“Not so good.”
Sally turned her head to meet the gargoyle’s worried gaze. “What is it?”
“I smell demon,” Levet warned.
“Shit.” Roke grabbed his phone off the dash and punched in a number before pressing it to his ear. “Cyn, I need that info on killing the Nebule, pronto.” There was a brief pause before he was shoving the phone into his front pocket. “Perfect,” he muttered.
“What did he say?” Sally demanded.
Roke pressed the accelerator to the floor, his knuckles white as they gripped the steering wheel.
“The only known way to kill the bastard is with the power of a Chatri.”
Of course that was the only way.
It couldn’t be something simple like ripping out his throat or putting a stake through his heart.
“We have to get to my father.”
“Oui.” Levet’s wings created a mini-windstorm. “And you might want to hurry.”
“What the hell do you think I’m doing?” Roke muttered.
There was a tense moment of silence as they hurtled through the darkness. Then, a mist was forming in the air between Roke and Sally.
“Sacrebleu,” Levet squeaked as Roke slammed on the brakes, nearly sending the tiny creature through the front windshield.
Sally was moving before the vehicle came to a complete halt, shoving open the door and hitting the ground in a desperate attempt to outrun the demon.
A wasted effort.
She’d taken less than a step when the air in front of her began to vibrate, pulsing through her with enough force to send her to her knees.
She moaned, feeling the full impact of the demon’s powers.
The first time he’d attacked she’d been partially protected by her magical shield. The second time, he’d been focused on Roke.
Now she realized that she didn’t have a damned way to protect herself from a brutal, excruciating death.
Glancing up, she watched as the mist solidified into the form of a chubby Miera demon that Brandel had used before.
“Give me the box,” the Nebule demanded, his black eyes that were slit with crimson glowing with a spooky hunger.
She clutched the box to her chest, shaking her head. “No.”
The demon held up a hand, his brown robes hanging unnaturally still despite the brisk autumn breeze.
“Give me the box or die.”
He wasn’t bluffing. Already the agonizing vibrations were ramping up, damaging vital organs as they swept through her.
“Sally, give him the damned thing,” Roke snarled, crawling toward her with blood dripping from his nose and eyes.
Sally hesitated only a second before she threw the box directly at the demon.
What choice did she have?
She might have increased in power over the past weeks, but her insides were turning to goo. She didn’t know if that was something she could survive.
And once she was dead, she didn’t doubt for a minute Brandel would use his poison on Roke and maybe even poor little Levet.
Catching the box in a chubby hand, the demon gave a maniacal laugh before he was blinking out of sight.
Sally slumped forward, her nose nearly touching the ground as the savage pain slowly receded.
Oh . . . crap.
Who knew the sensation of her innards repairing themselves could be almost as brutal as having them squished in the first place?
A cool hand brushed her nape, offering a welcome comfort.
“Are you hurt?” Roke asked, his voice thick with his own pain.
She forced herself to straighten, meeting his anxious gaze with a rueful smile.
“Nothing that won’t heal.”
With a grim expression, Roke shrugged out of his leather jacket, then with one sharp tug he ripped off his T-shirt to gently clean the blood from her face.
His own injuries were rapidly healing, the blood flaking off him to leave his face as starkly beautiful as ever and his dark hair as smooth as silk.
She smiled without humor. She’d just managed to destroy any hope of finding her father, and her mind was consumed with the knowledge Roke looked breathtakingly perfect while she probably looked like she should be in the emergency room.
Maybe her brain had been squished along with the rest of her soft organs.
It seemed the only logical explanation.
Once satisfied he’d cleaned off the last of the blood, Roke wrapped his arms around her, his touch careful not to jar her aching body.
She blinked back her tears, knowing how much it cost him not to vent his angry frustration at how close she’d come to dying.
It was evident in the tiny quakes that shook his body and the frantic kisses he was pressing to the top of her head. But, with uncharacteristic restraint, he kept his emotions tightly leashed as he murmured comforting words and his hands stroked down her back in a soothing motion.
She didn’t know how long they continued to kneel on the ground, her body slowly healing as she leaned heavily against Roke’s chest. Eventually, however, she became aware of the sharp breeze that cut through the material of her sweatshirt and the scent of granite that assured her Levet was near.
With an effort she lifted her head and glanced around the empty countryside. Her brain still felt fuzzy, but she knew that she had to think.
She might have lost the box, but that didn’t mean that she’d given up on her plans to rescue her father. There had to be another way to find him.
The thought barely had time to form when Roke was barking out a curse and dragging her from the box that reappeared on the ground mere inches from her knees.
“Voilà,” Levet cried, waddling toward them. “I told you Sally could not rid herself of the box. The spell has bound it to her.”
Far less impressed with the rematerializing act, Roke had his phone out and pressed to his ear.
“Styx, we need backup. You can locate us with the Land Rover’s GPS,” he snapped. “Send someone who can’t be hurt by the poison the demon carries.” Pulling Sally to her feet, Roke backed them away from the highway. “Help is on the way.”
Sally frowned, not doubting Styx’s ability to round up any number of warriors who weren’t vampires, but fairly confident that they would never reach them in time.
It wouldn’t take the demon long to figure out what happened to his prize.
“Shouldn’t we run?” she asked.
Roke shook his head. “I want my hands free the next time he shows up.”
Levet gave a snap of his wings. “He’s coming.”
Sally tilted back her head, feeling nearly overwhelmed by the surge of guilt.