Demon from the Dark

And she was perfection. By the gods, she'd been blessed. Flashing green eyes. Buxom curves. Pale skin as soft as the priceless silk she wore. At the memory of her taste, he shuddered with pleasure.

Her blood had been like wine.

His wild search for her had almost taken his mind off his transgression this night. He'd drunk straight from a being. He was a vampire in body and spirit—because he could never go back. Malkom knew he could be satisfied only by drinking from her sweet skin every night.

Part of him blamed her for this fall, for making him lose control. After all, he'd never bitten another before her. Not even when the Viceroy willed it, trying to break him. The years of starvation, the torture.

In the end, Malkom's body had been naught but a husk.

He ruthlessly shoved those memories away, filling his mind with images of her. Yet then came the memory of those green eyes glinting with tears—or narrowed with disgust. Even if the female hadn't understood his words tonight, she'd understood his intent. But his mate had felt no answering frenzy for him.

Perhaps his dual nature had clouded her mind, dulling her inherent need for him. Mayhap she couldn't recognize in him the demon he used to be.

She'd fought him. In turn, he'd broken her bones. And now he hazily recalled that he hadn't merely pierced her neck.

Malkom had torn her skin.

He'd harmed the most precious thing he'd ever been given, a woman delivered unto him to safeguard.

Not to ravage.

Never could he have imagined that both his demon and vampire natures would rise to the fore. If he hadn't lost control and spent himself against her...

He understood why she'd run. Since she didn't recognize him as her mate, she believed him to be no different than the demons he'd saved her from. But Malkom wasn't like them.

Somehow he would have to convince her that as his mate, she was his chattel, and by claiming her he would merely be taking what already belonged to him.

But without speaking her language, he could never explain these things....

When the night began to wane, Malkom finally slowed. He gazed round him at the dust-blown wastelands, accepting that he might not find her before dawn.

So he decided he'd do whatever he could to ensure her safety.

To do what he did best.

When he scented the ghouls, he attacked with all the ferocity seething within him.

* * *

A growling sound woke Carrow the next morning. Her head jerked up— has the vemon returned?—but the noise had faded.

Probably her empty stomach.

She rubbed her gritty eyes with the heels of her palms, but she could see little of the area around her. Though the winds had died down, the smoke was still suffocating.

Gods, she was in a bad way, even more exhausted than before. Throughout the night, she'd dozed intermittently in an unsettling slumber, rife with dreams about Ruby and the lives waiting for them back home. She'd been on edge—ghouls had wailed, the sounds chilling her. Then near dawn, they'd abruptly ... stopped.

Carrow's stomach growled loudly, reminding her that no one was bringing gruel to her cell this morning— and that she hadn't really eaten in over a week. Her thirst was even worse, her mouth as dry as the swirling dust.

She rose with a grimace, her every muscle protesting. With her first step, the blisters riddling her feet threatened to burst. Her healing wrist ached, and smoke burned her eyes and nose.

Ignoring her discomfort, she set out, with no idea of where to go, intent only on sating her thirst and hunger. She figured she was s.o.l. on the former—short of locating the water mines. The ones guarded by Slaine.

But she had to try. Hours had passed since she'd had a drop of water, and last night she'd run for miles in this desert climate. Bad enough for anyone, but especially for Carrow, who hailed from a bayou city known for its moisture.

At every turn there, she was inundated with damp gulf breezes, pounding showers, or sultry humidity.

How Carrow yearned to get herself and Ruby back to the city! To return to their wonderful coven and an existence filled with friends, pranks, and revelry.

For most of her childhood, Carrow had been as good as alone, her neglectful mother and father showing no interest in her. Her toys had echoed in mausoleum-like mansions where 'lowly' servants were forbidden to speak to her.

Then her parents had turned her over to the coven at Andoain, the hearth and home where she'd met her beloved mentor Elianna and eventually Mari—a place where Carrow had been enveloped by a sisterhood of witches, cherished and protected.

She desperately missed everyone, but especially Mari.

Though Mari was so full of power—more so than any other Wiccan—she couldn't use the majority of it without gazing into a mirror, her focusing tool. Only problem? Whenever she communed directly with a mirror, she accidentally mesmerized herself, unable to break her gaze.

Carrow had nicknamed her Glitch, short for glass witch.

The last time it'd happened, Mari had mesmerized herself so deeply that her Lykae husband had barely broken the enthrallment. Apparently, it'd been a bloody, grueling affair and far too close a call.

If Mari hadn't sent in the cavalry by now, then she wouldn't be able to help without going to the mirror. And if that was the case, then Carrow hoped no help was coming.

Don't do anything stupid, Glitch.

Wait ... had she heard that growling sound again? Not her stomach? The tiny hairs on her nape rose. She scanned around but couldn't see more than a few feet in any direction. Keep moving.

Her powers and her cloaking spell were already faltering, which meant that she was no longer invisible. The beasts she continued to hear could find her now. As could those ghouls.

Would that vampire demon search for her during the day, or would the dim sunlight be enough to confine him to the shadows?

She lifted her gaze to the brown, hazy sky and felt no warmth. With the dust buffeted about, he probably could emerge, especially since he was a halfling of sorts.

But here's hoping the vemon holes up.

Just as she was licking her chapped lips, her stomach growled again. Water, food. Gods, she hated the outdoors! She'd always found it hellish—and that was before the outdoors had been situated in hell. Bizarre plants sprouted in profusion here, all petrified, of course. Nothing was green in this place.

Keep going, Carrow. One stinging foot in front of the other. She found a rock face and tromped alongside it, figuring she could be ambushed only from three sides.

After an hour of following the rock and 'hunting,' she concluded that there were no Big Gulps to be self- served or juicy berries to be plucked, no mouthwatering steaks growing on trees or ice cream ripe for harvesting.

Frack.

Half-delirious, she muttered, 'I haaaaaate this place.'

This was all Slaine's fault. He had to go all batshit crazy on her. Because he'd made her flee, her thirst and every blister on her feet were his fault. Dixon had nailed him dead to rights: brutish, filthy, severely disturbed. I despise his abominable ass!

Urban Carrow shouldn't ever be in a place like this, wouldn't be if not for him. She raised her grubby hands to her tangled hair, plucking free a twig.

Frack, frack, frack.

She noticed her clunky ring was loose on her finger. The Order's gruel diet had done a number on her previously wood-worthy figure. With a weary sigh, she lowered her hands to stare at her emerald ring.