Lure of a Demon

Why was I attracted to women who were bad for me? Did I crave the chaos? I had long ago accepted I couldn’t control the world any more than I could control those who lived in it. Maybe by choosing partners who were bad news, who lived as though there was literally no tomorrow, I was hoping some of that freedom would rub off on me or perhaps I hoped they could stamp down the remaining need to control flaring inside me every now and then.

Yeah, I’d had a lot of time to think about this.

The need for freedom from my desire to control was a need that would never be fulfilled.

I had no control, but that didn’t stop me from craving it.

I couldn’t even control my own body anymore, forced to partially drag one leg almost uselessly behind me, a constant reminder I wasn’t able to manage the situation enough to avoid or even see the explosion coming.

I hated it—the reminder, the truth, the reality of the situation—I hated it all.

So, when someone like her was about, not a care in the goddamn world, being the force of chaos that drives the rest of us mad when it interferes with the lives we’ve tried so hard to structure, I hated it.

It was almost like I hated her before I’d even met her.

Fuck, I didn’t need to meet her.

This wasn’t a date—she was a demon.

This was a mission.

Her attractiveness was literally not even a consideration.

Fuck.

Cursing again, I’m sure she saw me, a flash of yellow eyes and a grin before I had finished turning away from the door.

“Yeah, you better run!” she cried out. The vacant bar rang with her empty laughter—spoken hah hah hahs. I thought she was talking to me until the telltale sound of the last of the men stumbling out the back echoed through the bar. Waiting until the sound of their boots tripping over the broken pieces of tables and chairs subsided, then after a beat, I flung myself around and into the doorway.

And was met with one hell of an uppercut to the chin.

I went down, unable to maintain my balance. My ears were ringing, and spots of light burst in front of my eyes.

Fuck me! She’s gotan arm on her.

“Wait, you’re not part of the club.”

Blinking rapidly and trying to clear my head, I attempted to focus on her. Sitting upright, I was pushed back onto an elbow when she placed a heeled foot on my chest, the stiletto pinching painfully between my breasts.

She was smiling at me, not at all threatened by my presence, and something about that made me feel incredibly small. I was used to holding a certain level of intimidation about myself, but here she was, looking down at me as I lay on the floor, sticky with blood and alcohol, and her face showed only bemusement. I was in an incredibly vulnerable position.

And I was still noticing the shape of her goddamn legs.

Fuck!

“How do you know I’m not?” I spat at her.

She laughed again, a tingling sound that didn’t suit her at all, and I couldn’t tell if it was real. It was higher than I’d have thought. The sound I’d imagine coming from a petite blonde teenager, not the dark, sexy demon who destroyed buildings and souls.

Sexy? Aw hell. Now I know I’m in trouble when I consider someone who’d just flattened me with an uppercut sexy.

“Little Miss Army Boots, do you even need to ask?”

Her tone was derogatory but filled with humor, and I genuinely couldn’t tell if she was poking fun at me or being playful like the whole world was a joke to her. In retrospect, it probably was. Trying unsuccessfully not to let my annoyance show, I knew the sneer had escaped my lips when amusement and interest flashed across her face before it was replaced with a devilish grin.

How appropriate.

“What’s the matter, soldier? Don’t want to talk about it?” Scowling, I resented the sing-song quality of her voice. When I didn’t answer, she continued. “Whatever, I’m not here for you anyway.”

“Why’s that?”

She cocked an eyebrow at me, the smirk still plastered on her face. She wasn’t letting me up but had slightly eased the pressure of her boot. “You don’t belong here, you’re not one of them, and it’ll do me no good to take down some random bystander.”

That answered absolutely no questions. Do her no good? What the hell did that even mean?

Glaring at her, I tried to keep her talking while I slowly slid my hand into my pocket.

“How do you fight in high heels?”

She pressed down against my chest, smirking as I grunted, angling her foot so the heel slipped between my cleavage and poked into my skin.

“I have a high tolerance for pain.” She beamed.

“What about this, demon?”

Slipping the blade from my pocket, I lurched forward and slammed it into her upper thigh. She screamed and recoiled, leaving me to scramble to my feet as she staggered backward.

“Silver?” she cried. “What the fuck?”

I advanced as she retreated against the opposite wall, stumbling as blood oozed steadily from where the knife lay embedded in her thigh. “I know what you are, demon…” I said with a sneer, “… and this ends now.”

Her eyes widened as she slid back against the wall, the patch of blood around the blade growing with each passing second. Tossing a glance at the wound, she’d then stared at me with an expression I couldn’t read. She started groaning, and the loud rumbling moans filled me with a discomfort I couldn’t explain. Everything about this woman loaded me with conflicting feelings, and I started to wonder if that’s simply what demons did to people.

God, I was glad no one could hear my thoughts. I swear I sounded insane. I’ve so readily accepted this demon theory, there isn’t any room left in my mind for the alternative.

Show me proof you’re human or not, so I can maintain my sanity, please.

“Oh, ooh…” she whimpered, her head lolling from side to side, “You got me. I can’t believe you stabbed me.”

Frowning, I watched her.

Something wasn’t right.

She staggered a few steps to either side, slapped her palms against the wall, and continued to wail with increasing volume. “Ooh, what a way to end. Who would’ve thought I’d be vanquished by a small brunette woman with a tiny dessert knife?” Sinking to her knees, she then shuffled toward me, and I backed away, shaking my head. Her hands were clamped under her chin, her eyes wide as she pleaded, “Please, have mercy. Ooh, I don’t want to die. No please, please!”

Throwing a forearm across her forehead, she looked at the ceiling, declaring loudly, “My only regret is that I never figured out what the fuck an elderberry is.” With that, she collapsed backward onto the floor.

I stared as a muscle in my jaw twitched. “What the fuck was that?”

A grin lit her face at the same time she sat up. The way she moved sometimes gave me the chills—tilts of the head or sitting upright with a smooth motion and an arch of her back that defied what speed should be possible for such a movement. “Did you like my performance? I thought it was quite good myself.”

“What’s wrong with you?” I cried, my frustration and confusion bubbling inside.

Standing, she scoffed at me. “Oh, lighten up.”