Demon's Kiss

Book 1: Compact of Sorcerers

by Eve Silver

Genres: Fantasy

Synopsis

A dangerous desire holds the key to stopping the barrier between demons and mortals from being destroyed in this paranormal romance series debut.
 
Struggling medical student Clea Masters doesn't understand the powerful force that has protected her since childhood. But that same power is about to draw her into a supernatural shadow war she never knew existed. When Clea is attacked by a demon, her only ally is a lethal, mysterious, and seductive man.
 
Ciarran D'Arbois is an immortal sorcerer sworn to guard the wall between the human world and the demon realm. He won't let any harm befall Clea, whose strength he admires and a body he craves. Yet demons are determined to use her unique power to break down the portal Ciarran has sworn to protect.
 
Now as a rogue sorcerer leads the enemy ever closer, Ciarran and Clea have only one hope. Both must surrender to their darkest passions—and unleash their most dangerous, untested desires.

Release date: October 1, 2007

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 259

Sample

Prologue



D
EATH. HE SMELLED IT. DEATH AND DARKNESS AND the stink of brimstone.

Ciarran D’Arbois spun a slow circle, taking in the stillness of the night, the thick copse of trees some hundred yards away, the long stretch of unlit road, primitive, unpaved, isolated.

Half-on, half-off the road was a car, crushed nearly flat, one side ripped open as though the metal were mere paper, the edges curled and blackened by fire. Embers yet cast their glow to the night sky, though the hours had dulled the flames, leaving them weak and small. Of a second vehicle there was no sign, and the rumpled metal remains of the station wagon were too far from any tree for one to have served as the source of impact.

But the sorcerer knew what had done the damage: something not of this world. His lip curled in disgust, and his gaze raked the shadows.

Fear. Horror. These emotions he sensed, so primal and raw they congealed in the air, a glutinous mass leaking from the two dead mortals who lay in the road. Pale and bloody, the woman sprawled on the ground, her long limbs set at unnatural angles. The man was torn in half, his blood a glistening pool that stained the fine gravel.

The air shimmered about the bodies as their souls floated aimlessly, hovering, confused, torn from their vessels before the proper time. They looked at Ciarran, hopefully, desperately, and he turned away, though his gut twisted at his inability to heal them. For a millennium he had lived, acting as guardian of the wall between dimensions, the wall between the world of man and the demon realm, and in that time he had yet to master his empathy.

Ridiculous, really. After all he had seen, century after century of suffering and death, he should have found a way to stop caring. His compatriots in the Compact of Sorcerers—a brotherhood of magical beings who maintained the balance between the supernatural and the natural—would have called him a fool had they known of his weakness. What were two dead mortals?

Still, a part of him wanted to push the humans’ souls back into their bodies, heal them with the power of his magic, give them a chance for the life that had been ripped away so brutally.

But to heal them would mean breaking the Pact, the eternal agreement that governed the actions of all those with magical bent, an agreement so old it predated all human measure of time.

So he turned away, moved quickly to the wall that held back the demon horde, a wall invisible to human sight but so very clear to him. The barrier was damaged, breached by a great, gaping hole. Sending forth fine glittering strands from his fingertips, he brushed them lightly over the frayed edges of the void. Even now the fissure belched curling tendrils of smoke and the stink of brimstone and sulfur. He lifted what information he could, sensing the distinct trail of the demon, a fetid rot.

Ciarran was aware that one had come through from beyond, an ancient terror, antediluvian and strong, a terrible dark thing unleashed on the world of man. He felt the awful strength and, woven through that, the weak scent of minor demons, far down in the hierarchy. They had failed to come through. A small solace.

He made short work of closing the breach. This was his task, his highest duty. To hold back the demons. To protect mankind, for all they were, for all they might someday become. The wall shifted, bent to his will and the great magic of his hands.

His work sealed the hole. There was a small sound, a gasp, and only then did he become aware of the child.

Ten paces, and he found her sprawled in a ditch, her breathing ragged and shallow. She was slashed open, her intestines spilling out of her to lie in curled loops on her bloody belly and on the grass. Her left arm was shattered, her leg nearly completely severed. A slick puddle of blood surrounded her small body. He wondered that she yet lived, then he thought perhaps it was by strength of will alone. Such tragic waste.

A quick assessment of what little remained of her life force told the tale. Too much blood lost. Too much damage. The child would die. There was nothing human medicine could do for her now.

“Mommy,” she whispered. “S-s-s-o-o-o-o dark.”

His gut wrenched.

“Mommy,” she said again, the words barely audible. “Tummy . . . hurts.”

Healing her, and thereby interfering in the thread of mortal life, was forbidden by the Pact, but he could offer her some palliative comfort, ease her misery. Ciarran called his power, wrapped the child in magic, offered her what he could. He took her pain, wanting only to let her find the hereafter without the agony she suffered.

She blinked, turned her head, and he had only a second to understand that she saw him, saw his aura and his power, his magic, though such should not have been possible for he had chosen to refract light and veil himself from human sight.

With an overwhelming incredulity, he froze as the child’s fingers twitched. She caught a strand of the undulating current of his power in her fist, pulled the glowing ribbon close, and rested it across her belly. Jerking back, he reined in his magic, but she held fast, leaching away his power, healing herself, a human child marked for death.

Impossible.

Her actions broke all laws of the Pact, but there was nothing he could do to stop her. She pulled his magic. She healed.


This human girl was an anomaly he had never before encountered, and for an instant he focused wholly on her.

Suddenly, Ciarran stiffened. He knew he was too slow as he spun, calling the vast stores of his magic. Sly, furtive, a demon coming at his back.

It was too late.

And then there was only pain.

Chapter 1

CIARRAN D’ARBOIS WOULD HAVE LIKED IT TO BE colder. Just a few degrees. Enough to take the sleet that was beating down on him and turn it into nice fluffy flakes of snow. He was immortal, not impervious. Getting drenched was as unpleasant for him as it was for the next man.

The difference was, with a mere thought, Ciarran could be dry, could stop the downpour, could walk in a halo of sunshine though it be midnight. Instead, he chose to slog through the frigid sheet of rain. Though there was no law against it, he was reluctant to summon magic for mundane purposes.

Or maybe he just had a strong inclination to suffer, to atone for his immeasurable sins.

Turning up the collar of his leather jacket, he strode along the street, a couple of paces behind two women who huddled together under a large umbrella. They cast frequent glances at him over their shoulders and, at one point, the shorter woman called a bold invitation for him to step under the umbrella right along with them.

The taller one, a blonde, had a hip-swaying walk that grabbed a man’s attention and held it, even if the man wasn’t interested in the invitation. No, not quite accurate. He was interested but wise enough to turn her down.

She wanted to take a man home to her bed. But he doubted she wanted to wake up next to a monster.

With a shake of his head and a smile that promised sin, he slowed his pace and let them walk on. The blonde cast him one last look over her shoulder. Foolish.

Just up ahead was his destination, a run-down bar with a reputation. It was the kind of place Darqun favored. Ciarran’s lip curled in foul humor. It was the kind of place he preferred to avoid.

A snick of sound caught his attention, and in the same instant the current of energy that formed the continuum shimmered with the faintest spark, a wrongness in the weave of dimensions. Again. More and more of late, the line of magical force had wavered, had carried darkness and a warning. There was a hint of brimstone, a whisper of malice. Pausing, he turned to face the alley on his right.

In the shadows, four bulky figures huddled around a supine form, a human male, battered and bruised from a beating. Hybrids. Half-human, half-demon minions of the Solitary. A malevolent demon of immeasurable power and equal malice, the Solitary was the greatest threat to the wall between dimensions. Trapped beyond the wall, the Solitary waited and plotted his escape.

Unless summoned, demons could not walk in the world of man, and once called, they were bound to the summoner, a situation they found both irksome and abhorrent. Hence, the advent of hybrids, foolish mortals faced with death who had chosen to allow demon will to overtake their souls.

Hybrids were able to walk the earth, doing the bidding of their masters. But the demons rarely made full disclosure. They never warned that, while hybrids could live a long, long while, their existence would be consumed by pain. Endless, daily pain, relieved only by death. Ciarran had found more than one such creature grateful for release. But therein lay the dark lure, the horrible enticement to release them all and to find enjoyment in it.

Sensing Ciarran’s presence, they turned their heads, eyes glinting in the darkness, lips peeled back from long, sharp teeth. They meant to feed on the flesh of the man at their feet, after they beat him bloody. They had a predilection for tenderized meat.

Rage built inside him. They were in his territory, stalking a mortal under his protection.

Ciarran focused on the steady drum of the rain, the splash of tires on the wet road at his back, the panting breath of the hybrids. Seeking his center, he tethered his fury and waited until he was certain they knew what he was, until they turned fully toward him.

With a groan, their prey rolled to his side and lurched to his feet. The man stumbled, righted himself, then weaved unsteadily forward, one hand dragging along the graffiti-stained brick wall for support. The pungent scents of alcohol and old sweat stained the air as he shuffled past. The hybrids let him go, intent now on bigger game.

Ciarran smiled. Four to one. He liked the odds.

Stepping into the alley, Ciarran flexed his left hand, feeling the deep ache of torn sinew and mangled bone, healed some two decades past into a semblance of normal. Normal if one didn’t look too closely, didn’t peel back the leather glove to reveal a warded and bespelled alloy prison designed to contain the rot that threatened to spread and steal all that he was.

The shadows shifted and moved, and the four hybrids circled him warily. One of them held a long knife with a serrated blade. Another carried a wooden club. Mortal weapons, of paltry value in a battle against a sorcerer.

Ciarran shifted to one side, giving them a chance, though every cell in his body screamed for the fight. He offered them the opportunity to flee, to find a hole to tunnel into and hide. He had accomplished his goal, saved the human. His scruples, the fact that he did not simply slaughter the hybrids despite the hard pounding of his rage and bloodlust, marked the difference between sorcerer and demon.

The ache in his gloved hand intensified, reminding him that there were days when he wondered how much longer he would recognize that distinction.

“Go,” he said, making a sweeping gesture to emphasize his offer of reprieve.

The hybrid with the club grunted, smacking the wood against his open palm as he stepped closer. There was a shimmer of movement. The creature’s gaze flicked to Ciarran’s left, and he snarled at one of his companions. “All at once, idiot.”

Idiot, indeed. Ciarran didn’t even bother to turn, sensing the assault, tasting his attacker’s bloodlust. He uncurled the fingers of his right hand and sent razor-sharp shards of light spinning from his fingertips to dance across the wet pavement. His magic, nourished by the continuum, the dragon current, the eternal river of elemental energy that sustained all mortal and immortal realms. Light and dark in perfect balance.

Ciarran sidestepped the attack, but the hybrid spun and lunged again. A flare of light, and the hybrid’s knife clattered to the ground still clutched in a freshly severed fist. The creature screamed, a high, sharp sound of pain and rage.

“Go,” Ciarran said again, and the hybrid with the club took the offer, lumbering from the alley, leaving the others to the fate they chose.

They lunged as one, a tactic they should have employed in the first place. With a defined twist of his wrist, Ciarran cast another lethal filament, wove it tight about the nearest hybrid’s neck. Its head followed its hand, tumbling end over end through the air before landing on the wet ground with a dull thwack. A gray mist rose; then the remains disintegrated in a hissing, bubbling mass.

A set of high beams shone through the grimy front window of the Blue Bay Motel, scattering light across the faded walls. Clea Masters jerked in surprise. She’d figured the night was a washout. Well, it looked like she’d been wrong. Looked like the Blue Bay would have a paying guest tonight.

Balling up the tissue in her hand, she tossed it in the waste bin beneath the reception desk. With a small sniff, she checked her face in the mirror that hung on the side wall. Her dark eyes looked bruised and forlorn, the hint of smudged mascara adding to the sad effect. Swiping her finger along the moisture that dotted her lower lashes, she blinked against the gritty sting. Tears never changed anything. They just made your skin blotchy and your eyes red.

They definitely wouldn’t raise the dead.

She combed her fingers through her shoulder-length brown hair, tugged it into a parody of neatness. Not great, but at least she wouldn’t scare anyone away.

A car door slammed. Clea rose, watching through the glass as a dark-haired man took three strides from the parked car. He froze, spun back, and she could hear his voice carrying through the old walls, sounding anxious, maybe even angry, though she couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying. He was shaking his head now, talking faster, the open flaps of his jacket shifting with his rapid movements.

He paused directly under the exterior light, and Clea had a clear view of him. Fairly young. White shirt. Dark suit, rumpled and ill-fitting. No overcoat. No headset. No earpiece. He spun, kept talking, and she had an unimpeded view of his opposite side. No headset there, either. So he wasn’t talking on a cell phone.

“. . . your keeper . . .” He turned away, his movement muffling the sound. Then his voice rose, agitated, and she caught snatches of his conversation. “. . . you’ll do as I say . . . stay in the car!”

Bolstered against the raised counter, she leaned forward, trying to see to whom he was speaking. There was no one else there. No one in the car. No one beside the car. He was definitely alone.

He made a great show of locking the doors with his remote, stabbing one finger toward the window, the remote, and back again. Then he spun and sprinted to the motel office, shoving the door open so it slammed back against the wall with a sharp crack. His lips were drawn down in a grimace, and his eyes darted wildly back and forth.

Catching sight of Clea, he strode to the counter and slapped his palms against the old, stained Formica.

“A room,” he said in a low growl. Spittle flew across the countertop, landing in a frothing white blob about an inch from Clea’s baby finger. She jerked her hand down to her side and stepped back, more than a little grossed out. The guy smelled like stale sweat and fear. “Gimme a room.”

“That’ll be $35.” She tried a smile, but something in his eyes stopped it cold. “We only take cash.”

He frowned, as though he didn’t understand her words, then said, “I need one at the far end of the motel. With a lock that works. I’ll pay you in the morning.”

“Our . . . umm . . . Our policy is cash up front.” Clea wrapped her arms around herself as a chill prickled her skin. She wondered if maybe just this once she should make an exception. Give him a key just to get him out of the lobby and away from her.

“I don’t have cash! Who the fuck ever carries cash?”

Who indeed? He had a point, but Mr. Beamish refused to pay a fee to the credit card companies. He said it was a matter of principle.

The guy was breathing fast and heavy, darting glances at the front window and at the car. The empty car.

Unless . . . There was someone in the trunk. . . . She shook her head. Oh, frig. She didn’t need this. Not tonight.

“Maybe you should go up the road, sir. Just head east. There’s a brand-new motel where the bypass meets the main highway.” She tried a little bribery. “They have coffeemakers in every room.” Like the guy needed caffeine. He already looked like he was ready to jump out of his skin. “And they’re set up for credit cards.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he stared hard at the window, through it, out into the night. Clea followed his gaze but still didn’t see a thing. “I need a room. I just need a room,” he said dully, still staring out the window. “With a door that locks. Fuck.”

Clea frowned, wondering if he’d actually heard anything she’d said.

His voice rose abruptly, making her jump. “Gimme a goddamned room. You have no idea—”

He turned then. Clea met his gaze and shivered. Cold. His eyes were so cold. Dead. Like he had given up hope a long, long time ago.

She swallowed, glanced at the window, wondered what it was he thought he saw out there that had twisted him up so tightly and beaten all the hope out of him.

Shaking her head, she stiffened her resolve and snaked her fingers to the phone. Less than two seconds to dial 911. She knew. She’d timed it.

Of course, the Blue Bay was way out here on an isolated stretch of road to the north of the city. It had once been a busy thoroughfare before they built the bypass. Now, the area was deserted. It would be at least twenty minutes before help arrived, but that was something she so did not want to think about.

For an endless moment, he held her gaze, those dead, dead eyes boring into her, giving her the creeps.

Creeped out, yes. Genuinely afraid, no. She stared him down. Over the years, Clea had learned that she could defend herself against just about any threat.

Well, maybe not exactly defend herself . . . but there was something inside her that wouldn’t let her come to harm. Some kind of weird psychic thing she’d had since she was a kid. Her insides would coil as though squished by a belt drawn too tight, and a burst of light would flare from her body, knocking back whatever threat had summoned it. A drunken frat boy who hadn’t seemed to understand that no meant no. A bunch of girls who’d swarmed her in high school.

That light had been strong enough to save her life the night the crash had killed both her parents. But she’d never talked to anyone about the light, not even Gram.

Heck, she’d watched reruns of the X-Files. Every episode. At least three times. She had no desire to end up locked away in some secret lab, prodded and studied and tested.

With a strangled cry, the guy broke eye contact and lurched from the office, arms waving wildly as he continued his argument with whatever imaginary companion he had left locked in the car. Clea shivered as he turned back toward her, staring at her through the glass, his face a mask of sorrow and regret.

His emotions seemed a little extreme. All she’d done was deny him a room.

She hitched in a nervous breath, watched him yank open the driver’s side door and climb into the vehicle. As he pulled out, she let go her breath in a gusty sigh.

Slowly, she sank into her seat. She’d been working here at the Blue Bay for five years. Easy work. A night job that paid on time, and she could study while she earned enough to keep her and Gram off the streets.

Gram.

Clea swallowed, battling the sharp bite of fresh grief.

Old man Beamish had sent a sympathy card, and he’d offered her the night off. But she couldn’t imagine anything worse than going back to the empty apartment tonight. All alone. With Gram gone.

So she was sitting here instead. All alone. Behind the beige Formica reception desk of the Blue Bay Motel, with an old wood-framed picture of Gram beside her for company.

Wishing she could numb her thoughts, her emotions, she rummaged through her overstuffed knapsack and pulled out her ragged copy of the Photographic Atlas of Human Anatomy. She was beginning to see a theme here. She’d spent half the night talking to a picture of Gram.

Who was dead.

And now she was staring at pictures of dissected cadavers.

Who were dead.

Laying the heels of her hands against her forehead, she pressed. Hard.

Yeah. Definitely a theme.

Clea stared at the atlas. She needed to study. Midterms were less than a week away.

“Okay. Left subclavian artery from the arch of the aorta,” she muttered. “Gives rise to the vertebral artery that ascends within the transverse foramina of the upper six cervical vertebrae . . .” Her voice trailed away, and she sighed.

Yeah, she needed to study, but her heart wasn’t in it. Medical school had been Gram’s dream, and for a long time Clea had thought it was her own, as well. So after high school she’d worked for a couple of years until she’d saved up a bit of an education fund, and then she’d earned an undergraduate degree in biomedical science. Worked for another year. Been accepted to med school. She’d made it through the first two years, agonizing every step of the way, knowing for certain that she wanted to help people but wondering if medicine was really the way she wanted to go.

The truth was, she liked her life nice and neat and ordered and safe. Medicine was perfect in a way. People got sick, no matter what. People needed doctors, no matter what. She couldn’t pick a safer career. She’d always be needed, wanted.

Still, med school somehow felt wrong.

The past few months, she’d been sleeping badly, eating next to nothing. Her gut told her that her uneasiness was more than the horror of seeing Gram through her final days, more than just symptoms of stress. It was a feeling deep inside of her. A restlessness. An edginess. Almost like there was a part of her that was struggling its way to the surface.

Just thinking about it made the feeling shift and grow inside her, like a live snake winding through her, within her, around her bones, between her muscles, winding, twirling, making her feel like she was going to jump out of her skin.

Like the weird, wired guy who’d just been in here.

Nice.

Now she was creeping herself out.

Chapter 2

BLUE SMOKE CURLED FROM THE GLOWING TIP OF a cigarette that hung over the edge of a scarred wooden table. Darqun Vane leaned his chair back on two legs, away from the acrid smell, and glanced toward the pool table to his left. The owner of the cigarette, a twitchy guy who looked like he could use a shower, was carefully lining up a shot. With a thought, Darqun broke the guy’s concentration and white ball followed green into the side pocket. Perhaps the arrogant pup would learn to ask before he inflicted his disgusting habit on someone else.

Or perhaps not. His mouth curving in distaste, Darqun lifted the cigarette and dropped it into an overflowing ashtray.

Settling the chair back on four legs with a solid thud, he scanned the smoky interior of the bar. The place was crowded, mostly a rough crowd, peppered by a few young professionals with a taste for living on the edge. He almost laughed. They had no idea where the edge really lay.

Certainly not in this crowded bar, with its warped pool tables and cracked stairs, its pretense of danger. Slinger’s was downtown, in a place partway between trendy and dive. Closer to dive, if truth be told. Which was the draw for this particular crowd. The occasional biker or wannabe gangsta might stumble in, and that gave the place a certain cachet.

Darqun liked it because the bar was always b. . .