Her child was at stake.
She would find a victim.
She would become the necessary monster.
Chapter 5
“Welcome back to CSUP. This is Errata, and we’re speaking with demon expert Dr. Philip Elterland of our own Fairview U. So, Dr. Elterland, as a cryptozoologist, can you explain to us the difference between different kinds of demons? Are there, like, four-door and two-door models, or what?”
“Thank you, Errata, for such an interesting question. You are correct that there are a lot of different creatures we call demons. Calling one of these entities a demon is analogous to using the term ‘bird.’ There are chickadees and there are eagles.”
“Tell us more.”
“With pleasure. Keep in mind that some demons, like incubi, are born, and others are created from a human host.”
“Dr. Elterland, isn’t it true that species that are born as minor demons—like hellhounds and incubi—aren’t particularly dangerous unless attacked?”
“That’s true, but they are in the minority. Take, for instance, the species that most people have heard of, popularly called the soul eater. They are extremely aggressive. These demons infect—some written sources use the verbs ‘curse’ or ‘taint’—a human host with a parasitic condition popularly called the Dark Larceny.”
“How does this happen?”
“All we have determined with any accuracy is that it takes person-to-person contact.”
“You mean you can’t get it from a toilet seat?”
“Um. No.”
“So what happens once somebody’s cursed, Dr. Elterland?”
“They are stricken with the urge to feed on human life essence. At some point, the host is entirely absorbed by the demon and acquires supernatural powers.”
“How long does the process take?”
“A matter of days. It is interesting to note that although demons shape-shift, they can only make other demons when in human form, and they only attack humans.”
“Is the demon a separate consciousness?”
“Not as far as we know. It’s more like a cluster of driving biological imperatives the host cannot control. For the human, it is a painful, terrifying experience. The hunger. The loss of bodily control. The sudden realization that survival means feeding on other humans. Simply put, the human’s civilized nature is no longer in the driver’s seat. Eventually, those better instincts are extinguished and the human becomes a true monster.”
“Huh. Sounds like the ultimate frat party experience.”
“Well, it is about feeding and reproduction.”
Mac was trapped in a solid circle of hellhound bodies. He lashed out, knuckles smashing against the hard metal snaps of a jean jacket. He heard an off and then someone swept his legs out from under him.
Mac crashed to the brick pavement, his spine searing with pain as he landed on his tailbone. Then the toe of a heavy work boot drove into his kidney. Blind with pain, Mac tried to roll to his knees, but another foot thumped into his stomach. He flopped to his back, throwing his arms protectively over his face. He braced for an old- fashioned beat-down. There wasn’t much even a quasi-demon could do against six hellhounds and a pissed-off vampire. “Hold,” snapped Caravelli.
They stopped midkick. Moving quickly, Mac tried to get his feet under him, but one of the hounds casually put a foot on his throat. Mac could feel the grit on the thick rubber treads scraping the flesh of his neck.
“Put him in the Castle. He was Geneva’s thrall.”
Everything in Mac tightened at the sound of the name. He hated that her mark still branded him like a Made in Hell sticker.
As one, the hounds bent, grabbing Mac’s hair, his arms, his clothes. Their dark shadows blotted out the neon glow of the Kitty Basket’s sign, leaving only an impression of shaggy hair and the glinting embers of their eyes.
Metal grated on metal, and the Castle door opened with a theatrical groan of iron hinges. Mac’s feet left the ground as the hellhounds lifted him into the air. He squirmed, twisting in the hounds’ stubborn grip.
“Caravelli, no! Please, no! I haven’t done anything.”
The hounds heaved him over the threshold like a sack of sand. Mac skidded on his stomach, his chin hitting the stone floor hard enough to clack his teeth together. He hit a jog in the floor and jolted into a sprawling log roll.
The bolt grated shut with a heavy, hard rasp. Mac tried to leap to his feet, but stumbled, his joints folding uselessly. The crash onto the hard stone floor had numbed every nerve.
“Caravelli!
He pushed himself up again, his palms flat against the gritty floor. His head spun, half from shock, half from the dim, flickering light but this time he made it to his feet. Pain flowed like hot oil as his flesh registered the fall. Mac dragged in a breath, then lurched to the door and gave it a single, furious blow.
“Damn you to the darkest hell!”
His demon could sense Caravelli on the other side of the door, a lurking presence. Caravelli, his judge and jailer. Mac gave the door a savage kick, putting all his force behind it. The heavy oak barely vibrated, adding insult to his fury. After a second’s pause, he could feel Caravelli move off, the shadow of a passing storm.
Panic rolled up Mac’s throat, cold and foul as a corpse’s embrace.
Little by little, he turned to face his prison. The Castle was just as he remembered. There was no exterior, just miles and miles of dark, damp corridors that rambled outside of time and space.
He took a few steps forward, shoving his hands into his pockets. Unease settled on him like thickly falling snow, palpable as the low hum of the Castle’s magic.
The last time, that hum had nearly driven him mad. It was barely audible, a pressure just below hearing that made his sinuses ache all the way from his molars to the top of his head. It made the demon in him stretch and flex, suddenly restless. The Castle was supposed to damp demon hunger, but right now it was making it harder to control.
He had to do something. Move. Explore. He started walking, carefully noting each near-identical corner and hallway. The rubber soles of his track shoes were nearly silent, only the rustle of his clothes echoing in the cavernous space. He seemed to be alone. Where was everyone?
A year ago, after the battle where Geneva died and her armies were crushed, Mac had awakened somewhere in this maze. The force of the spell that had killed Geneva had blasted him deep into the Castle. He should have died.
Instead, Mac had made a half-dead crawl for the exit, like the survivor of a spectacular pub brawl—except there was no way out. As his injuries healed, the crawl had become a run, then a game of survival. Injured and confused, he didn’t remember much, but his trek through the dungeon had given new meaning to the term “bad
