Page 55 of Corrupt Shadows
I surround myself in luxury, softness, and comfort in an attempt to make up for the years of my childhood taken from me. Even demons are supposed to be carefree with little responsibility as children, although they might still be educated in the basics of oppression and possession. Many of our courses were also about the history of demon lore and what being a royal means; our responsibility is for an infinite amount of creatures—particularly human souls, both alive and dead.
I pad back to my bed, running my fingers along an intricately carved chestnut post at the bottom, then yank the onyx cotton sheets and comforter up to the pillows. The silver-damask, quilted pattern of the comforter shimmers in the firelight. I pick up a pillow and toss it at the obsidian upholstered headboard. I sigh deeply and lie diagonally across the mattress, my feet dangling over the edge.
I cover my eyes with my forearm, forcing my mind to relax. Part of me is still trapped in my nightmare, tendrils of it pulling at my psyche and threatening to drag me under if I dare sleep anymore tonight.
No fucking chance of that happening.
My mind conjures my little witch the second my eyes are closed, as it always does. However, in this moment, her visage does nothing to calm me. I chose to sleep here for her fucking protection. The possibilities of harming her if she was too close after a vicious dream is a reality I don’t relish experiencing. It would be too easy to step through the veil in a rage, sink deep into her dripping cunt, and wrap my tattooed hands around her delicate neck. I groan, shaking my head.
It was a waste of time, trying to protect her. I move my hands to cradle the back of my head, the lavender fire creating a warm, soothing caress of heat across my bare tattooed chest. But then a fragment of the dream comes back to me, and my heart bashes against its bone cage.
We’re coming for her.
Fuck! Was that real? Or did my brain conjure my brother? No one harms my little witch but me. I have to make sure she’s still among the living, although something tells me I would know if she was ever in serious peril.
I clear my thoughts, then focus on our bond deep within me. When I find it, I grab onto it and send my mind down the connection that has become akin to a steel wire, though it initially was as thin as thread.
Unsurprisingly she’s not asleep. Her insomnia is growing worse, right along with my nightmares. I also notice that she’s sleeping less the farther I am from her, as if by a devious fucking plot twist from the fates, our bond gives us both comfort.
I breathe out a sigh of relief. Evie is alive and well. But then I really take in the scene through her eyes. The connection clears, and I waltz into her mind. The pastor is standing in the doorway of the asylum, as she recounts a memory of earlier in the evening. He mentions the Order and calls her a Fallenmoore witch. Her magic is so close to erupting, I can sense it humming ever so close to the surface.
A knock on the door shakes us both. I pull away from her mind, then watch with her as Solomor enters her apartment in his host, Stephanie May.
“What are you doing here?” Evie asks, after inviting a fucking demon inside.
He looks around her apartment.
“Get rid of him now!” I yell into her mind.
Evie flinches. Solomor starts to stride down the hall, but she pushes her arm out, stopping him from going any farther.
He tilts his head, looking through the woman’s eyes at Evie. “I’m friends with Father Thomas, and he seemed worried about you. Said you were having some issues.” He glances into her kitchen, where her variety of mugs are on display. “Interesting kitchenware.”
She steps in front of him. “Thanks for checking on me, although I’ve only met you the once,” she says, her tone unenthusiastic. “But it’s late, and I’m tired.”
“Of course.” He places a hand on her arm and slides her sleeve up. “Beautiful tattoos,” he says, just spotting part of a skull and purple rose before she pulls the fabric back over them.
“Get out,” she huffs and pulls a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. “Before I call the police.”
Solomor holds Stephanie’s hands in the air but smiles toward the mirror. “It’s okay. I need to check something anyway.”
The woman walks back to the front door and leaves. Evie quickly closes it behind her and lights a cigarette.
“Are you an imbecile?” I yell.
The cigarette wedged between her fingers slides and burns the side of her index finger when she catches it before it falls.
“Is that a serious question?” she asks, then huffs.
“Yes, witch. Now fucking answer me.”
Evie sighs and rubs her forehead, the end of her cigarette trailing smoke with the movement. “No, I am not an imbecile. Happy?”
“You’re positive that’s true?”
“Yes, asshole,” she hisses.
“Then why the fuck was Solomor just here? You invited a godsdamn demon into your home!” I yell into her mind. She flinches from my outburst, walking toward her coffee bar, and grabs the carafe. She meanders to the sink and fills the container with water.