Demon from the Dark (Immortals After Dark #10)(62)

Lanthe eyed her. “So do you want to tell me what went on out there?”

“It started with a ghoul attack,” Carrow began, and went on to relate almost everything. Knowing they were being recorded, she left out a few of the intimate details, but she did find herself admitting, “Lanthe, he might have been . . . the one.”

“You clearly were for him. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the way he looked at you.”

“After a few mishaps, he was tender and generous with me. And if anything threatened me, he’d destroy it with a viciousness you’d marvel at.”

“Tender to you and vicious to others? He sounds like the perfect male.”

“He was.” Within that mine, Malkom had been a golden-haired virility god who was both rough and gentle, and determined to pleasure her, to please her in all ways. Outside in Oblivion, he’d been her protector, ready to sacrifice himself for her.

That male was gone, replaced by a seething Scarb? who’d looked like he wanted her heart on a platter.

And who might have murdered his own mother. That tidbit hadn’t been in the dossier. And still Carrow thought, If he did it, then the demoness must’ve had it coming.

Lanthe studied her face. “If he was perfect for you before, he no longer is now. You have to get him out of your head, have to move on. You heard him, he wants to kill you. I know this well—there are some things males can’t forgive, even of their mates.”

“Like Thronos?”

Lanthe shrugged. “Even if you got a chance to tell the demon why you did it, he might just punish Ruby as well, including her in his revenge. He is still a Trothan demon at heart, after all.”

“You’re right.” Carrow hadn’t thought about that. “He can’t know about her.”

“Why did you let yourself come to care for the demon when you knew how this would end?”

“It just happened.” She’d already been teetering on the brink when he’d gazed down at her and called her “wife.” The pride in his expression had pushed her over the edge. Carrow was a woman not accustomed to being cherished, and he’d made her feel that way, every minute of the day.

“The Order must have known you’d be his,” Lanthe said. “I’m becoming more and more convinced they have an immortal informant, a soothsayer able to direct them.”

“I’d thought the same.”

“There are too many connected Loreans here for it to be coincidence. They use mates and loved ones as leverage to force us to do their bidding. Even to capture our own. That’s part of the reason they’ve been able to fill up so quickly around here.”

“What do you think they’re doing with Malkom?” Carrow asked.

“They won’t kill him. No matter how much Chase will want to.”

“What did Fegley mean by Chase and the cookie jar?”

“He tortures Regin repeatedly,” Lanthe said. “There’s some kind of sick interest going on there. And he’s losing favor—inmate whispers say that Chase argues constantly with his superior, some nameless, faceless man who wants to study us. Whereas Chase only wants to exterminate us.”

Carrow pinched her forehead, beset with worry for Malkom.

Lanthe patted her shoulder. “Look, what’s done is done. You need to focus on keeping Ruby safe and healthy. And, of course, on escaping so you can slay Fegley.”

Carrow vowed, “It’s going to be bloody—”

Malkom’s sudden roar echoed down the ward; she gave a cry. “He’s being held here, in this very corridor!”



Malkom had awakened to the thundering of his own heart, finding himself in some bizarre cell, his body riddled with injuries. When he’d comprehended that he was not in his world, not with his woman, a roar of anguish had been wrenched from his chest.

Betrayed yet again. Not by her, not my female, too. But now he gazed down and saw that a collar like hers ringed his neck. A slave collar. He gripped it in two fists, yanking with all his strength. Nothing. It budged not one inch.

She’d turned him into a slave once more . . . .

“I will kill you, witch!” he bellowed. Could she hear him? Was she near? He sensed that she was, just as he had that first night in Oblivion when she’d concealed herself from him.

It didn’t matter where she was; he would pursue her to the ends of this world and any others.

He rose unsteadily on his injured legs, barely able to limp to the wall of glass that kept him jailed. Other creatures from a number of factions were imprisoned behind similar transparent walls, eyeing him warily.

When he pounded the glass with his fists, a male murmured from a distance, “One more hit against that wall, vemon, and you’ll be breathing poisoned air.” He sounded amused, his accent reminding Malkom of the vampires’. “The mortals diffuse it from the ceiling.”

The mortals—the same order of soldiers that had come to his world repeatedly.

What did they want from him? Why had they sent Carrow to Oblivion to lure him out?

Their trap had worked so well. Malkom had wanted what she’d offered so damned badly. Everything between him and the witch over the last week—the best of his life—had been part of yet another betrayal.

At the portal opening, she’d behaved as if she regretted deceiving him, but nothing she said or did could be trusted. She’d also told him they’d be bound forever. And he’d stupidly believed her. When would he learn? If you believe, then you invite misery.