Tempting The Dark. Michele Hauf

essence of man that she’d slept wrapped in all night.

      There were wards outside the limestone-faced building. Invisible, yet she could feel Savin’s signature sealing them. Wards against demons and a few other species, perhaps vampires and werewolves. They tugged at her musculature, as they had last night, when she mounted the inner stairs and climbed up four stories, but it wasn’t anything that would rip her apart or send her screaming.

      Facing the wards drawn on Savin’s front door, Jett rechecked the sheen she wore, a masterful disguise. She’d need to relax and let go soon. Just an hour or so. A means to recharge.

      Yet the last place she could do that was inside a fully warded reckoner’s home.

      Or maybe, it might serve as the safest place possible.

      She knocked on the front door, then tried the knob. It was open, and as she popped her head inside the flat, Savin called for her to enter. A fierce tug at her skin pulled and prickled as she crossed the threshold, but she made it inside and closed the door behind her, thus squelching the ward’s seeking force. It sought to repeal a demon. She was still strong enough to thwart the weakened repulsion.

      Now she dropped her shoulders and exhaled wearily. “You beat me back,” she commented.

      Savin sat on the couch, a glass of what smelled like alcohol in hand, which he tilted to her. “It was a quick call. Four more demons sent back to where they belong. And you have been out the whole afternoon. You walk around the city?”

      She sat on the wooden-armed chair across from the couch and pulled up her legs to hook her feet on the leather cushion. It was cool and not so bright in his place, and she appreciated that. “Paris is beautiful. I never appreciated the architecture when we were kids. So many people, though. I’m tired out!”

      “Yeah, it’s August and the tourist crush is ridiculous. No wonder all the locals head out of town this time of year. I left your new things in the bedroom for you. You want a drink?”

      “I recognize the smell of whiskey from when my father used to have a ‘sip’ after an evening meal. But I’ve never tried alcohol. At least, not anything made in this realm.”

      “Really? I suppose.” He swiped a hand across his jaw.

      She sensed he tried to be tactful and not ask about her experience, which she appreciated.

      “Want to try some?”

      “I’d never refuse a challenge from you.”

      And while that statement was something that she would have said as a kid to Savin’s challenging glint in the eye, now it felt bold and powerful. Adult. And in response, Savin’s gaze seemed to slip across her skin in a welcome manner. Jett wriggled on the chair, lifting her chin. She liked to be admired by him.

      He stood and collected another glass in the kitchen, then returned to pour her a portion from the bottle.

      “Do you play all those guitars?” she asked as he handed her the glass. She sniffed it. Very strong, and not too appealing.

      “Most are collectibles,” he said. “A few are prized possessions. That one is signed by Chuck Berry. Saw him at a concert a decade ago and met him when he was exiting out the backstage door. I like to play my own compositions. A little blues à la Chuck Berry, a little Southern rock. Some headbanging riffs mixed with a touch of classical. I’m also teaching myself musicomancy.”

      Jett sat up a little straighter. “Is that some kind of magic?”

      “Using music. But it’s slow going. Hell, I tend to sit and drink far too much whiskey, and then my playing gets looser and more random. I suspect that’s a good reason why I have yet to accomplish musicomancy.” He winked and tilted back the remainder of his drink, then poured some more. “I use the diddley bow for the magic stuff.” He gestured over his shoulder, and Jett noted a strange guitar-like instrument with a turtle-shell-sized body and a long, thin neck and only one string. “Made that one myself. That’s another hobby of mine. Fiddling around with making things. Made a bunch of navigational devices that I use for my work, as well. Guess I got the creative gene from my dad. You remember when I took apart your Nintendo controller?”

      “I don’t think I forgave you for that. And I wouldn’t necessarily call destroying things being creative,” she teased. “You tended to take apart anything you could get your hands on.”

      “Yeah.” He chuckled. “Now I put things back together. I figured out how it all works. Now I’m all about restoration and creation. No destruction.”

      Destruction. The word felt comfortable to Jett’s senses. It had been so easy to destroy that which annoyed her. But just as she noticed herself smiling about such memories, she chased away the thought. She would not slip around Savin. She must not.

      She sniffed her glass, then took a sip. It burned down her throat, but it was actually tasty. As she drank more, the burn lessened. Another sip and the dark liquid smoothened on her tongue. “I like this.”

      “Much as I hate to be the one to corrupt you, I can’t argue an appreciation for a good aged whiskey.”

      “I am beyond corruption, Savin. So don’t worry about that.”

      “Everyone is corruptible.”

      “Yes, well, there’s nothing about me that can get any more corrupted. So trust, you won’t harm me. No matter what vices or sinful challenges with which you should tempt me.” She held out her glass toward him. Her voice thickened into a husky tone. “More.”

      Glass clinked as he poured her another portion. Then he topped off his drink. The lingering look he gave her was in reaction to her sensual tease. Good boy. He understood her. She could work with that.

      “Can I ask you one thing? It’s personal.”

      “I don’t have any boyfriends, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Jett chuckled softly and pressed the cool glass against her lower lip. The man was so sexy. And she understood the meaning of that word now. How quickly she relaxed around him. And desired. She was feeling...sensual. Must be the whiskey. Yes, she did like this drink.

      “No, that’s—” Savin looked over the rim of his glass. “Could you have boyfriends...you know...there?”

      He wanted to know about her love life in Daemonia? Ugh. “Is that the question you wanted to ask?”

      “Do I only get the one?”

      Jett sighed and allowed her shoulders to relax against the comfy cushions. She crossed her legs, and with a slip off of the heel, she dangled her shoe on her toes. “Fine. Ask me anything. But I’m allowed to refuse any answer.”

      “I don’t want to grill you, Jett. But I am curious. In turn, you can ask me anything.”

      “You’ve been open with me so far. I owe you that much.”

      He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the whiskey glass dangling from one hand before a leg. “How did you survive in that place? Was there shelter? Buildings? Towns? A place of safety?”

      “There’s never safety in Daemonia,” she said curtly. The whiskey slid quickly down her throat and she slammed the glass on the chair arm. “But there are dwellings. And cities and citadels. Castles, hovels and all means of residence. I...had a place to live.” She couldn’t tell him everything. She’d never get out of this flat in one piece if she did that. “And I was generally free from the treacherous elements that I’m sure you remember.”

      “So someone took you in? That’s good. I couldn’t imagine you wandering that horrible place for so long and on your own.”

      “There is no alone there.” Jett cast her glance up toward the windows fitted in the ceiling. The sky was darkening. Thankfully. “Nor was there a sun. But you know, the many moons were pretty. Save for the fire moon. That one hurt if I forgot myself and walked out beneath it.”

      “Like