Matched With A Demon Page 2

  Nodding, the girl dropped the coat and climbed onto the lip of the tub, touching the surface with her fingers. Her eyes closed in bliss and she slipped inside the water, thin kitten T-shirt, leggings and all. “It’s so warm.”

  “Do you want it warmer?”

  “Yes, please.” A film of dirt sloughed off her body, muddying the water to brown.

  Adjusting the faucet to hot, Lucia kept one hand in the water, making sure it wouldn’t scald her. “So,” she tried again when the girl sat up. “What’s your name?” She reached for the soap, opened the top, and offered it for the girl to sniff.

  Her nose scrunched and she drew her head back before answering with something Lucia couldn’t understand, except it started with D.

  “I didn’t catch that.”

  The girl peeled the T-shirt off her shoulders, swishing it in the water and watching it float in the tub. Naked, she was the size of a toddler. Her articulation was misleading, and Lucia’s thoughts wandered again. Where did she come from? Who was she? Why was she in an alley in the middle of the night? Undernourished and frail, Lucia worried the girl might be sick.

  “Deliashvishleha,” the child repeated.

  “That’s a really long name, but it’s beautiful.” She tried to say it, and the girl laughed.

  “No,” she giggled. “But my daddy called me Delia. He couldn’t say it either. Only my mom.”

  Lucia's fingers stilled in Delia's hair, causing the girl to peek at her in confusion. Refocusing, she resumed massaging her scalp, foaming the soap with her fingertips. “Where are your parents?”

  “Gone.”

  “Did they leave you in the alley?”

  Hissing, Delia turned angry eyes on Lucia. The red bled from her pupils, darkening until her eyes were completely black. “They didn’t leave me.” As swiftly as they’d darkened, they returned to ruby red. “Not on purpose.” She swirled her fingers in the water, popping bubbles and making new ones.

  “I’m sorry, Delia. Can I get ahold of them somehow?”

  “No.” She rubbed the soap on her arms, and Lucia was relieved to see the skin pink a little. There was an undertone of blue, but less severe. The poor thing really had been freezing. “My dad said I needed to find new parents. So, I picked you.”

  The conditioner bottle slipped from her hand and landed in the tub with a splash, spraying both Delia and Lucia with water. She opened her mouth to argue but then shut it. It was past midnight, and she needed to feed Delia and put her to bed. It wasn’t the time to argue whether or not she’d be an acceptable parent.

  “If you don’t like grilled cheese, what do you like?” Food was something she could control.

  “What do you have?”

  “Hmm,” she considered, using the washcloth to wash Delia’s back. “Cereal?”

  “Ick.”

  “Let’s look together.” Lucia went to the linen closet, finding a towel. “Stand up.” She wrapped the towel around her and lifted, setting her gently on the bathmat and scrubbed her dry.

  “Don’t you want to know how I found you?”

  Lucia picked her up again, leaving the bathroom for her bedroom. Placing her on the bed, she considered her answer. “I don’t know.” Opening a drawer, she began to dig for a shirt. An old pair of sleep shorts with a tie waist and some trouser socks along with a button-down shirt were the best she could do.

  “Foot,” she directed, waiting for Delia to stick out a small foot.

  “I watched you at the library,” she began as Lucia put on the second sock.

  “Lift your butt.” She tugged the shorts into place, pulling the laces and tying them. “This will work for tonight.”

  “And followed you home a bunch of times.”

  Rolling the sleeves on her shirt, Lucia sat back on her heels. “I think that’s the best I can do.”

  “You looked nice.”

  Sighing, she stood. “I try to be.”

  Delia smiled, her teeth gleaming in the dim light and she jumped off the bed, reaching for Lucia’s hand. “I knew it. I knew I picked right.”

  Lucia followed as she tugged her toward the door. “I don’t know about that, kiddo.”

  “Oh, trust me,” she said confidently. “I did.”

  2

  Armaros

  Armaros caught the scent of his sister. Weaving through time and space, he shadowed her trail. Close, he was so close.

  Decades passed in a blur of color and motion until it all stopped.

  A dingy alley. A fucking freezing alley. Was this Russia? He glanced around for a clue, saw the license plate of a car driving by and realized: New England. Only New England could give Russian weather a run for its money.

  Eyes darkening, he studied the alley. The scent he was so sure was his sister’s disappeared, though something similar lingered. Breathing deeply, he trailed the scent to where it was strongest.

  Here.

  The power began in his chest, rising, flowing outward until it bathed everything in a red haze.

  “Find her?” someone purred.

  Like a light switch, Armaros shut off his power. Moving faster than any human could track, he wrapped his fingers around the neck of the demon who dared interrupt him.

  “Fuck, man. Lighten up,” the demon managed.

  Allowing a surge to burst through his fingertips, he enjoyed the way the demon’s skin began to crackle and ooze.

  “Shit. Let up,” it begged.

  “You followed me.”

  He released the creature, sending him flying into the bricks and permitted himself a small smile. There was a hafsta-sized indentation in the wall. Turning his back on the demon who barely merited his attention, he went to the tiny spot of power on the concrete.

  It was highly concentrated, an enduring indication of his sister’s presence. Except it was different. At her most powerful, Vasanthi never left traces of herself. It was his blood connection to her that allowed him to track the scent of her power: a unique combination of abilities specific to only her.

  “Why do you still follow her?” the low-level demon asked. “It’s been decades; haven’t you tired of the pursuit? Five years, yes. Ten years, maybe. But forty?”

  He froze the demon, crystalizing him in a shroud of ice. “I do not explain myself to a hafsta,” he hissed. “You are beneath my contempt.” You refuse to admit what the demon says needles you.

  He shut down that voice. Finding his sister was a matter of pride.

  Armaros had ignored the rumors swirling around her, which left him shocked when she disappeared. But when he’d learned why, he was enraged.

  A human.

  She left everything for a human. Left him—the only family either of them had.

  In the bowels of hell, a demon could only trust the one with whom they’d fallen, and for him, it was Vasanthi. Created together, they worshipped the Maker together, and when their lives were dictated to them, they chose freedom together. In hindsight, there was more on the line than free will, but they learned to live with the consequences.

  Then, without a word, she ceded the power and control they’d spent millennia gathering, and left him. Pride did not goeth before the fall. For Armaros, pride and the fall went hand-in-hand, and finding, then destroying, his sister was the single way to keep his honor.

  It was all he had left.

  Freezing the demon had barely touched his reserves. Armaros had plenty of juice left for the final leg of his journey. His sister was within reach. A moment more, an extension of his awareness, and she’d be within his grasp.

  Like a net, his strength wove over the city, tendrils reaching and pursuing the remnants of his sister’s aura. He closed his eyes. There. He could feel her.

  But something was off. It was her, but…not. No matter. What he sought was nearly within reach.

  The tinkling of ice scattering across the concrete made him sigh in annoyance. “You’re beginning to irritate me.” A thought occurred to him and he gritted his teeth. Hafsta were gree
dy demons, searching for inroads to souls, as well as, to power. If this one was willing to risk his ire, it was because the payoff was worth the potential pain he could inflict on the being. Retracting the net he used to encompass the city, he threw it instead over the demon. Like a knife-thrower, he pinned the being against the wall.

  “Why are you here?” He let his eyes darken. His body grew, his fallen form overwhelming the human one he wore. His wings extended outward. Once, they had been beautiful. Feathered and iridescent. They were still beautiful, but terrible. Their blackness was infinite, hypnotizing and sharp. His wings cut through air, flesh, and spirit. The appearance of his wings was a promise of destruction, and he let the demon see how close he was to oblivion.

  “Rumors—” it choked out. “Of your sister.”

  “What rumors?” He’d heard every rumor there was. Some believed, mistakenly, that he would reward them for returning her to him. False.

  Others believed the First Fallen wanted those who tried to escape him. Also, false.

  There were enough damned for the First to keep track of. Despite human beliefs, he didn’t go around possessing strange, lonely teenage girls. He left soul collecting to others. If he was master of anything, it was delegation.

  “She created something,” it went on. “Something that never existed before.”

  Had she? Was that why she eluded him?

  “What sort of thing?”

  The demon’s eyes began to bleed, its human form disappearing the closer Armaros brought it to death. In a moment, it would wink out of existence. Unless, of course, it had an answer he decided was worth its life.

  “A being, a new—”

  Lies. He spun, wings whipping like a scimitar through the air until they connected with the demon, leaving nothing in the place where the hafsta once stood. Shoulders heaving with some unnamed emotion, he retracted his wings into his body and returned to his more human form.

  Anger welled inside him. Armaros did not like to act without thought. This was yet another sin to heap upon his sister’s head.

  3

  Lucia

  Lucia’s phone vibrated and she peered at the text.

  Zia: Salt.

  Salt? Shit. Salt.

  She gave one glance at Delia curled at the foot of her bed like a cat and rushed down the stairs, bursting into the kitchen to grab the Morton’s container before racing upstairs again. Her aunt’s message wasn’t about Delia. It was something else. Something big.

  She didn’t know how, but she could sense its presence looming like a thundercloud. Bursting through the door, she flung the salt around, jumping onto the bed and whipping it around and around in a circle. It was closing in, whatever it was. Heavy, dark. Goose bumps erupted on her skin and her heart pounded. Delia flinched before sleeping on, wholly unconcerned. Her tiny shoulders rose and fell with each deep breath.

  Lucia turned on the lamp like she had when she was a child as if the light could chase away her fear. Shaking the salt until the container was empty, she waited, scooting closer to Delia. Remembering her rosary, she reached for the bedside table. The mother-of-pearl beads were cool in her hand, sliding through her fingers as she found the short strand and began her prayer, “Oh, Lord…”

  The words stuck in her throat, and Delia opened sleepy red eyes. She smiled before something else caught her attention. Lucia had the oddest impulse to slouch, curl her shoulders to her ears and hide her face behind her hair. It’s behind me. Oh, God, there’s something behind me.

  Slowly twisting around, she caught her breath. For a second, she thought she’d freaked out about nothing.

  A man stood in the doorway. The hallway light lit him from behind, making him appear shrouded in shadow. He could well be an overnight guest of her roommate. He certainly had the physique her roommate preferred: tall, broad shouldered. She couldn’t see his face, but imagined it matched his impressive muscles.

  “Maya’s room is down the hall,” she told him. Her voice came out weaker than she’d like, hinting at the ruse she perpetuated.

  A wave of dread overcame her, and she knew whatever kitchen magic her aunt had imbued her with was not strong enough to deal with this.

  Unnervingly, the man stayed silent. Beneath her hand, which she’d placed on Delia’s small back, the girl shook. Glancing down, pale red eyes fleetingly met hers. “I know him,” she whispered.

  Of course, she did.

  Gripping her rosary, she lifted the girl onto her lap. “Maybe you can tell him to take a hike then. He’s not answering me.”

  “Where is my sister?” His voice was deep, but lyrical, like his tongue curled around each sound before releasing it. “Who are you to her?”

  “I don’t know who your sister is, but this is my house. Leave.” The strength of her pronouncement was undone by the stutter starting it.

  He ignored her again, raising her ire. “You,” he clarified and stepped into the light. His eyes were pinned on Delia, who remained silent and shivering.

  It was a horrifying moment for Lucia, realizing there was nothing she could do to protect the child huddled in her arms. But it also pissed her off. This bastard came into her house and scared her and her girl? Pushing away the sense of ownership she had over Delia, she instead gathered every bit of Italian she had, and squared her shoulders.

  Placing the girl behind her, she stood, stepping closer to the man. He must have sensed her threat because he came forward, as well, his shadow-shrouded face now bathed in light.

  Poop.

  He was beautiful.

  Doesn’t matter, he’s an asshole.

  His blue eyes darkened to black the longer she held his gaze. They cut from hers, hardening as he stared at Delia. “Who are you?” This lighting did wonders for his cheekbones, emphasizing the high slashes deepening the set of his eyes. Dark blonde hair slicked back from his face, exposing each plane and angle. Everything about him was hard and unyielding, but damn, if it didn’t make Lucia want to swoon. Delia’s light grip on her elbow brought her back to earth.

  “Yo.” Did Lucia just say, yo? “I asked you a question. Why don’t you try directing your comments to me? You know, the only other grown-up in the room?”

  His eyes lightened again, reminding her of icicles. “You don’t want my attention.” If she hadn’t spent the last four years hunched over Sumerian texts, she’d never have known what he said. But she had, suck it, hot stuff, and she did. Akkadian.

  Wishing her eyes could do the flashy thing his were doing, she stepped forward and replied, “You’re right. I want you to leave. Now, do it before you really make me angry.” What she really said was more like, “Proper gentleman, depart. I, a lady advanced in age, demand with force.” There was no literal English to Akkadian translation, she was doing the best she could.

  Was it her imagination or did his lip lift a little, leaving him more human and less stone god, but it was gone a second later. Yup. She’d imagined it.

  A smell filled the room, reminding her of the time lightning struck a goal post at a football game. Ozone and metal.

  “Careful,” Delia said behind her. Electricity jumped from the girl’s skin to hers, spurring her to move.

  Maybe the salt wouldn’t work, but she’d be goddamned if she didn’t try it. Acting fast, she threw Delia back on the bed just as she saw a flash from the corner of her eye. Hands, rough and strong, gripped her and together, she and the man flew across the room stopping when the wall touched her back. Surprised more than hurt, she stared into the face now eye-level with hers.

  “You threaten me?”

  Instinctively, she jabbed upward with her knee, nailing the guy in the balls. Apparently, even flashy-eyed, lightning-fingered home-intruders had the same anatomy as run-of-the-mill grabby-handed frat boys.

  A good thing to note, though, was they got up a hell of a lot faster. The blue bled from the man’s eyes, leaving black fathomless orbs that sucked Lucia in and froze her in place. Her head ached, and though his lips did
n’t move, she heard his voice in her head, You’ll leave now. You will forget all this. His will filled her body, pushing her own out of the way.

  But she fought it. With every bit of resistance she had, she argued against the voice growing louder and louder in her mind. She would not forget the girl counting on her, even if she did have shark teeth and The Shining eyes.

  It hurt, though, like ice picks shoved through her temple and into her eyes. Every moment was torture, wearing down on her until she panted and cried out in pain.

  Something wet slid from her eyes and along her lips, but she pictured Delia’s face and told herself, fight.

  The man’s hands held her lightly, gripping her above the elbows, keeping her upright. But all she felt was her head, and it was caught in a vise, crushing her bones.

  Finding her voice, she begged, “Stop.” All she wanted was the pain to end, but in the blackness of his eyes, she saw Delia and redoubled her efforts to resist him.

  Like a wave sucked into the ocean before a typhoon, the throbbing let up enough for her to catch her breath, but then it reached a zenith, and she wondered if she’d split into a million pieces.

  There was only her and the blackness of his eyes and infinity.

  And Delia. The girl’s voice pierced the veil of pain shrouding her. It came down like a wall of steel between her and the blackness dousing her in ice. She caught her breath, knees weak, but the floor didn’t rise to meet her. Instead, the bed was at her back and Delia’s worried red eyes met hers. Slowly, she came back to her body. The girl shook her, and she turned towards her. In the light, shoulders heaving as if he’d run a race, the man stood watching them. Unable to stop herself, Lucia threw a hand up as if she could block whatever he would push into her, but there was nothing.

  “Salt. It stops him,” Delia whispered. “But it hurts.”

  The note in Delia’s voice made her study the girl closer. Her red eyes were light, like watered wine, nearly pink, and she shook. What Lucia had taken for fright was suffering.