Descent of Demons Read online

  Humming across the surface of all existence, he began to understand the very spark that was creation itself. The chanting receded, becoming a long, low hum as the pulses of the adepts joined his, the many becoming a single unit. The altar beneath him began to crack from the forces leveled around it; then all was quiet, silent. One by one, the worshippers fell away, collapsing in a heap until none remained standing. They lay discarded at the base of the altar, all dead, sacrificed to feed the Dragon's eternal craving.

  Well sated, the sorcerer closed his eye, blanketing his mind in soothing darkness. Ilya's potent restorative was beginning to exert its full strength. He felt strained muscles unlock, taut nerves relax. A dreamlike trance began to overtake him.

  Twitching and muttering in the Madnahr tongue, Xavier drifted back into the psychic vale of the Dragon's shadowy world. The suffering of his flesh was gradually replaced by malevolent spirits fracturing his psyche. The residue of angst insidiously slithered to the forefront of his tortured cranium, bringing with it the humiliations of the event he would neither forgive nor forget. Failure was a provoking thing, something he refused to accept.

  Now he faced it anew, and it grew within him, giving foul birth to a poisonous hate. His only solace was his lust for revenge. Behind a wall of distorting ambition, this malicious spawn took deep root and began to sprout, nurtured by the animosity in his heart against the man who had recently defeated him.

  I will own Morgan again, he wordlessly vowed, and death shall offer him no escape…

  Chapter Two

  Julienne Blackthorne hung suspended in an endless void. Ensnared by the insidious webs of a dark lingering nightmare, phantasmagoric images paraded constantly through her mind. Creating a twisted dreamscape, they stifled all reality, ushering her into a hellish world in which she comprehended she would ultimately die, for the prolonged struggle to break free had drained her spirit and strength.

  A slew of images ravaged her feverish brain as she mentally relived an actual terrifying experience. Through a veil of kaleidoscopic images she observed a glowing red pit. A being she believed to be Satan himself walked leisurely around it. He was a looming figure clothed head-to-foot in crimson robes. He seemed to be coming for her, his hands bearing down into her vision. His fingers, twisted into a claw, latched into her forehead with a viselike grip, digging sharp fingernails into her skin. A thousand splintering facets of agony spread through her as he ripped asunder the soft flesh of her face. Her blood flowed in rivulets, mingling with the sweat of her fear, stinging her eyes. She struggled to breathe, gasping as coppery slime assaulted her lips and she tasted her own blood. Fighting for air, she gagged when a crushing weight pounded into her chest. Like a giant spider's victim paralyzed by the bite, she felt she had been bitten and seeded with a strange alien life form, a thing that would eat her up from the inside.

  Suddenly, her nightmare shattered.

  But the pain remained.

  * * *

  The fire in the pit had burned out, and the dungeon was very cold and still. Cracking open swollen eyes, Julienne weakly shifted her head, trying to make out her surroundings. Torches cast eerie shadows, and the dungeon lay deserted beneath their hazed light. The thick sooty smoke they exuded hung like a gray vapor around the stone walls and floor.

  The atmosphere of the immense chamber was flat, tranquil and quiet, as though separated from all reality. The lingering scent of burnt flesh and congealed blood mingled, creating an odor that made it difficult to breathe. The nauseating stench singed the fragile lining of her nostrils; she began to pant heavily through her open mouth. Her guts heaved and she swallowed hard, resisting the urge to vomit.

  She gagged, feeling a strange writhing sensation between her lungs. A thin film of sweat coated her skin. She was chilled despite the fever raging through her body. And though she had been badly wounded, there was a curious numbness in her body, as if she were anesthetized.

  A grimace crossed her face; the movement of the muscles hurt. Without her willing them, her hands rose. She felt the wounds, tracing each with her fingers. She winced when her touch brought pain. Her face was savagely disfigured, marked with raw cuts. All at once the memories resurrected themselves, chilling the blood in her veins. Details of the night she had crossed into Sclyd solidified. Morgan…the temple of light…being captured by the Jansi warriors…her torture…

  In a spasm of terror, she wrenched her head to one side, begging the visions in her mind to go away, to leave her alone. There were so many, she wasn't sure if they were real or part of a strange fantasy. But one memory was stark, for it accompanied an unspeakable agony.

  A mad giggle escaped her throat. No other voices chimed in to comfort her. Silence all around.

  She moved her mouth, but for a moment no human sound came forth.

  "My face!" she keened in a hoarse whisper. She refused to cry. This place would extract no tears from her. Her body hurt; and when she remembered why, her ache went deeper, past the physical and into her soul. She did not want to remember or think. She wanted to close her eyes and forget this place, sink into the oblivion that was death so she wouldn't hurt anymore.

  Sclyd. I've come into another world now.

  The anomaly of the occult existing on the edge of mortal reality…

  As she stared dizzily about, the hopeless futility of her plight began to stab at her heart. Half-mad with the realization that her horrible nightmare was no dream, her mind teetered on the brink between sanity and insanity, acceptance and denial warring inside her.

  "Morgan," she moaned softly, his name a sob on her lips. Her indistinct voice echoed in the vastness around her, repeated a thousand times over, as if the broken silence took glee in mocking her. Fear was beginning to loosen her hold on reason.

  Still too weak to rise, she turned her head in the only other direction her neck would allow. Now holding only gray ashes, the great stone pit of her nightmares had gone cold hours ago. Instruments of torture stood silent, mute testimony to the many victims who had found their deaths in this unholy place. The sorcerer and his minions were gone.

  How much time has passed? she wondered. How long have I been unconscious? She had no way of knowing.

  The battle over, casualties must be counted, the dead claimed. What had been the outcome? Had her lover survived, or had he perished? She recalled very little of how she came to be unconscious. She only knew that she seemed to have been left behind, completely and utterly abandoned. If Morgan had not died, had he left her deliberately? She had not forgotten his threat that he would leave her if she became a burden. Had she become a liability--expendable, disposable--because she was only a mortal?

  Surely, he didn't…surely he wouldn't…Did he leave me? Her heart pounded frantically. Her thoughts becoming a weird babble as the last pieces of composure deserted her. Unwelcome tears stung her eyes. Morgan was crafty, and she knew it. Morgan manipulated people, and she knew that, too.

  Had he manipulated her, played her for a fool? He hadn't wanted her to cross over into his world. Had he chosen to walk away, deciding to free himself of their bond in the only way possible? The fear, the doubt, began to gnaw at her mind, pushing her deeper into the mire of madness that shimmered like a dark pool in the depths of her soul.

  You wanted to deny being mated to me. Is this your way of paying me back for defying you? Leaving me here to die?

  Morgan, she knew, could be obdurate, detached, irresponsible and, above all, much given to contradiction; but she had never had reason to believe he truly wished to hurt her or that he took the slightest pleasure in doing so. Though seemingly self-absorbed, he missed little. He was introspective, but his antennae were attuned to those around him. If he had survived and departed without her it was because he had to, not because he wanted to. She had to believe that.

  She did not regret the decision she had made to follow him, but she knew that she had acted rashly; and the consequence dismayed her. She had trusted him to protect her. Through the deep ti
de of confusion, she realized he had not been able to do so. But he was not completely to blame. He had warned her of the dangers. She had made her choice, choosing to let her heart rule her head. She had to accept the responsibility that she had done this to herself. Realization, however, did not lessen her sense of hopeless abandonment.

  Footsteps stole through the dungeon, alerting her that she was no longer alone. Hearing them, a brief hope came to light in her heart. Through skewed vision she saw scuffed leather boots walking toward her. Her blurred gaze traveled upward, taking in the dirty trousers of the man who stood before her. Bare from the waist up, his head was shaved completely bald. He bore an odd tattoo on his left cheek.

  Her eyes widened in recognition. She felt all blood drain from her face. Men much like him had captured her and Morgan, bringing them here to the lair of the sorcerer who was Morgan's deadliest enemy. Seeing him, hope crumbled, squeezed like delicate petals in the hands of a cruel child.

  The Jansi warrior hunkered down, squatting on his haunches. He grabbed a handful of her long hair. Though he was not a tall man, his body was well-defined--thick chest, powerful arms, legs thick as tree trunks. He looked as though he could easily crush her skull with a single hand. She could feel the heat of him, smell the sour stink of his unwashed body.

  Don't move, she commanded herself. Eyes clenched shut, she listened to the sibilant panting of her captor. What did he want with her? The answer came soon enough.

  "You were a pretty one…" he grunted, "but there's life in you yet." His free hand briefly brushed her lips.

  Oh, God! Panic, wielding a brutal knife, flayed her senses. She could not understand his words, but his intent was clear in the leer that colored his features. Surely he's not going to…

  But a woman, any woman, was fair game in this barren world. Even wounded, she was valuable. Grinning obscenely, he settled his hand on her left breast, squeezing it, testing its firmness. If he plans to rape me, I can't stop him. Time seemed suspended, trapping her like a fly in amber. She might as well be dead, for she was truly in hell. She prayed for death, would welcome it willingly.

  Julienne gritted her teeth when the man began to fondle her, rolling the tip of her nipple between thumb and forefinger. She trembled so violently she could barely summon the strength to fight him. Rape was a woman's worst humiliation, making her feel ashamed to be a victim. What could he see in a woman whose face was so mutilated? Why would he even want her? Her body, she realized, was not her own, but about to be invaded, defiled by a man she did not desire.

  Crying out in disgust, she tried to roll away from him, but he grabbed her and pinned her down. He straddled her body in a smooth, easy move and captured her flailing arms above her head. Pinioning her wrists with one hand, he moved the other to her breast, teasing her nipple. His panting grew harsher, more excited as he skimmed her belly. His erection strained against his trousers.

  Writhing and bucking, she struggled to squirm out from under him; but her assailant swiped his huge hand against her head, knocking her flat. Too weak and disoriented to prevent it, she felt her head crack against the cold floor, sending blinding spikes of light through her brain. Her world reeled, threatening to plunge her into darkness.

  She felt him tear away her skirt, parting her legs to probe between her thighs, invading her most intimate places, places only a lover had touched. The feel of his dirty hands against her naked flesh disgusted her.

  "No," she moaned. "Please, don't…" The words burbled from her mouth. Bitter tears welled up in her eyes, further blurring her vision. She was helpless to defend herself, helpless to stop him. Please stop touching me. A misty veil curled around her senses; self-preservation caused her mind to shut down.

  If I don't think about it, it's not happening, she told herself. She lay as one lifeless, too weak to struggle any more; she was in the final stages of exhaustion. The convulsive spasms that had torn at her grew weaker.

  But it was happening, and there was no way to blot out the fact that he would use her body for pleasure. She squeezed her eyes shut so she would not have to see him take her.

  The harsh voice of a second man brought a new surge of fear. She opened her eyes, dreading the presence of another rapist.

  "You would do well to leave her alone, brother," the second one warned. He knelt and tugged aside the material of her torn, bloodstained blouse to bare her chest. Unlike the first man, his eyes held no interest in her exposed breasts, only repulsion.

  "She's infected by one of Xavier's mutants," he continued. "If she's not dead now, she soon will be." Rising, he gave her a hard prod with his boot. "She's useless as a breeder."

  Julienne breathed a sigh of relief when the first warrior drew away, disgust coloring his features. Seeing the look of pity in his eyes, she struggled to sit up. She felt a sharp jab as something within her chest shifted. She moaned at the pain, as her hands flew to cover her nudity. She pressed her palm to the valley between her breasts and thought she felt something breathing inside her even as she drew air into her lungs. The sensation was much like a balloon being blown up, the air let out, then blown up again.

  Using all her willpower, she lowered her head, for the first time seeing the damage. There, under her breastbone, her fingers brushed the jagged ridges of the small hole the creature had made when it burrowed up under her ribcage. No blood seeped from the wound. A strangled sound of torment escaped her numb lips. Her heart skipped a few beats, and she gasped.

  Oh, God! she moaned in mental anguish. Xavier's daemon…it's in me. How long before it eats me up inside? Sickened and disheartened, she looked to the men, searching for answers.

  "Help me…" Her voice was no more than a mumbled hiss. Understanding her anguish, they only shook their heads.

  "A waste," the first warrior spat.

  "She'll soon be eaten up," the second man said. "Take her, before her guts are spewed out by the creature."

  The first man bent, grabbing her wrist. He jerked her with such force her head snapped back on her neck to hang limply between her shoulders. The warrior began to tow her. By the curses escaping his lips, she was clearly a burden he did not relish bearing. He dragged her like a sack of dirt, and her legs were scraped raw by the sandpapery stone. She pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth to keep from crying out. For a moment she considered struggling, trying to break away, escape.

  Escape to where? came the piercing thought.

  Nowhere, was the reply. You'll never leave this place alive. All strength deserted her, her will to live flagging with each passing second. She let her body go limp, pliant. Why resist? Wherever he wanted to take her, whatever he wanted to do with her, she was at his mercy.

  And from the look of his face, she thought, mercy's unknown to him. But it doesn't matter. With that thing inside me, I'm as good as dead anyway.

  She was so exhausted, so spent, that her eyes dropped shut. Sick and tormented, her mind withdrew into the deepest, darkest parts of her skull, where not even the soul dared to tread. Merging with the merciful womb of unconsciousness, she willingly gave herself to that sinister void where none could follow and cause her further pain.

  Chapter Three

  Morgan Saint-Evanston sat alone before the hearth, concentrating on the snapping flames. Following fits of fury that alternated with abject apathy, he felt gaunt and spent, as empty and barren as a desert under a hot sun.

  Heavy with weariness, he couldn't help but surrender to the paroxysms. His head was a space filled with anger and grief. He had tried to replace it with guilt, but it was not working. It never worked.

  Julienne was dead. And no matter how he tried to block them out, images of her kept circling in his head. He clenched his teeth, cursing himself for a fool. She was gone. Why couldn't he just accept that? If he allowed himself to think otherwise, he'd only be inviting more heartbreak.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and paced his breathing, determined to try and rest. It didn't work. All he saw was her face; her beaut
iful green eyes, full red lips and that impossibly thick mane of copper-red hair. He tried to tell himself that she had meant nothing to him. But facts were facts, and he could recall everything about her in vivid detail.

  The pain of losing her stole back, a slow, throbbing ache that soaked straight into the core of his being. His mind churned with shame, misery and knowledge of failure. Though he had professed no love for her, he knew it was not true. He had loved her in his own way, but it had not been enough. Her devotion for him had gone even deeper, and her ultimate sacrifice had brought him freedom.

  Do not think of these things, he admonished himself, but such warnings were useless. Carried away by emotion, acquiescing to depression, he went much farther into his thoughts than he'd intended. Everything he was trying to forget, trying to blank out of his memory, came cascading back.

  Julienne.

  I failed her. He was still half-stunned by the recent events, poised among relief, anger and oblivion. He wanted to forget the woman, forget her face, the feel of her yielding body under his, but he could not. Now he could think of nothing but her, remembering the way she could soften the storms of his moods with a touch.

  Both of them had been searching, lost. In a short time, she had delved into his heart despite his determination to deny her offering of love. Intense passion had drawn them together, two unstable personalities driven by inner demons they could not reconcile.

  That same passion had destroyed them. They were mated, though, Julienne and he, a mating that did not end with the death of one. Until he joined her, there could be no hope of clemency for his own soul. She gave her life for mine. Now, I owe her a debt. I will find her again, I swear. Uaigneas mór, go deo, a choích. Great loneliness, forever and ever. It seemed to be the ultimate curse upon his head.