The Immortals After Dark 10: Demon from the Dark

In thickly accented Demonish, she'd just asked him, "May I fellate you, if you please?"

Would I please!

Her look of realization, then of irritation, revealed that she hadn't meant to say anything such as this. Someone had taught her the wrong words.

But now Malkom couldn't stop thinking about fitting his shaft betwixt her plump lips. He recalled how greedily she'd drunk from that canteen and nearly groaned imagining her working on his shaft thus. To finally know what that felt like...

'Twas almost better when she'd been speaking Anglish!

She crossed her arms and began to do so once more, her tone defensive.

Malkom exhaled, ignoring a twinge in the ribs she'd broken earlier. He hated when she spoke; he loved when she spoke.

The sound of her voice was so damned pleasing to him, especially since he'd been alone for so long. Every word she said was familiar, even with her foreign accent, but after so many years he could associate no meaning with them, only horrific memories of the Viceroy.

Malkom's torture had begun three weeks after the day he'd died. The vampire had released him from that cell after Malkom had killed Kallen, but only to break him.

The Viceroy had been determined to make Malkom more vampire than demon, to make him loyal to the Horde. Only so many Scarba rituals worked, and Malkom had been a valuable asset, one they wouldn't destroy until there was no hope.

At least, not fully destroy.

He'd tried to force Malkom to forget Demonish, to speak only the vampires' language. Each time Malkom refused, he'd had his tongue cut out. When he'd spit blood at them, he'd had his skin flayed to the bone.

Now, to communicate with her, Malkom would have to resurrect his knowledge of that language, braving those memories. He knew he'd pay for it, would be plagued with nightmares.

He gazed over at her, releasing a pent-up breath. Once again, he was struck by her beauty, nigh tripping over his own feet as he stared.

She glanced up at him, pink stealing over her high cheekbones. She tucked her hair behind her ear self-consciously and murmured something with a "uestioning look in her eyes.

How badly did he want to know what she'd said?

Very badly indeed...

She'd just been musing that there were more layers to this demon than she'd initially thought when they reached the opening to a mine shaft.

And here was yet another layer - a barbaric, grisly layer.

In front of the entrance, a dozen pikes rose up like a frontier fort's stockade. Atop the pikes were even more severed heads! Because you can't have too many!

He'd collected them from all manner of creatures - demons, ghouls, and monster Xs. So this was what he did with them. No wonder the other demons feared him.

Fegley hadn't been lying. What a risk Carrow would be taking to march right into this demon's den. If Slaine saw her memories...

Pensive, she gazed back down the trap-laden trail, looking out into a black and blustery nightfall. And still Slaine's den was preferable.

When she turned back, he grated, "Home."

He looked proud, pausing to give her time to admire all of his pikes. A large insect crawled from one head's slimy nostril. Beauty.

The demon also looked expectant, as if he suspected she would be wowed by his collection.

"Uh, love what you've done. Your curb appeal is unparalleled." She held his gaze. "And I mean that."

He frowned in incomprehension, then ushered her toward the opening. Just before they crossed the threshold, he paused again. With his hand over his chest, he said, "Malkom."

She blinked up at him. Intros? Really? "Okay, then, I'm Carrow."

With a nod, he sounded out "Car-row," then led her in.

Had he wanted them introduced before he took her home? Add a layer to the demon's tally.

Inside the mine, out of the wind, the air was as humid as in New Orleans and clean, compared to the dust bowl outside. Those lava-filled stones were dotted throughout, lighting the way - not that he would need help seeing in the dark.

Stone a"ueducts lined the walls, with gathering pools at intervals, while broken barrels and ancient-looking carafes littered the sand floor. Where water seeped from the walls and coated those glowing rocks, steam hissed.

So these were the fabled water mines of Oblivion, with water pockets trapped like veins of gold.

As he led her deeper within, the shaft split, and they began following an offshoot from the main tunnel. Soon, she spied an area of even brighter light glowing a welcome up ahead. When they came to the end, she realized this terminus chamber was his lair.

A demon's lair. He truly was a ground-dwelling male. And he wanted to do her.

Inside was a collection of those glorious rocks, warming the area like radiators, illuminating it. He had a pallet on the ground, laid out by a fire pit with a spit for cooking. Did he eat meat as well as drink blood?

The pit itself was situated under a crack in the mine ceiling, which must funnel the smoke away. Cluttering the ground were ropes, chains, and blades, likely for those traps he'd pointed out. Large bones were scattered throughout.

Along one wall, cords of firewood were stacked. On another, he'd haphazardly piled up soldiers' assault packs, many of them splattered with crusted blood. There were dozens. Were those bones additional souvenirs?

Studying her reaction with that analytical look on his face, he pointed to the packs, opening his mouth as if to say something in explanation. But then he closed it.

When she gave an unconcerned shrug - she couldn't care less that he'd killed those mortals - he ushered her to his pallet, then went to fetch wood for a fire.

The demon had demonstrated courtesy when he'd introduced himself. Now he was displaying hospitality. Yes, he had a tendency to growl at her repeatedly and snap his fangs, but she kept thinking about that head he'd tossed at her.

Since she now knew it'd been a gift of value, she concluded this brutal demon had made an attempt at ... courting her.

If only she could understand him better. The language barrier was a problem. But he knew at least one word of English. Maybe he comprehended more? She needed to find out.

When he returned with the wood and hunched down by the pit, she gazed on, helplessly captivated by his body. The worn leather of his pants lovingly hugged those muscular thighs and narrow hips. His fingers were long and blunt-ended under his black claws.

As he started the fire with practiced movements, the sculpted ridges of his torso flexed under his chainmail, making that winding tattoo shift intriguingly.

That body is too, too much.

But, gods, the rest of him was a disasterpiece of hair and paint. Those braided hanks wouldn't do, hanging over his Valvoline-streaked face like a ratty curtain. And that scraggly stubble on his face? She'd kill to see what lay beneath.