The Purebloods (Daemons of London - Book 3) Page 14

  “Isn’t it my decision?” A small voice came from the doorway. I turned to look and saw that Beatrix Klein had managed to pull herself out of bed. Her hair hung in ratty tendrils down her face, and it looked like it hadn’t been washed in days. Her eyelids were free of their signature cat eyeliner, and I could see every ridge of her collarbone.

  “Trix, you should be resting.” William’s voice was uncharacteristically soothing.

  Trix shook her head and bit her cracked bottom lip. “This concerns me, I’m going to have my say.”

  “You don’t have to sacrifice yourself. We will find a way to stop Lillian from being woken up and to prevent Katya from forming the Bond.” William had rushed to her side and rubbed her back in gentle circles.

  Trix smiled, but it was a harsh and cruel smirk. “Of course.” She said wickedly. “I’m going to have to kill my sister first.”

  20.

  Time was a constant annoying presence in my thoughts.

  How much time did I have until six pm, also known as CTA (Countdown to Asmodeus)?

  How much time did Trix have until she weakened so much that she died? How much time did we have until Lillian woke up if everything went wrong? How long would I have left with Henry Blaire?

  Being immortal, you’d think that there would be an abundance of hours, minutes and seconds. But since the Queen of the Seventh Circle had slivered into my body and changed me, I felt like every second I had was borrowed. My body was a sought-after commodity. A puppet.

  Damian prepared us for an outing, and I didn’t have the mental energy to challenge him. Trix and William had taken off back to her suite, I found his actions hard to take. I didn’t understand why he was so gentle and un-William Kain like. He couldn’t touch her or sleep with her because she was weakened. It questioned everything that I knew about the playboy. Was William Kain still a man that would shout about the aesthetic benefits of large breasts from the roof of Parliament if he could get away with it? Probably.

  I had only two hours until six pm. The pivotal time in my day.

  It used to mark the time that the Simpsons came on Channel 4 in the asylum. Back when Pete the cat-murderer was obsessed with Bart Simpson and would scream at anyone that tried to change the channel. I shuddered at the memory and quickly locked it down.

  Dressed in a red silk dress that clung to curves I didn’t know I had, I surveyed the long slit that led to the space between my thighs. If I were to step too widely, people would get a flash of my underwear. I surveyed my gangly knees and then looked in the mirror. I noted that there was no longer an emancipated woman looking back at me. My chestnut hair hung in soft waves down to the middle of my back. My breasts although small, filled out the dress. I couldn’t have worn a bra, so I hoped that my immunity to the cold would prevent any unfortunate nipple-pebbling.

  Henry walked into my suite at the Cross Estate with confident ease. He was used to such opulence, but I still reeled at the thought of everything that I touched costing more than a year’s salary at Bar Noir. Henry Blaire adjusted his cufflinks; his hair was slicked back, and he was the definition of a young English Gentleman. I would have offered to help him with the cufflinks like women did in films, but I didn’t have the first clue what to do with them.

  I smiled nervously. “I hate acting like such a Queen Bitch.”

  Henry chuckled and walked behind me. Still stood in front of the mirror, I flattened out creases that didn’t exist on the expensive dress I wore.

  “Would it be offensive to say that you play the role well?” Henry wrapped his arms around my waist and began kissing my neck from behind. The slow teasing brush of his lips made me groan as I leant into his touch.

  “I think all my apparent bitchiness is due to my sexual frustration.” I teased.

  “Oh really?” Henry said, his voice muffled as his head was buried in the waves of my hair.

  I sighed and took his hand in mine. His fingers drew a pattern over the flat planes of my stomach, and I wanted him to bring his touch lower. Instead, I fought my urges.

  “We should go.” I breathed as my chest heaved with arousal.

  “We should.” Henry agreed. He did not stop his slow teasing assault on the back of my neck. His cold hand dipped lower and skimmed the slit on the thigh of my red silk ballgown. Just as his delicate fingertips brushed the outside of my lace knickers, he dropped his hand and stepped back. A teasing grin was alight on his face.

  “Henry,” I said in warning.

  He licked his bottom lip. I considered begging for his touch, but instead, I straightened my back and marched past him. Picking up the sequined clutch on the armchair by the door, I gave my daemon a teasing smile.

  “You’ll cave before I do.” I sang as I opened the door.

  His answer was a throaty chuckle and nothing more.

  Damian, Henry and I stood on the precipice of the In Between. A corridor of doors; each one led to a different Fold. A space where Hell and Here met.

  Charon greeted us with a nod when he opened the steel plated door at the end of the Hallway. Each door was fashioned out of a different material. I had hoped that I could gleam where each one led simply by looking at the outside, but it was almost impossible.

  I had met Charon, the bearded Ferryman, only once before but I would always remember him as a Hipster with Disney Princess bird manipulation abilities. He greeted Henry with a wink and Damian with a sharp nod. He led us, in silence, down the obsidian stairs to what looked like an arena.

  The clouds in the sky writhed and changed shape, allowing only the smallest peek of grey through. The formations against the dull landscape were souls. Black squirming creatures. The same material that I knew made up Asmodeus’s hair.

  Henry took his hand in mine as Damian led us through a small doorway to the side of the large arena. I could hear the roar of an exuberant crowd, but couldn’t see anyone. I guessed that we were getting the VIP treatment.

  “Now that I am 98% daemon, do I still have a time limit on my stay here?” I asked Charon, who had shoved his hand in his pocket and somehow acquired a packet of cigarettes. He shook his head and smiled sadly.

  “You’re free to roam, lovey.” Charon caught me staring at his cigarettes with longing. He silently offered me the pack, but I shook my head to decline.

  I had given up smoking a while ago, but thinking about the taste of the smoke and the rush of nicotine made my fingers twitch.

  Charon rolled his shoulders, “From what I’ve heard, you only have a few hours before your Mistress takes over your body.”

  My eyes widened. “How did you know that?” I shot Damian a look. The Pureblood had informed me that I wasn’t to tell anyone that Asmodeus hadn’t fully returned and that I still spent twelve hours a day as myself. In MY body.

  “I know everything.” Charon tapped his nose.

  “Souls talk.” Henry leant over and whispered in my ear.

  I opened my mouth to reply, but my thought processes were cut off by the heavy swell of the invisible crowd cheering. Without another word, we were led up the ostentatious stairwell and into a VIP box which overlooked a race track.

  “What is this place?” I whispered.

  “The dog races.” Henry supplied helpfully. We both approached the brass railing, which separated the box from the crowd of daemons below. There weren't just incubi and succubi daemons. I caught a glimpse of clawed wings and the intense haze of something that I could only describe as all-encompassing anger. A daemon whose sole purpose was wrath.

  I shivered. Looking down at the starting boxes, I caught the sleek dark shapes of differently sized hounds. I recognised the shimmering orange energy of a Hellhound, and I wondered if Luiz the only Hellhound that I had ever met, was racing.

  My gaze travelled slowly over the range of different canines. One looked suspiciously like a husky, but wilder. I wondered if it was some sort of werewolf.

  The stall at the end housed a creature that I had never seen before. A large white fluf
fy dog that looked like it would be more at home in a wealthy person’s mansion. It had the appearance of a snow dog, but its pure white coat was interrupted by the crimson tips on its pointed ears.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “Faehound,” Damian answered, plucking a tumbler of amber coloured liquid off of a servers' tray. He swirled the glass and took a sniff.

  “I didn’t know faeries existed.” I murmured, my eyes fixed on the strange white dog.

  “They tend to stick to their own planes. But there is good money to be made on a track like this." Henry’s eyes flicked to mine and flared pale ice blue. My stomach clenched. I didn’t think that I would ever get used to seeing the physical proof of his attraction every time our eyes met. The change in eye colour, from deep lapis Lazuli to clear as water Celestine was the daemon inside of him, coiling under the surface due to strong emotions.

  I liked that I brought out that side of him.

  Henry reached past my shoulder and snagged two champagne flutes full of golden sparkling wine. I sniffed it; my nostrils tickled with the intense fragrance. Caught out by the daemon senses that I had no yet fully grown used to.

  “Why are we here again?” Henry asked in a bored tone.

  Damian slouched in his chair and spread his legs as if he was home on a Sunday afternoon watching television instead of in a VIP booth with servers flitting around dressed in penguin suits.

  I glanced at the people hovering at the edge of the booth, concerned at what they might overhear.

  Damian caught my glance. “Don’t worry. Anyone that is serving us tonight will find their minds deliciously muddled should they attempt to speak of our conversations to anyone.”

  I eyed up Damian with a sliver of fear and respect. It was easy to forget how powerful he was.

  “We are here to rally the support of the masses,” Damian announced as he took a swig of from his crystal tumbler. “Kiss babies. Sign a few boobs. The entire she-bang.”

  “Signing boobs is more of a Kain job,” I whispered. Earning a snort from Henry. He responded by putting his arm around my bare shoulders and leaning in to kiss my cheek.

  “The people need to see their Queen,” Damian shrugged.

  “But there are more than just Seventh Circle daemons in that crowd,” I said, looking down at the variety of creatures below. Many looked human, but many did not.

  “All the better to kill the witches.” The Pureblood smiled wickedly.

  Damian made an obnoxious speech about banding together to take down the corruption seeping through London. It was met by the cheers and hoots of so many people that I wondered about the number of daemons that resided in the capital.

  Maybe it was just the fervour and magnetism that Damian displayed, but I couldn’t deny that his easy going smirk and ‘who me’ shrugs caused me to warm to him in some twisted way.

  I knew that it was because of the residual emotions that the Queen had left in my body, but instead of questioning it, I ignored it.

  Henry and I had shared glances for the majority of the first few races. We had made stupid bets against each other about what hound would fall or thrive. Henry played with the hair at the nape of my neck, somehow finding my sexual tension much more interesting than the races below. His stoic expression, emotionless to anyone that didn’t know him, hid his lust. I felt it rushing through the bond that we shared; linked by the butterfly mark on my wrist.

  Without another word, I gripped Henry’s hand, and we left the booth to find somewhere private. Desire raced through me when I looked at my Mate. The heated gaze; the way his focus languidly perused my body and demanded physical gratification.

  We found a secluded corner in the stairwell. Henry grabbed my cheeks and brought my lips to his own, like a man starving. We devoured each other. His hands gripped my waist as if I was going to slip away at any moment.

  I gasped when I felt the onslaught of his passion. Possession. Desire. It rushed through my body. My skin tingled, and my eyelids fluttered. I fisted his hair in my fingers and tugged his lips back to mine.

  Feeding. Kissing. Partaking in each other felt so sinfully divine that I was addicted to that feeling. A low groan of pleasure rumbled through Henry’s chest, and he broke free from my lips, only to plant fleeting kisses all over my cheeks, neck and lips.

  I felt my nipples ache and rub against the silk of my ballgown. I was exposed due to my lack of underwear. I had ditched the lace knickers the second that Henry had denied me. Hoping that the scent of my arousal would chip away at his restraint. It had worked.

  Henry’s long fingers traced the lines of my waist and drew a path to my breasts. I rose on my tiptoes so that I was level with him. I opened my mouth and allowed his tongue to dip inside.

  Reaching down to the waistband of his trousers, I dipped my hand inside, ready to move our kissing along to something further.

  Then, the sound of metal scraping along the wall caused us both to jolt upright and break apart.

  “What is that?” I gasped. Lips still bruised from his kiss.

  Henry looked up to the floor above us; his eyes scanning for a threat. I had been pressed against the wall to take the brunt of his lust, and I stepped around Henry to search for the source of the strange sound. I was no protected by Henry's broad shoulders, against whatever threat was coming our way. The scraping sound of metal on the stone wall and the thud of heavy footballs punctuated the silence.

  Fear lanced my heart even though I was The Goddamn Vessel for the Queen of Hell. My monikers were getting longer and harder to say, I had noticed.

  The scraping stopped for a second. Beyond my control, I felt my power flit through the immediate futures that were presented to me. No more than a few seconds, but it gave me enough time to act. I grabbed Henry’s shoulders and pushed him out of the way as a Samurai sword clanged against the wall behind us. It would have chopped off Henry's head, had I not moved him.

  I tried not to think of the vision I had been forced to watch. A future where I lost him with the quick swing of a piece of metal.

  The owner of the sword was clothed in Japanese Armour. The kind that I had seen in the Edo period exhibit in the British Museum. The puzzle pieces in my mind clicked together.

  It was the Oni. A Japanese vengeance demon. It was one of the creatures that had been killing daemons and Bleeders alike, all over London.

  From the glint in his entirely black eyes, behind the Samurai mask, I knew that we were its next targets.

  21.

  For a creature that was large and clothed in armour, it moved surprisingly quickly. The thin metal of the samurai sword cut through the air, silent and sure. Its' protective clothing was made of red leather and planes of obsidian metal. It towered over us both, at more than seven feet tall.

  I fought the urge to grab the Oni’s blade and wrench it from its' charred hands. I would probably lose all my fingers. Whilst I was certain they would grow back, I didn’t want to feel the pain.

  I had no training, and the only fight that I had ever been in had been had been a cat fight with a crazed she-daemon.

  Henry spread his fingers out, and I saw the static electricity on the air turn into a concentrated flame. It was made up of so many colours that it was unlike any fire I had ever seen. Golden and red but punctuated with black. As my gaze hovered on the concentrated power, I felt flushed with kinship, and I knew that the flames in Henry’s hands belonged to Hellfire.

  I mentally added ‘Hellfire hands’ to the growing list of cool shit that daemons could do. I focused on what powers I knew that I could harness, limited as they were.

  Using the ice-cold rage inside of me (by imagining Lillian’s smug bitchy face) I froze the air around us. Steam curled from my own fingers and I adopted the same stance as Henry. He was fire, and I was ice. The Oni stepped forward, it’s movements were rigid like a puppet with strings that were pulled too tightly.

  The blade whooshed through the air, seeking my torso as its destination. I weaved, us
ing the energy signature on the air to determine where the Oni was going to move next.

  Henry darted forward, feigning left and then using the flat of his palm to heat the metal of the creature’s armour. I saw the flash of red hot skin, like molten lava, behind the iron chest plate. The Oni did not flinch. Its’ dark eyes were set behind a widened metallic smirking mask, and they made me shiver.

  “How dare you!’ I screamed, not sure whether I was speaking to the Oni or to the person controlling it.

  The Oni made no sound as it pulled its large body into a fighting pose with practised ease. Its hands gripped the base of its sword. Ornate and ancient.

  I looked at Henry, who seemed at a loss at what to do.

  “It doesn’t feel pain.” Henry’s voice rang in my mind. “You should be able to break the connection between the Oni and its caster if you can find it.”

  I allowed my mind to relax and opened my eyesight up to the swirling colours that tinged the corners of my vision. The Oni used my daze to swing its’ sword. Henry was in front of me in a blink. Although he diverted the blade’s path, the handle of the katana slammed into his nose. I flinched at the loud crunch. The crisp smell of his blood filled my nostrils, but I shook my head and tried to focus.

  I could see the dark, black curling hands that surrounded the Oni. I tasted the harsh burnt plastic scent at the back of my throat. It was Witchling magic, and it almost certainly belonged to Katya Klein.

  Using my own succubus vines, I allowed my magic to scale the Oni like a wave. The prying fingers of my Hell magic pinched and prodded the connection between daemon and it's caster until I found the taut puppet strings.

  The Oni let out a harsh snarl, and I imagined my vines becoming a pair of scissors.

  With effort, I snipped the connection. The Oni disappeared in a flurry of Hellfire. My knees buckled but Henry caught me as my knees slammed into the floor. I was spent. Any energy that I had amassed over the past few days had fled.