Demon from the Dark (Immortals After Dark #10)(16)

The beast had flung a severed leg like a Frisbee to land in front of them.

Beside the mangled leg lay a pair of demons, one body toppled over the other. And their heads looked to have been severed—not with a sword but with claws.

“A single blow took down two.” Asmodel swallowed loudly as he jerked her around in a circle, scanning for an escape.

Something had beheaded a pair of immortals with one strike? Then gone to slash off the leg of another? “No, there’s got to be more than one,” she said. Beings were dying in all directions, screams like a chorus.

“One,” Asmodel snapped. “It!”

Sounds of carnage echoed through the trees, the cracking of bones and the unmistakable tearing of flesh. She began shaking too hard to run, stumbling twice in rapid succession.

Asmodel promptly abandoned her, taking his chances, sprinting through the saplings.

The few remaining demons followed suit, scattering in different directions. She trailed after Asmodel, the biggest one, while all around her the others screamed.

Then she slowed, squinting in disbelief through the smoke. Ahead, something like a shade seized Asmodel with a staggering speed. Asmodel looked as if he were being lifted by an unseen force. Whatever it was ruptured the demon’s body in midair—limbs separated, blood spraying over dust.

He’d never had time to scream.

The shadow vanished. Silence fell. Only the sound of the wind could be heard. Had they all been taken out? Or were they hiding?

What was this thing?

She twisted around, her eyes darting. When she reeled back from a nearby sound, she tripped over a legless, beheaded torso, tumbling beside a pool of gore and entrails.

Sneethy. She recognized the spear still clenched in his hands.

Choking back bile, she crawled from the leavings into a patch of petrified brush.

Her first impulse? Ball up there and hide. What use was fleeing? Death awaited in any direction.

Then she grew ashamed. Though young, Carrow was an inducted mercenary of the Wiccae and a leader among their vaunted warrior class. She’d face this beast fearlessly—even to the end.

“Show yourself, coward!” At once, trees began to topple in a line coming straight for her. A monster on its way. Before, it’d been soundless. Now it crashed toward her.

It was playing with her as well.

Carrow would be damned if she was going to sit here, helpless, like some offering to King Kong. For the first time in her life, she had someone depending on her. She would fight.

And if she couldn’t match its strength, she’d use other talents. She could be cunning . . . deceptive.

She pried Sneethy’s spear from his gnarled fingers. You’re about to see what would happen if Fay Wray were a witch!

Just as she dragged the weapon into the brush behind her, the attacker plowed into the clearing.

Carrow craned her head up. And up . . . She lost her breath.

The being’s body was nearly seven feet tall and splashed with blood. Large horns curved back from above his ears. His lips were parted, exposing upper and lower fangs. Another demon.

And, gods, this one was big. His broad chest and brawny arms were covered in a mesh chainmail shirt, his muscles rippling with strength under the metal. He was clad in leather pants, and they too were spattered in crimson. His long hair was tangled around those horns and hung over his dirty face. A sparse beard covered his cheeks.

Surely, this couldn’t be . . . him. Her target. Nothing about his appearance indicated vampirism. Please don’t let it be him.

When their eyes met, she gasped. His irises were a light blue, as described in the dossier. Severely disturbed? Violently territorial? Affirmative.

The blue flickered, turning blacker by the second, usually a sign of lust or rage in a demon. Neither boded well for her.

Just as she studied his appearance, his gaze raked over her body, over her hiked-up skirt and bared thighs. At once, his horns straightened and flared back, signaling his attraction to her.

When he raised his face, his eyes narrowed, as if with recognition. He clenched his hands into meaty fists, then opened them, splaying his claw-tipped fingers. Again and again he made fists, then released them, like he missed something he’d long held on to.

His shaft was hardening—impossible to miss that. When he sucked in ragged breaths, grasping at his chest, a ridiculous suspicion arose, but she tamped it down.

This demon looked to be on the razor’s edge of lust. For all Carrow knew, he’d been out in this wasteland for centuries without a woman, as hard up as Asmodel.

And if she didn’t figure out a way around it, this one was about to be on top of her, his hulking body heaving over her.

“I-I’m asking you not to hurt me,” she said, studying his expression. His harsh face evinced nothing, no comprehension of her words. So no English. Trothan native? Check. His only reaction was an ever-growing erection.

Just as she’d begun to suspect he was beyond any communication, he slammed a fist over his chest, then pointed at her, rasping something that sounded like “Ara.” His voice was rough, as if it’d been dragged over gravel.

When he stalked closer, she spied a tattoo, a large one that looked like black flames licking up his side—his right side.

Hekate help her, this was Carrow’s target, Malkom Slaine. And the Order had been woefully mistaken. There’d be no coaxing him anywhere.