A Demon in Waiting (Crimson Romance) Read online

  A Demon in Waiting

  Holley Trent, author of My Nora and Sold As Is

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Holley Trent

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-6881-2

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6881-7

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-6882-0

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6882-4

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © istock.com/John Shepherd

  For Ma. Because of her, I can rarely resist adding a spunky grandma to the cast.

  Miss ya.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  More from This Author

  Also Available

  Chapter One

  Gulielmus crept through the dark hallway with all the stealth of a tap-dancing elephant. It didn’t matter how gently he set his socked feet upon the carpet; the hardwood floor creaked and groaned beneath his weight. At nearly seven feet tall and well over two hundred-fifty pounds, he’d never pass the entrance exam for ninja training school. Didn’t matter. He generally didn’t concern himself with discretion as he could vanish and rematerialize as needed. However, this was a special situation.

  “Last time I fuck a sister-wife,” he mumbled, wrapping his fingers around the next doorknob he encountered. He let himself into the bedroom, ever so similar to the last room he’d investigated with its spartan furnishings, white paint, and boring hand-quilted bedspread. Always floral prints.

  Lame. At that, he paused in the doorway wondering, How did I end up here of all places that first time, anyway?

  His nostrils contracted at the renewed bombardment of sweet heat.

  Oh yes. The estrogen. Acres of it.

  He didn’t expect to find a treasure amongst it — something worth returning time and time again for.

  Leaning over the bed, he studied the face of the woman bedecked by a satin ribboned nightcap. He squinted. Still couldn’t tell. They all looked alike to some extent. He leaned in closer and inhaled deeper, mentally separating her scent from all the others.

  Nope. Not her. She’d have his taint if she were her.

  He slipped out into the hallway again and closed the door quietly behind him. On to the next room. He hoped it wouldn’t belong to the shepherd or whatever the hell those polygamist cult types called the man of the house. So far he’d checked six rooms and hadn’t found him, so he’d run out of options soon.

  The sound of gentle snoring met his ears before his eyes landed on the singular lump beneath the covers.

  Oh, he could smell it from the door. That was her.

  He engaged the lock and crept nearer the bed. He whispered her name as he leaned over her. “Darla.”

  She stirred, eyelids fluttering.

  Was that the right name? He searched his memory banks. He was as old as time itself, so there were a lot of names to keep up with.

  Yeah, pretty sure Darla is right.

  “Darla!” he whispered.

  She opened gray eyes wide and he clamped his hand over her mouth before she could scream.

  She narrowed her eyes at him, and growled, tickling his palm with the trapped air from her throat.

  “I like it when you growl,” he cooed, drawing the hand away.

  She sat up and swatted him. “What do you want? You can’t be here. No more! You tryin’ to get me kicked out? Folks get real suspicious when I get knocked up. We track our cycles, you know. And I keep getting pregnant when it’s not my turn.”

  He patted her head. “Shhhh.”

  Maybe she had a point, though.

  How many kids do we have now? Four? I’ve given her more than any of the others. Oh well, they’re probably better looking and smarter than the others. She should be grateful. I’m doing supernatural wonders for this shallow gene pool.

  Shoving his hands into the pockets of his Italian slacks, he shrugged. “Where is he?”

  She puffed up her chest and crossed her arms over it as she scowled. “What kind of woman do you think I am? Popping in and out of here like this is some kind of bank? Making deposits, and now this is your first withdrawal, huh?”

  “You’re so funny to be an idiot. Stop toying with me.” He cupped her chin in his hand and cocked her face up so her gaze met his. “Now where is he? He’d better be here, Darla. You better not have turned him out. You remember what I told you?”

  She rolled bleary eyes. “Yeah, yeah. That I was free if I didn’t fight you.”

  “That’s right.” He stroked her hair, lovingly. Or at least as lovingly as an incubus could manage.

  She swallowed and tilted her head toward the calico-covered window. “There’s a hunting cabin about two miles east of here, birds-eye. That’s where I sent him when the leader tried to send him away. He’s too handsome, you know? They don’t like him.”

  “Of course they don’t. Thank his DNA.”

  He clamped his lips to hers and tangoed with her tongue until she moaned and pressed herself against him. He drew back. “Now, now. You’re a married woman.”

  She shrugged and fiddled with the buttons of her nightgown. “Not legally.”

  He watched her fingers unfasten the row of tiny buttons down to her full breasts, then got hold of himself. He stood and shifted the shoes he’d been carrying to the floor. “Sorry, love. I don’t have time to pleasure you tonight. I’m on a tight timeline. Making the rounds, you know.”

  She flopped back and blew a raspberry.

  “Goodnight, love,” he said as he pushed his feet into his brogues.

  “Bye, Bill,” she responded as he disappeared from sight.

  • • •

  John bolted upright from the hard cot he’d been tossing and turning on and readied the shotgun he kept at the bedside. He fired off a shot without warning when the intruder took a step forward.

  He should have fallen. His chest should have been a bloody ruin, but the massive blond pillar stood there like a statue … and a bored one, at that.

  The intruder yawned and tilted his face down to assess his buckshot-shredded button-up shirt. “Fuck.” He flicked some shrapnel off his apparently bulletproof chest and growled. “That was a two-hundred dollar shirt, son.”

  Realization settled into John like bad chili on an empty stomach. Even without formal introduction, he knew this man. He was programmed to. “You’re him.”

  “What
gave it away?” The blond pillar reached out and ruffled John’s hair, an odd gesture toward a man who was nearly thirty.

  John flinched.

  “Was it my invincibility or my unworldly good looks?” He wriggled his brows.

  John took a moment to assess him. He had the same yellow-blond hair as John that’d always made people at the compound whisper. His mother’s hair was nearly black, and his supposed father had brown hair. And there were those same startlingly blue eyes and the square chin. The only thing preventing the man from resembling a Ken doll was his bulk.

  John put down the gun. “I thought Ma was lying all these years. Fallen angel? Come on. You could have given me some warning you were coming. Woulda cleaned up.” He swept an arm demonstrably, indicating the dilapidated cabin’s dusty, drafty interior.

  “You don’t seem scared enough of me,” the man said.

  “Should I? I suspect you want something that only I’ve got, so what do I have to be afraid of?”

  The demon lifted a brow and quirked one corner of his mouth into a lazy smirk — the same one John wore in every one of the few photographs that existed of him. “Hmm.” He extended one perfectly-manicured hand to John to shake. “Gulielmus, no last name. Most people call me William or Bill. You can call me Dad.”

  John shook his head. “No thanks. What do you want?” He patted the nearby chair for the overalls he thought he’d left there, suddenly hyperaware of his underdressed state.

  “Not one for chit-chat are you? Oh well. It’s time to go to work, son.”

  John gave up on the overalls and slipped on a pair of dirty jeans instead. “Why do I get the feeling the family business will suck the life out of me?”

  Gulielmus flashed a wealth of white teeth. Surprisingly, none were excessively pointy. His tongue probably wasn’t forked, either, but John couldn’t tell for sure. “No, no. We do all the life-sucking. Didn’t your mother tell you?”

  “Like I said, I wasn’t sure if she was deluded or if maybe she’d gotten into some bad apple juice.”

  “You’re charming. I’m glad I kept you in my back pocket for so long because I really need ya.” He grinned again and held out his hand once more. “Might I see your palm?”

  John clenched his hands into fists and held them at his side. “Why?”

  Gulielmus’s grin receded in a flash. “Because I said so. I’m asking because I’m that kind of father. I’d prefer not to take it.”

  John sighed and held out his left hand.

  Gulielmus took it in his and used the index finger of his other hand to trace some complex symbol onto his palm. It was too fast to make out, and felt a lot like a disorganized tickle. He tried to draw his hand back, but Gulielmus was already done.

  John’s palm went numb, followed by his fingers and wrist. He squeezed the hand into a loose fist and gave his sire a hard stare until the numbness moved up his arm to his torso and radiated out like a starburst.

  And then, as quickly as it started, the tingling went away. He felt the same as before, but more energized. It was as if every cell in his body had a keen awareness of its existence. They called out for action. For movement. For … food?

  “What did you do to me?” he asked.

  Gulielmus looked on with bemusement. “Woke you up. Normally I claim you kids right after birth and get you online, but getting into that rinky-dink compound poses some problems for me. Too many old religious symbols hidden out of sight, I think. Kept me from teleporting. Amazing how much power things people have forgotten about can hold.” He shrugged as if it was all so inconsequential. “I had to resort to more pedestrian means to get in. Anyway, I’m so glad you survived childhood. Are you even vaccinated? Oh, don’t answer. Doesn’t matter now.”

  “Am I damned?”

  Gulielmus shrugged. “Define damned.”

  “Am I going to burn in Hell forever?”

  “No. You need to redefine what Hell is.” He made a waffling gesture with his hand and paced. “It’s an amorphous thing. You design your own Hell, and for some folks, Hell is their worst fear. I suggest you pick a different fear if fire isn’t your thing. Perhaps being cuddled eternally by giant bunnies or something.” He shrugged and bared straight white teeth in a grin. “Regardless, you’re gonna live a long, long time kiddo. Fringe benefit of being a demon.”

  “Half-demon.”

  “Cambion, technically, but don’t quibble. Now, why don’t you pack up that raggedy bag of yours and you can start your assignment?”

  John hoped his cocked brow relayed his suspicion sufficiently. “Assignment?”

  Gulielmus nodded. “Mm-hmm. Got your territory all carved out. Wouldn’t want to overlap with one of your siblings, but I think you’ve got it in you to be far more productive than that lot. You’ve got the look.”

  John scoffed. “Whatever you say.” He zipped his bag closed and tightened the laces of his boots. It wasn’t that he was excited about the revelation of his true nature. He was just that bored. In twenty-eight years, he’d never been anywhere except the compound, into town, and out on a few overnight trips on behalf of their illustrious leader. And town was just more of the same — more die-hard lunatics who believed their leader’s preaching.

  His eyes rolled, even thinking it. He’d been born a skeptic, but it wasn’t until he was around twelve that he realized he lived in a cult.

  They all really thought when they died, their spirits would join their family members on the other side and adhere themselves into one giant, shapeless, spiraling ball of energy. The bigger the ball, the more energy. The more energy, the more eternal swagger.

  Or something.

  John had once asked the leader what all that disembodied energy was good for. Did the energy blobs come through and do good deeds or were they just like jewelry? Something people strove for, but that had no actual purpose beyond exhibiting one’s wealth.

  That question had earned him a backhand and a week on outhouse duty. Apparently, one should not question the leader, even if the leader was a certifiable lunatic — John had seen the certificate. The leader had it framed and hung it on the wall as evidence of the World Beyond’s treachery.

  John had given some thought to running away numerous times in the past, but never figured out the logistics. Where would he go? Who would he reach out to? There was no one. His entire world had been right there in that compound.

  And now, the world was his for the taking. Being a cambion didn’t sound that bad.

  “Well, let’s go. I’ll get my toothbrush.”

  Chapter Two

  Ariel Thomas drummed her fingers against her steering wheel and studied the mileage gauge in her dashboard. According to the little digital read-out, she’d been driving one hour and forty-seven minutes since her last stop. Her goal had been to drive four hours without stopping, but Arizona was so goddamned boring if she didn’t get out and walk soon she was going to drive herself into a ditch.

  “Come on. Thirteen more minutes and you can find a nice little dive and get yourself a soda.”

  She drummed her fingers some more.

  “Or a cigarette.”

  With an eye roll, she groaned. She hadn’t smoked in seven years. It’d been a habit she’d started the first week of college which quickly escalated to a pack-a-day vice. One night, while trying to sleep after chain-smoking several 100-length fags, she lay in her dorm bed, heart racing so hard and so fast she thought her chest would explode. It’d been the worst kind of wake-up call. By sophomore year, she’d quit completely, but the craving had never gone away. Especially not when she was making long drives and had nothing else to do with her hands besides steer.

  “I should have flown,” she mumbled.

  And she could have. The advertising agency she’d accepted an art director position with in North Carolina offered her a full re
location package. They even sent her a team of beefy men to pack up the contents of her sparse apartment and piled all her crap into a moving van. Her stuff was already several states ahead of her. She could have sent her car along, too, but the thought of boarding a plane made the components of her digestive system clench. It wasn’t so much the idea of flying that bothered her, but the taking off, the landing, and all the turbulent bits in between. So, instead of whispering, “We’re gonna die. We’re gonna die. We’re gonna die,” and shaking like a leaf all the way from Los Angeles to Wilmington, she chose driving.

  Her dashboard trip computer beeped the two-hours-elapsed tone and she allowed herself a congratulatory fist-pump. It was nearing three P.M. — too early for dinner — but maybe she’d treat herself to just enough coffee to keep her going for another two hours and an extra-large bag of Skittles.

  She lifted her foot a bit off the accelerator as she approached an off-ramp, furrowing her brow at a tall, lean figure walking the roadside with his thumb held out. He wasn’t even watching the road and had his back turned to oncoming traffic.

  “Odd.”

  She spared a glance at her rearview mirror as she turned off, and sucked in a little air. “Jesus.”

  Put him in a banana hammock and drape him over a surfboard, and he’d be the perfect model for the last, oh, five advertising campaigns she’d worked on. But she’d never really been attracted to guys who looked like they smelled, and he had a tinge of that going on.

  “Pity.”

  She shook her head. As a young woman, her grandmother had always impressed on her to carefully guard her personal safety with every means she could. Even after she’d moved to college, Momma would call every night to ask, “Did you lock your doors? Are you wearing your cross?”

  Ariel would assure her she had, and that she was, then they’d both sign off.

  She was vigilant. She locked her car doors, even for short drives. She didn’t go to ATMs in the middle of the night. She didn’t pick up hitchhikers.

  He faded from her view as she turned off into a rest station’s parking lot.