Chapter 23
Perthrux didn’t claim all of Ligat’s time.
It could have, and early in their acquaintance it had amused the demon to do so, whether that meant having Ligat wait for hours or days attending to it, sending him on trifling and unpleasant errands, or taking more painful and direct action to occupy itself.
Demons could be fickle creatures, though—Ligat sometimes thought it was one of the few things that saved humanity—and Ligat had fallen from fascinating plaything to occasionally useful tool.
He still came at the demon’s call, still followed its orders, but he’d built himself a place in the ethereal and found pursuits of his own.
Watching Hazel Lewis meant less wandering, of course, but in the days since her dryad captured him, Ligat had begun trying to approach or leave her home from new, unknown directions.
It was practical enough to please his master—finding a way around the guardians would be useful—but practicality was never uppermost in Ligat’s mind as he walked the strange paths of the ethereal.
The simplest was a reasonably straightforward route through the abstraction of a forest, of course, but he’d discovered that following another path led from Hazel’s yard to a beach where the sea glowed red and winged creatures came out of the waves.
A third took him to the ruins of a city he’d never seen on Earth, a place of marble parapets and abandoned colonnades.
Had it been in the mortal world once, full of people that time had forgotten? Ligat couldn’t tell. He saw no people when he was there, but the place was inhabited in its way—
—and so when he became aware of footsteps behind him, he snapped to attention, calling power to his hands as he whirled around.
And there was the little medium, ducking behind a pillar, but not nearly quickly enough. She hissed a command to the dog she’d befriended, who vanished in a shimmer of blue light, and started backing away, not yet sure enough that he’d seen her to run and risk drawing his attention.
That uncertainty let Ligat close the distance between them. Hazel turned to run as she saw his approach, but he lunged forward too quickly, grabbed her wrist in one hand before she could reach for the knife in her belt, and spun her around to face him. “Following me?”
Her blue eyes were wide with alarm as she stared up into his face, and Ligat could feel the rapid beat of her heart through the slender wrist he held, but she lifted her chin and answered back smartly. “No, I just decided to take an afternoon walk in R’lyeh.”
Ligat didn’t know the name, but it didn’t matter. Hazel’s closeness to him did, he was finding—the defiant tilt of her head, the faint apple-blossom odor of her shampoo, and the softness of her skin beneath his fingers. They filled his senses rapidly, even as he tried to push the sensations away.
He should have known better.
“You should know better,” he said. “Prying into my affairs isn’t wise.”
Anger flamed in her face, reddening her cheeks and narrowing her eyes.
“I’m drawing the ethereal wherever I go.
It’ll overwhelm me before too long, even if your boss and his other sidekick stopped trying to hurry it, which I don’t think they will.
What exactly would you say is wise for me to do under the circumstances? ”
“Not this,” he said.
“Well, thank you so much for the input.” She tried to yank her wrist free of his grip, Ligat tightened his hand, and then the loud sound of hoofbeats made both of them freeze.
Ligat recognized the noise.
Fear narrowed his awareness. The hoofbeats were coming toward them, but one deity or another was merciful, and he couldn’t actually see the creatures making the noise, which meant they had a little time. He peered desperately down the street and saw an open doorway a few buildings away: salvation.
Hazel had started to turn, but she’d also stopped trying to pull away, and Ligat grabbed her around the waist. She fit easily over his shoulder, despite her startled wriggling. “Just what the hell—” she began.
“Hush,” Ligat told her grimly, “and hold on if you value your life.”
With Hazel’s lithe body pressed against his back, Ligat dashed for the doorway. He didn’t dare to look behind him, but Hazel did. He could feel her gasp and the sudden tension of her muscles. Then she did as he’d told her for once, hands clutching him to the point of pain.
Ligat ignored it. He ran with all his strength over the ancient cobblestones, other buildings speeding by his vision in a blur of once-bright color. One of the creatures behind them brayed—not a hunting call yet, he hoped, just urging its fellows onward.
There. Sanctuary.
He charged through the door and immediately swerved right, putting a solid wall between them and the street. As he came to a stop, hood fallen back and hair damp with sweat, one of the things outside voiced a high, equine scream.
Both of them flinched at the noise. “What are those?” Hazel whispered, breath hot against his neck as he lowered her to the ground.
“I never asked their names,” he said. “Hunters.”
He knew what Hazel had seen: the rough outline of a horse but skinless, red muscle dripping with blood that never seemed to run out—perhaps the creatures replenished it from their victims. “I fought one,” Ligat said, “and it was no easy task.”
“There were at least three. Probably more,” said Hazel.
She hadn’t stepped back, and Ligat’s hands were still at her hips. As the first mad panic faded, he became aware of their situation, and of the firm, yielding feel of her body beneath the denim. He watched the motion of her throat as she swallowed, then looked back up to find her staring at him.
“Why didn’t they follow us in here?” she asked, still keeping her voice down. The whisper made her sound even more breathless.
“They can’t cross thresholds. They can’t sense us through walls either.”
“So we…wait?”
“Yes. They’ll move on to other…games. It just takes time.” He dropped his hands back to his sides.
Hazel exhaled slowly, almost certainly not meaning to call attention to the rise and fall of her breasts, which her thin pink shirt did almost nothing to hide. Ligat didn’t mean to stare, for that matter. It still took him a moment to look away.
For that matter, she was still standing close to him. Maybe it was out of fear, or because they were the only two beings that resembled people or even life in this place, but Ligat saw her bite the corner of her lip and thought otherwise.
“What is this place?” Hazel asked. Her gesture took in the room, but Ligat suspected it extended to the city as a whole.
“A memory, perhaps. Or a dream. I’m not sure.”
“Not your demon’s lair, then?” Hazel gave him a tiny, mocking smile. “Did your master send you out for cigarettes, or are you playing hooky? Going to get in trouble if you stay out too late?”
Ligat felt himself rise to the challenge—in more ways than one, despite or perhaps because of the momentary spark of irritation. “Your concern does you credit.”
“I’m more or less a saint.”
The room was dim and warm around them, full of furniture that perhaps no human had ever used. Danger ran through the city beyond the walls. “I’m here on my own business,” said Ligat, raising one hand to cup the side of Hazel’s face. “My master knows what it needs to. And I’m no schoolboy.”
As he drew his thumb slowly across her cheekbone, her lips curved further and her eyes darkened. “What are you, then?” she asked, voice low again but not from fear this time.
“Unwise,” he said, and pulled her to him.
* * *
Ligat wasn’t gentle.
He wasn’t rough or clumsy—not by a mile—but when his mouth settled over hers and his tongue slid between her lips, it was with all the swift, controlled force of a hunter claiming its prey.
With one hand on her shoulder and the other at her waist, he held her tight against him while he kissed her, though Hazel never thought for a second of moving away.
She wanted all of it—the heat of his mouth, the strength in his hands, the lean, hard lines of his frame—and more. She shouldn’t have wanted it, but she’d told herself that for days and it had apparently not sunk in at all.
I give myself very good advice floated through her mind, Carroll by way of Disney, but I very seldom follow it.
Hazel had spent most of her life being sensible. That life might be—probably was—approaching a grisly end. She’d reconsider her choices later.
Grasping Ligat’s shoulders to steady herself against both the angle and the surge of lust that left her legs weak, she leaned up into his embrace.
He caught his breath. She didn’t hear it, but she felt the sudden stillness of his chest as her breasts pressed against it, and the knowledge sent another spike of arousal through her.
It was also briefly familiar, which made no sense at all, since she didn’t believe in soulmates or Disney lyrics. Besides, she hadn’t kissed him in the dream. Hazel brushed off the feeling of déjà vu—brains were odd and she had no time for analysis—and let herself sink into the kiss again.
All at once, with the same swiftness he’d used to grab her arm or throw her over his shoulder, Ligat spun them around, pinning her against the wall with his weight.
His hands found her breasts, cupped them firmly, dragged his thumb over her stiff nipples until Hazel couldn’t keep herself from whimpering.
He raised his head just enough to murmur into her ear: “Do that again.”
“Make me,” Hazel gasped, but she was rocking her hips even as she spoke, seeking contact with the hard and truly impressive length nudging at her stomach. When Ligat’s fingers closed on her nipples, she didn’t whimper—she moaned.
All of the second thoughts floated through her mind in a moment, but, with Ligat teasing her breasts and his mouth smooth and deft against hers, she found herself producing a quick answer to every objection.
He’s a demon’s minion. But she knew that, and she also knew he couldn’t kill her.