Demon's Kiss (7 page)

“Not while the Compact of Sorcerers guards this dimension. Even a conduit would not be strong enough to open the realms,” Ciarran said, feeling Clea lean a little tighter against him. “Tell me the rest. How? How will it come to pass?”

A sinister dread rose up in him, even as he spoke the question. And suddenly, he knew. Knew with a horrific certainty, his own words supplying the key.

Not while the Compact of Sorcerers guards this dimension.

But what if they chose not to guard? What if the
Pact
was broken?

“Open the portal.” Gasping, Matthew closed his eyes. “With the help of the conduit,” he whispered. “And with the help of a sorcerer.”

A betrayal.

“One of your own betrays you, sorcerer.” Wheezing words whispered in a raspy voice. “One of your
own
summons the Solitary.”

He’d gotten her home last night, taken her to her apartment, to her bedroom, used a whisper of his power to cast her into much-needed sleep. Tugged her quilt up over her fully clothed body. He hadn’t dared undress her, hadn’t dared touch her.

Christe,
just the thought of brushing his fingers over her soft, soft skin made him hard.

Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, Ciarran watched a lone jogger approach from the west, chuffing along, moving east without so much as a glance in his direction.

No surprise. Ciarran was bending light, refracting and reflecting its rays. To the human eye, he simply wasn’t there.

And Ciarran desperately wanted to believe that
he
was looking for something that wasn’t there. A traitor.

One of the Compact of Sorcerers.

One of his own.

Rage uncoiled in a powerful wave, and he steadied himself against it, feeling the demon parasite inside him revel as the black emotion gathered strength.

The demon-keeper’s words ate at him. The thought of such betrayal revolted him, but he couldn’t make himself doubt the truth of the old man’s last warning. Everything made sense. The increasing arrogance of the
hybrids.
The sensation that something was wrong in the
continuum.
Minor demons stalking the earth without keepers, like the one he’d found in the alley slurping rat carcasses, and the one Darqun had found rifling through garbage. Lesser demons. Weak. But here in the world of man nonetheless.

Such things should be impossible; that they were happening only served to increase his certainty. There
was
a traitor within the Compact who was deftly slicing the wall, just enough to let advance minions through but not enough to raise an alarm.

Ciarran needed to find out who the hell it was.

The air stirred beside him, a small forewarning. The only one he needed.

“Twice in two days. If we keep meeting like this, I’m going to think it’s lu-u-u-v.” Darqun settled on the bench beside him, stretching his legs out in front and crossing them at the ankles. “Hope you know what the hell is going on here, ’cause I sure don’t.”

“You know as much as I do, but my gut is telling me we’re in for a mess of trouble.” Ciarran glanced at the other sorcerer. He’d already told Darqun all he knew, making a quick phone call to fill him in on the salient points before giving him Clea’s address. Ever careful, Ciarran had considered the possibility that Darqun was the traitor and discarded it. Darqun was loyal.

Which left who? Javier? Baunn, with his quips and his jokes? Could he possess the skill and cunning to betray his own? Dain, the illusionist, with his love of showmanship?

One of his own contemporaries? A sorcerer? The thought made Ciarran sick.

Absently, he drummed his fingertips on his thigh. “You took care of the
hybrids
from the other night?”

“Not me. Javier. He insisted.” Darqun laughed, a low sound, devoid of any real humor. He shot a glance at Ciarran. “You take care of the granddaughter?”

“Clea. Her name is Clea.” Closing his eyes, Ciarran pictured her, a brave and valiant warrior clutching her plastic letter opener before her. “Yeah. I—” He pushed himself to his feet, paced, then turned and jutted his chin toward the building. “That’s her apartment. Fifth floor.”

Darqun looked around. “Why’d you bring her here? We’re in the middle of
hybrid
heaven.”

“She wanted familiarity. I figured that after what she’d been through, it wasn’t a bad idea.” At Darqun’s blank look, Ciarran rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged. There had been limited choices. Bring her here or to his home. He had a distinct predilection to avoid long-term guests, preferring his solitude. No,
needing
his solitude, for the times that it took all he had to control the demon within. “She’s safe. I cast wards to shield her. And as long as one of us guards her, none can reach her.”

Darqun frowned at him, clearly bemused. “Okay. Where are
you
going?”

Now Ciarran smiled wryly. “Clea’s a little nervous about the bike. I figured I’d switch it for a car.”

His gaze slid away as Darqun lifted a brow incredulously.

“And she, uh, likes coffee, you know? I thought I’d get her some coffee,” Ciarran muttered as he strode away, Darqun’s whoop of laughter trailing after him like a tail.

Wired Guy. The demon. Not so real.

And the sorcerer.
Whooo.
She
wished
that he’d been real.

Rolling to a sitting position, she realized she was still wearing her clothes. Nice. She didn’t even remember falling into bed last night. All she remembered were the nightmares.

She’d dreamed of the crash, dreamed of the fire, the terrible sound of rending metal, then the silence. Pain. So much pain. And the feeling that she was never going to get up off the cold, wet ground.

Then she’d dreamed of him, Ciarran, there with her, cloaked in light and glimmering filaments.

In her dreams, he’d been at the Blue Bay, too, last night, the only thing standing between her and a demon with its rows of jagged, razor-sharp teeth. Same guy, different nightmare. Ciarran D’Arbois. The sorcerer.

She sucked in a breath, almost believing she could smell the delicious, sexy scent of his skin, remembering the way the aroma had wrapped her in its luscious embrace as she hugged his leather jacket around her. Shaking her head, her palm pressed flat against her lips, she told herself it was crazy. There was no guy.

Rising, she hesitated, clenching and unclenching her fists. In two steps, she was at her closet door, yanking it open and riffling through the contents. No butter-soft, megaexpensive leather jacket, even though she could swear he’d settled it over her shoulders to keep her warm. She gave a snort of laughter. Of course. There was no jacket because
there was no guy.

It was all just a weird dream, the product of a grieving mind. Her angst-ridden, overwrought, grief-stricken mind. Funny, she’d never thought of herself as the hysterical sort. Solid, rational, uncomplicated Clea Masters. That was her. Except for the rare occasions when her insides spun themselves into a knot, and a flare of energy erupted from her body, protecting her from harm.

That part wasn’t so rational or uncomplicated, but given the rarity of its appearance, she figured she could overlook it.

Raking one hand through her hair, she wandered barefoot along the hall to the tiny kitchen, yanked open the cupboard door, searching for the coffee can. The sun streamed through the yellowed lace curtain, filling the old kitchen with light, dancing across the countertop. She glanced around and spotted the empty can in the pile of recyclables that needed to be carried out.

Damn.

She tapped one finger on the counter.

Actually, it was a perfect day to be out of coffee. A walk in the sunshine to the corner market would do her good. Clea felt her spirits rise, just a little.

She was tempted, so tempted, to splurge on a caramel corretto with whipped cream. Closing her eyes, she could imagine the delicious taste, the creamy texture. But that was nuts. Cash was so tight. She still owed half the money for Gram’s burial, and her next installment payment for tuition was coming due. For what it would cost her for a single corretto, she could buy a whole tin of coffee that would last for weeks.

Forget the corretto. The momentary thrill wasn’t worth the price.

In a few minutes she was showered, scrubbed clean, dressed in jeans and a bright pink sweater. She felt like she really needed that punch of color. Crossing to the front door, she paused, wistfully studying the framed photo of her and Gram. Her gaze shifted to the vase of old dried flowers that were slowly disintegrating, leaves and bits of petals breaking off to dust the small tabletop.

Kind of like her life.

Bits and pieces falling apart. Gram dead. Medical school feeling more wrong every day. The bills piling up like autumn leaves under a maple tree.

She needed to make some decisions, but not right now. It wasn’t like her to procrastinate. Usually, she faced her problems, made a decision, and moved on. But she supposed it was a smart woman who realized that she might be pushing it a little too close to the edge. So right now, she just wanted to do something normal, something uncomplicated, like going out to buy coffee.

Shaking her head, she unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door.

Shock sent her heart skittering to a stop; then it started beating again, so hard she could feel it knocking against her ribs. With a gasp, she pressed one hand against the doorjamb for support, taking an involuntary step back.

He
was there. The sorcerer, Ciarran, right outside her door, the weight of his powerful body resting on one shoulder as he leaned negligently against the wall. His honey gold hair was loose around his shoulders, and dark sunglasses hid his stunning iridescent eyes.

Man, oh, man. He was everything she’d thought he was, and more. Clea swayed, feeling light-headed. She wet her lips. Not a dream. God. He wasn’t a dream, which meant none of it was a dream. Not the gorgeous guy. Not the dead demon. None of it. He was real, so real that she felt his presence in every cell of her body.

Using his leather-encased index finger, Ciarran pushed the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and looked at her over the rim. He studied her for minute, unsmiling.

“I brought caramel, chocolate, and vanilla. Oh, and a chai latte.” He shrugged, pushed away from the wall until he was standing upright, filling the doorway. She realized he was holding a cardboard tray with four enormous cups of coffee, the aroma wafting toward her, making her mouth water. “I didn’t know what you’d like.”

You. I’d like you.

As though he read her thoughts, he smiled, the edges of his mouth curving up, slow and sexy. That mouth was unbelievable. Hard. A little cruel. Promising passion, inexplicable delight, the fulfillment of any dark fantasy.

A sharp coil of desire slid through her, shocking her, scaring her. She’d never been attracted to dominant, aggressive men, but, oh, the way he was looking at her, his gaze so hot, dragging her from a slow simmer to a rolling boil. Promising that he would have her, and she would have him. And it wouldn’t be sweet and slow and gentle.

She swallowed. Suddenly, dominant and aggressive were looking damn good.

Oh, man. She wasn’t just losing it. She was so far gone along the path that she had no chance of finding her way back.

“So, can I come in?” That rich, smoky voice held her in thrall.

“Sure.” She stumbled back a step, and another. “Come on in.” No sense in denying him. She had a feeling that even her dead bolt wouldn’t hold up long if he decided he wanted in. Besides, if he’d wanted to hurt her, he would have done it last night.

Her gaze dropped to his gloved hand and the cardboard tray. He’d brought her a caramel corretto.

He filled up the entryway, carrying the rich aroma of coffee and caramel and chocolate with him.

Balancing the tray first in one hand, then the other, he shrugged out of his leather jacket, glanced around, and hung it on a peg behind the door. Then he reached up and drew off the glasses, folded them, and tucked them into the pocket of his coat.

Catching her looking at him, he flashed her what he must have thought was a reassuring smile, white teeth and curved lips and that sexy crease carving one cheek. Her knees almost buckled. When he looked at her like that, she didn’t find it reassuring in the least.

God, he was gorgeous.

Clea blinked, wondering for a fraction of a second if he would disappear, a figment of her imagination. But, no, he was still there, and he took her breath away.

She turned, led the way into the kitchen, and lowered herself into a chair, watching him warily as he methodically removed each cup from the cardboard tray and set them on the table in a perfectly straight line. His movements were deft, his fingers long and strong. She stared at the leather glove on his left hand, curious, a little unnerved. A prickle of unease skittered along her spine.

“You ever take that off?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she felt terrible and wished she could call them back. It was none of her business.

He glanced at her. “No.” His tone made it clear that the topic was off-limits. He waved his hand to encompass the coffee, and said, “Which one is your favorite?”

“Caramel.” The word came out as a sigh.

Sinking down on the second chair, he slid one of the cups along the table toward her, his eyes glittering. Gorgeous eyes. Blue and gray and gold and green, deep-set, framed by sinfully long lashes.

She dropped her gaze. He’d splayed his legs, knees apart, a purely masculine posture. She realized he was wearing different clothes than he’d had on the previous night, darker jeans with a tattooed pattern and a chocolate brown shirt with a subtle design in a slightly lighter shade, open at the top to reveal the solid column of his throat and a hint of muscled chest. Dark brown suede boots. She wasn’t much for fashion, lacking both the finances and the inclination, but it didn’t take a genius to realize he was probably wearing the equivalent of what she earned in a month.

He made a sound, drawing her attention.

“Sorry,” she said as she glanced up. “I didn’t even ask which one you wanted. I like the chocolate, too, so if you want the caramel, I don’t mind.”

“You do mind. But if I choose the one you want, you’ll find a way to make do.”

She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it. What to say to that? He was right. She always found a way to make do. Gram had raised her to find a path even in the roughest terrain.

A little flustered, she pressed her lips together. He’d known her less than a day, and yet he
knew
her.

“Go ahead. Sometimes you need to take what you want.” With a half smile that made her think of forbidden fruit and really naughty secrets, he pushed the cup a fraction of an inch closer.

Sometimes you need to take what you want.
Is that what he did? Took what he wanted?

“If you’re certain . . .”

“Having sampled none of the options, I can’t claim a preference.”

“Oh.” That surprised her. She was sitting in her kitchen with a man who hunted demons, and she was taken aback because he’d never tasted a corretto? Popping the lid off the coffee in front of her, she pushed it back across the table toward him. “You don’t know what you’re missing. Try it. You’ll love it.”

He blinked, closed those long, strong fingers around the paper cup, and took a sip. His brows rose, and his gaze shot to hers.

“Sweet.” He sounded affronted, as though coffee should be anything but sweet.

With a laugh, Clea accepted the container as he handed it back to her. Her fingers brushed his. Less than a second. But, oh, the heat that poured through her from that innocuous contact. Her pulse sped up, and she spoke in a rush.

“You should taste it with whipped cream on top. Now that’s sweet. I was fantasizing about it just this morning.”
Fantasizing.
Maybe not the best word choice. Nervously, she pressed her mouth to the paper rim and tasted the coffee, only to realize that she had put her lips on the exact spot he had placed his.

She looked up to find him staring at her mouth, and she knew he hadn’t missed what she had done. A bolt of heat shot through her.

“I was unaware of your preference for whipped cream.” He turned his hand, a careless gesture, and a pulse of light shot from his finger, touching the cup, winding round it from bottom to top.

“Oh, my, God.” There was a healthy pile of whipped cream gracing the corretto, cream that definitely hadn’t been there a second ago. “Oh, my, God.”

She carefully set the cup on the table.
Breathe. Nice and slow.
She’d already known he wasn’t quite human, had already watched him save her from a demon. But somehow, as they sat face-to-face in her homey little kitchen, with its familiar yellowed curtains and small wooden table, his trick with the whipped cream seemed enormous.

“What
are
you?” Clea whispered, pressing her palms flat on the table to keep her hands from shaking.

“I am High Sorcerer. Guardian of the wall between dimensions and all the human realm.”

“All at once, huh?” She nodded slowly. “How about you explain that in plain English?”

He studied her for a long moment, and said, “I kick demon ass. I save the world.”

His words seemed to come at her from far, far away.

“I don’t believe you,” she blurted.

“I don’t do parlor tricks,” he said flatly. “The whipped cream was a small demonstration because I figured you’d be disinclined to believe what you recalled from last night. We need to talk.”

She thought about that for a minute and nodded. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

One side of his mouth turned up in a sardonic smile, and there it was again, the long deep crease in his cheek that was so sexy it made the pit of her belly do a slow drop that left her breathless and more than a little flustered.

Without thinking it through, she reached out and touched his face, laying her fingers on his warm skin, feeling the rough stubble of his beard under the sensitive tips. His eyes widened, but he didn’t pull away. She traced his jaw, dragged her fingers over his lower lip, and almost moaned aloud at the intensity of the heat that crashed through her.