Chapter 4 Malrik
MALRIK
Ipaced the length of Ashcliff's grand ballroom, absently conducting the storm outside like a personal orchestra. Thunder rolled precisely on cue as lightning illuminated the chandeliers I'd spent hours adjusting to catch the light just so.
I'd never cared what a mortal thought of my residence. Yet here I was, staging the ballroom like a theater set because Charlie Davenport was coming to evaluate my home.
Ridiculous.
"Master," Paz hovered at the doorway. "The mortal event planner will arrive shortly."
"Excellent." I positioned myself against the grand piano, testing several poses before settling on one that struck the perfect balance between casual power and dangerous allure. "And Sinnamon?"
"Contained in the east wing, as instructed."
I nodded, satisfied. Everything was prepared to create the proper impression.
After our meeting in her office, where she'd somehow maintained complete detachment despite my best efforts, I was determined to shift the balance on my territory.
Ashcliff Manor had reduced experienced occultists to babbling terror.
Charlie Davenport would surely show some reaction here.
The manor itself seemed to sense my anticipation, the artifacts in the hallway glowing more intensely, ancient whispers growing louder in the walls. Even the sea below the cliffs crashed with greater violence, as if nature itself aligned with my intentions.
Moments later, I heard the crunch of tires on the gravel drive. I summoned a fresh rumble of thunder for dramatic effect.
The manor's bell tolled, its deep resonance echoing through the cavernous halls. Precisely on time, of course.
My pulse quickened. An unfamiliar sensation coiled in my chest, tight and restless.
Not anticipation. I'd felt anticipation before. The delicious moment before a conquest, before a soul tipped toward temptation. This was something else entirely. Something that made my ancient blood feel oddly... mortal.
Ridiculous. I didn't get nervous. I made others nervous.
Paz's shrill voice echoed from the entrance hall, followed by another sound that wasn't part of the plan. The skittering of claws and heavy panting.
Damnation. The hellhound pup had escaped again.
I remained in position, listening to Paz's increasingly flustered commentary as he escorted Charlie through the hallways. To his credit, he was following the script perfectly, emphasizing the dark history of each artifact they passed. Yet Charlie's responses were... unexpected.
"The architecture is remarkable," came Charlie's crisp, professional response. "Gothic Revival with influences from at least three different centuries, if I'm not mistaken. Though I'm curious about the gargoyles. They seem to be watching me."
"They are," I murmured to myself with a smile. Of course they were watching her. I'd instructed them to.
I could hear her footsteps in the distance, the confident stride of someone who had faced down bridezilla banshees and still delivered flawless events.
Most visitors to Ashcliff either trembled in terror or gushed with inappropriate enthusiasm.
Charlie sounded like she was inspecting a hotel ballroom, not the ancestral seat of a demon.
Paz was leading her through the portrait gallery now, where the eyes of my painted victims followed visitors with silent screams. I'd instructed him to take the most unsettling route possible.
The artifact room was the next surprise. Paz directed her straight to the encased statues. "The ventilation is surprisingly good," her voice carried clearly. "Are these display cases securely anchored? Definitely a safety hazard."
I frowned. Safety hazard? The objects in those cases had consumed souls, and she was concerned about them being properly secured to the wall?
The ballroom doors swung open at my command, revealing Charlie Davenport in all her clipboard-wielding glory. She looked exactly as she had in her office. Professionally attired, perfectly composed, and completely unimpressed by the display around her.
Lightning flashed on cue, illuminating her from behind as she stepped into the room. Her eyes met mine, and I deployed my most enigmatic smile.
"Ms. Davenport," I purred, pushing just enough power into my voice to make the crystal chandeliers resonate sympathetically. "Welcome to my home."
She nodded briskly. "Malrik. Thank you for accommodating this site visit.
" Then, without further acknowledgment of my carefully orchestrated greeting, she turned her attention to the ballroom itself.
"These chandeliers are hung too low for optimal guest flow.
The floor shows significant scuffing that will reflect poorly under dramatic lighting. "
I blinked. Had she just... critiqued my ballroom? My perfect, atmospheric, enhanced ballroom?
The hellhound pup chose that moment to bound into the room, skidding across the apparently "significantly scuffed" floor before coming to a halt at Charlie's feet.
Instead of recoiling in terror from the creature that could grow to devour souls, she simply reached down and, to my utter disbelief, scratched him behind the ears.
The traitorous beast flopped onto its back, panting happily.
"This draft," she made a note, "will be problematic for any flame elements in your performance."
"Perhaps I could demonstrate why Ashcliff is uniquely suited to my performances," I said, pushing away from the piano.
Without waiting for her response, I summoned my power.
Fire bloomed from my fingertips, spiraling upward in patterns and symbols.
I directed the flames to encircle us both, creating a sphere of crimson light with Charlie and me at its center.
The temperature rose, not enough to burn but sufficient to remind any mortal of their fragile existence.
Charlie glanced up from her notes. "Is this heat level consistent throughout the performance? We'll need to adjust the floral arrangements accordingly. Perhaps succulents instead of traditional arrangements."
"What?" I said as I turned to her. Then something slipped in my concentration. The swirling energy, usually under my perfect control, wavered. A tendril of crimson fire separated from the pattern, drawn toward Charlie like a compass needle finding north.
I tried to pull it back, but too late. The energy connected with her. Just for an instant, barely a touch. Yet in that moment, I felt something unprecedented: a piece of my power detaching, flowing from me to her like water seeking its level.
Our eyes met, and for a moment, I saw my own crimson fire reflected in her eyes. Demonic energy where there should have been only blue. A connection formed between us, gossamer-thin but unmistakable.
Above us, the grand chandelier shuddered as my control faltered, crystals tinkling ominously. Charlie looked up, saw the danger, and raised her hand instinctively. A faint crimson glow. My power. It emanated from her fingers, steadying the fixture.
No mortal had ever taken my power. Not a flicker, not a spark, not a whisper. Such a thing should have been impossible.
The light faded from her fingers. She looked at her hand with a slight frown, then back at me with mounting alarm. "What was that? What did you just do to me?"
"A minor energy glitch," I explained, my voice remarkably steady considering the impossibility of what had just occurred. "Sometimes when I demonstrate my abilities, there can be a small... spillover effect."
"Spillover effect?" She flexed her fingers experimentally, expression shifting from confusion to growing anger. "I felt something pass through me. Did you just... did you try to possess me?"
"Nothing so crude as possession," I assured her, genuinely offended by the accusation. "It's temporary. A brief resonance that will dissipate within a few days. Like static electricity, but with a touch more... brimstone."
Behind Charlie, Paz's eyes had grown wide with horror. He clutched his chest, mouthing a word that looked suspiciously like "catastrophic."
"You transferred some kind of demonic energy to me?" Her voice remained level, but I could see fury building in her eyes.
"It was completely unintentional," I said, which was true. "And as I said, absolutely temporary."
"Are there any side effects I should be aware of? And don't say 'nothing significant' or I swear I will walk out that door and blacklist you from every venue in the region."
"You might notice small environmental responses. Lights flickering, minor temperature fluctuations. Perhaps the occasional object moving without being touched. All perfectly harmless," I repeated, still confident in my assessment. "Think of it as a brief round of static cling."
She took a deep breath, clearly considering whether to terminate our professional relationship on the spot. "Okay, static cling. I can deal with that. Give me a minute to process what just happened and you'll be responsible for any damages resulting from this... incident."
"Of course," I agreed quickly. She closed her eyes briefly, squared her shoulders, and when she looked at me again the mask of professionalism was firmly back in place. Most mortals would have been trembling, bargaining, begging. Not Charlie Davenport.
She methodically smoothed her jacket, reset her posture. The crisis, as far as she was concerned, was now managed.
"Shall we continue the tour? I'd like to see the adjoining rooms to assess flow and capacity."
"Right this way."
For the next hour, I escorted Charlie through Ashcliff's many rooms. She maintained her professional demeanor, making notes about acoustics and sight lines, measuring doorways, and assessing electrical outlets with a thoroughness that would have impressed medieval inquisitors.
But I noticed something else as we walked.
When she expressed mild disapproval of the dining room's dim lighting, the candelabra brightened slightly.
When she commented that the library seemed cold, the fireplace flames leapt higher for a moment.
My power, working through her unconsciously, responding to her emotions in subtle ways she didn't even notice.
It was utterly fascinating.
As we entered the grand hall with its imposing staircase, Charlie paused, rubbing her temple. "Is it normal to feel... buzzy after exposure to your energy? Like waves of electricity under my skin."
"It's perfectly normal. I said, a few days and it will be gone."
"I've worked with enough supernaturals to know this feels different."
Behind her, Paz was frantically flipping through an ancient tome, his fingers trembling as he traced lines of demonic text. The panic in his eyes had reached new heights, and he was now silently mouthing what appeared to be emergency containment incantations.
I shot him a warning glare before turning back to Charlie with a reassuring smile.
"Different practitioners, different sensations.
I assure you, there's absolutely nothing to worry about.
" I genuinely believed this, despite Paz's growing hysteria.
After all, how dangerous could a tiny fragment of demonic power be in the hands of a mortal?
"The terrace would be ideal for the pre-show reception," she said as we stepped outside.
The storm, which had been raging moments before, had mysteriously cleared the instant she mentioned wanting to see the outdoor spaces.
She didn't seem to notice this meteorological impossibility, simply making notes about where additional lighting would be needed.
"Did it just... stop raining?" she asked, glancing up at the suddenly clear sky.
"Ashcliff has its own microclimate," I said smoothly. "Very convenient for outdoor events."
As we concluded our tour in the entrance hall, Charlie closed her notebook. "Ashcliff is amazing, though there are several modifications required before the event. I'll send over a comprehensive assessment by Monday."
"I look forward to it," I said, meaning it more than she could possibly understand.
"Do you hear a ringing noise?" Charlie reached up and pressed on her ear.
"No but I'm used to all the sensations that you normally would not feel.
You're more than welcome to stay at Ashcliff until it fades.
" I could barely contain myself at the thought of it.
"There is a beautiful suite overlooking the ocean.
It's private and you won't be disturbed.
You'll have full access to anything you need. "
"That won't be necessary. I really should get going."
"Then allow me to walk you to your car."
The gravel crunched beneath our feet as we crossed the drive. When we reached her vehicle, she turned to face me.
"Thank you for the tour," she said, extending her hand.
I took it, holding it longer than I should have. Her skin was warm against mine, and I could feel the faint pulse of my power thrumming beneath the surface. She felt it too. I saw the slight widening of her eyes, the way her lips parted as if to speak before she thought better of it.
"Until next time, Charlie Davenport."
She withdrew her hand, climbed into her car, and drove away without looking back.
After she departed, Paz emerged from the shadows, arms full of ancient tomes. "Master, the protocols explicitly forbid power sharing with mortals!"
"She doesn't even know what happened. She has no idea she's carrying a fragment of my power."
"But when she discovers the effects aren't temporary—"
"Of course they're temporary," I countered. "No mortal has ever permanently retained demonic power. It's simply not possible."
"The ancient texts specifically warn against—"
"I know what the text says. I wrote most of it."
"Yes, but Sir." He said as he wiped his brow. "You haven't attended a Gathering of the Damned in centuries. Not one."
"The knowledge adapts, Paz. It always has."
Paz was still citing protocols behind me, his voice edged with panic, but the words faded to nothing.
I moved to the window, watching her car disappear down the winding coastal road into the gathering fog.
I could feel the connection between us, a thread stretching across the distance. For the first time in my very long existence, I had accidentally given away a piece of myself.
A sensible demon would have been alarmed. Would have followed the containment protocols. Would have been calculating how to reclaim the power before complications arose.
Instead, I found myself smiling, imagining Charlie's reaction when she discovered lights flickering in response to her emotions, or objects moving when she gestured, or flames dancing to her unspoken commands.
Sinnamon padded over and sat at my feet, looking up at me with something that, on a hellhound, approximated smugness.
"Don't look at me like that," I muttered, absently scratching his head. "She's just a mortal. It doesn't mean anything."
Sinnamon made a sound suspiciously like a snort.