Noiro spun around in shocked fury. “No!” she shouted. And then she lunged at Deanna’s throat with her mouth.
Nachari had seen this scene before—the murder of the demon Suirauqa, the one Noiro had turned into hamburger on his bed in hell—and he wasn’t about to witness a replay. Fire shot from his fingers, enveloping Noiro’s red hair, even as he lifted a small, round paperweight from the nightstand with his mind and hurled it into her mouth.
Several fragments of ruptured enamel flew out before the ball lodged in Noiro’s throat, and she began to gag on the remaining teeth.
Nachari gave her no quarter.
He sprang toward the bed in a feline bound and grasped her by the shoulder, his talons sinking deep. With one strong flex of his arm, he pulled her from atop Deanna and flung her into the wall. Bones snapped as the plaster gave way, and Noiro struggled to get back to her feet. Somehow, she dislodged the ball and began to hiss.
“You traitor,” she screeched. “I will strangle you with your own innards!”
Nachari leapt the distance between them, drew back his arm, and backhanded her across the face so hard that her neck twisted 180 degrees.
She screamed in agony and kicked at his groin. “You won’t need this anymore!”
He blocked her kick, caught her ankle, and tightened his fist slowly—his heart seething as he crushed the flesh and bone beneath his hands.
Noiro spat then, sending searing green phlegm into his eyes, nose, and mouth, burning him with the full fury of hell. She stumbled onto one foot, threw her hands up in the air, and allowed her head to fall back. A violent wind extinguished the flames as the demoness howled, looking entirely unholy and profane. “Death and destruction, agony and pain; rain down on the wizard, destroy him again!”
Nachari felt the full fury of the spell slam into him like a cannonball. His breath caught, and he stumbled backward trying to brace himself against the instant pain that assailed his body. His mind spun from the dizzying sensation, the overwhelming agony, and he had to fight to remain conscious.
“From spirit to body, from death to life; destroy the flesh, and kill him twice!” Noiro shouted another refrain with wicked glee, and Nachari felt his soul turning inward. She had called upon Final Death, a curse against his immortal, vampiric flesh.
He could not survive this.
He could not fight such demonic power—not even to save Deanna. Not as a vampire and not as a wizard. Certainly not as a…man.
Pushing against the pain and the closing hand of death, Nachari tapped into the poison that still flowed through his ethereal body: the snake from the Northern Province; the frog from the Eastern Province; the scorpion from the south; and the spider from the west. And he called forth a spell of his own.
“Scourge of darkness,
creatures of night…
from all four directions,
I beseech you to fight;
In my blood, merge your venom;
In my power, ignite!”
At once, he was surrounded by a white-hot ball of flame, and as his flesh gave way to the growing conflagration, several images morphed out of his own: A snake as dark as the black mamba slithered across the floor and wrapped itself around the demoness, squeezing with lethal force; a toad as poisonous as the South American dart frog leapt onto her back and began to ooze secretions against her skin; a scorpion the size of a cat crawled slowly up her trembling body and stung her through the chest in the heart; and finally, a small, seemingly insignificant spider—a black widow—crawled into her mouth. All the while, Nachari waited, unharmed, in the body of a black panther: Since the spell Noiro had conjured was against the flesh of a man, he was no longer a man.
Noiro’s body began to seize as the hellish venom began to take effect. After several minutes had passed, the panther slowly padded forward in a sleek, circular approach, at last lying languidly at her side.
Reaching out to grasp his fur in a trembling hand, she panted, “You can’t kill me, Wizard. I’m a demon.”
The panther rose lazily to his feet, licked his chops as if he had just finished a man-sized meal, and then instantly morphed back into a male vampire with thick black hair and haunting green eyes. As Nachari rose up on one knee, he looked her dead in the eyes. “You weren’t summoned here, demon. You’re mortal.”
Noiro’s eyes widened with shock and surprise, and her mouth flew open. For whatever reason, it had never crossed her mind that a demon’s jurisdiction on earth only existed in the heart of the tainted soul who sought her out through summoning. Noiro had come of her own free will, and the minute she had left her protected realm, she had made herself vulnerable; she was no longer invincible. Nachari had counted on this fact to be his saving grace, and he had never been more grateful that he had taken the time to read the stolen copy of the Blood Canon, the ancient book of Black Magic.
As the truth of his words finally sunk in, Noiro swiped a clawed hand at his face and screamed: “Noooooo!”
Nachari licked his lips and smiled. “Yes, love. Yes.”
Her pitiful, hideous form morphed back into a beautiful redhead, and she looked up at him with pleading eyes. “I only did it because you’re so…so beautiful. I love you.” She reached out to brush the back of her fingers against his jaw, and he slapped her hand away.
“And you’re so…so repulsive.” He leaned down until his nose was almost touching hers, and in an act of gentleness, placed his full palm over her neck. “I never felt anything for you but contempt.” And then he closed his fingers in a slow, deliberate motion, crushing her larynx as he did so. When she clenched her eyes shut in terror, he said, “Look at me. Open your eyes, and look at me.”
Noiro slowly opened her eyes, and for the first time, they were not only dazed but uncertain. The demoness had been laid low. She had finally been humbled.
In a voice so faint only Noiro could hear, Nachari Silivasi whispered, “My beautiful face is the last thing you will ever see.” With that, he broke her neck and waited until her heart beat no more.
twenty-six
Deanna Dubois scrambled from the bed as if her very life depended upon it. She scurried across the tile floor and ducked beneath a narrow writing desk in the corner of the guest room. Whether it was the four creepy-crawly, poisonous things; the sleek black panther that had just padded across the room toward the demon like he owned the entire stratosphere; or the focused fury that glistened in his stunning green eyes as he took the demon’s last breath, she knew that she was out of her league. In way over her head.
Her very soul shook with terror.
This was not a happy-go-lucky, good-looking guy with a smile to rival the sun and a warm sense of humor. This was a force of nature that could cripple a demon, call down—or up, as it were—the forces of hell, and unleash his own day of reckoning.
She was tough.
She was strong.
She had faced some of the best and the worst life had to offer, but this was beyond her purview. This was beyond her comprehension!
Folding her body into a tight little ball, she grasped her knees to her chest and held her breath. Invisible, maybe she could somehow make herself invisible. And while it was true; they would all end up dying as a result of her selfishness, she simply couldn’t help herself. Even his brothers were giving him a very wide berth. They had been standing in the doorway for the last five minutes watching with revulsion. And their faces had registered every bit as much shock and horror as hers.
Deanna shivered all the way down to her bones.
She could not go home with…him.
She could not live like…that.
With that.
She definitely couldn’t let him touch her.
Every bone in her body wanted to retreat into a subatomic particle.
Nachari rose gracefully from the floor, almost as if he were still in the panther’s body. He dusted off the loose black sweat pants and matching T-shirt Kagen had kept him clothed in and turned toward the bed. “De
anna?” His voice was a satin purr…like a whisper on the wind. When she didn’t answer, his face grew taut, although only slightly. “Deanna…” He said her name again, this time with more authority, in an even deeper, smoother tone.
Deanna watched in horror as he looked around the room, and her heart sank like a lead weight when his indescribable eyes alighted with recognition as they swept beneath the desk. He crouched down and stared at her as if she was the strange one! “Sweetheart, what are you doing?”
The very vibration of his voice played over her skin like music, a skillful bow stroking a cello’s strings, and she knew he had to be using magic. She covered her ears. He stood back up and turned toward his brothers. This was good. Wasn’t it? Maybe he was going away.
“Is my brownstone empty?” he asked.
She couldn’t tell which one he was addressing, so she peeked out from beneath the desk to see.
Nathaniel’s brows were furrowed, and he looked more than a little uneasy. “You…” The word came out gruff, and he cleared his throat and tried again. “You do know us, right? I mean…we’re good?” His palms were raised in a universal gesture of surrender. Holy shit; he was scared of Nachari.
Nachari smiled then and something in the air shifted; something in the room lifted. It wasn’t enough to allay Deanna’s fears, but it definitely added another dimension to an already unbearably handsome face. It was, in a word, spectacular. “Yes, brother, I know you.” His eyes swept up to the clock on the wall, and the smile left him. It was six forty-five already. “But I don’t have time for a reunion now; is my brownstone empty?”
Marquis spoke up for the first time, seeming to be testing his own voice for steadiness. “Uh…no…I think…Braden’s there.”
Nachari held out his hands in frustration. “What’s empty?”
Kagen brushed a short lock of brown hair away from his eyes as if it might help him to focus if he could see more clearly. “Um…uh…Kristina’s apartment.”
Nachari nodded. “Thank you.”
The three Silivasi brothers just stood in the doorway, staring open-mouthed, like they were watching a ghost.
Nachari’s eyes flashed with urgency. “Leave us.”
No one moved. They just continued to stare at him like three deer caught in headlights. Finally, after what seemed like forever but could not have been more than thirty seconds, Marquis cleared his throat. “You only have fourteen minutes.”
If looks could kill, all three of them would have been laid out on the floor. “Really?” Nachari answered.
“Shit,” Nathaniel finally said, whistling low beneath his breath. “We’re out.”
Nachari nodded. “Oh, and incinerate that body for me…just in case.”
“Consider it done,” Marquis responded. And then he booted Noiro’s corpse several feet down the hall, out of the way.
“Welcome back, brother,” Kagen said, shuffling quickly behind Marquis and trying to close what was left of the door behind him, as if there wasn’t a gaping hole in the wall.
Letting out a measured, deep breath, Nachari turned around and slowly—in a very nonthreatening manner—strolled across the floor. Stopping a couple feet in front of the desk, he squatted, braced his elbows on his knees, and turned his full attention on Deanna.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Dear God, he was stunning!
Not even real.
It was almost painful to look at him, and she struggled to hold his gaze, however sheepishly, which was so not her!
“Sweetie,” he whispered gently, letting out a sigh of understanding. He looked down at the floor and then back up into her eyes. “Oh, baby…we really don’t have time for this.”
Deanna blanched. The idea of it all…what he was thinking…referring to…was just…beyond…
Beyond the grasp of her mind.
She crossed her arms over her chest as if hiding her naked body, and checked the tie on her robe to make sure it was secure.
His eyes registered everything, and he quickly looked away out of respect. Rising to his full height, he walked across the room to the chest of drawers and picked up her portfolio. “This is yours?” he asked, holding it up. “Your drawings?”
Deanna frowned. How could he know that she was an artist? She nodded, and then realizing that his back was partially turned away from her, she relaxed a bit and forced herself to speak. “Yeah…yes it is.”
He smiled faintly as he opened the portfolio and thumbed through several of the sketches.
Deanna cringed, knowing they were all of him: The ones in front depicted the scenes she had seen in her dreams back in New Orleans; but after that, the later sketches portrayed him in his hospital bed or replicated photos she had seen of him and his family—illustrated stories his friends had shared with her about his life. It looked like a stalker’s collection, and she felt positively mortified.
“Thank you,” he said, slowly closing the portfolio and setting it back on the dresser.
Deanna waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, she asked, “For what?”
He turned around then and leaned back against the dresser as if they had all the time in the world. “For coming here…after me. For the drawings. For caring.”
Deanna swallowed hard. Oh hell, she was really messing things up. She had come here to save a stranger, and now that she’d met him, she was about to kill him. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
Nachari crossed the room again, his gait a little more purposeful this time. He squatted in front of her once more and drew in a deep breath. “Sorry for what?”
Her mouth fell open. He knew…for what.
“For being scared to death of demons and snakes and…panthers? For being scared to death of me?” He gently shrugged his shoulders. “That’s okay.”
She bit her bottom lip and nodded, surprised by the sudden onset of tears welling in her eyes.
Nachari sat down on the floor and glanced once again at the clock.
Deanna started to ask him what time it was but bit back the question in shame.
“Six forty-eight,” he answered, as if reading her mind.
“Twelve minutes,” she whispered, looking away.
“Twelve minutes,” he echoed.
She cleared her throat. “I don’t suppose…” She stopped and tried again. “I don’t suppose that maybe…maybe you could just give me a few minutes…some time to collect myself.”
Nachari smiled a devilish grin. “Seriously? I’m assuming that was a rhetorical question.”
She swallowed a lump of anxiety and worried her bottom lip. “No, not seriously,” she agreed. “It’s just…” Her words trailed off.
“It’s just,” he prompted.
“It’s just—you’re really freaking me out.”
He laughed then, completely unrestrained. “You’re really freaking me out.”
Her eyes lit up with mock indignation. “No, I’m not,” she argued. “How can I be? Hell, I’m a grown woman hiding under a desk—how threatening can that be?”
He started to say something humorous and stopped himself. “Look, sweetie—”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that…yet.” She immediately felt like the world’s greatest jerk for saying it. What in the world was wrong with her? She was being positively…juvenile.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Mrs. Silivasi?”
“Dubois,” she retorted.
He blinked in surprise. “Oh.” He looked at her curiously. “We aren’t mated then? You didn’t come through the conversion?”
She huffed, exasperated. “Yes. Yes! Of course, I did; it’s just that…” She looked away, feeling foolish.
“You don’t like my name then?” His voice revealed a playful charm.
“I don’t know your name.” She rushed the words, realizing immediately that they were utterly nonsensical.
He drew back in surprise. “You don’t know my name?” He blanched. “Damn, my brothers really do suck.”
&nbs
p; “I know your name!” she exclaimed. “Oh, God.” She scrubbed her face with her hands, wishing she could just disappear. “I meant I don’t know you…yet.”
He laughed softly, a pure hypnotic sound. “I’m sorry,” he whispered sincerely. “I shouldn’t tease you like that; I knew what you meant.” Drawing her in with his smile, he continued: “So what are we to do then, Ms. Dubois? Because I have to be honest—right now, I find you positive adorable; and if we had more time, I think I could do this all night.” He glanced at the clock. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be the case.”
Her eyes followed his, and she almost felt as if she might panic. She did not want to lose this man. “You hate me,” she whispered, wholly surprised by her own statement.
His smile was positively radiant and more than just a little mischievous. “Um, that would be a no. I can most definitely assure you of one thing: I do not hate you. Quite the contrary.”
She eyed him warily. “You don’t even know me.”
His face took on a serious expression, and he leaned toward her. “Angel, I’m a wizard; I know a lot of things I probably shouldn’t know.” He gestured toward the chest of drawers and the portfolio full of drawings he had just thumbed through. “And by the look of those sketches, I think you could say the same—about me.” He held her gaze, unwilling to look away. “My heart knows you, Deanna. My soul knows yours intimately.”
When she averted her eyes, he reached out and placed the warmest hand she had ever felt on her forearm and caressed her wrist just above her pulse with his thumb. “Look, Deanna, the way I see it is this: You are one of the bravest, most courageous women I’ve never met.” He chuckled at the play on words, but his eyes remained deathly serious. “And not unlike me, you’ve also been to hell and back. And right now, we have to do something”—she shifted nervously, and he reached under the desk with his other hand to gently grasp her chin and guide her gaze back to his—“we have to create something…together…that neither one of us is comfortable with.” He released her chin but continued to caress her wrist. “This is harder for you because you’re a woman. And you have to take down a barrier—allow me to cross a boundary—that should never be crossed without first being earned. And I…” He shrugged his shoulders. “I have to conduct myself as the world’s worst lover, which, I can assure you, I’m not. But either way, it’s a horrible predicament.”