Claimed by the Demon

Chapter 12

Gwen washed her hands in the nasty sink and tried to pretend she couldn’t see them shaking.

She wasn’t very successful.

It hadn’t been hard to release the dog. He was chained so closely to the wall that they were in no danger, and Mac’s strong hands pushed down the trap springs with brutal efficiency to free the animal.

Gwen had pretended she wasn’t crying, but that only lasted until the dog tried desperately to lick her even though she was out of reach.

And then she’d left him, and washed her hands, and said to Mac, “Let’s get this over with.”

It was a surprise when he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the handcuffs. Surprise enough that she just blinked at him, her hands dripping over the sink.

“Here,” he said, a gruff tone in his voice. Embarrassed, she might have said. She gave her hands a hasty swipe along her shirt and took the cuffs, if only to spare him the moment.

Except she then gave his horribly battered wrists a pointed look. “But...”

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “If I get through this, it won’t matter. The blade will deal with it. If I don’t get through this...it won’t matter.”

Okay then. “Where—”

“Anywhere,” he said, closing his eyes—closing her out, or maybe closing himself in.

The visible ripple of pain through his body answered that one. Running out of time. “Find a support. Something that can’t be broken. Put me in one of these rooms, if possible—it’s not as exposed.”

Which is how Gwen found herself prowling around the stark, worn little rooms, kicking aside an empty box here or there, wrinkling her nose at the filth of it all. One room startled her with gleaming new office furniture, a couch, and a flat-screen television and wet bar.

The minion hangout. Nothing so prosaic for the man who owned them.

No, she knew his room when she saw it—when she found Mac in the doorway staring at it. A quiet, starkly clean Zen space of a single sleek-shaped metal chair, a large cushion on the floor. A huge U-bolt set into the corner.

“He doesn’t want any distractions,” Mac said quietly.

She didn’t ask him how he would know. She just asked, “This is the place?”

“There’s an irony to it,” Mac said, with that lift at the corner of his mouth.

Gwen muttered a distinct suggestion about what irony could do to itself and handed the cuffs back to him. “I’m here,” she said, “but I think this is something you need to do.”

Without a word, he took the cuffs—and her hands with them. Just when she thought he’d ravage her with a kiss to end all kisses, he wrapped his arms around her, so desperately tight it almost surpassed comfort, and buried his face in her neck and hair, breathing raggedly in her ear.

“Shh,” she found herself saying. “I’ll be here.”

Eventually he released her, pulling back just enough to offer her that kiss—tender and sweet and grieving. “Yeah,” he said, a strained voice. “I know. That’s who you are.” But when he stepped away from her, he’d turned brusque. All business. “If this goes bad, Gwen, you run. Run and don’t stop running. You hear me?”

“If this goes bad,” Gwen said, lifting her chin, “I know exactly what I’ll do.”

And she did.

Gwen stood in silence as Mac crouched at the corner, securing himself to the U-bolt. She didn’t need any signal to know when he was ready; she saw his deep breath, saw him settle into himself.

He’d left the blade on the floor in its folded antique pocketknife form; she reached for it.

She thought better of it, of course. Feeling more foolish than she could remember, she said sternly to it, “Keep your sharp edges to yourself—I’m going to give him back to you. If you mess with me, it’ll only delay things.”

And then, matter-of-fact, she picked it up, pulled open the biggest blade of the two and slipped it under the duct tape.

The tough material parted like finest silk. The pendant fell into her hand, and Mac stiffened, sending her one last panicked and desperate look, and half a word with it. “Gwe—”

The blade took him.

He threw himself against the cuffs with such abrupt viciousness that Gwen fell back, scrambling away—cursing a frantic streak of words even as she bumped into the chair, clawed her way to her feet and got her bearings. Mac’s arms bled freely; he snarled at her, threats and curses and vicious mindlessness.

And already, the drywall around the U-bolt cracked.

Mac, blood at his mouth, eyes streaming and sweat at his brow, grabbed the bolt and held on—not to yank it, but grounding himself. He grasped on to that thin control just long enough to look at her from desperate dark eyes and grate a single word. “Run.”

Gwen did just that.

She fled to the hallway, chased by the renewed sounds of his battle. She fled to the Jeep, leaving both man and dog.

She couldn’t go any farther.

Looking over her shoulder, endlessly listening for sounds that meant Mac had actually freed himself, she dug the business card out of her back pocket and grabbed Mac’s neglected cell phone from the cup holder between the front seats, and dialed.

“Fifteen minutes,” said the woman named Natalie upon hearing her voice, her cry for help. “It’ll take me fifteen minutes.”

“Alone,” Gwen told her, and then made sure the Jeep was ready to go. Ready to run on all counts, and knowing that she’d find Mac again if she had to. That she could.

But Natalie came alone.

Or as alone as she ever got, with a blade in her hand.

And she came on time. Her Prius swooped silently down the vaguely defined drive to the warehouse and braked to a stop. She exited the car with a folder in her hand.

“Did you tell him?” Gwen’s suspicion poked out everywhere.

“Devin?” Natalie shook her head, the sun-streaked glints of blond bright in daylight. “He knows I’m doing something I’m distinctly not telling him. I’ll pay my own price for that. Now, what am I doing here?”

“The blade,” Gwen blurted out, and then stopped herself. More controlled, she said, “He’s fighting it. In there. I don’t know if he’ll win. I need to be able to help him, and I don’t know how. You said you could help. Also there’s a dog and he’s hurt, so we need a vet. And this place might not be safe.”

Natalie absorbed it all without any visible shock. Her blue-grey eyes, a shade darker than Gwen’s, widened only slightly, glancing quickly to the warehouse and back. She said, “A dog.”

“We found him here,” Gwen said, not with any patience. “He’s hurt.”

“So you said.” As aware as she seemed of Gwen’s turmoil, as meaningful as her glance to the warehouse had been, Natalie stood fast. “And you both came to this place—that might not be safe—why?”

Gwen wanted to stomp her foot like a little girl. “He didn’t want to be in public for this.” But she didn’t mention how they’d first come to find this place, or any of the other details they’d discovered here.

Not yet.

Trust only went so far.

Natalie gave her an even look. Gwen had the sudden impression that she wasn’t fooling anyone—and suddenly she had no more patience for waiting. She stabbed a finger at the warehouse. “He’s in there! And he needs help!”

“He’s in there,” Natalie agreed, her gaze distant as if she could perceive something that Gwen couldn’t. “And he’s in agony. But he hasn’t lost yet.”

Gwen couldn’t stand it. She turned on her heel, heading for the warehouse—only to find herself restrained, a single slim hand on her arm.

Damn, the woman was fast.

Calling her might not have been such a good idea after all.

Natalie stepped back. “Did he send you away?”

Slowly, Gwen nodded.

“Then that’s what you can do for him right now.” She touched the pocket of her tailored slacks. Gwen suddenly thought to notice that for all the sleek lines of Natalie’s clothing, the cut gave her room to move. “Baitlia would tell me if he had lost his battle.”

“Would it?” Gwen wanted to know. “Why?”

Natalie’s expression was somber in the bright sunshine. “Because then he becomes a danger to us all. Including Baitlia.”

Gwen looked away. “Translated—because then you will try to kill him.”

In lieu of an answer, Natalie put the folder in Gwen’s hands. “Take a look.”

Gwen was surprised by how steadily she glanced at it, how casually she opened it. Like someone else’s hands, going about their own business. Finding, inside, a sketch of her pendant. Her gaze snapped up to Natalie’s; she touched the pendant, back at her throat. “How—”

“I told you I have resources.” Natalie responded quickly, but she’d taken a step toward the warehouse, her head lifted slightly. Her hand flexed, then slowly released—and then she was suddenly completely there again—with Gwen, outside the building. “Sorry,” she said, not pretending it hadn’t happened. “He has heart. I hope he stays with us.”

Then Gwen’s hands shook. She swiped an errant tear off the paper and held it out to Natalie. “Suppose you just tell me what this is all about. Because I never showed this to you.”

“I saw it,” Natalie said. “Baitlia saw it, too. Do you know what it is that you carry around?”

Gwen felt the stubbornness of her own chin. “My father gave it to me.”

“Did he?” Natalie studied her. “I don’t imagine he’s alive, then.” She held up a hand to fend off Gwen’s response. “Never mind. I won’t play this game with you. The information is yours to keep and study if you’d like, but this is what I know—the pendant is Demardel. Don’t ask me what that means—the language isn’t one I’m familiar with, and for the moment I’m cribbing off of other people’s notes. What I’ve gathered is this—that pendant started out as a medallion, and the medallion was made with power as much as it was with smelting—long enough ago that it should be copper or bronze or just some lump of star metal, because no one had the technology for that.” She nodded at the pendant, still hidden as it was. “There’s no indication that it binds a demon as the blades do, but there are hints of...well...something.”

Gwen resisted the urge to pull the pendant free and study it. She’d do that later...running her fingers over it, seeing it with new eyes...

If she had the chance.

Instead she said, “Just like that. You know so much.” And then made a face and waved away the rejoinder. “I know, I know. You have resources. I don’t suppose the resources know what this thing is all about, then. The why of it.”

“In fact,” Natalie said, “my resources are divided over whether it’s even real. But they agree on what it’s supposed to do.” She made a little bit of a face herself, then—skepticism escaping. “The bond between blade and wielder is lifelong. You learn to live with it, or you die. And then generally you die early anyway—although I hasten to add that I have no such intent. But that pendant of yours is supposed to provide an alternative.”

Gwen forgot to breathe for a moment—knowing what the pendant had done for Mac, even with their fumbling ignorance. Knowing that her connection with it had strengthened these past few days.

Natalie didn’t fail to notice. “Ahh,” she said. “More true than not, after all.”

Gwen nodded. “Maybe. Keep talking.”

Natalie shrugged. “That’s pretty much it. There’s a procedure, but I don’t know it.”

“No, I mean—” Gwen gestured impatience. “Is it for good? Can it be permanent?”

Natalie returned a blank look. “That’s the whole point. It severs the bond. It frees the wielder without allowing the blade to control the circumstances or transfer to a new wielder.”

Hell, yes. She could help Mac. She could give him just what he needed.

Had her father known what it was when he’d given it to her? When he’d let himself go too long, slipped so close to the wild road and then over? Had he simply miscalculated, trying to hang on to the blade long enough to...

To what?

What could possibly even have been so important? When he could have saved himself, saved her childhood, saved her world?

It hit her hard enough to hurt. To twist her heart and clamp down in her throat and take her breath away all over again.

Her mother had been killed, and her father had never been the same.

Right. It had been his version of Mac’s night outside the bar. He’d been unable to save her mother but he’d ended up with the blade...and then he’d spent his time seeking retribution. A personal crusade that had somehow become more important than anything else. Anyone else.

Including his daughter.

Wrong choice, Daddy.

“Gwen?”

Gwen sent her such a fierce and sudden look that Natalie took a step back. “Can you figure it out?” she asked. “What needs to be done?”

From her new distance, Natalie said, “You look like you already know.”

Gwen frowned. “Don’t get coy with me now. I’ve seen some...effects. They weren’t permanent. I need to do better.”

“It’s awake, you know,” Natalie told her, glancing at the slight ripple in Gwen’s shirt where the pendant fell. “Last night it wasn’t. What have you done?”

Gwen laughed, more loudly than she’d meant to. “What haven’t I done?” she said. She held out her hand, now bandaged in what was left of the stretchy pink first aid wrap. “I fed it blood, apparently. And I fed it—”

She couldn’t quite say it. But it seemed she didn’t need to.

“Ah,” Natalie said again. And then, thoughtfully, added, “Baitlia is aware of it in a way that it wasn’t before. And really doesn’t want me anywhere near it.”

“You can tell Baitlia that Demardel and I are no threat. I have no idea what I’m doing.” But I will.

Natalie lifted her head again. “There,” she said, and if she breathed a sigh of relief, her face had nonetheless found an expression that seemed bittersweet. “He’s made it, your unnamed one. For now. And he’s probably got a bit of a lull period to work with.” She glanced at Gwen. “The blades tend to lick their wounds quietly.”

Gwen jammed the folder in through the open Jeep window. “I still have questions—”

“As do I.”

“But they’ll have to wait. I’ve said what I’m going to say for now. Can you take the dog to the vet?”

“About that—”

“Yeah,” Gwen said, already heading for the door. “Questions. They have to wait. I still have your card. I’ll call you. The dog is this way.”

Natalie came right on her heels. “He won’t want me to see him—”

“Different room,” Gwen said, running now across that open space.

And of course then Natalie wanted to know what had happened to the dog and, upon seeing him, who the hell had done this thing. Of course she remembered what Gwen had said the evening before, the single throwaway line, the probe in the dark—kidnapping and torture and killing.

Gwen said only, “I’ll call you.” She held the door to the room open so Natalie could carry the dog out—his tail wagging nervously, his tongue looking for something to lick—handling his awkward weight with more ease than Gwen would have expected.

And Natalie turned back to say, “We need to know, Gwen. We need to be part of this.”

“Yada yada,” Gwen said, snapping the words. “Later.”

To her surprise, Natalie let it go. “Later,” she said. “Go be with him.”