious and handsome and winged, not yet cursed to this work beast’s ungainly body.

She touched the scarf, staring at it thoughtfully. “And I chose the cobalt blue edging for your eyes.” She lifted the scarf, showing him the vivid blue. “See?”

“My eyes are crimson!” he thundered, and conveniently enough, his vision suddenly washed out in that furious hue. How dare she insinuate that she knew about his other heritage?

She shook her head. “Not all the time. Every now and then they’re a very pretty blue.” She sighed, damn her, a bit dreamily. “You probably have no idea how handsome that is, that flash of lightness against your darkish skin. It always amazes me when it happens.”

He looked away, despising the way his cheeks grew warm at the compliment.

“Why don’t you grow your hair back out? Is it because of your horns or something?” She stood, clutching the scarf against her chest. “Although, come to think of it, I guess you always had those, even when your hair was so long and shiny.”

“How do you know about that?”

“I’ve seen the way you used to look . . . before.”

He dared a glance at her. “When you healed me?”

She nodded. “It was the color of rich ebony, all the way to your hips, and I
so
wanted to brush it.” She sighed, eyes drifting almost shut. “And maybe even run my fingers through it, too. Yeah that would’ve been amazing. . . .”

His face burned; his scalp burned; every part of him grew overheated and tense—all because of her quiet admission. She wanted to touch him. Who, in all these years, had done more than gape at his ugliness in abject horror?

He stared at his hooves, still flushing. “The scars . . . all over my scalp. I can’t . . . I don’t grow hair, not on my head, not since . . . ever since . . .” He cleared his throat and said finally, “I am hairless now.”

“They’re burns?”

Frowning, he nodded and touched the top of his bare head, feeling the nubs of his horns beneath his palm. They lengthened and retracted, depending on his frame of mind or whether or not he was in battle; right now they were almost all the way inside his skull. “My skin here is ruined,” he told her, patting his crown.

She only smiled and then crooked a finger. “Bend down, Sable. I want to see the scars.”

He stood taller, indignant. “Oh, no you do not. I won’t allow you to attempt another healing on me.”

“Get over yourself!” She swatted his withers with the scarf. “I used to work at a salon, and maybe we could do something.”

He kept rubbing his crown, imagining what she’d think of him with that long black hair cascading to his hips. He’d be almost . . . attractive again. Maybe he would let her brush it, just once. After a moment, he bent down to her level, quite a feat because she was a tiny woman compared to his gargantuan size.

“A little lower,” she urged, and he caught her scent as she pressed soft fingertips against his burning scalp. “Yes, that’s good. I just need to see . . .”

All at once, she had those palms open wide and spread across his head. He squirmed, knowing her intent, but she only held harder.

“No, I’m doing this,” she said, as he pried at her fingers.

“Do . . . not . . . heal me!” he bellowed, remembering all too well the pain she’d experienced with the spikes.

“It’s your hair, for crying out loud! You deserve to have that . . .” She squirmed as he yanked her up against him, knocking her with his right foreleg, and they were in an outright scuffle, she determined to keep her healer hands on his scalp—and he equally resolved to block the action.

But the pain, that heat that always radiated across his skull—it did the most miraculous thing.

It stopped. And then so did she, letting her hands fall to her sides.

“That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?” she asked softly, then added, “Uh-oh.”

And fainted right against his chest.

 

“What am I supposed to do with you now?” Sable asked, giving Sophie an awkward little shake. She’d collapsed against him like he was an upright bed or her favorite pillow, and passed out cold.

“Sophie!” he hissed, shaking her harder. She released a quiet moan, turning her cheek against his chest, and settled in.

He stomped first one hoof, then the other, staring up at the night sky as if a solution might come tumbling down. “Spartans!” he thundered, just in case one of them might be in the area and could retrieve the bizarre human.
The warm, good-smelling, incredibly soft human
, a tinkling voice whispered in his mind.

“Stop!” he cried, as much to himself as to her. With a start, she woke, squeezing his arms to steady herself.

“Oh, golly Pete. I hate it when I do that. How long was I out?” She rubbed her eyes, backing away from him, and he found that he sorely missed holding her, all that softness against his own body.

He swished his tail, trying to control his reactions. Getting away from Sophie was the best plan. He trotted down the street but then turned back. “Why did you come for me? Tonight you sought me out.”

She held up the scarf and then tossed it right at him. “Catch!” she urged, and he did so on pure reflex. This time, he balled it in his fist, keeping it.

“I wondered what you could tell me about something important, actually.” She moved closer; he trotted farther away. She followed again; he jittered sideways. Finally, rolling her eyes, she plopped down on a stone bench.

“What can you tell me about female Djinn?” she asked.

He grew very still. She knew about Layla; she’d ask for no other reason.

“What do you want to know?” he returned.

“Can they do a little trick, this thing where they can, I don’t know, bind together with someone’s soul? Someone who died?”

He barely breathed, but his mind warred with itself, torn between warning her about Layla’s vicious strength and protecting his cousin so that evil might wax strong in the world.

If Layla were victorious, that would possibly mean that his traitorous thoughts toward this particular human would be snuffed out. Because Sophie would be gone, too. If Layla went far enough.

“Female Djinn will do anything for sex. They have very specific compulsions for men who don’t want them. They’re consumed by the need to capture unwinnable affections—this is because they were cursed by Ahriman that way after one of their kind tried seducing him. If you’ve encountered a Djinn, a female sort . . . she’s probably after a particular male.”

Sophie leaped to her feet, walking much closer. “But can they bring back a dead person?”

He glared at her. “I’ve said too much.”

“I need to know. It’s Aristos—you know him, right? He’s a really sweet guy, and my cousin Mason’s in some kind of trouble with this thing. . . .” She pressed both hands to her face. “It’s just too much to even think through. But can a Djinn be separated out or whatever, if she’s done something like this?”

“There is no hope for your world or your friends,” he said bitterly. “There is no life left if a creature like me has entered your midst.”

“But you’re
good
,” she insisted, stomping her foot. And by the gods, the woman seemed to mean it.

He’d be damned if he offered her any further help after that insult.

“J
ules,” she heard Aristos hiss. She was sitting in the library, having begun a small crochet project with Sophie’s yarn, anything to pass the time until the exorcism. And that would be soon, perhaps within the hour.

Ari called to her again, but looking all around the room, she didn’t see him. Emma and Shay had left to go make sandwiches, so she was alone.

Then he called her again, whispering her name urgently. “Jules!”

She followed his voice, walking toward the veranda door. All at once, he yanked her out onto the long porch, a conspiratorial gleam in his dark eyes. He pushed her up against the exterior wall, stroking her hips beneath his large palms as his mouth covered hers. It was desperate, the way he kissed her, and as arousing as it was, as much as she wanted it, his intensity worried her. Holding her palms against his chest, she braced him away from her slightly.

“What’s wrong?” She searched his face.

He was breathing heavily. “I thought you were liking that.” He propped an elbow against the wall, staring down at her with a lazy, sensual expression. “I missed you. That’s it. It’s been hours since I held you, and I couldn’t go another minute without tasting you.”

He played with her hair. “I needed this. You.” His words were seductive, but his eyes told a different tale. He was deeply worried for her safety and their future.

She cupped his face. “It’s going to work. I feel it, Aristos.”

He looked away for a moment. “I don’t want you to be hurt . . . not by my power, or by Layla.”

“Where did Juliana go?” she heard Emma ask from inside the library.

“She might have gone to her room.” Shay volunteered, her words carrying through that open door.

“Well, shoot,” Emma said. “I made her a sandwich. I’ll check her room.”

Ari put a finger to his lips, motioning for her to keep silent. Taking her hand and tiptoeing, he led her around the far side of the veranda, the part that overlooked the river.

Again, he pressed that finger to his lips, guiding her toward a wicker settee that was filled with plump, soft cushions. Because of where it sat on the porch, no one inside could even see it, but it was luxurious and would definitely hold them both, while affording a lovely view of the river below.

“Let’s watch the sun set over the water,” he whispered, and he smiled as he looked up at her, but again, that fear and melancholy lurked in his expression.

He settled into it, opening his legs, and then pulled her down into an embrace. Snuggling her back against his chest, he held her close, one hand on her abdomen, the other along her inner thigh. “I like being sneaky,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s hot. And holding you, all up close, that’s even hotter.”

He stroked her belly, trailing his fingers lower, walking them teasingly. “Look where I’m going.” He laughed. “This little man’s gonna get some. Although, my man”—he patted the bulging erection that he now sported in his pants—“isn’t all that little, is he?”

“You are very . . . hot,” she said, using the modern expression a little uncertainly.

Ari beamed with pride at the praise, brushing a hand through his long hair. “You think so? That I’m a hot guy?”

“You make me very, very hot,” she agreed enthusiastically.