Stolas stepped outside one of the cells in his dungeon and closed the door behind him. With a sweep of his hand, the lock engaged. Sweat covered his body, and blood coated his hands. While he didn’t need to physically touch those he tortured for information, sometimes it proved a pleasant diversion.
His thoughts turned to his bedroom and the demoness he currently had chained to his bed. A luxury. A rarity. Female demons were, perhaps, even harder to find than those cursed Halflings. But, oh, the fight in this one was more than worth the price it had cost him to procure her.
He’d no more than begun to pull in his energy to shimmer there when a servant scurried around the corner at the end of the hall and bowed to him.
“Master, I beg your forgiveness, but Dimiezlo is back.”
Stolas gritted his teeth. He didn’t like disruptions in his plans, but Dimiezlo might have captured the Halfling.
“Have him meet me in the great hall.”
The servant vanished.
Taking a moment to conjure himself presentable, Stolas shimmered to the great hall. Dimiezlo was already waiting. Stolas motioned for him to speak.
“Master,” Dimiezlo hissed. “We do not have the Halfling yet, but I have commissioned Mortika? to capture her.”
“Mortika?!” Stolas bellowed. Mortika? was Captain of the Guard, warden of Lucifer’s personal prisoners.
“Mortika?’s hatred for the Demon of Temptation is far greater than his loyalty to the Dark Prince. He’s on his way to the Halfling’s house even as we speak.”
Stolas rocked back on his heels. Having one so close to Lucifer aware of the plot was beyond dangerous. And yet, in a way, brilliant. Provided Mortika? could be trusted. And in all honesty, what demon could really be trusted?
Still. Mortika? could prove a valuable ally.
“Keep me apprised. And Dimiezlo? If this goes badly, you will suffer.”
Chapter Eight
“Maggie?” Gideon strode down the hallway, a frown tugging his brow. Where the hell was she?
He’d checked his—her bedroom, the kitchen, the den, and the dining room where he’d set up her easel. Even though he strode down the hall, calling her name to no avail, he was dead certain the house was empty. Damn frustrating woman. He should have known better than to trust her. He should have locked her in his—her room.
He could have sworn when he’d woken up a little bit ago, he could actually smell vanilla and cinnamon in the room. Hell, the Halfling was driving him to distraction. He’d probably just imagined it. Conjured the scent in his dreams, just like he’d dreamed of touching her. Dreamed of making love to her.
He’d lived with his curse so long now one would think he would have gotten used to not being able to touch anyone anymore. And he had, with most everyone else. Sure there was still the urge for physical contact, and the inevitable sadness and resentment when he couldn’t. But with Maggie it was different. With her, the need was somehow magnified. A burning demand. One that grew exponentially with every passing hour in her presence. And the fury at being thwarted was nearly too much for him to contain.
But you can touch her, a sneaky little voice in the back of his head echoed. You know how…
Just as quickly, he squashed it.
Or tried to, but that voice wouldn’t be denied. Not this time. It taunted him, offering him that which he wanted most. Maybe because his need was so great?
Hungry desperation was driving him to consider something he’d never let himself even think about before.
He physically couldn’t touch her—that was true. Not while he was in human form. But he could touch her while he was in demon form. A fact not many beings knew about. Demon form was the only way he could physically touch anyone. And that was his darkest curse of all. The mindless rage, the primordial drive for destruction and carnage while in demon form made him a menace to anyone—everyone—who got close to him. Friend or foe.
In demon form, he’d be more likely to kill her than caress her.
No. He would not touch her. He couldn’t put her in that kind of danger.
Mindful of her aversion to shimmering, grinding his teeth, he headed for the door. If he didn’t find her within the next five minutes, he would shimmer, thereby forcing her to his side, to hell with her preferences.
The front veranda was empty. Every step farther from the house ratcheted his anger up another notch. He stopped where the long gravel drive split into a circle around a large fountain in the front yard. The fountain was dry. Vines had snaked up and around the fountain, and now clung, withered and brown, to the aged and crumbling stone. His gaze skimmed the long tree-lined lane before he turned and strode around the side of the house and headed toward the overgrown backyard.