Demon from the Dark (Immortals After Dark #10)(11)

Carrow’s lips thinned. She wasn’t a big fan of classes in any form—educational or social. She herself hailed from a “noble” family, but had buried that little tidbit about herself. And it’s not like my folks will out me.

When Carrow turned the page to the summary of Malkom Slaine, her “target,” Lanthe said, “A vemon, the most dangerous of all Lore creatures, was created out of a Trothan, one of the most barbaric species of immortal?”

Though Carrow knew demons who were civil, engaging, and hot, she’d never met a Trothan.

“And you’re going into hell to get him? This is like Escape from New York, except you’re bringing out the baddie.”

“Snake Plissken, at your service,” Carrow said as she began perusing Slaine’s information, organized in handy bullet points.

Description: Light blue eyes. Defined musculature. Over six and a half feet tall. Black horns, curving back from just above his ears. Identifying marks: A large, winding tattoo on his right flank, typical demon piercings.

Background: Born more than four hundred years ago to a prostitute demon mother. Father unknown.

Carrow felt a flare of pity for him. Living in Oblivion was bad enough, and he hadn’t exactly gotten a great start.

Led rebellion against vampire invaders until his capture. Transformed into a Scarb?—a vampiric demon. Before escaping the vampire stronghold, he beheaded Kallen the Just, the Trothans’ demon prince, as well as the Viceroy, the vampires’ emissary.

Carrow frowned. “Why would Slaine have assassinated the two potential leaders, then not taken control of the demonarchy?”

Lanthe said, “Sounds to me like a failure to capitalize.”

Fugitive from Trothans for over three centuries. No known associates. Unwed. Most current activities: Defending his territories, the water mines of Oblivion. Special skills: Battle-trained, survival, military command experience.

“Unwed?” Carrow said. “Their kind marries?” Many demon breeds didn’t, especially if their species had one fated mate.

“At least you won’t have to worry about competition.”

“Unless he’s got a demon harem in those mines. A little honey or two holed up underground?” Carrow said, raising a brow at the next bullet point.

Language: Demonish, some Latin. There had been an isolated report of his speaking English, but it couldn’t be confirmed.

“How am I supposed to communicate with him?” Carrow’s Demonish was sparse. She knew mostly curses and how to order liquor.

“The language of love?” Lanthe suggested.

“Check out his psych profile.” Easily enraged, reacts with a marked ferocity. Violent and territorial . . .

“Psych profile? Isn’t that what they do with serial killers?”

Carrow nodded. “Dixon said he was the Trothan version of the bogeyman.”

“Well, then. Tell me they’ll deactivate your torque for this mission.”

“They will.” A lot of good it’ll do me if the folks in hell aren’t happy. Whereas Mariketa’s magic was based on adrenaline, Carrow’s own was fueled by emotions, specifically happiness. The raucous revelry of a crowd was like an exquisite feast for her powers.

“Then you can just do a love spell on him,” Lanthe said.

“It doesn’t work for me.” Many people knew Carrow sold love spells for a living—they just didn’t know she sold them for folks to use on themselves. Like when a guy knew he had a good woman but was tempted to stray, he’d order a Carrow Graie special. “I probably won’t have much power to do magic anyway.”

“Cruising Oblivion with no magic, witch? I suppose you’ll just use your brute strength to defend yourself?”

Wiccae and Sorceri were among the physically weakest in the Lore.

“And what about the vemon?” Lanthe continued. “If you can’t lure him to the portal, he could just keep you in hell as his little witch pet.”

“I’ve had worse relationships,” Carrow deadpanned.

They snickered. Gallows humor.

After they’d flipped through all the pages, Lanthe summed up Malkom Slaine: “A dangerous, devious, demon non grata.” Gazing at Carrow with curiosity, she asked, “You’re really going through with this?”

“I’ve got this down cold,” she answered confidently. Carrow had always followed her instincts and landed on her feet. Sometimes she landed on her feet in County, but it always worked out in the end. “But if for some reason, I don’t”—she glanced over at Ruby—“will you make sure she gets back to the House of Witches?”

Lanthe said, “I will. Just try not to let it come to that—”

A sudden bellow echoed down the ward.

“I guess he don’t like the corn bread, either,” Carrow quipped.

When a fight ensued and they heard loud whooshing sounds, Lanthe shot to her feet. “A Vrekener.”

Vrekeners were fierce, demonic “angels,” with wings, horns, and fangs.

Shortly after, the guards dragged a limping, winged male past their cell. He stared at Lanthe, his eyes haunted, his lips drawn back from his fangs. His scarred wings had been bound. He said only one word as they passed: “Soon . . .”

Lanthe shuddered.

“I take it you two know each other?” Carrow asked.