Unearthed Page 6

  He unwrinkled it and read:

  Chérie,

  If you play with fire, you will get burned.

  “I should’ve called in a bomb threat or something so they would all leave. I just didn’t think he would…” She swallowed. “I stayed there too long. I should’ve moved so he couldn’t find me. Then…”

  “Again I ask: Why are you here now?”

  She didn’t respond.

  Davyn wasn’t used to being ignored. “Okay, I appreciate that you’ve accepted yourself as bait, but the being-stupid thing needs to stop.” He grabbed her by the jacket and tugged her backwards, deeper into the alley, where it was darker and cooler. She ducked and pivoted, slipping out of the jacket entirely and backing up. Her eyes connected with his and stayed with him. Good.

  She needed a push. Remorse and self-pity were way more damaging to the soul than fire ever would be.

  “Talk to me, puppet.”

  “I thought you didn’t like it when I spoke.”

  “See that pretty fire over there?” he asked. “I didn’t set it.”

  “I know. He did. Lamere and his demon.” She didn’t look for a way out, but he knew it wasn’t because she was overconfident, which she was. It was because she’d already blocked-out probably a dozen different ways to get out of the alley if she had to.

  Smart. If he wanted a pet, she would be his first choice. Totally adorable and with a limited lifespan.

  “Technically, yeah,” he said. “But realistically, you did. You set that fire and killed all those people the second you decided to act like an idiot.”

  “What did you just say?” she shouted, redirecting her self-loathing outward—where it needed to be if she wanted to stay alive. Davyn didn’t give a shit if she died but, until that happened, he couldn’t be tripping over her whaa-it’s-all-my-fault attitude.

  “That’s what you were thinking, right? It’s your fault those people are dead, not the psycho who actually set the fire or the other psycho who told him to. Yours. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  She clamped her jaw shut, glaring at him.

  “Your mistake wasn’t staying in the same place for too long. It was hunting him or going out for pizza, or whatever the fuck you do after dark. If you stay in at night, evil vampires can’t follow you home. Even if he’s old enough not to need sleep, he’s more lethargic, less logical, and can’t phase during daylight hours.”

  “As much as it hurts to admit,” he continued, “the bastard is smart. So if you want to follow me around and pretend to help, then you need to be equally smart.”

  “Do you know where he hangs out during the day?” she snapped. “Or where he’s been for the last few months? Because I don’t. What if he disappears for another six months? Or for good? What happens then?”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m immortal and very patient.” And a good liar. Davyn didn’t have enough patience for it to even be dubbed ‘impulse control.’ Except when it came to a tour’s expiration date. He’d be fine with putting that off, eternally. Unfortunately, that day was coming up fast, and there was no way to avoid it.

  “Well, since I’m not immortal, why don’t you go enjoy the rest of your existence somewhere pretty? I’ll stay here because I have shit to kill.”

  “I should hand you over to him. Make my life a lot easier.”

  “Wow,” she said, deadpan. “And here I thought we’d bonded.”

  “Yep. A lot easier.” And, of course, that was when he felt his shirt start to melt. Damn it. He loved this shirt. But he really should dress more appropriately for the occasion. Like his little puppet, except with style and taste. He could pull off black jeans, black boots, and a black jacket, too. He just didn’t want to.

  While normally he was able to control how little or how much heat he gave off, there were a few circumstances when no method of control was enough. This time, it wasn’t stress or that he’d been using his glamour too long.

  Even though his nerves were raw and he was in a horrible mood, this was a hint from the big guy. A reminder that his vacation time was almost up. In about three above-the-crust weeks, Davyn would get the Devil’s second warning. He wouldn’t get a third.

  Three weeks was more than enough time to finish this job. If the hunter didn’t fuck it all up, of course. Not the best way to spend his last weeks on earth, though. Davyn should be enjoying every second, being as gluttonous and pleasure-seeking as possible, to gear up for going back. Even though he wouldn’t be in hell long, time was a tricky thing there. A few days here seemed like a century there, but that could be because of the excruciating pain used to reset his mind back to the factory settings—evil, evil, and more evil. Not many giggles where he was from.

  When he saw the first hole appear in the shoulder of his shirt, he ripped the thing off. It was destroyed anyway. If he waited until after the fight was over—and there would be a fight and he would be around when it was over—he might cool off. Then he’d have to chip the synthetic fabric off. It had happened. More times than he wanted to count.

  The hunter looked at him with big eyes that darted from his face to his chest to somewhere a little farther down and back again.

  “Careful, puppet. You look at me like that again and I may get the wrong idea.”

  She turned away, the blush on her cheeks making her even more attractive, letting him know her body was hotter than normal. Because of him. That she couldn’t hide it was a big fucking turn-on.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “Why did you take off your shirt?”

  “I had a hot flash.” And was getting hotter—not because of his glamour or his boss. Because of her. Oh, the things he would do to her if he could. For starters, he’d rip every single piece of clothing off her body. Then he’d—

  Fuck. Not helpful. He should kick her ass, not do anything else to it.

  “Is it over or do you need a minute?” she asked with one hundred and ten percent insincerity.

  “You worry about you. I’m fine.” He shook himself off because that obviously wasn’t true. As if fantasizing about a human wasn’t bad enough, he was actually listening to what she said. The Devil’s reboot couldn’t have come at a better time. After fifty years on the surface, Davyn had forgotten what he was.

  He’d heard of it happening, once, maybe twice since time began. Demons who refused to return, enjoying the human thing a bit more than they should, acclimatizing to it. Poor bastards. Sucked all the way down to Level Nine with the boss himself, never having another chance to get out of that fucking horrible pit.

  Despite popular belief, a demon’s leash was annoyingly short and their collar uncomfortably tight. Go against any of the big man’s orders? Eternal pain in hell, no chance of parole.

  “Let’s see what you got, puppet,” Davyn said, focusing on the issue at hand. “Prove to me you have any kind of value, because I’m really starting to wonder.”

  “I thought I was bait.”

  He shrugged. “You’re also easily replaceable. There’ll never be a shortage of pretty girls with short brown hair and low IQs.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Sorry. The only thing I do with humans is fuck with them.”

  The hunter pulled at her shirt, popping the first couple of buttons and exposing a bra, some beautiful breasts, and a knife holster. She very carefully pulled the knife out and held it in front of her. When the blade caught the light, suddenly Davyn had a lot more respect for her. It wasn’t steel. It wasn’t even iron.

  It was salt. Had to be homemade because you couldn’t buy shit like that off the shelf at Walmart. She’d whittled a salt block into a fucking knife. It wasn’t strong, but that was the brilliance of it—all she had to do was stab him. As soon as the blade broke off inside his body, he’d be in excruciating pain until he could get all of it out.

  “You little devil,” he said in admiration. “Did you make that for me or for the other bastard?”

  She answered with a tiny shrug of her shoulder
s, but her message was heard.

  Davyn smiled. She confused him—a very tough thing to do. Moderately smart and highly ambitious, consumed by what she wanted and willing to do whatever it took to get it. Humans claimed to be willing, but they never were, stumbling over the first roadblock and making up some stupid excuse as to why they had to quit. This one was going up against two demons to get to a vampire. It was just delusional enough to actually work, and Davyn wanted to be there—to see her reach the goal or die trying.

  So he wouldn’t kill her. Not yet. But they could still have fun, couldn’t they?

  “What you waiting for, puppet? Pretend I’m him, the big, scary vampire who fucked you up.” He held his arms out, mocking her, prodding her. “What are you going to do to get yourself killed?”

  They’d circled each other, her gaze tracking his movement, as well as their positions in the alley.

  “They’re watching us,” she stage whispered.

  “Who?” He hadn’t noticed any humans in the alley, but then, he’d been slightly distracted. “Where?”

  She flicked her head towards the entrance to the alley, still lit up by fire. As soon as he turned his head to look, she jumped him. Or kicked him, rather, smart enough not to touch him with her hands before she knew how hot he was. Her foot landed in his gut, very close to—

  “You little liar!” he shouted. Nice move.

  Her other foot sliced upwards, connecting with his groin before she spun and pushed herself off him, doing a cartwheel, flip-floppy thing as he gripped his knees, head down, eyes closed, pain shooting.

  “Son of a bitch,” he groaned through his teeth. “Would you please stop hitting me in the balls? I need them.”

  “Doubt it.” At least she was breathing heavily.

  “You know I could kill you, right? That this is just for fun?”

  She rocked her weight back and forth, ready for him. Not that she’d ever truly be ready for him.

  “You kick me in the nuts one more time, and I won’t be interested in playing with you anymore. I’ll turn up my heat just enough to watch you burn. Got it?”

  Her nod was curt, disrespectful but honest. She stayed back from him, not running away but keeping her distance, exactly what a smaller, faster fighter should do. The handle of the salt knife was thicker than she was used to. He could tell by how often she adjusted her grip. The only weapon she had against him, puny as it was, gave her a misplaced confidence. Therefore, it needed to be removed from her person.

  Davyn might be big, but he wasn’t slow. He moved towards her, figuring she’d back up from the three hundred-pound demon coming directly at her. Nope. She dropped to her knees and spun out of his path, almost fast enough. He swung his arm down, hitting her shoulder. The knife popped out of her grip and shot across the alley, landing with a plop into a puddle.

  “Aww, did I break your toy?” he asked.

  They both glanced at it, then each other. Simultaneously they moved, except she didn’t go for the knife. She went for him.

  What the fuck? On his way to the ground, he had his very first bout with shock. The little woman had grabbed both of his legs and squeezed, using his momentum and bulk against him. He landed face-first on the cement, so unprepared for the fall that he hadn’t even put out his hands.

  The knife laid three feet away. The hunter’s boot caught him under his chest and flipped him over. He grunted as she made a move, something more like what you’d see in a fake wrestling match than in an actual fight. She straddled him, her hands on his arms, her feet curled behind her holding his thighs to the ground.

  He’d been more intimidated by kittens. Even using all her weight, she was never going to keep him down. But he gave her props because she shouldn’t have been able to get him on his back at all.

  Millennia of torture, tests, ordeals—physical and mental—and he’s outwitted by a girl with a stellar body and a crusty knife. Not his proudest moment. Okay, fun was over. If she had a moment, it was because he gave it to her.

  “You can’t win this, puppet.”

  “I don’t have to win. All I have to do is not lose.”

  He shrugged one shoulder, throwing her off balance enough to reach out and grab the knife. He hissed when his fingers met the blade, the salt burning like acid. She yelled and threw herself towards the weapon, but he wrapped his arm around her waist to keep her from reaching it. He flipped it around in his hand so he held the handle and brought the blade to her throat.

  “In case you missed it, this is you losing.”

  She jerked away and rolled. He grabbed her by the only piece of clothing he could—her bra. When it snapped off, she stopped, arms curled in to cover her chest and eyes opened wide in shock.

  “Seriously?” He laughed. “We’re trying to kill each other. I could’ve grabbed you by the throat and snapped it just as easily, but this is what freaks you out? Me seeing your…?” Oh shit, yeah, those were nice.

  Nope. First thing’s first. With her hands and mind occupied, she didn’t even try to stop him when he wrapped a leg around her and used it to flip both of them over. As soon as he was on top of her, the blade was at her throat again. Now, what was that second thing?

  Right. When his eyes lowered from her eyes to her mouth, she inhaled sharply. Her shield slipped for just a second, long enough to let him know exactly what she wanted. Same thing he did.

  “Oh, puppet, don’t tempt me.” He felt his cock harden, his temperature go up a few notches. Even though she must have felt both changes, she didn’t flinch, her self-destructive desire only increasing. His gaze roamed lazily from her eyes and lips to where the blade dented the skin of her neck, down…

  Their bodies fit together in a very pleasant, very unhealthy way.

  Fuck. This was as stupid as it was dangerous. The harder his cock got, the hotter his entire body got. He geared himself up to get away from her. Her chest lifted with every shallow breath.

  Hotter.

  Just another second and he would get off her.

  In a second.

  She pressed her hips up against his.

  Even hotter.

  Thirty maybe.

  “Another hot flash?” she asked.

  He shot to his feet, tossing the knife at the wall, shattering it. “I could’ve fucking killed you.” Not with the knife or even on purpose. He’d lost control of his heat to a degree that should have made her boil.

  “Thanks for the tip, Captain Obvious.” After she’d gotten to her feet, she touched the side of her neck where the blade had almost punctured her skin, her other arm across her breasts to hide them, instead just making it harder to look away.

  “I wasn’t talking about the blade. Didn’t I—” He looked at the remnants of her pants, then at his. Holes melted into almost everywhere they’d been touching. “Didn’t I burn you?”

  “Oh please, you’re not that hot.” She looked down at her arms and chest. They were red, but not as much as they should’ve been. If she’d been entirely human. “Mind giving me my jacket?”

  He grabbed it off the ground and tossed it to her, his breath coming faster, his mind a blur. He’d been right about how dangerous she was, and it had nothing to do with how well she fought.

  It was way more than that. She could take his heat. Sure, if he turned himself all the way up, she would burn just like everything else he touched, but if he held back, just a little…

  He wiped his mouth to hide the beginnings of a smile. Fuck, what if he could use her body to dispel his heat, vent through her? Nothing would catch fire or melt, and no one would even notice. It’d be almost as if he was free from hell, not tied to that horrible heat.

  He looked at her. Just looked.

  Three tours above the crust, constantly having to go into people’s minds, picking through their stupid thoughts to find a temptation he could use to relieve his goddamn heat. But he didn’t need to do that with her. He could just…touch her, and she could take it. Take him. Her damage could be his freedom
.

  But nothing in their world came without danger, and he didn’t have to think too hard to figure out what it could be with her.

  She shifted onto her other hip. “Are we going to fight, or are you going to stand there staring at me?”

  “We’re done here,” he said shakily. “But if you try to use salt on me again, I won’t be as forgiving.”

  “Got it—no balls, no salt. Congratulations on your big win.”

  This fight, sure. But every other way? Fuck no. He hadn’t won—she had.

  Six

  Keira was one of the oldest living members of the Rising—emphasis on ‘living,’ because not surprisingly, after the massacre not many seers volunteered to join up. Even before then it had been too dangerous for more than a couple of them to be in one place at the same time. Probably made things a lot harder on the folks trying to organize the rebellion, but it was much safer for each member to know as few others and as little as possible, just in case an enemy got through one of their shields.

  Case in point, the look on the demon’s face when he’d been on top of her. She didn’t feel him go into her mind, but somehow he knew what she was thinking. Just like she knew what he was thinking. Mostly because men had appendages that made it pretty obvious, and from what she’d felt pressed between her thighs, he was thinking really…hard.

  None of this was going the way it was supposed to. That demon was screwing everything up, including her job and her mind, and losing focus could easily get her killed. Plus, it was truly annoying to be called ‘puppet.’ She needed to come up with something even more derogatory than that to call him, especially because she still didn’t know his name.

  So Keira went to the only person she’d ever seen get rid of a demon. The woman responsible for giving her info on whichever super she was supposed to kill after her recruiter died. Parker knew all kinds of obscure shit, having spent most of her life holding a book.