Page 68 of The Demon's Fire
Then, when he was ten, they were gone. His memories were tied to visions of blood. Everywhere. Their murderer had mutilated their bodies, raped his mother.
Afterward, Kole’s own relatives rejected him, his parents on the side of the Firebrands during the Demon Insurrection. Ranca, a trusted family friend as well as a fellow warrior, took him in. She was a good person whose generous hugs and kisses could not replace the only ones he missed. Having no children of her own, she was ill-equipped to handle a ten-year-old resentful, angry animus demon bent on self-destruction. He wanted the ruination of anything or anyone in his path.
Once he turned sixteen, he searched for his parents’ killers, ways to assuage his pain, and females willing to teach him about the pleasure of feeding. Ranca, though she loved him, was at her wits’ end, spending most of her days yelling at him after extracting him from one scrape after another.
At an early age for his breed, he went through his Awakening ceremony. His anger simmered, manifesting itself in dangerous ways. His only release was fire. His single goal was to use it to kill Abrahm and his renegade companions. He thought of little else.
At age thirty-five pain took him to his knees. A Phoenix burned into his flesh, the fierce symbol of a Firebrand warrior. At first, Kole resisted the call because to serve would be a distraction. But he understood honor. He understood duty. His parents had taught him well. So he reported, trained, hunted, and killed for the good of Scath. Along the way, he found an outlet, a place where he belonged, a place among hisfreronsin arms.
In secret, he continued his search, visiting justice on all except Abrahm, who had fled to Earth. Some two hundred years after the death of his parents, Kole received a reliable tip. He tracked Abrahm, cornered him, electrocuted him with massive volts of electricity, burned his body minus a single part, and returned to Scath, avenged.
Before reporting for an assignment, he made a stopover.
The color of the setting sun blended into the red hues of the Blud Dunes where Kole stood. In this spot in Knife’s Edge, he had scattered his parents’ ashes many years before. Despite the scarcity of water and vegetation, the area had been a favorite family stopping-off point to watch migratory herds of Scath elk and pronghorns who roamed through the region. He kneeled to dig a hole. Removing a brown pouch tied to his belt, he opened the drawstring and reached inside to extract Abrahm’s bloody heart, the heart of a traitor, a murderer. Cradling it in both hands, he placed it in the hole, brushing sand over it, burying it forever near the ashes of the same Firebrands this demon had killed. It was an offering to his parents. They could punish their killer until eternal darkness ruled the realms. He rose, clasping his powerful hands together, staring out over his beautiful desert valley to the mountains beyond. When the sun set, the wind picked up, the sand spun and twisted at his feet, ever widening, moving outward until it spread across the valley floor. He nodded, knowing his parents accepted the offering.
Now four hearts were buried here—his mother’s, his father’s, their killer’s, and a ten-year-old boy’s. His was the broken but still beating one.
The memories too painful, Kole got up to sponge cool water on Skyler. A belief in ancestral sin was fused into his soul. Demon justice held that the sins of the fathers are visited upon his offspring. The human bible said something about unto the third and fourth generations. He would have believed his breed had crafted the passage, but no. They would have gone long past the fourth generation. So, carrying a grudge was a biological imperative for him.
As he watched Skyler’s restless sleep, heat formed beneath his skin, the old familiar rage of his parents’ death revisiting him. But when Skyler turned her face toward him, he gently brushed a stray lock of damp, blonde hair off her cheek.
No child should grow up unloved, especially a female. Sure. His belief was sexist, but it was what it was. She had survived her father by encasing herself in ice. He had glimpsed beneath the frost, liking what he saw.
With the sun fully above the horizon, he rose, packed his knapsack, lifted the feverish Skyler into his arms, and ran at full speed for the Healing Pond.
****
Ina dingy, Spartan room off the cells, the incubus bound a still kicking, screaming Margo to a straight-back chair. While continuing to behave like a hysterical female separated from her obsession, she scanned for a weapon, anything to use or sneak to Chay.
Nothing.
A cellphone played “Devil’s Child” by Judas Priest. The demon took it out of his front pocket. “Hello? Hello?” He looked at his partner. “Dropped.”
Then the other guy’s phone buzzed. He answered, shrugged, tossed it onto a table. “Nobody. Let’s hurry. I wanna get this over with.”
With a syringe in his grasp, the incubus swung his gaze from his cellphone to the television. “The thing’s on the blink. It’s all snowy. This place is crappy, and we have to stay until told different. I’m gonna go fucking nuts with nothing to do except listen to her scream. Shut her up.”
“Devil’s Child” rang out again. “What’s going on? Hello. Fuck.” The demon rammed his cell into his pocket.
Despite Margo’s wiggling, the incubus jabbed the syringe into her arm. “Let’s hope this shit calms her. I need to draw some blood. Damn, she’s struck bad.”
While Margo’s head rolled around a bit and her chin bounced to her chest, he grabbed a second syringe. Her lids drooped. Slid open. She had to stay awake.
The television sprang to life again as the demon’s phone rang out once more. He took the call, shouting, “What do you want? … Oh, sorry, sir. … Yes, we’re working on her now. … Will do.”
When the demon disconnected, the incubus raised his brows. “Lort, the new boss. He’s got a rod stuck in his ass. At least he’s not as far around the bend as Silas was.”
The incubus held Margo’s limp arm steady while he stabbed the needle into her. It took him three times to find a vein. Once he did, he filled four vials with blood. She thought it was four. Things were a little blurry. “After we return her to the cell, you can run this sample to Lort. The sooner it’s tested, the sooner we can leave this pit.”
****
Alarikswept his long, sable-brown hair out of the way. Standing, he pushed back his chair. “Thank you for coming. No Scion Firebrands are present because they’re spread thin. Our head scryer has information to share with the group. Cleatra?”
A tawny-skinned witch with dreamy, lavender-gray eyes, Cleatra used big hand gestures. She stood to give herself the space while she explained what she had found. “I use smoke to locate people.” Her hands billowed out as if she were painting a puffy cloud. “I’m closing in on the exact location of two human sex slaves. In Bludhaven and in Amori. I’ll get closer. If the past is an indication, they will have trace DNA of ancient witch or warlock. No Blood Coven ancestry. Am I correct, Braelyn?”
“Yes. Silas would have re-tested their blood in one of his hell holes. When it didn’t show they were descendants of the famous mages, he would have sold them, possibly after they were passed around for the guards’ pleasures.”
Cleatra’s pensive gray eyes turned black with anger. “The minute I find them, I shall notify Jarek.”
