As if Thorne felt her response—which likely he did, the rotter—he tightened his grip on her hand and tugged her closer to his sid.
“Touch it,” he whispered thickly against her templ.
Her ni**les peaked at the command. “Caress my mark like you crave another bite.” His tongue flickered over her skin, a crude lick that had her step bobbling. Holly wrenched her head away as much as she could without drawing notice, and his dark chuckle was a warm breath over her now damp skin. “They’ll expect these things, lov.
Expect you to be in my total thrall.” Heat suffused her, and she could not bear to meet his eyes, but she managed a short nod. “Touch it now,” he murmured, impatient, demanding. Unable to resist, Holly pressed two fingers against that throbbing spot. A bolt of luscious, aching pleasure and heat shot down her center. She nearly moaned. Thorne’s grip became a crushing thing. His breath rough and urgent. Wild thoughts swam in her head, of Thorne pressing her back against the damp stones with the force of his hard body, and simply taking. Perhaps Thorne felt similarly, for he mumbled something under his breath and doggedly kept them moving forward, their h*ps touching, their cloaks tangling with each step they took down the miserable corridor. The path took a sharp turn to the left, and the space grew close, the air hot. Sounds of shouting and laughter echoed. Thorne let her hand go in favor of slipping his beneath her cloak to curve around her waist. The sharp scent of fresh blood mingled with that of stale sweat. Holly’s throat closed on a wave of disgust. It was nothing compared to the sight that greeted her. The space opened up into a massive underground arena awash with torchlight and writhing with hundreds of demons. Sweat glistened on skin, teeth flashed on a grin or feral grimac.
Most maintained their human appearance, but plenty of beings with grey skin and pointed ears were throughout the crowd. Attention centered on a small oval fighting pit at the center of the room. There, what appeared to be a female raptor fought with fang and claw against a tall, pale female sanguis whose black hair fell to her thighs in a tight cu.
“Mistake that,” Thorne said in Holly’s ear, his voice now smooth and normal. He nodded towards the sanguis femal.
“Keeping her hair long. Easy target.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than the raptor flipped over the sanguis to land on steady feet just behind her. In a blink, the raptor grabbed that hanging strip of hair and spun the poor sanguis through the air, smashing her down onto the high iron railing that ringed the pit. Impaled, the sanguis screamed. Holly gagged and did not notice Thorne opening her cloak until the damp air hit her skin. She frowned at him as he folded the edges back over her shoulders, exposing her further. He gave her a slight, reproving look. Right. She was his ornament. Grinding her teeth together, she straightened her spine and thrust her br**sts forward. Thorne’s hitched breath and flared nostrils were only slightly gratifying. The instant attention she garnered from the males around her, however, had her skin crawling. Being exposed set her nerves on edg.
Noises sounded overloud to her ears, and despite Thorne’s earlier cheek, she wanted to cling to his arm like a limpet. Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, Thorne headed off, his walk peacock proud, his top hat tilted at a jaunty angle as if to say, “why yes, I am a pretty piece, and top of the mornin’ to ya for noticing!” Though she was loath to admit it, her Irish blood appreciated his showmanship. The crowd seemed to part for him. Some nodded at Thorne, giving a quick hello or a simple acknowledgment of him; others slid their gazes away as if they were fearful. But all seemed to know him. This was his world, and he belonged. Unequivocally. And because he did, not a soul seemed to question her presence her.
They did, however, look her over. Until she felt covered in a sticky film of attention. Thorne made his way towards a box seat that overlooked the fighting ring at dead center. The box was bigger than those around it and swathed in black silk. Though there were about ten seats within the box, one held an obvious place of honor. Like a king holding court, there a man sat on a gilded, red velvet chair. He was rather large on all counts. And scruffy, for all the airs he put on. A battered stovepipe hat sat on greasy black hair that reached his wide shoulders, and a black-and-white checked waistcoat stretched over his well-fed gut. Perched as he was, all long-limbed and fat of belly, he reminded her of a great spider, waiting to draw innocent and guilty alike into his great web. He watched them approach, his beady eyes narrowing, and he licked his lips. Holly repressed the urge to draw her cloak back together. Two overly large bruisers guarded the entrance, but they didn’t so much as blink when Thorne moved past them. “Will Thorne,” the man said as they entered his box. “It has been a while, me boy.” “Well you know, Kettil,” replied Thorne with his easy smile, “one cannot stay away from your entertainments forever.” Kettil glanced at the two men who were lounging in the seats next to his. That was all it took from them to depart with hast.
As soon as they did, Kettil gestured broadly to the vacated chairs. “Join me.” Though Thorne behaved the perfect gentleman, handling her into her seat, he put himself between Holly and Kettil. A move not lost on the man, for he made a small sound of amusement. “Wouldn’t mind a taste o’that. That lass is the jammiest bit of jam I’ve seen in an age, to be sure.” He leaned in, his fat nostrils round and porcine as he inhaled. “She smells off, though. A bit like metal and oil.” Thorne crossed one of his long legs over the other, a seemingly careless shift of position, but one that blocked Holly slightly from view. “She’s an acquired taste.” Of all the nerve! Kettil, however, grinned, exposing the needle sharp fangs of a sanguis. Holly had never seen such a plumped-up demon. The unfortunate image of a tick bloated on blood came to mind, and she fought another urge to gag. Down in the ring, they were hauling off what remained of the female sanguis demon. The crowd, now denied its bout, turned to each other, chatting, shouting, calling in bets. A fug of blue smoke hung in the air, crackling about the hum of electric lights. “Let me have a taste and find out then,” Kettil was saying. Charming. Thorne’s smile was bland. “Now you know I do not like to share my esculents.” Kettil, not so easily dissuaded, leaned forward, his beady eyes on Holly’s br**sts. “Always thought that was uncharitable of you, Thorn.
Not sharing.” Thorne gave an exaggerated sigh as he pulled a slender cigarillo and a cache of matches from his inner pocket. “Ah, well, you know how it is.” With the flick of a wrist, he lit the match, and fire flared right in Kettil’s line of sight, depriving him yet again of staring at Holly. “A taste here, a taste there, and suddenly there’s nothing left for me.” Thorne dropped the match and drew on his cigarette before blowing a cloud of smoke into the air between him and Kettil. The smoke did not seem to bother Kettil. No, he simply inhaled, visibly drawing it into his wide nostrils. Still staring at Holly, he licked his thick lips. “Perhaps you ought to rethink that. Especially with a morsel such as this. Put me in a charitable mood like.” As if he anticipated Holly’s need to strike out, Thorne set his hand over hers and pressed it into his thigh. “Have I brought the Kellermen twins round before?” he asked Kettil idly. Twins? Holly refused to react. Thorne eased his thumb under her hand and ran it in a slow circle around her palm. “You have not,” Kettil said, still sounding sullen. “Ah, gods, but they are a pair. Plump with sweet blood.” Thorne sighed expansively. “They have the most exquisitely sensitive br**sts and thighs.” Holly twitched. Vile pigs. The both of them. She told Thorne as much by flicking his thumb away from her palm. But his thumb merely returned and pressed hard against the center of her palm. Hold your fire, the gesture seemed to say. For only so long, she squeezed back. “That so.” Interest flickered in Kettil’s beady eyes. “Quite.” Thorne flashed his fangs. “They love being suckled.” A snort of irritation left Holly’s lips before she could stop herself. The blunt tip of Thorne’s thumb tapped her. Now, now, lov.
I’m working her.
Holly dug a nail into the fleshy pad at the base of his thumb. End this nonsense now, or I will. He gave her hand a quick, minute squeez.
Fin.
“I’ll bring them round next visit,” he assured Kettil. “As for now, I have something else that ought to interest you.” Thorne pulled a slim box from his outer pocket. She recognized that box. Why, that ruddy, sticky-fingered bastard. Holly stiffened in outrage; Thorne’s warning squeeze a distant thing in the face of it. But she held her tongue as Kettil grabbed the box and opened it with greedy hast.
“Spectacles?” Kettil blinked in confusion. “What need do I have for a bleedin’ set o’glass peepers? And right thick ones at that.” As if he deserved to even look upon her exquisitely wrought creation. “Ah-ah.” Thorne lifted a finger. “You have yet to try them on.” Inwardly, Holly howled when Kettil’s grubby fingers smudged the finely polished glass as he fumbled to put them on. As soon as they were on, he gave a start of surpris.
His mouth hung open as he peered about the room. “Why, every man is all aflame!” Holly grumbled. Thorne glared at her while answering in a smooth voic.
“It is the spirit glow of demons. The spectacles make it visibl.
Quite handy for telling friend from foe.” “Quite so, laddie.” As Kettil gaped about like a lack-witted ape, Thorne leaned in close to her until his breath tickled her neck. “Nex stole an earlier model from the SOS last year. I find these a vast improvement, love.” Holly kept her expression serene as she pinched his side hard. Unfortunately, he was too lean to get a good grasp of any flesh. Even so, he gave a little grunt and wisely moved away. “So, then,” Kettil said as he took off the spectrometers, “what will this cost me?” Thorne pulled a small paper from his pocket of delights and handed it to him. There, drawn with great skill, was a rendering of the dagger that the assassin had dropped and of the tattoo that graced Thorne’s forearm. Upon seeing the blade, Kettil’s expression froze for one icy moment, and it was a look of terror. Then he blinked it away and hastily shoved the paper back at Thorn.
“ ’Twill take more than this for that sort of tell.” Thorne did not appear surprised by the news. “Price?” Kettil’s eyes went to the ring. “A bout. And the spectacles.” Thorne gave a negligent shrug that had his hair sliding like white satin over his shoulders. “Very well.” He moved to rise, when Kettil shook his head. “ ’Fraid it’s ladies night.” His oily gaze slithered over to Holly. Thorne growled—a low sort of rumble a dog would give when guarding his food. “I’ll come back another night.” “Don’t think so, mate.” Kettil crossed his arms over his ample belly. “You know the rules. Favors only granted at the time of request.” Seemed like a made-up rule to Holly, but Thorne’s mouth tightened so perhaps it wasn’t. “Then we leave.” Thorne stood, his chair scraping against the slat-board floor. Leave? He motioned for Holly to rise, but she stayed put. She’d let him drink her blood. She’d trawled down the bloody tunnel to Hell for this. And he was going to leave? When they could have the information they needed tonight? “Hold on.” Kettil raised a placating hand. “You need not be so hasty. Your female can fight.” “Absolutely not,” snarled Thorn.
Holly stood then, and Thorne grabbed her elbow, ready to usher her out. She held firm and then threw herself into the thick. “I’ll do it.” “You will not,” shouted Thorne, just as Kettil slapped a hand on his thigh and cried, “Deal.” He appeared far too pleased. Thorne, on the other hand, bared his full fangs and hissed. “No!” Holly met his glower without flinching. “You do not get to decide.” “Oh, yes I do.” He wrenched her closer. “You are my esculent. Mine.” She leaned around him. “When do I fight?” she asked a beaming Kettil. Thorne uttered a ribald curs.
“No, no, no.” With each ‘no’ Thorne shook her arm. “You are not fighting.” “Do stop,” Holly said, pulling fre.
“You’re going to give me a migrain.
Besides, I need my strength.” Thorne let go and rammed a hand through his hair instead, knocking his top hat off in the process. He appeared ready to scream. Kettil ros.
“Go to the back. Harlan will get you sorted.” When Thorne rounded on Kettil with a snarl, he tutted. “Now, Thorne, you know the rules. You can’t be hurting me her.
And the lady has taken up me offer. No backing out of it now without bloodshed.” His expression turned ruthless. “And not just yours, either.” Calmly, Holly pulled Thorne to the side of the box. Around wild tangles of his long hair, his expression was mulish, his black eyes turning silver. “You cannot go into that ring and fight, Holly,” he said without preambl.
“You will die!” “Well, that’s a fine thing to say,” she snapped back. “How about a little support?” He leaned closer, until they were nose to nose, and his hair hid them from view. “In case it has slipped your notice, you are human. Who,” he added when she meant to speak, “would not leave her house until a few days ago!” She did not blink. “I am not merely human. I am SOS.” “You are an inventor for the SOS, not a regulator. And your contraptions won’t save you in the ring. You won’t be allowed any mechanical devices for defense.” “I am trained in combat. Every SOS member is.” Before she’d hidden herself away, she’d trained with Mary, the both of them quite enjoying the exercis.
True, her skills might be a little rusty. But she was hardly a civilian. “And I won’t need any devices.” She could hear Thorne’s teeth grinding. “Holly…” The sound of her given name on his lips, the pleading tone of it, softened her respons.