Demon from the Dark

muscle in his jaw bulging. Interesting.

Watching for any reaction, Carrow slowly said, 'No, I'll grant you that the Neoptera are depraved. They don't kill their quarry; they keep it, tormenting it hour after hour.'

Had sweat beaded on Chase's upper lip? If those creatures had gotten hold of this man ... Well, Carrow knew what they did for shits and giggles, what they did to their victim's skin, and it made her stomach turn.

Was that why Chase had covered as much of his body as possible? How was he still sane? Was he?

The inmates gossiped about this man constantly; apparently, he hated to be touched, had once clocked an orderly who'd made the mistake of tapping his shoulder.

That would explain the gloves.

She almost felt a shred of pity for him, until he grated, 'And the witch believes she's better than they are.'

And the witch is talking to a madman. 'Okay, clearly you two are beyond rational debate, so let's just get to it. Why did you take me?'

Dixon answered, 'Our aim is not only to study you, but to conceal your existence. Most immortals fly under the radar. You flaunt your powers in front of humans.'

Carrow had been repeatedly chastised by her coven for this. But, as she'd often argued, she never used her powers around sober humans. 'So why'd you bring me here tonight?'

'You're going to help us capture a vampiric demon, a male named Malkom Slaine.'

Heh. Twenty large says I'm not. 'A vemon? You really think they exist?' she asked innocently. Vemons had been thought an impossibility, a 'true myth'— oxymoron, hello? —until one had been unleashed on New Orleans last year.

Unimaginably strong, he'd defeated several fierce Valkyrie, who'd survived only by chance. He'd barely been destroyed by the powerful Lykae king, and only because he'd been threatening the werewolf's mate.

'They're rare, but we have knowledge of one's existence,' Dixon said. 'You'll seek out this male, then lead him to us.'

'You want me to go out and coax some poor sap to his death?'

'We don't intend to kill him,' she said. 'We want to discover his weaknesses—'

'And how he was made, huh?'

Dixon held up her palms. 'We are interested in the anomalous beings among the Lore.'

Anomalous. What a mild way of putting it.

'He lives in Oblivion, a demon hell plane.'

The demon planes weren't parallel universes, but self-contained, hidden territories with their own climates, cultures, and demonarchies. Most of their societies were feudal and old-fashioned. Not exactly hotbeds of technology—or, say, women's liberties.

'I've heard of it,' Carrow said. A wasteland once used as a gulag for Lore criminals, Oblivion was the former home of the Trothan Demonarchy. Before the vampires overthrew their royal line.

'We've been able to compile information about your target, taken from detained Trothan demons.'

Carrow raised her brows. 'You torture them to spill the beans?'

'They volunteered the details gladly. He's reviled among his kind, a bogeyman of sorts. You'll like him no better. He is illiterate, filthy, and brutish. Mentally, he is severely disturbed.'

'You're calling someone 'severely disturbed' with this dude in the room?' Carrow hiked a thumb at Chase. The tension in his shoulders and neck ratcheted up, if that was possible. 'You know, Dix, you're not exactly selling me on this.'

Dixon pursed her lips. 'To succeed, you will need to know exactly what you're up against.'

'Why me?'

'You're from the enchantress caste of witches, and you're attractive. The males on that plane have probably never seen a female like you.'

'That plane? Honey, try this universe. Oh, and easily this room.'

'We have your history as well,' Dixon snapped, losing patience with her. 'In your forty-nine years of life, you've routinely done things that are very brave—and very stupid. This should suit you perfectly.'

No argument there. And she'd only grown bolder since she'd become fully immortal twenty-three years before. 'Why can't you go and get him yourselves?'

'He's sequestered in deep mines within a mountain and has choked the few passes with traps. He guards his domain ruthlessly. If we can't take him out, we can lead him out.'

With her playing the part of Delilah? Don't think so. 'As much as I appreciate the invitation to help out with your vemon-retrieval problem, I'm afraid I'm going to have to R.S.V.F.U.'

Over his shoulder, Chase said, 'Is that your final decision?'

'Yep. Even if I wanted to help you, I'm not special-ops—I'm front line.' She was a general among her kind, leading armies of spellcasters. 'So if you've got some urban warfare, we can talk. But not so much with the tromping around on a mountain in a hell plane.' Carrow loathed the outdoors, Gulf Coast beaches excepted.

Chase said, 'We thought you might be misguided in this.' Were his pupils dilated? 'I have something that will give you perspective.' He crossed to an intercom panel on the wall, pressing a button beside it.

That concealed panel door slid open once more, and Fegley walked in. He had his arms full—with a young girl, unconscious and limp in his hold. Her mane of long black hair covered her face. She had on a dark T-shirt and leggings, a tiny black puff tutu, and miniature combat boots.

Carrow felt a stab of foreboding. Don't let it be Ruby. She glared at Chase. 'You're taking kids prisoner?' How many little girls dress like that?

Fegley sneered, 'When one of them tortures and murders twenty soldiers?' Then he tossed the girl to Carrow.

She dove forward to catch her, shooting the man a killing look before gazing down. Don't be her.

Carrow hissed in a breath. Ruby. A seven-year-old from her own coven, related to her by blood.

'Where's her mother?' Amanda, a warrior-caste witch, would never have been separated from her little girl. 'Answer me, you prick!'

Fegley snidely said, 'She lost her head.'

Amanda dead? 'I'd already planned to end you, Fegley,' Carrow choked out. 'Now I'm going to make it slow.'

Fegley merely shrugged and sauntered out, making Carrow grit her teeth with frustration. In the past, she could have electrocuted him with a touch of her hand, could've rendered him to dust as an afterthought.

Struggling to get her emotions under control, she turned her attention back to the child, petting her face. 'Ruby, wake up!'

Nothing.

Dixon said, 'She's only sedated.'

Carrow gathered the girl closer. Her breaths and heartbeat did sound regular. 'Ruby, sweet, open your eyes.' Of all the young witches for them to have...

Within the coven, there were tanda, social groups of similar ages. Ruby was in a group of baby witches, or a 'gang' as they called themselves—a gang more in the sense of Little Rascals than of Crips and Bloods, but it was cute.

Carrow and Mariketa often took them to sweets shops, getting them jacked up on sucrose before setting them loose on the coven. Ring the doorbell, drop them off, then run like hell, cackling all the way.

Carrow and Mariketa—Crow and Kettle, as they'd been dubbed—were the gang's favorite 'aunts.' Ruby was secretly Carrow's favorite as well. How could she not be? Ruby was fearless and bright, an adorable little girl dressed in ballerina punk.

Dixon frowned. 'She could pass as your own.'

Like many in a coven, Carrow and Ruby were related, though more closely than usual. The girl was her