Chapter Twenty

Between the stench of Fremling and the inarguable lure of the Cabochon, stronger now than ever before, Blake had no trouble tracking Melodie. Her demonic entourage seemed to have beaten a path through every back alley in town with their ultimate objective being the little-used railroad yard on the west side.

Nothing more than an overgrown stretch of tracks that disappeared into a slab of concrete at one end and a hopper-car graveyard at the other, it offered a perfect venue for all manner of night prowlers.

Blake proceeded with caution into the deathly quiet yard. No crickets or tree frogs chirped here. No night birds fluttered. Even the eerie twin glow of feral cats’ eyes was missing. Nothing worldly lived here, and that meant the place was full of demons.

One in particular would be easy to find. The Melodie-demon lurked among the abandoned rail cars. Blake knew this because every time he turned in that direction, his body tingled. The gem attracted him like a moth to a deadly flame. He’d hover around that energy until he died. Doomed to follow his only salvation anywhere, he ignored the knowledge that, as he moved deeper into the overgrown lot, a phalanx of demons closed ranks behind him.

He’d learned all his demon-hunting skills from Percival—a man driven, as he was, to find the Cabochon at all costs. Over and over he’d followed his ancestor into the deepest, darkest holes in Europe to ferret out demons of every imaginable description, searching for the one that might have held the key to his freedom.

Those memories, shared with a dead man, guided him now to move silently and keep to the least shadowed pathways that wound between the rusted and disintegrating boxcars.

What would he do when he found her? He couldn’t hurt her. Both the curse and his conscience made that impossible. For the first time since this sordid adventure began, Blake regretted not insisting Palmer come along. Two demon hunters would have better odds than one, at least in this case.

“Melodie? Lass, where are you?” Like he had to ask. The cold surge of the Cabochon’s power emanated from a spot no more than a hundred feet straight ahead. A broken boxcar, its sliding door hanging from a corroded hinge, nestled in knee-deep grass. Shuffling sounds came from within and joined the array of disconcerting demon noises closing in on Blake from all directions. His instincts told him hundreds of Fremlings hovered in the shadows, but he couldn’t have pointed out a single one.

“Melodie? Is this what you want? Do you want to give up the daylight completely and spend your nights huddled in a nest of stinking demons?” The only response was more shuffling from inside the boxcar, coupled with a low moan that cut off abruptly.

Was she in pain? What would the Cabochon, tainted by two-hundred-plus years of demon blood and depravity, do to a delicate human body like hers? Could it be any worse than turning to stone?

Anger at life’s inequity flared in Blake, fueling his determination to beat the unjust curse and take back his existence. He could be sympathetic only so long. Now he had to act, and damn the consequences. He braced for a sprint toward the open boxcar. “I’m coming in there, lass. I’m coming to get you and take you home.”

The creature’s hairless skull sported a trio of black-tipped horns, around which sprouted rings of tiny but deadly looking spikes. Its teeth protruded in a wicked overbite beyond blood-red lips that glistened with spittle.

Misshapen wings beat against its hunched back, and its cloven feet stamped impatiently on the rotting boards of the boxcar’s floor.

Buoyed by the sharp flavor of her own growing power, Melodie held the demon’s rheumy gaze. Some queen. The thing looked like a reject from the last Star Wars movie. She could have taken it easily, would have torn those pathetic wings right off its knobby carapace if she could have moved a muscle. The weight of a dozen Fremlings, three on each limb, held her prostrate amid the remains of broken crates that had, judging from the stale smell and abundance of feathers, likely once held chickens or some other type of fowl.

Mel cursed the beastly little demons for their betrayal. Here she’d imagined they’d been swarming to protect her and had lured her off to this dark place to worship her and the power she carried. Turned out all they really wanted was to bring her to their true leader.

Never trust a demon. She’d learned that lesson well.

“You can’t hurt me,” she’d told her captor. “I’ve got—” A Fremling reached up and slapped a filthy hand over her mouth. The violent movement left the taste of blood on her lips, and she’d moaned while gingerly testing her teeth with her tongue.

Then Blake’s voice floated in from outside the boxcar, offering assistance and freedom from this terrible nightmare.

She’d have answered him except the nearest Fremling gave her a warning glare. Silently, she promised revenge, though she remained still, waiting to see if DeWitt would make good on his promise to come after her.

The demon queen advanced, dragging her hooves—its hooves…was it really female? Nothing about the twisted, inhuman visage or the bony appendages appeared the least bit feminine.

Mel made a disparaging face and tensed for an attack. Her own demonic confidence faded. Maybe DeWitt couldn’t harm her, but this thing with its razor claws and abundance of teeth wasn’t actually bound by the Witch Hunter’s curse. For all Mel knew, she was staring into the jaundiced eyes of the Cabochon’s rightful owner.

She cringed away from the demon’s touch, and the Fremlings rallied, gripping her tighter in their filthy claws. The demon queen snarled, then lurched backward, an unmistakable look of surprise widening “her” bulbous yellow eyes.

Mel gaped, confused, until she realized Blake had leaped into the car and grabbed the demon by her stunted wings. The creature screamed and flailed her skeletal arms. Torn between holding their prisoner and helping their leader, the Fremlings did little but tremble. Mel took advantage of their confusion and threw all her strength into dislodging them one by one from her legs and arms. She snarled as she slammed their slender, formless bodies against rotting wood.

Nearby, Blake grappled with the queen. Leathery wings flapped, and curved claws glinted in the bare moonlight filtering through holes in the boxcar’s roof. Blake landed a punch to what should have been the demon’s solar plexus, and it grunted, a sound of surprise rather than pain. Enraged, it fought back, pummeling him with its meatless fists until he staggered.

Mel, free now from her diminutive guards, scrambled after a retreating Fremling. She picked the creature up and threw it at the queen’s spindly knees, bowling her over.

Dabbing at a bloody lip with the back of his hand, Blake lurched toward his opponent and delivered a vicious kick to the jaw. The demon’s head snapped back, and this time, she wailed in pain.

He kicked again, and the demon went down in a heap that resembled rags draped on old bones. She struggled to rise once, then groaned and lay still.

Blake’s dark gaze met Mel’s, and the scattered Fremlings froze. With no leader to guide them, they lost coherence and bolted for the door. Mel feigned a move after them, adding her best demonic growl for effect. Squealing, they fled into the night, leaving her alone with her bloody savior.

“I could have taken her.” Mel’s arrogant words came from the part of her she’d been battling all evening to suppress, and she hated herself for the cavalier remark.

Blake merely grinned and swiped the sleeve of his jacket over the oozing cut at the corner of his mouth. “I bet you could have.” He held out his hand to her. “Now, lass. Are you going to fight me too, or come home like a good girl?”

Mel bristled, and the demon in her clawed at her gut. She winced at the pain and guarded her stomach where the ache of the Cabochon had grown from an occasional pulse to a constant throbbing. She’d go mad if she didn’t get the cursed object out of her. Momentarily defeated, she sagged and slid her fingers into his palm. “Let’s go home quick, before I change what’s left of my mind.”

Something like sympathy flared in his eyes, and he tugged her toward the door of the boxcar. “Aye, lass, I’ll drive as fast as I can.”

Melodie balked at entering Blake’s house. She feared being imprisoned by Calypso’s ward stones again and wouldn’t go inside until he collected the polished river rocks and tossed them into the front garden. Once he’d disposed of the stones, though, she followed him dutifully into the house. Exhausted, he ambled toward the couch and collapsed, wishing for a few minutes of natural sleep before the dawn stole his life again. Very soon the night would end, and he’d return to his granite prison.

Mel stared at him for a moment, then disappeared into the kitchen. Too tired to follow her, he lay there listening to the faint sound of his freezer opening and the rattle of the ice-cube tray.

She returned a moment later with a makeshift ice pack, a kitchen towel wrapped around a handful of cubes. She sat beside him on the couch and pressed the cold towel to his swollen lip. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

He smiled, then winced at the pain it caused. He didn’t have the heart to tell her the ice wasn’t necessary. His injuries would be gone when he awoke from his exile at sunset—the only advantage he’d found so far to the curse. “It wasn’t exactly a rescue, lass. It was a hunt.”

She gave a harsh laugh, but disappointment flickered in her eyes. “How can you stand it? How have you managed all this time, living this way?”

“I don’t know what else to do.” He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice. How could he tell her how close he was to just giving up?

“I’ll do whatever I have to,” she said after a long silence. “Whatever spell is necessary. I want to set you free.”

Blake’s heart ping-ponged against his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He lifted a weary hand and cupped her face. “Worry about yourself, Melodie, not me. I’ll find some way to break the curse, but not at your expense.”

Before he could think of anything to add, she lunged in and kissed him fast and hard. Pain lanced through his split lip, but he ignored it in favor of the other sensations colliding in his gut. The buzz of the Cabochon nearly overpowered him. Being this close to it left him weak. He lifted a hand to her waist and felt the tingle of power race up his arm. His heart hammered as the flavor of Melodie, the woman, not the demon, flooded his mouth.

Sweet and warm, her tongue danced against his. Her lips soothed his hurt, and the pressure of her supple body caused other parts of his anatomy to throb.

For one delicious moment, he let everything fade away and permitted himself to enjoy the feel of her in his arms, the slide of her silky hair through his fingers, and the tantalizing press of her mouth on his.

Then he pushed her away. “You have to go. Now.”

She stared at him uncomprehending. “Why? I thought I had to stay here.”

“It’s almost sunrise.” Blake vaulted off the couch and out of her embrace. He had to get downstairs and hide himself away.

“I don’t care.” She stood and followed him across the room. She plucked at his sleeve and forced him to turn and face her. “I’ve seen you, Blake. I know what you become, and I don’t care.” She reached up to touch his face, but he pulled back.

“I do. I care.” Shame burned in his chest. She must have found his hideaway. He couldn’t meet her gaze. “Go. Please, Mel. Come back again at sunset.” He whirled away and headed for the basement stairs. He’d barely make it to safety. Already he felt the change coming on. Each step became agony as his body hardened. “Mel,” he croaked her name as his vision blurred. “Please go.”

Blake froze mid-step, one hand reaching toward the cellar door, the other thrown back behind him to warn her away.

In horror, Mel watched his skin darken to deep gray and the lines of his muscles stiffen into sculptured angles. His hands became claws, and his beautiful face morphed into the stark, frightening visage she’d seen the other morning, hidden away from the world.

In little more than a minute, he’d transformed completely. Even his clothes turned to stone, every line and nuance perfectly preserved as if wrought by an artist with the skill of Michelangelo and the imagination of Clive Barker. He’d become a monster in jeans and a leather jacket, a modern caricature of the classic guardian beast.

Mel touched his arm, then his face, and tears of futility welled in her tired eyes. He’d want her to go, to leave him to his solitary shame, but she couldn’t.

Seized by a sudden, uncontrollable bout of emotion, she kissed his cold cheek and met his granite gaze. “I won’t leave you, Blake. I’ll be here with you until you wake up. You don’t ever have to hide from me again.”