Claimed by the Demon

Rash of thefts indeed. The least of it. There had been fights, assaults, break- ins...a swath of violence across that lower right quarter of the city, with enough trickling into their southwest turf to keep them busy on the way home. Enough to shove aside the little hate fest demonstration by the local better- than-thou group currently targeting a diversity support group.

She laughed, looking at him over the precisely organized workspace. From there she followed her own passion for research into things that might help blade wielders cope, handling the unsavory interactions with the lawyer they seemed to have inherited along with this estate—a man who knew too much, while not truly knowing anything at all. “Devin,” she said, “last night you said he looked beat to hell. And you know he wasn’t in all these places last night.”

“Maybe not.” He headed for the huge, bright bank of windows across the outside wall.

The grounds outside the window showed him nothing. A huge expanse of aquecia-watered lawn, here in the elm and cottonwood-littered bosque of the Rio Grande; the guesthouse that had been Natalie’s home when she worked for Sawyer Compton. But it wasn’t the grounds that drew him.

It was the city beyond and the overreaching awareness of it. No, the newcomer couldn’t have been in all those places the evening before. But— “Maybe he wasn’t. But he’s involved. He’s the one Anheriel followed.”

“That wasn’t all we felt last night.”

There, in the truck...the cold sensation that gripped both of them, leaving Devin aching for something to strike at and Natalie pushing focusing exercises on them both.

He shook his head, his gaze out the window, his feet restless. “He’s involved,” Devin repeated. “Damned if I know just how. I’ve half a mind to chase him down and—”

“Maybe he needs help,” Natalie said.

“Maybe he’s already heading for the wild road,” Devin said darkly, knowing the truth of that even as he said it—feeling the tug from his blade, the suggestion that they should go take care of this interloper.

Or maybe just join him in madness.

Devin pushed it away—and saw understanding in Natalie’s eyes. New to her blade, she’d never felt that beguiling touch of madness—and if her new techniques were as useful as she hoped they’d be, maybe she never would.

But the understanding wasn’t just for him. “If that’s true,” she said, “then he does need us. But not as his enemy. He needs help. And if it doesn’t come from us, then who?”

Natalie. Thoughtful, organized...and stubborn.

“We’ll see,” Devin said. “I want a better idea of what’s going on out there.” At Natalie’s expression, he shook his head. “It’s one thing to take him on. It’s another to leave ourselves vulnerable to him.” You, he meant. I won’t take chances with you.

Maybe she heard that. She settled, returning her attention to the ancient text she was examining via Project Gutenberg. “I think we’ll want to try to find a copy of this one,” she said. “You have to read between the lines, but I’m pretty sure this author has gathered anecdotal incidents about wielders.” She made a few notes, then pushed back from the desk. “I’ll head to the library and see if I can find anything about what we felt last night.” She added a rueful expression. “In English.”

“I’m headed to the gym,” said Devin. His best option for building boundaries against the blade. “I have the feeling I’m going to need it.”

She nodded. “Good idea.” And then her attention drifted to the window, too. “I only hope he’s got his own gym. Or that he knows what he’s doing.”

Devin snorted. “From what I saw last night?” There in the man’s eyes, in his face...in the very energy accompanying him. “I’m not counting on it.”

Chapter 5

The blade insinuated itself into Mac’s thoughts—into his body, reacting so strongly to the woman before him. Reacting to her feelings, her sensations...her uncertain realization that she had them at all.

He turned away from her, moving blindly toward the window—not seeing it. Seeing only his mind’s eye, with her wide eyes writ large, her expression surprised and yet, as he moved away, somehow wistful. Propped back on her elbows in that familiar snug shirt, those wrinkled trim slacks.

He’d never had to imagine the shape of her, modest curves and toned body and profoundly excellent ass. He just hadn’t expected her to feel so...

He hadn’t expected himself to react so...

He put one hand flat against the window, eyes closed. Seeking escape.

From himself.

From what he thought he was becoming.

Because surely this feeling wasn’t truly about what he felt for a woman he’d only just met, no matter how they’d skirmished together or how she’d sat with him through the hardest of nights.

It was about the blade and what it did to him.

It had to be.

“I don’t understand what’s happening here,” she said, her voice backed by its usual determination but without its equally usual blithe spirit. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me. And I don’t like it.”

The knife fed him a dozen trickles of feeling, tugged him a dozen different ways. Someone in despair, someone in fear, a quick bubble of exaltation...the blade sifted it all, hunting for something on which to take action. Forgetting, apparently, its fear and danger from the night before.

Mac fought his way out of those places. They aren’t mine. I have my own feelings. He glanced back at Gwen—sitting up on the bed now and just watching him. Knowing that he had answers for her and wasn’t telling her. Feeding the blade her trickle of desire, her healthy dose of wistfulness, and her frustration. Not mine.

But somehow those words didn’t ring as true.

* * *

Gwen didn’t wait long.

“Look,” she said. “I’m going to take the shower I so richly deserve and put on the stylish and clean clothes I managed to buy. When I come out, I’d really like there to be some answers waiting.”

Answers. Wouldn’t that be a change? He’d had nothing but questions for years now. Questions and the sly trickles of information granted him by the blade—coming more often now, even as its influence grew stronger within him.

The wild road. Not his words, not his term. But he knew, in his gut, what it meant.

And he knew that to get Gwen to talk about her father, he’d have to talk first. He just didn’t know how to do that.

Not with words.

As she showered, he nuked the meal she’d brought, gulped down another protein drink, and changed his clothes—from one set of jeans to another, with the addition of a short-sleeved henley in a dark, bloodstain-hiding maroon, the Red Wing work boots from the night before traded off for basic black cross-trainers.

When she emerged from the shower, her hair sleek with conditioner and twisted into a knot at the back of her head, she’d exchanged her worn outfit for a bright turquoise T-shirt that did amazing things for her complexion and sport shorts that did amazing things for her legs. He took a deep breath and said, “Come with me.”

She hesitated, eyeing him—assessing the changes in him. “I’m not dressed for—”

“Walking,” he said. “You’re dressed fine for walking.”

“Okay.” And then she laughed at him as she grabbed her new sunglasses from the counter and propped them atop her head. “Did you think I’d be hard to convince? What have I got to do for the next twenty-four hours but wait?”