Demon from the Dark (Immortals After Dark #10)(21)

Surprisingly, her chin went up, her uninjured hand rising with a lewd gesture.

He comprehended this. Females who were lewd often came from the lower classes. She could even be a slave, considering the collar round her neck and her provocative clothes.

But everything else about her indicated nobility. A quick cataloging of her unusual dress revealed that her intricate boots were of the finest leather. She wore a sizable jeweled ring, and her ears were pierced for more adornments. He knew she wore silk, one of the most valuable commodities in Oblivion.

She spoke again, the sounds clipped. Though he didn’t understand the words, he distinguished the tone. She’d just given him a command. Definitely not a slave.

Did this highborn think to order him? The demon urge to master his mate clawed within him.

Dimly he realized she’d begun panting her breaths. Her green irises soon glimmered with pinpricks of light, like starbursts. Her visage was marked with aggression, her plump lips curling back from her little white teeth. But when she spoke, her words were purring, sounds tugging on his memories.

He recognized the word vampire just as he spied light glowing in her palm.



After the demon-vampire had drunk her and used her body as his plaything, he’d experienced pure satisfaction for the briefest moment. And she’d seized on it, fueling her power.

Now she manifested the crackling energy in her good hand. It hadn’t been much to feed on . . . but she’d make do!

“If you knew what kind of week I’ve had, you prick!” Carrow bombarded him, laserlike beams exploding from her. They connected with the dazed demon, pitching him into a rock face, the stone crumbling around him. “That’s for biting me, Neanderthal.”

She’d never been drunk from before. He’d stolen her essence—and possibly so much more. How long would it take before she knew the total damage? “Keep your filthy fangs to yourself!”

She fired another shot and another, until he dropped to his knees, lurching in pain. “That’s for breaking my wrist.” She wasn’t strong enough to kill him, but torturing him was more rewarding than anything she could remember. Yet somehow she forced herself to quit, reserving enough energy for a cloaking spell.

Though Slaine was down, amazingly, he wasn’t out. He lay, still conscious, his massive body quaking. He reached for her, so she reared back her leg and punted her pointy-toed boot into his balls.

His strangled bellow was delicious.

Then she made herself undetectable. To him, she was as good as vanished. He’d see, scent, and hear nothing. She’d leave behind no trail.

Cloaked like this, she hurried away, cradling her broken wrist, running as fast as she could manage in this strange place. About twenty minutes into her escape, she had to flatten herself against another rock face as he charged past, appearing hell-bent on finding her, his onyx eyes firing with determination.

How had he recovered so quickly? Those beams should’ve scrambled his brains. His spear wound still bled, but again, he didn’t seem to notice it.

When he thrashed through the woods in one direction, she took off in the other, hoping to gain distance away from his mountain lair.

She forced herself to continue until his roars of frustration grew distant and night began falling. As the brown of the sky darkened to black, the winds increased their howling, the temperature dropping sharply.

Morning on the island must be late afternoon in Oblivion. No wonder they wanted the vemon at the portal at midnight—they hoped to capture him in daylight if possible.

When the dust swirled so hard she could no longer see her way, she found a rock overhang to weather out the now freezing night.

Huddling under the cover, weak from blood loss and thirst, she stared down at her bruised and broken body. She could heal herself with her remaining power, but then the cloaking spell would fade.

Noises surrounded her; the plane was filled with life, even more creatures wailing at night. If her spell wore off, she’d be at their mercy. She raised her fingers to her torn neck. And at his.

No, there’d be no healing, no matter how much pain she was in. Nor would there be any other spells, though she had no water canteen, no food, no blanket.

Now she’d kill for the clothes and gear she’d ridiculed at the facility. When Dixon had outfitted her with an assault pack filled with a Multipurpose Portable Tool Kit, a high-powered flashlight, twelve pairs of socks, MREs, and a first aid kit, Carrow had been so smug. “Though I dig the tacticool chic, Dixon, I’m an immortal, remember? Unless that gauze can fix a beheading. Oh, and twelve pairs of socks? Wool ones for the enchantress? Now you’re just being silly, human.”

Carrow stared out into the night. Some blister care and wool socks would do her so right just now.

A lone witch torn from her coven. In pain. With no friend to buoy her.

Gritting her teeth, she decided that she’d simply have to buoy herself. She would keep fighting for her life—and for Ruby’s.

Yet even as Carrow thought this, a small part of her asked, But how much more can I take?

Just before she finally slipped into a fitful sleep, her eyes flashed open. She’d suddenly remembered what the word cotha meant.

Earlier, the demon had told her . . . to run.





8




For hours, Malkom tore through the brush, relentlessly searching for his female after she’d disappeared right before his eyes.