Because my client didn’t seem to be one to talk with her mouth full, I put on my charming face and said to her husband, “Your wife’s told me so much about you.”
He roared, a wordless cry of pure rage. Terrific—one of the Berserkers was riding his body. They weren’t exactly known for their reasoning skills. How was I supposed to convince a demon of Wrath that the client was mine? Hell knew I had all the paperwork to prove it…
The husband cocked back a fist. The flesh burned red, and energy sizzled off his skin.
Whoops. I grabbed my client by her shoulders and pulled her off of me, then rolled with her to the floor. She landed on top of me, her mouth working like a landed fish. Sandwiched between the wall and the bed, we were trapped. Last Stand at the Sealy Corral.
From the other side of the bed: “I’ll kill the both of you!”
The haze of passion began to clear from my client’s eyes. Before the fear took hold, I ran a finger over her brow, pushing a command into her mind. She crumpled on my chest, dead asleep. I nudged her to the ground. Back in a second, doll.
Far over my head, a bolt of magic slammed into the wall. Smoking plaster fluttered down, singeing my face with tiny kisses. Maybe the man was possessed, but he was also a lousy shot.
He bellowed, “Think you can sleep with my wife?”
“Actually,” I called back, “sleeping wasn’t what I had in mind.”
He screamed his fury, then the wall behind me exploded. I threw myself over the unconscious woman, shielding her from the smoking debris. I’d be blessed if I let another demon claim her. I’d been on her case for a month; she didn’t die until I said so.
Sometimes, I was as possessive as a Coveter.
Pieces of the ruined wall crashed on me and around me, covered me in filth and soot. Dust made me sneeze, and sneezing during a fight was both dangerous and rather lame, so I stopped breathing. The stench of smoke lingered in my nostrils. Nice. Reminded me of home. Not including the part about getting buried by a falling wall. The wreckage hadn’t killed me—when I was on a collection, the only thing human about me was my appearance—but getting slammed with it hurt like a bastard. My own fault; I should have known better than to taunt a Berserker.
Over the sound of the settling rubble, he shouted, “You dead yet, asshole?”
“Hate to break it to you, chuckles, but you missed.”
Couldn’t help it. For demons, Berserkers were just so fucking stupid.
“Seducer!” The man’s voice deepened to that of a constipated buffalo’s bellow. “I’m going to rip you apart!”
“Some nefarious just talk, talk, talk.” I shot my arm out and leveled a blast overhead. The light fixture overhead shattered, crashed down to the floor. I heard the man jump clear and land heavily in the far end of the room. Recharging my power as the man regained his footing, I reviewed the possibilities. It came down to three options.
One: I could kill the possessed human.
No, the paperwork involved in the accidental slaying of a mortal would kill my sex drive for the better part of a decade.
Two: I could run.
Hah, as if.
Three: I could banish the demon, leave the human alive.
Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner. Banishing, sans killing. That meant attacking him directly with my magic was out. And that meant I had to figure out what its weakness was and kick-start the exorcism.
It occurred to me that priests had other uses besides between-meal snacks. Live and learn.
The sound of clumping footfalls, along with labored breathing. Some mortals just couldn’t take a hint. I scrambled to the foot of the bed and yanked on the baseboard until I pried the wood free. Shouting to do the banshees proud, I leapt up and hurled the makeshift weapon at the human.
And…bull’s-eye! The wood splintered against his torso with a satisfying crack. He staggered back three steps, blinked stupidly at the slivers embedded in his flesh. Then he snarled something about my parentage and aimed another blast my way. I hit the carpet two seconds before it rained plaster again.
Wood was a big no. What else? I didn’t have any iron on hand…
He shouted, “Come out and fight like a man!”
“I’m not a man.” I reached out blindly, found the ice bucket, heavy with grapes and melted ice. The rim and handle on the black lacquered wood gleamed with a silver sheen. Yes, maybe silver would do the trick. Come a little closer, chuckles. Give me a hug.
“Fight me!” Two voices spoke the same command—the mortal’s ire blending with the demon’s innate wrath.
I gripped the bucket, getting ready for the windup. “Don’t you think two on one is a bit unfair?”
“Fight me!”
“Come here and make me.”
He shrieked his unholy rage, and then I heard him stomp toward me. Charge of the Dark Brigade. I popped up and pitched the ice bucket at the ballistic human, catching him full in the face. The silver handle bonked him about a second before the melted ice and chilled fruit splattered on his skin…skin that immediately bubbled and smoked. He roared in either fury or agony, and then he swatted madly at his face.
Gotcha.
I took a moment to zip up my fly. Then I stepped around the wreckage strewn almost artfully through the ruins of the bedroom to approach the wounded demon. Under my feet, a collage of shattered glass sparkled amidst the chunks of smoking plaster and plywood. Love really was a battlefield.
The man had fallen to the floor, clutching at his steaming face and gibbering in pain. Interesting. The silver handle was nowhere near him, yet he was still reacting so strongly…Ah. Smiling, I scooped up a handful of stray ice cubes. Allergic to water, my, my. If I had any feelings, I would have felt sorry for the creature; having such an elemental sensitivity would crimp any demon’s style. But I’ve never been accused of being compassionate.
Water pooling in my hand, I squatted over the squirming form. “Need a towel?”
Beneath his clawed fingers, the flesh of the man’s face looked rather spongy. Hmm. Hope that’s not permanent. I didn’t think the human would be long on the mortal coil with his face slipping off his skull. The thought of all the red tape associated with accidental slaughter made my stomach roil. Damned bureaucracy would be the death of me.
He snarled, “Bless yourself, asshole!”
“Don’t suppose it’ll help to tell you there’s been a mix-up,” I said, juggling the ice from hand to hand.
Lowering his fingers, the Berserker glared up at me through the human’s red-rimmed eyes. “No mix-up, whoremaster.”
“That’s ‘Mister Whoremaster’ to you.”
He spat at me, but the thick glob sizzled and vanished before it touched my skin. Company perk: adjustable heat aura.
“Bastard!”
“Now, now,” I said, dangling a sweating cube over his face. “Play nice, kitty, or you get a bath. What do you mean, no mix-up?”
For a long moment, he stared his hatred at me, charged the air with fury so brutally raw that my flesh should have been flayed from my bones. Finally he said, “I was sent on purpose.”
“A snafu, then. I’ve got all the paperwork. She’s mine, chuckles.”
“No snafu.”
Oh, really? “Explain yourself.”