I flattened myself against the tree, trying to put space between us when there was none. The tree I was butted up against groaned as it leaned away. It too was trying to distance itself from the being in front of me.
The devil picked up a lock of my hair and rubbed it between his fingers. This close to me, our breath was intermingling. It felt much, much too intimate.
He placed the lock of hair back against my chest, his fingers lingering. I whimpered at the awful sensation, then bit my lip as his gaze moved to my mouth.
Gabrielle, the forest echoed.
The devil cocked his head at the voice, and I used the momentary distraction to slip away from him. Using my supernatural speed, I sprinted down the snow-covered path.
The earth quaked as I ran, snow shaking loose from the trees around us. I threw a glance over my shoulder. The devil’s face had contorted into something ugly.
Gabrielle! This time the voice was more insistent.
I lost my balance and pitched forward. The moment I should’ve hit the cold, frozen earth, the world around me vanished.
“Gabrielle!”
My eyes snapped open and the room came into focus. I was still on Andre’s yacht. Safe.
Andre leaned over me. A frown tugged at the edges of his lips and a line formed between his eyebrows. I ignored the way his closeness hitched my already ragged breath.
“Did you dream of him again?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat was dry. Instead I nodded.
Andre’s thumb moved to my face, and he stroked away a tear that must’ve slipped out in my sleep. The crease between his brows hadn’t smoothed out. I could read his thoughts; he was wondering how he could save me from something as slippery as the devil.
“You can’t protect me,” I said.
“That’s what you told me shortly after we met,” Andre said, his gaze flittering across my face.
I swallowed. “I remember.”
“The thing is,” he said, his eyes intense, “you’re my soulmate, not his. That means that it is my job to look after your wellbeing, and it’s his job to leave you the hell alone.”
That made me quirk my lips. The devil following the rules? Not likely.
I rubbed my arms as I sat up. “He’s not going to stop Andre,” I said. “Until he gets what he wants, I don’t think he ever will.”
I woke up the next morning to the sound of my phone ringing. I stretched and glanced out the window. Rain came down in torrents, and the wind had blown away some of the Christmas garlands that had decorated Peel Castle’s walls. In the middle of the grassy lawn, the evergreen Christmas tree shook violently, the ornaments making a tinkling noise.
I smiled to myself, remembering my evening with Andre. It drooped a little when I realized that it might be days before I saw him again.
Beside me, my phone continued to ring. I snatched it up, noticing the caller ID. Hellhole, a.k.a., the Politia.
“Hello?” I stared at the ring Andre gave me, trying to absorb some of him through it.
“If you have any plans today, cancel them,” my boss, Inspector Magdalene Comfry said on the other end of the line. “We need you to come in.”
“What’s going on?”
“A girl was murdered overseas, and the Politia has requested your expertise on the killing. Congratulations Gabrielle, as our lead demonologist, you and your partner have been assigned to the case.”
Chapter 3
I entered Castle Rushen, the Politia’s headquarters, from its back entrance, mostly to avoid stares. Since Samhain, I’d become infamous for spending an evening with the devil and living to tell the tale. Those who saw me as a victim stared at me with fascination, wondering what I’d experienced that night. And those who thought I was evil, they often glared at me like they wanted to douse me in holy water.
I shoved my hands in my pockets as I walked down a back hallway. Here the smells of mildew, grime, and blood assailed my nostrils.
I passed the training rooms, half tempted to stop and work on my knife-throwing skills. Between my supernatural reflexes and my training with Andre, I had developed wicked accuracy.
Later, I promised myself.
A side hallway branched to my left, and I couldn’t help the spooked glance I gave it. The cellblock. The cells were officially called neutralization tanks because they were enchanted to strip a being of their powers. That is, if the being could be parted with their powers and live. For some beings, like me, their magic was intrinsically tied to their life force. Neutralization meant death.
I held my breath as I passed the hall, reminding myself of a childhood game I played with my friends when we passed graveyards. Don’t catch your breath around the dead, lest you want to lose your head.
The truth was, the cellblock smelled even worse than the morgue—the permanent stench of fear and anger lingered there, overlaying the more common smells of bodily fluids. I couldn’t stand it.
I made my way to the lobby, where the smell of coffee masked the castle’s less savory scents.
I chewed on my lip, worried that whatever assignment I was being called in on would wipe out my winter vacation. Because I was considered an adult in the supernatural world, they could place me in a fulltime position if they wanted. Then poof, there would go my holiday break. And knowing the Politia, they just might do that now that I’d acquired the title of demonologist.
Once I crossed the lobby, I entered the break room. I poured myself a cup of coffee and peered at a discarded newspaper someone had left. On one of the side columns of the front page, my name jumped out. I picked up the newspaper and skimmed the article.