Claimed by the Demon

told you—” And then stopped herself. “I’m going to leave a card on the curb. Phone, address, the usual. In case you change your mind. But you need to know—there’s a way for him to fight this. Devin has been there. He’s done it.”

Gwen thought of the pendant taped to Mac’s arm. Of the relief it gave him, the price the knife exacted when it returned. The fierce freedom in his lovemaking, in his care for her—and the knowledge of exactly how much they’d lose when the pendant gave way, or lost its contact, or Mac just plain took it off, ready to face a battle he was already so clearly losing. She said with bitter certainty, “You don’t know anything.”

Another woman might have backed away, faced with such emotion from a stranger. This one stood her ground. “I know that Baitlia and I will never reach that point. I make my own decisions, keep my own control.”

Baitlia. The name Natalie had used before. It has a name.

Did Mac’s blade have a name? Did he know it?

Natalie didn’t give her any room to think about it. “You should know—your friend should know—that it works. That it can work. The blades yearn for redemption...and they can’t help but sabotage it in any way possible. Read about the scorpion and the frog.”

She didn’t have to. Orphaned daughter of an insane blade wielder, she might be. Foster daughter of an aunt who had cared for her without nurturing her, she might be...an indifferent scholar, she might be.

But in spite of it all—because of it all—she knew that cautionary tale about the scorpion and the frog.

Natalie crossed her arms. “There’s something big and bad going on in this city. We know it, and we know your friend is involved. You can help him, or you can watch while events overtake him. Events, by the way, will include us.”

Scorpion, riding across the river on frog’s back. Killing them both halfway across, unable to stop himself from stinging frog. True to his nature in spite of himself.

Natalie asked, “What’s your name?”

Am I scorpion, too? So deeply, so suddenly tangled with a man who carried death in his pocket and clung to his own persistently heroic nature with nothing more than thinning tenacity? She’d seen it coming. She’d seen what there was to fear. And she’d given herself to him anyway. “Gwen,” she said, seeing little harm in it against all that.

“And your friend?”

But Gwen shook her head, offering only a knowing smile. “Not my name to give you.”

Natalie smiled back—a genuine one at that. “I didn’t think so. I’ll leave the card. We’re at Compton Sawyer’s old estate when you’re ready.” She made a face. “Devin is going to be really mad I told you that.”

And then, as quiet as Mac—full of that same confidence of movement and yet something else again, something more contained and balanced—she left.

Gwen picked up the card.

* * *

Gwen let herself back into the hotel room, latching and chaining the door as quietly as possible.

Not that it made a difference. When that man wanted them again, he’d come for them. And after him, nothing else really seemed frightening enough to chain the door against.

Still, she did it, and turned to the mess they’d made of the room. The air conditioner blasted out cold air as best it could, still working against the retained heat of the day.

Mac slept like a boy. Not in body—not with those shoulders, that lean, strapping form, those long legs. But in the vulnerable intensity of it, the sheet pulled up just barely high enough to cover his hips and one leg sticking out. One arm hung over the edge of the bed; the other over his eyes. The habitual tension on his face had smoothed, leaving his mouth fascinating for the curve of it in repose.

Gwen put the business card on the bedside table, stripped off her clothes and crawled into bed with him. She pressed a kiss to that mouth, watched it stir in the faintest of sleeping smiles, and snuggled up close, pulling the sheet up to cover them both.

She watched him sleep.

* * *

On this night, Devin James found the view from the estate’s immense office window to be not nearly immense enough.

He paced the grounds instead.

Not that she’d be pleased to find him fretting at her solo foray into the city. How fair is that? she’d point out. It wasn’t as though he didn’t go out on his own more often than not, following Anheriel’s call—finding trouble and stopping it.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t done as much this very night, and now bore the elusive scars to prove it.

Nasty out there tonight.

Really nasty.

She’d point out that she had a blade, too, and that it had a vested interest in keeping her alive. It was too young, too new with her to even start playing games—and with the grounding and balancing techniques she was now also teaching him, it would likely never get that foothold.

All true.

But, dammit, you only just started! She was toned and fit; she ran and did tai chi. But she didn’t know the subtleties of living with the blade. And unlike Devin, she hadn’t spent the first years of her life in a tough neighborhood, slipping into a kickboxing routine at Enrique’s gym. She hadn’t watched her brother absorb the blade into his life, or stuck by his side during the learning phase...during the changes as they’d happened.

He’d seen what she hadn’t—a man without understanding, on the verge of taking the wild road. He could well recognize it again.

So he had no intention of cutting their intruder any slack, and he damned well didn’t want her anywhere near him.

And he damned well suspected that’s exactly where she was.

The faint burn of healing washed through his blood; he ignored it. Nothing but bruises, maybe something going on with his forearm. It wouldn’t get bad. He could sleep it off later.

He didn’t hear the Prius slip into the secluded driveway. Never did. But even an electric motor couldn’t change the distinctive sound of a quietly closed car door; by the time she reached the long covered front porch of the blocky old Southwest mansion, he was waiting for her.

No blood. No bruises. She looked as put together as always, and Baitlia, tucked away in its pocket, roused no more than a sneer of greeting from Anheriel.

Natalie stopped short to take him in, dismay on her face. “One of us,” she said, “looks better than the other of us.” And she stepped forward to take his chin and tip his face aside for a better look, complete with a tsk noise.

His manly pride stung. “Hey,” he said. “There were a lot of them. And they were bigger than me. And I was trying not to kill them.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, smudging a thumb along his cheek. “Was it like last night?”

“More of the same,” he agreed. “Lots of little spontaneous flares by people who aren’t really any good at it.”

She gave him a pointed look, up and down; he returned it with a growl, reaching out to yank her closer. Very much closer, at which point he put his arms around her and—ow!—swore resoundingly.

“Point made,” Natalie said. “I thought that arm looked wrong.”

“You never mind,” he told her. “I have caramel popcorn inside, and True Grit in the player. And I unmade the bed. I say we race for it.”

She rested a cheek against his shoulder, but she sighed. “There’s something scary going on in this city, Devin. I was listening to the radio news...”

He sighed right along with her. Business first, even as he tucked her up close and breathed in the scent of