Private Demon (Darkyn #2)

As unseen musicians began to play, Darcy reached down and took her hand in his. He wore black gloves, as she did, and laced his fingers through hers. Jema danced, grimly intent on matching the perfection of his steps. He paid her no compliments and in fact said nothing as he took her through the first turns.

She wanted to make him suffer, as he had made so many suffer. Perhaps the greater punishment would be to make the ever-silent Darcy speak.

"There are a great many rabbits in the room tonight," Jema said. It was the truth; nearly every gentleman sported one hiding in his pocket or under his hat.

Darcy looked down at her with a frown but did not reply.

"It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy," Jema informed him with a pert look. "I talked about the rabbits, and you ought to make some sort of remark on the size of them, or the number with orange fur."

He regarded the insubstantial figures dancing around them. "Whatever you wish me to say, I will."

"Very well. That will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may observe… I may observe…" Jema frowned. The music had gone low and soft; she should be able to concentrate better. "I can never remember what I may observe."

"Private balls are more pleasant than public ones," Darcy told her. The other men and women dancing around them faded away, like the music, and he turned her in his arms, holding her closer than was strictly polite. "But we can be silent for a time."

"One should speak a little, you know, or we will look odd..." She saw that the drawing room was empty but for her and Darcy. "Now we may have the trouble of saying as little as possible. There is no one to see us. Is that your doing? You're always chasing people off with your proud, disagreeable manner."

"No." Darcy whirled her across the floor and out through one of the windows onto a wide balcony. A banana-colored rabbit hopped quickly into the dark beyond the stone balustrade. "This is your fantasy."

"I do not think this even a prudent idea, sir," Jema told him in her chilliest tone. "So it cannot be my doing."

"Are you consulting your own feelings," Darcy asked her, "or do you wish to gratify my own?"

"Both. I don't want to be with you. You're going to ruin everything. I wish you would go away. I wish this night could last forever." Jema moved out of his arms and pressed a hand to her heart. Her gown was open and her skin felt damp with sweat. Ashamed, she turned away from him, facing the darkness. "I am speaking off my head. I beg you let me return to the house." If only she knew where Longborne was.

He came up behind her and rested his hands, on her shoulders. His breath whispered against her skin. "Why do you want the ball to last forever, Jema?"

"It's when it happens," Jema turned around and faced him. "Here, now, while we are dancing. Do you feel it?"

He stared down at her, and his black eyes glowed with golden light. "I feel only your sadness."

"Oh, that. Well, terrible things are going to happen very soon. My family's reputation will be destroyed by a terrible scandal. My sister…" Jema felt a deep, wrenching anguish.

"Someone wants to carry off my sister and do wicked things to her. My father is out looking but he cannot find her."

Darcy put his arm around her waist. "Is that what happened to Luisa?"

She frowned. "My sister's name isn't Luisa. It's something else. I'll remember it in a moment. May I ask to what these questions tend?."

"Merely to the illustration of your character," he said, tracing his finger along the curve of her brow. "I am trying to make it out."

"No. I'm supposed to do that." She glanced down as a half dozen balls of fancifully colored fur hopped onto the balcony. "Why are there so many rabbits at Netherfield? Do you think Mr. Bingley a terrible shot?"

"Jema." He nudged her chin until she met his gaze. "Do you remember what happened to Luisa?"

The rabbits jumped over the balustrade and clung to the black velvet sky beyond, where they turned into tiny stars, forming a ring around the tunnel that led to Luisa. That was a very long, very small tunnel, and there were things inside it that Jema hated.

Luisa was trapped inside.

Frightened, she buried her face against Darcy's dark jacket. "Please don't make me go. Please."

"Will you look at me, chérie?"

Jema lifted her face. His eyes were different now, and what she saw in them made her heart constrict. "I know you. You're the golden-eyed demon. I can't remember when, but I know I've dreamed of you."

"You are dreaming of me now," he murmured. "Don't be sad, Jema. I will not make you say or do anything you do not wish to. Perhaps someday you will trust me." He paused, and smiled. "What do you think of books?"

"I don't want to talk about books," she said, lifting her hand to touch his face. "I am sure we never read the same ones."

"You would be surprised." He turned his head and pressed his mouth to her palm. "We could compare our different opinions."

"I can't talk of books when you touch me like that," Jema said. "My mind is full of something else." She drew his head down to hers. "Is yours?"

"Your mouth." He brushed his against it. "How it tastes. Will you give it to me again?"

"Again?" Heat poured through her body, burning it from the inside out. "Have we kissed before?"

"Once." He kissed her again as if he couldn't help it.

"You're Darcy. You're the demon." Jema closed her eyes as he took down her hair. "Which is it?"

"I will be," he murmured against her ear, "whatever you wish."

"Man, don't you do anything but sleep all day?"

Jamys opened one eye, expecting sunlight to pierce it. The glow filtering through the window was fading, however, and with the coming twilight he could feel his body rousing.

A boy with a shaved head perched on the end of Jamys's cot. "You don't talk much. I like that."

Jamys wondered if the boy was going to offer him sex. Nearly everyone, male and female, had since he'd come to the shelter. He sat up, wary now, and pulled the worn sheet up over his hips.

The boy laughed at him. "Shit, you are new here, aren't you?" He leaned over and held out his hand. "I'm Decree."

The contact enabled him to reply. My name is Jay.

"Jay, right." Like all the other humans with whom Jamys had used this new aspect of his talent, Decree reacted as if he had spoken out loud. "You run with anyone, man?"

Jamys shook his head.

"With that hair, I didn't think so." Decree pulled out a card and a pen and wrote a number on it. "This is my cell. You need something, you use it."

Jamys accepted the card. He couldn't use a phone, but it was a kind gesture.

"You know my girl, Pure?" Decree nodded toward the doorway, where a tall female with bleached hair was waiting.

Jamys had seen her around the Haven. She had a face like a Botticelli Madonna, and she was one of the few females who had not offered him sex. He nodded toward her.

"There's this new faggot working here who used to be a priest," Decree said. "Guy named John. He knows my family and wants to do good—you know the type?" He didn't wait for an answer. "If she's got any shit with him and I'm not around, you mind taking care of it for me?"

Jamys shrugged. He had no love for priests, but he wouldn't attack a man for trying to help someone.

"Jay's out most of the night, Decree," Pure said. "Like you. And John hasn't bugged me."

The boy gave him a sharper look. "You going out tonight, man?"

Jamys nodded and glanced at the girl.

"No, she's not going anywhere. I don't let my girl work the streets no more." Decree went to Pure and kissed her. "He seems okay if you want to hang here. I'll swing by in the morning." He walked out, leaving the girl alone with Jamys.

Pure smiled at him. "He's worried about me. Lot of dick-heads around here."

Jamys pulled on his trousers and got out of bed. As he did, Pure came in and closed the door. He watched her as he finished dressing, but she seemed to be content to lean against the wall and smile at him.

"You really don't talk much." Pure walked over to him, lifting her hand toward his face. When Jamys went still, she frowned. "I'm not going to hit you, Jay. Your tags are sticking up." She reached behind his neck and tucked it the two bits of cloth protruding from his collar. "Mmmm. You smell great. Like a forest. What is that?"

The contact made Jamys's dents acerees slide into his mouth, and his scent intensified. He didn't feed before he went to hunt his father; hunger kept him sharper and more alert. It was tempting, though, with this girl here. The door was closed; no one would come in.

As if she knew his thoughts, Pure's face whitened. "Shit, shit." She started to sway, and he caught her with one arm before she fell.

Pure, he thought as he put her on the bed. She was completely limp. Wake up.

She opened her eyes a few seconds later. "Where the fuck—

Oh." She relaxed back against his pillow. "I hate when I do that." She pressed a hand to her flat stomach and grimaced at him. "Sorry."

Jamys was torn. Obviously she was ill, so he couldn't use her for blood. He needed to leave and hunt Thierry, but he didn't want to leave her like this. He touched her cheek. I'll go get someone.

Pure snuggled against his pillow. "Can I stay here in your room? Everyone's afraid of you, so they'll leave me alone if I'm in here."

Everyone feared him? Jamys had not realized. Occasionally humans reacted that way to Darkyn—as if on some level they sensed they were only food to them—but he had not consciously tried to instill fear in anyone. Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?