Page 13

13

D amien walked back to the cottage, the light of the full moon casting long, sharp shadows that seemed to follow him, flickering and stretching as if alive. He moved slowly, replaying the conversation with Franklin over and over, as if on an infinite loop.

An affair.

Cheating.

Betrayal.

He didn’t want to believe it. Hell, he couldn’t believe it. Not Nikki. It wasn’t possible. He knew her as well as he knew himself. Trusted her more than he’d ever trusted anyone.

It wasn’t possible.

It wasn’t.

And yet with each block he walked—with each inch closer to the cottage—a tiny tendril of doubt expanded, growing into a wide, curling ribbon, as dark and insidious as a coiled basilisk just waiting to strike.

You’ve been betrayed before.

True, though not by her. The thought twisted through him, raw and grating— Not that he knew of, anyway.

But he knew the feel of betrayal. The bitter taste of it.

He shuddered as the sharp screech of a bird echoed through the darkness, underscoring the thought.

She’s changed. Admit it, Damien. Your wife has changed.

His skin seemed to prickle in the wake of that horrible truth. She was changing. Becoming withdrawn. Sliding into her strange fascination with Vivien Lorainne. Leaving the cottage alone for her excursions into town, only to return with silly, foolish purchases.

An alibi . The voice in his mind was harsh. Firm. The silly little purchases were nothing more than cover for her visits to him. The little bitch. The cunning whore.

Bile rose in his throat as he shuddered at the words, his hands clenching into tight fists as some buried part of himself tried to will the dark thoughts away. Thoughts that weren’t his. Could never be his.

And yet there they were. In his head, feeling real and right and raw.

Logical.

Aligning perfectly with the evidence.

And so desperately, horribly wrong. The little bitch thought she could get away with it? That she could—

No.

Focus. Dammit, focus!

He stopped dead on the sidewalk, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He had to think. Had to make his thoughts move.

His thoughts.

Because something was wrong. Terribly wrong. And it wasn’t Nikki having an affair, because she wasn’t. She wouldn’t. He knew that. He knew it.

But something was wrong. And not just in his head. She’d pulled away—cloaked herself in Vivien Lorainne’s shadow. And he had no idea how to bring her back.

But it was him, too. He felt raw. Exposed. As if a part of him had been peeled away, leaving him open to every doubt, every whisper of inadequacy. Every flicker of rage.

She’d done this to him. He loved her too much, too hard.

She’d made him weak. Foolish.

Yeah, well fuck that. Fuck doubt. Fuck weakness.

Fuck her.

But even as that thought ricocheted through his head, another softer voice seemed to speak in the darkness of his soul. Hold on. Hold tight. It isn’t real. This isn’t right.

He cringed, trying to block the rhythmic, almost singsong words. Instead, he focused on the cottage just half a block away. The sight of it—quaint and charming beneath the moonlight—only stoked his anger. He’d bought it for her. For Nikki. He’d thought it would be a gift, a retreat. Instead, it had become a prison. For both of them.

By the time he reached the gate, his blood was boiling. He couldn’t articulate the source of his wrath, but it didn’t matter. He knew—somehow, he just knew —that he was right about her. About her deceit. Her betrayals.

Every kiss had been a slap. Every fuck a joke.

But why, why, why?

The question seemed to pound at his skull with ineffectual baby fists. No power. Only incomprehensible mews that quickly died in his mind to lay buried beneath the bitter red of betrayal and heartache.

Who the hell did she think she was, cheating on him? On him!

She’d made a mockery of him, dammit. And he wasn’t a man who would stand for that.

By the time he crossed the short distance from the gate to the door, he could feel the blood pounding in his veins, so intense he could imagine its sweet, coppery taste. Something cold and slippery coiled in his gut, craving the blood, urging him forward.

Despite hands shaking with fury, he finally managed to slide the key into the lock and then open the door. The air inside seemed heavy. Oppressive. As if dark things were hiding in shadowy corners. As if the weight of everything in the cottage was bearing down on him.

He moved further inside, his steps slow. Almost silent. Had to catch her in the act. Had to show the bitch who was boss.

The living area was dark, as was the kitchen. But he saw a faint glow in the hallway that led to the bedroom, and he moved in that direction, stalking his prey.

His skin tingled, his body on fire. A dark power raged through him, black as night, breathing fire into him. Strengthening him. Readying him for what was to come.

No. Not strength. Something else.

Something else was twisting inside him.

He fought to grab hold of his thoughts, but they seemed to scurry away, almost as if in terror.

Terror. Oh, yes. The time for terror had come, slithering closer with every breath. And soon she would know the extent of his wrath—and the pain that accompanies a punishment rendered without the weakness of mercy and—

No!

“Nikki!”

It took more effort than anything he’d ever had to do to force the word to burst out of him, and yet he heard no sound. He was silenced. Trapped.

He ? The voice slithered through his mind. The “he” you used to be doesn’t even exist anymore. It is only I. The dark. The serpent.

The Basilisk.

Somewhere in a deep, dark hole, the soul that had once been Damien railed against the bars of an invisible prison, trying to escape. Trying to understand.

Then he saw her.

She stood in the middle of the room, looking at him with terror in her eyes, and he felt himself go hard when she parted her lips and whispered his name. “ Damien .”

“Nikki.”

It was more of a growl than a word, and though he felt the coarseness of it in his throat, he knew he hadn’t spoken. More, he knew he wasn’t the only creature looking through his eyes at the woman standing before him. A stunning woman whose hair fell in waves to her shoulders. Whose body was clad in what must have been a scandalous evening gown decades ago, the thin material hugging her body in a way that made his chest tighten—with lust, with fear, and with something else he couldn’t name.

Desire. Greed. Need. And more. So much more.

It’s fury, too, and it’s beating down on you. Can’t you taste it, Damien? She’s cheating. The little bitch is cheating on you. You!

She thinks she can cheat on the likes of Damien Stark and get away with it. Tell her. Show her. Prove to her she can’t get away with it.

Ice water flooded his veins, the strength of it pushing him forward even as she ran toward him, her mascara running in dark streaks over her cheeks. “It’s Basil. Damien, please. The journal. It’s Basil. It’s Basil, and I—”

She lurched back as if something invisible had grabbed her from behind. He watched, feeling a cold nothingness mixed with glee as he saw her stumble—as he realized that she was going to fall. Served the cheating little whore right.

Then she was on the floor, the hem of her gown ripped from where she had caught it on the heel of her shoe, her temple bleeding from where she’d slammed it against the edge of the dresser.

He caught the smell of blood, threw his head back, and roared, the sound raw and primal. And not his. This wasn’t him. Dear god, this wasn’t him.

Oh, but it is. You are we and we are I. And she will get what she deserves. And the little adulterer deserves pain. And she sure as hell doesn’t deserve us.

He kept his eyes on Nikki, his heart pounding in his chest as he willed himself to run to her. To touch her. To make sure she was alright.

But he couldn’t move. Something held him back. Invisible arms seemed to tighten around his chest, holding him still as he struggled to breathe.

“Nikki!” The scream ripped out of him—or tried to. In truth, it was barely a whisper.

She has to die for us. The little bitch cheated, remember? She has to die. And her death will bring us more power. You will be more than a king. We will be more than a god. Ambition, Damien. We will burn across the world and feed your ambition. You have always sought power—and the little bitch has been keeping you down. Making you soft. Making you weak.

The words twisted in his head. In his gut. “No.” Somehow, he managed to rip the word out, but the rest was trapped in his head. Trapped with the basilisk. With the demon.

Fool. You say she is your everything. That she is your ambition. That without her you are nothing? You are weak. But once she is dead, you will learn. You will learn the meaning of power.

Terror, cold and vile, ricocheted through him.

Fight. Need to fight. Need to do .

But do what? Fight how?

There’s a clue. Something he was missing. Find the clue. Think, dammit. Somewhere, there has to be a clue.

Has to die, has to die, the pretty, pretty girl has to die.

For us.

For us.

For us.

His body lurched, and something cold and dark seemed to fill him, a strange calmness settling over him. He shifted, his focus on the woman who called herself wife. The woman he’d fucked so many times. The woman who was cheating on him.

Greg, the voice said. You know she is cheating with a little prick named Greg.

“Bitch.” The word was only a whisper, but he saw the impact on her. Saw the terror fill her eyes … and he felt the stronger seeing it. He fed on it. Needed it. Craved it.

“Damien, please.” Her voice was soft, laced with that erotic tinge of fear. He could see her looking around the room, trying to find a way to escape. But there was no way out. No way past him. No possibility that she could get by without him catching her. Hurting her.

Without him savoring the pain and glorying in the blood.

She was right to be afraid. Death was scary for those to whom it meant something. But her sacrifice would not be forgotten. He had to do it. Had to kill her. If he was going to become, he had to kill her.

We have to kill her.

It will be the final act in becoming. Her death will destroy his soul. Without his soul, he will follow us anywhere.

Us.

We.

One.

A soft ripple—almost too gentle to be noticed—moved through him. Think. Learn.

But there was nothing left to learn. Nothing left to do. He was the demon, and the demon was him. And that was the way it should be. The way it had always been. With Carlton and with those before him. Now, with Damien and those who would come after.

No. No. There was a way. He just had to figure it out. Because, dammit, there was a way. He was still himself. He could still hear his thoughts. He could still—

NO!

He felt something like fear skitter through him as understanding ripped through his mind. He was the demon, and the demon was him. And that was the key.

Relief swelled inside him, diluting the fear. You want to merge with me, you son-of-a-bitch? Too bad you can’t hide your secrets if you become me.

He had a plan now. So long as he could stay strong, so long as he could fight the evil that had hijacked him, he could get them through this.

But that was the trick—staying strong. Staying alive.

He could. He would . Because he had to. For Nikki, he had to.