Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
The demon wants to talk to me—he has called me to a meeting. I don’t want to talk to him. Just when I think I’ve obtained some semblance of freedom, the demon calls me back.
Freedom? Ha. I roll my eyes heavenward at the thought. I’ve jumped from the demon’s frying pan into the hellhound’s fire. There’s no freedom for me.
No, I’m the pinball in the creature machine—I have a demon flipper on the left and a hellhound flipper on the right. As the ball, I have no hope of going in my own direction and have to instead just allow myself to be bashed about. Fun times.
I dress casually in hospital chic, which comprises comfy leggings and an oversized, slouchy jumper.
The softness around the scars on my tummy area is key.
My pale blonde hair is a sheet that falls down my back to my waist—it’s the only part of me that looks good.
When I dressed this morning, my pale face looked gaunt, my cheekbones stood out sharply, and I had bags under my eyes.
I had hoped that the sky-blue jumper would bring out the colour of my eyes and make me look less washed out, but it didn’t.
Before I step into the room, I anxiously run my fingers around the circular seal on Bert’s bag, which is hidden underneath my clothes.
It has become a nervous habit: tracing it with my fingertips, double-checking, always checking to make sure the adhesive of the small opaque bag is intact and that it remains tight to my skin. I shoot my elf guard a nervous smile.
Eleanor is accompanying me—when I suggested she didn’t have to come, she gave me a badass eyebrow-raise, which I interpreted as, “Are you kidding, I’m your guard.”
Silently she nods at the closed door and my head wobbles in response. “Nope, I am not ready,” I whisper. “Can’t we stay out here?” Eleanor ignores me as she knocks on the door and then opens it. I take a deep breath and step into one of my favourite rooms in the house, the library.
Opulent yet inviting, the library is the only room in the demon’s house that hasn’t been modernised. I take another deep breath in, and the earthy, sweet-vanilla, musky smell of books fills my senses.
Floor-to-ceiling open oak bookshelves line the walls—shelves full of wonders. Apart from the stables, this is the room where I spend most of my time. The demon is aware of that. I hope he isn’t trying to ruin the space for me. I quietly sigh. Probably.
Arlo sits in a throne-like chair. The piece of furniture is bigger and more ornate than the other chairs in the room. It is an unsubtle psychological ploy aimed at manipulating anyone who isn’t aware that the demon is the most important person present.
The demon is dressed impeccably in a charcoal custom suit.
Most of the time his black hair which is long on top, short on the sides, flops boyishly into his blue-grey eyes.
Today his dark hair is gelled back away from his face, highlighting his high cheekbones, delicate nose, and prominent, puffy lips.
Three men that I’ve never encountered before are sitting around him in a semicircle.
I stop in the centre of the room. “Master, you wanted to see me?” I lower my head and eyes respectfully in a formal greeting.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Eleanor position herself to my right and slightly ahead of me. She also formally nods and takes up a protective stance.
I have to fight to maintain a serene expression.
Gosh, I want to fidget. I’ve burning questions inside me.
But I clamp my lips closed and keep everything I’m feeling off my face.
I wear a blank mask. My spine is snapped straight with shoulder blades together and chin held high.
I am attempting to be a picture of pure elegance, so I hide my hands behind my back, where no one can see them trembling.
The demon taps his puffy lips once, twice, and moves to sit on the edge of his chair. The energy that surrounds him thrums with excitement. His devious eyes sparkle. Uh-oh. This will not be a pleasant meeting. Arlo is too excited. Bad things happen when the demon is in a playful mood.
Why does the demon want me here?
I take in the three visitors with trepidation. From their energy, the other men are prominent in status. To be in this room, they would have to be.
Unusually, the men are all from different races: a vampire, an elf, and a shifter. If I said that out loud, it would sound like the start of a bad joke.
The vampire draws my gaze first, and my eyes fall to his nails—eww, his nails.
His freaky dirty long nails, which are more like claws as they dig into the padding of the chair.
He is ancient-looking, not old in a human way, but old for a vampire.
He has lost that vampire vitality that they all seem to have and he looks faded…
like a well-preserved mummy, a skull with hair on.
He has long brown hair, secured with a bow at the nape of his neck.
Yes, a black bow. That isn’t the only thing strange about his attire… his black shirtsleeves are lace.
Yes, he looks like a crazy old vampire.
The elf has enormous grey eyes and long blond hair plaited in a style similar to Eleanor’s. That’s the only comparison I can make between them, as the elf isn’t a warrior and he is wearing a suit. His regal bearing might indicate royalty. I tilt my head as I wonder which court.
The shifter is wearing more modern clothing, jeans and a long-sleeved white top that hugs his muscly torso.
He sprawls across his chair, his legs wide apart in a classic alpha pose.
As I take him in, he hunches forward, leaning on his elbows.
His hands dangle between his legs. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I entered the room, and when he notices my attention, he flexes his biceps.
I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. Bloody shifters.
I think perhaps he’s a cat shifter, as he has a golden mane of hair that reminds me of a lion’s.
The man’s energy is powerful, and before I met the hellhound, I would probably have been terrified of him.
But his power level isn’t even on the same scale.
He can stare all he wants; he doesn’t frighten me.
Huh. None of them do. My eyes snap back to Arlo.
With fervour, he has started introductions.
“Gentlemen, may I introduce Emma. Unfortunately, since an encounter with a hellhound…” the cadence of his voice, which is customarily marked by a refined English accent, is extra posh today…
“she is broken,” he adds with a dismissive wave in my direction.
“Broken? Why would we want one of your broken pets?” the elf spits out. I flinch. He sniffs, looking over at me with barely veiled disgust.
“I like broken,” Crazy Vampire pipes up, clapping his hands.
The elf continues, ignoring the vampire, “What is she? I can see she could be beautiful, but why would any of us want her?” He stands, adjusts his suit jacket, and glides in my direction. He halts in front of me.
Eleanor deliberately shifts her weight. After a quick glance at my guard, the elf smirks. He doesn’t touch me. But he does lean closer, so close our breath mingles. The elf stares deep into my eyes and I confidently stare back.
I am not bloody broken. I am strong and I am brave.
“Yes, she is beautiful. She looks better now with the angry flush on her cheeks. Her eyes are so unusual—multicoloured, exquisite.”
My eyes are perhaps another gift from my unknown father. They are different shades of blue, ranging from light sky to dark violet. They change colour. Some days the colour can have multiple hues, depending on my clothing and also my mood.
With a final smirk at Eleanor, the elf glides back to his chair. Once he has taken his seat, the men start a discussion about me. A debate. It’s as if I’m not in the room, as if I’m of no consequence.
I fight the urge to fidget, this time with anger. Keep straight, keep eyes forward, chin high, breathe. Relax. I repeat my riding mantra in my head. It’s kind of apt for this situation. I don’t move, and I don’t acknowledge them. I have no control. Not yet. But I will. I’m a cool, calm void.
I don’t know what has motivated the demon to chair this farce of a meeting. But I will not give him any ammunition to use against me.
“Emma is immortal,” the demon dramatically declares.
With that bold comment, he silences the men.
Four sets of eyes take me in. Three now look halfway intrigued.
“Yes, immortal. But she can be damaged, and she does not self-heal. I recently found out that her ornate magic allows her to fight the ageing process. My extensive tests have shown that now that Emma is twenty-two-years old, she will stay like this”—he waves at me—“forever.”
Ha, that is news to me. Immortal? I frown and make a whatever-you-say face. Luckily I catch myself before they notice and school my face back into its blank mask.
Immortal. Why is he lying?
“What is she?”
“What was she bred with?”
“Emma’s breeding is a conundrum, such an exciting mystery.
She has many talents. She is an accomplished horse rider…
” he smirks at me. My nostrils flare. The demon mustn’t be aware that Sam bought my horse for me and that Bob is safe.
What a dickhead. “…Dancer, and she speaks several languages. I believe over a dozen.” I barely refrain from rolling my eyes—it’s two at a push; I can speak French, badly.
“Her magical talent is that she is immune to magic. Magic has no impact on her. Absolutely none. Imagine what you can do with that kind of power…she can walk through wards, and magical attacks do not touch her. It is as if the magic tries to avoid contact. She is remarkable, unique.”
Eleanor shifts her weight beside me. I glance in her direction, and she returns a contemplative look. I roll my eyes and tuck a wisp of hair behind my ear.
“I could use her as a magical shield?” asks the elf. His grey eyes light up with interest.
“Of course.”
“Would those traits pass on to her children?” asks the shifter.
The demon nods. “Perhaps.”
“Can I give her more scars?” the vampire disturbingly chirps up. The other men ignore him.
“Now, that is interesting. I would like to see her without clothing,” says the shifter. Eleanor tenses and steps further in front of me. “Girl, take off your clothes,” he barks.
I lift an eyebrow. Urm, no, you perve. I ignore him.
Arlo tilts his head and a small smile tugs at his lips. “Emma, take off your clothes. We’re all intrigued by the damage the hellhound made.” He pouts with his puffy lips, his eyes gleaming with glee.
My lips part in shock. What?
“I like scars,” the crazy vampire says with a strange giggle.
I blink at Arlo as if he has lost his ever-loving mind.
“Now, Emma.”
Now? Right now, all I want to do is sink into the ground. Fine beads of sweat form on the back of my neck and I feel my cheeks heat with humiliation. The demon smirks at me.
No, no, no, this is a nightmare. I want to cry and I have to chomp viciously at my lip to stop it from wobbling, and my mouth fills with the taste of blood.
My eyes desperately fly to Eleanor. Her face is blank and I know instinctively she’s unable to do anything to help me.
Currently, there’s no risk to my body, and I guess there’s nothing in her terms and conditions of employment to bodyguard my mind.
I wish Riddick was here.
This whole situation isn’t normal—the demon would have never done this before. Now his eyes dance with a sick delight. This is his way of punishing me. And it’s working.
My entire body trembles. I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t want these strangers to see me. Bert is private. More private than my skin and bone.
I briefly close my eyes. I can’t let them win. I can’t. I won’t.
I am brave enough, bold enough. If I can survive the hellhound, I can do this. Let them see…let them look. I don’t care what they think. People only hurt you if you let them. I will take what they dish out with my head held high.
I’m enough.
My fingertips brush the edge of my jumper…
The door behind me opens. Without looking, I feel the energy in the room shift.
I feel him.
Tingles rush up and down my spine, and I tense. His angry energy smashes around the room, an immense wave of crashing power. I brave a peek over my shoulder.
“Why wasn’t I invited to this sale?” John asks menacingly.