Demon from the Dark

all he wanted if he was an 'obedient and affectionate' boy.

His second betrayal? That same vampire had cast him out at fourteen, deeming Malkom too old to stir his lusts.

Back to the gutter, back to hunger. But against all odds, Malkom had grown increasingly strong, until he'd finally been ready to exact revenge on the master. Malkom had always been observant, and he'd noted every protection guarding that vampire's home. He'd found it easy to steal back inside, take out the guards, and murder the master who'd tormented his youth and twisted him as a man.

And it'd felt so good, so glorious, to kill one of their kind, he'd hunted another, and another.

Soon, word of his deeds had reached Kallen's ears. The prince had invited him to his stronghold, then spent months convincing Malkom to join their rebellion, even to lead it.

Eventually Malkom had been acknowledged in the street, asked to dinner by Kallen, paid in riches and fine clothing—merely for risking a life Malkom had cared naught about. For so long, shame had been his companion, but at last he'd dragged himself from the gutter.

He'd known his people didn't love him, but he'd thought he was earning their respect each time he saved their miserable lives.

Weeks ago when he'd noticed a tension among them, he'd chastised himself for reading too much into others' reactions, telling himself he needed to listen to Kallen and stop expecting betrayal at every turn. No matter how many times I have been dealt it.

'And now what is going on in that head of yours, Malkom?' Kallen asked from across the cell, his voice faint. 'You've that dangerous look on your face.'

'My thoughts are dark.'

'As are mine. I fear we near the end.'

'There is no end.' Malkom faced him. 'Not until I decide it.'

A sad smile creased Kallen's gaunt face. 'Fierce as ever.' He rose unsteadily, then limped to stand before Malkom. 'For me, I've decided this cannot go on.' His eyes flickered black with emotion. 'So embrace me, my friend.' He wrapped his arms around Malkom.

His own arms hanging by his sides, Malkom peered up at the ceiling in confusion. I've never been embraced like this before. Touching meant using.

Was this giving instead? Am I too scarred to recognize it? Hesitantly, Malkom wrapped his arms around Kallen as well. Not so bad.

When he felt Kallen's lips against his neck, Malkom frowned. Kallen loved females, enjoyed a new demoness nightly. So what was this? You are merely ignorant in the ways of affection—

Kallen's lips parted.

He was going to drink. With the realization, Malkom started to sweat, his eyes darting, the will to survive rising up. But if he was truly steadfast, he'd sacrifice himself for the prince, for the good of the crown. How much had Kallen done for him? He'd taught him how to control his rage, to channel it.

He'd given Malkom purpose. If not noble in blood, then in deed ...

But memories arose within him, sordid scenes with a vampire who'd used him for years. The feedings in the dark ... the way the master's skin would grow warm against his own. ...

No, no! 'Do not do this thing, Kallen.' Malkom's voice was hoarse. 'Do not betray our friendship.' Don't betray me.

'I am sorry,' he said, his tone defeated. 'I do not have a choice.'

Kallen is all that is good. Though Malkom had vowed he would never be bitten again, he somehow held himself still as the prince's splayed fingers dug into his back, clutching him even closer.

A final sacrifice for my friend? Can I control my will to live?

Or would the prince's brutal guard dog finally turn on him?

When Malkom's jaw clenched, his every muscle tensing, Kallen rasped, 'Steady, Malkom.' Then he plunged his fangs into Malkom's neck, giving a wretched groan of pleasure as he sucked. And the sound was so familiar, the shuddering of his body just like the master's.

Kallen's chilled skin began to warm against Malkom's.

Betrayal. Rage erupted, and he roared with it. Cannot control this.

Seizing Kallen by the shoulders, Malkom shoved him back. He looked down at the prince and knew that, for him, this was the end. 'Forgive me, brother. ...'

But those who betray me do it only once.

Chapter 2

Immortal Internment Compound

Present day

When Carrow Graie had awakened from her abduction a week ago, she'd had a raging headache, cotton mouth, and a metal collar affixed around her neck.

Things had only gone downhill from there.

Tonight I might be hitting rock bottom, she thought as warden Fegley—a billy club-carrying, no-balled loser—forced her down the corridor of cells to her doom.

'Dead Wicca walking,' the centaurs' leader sneered from their cell as Carrow passed. He, like every other Lore creature imprisoned here in the immortal menagerie, suspected she was about to be offed.

'Shut the fuck up, Mr. Ed,' she said, earning a harsh yank on her collar from Fegley. Glaring at the mortal, she struggled against her cuffs. 'Once I get my powers back, Fugley, I'll curse you to fall in love. With your own bodily functions. If it comes out of your body, your heart will long for it.'

'Then I guess I'm lucky you've got this on.' He again jerked on the band at her neck—the mortals called it a torque. It mystically nullified her abilities and weakened her physically. Every species here had been hobbled in some way, making them controllable, even by mortals like Fegley. 'Besides, witch, what makes you so sure you're going to make it past the next hour?'

If these people execute me, I'm going to be sooo pissed. Unfortunately, that appeared to be in the cards. At the very least, she was about to be tortured or experimented on.

Hell, maybe then she could find out why anyone would have gone to the trouble of abducting her.

Carrow was a rare three-caste witch, but she was by no means the most powerful, not like her best friend Mariketa the Awaited. Though overjoyed that Mari hadn't been taken, Carrow didn't understand why she'd been targeted....

What would Ripley do? When in a jam, Carrow often thought of how Ellen Ripley, the legendary badasstress of the Alien quadrilogy, would figure her way out.

Ripley would analyze the enemy, take stock of her surroundings and resources, use her wits to defeat her foes and escape, then nuke everything in her wake.

Analyze the enemy. From what Carrow had heard from other inmates, this place was run by the Order, a mysterious league of mortal soldiers and scientists led by a magister named Declan Chase, a.k.a. the Blademan, along with his trusty bitch, Dr. Dixon.

Carrow's sorceress cellmate had told her the Order was bent on eradicating all the immortal miscreations, or miscreats.

My surroundings?  A diabolically designed prison, with cells made of foot-thick steel on three sides and unbreakable, two-foot-thick glass on the front. Each cell had four bunks, with a toilet and a sink behind a screen—and no real privacy. The Order recorded their every action from ceiling cams.

This incarceration was like nothing she'd ever known—and she'd known more than her share of two hots and a cot. Carrow hadn't enjoyed a single shower or change of clothes. She