Ghost (The Halloween Boys #1) (55)
Both were true. And I didn’t have a goddamn clue what any of it meant.
The moment she slammed my door, I called Judas, who sent me straight to voicemail. The ever-absent fucker. Some leader. Some Devil.
Clearly, I’d pasted on too thick of a Clark Kent facade if Blythe thought me pure and innocent. No, worse than pure and innocent, average. An average, self-serving, horn dog frat boy who just wanted in her pants. That was what she thought of me. And that fucking hurt. It hurt. Nothing fucking hurt me. Not the cries of the bastard dredges of this Earth as their blood spilled onto my hands. I didn’t hurt for the howls of torment I heard the moment I walked into Hell’s Gates. I liked it. I loved it, even.
And what did I feel for Blythe? Hurt, and need, and . . .
Devil damn me.
I was disgusted at the part of myself that pinned her against the doorframe. All I wanted in that moment was to let my beast free. I wanted to stand at seven feet tall, skin like the night, glowing bones of the horrifying skeleton, only tendon and terror. The desire to push her down onto her knees and see how much of my monster cock she could fit in her mouth rode me hard. I wanted to make her gag, make her jaw hurt for days after. I wanted to flood her mouth with my seed and put a hand over her lips until she swallowed it all.
I was no better than the cowards I murdered.
And I couldn’t stay away from her.
Not when she stormed off, not when she spent several hours with Yesenia, and I sure as hell wouldn’t let my eyes off her as she walked with Ezmerelda or accepted a protection drink from the witches or was whisked away by the pirates. Mine.
But my Little Ghost was angry with me. My Little Ghost had me all wrong. My Little Ghost in that goddamn motherfucking mini skirt and fishnets . . .
I knew my demon was bloodthirsty. I didn’t know he was now a sex-craving lunatic. I might as well have been a vampire with how badly I wanted it, how badly I wanted her.
But who did Blythe the fox want to play with tonight? She was mad at Ames, but what about Ghost? Was he too fucking pure for her? Yeah, I guessed not. If she wanted bad, I could give her bad. It would be up to her just how much she could take.
With the ghoul chasing her gone, I could relax. Her earlier nightmares could only be from trauma. There was no other explanation. Ghouls could look into nightmares but they couldn’t create them. They couldn’t interact or move within them. Only powerful demons could manage that, and even then, they rarely bothered. None of us gave a shit about mortal consciousness, awake or asleep. Blythe was wounded and psychologically unwell, but she would recover, especially now that the threat was gone. Once she discovered that . . . I didn’t want to think that maybe she’d leave. She had to stay. Ames had to make her. Or perhaps . . . Ames and Ghost could work together to convince her to stay. Together they were me. The blessed and the damned.
I caught the gaze of the captain and jerked my chin at Blythe, shaking my head slightly. He stilled for a moment, not betraying a single emotion, though I tasted the faintest hint of fear—like sugar cane and salt water. Far less fear than anyone else at Hallows had for me. Except maybe the crones. The elder witches hated me. And I wasn’t too fond of them and their pious, judgmental attitudes either.
Getting the message, he tipped his hat in my direction and plucked Blythe’s half-full second drink from her hands. “That’ll be enough of that,” he said smoothly. “Can’t have ye drinkin’ and sailin’.”
The pirate folks laughed and guffawed. I rolled my eyes and blended back into the shadows. Being tipsy was fine, being drunk wasn’t. There were demons, some I knew personally, who hung out at bars just to prey on drunk mortals. Drinking lowered humans’ poor mental barriers to non-existent. It was like a bleeding seal in a sea of sharks. Certain demons and entities went into a frenzy over it; sometimes just to fuck with them, and sometimes to inhabit them. To wear human skin for the evening or, you know, forever. Messy business.
I never got the point, really. Taking on human form was easy enough. I did it, and I’d done it for hundreds of years. But we all had our particular kinks, I guessed. But hell if I were going to allow Blythe to become inebriated and vulnerable. Not tonight.
She seemed to enjoy our dance. Perhaps I’d cut in again and afterwards we could—
My thoughts were interrupted by the meow of a stupidly intrepid feline. “What are you doing all the way out here? I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Cat hissed. “We have a problem. I need you now.”
I glanced at Blythe. She was laughing, laughing. Devil, she was beautiful when she smiled. The taste of her amusement on my tongue was like the juice of fresh peaches. “Hello? Daydream much?” Cat insisted.
“What is it now, Furball? A dog’s off its leash in the graveyard—”
“A damned has escaped,” Cat said, low and serious. “I don’t know how it happened. I did my checks as always and came up short somehow.”
“That’s impossible. No one can escape Hell’s Gate. You counted wrong.”
“You thought it possible last we spoke. And I didn’t miscount. If you don’t pull your head out of your girlfriend’s ass, he’s going to wreak havoc on your precious little town.”
Motherfucker. I ran a hand through my hair. “There’s no one here to watch her but me.”
“I’ll look after her,” a soft, uneven voice wavered from the darkness of a high branch. By time I looked up, a thud sounded and he walked forward. “She is safe with me, Ghost.” Raven bowed. “We’re friends,” they added.