Stephen laughed, and Kilian’s arm hairs stood on end. If he had been a werewolf, he would have gone all fuzzy at the sound. “Are you worried about me, little monster?” The demon’s expression was such delighted malevolence that Kilian fought instincts that told him to flee, to find some shadow where he could hide.
“I’m worried about Stephen and the fact that the woman waiting for us is going to drag you back to the Arctic Circle if you aren’t useful.”
For a second, Stephen’s face was empty of any emotion. Then a man carrying an alchemist’s jar stepped from a side room. Stephen flicked his wrist to send the man flying backward. His jar crashed at his own feet, and mage fire leapt up, consuming his flesh as he screamed. Kilian felt as though he was in another nightmare, only this time he didn’t know how it was going to end. He kept his focus on Stephen, ignoring the dying screams of their would-be attacker.
The demon in Stephen chuckled. “Stay behind me, little monster. I prefer to hunt my own prey and I do not want you interfering with my kill.” Stephen darted up the stairs, and Kilian could only clutch his weapon as the binding spell dragged him up so fast that his feet were bashed on each step while he struggled to coordinate his limbs well enough to catch up. At the end of the hall, Stephen threw double doors open, revealing what should have been a master bedroom with tall, arched windows, but someone had painted the panes black, and the space was lit with flickering candles.
“Are you so sure that you want to meet a demon?” Stephen asked in an amused tone. “If so, I am here to indulge your twisted desires.” Kilian brought his weapon up to cover the rear. A trio of witches stood balanced around a summoning circle, an older man at the northern point of power. Stephen stalked into the room and studied the runes etched onto the floor. “You are so very, very naughty, and I must thank you because I do miss having a little fun. Your deaths will be so slow that I will revel in your screams until your voice fails. So, who is going to start?” Stephen spread his arms out in invitation.
Chapter Six
None of the witchesmoved. The oldest held a thurible, and Kilian’s eyes watered as he recognized the scent of frankincense, with its woodsy tones and sharpness that pine could never match. Fuck. Of course the damn witches had to use fucking frankincense. Add in a little myrrh and a crucifix and Kilian would have the trifecta of pain. Ignoring his body, he moved into the room. “Under the authority of the United States official paranormal unit, you are all under arrest.” Kilian repeated that in rudimentary Spanish.
All three witches ignored him, their gazes focused on the larger threat Stephen posed. “So who is it that you think you can tempt into this world?” Stephen asked in that same cheerful voice. “It almost looks like you're hoping to attract tzitzimitl, but the symbolism is a little Judeo-Christian for that. Maybe you’re confused. And maybe I’m about to consume your soul after I strip the skin from your muscles and then your muscles from your bones, leaving just enough time to bask in your anguish. Tzitzimitl. Really? I should let you call them.”
There was such malicious glee in Stephen’s voice that Kilian was tempted to open fire on him. But then the eldest man lifted his hand and with a word, his magic snaked toward Stephen. The two younger witches stepped inside the summoning circle, holding their hands out in a shield gesture.
Kilian opened fire on the witch targeting Stephen, but the summoning circle trapped his bullets; they fell uselessly to the floor. The eldest whispered new words, and the magic wrapped around Stephen who laughed. He held out his hand and the fingers elongated and grew gnarled and deformed. Black claws rose, and the magic began to coil around them until it was a writhing mass. Then Stephen flicked his fingers at the witch, allowing the magic to fly back to the original sender.
When the witch had originally cast the curse, the power had been a snake, but now darts flew straight to their target. A hundred tiny spots appeared on the witch's face and arms. Magic made the flesh swell like a plague-infested victim. The witch collapsed with an agonized scream that ended in a gurgle as Stephen watched with amused malice.
Darkness flowed from Stephen towards the fallen witch, almost encompassing him as he screamed, then his body collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. At least the binding spell hadn’t forced him to witness prolonged torture. The other two witches, a younger man and a woman with similar features turned to flee. Kilian brought up his weapon and ordered them to hold, but the man lifted his hands to the casting position.
Despite being weakened by the frankincense, Kilian chanted words of undoing, weaving his own magic into a spell to protect himself. The man shouted an unfamiliar word and directed the magic at Kilian. Kilian chanted faster and louder, pushing his own life force into his undoing spell. The two spells collided, and the residue of magic slid over Kilian’s skin like an oil slick.
Still chanting, Kilian brought his weapon up, only to find the trigger jammed. Luck, sabotage or a spell had just made this fight more difficult. Kilian dropped his rifle, allowing the sling to catch it while he pulled his sidearm and pulled the trigger. Another misfire. Kilian wasted a second with a quick slap and rack to see if that would clear the jam, but then he drew his knife, ready for close quarters battle.
But he had committed the cardinal sin of a soldier. He'd lost track of the second combatant.
The woman thrust a hand forward, and Kilian screamed as her words sliced the flesh of his stomach open. Blood flowed from the wound, and when Kilian pressed a hand to slow the flow, a coil of intestines appeared between his fingers. The blood concerned him far more than the intestines. Kilian kept one hand over the abdominal wound while he chanted his spell of undoing faster and louder. With his other hand, he threw his knife. Disarming himself in the field wasn’t ideal, but these two witches were powerful, and unlike the last witch he’d faced, they weren’t worn down by an hour of cat-and-mouse with a special ops team.
The knife sank into her stomach, and she stumbled back, clutching the weapon as her blood bubbled through her fingers. The magic pulling on Kilian eased, and he brought his rifle up again, repeating the slap and rack to clear the jam in the hopes that she had been the one to cast that nasty little spell. Before he could fire, Stephen stepped forward.
“Oh, little monster. What have you done?” Stephen clapped his hands, and the two remaining witches flew backward, slamming into opposite walls. In a dozen years of fighting supernatural creatures, Kilian had never seen power so carelessly tossed about. No chanting. No build-up or magical artifacts—just raw, unadulterated power.
Kilian was cold. He’d lost too much blood and the scent of frankincense burned his lungs. The rational part of him whispered that he should retreat, seek medical treatment and an emergency blood supply. That was his best chance of surviving. The binding ring made that difficult. But more than that, something dark in his soul wanted Stephen. Wanted Stephen’s magic. Here was power. Real power that sang so loudly that Kilian couldn’t think of anything else. It called him. Made dark promises by existing. Kilian threw himself forward and dug his claws into the demon’s arms.
