Chapter 9
Wesson
I didn’t remember much of the drive back to the clubhouse, only the part where Atlas and Marta carried me into the mansion-turned-hangout and through the foyer into one of the bedrooms downstairs.
They laid me down on the bed, where I promptly passed out from the exhaustion and agony of what had been done to me.
Most of it was a haze, all except one recurring nightmare that plagued my sleep.
I was back in the woods where we did the ritual, alone, standing in the salt circle the witches had drawn.
The forest was disturbingly quiet—no birds chirping, no wind in the trees—just me and my heartbeat.
I turned around, looking for someone, anyone, only to find myself completely desolate.
“Hello?” I called. “Atlas? Marta?”
No answer came. A small part of me knew I shouldn’t step outside the salt line, but I couldn’t stay here. Just as I started to cross the boundary, the clouds turned a dark, angry gray, rumbling with the threat of thunder and lightning.
“I wouldn’t do that,” whispered a soft, feminine voice.
I jumped and twisted around, reaching for my gun, which wasn’t in my belt holster, where it should be. Neither were my knives. I was precariously unarmed.
“Who’s there?” Panicked, I turned back the other direction, finding no one.
“Wesson Colt,” came the voice again. “Child of Nathaniel Smith, adopted son of Xavier Colt.”
I straightened my shoulders and prepared for a fight. Just because I didn’t have my weapons didn’t mean I was hopeless. I’d been training since I was a child, and I could hit nearly as hard as Atlas.
“You should not have come here,” the voice said. “But I am pleased to see you.”
“Yeah, I fucking bet,” I snarled. “Why hide? Come out. Show yourself so I know who I’m dealing with.”
“This is my domain, my realm. Your witch made it for me,” whispered the voice. It echoed from all around, seeming to come from the air itself.
“Asmodeian demon,” I said. “I summon you. Show yourself.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” it said. “Such arrogance. You cannot compel me, boy. Not here. Not anymore.”
I didn’t like the sound of that, but there was nothing I could do until I put eyes on the beast itself. “Where are you? Come forward. If you’re so almighty and powerful, why are you acting like a coward?”
Yeah, I was baiting it, but some clawing need inside urged me to make sure it was the demon so I knew how to handle it.
“Are you sure?” Its sinister laughter made the hairs on my arms stand up, sending shivers down my spine. “You might not like what you see.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” I said. Though the demon that had torn open my chest nearly killed me. Maybe I should have been more scared than I was.
Silence fell again before a burning sensation tunneled through my stomach into my lungs, ripping apart my veins, boiling my muscles.
I gasped and dropped to my knees, scrambling for my shirt to rip it over my head.
My blood had turned a sickly shade of black, my skin suddenly translucent enough to see the vile stuff pumping through my molecules.
I scratched at my skin, trying to get it out of me, but it only grew worse.
Agony raced through my sternum, up my throat, over my tongue.
I spat out brimstone and sulphur, my eyes scalding, my skin sliding from muscle and bone.
My ribs popped, and a thick, dark hand exploded from my chest like something out of an ’80s movie.
Screaming, I lurched up, and the nightmare fell away. I was back in the bedroom, the soft glow of little flames flickering from all around me. Marta sat on the mattress at my right, a washcloth in one hand, a burning white candle in the other.
“Hey there,” she said, leaning down to pat my forehead with the cool cloth. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”
I grimaced against the headache between my eyes as I remembered why I was laid up in this bed in the first place. I glanced down my body, gaze narrowing on the deep purple claw marks across my chest. They looked as bad as they felt.
“How long have I been out?” My voice sounded like someone had taken a sandblaster to it, and my throat ached from the raw force of talking.
“A week,” she said. “We’re back at the Harlot estate, but I just regained enough magic to heal you properly.”
I stared at her, taking her in fully. She looked rough—heavy bags under her eyes, dark shadows in her cheeks, her hair in a frizzy ponytail around her head. None of that distracted from her beauty, though. She still looked like she could kick my ass in stilettos.
“Where’s Atlas?” I asked, pushing myself up into a seated position against the headboard.
“Whoa, take it easy.” She leaned forward to help me, but I pushed her away. I needed to move, to do this for myself. “You’re still in rough shape.”
“I’m okay,” I said. “Where’s my brother?”
She sighed and rubbed a hand over her forehead. “Raiding the bar, I’m sure.”
“Sounds about right.” I snorted and shook my head. Atlas was hedonistic at the best of times. Where I relied on logic and a clear head, he lived to fuck and fight and drink. Sometimes, I couldn’t believe we were raised by the same man.
“He wouldn’t leave your side for the first few days,” she continued. “I had to force him to take a break today.”
I ignored the heat in my cheeks at the embarrassment of Atlas being worried about me. “Any sign of the demon?”
I fought the shiver that went through me at the mention of the reason we were in the first place, and I touched my chest, where the burn of my nightmare still lingered, almost like the monster was still trying to claw its way out.
“No,” she said, sitting down on the mattress next to me. “But we haven’t left the house since we got here. He wants to ride around, see what we see, but I don’t think we should leave the protection of the wards.”
I could see both sides. While it would be a good idea to understand precisely where we were and what we were dealing with, until she had her magic back and until I was back on my feet, doing that could be dangerous. Atlas couldn’t defend himself alone, and we needed to regain our strength.
“Smart,” I said. “The wards here are strong. Nothing’s getting past that front door.”
“Exactly,” she said. “But he does have a point. We should know if we’re the only ones here.”
I nodded and glanced at the candle, still flickering and dribbling wax down to her fingertips. “What are you doing with that?”
She smirked and put it on the bedside table. “Fire scrying. I was trying to get the spirits to tell me what’s going on, but they’re being unusually quiet.”
“Those bastards,” I teased.
Marta furrowed her brows and glanced back at me. “What were you dreaming about?”
A sharp slice hit me in the sternum, and I glanced at my lap as the memory of anguish crept through my veins.
“Nothing,” I said, my cheeks burning. “Just a bad dream is all.”
She nodded and stood to grab a tea from the table, handing it to me. “Drink this. It’ll help.”
I took it and brought it to my nose, wincing at the earthy compost smell wafting off the steam. “What is it?”
“Herbs,” she said. “Rue, chamomile, garlic, pepper. They have natural antibodies and healing derivatives.”
“It smells like grass,” I said.
She raised an eyebrow. “If you don’t want it, give it here.”
“No,” I said immediately, bringing it to my lips. I chugged it down, ignoring the weedy taste and the mild burn in my throat. It settled in my stomach like warm soup, comforting if not entirely palatable.
“Good boy,” Marta said and took the mug from me.
Heat snaked down my chest, into my abdomen, and not just from the tea. A low simmering tension gripped my lower stomach, yanking until my cheeks burned hotter.
Fuck my praise kink.
“The bond is still blocked,” she said, “and I don’t know why. I’ve been in the library for the last few days, and I haven’t found anything worthwhile. You should try to get some more rest.”
“No, fuck that,” I said, shifting around so my legs hung off the side of the bed. My torso stung and my muscles twinged, but I wanted to help. “It’s been a week. If you’re researching, I’m researching.”
“Wes.” She groaned. “A week ago, you were demon mincemeat.”
“And I’m feeling much better now, especially after your grass stew.”
She laughed, and the sound rattled something deeper inside me, more profound than her calling me a good boy.
“I can rest just as easily in the library as I can here,” I said. “Besides, it’s shocking you and Atlas haven’t already killed each other.”
“Well, that’s easy to do in a place this size. We just avoid being in the same room.”
“See?” I pushed to standing, wobbling as my core nearly gave out under the stress. She lurched to help me, but I held a hand up, stabilizing myself on the table. “I’m okay.”
She heaved a deep sigh.
“What do we know about the liminal?” I asked. “Any quirks or weird stuff happening?”
She shrugged. “Every day resets like Groundhog Day. Any food we eat gets replenished at midnight. Any chances we make reset. It’s like we’re living the same day over and over again.”
“Wonderful. At least it’s a starting point.”
She smiled and nodded, stepping toward the door. Just before she left, I stopped her.
“Thank you,” I said, meeting her timid gaze. “For healing me. For your…amicable bedside manner.”
Marta grinned and gestured toward the dresser. “There are some clean clothes in there. You know where the shower is. Other than being alone, it seems like everything else is exactly as we left it.”