Cover Him with Darkness Page 15

My blood seemed to fill with heat.

  “I think she’s beautiful,” Azazel said, stooping to kiss my cheek and jaw, running his hands over my waist and hips and ass. “Show him, Milja.”

  I raised my eyebrows, not understanding.

  “Open that shirt,” he murmured in my ear.

  “Don’t do that,” Egan moaned. “Milja, you don’t have to do what he says.”

  “Oh, but she wants to,” my demon lover countered. “She wants to do what I tell her. And she wants you to see. Don’t you, my Milja?”

  My hand moved to the top button. “It’s all right,” I told Egan once more. “It’s only a dream.”

  He made a helpless noise of protest as I slipped the first button, and tried to look away. By the second button he was looking in quick unwilling glances. By the third he had his eyes screwed tight shut. By the fourth he was watching, transfixed.

  “There,” said Azazel, taking the edges of the garment delicately and opening it up to show him my body from throat to thighs. He trailed his fingertips over the soft slopes of my bare breasts, down to the shallow curve of my belly, back to circle my nipples, down again to frame my sex. “Isn’t she exquisite?”

  I saw Egan’s sharp intake of breath and the swell of his chest. The fabric of his pants was so thin that there was no disguising the other response of his body either: a heavy length strained visibly against the soft cotton.

  I felt like I was melting under the heat of their attention. I was slippery and weak and soft as wax.

  Azazel kissed my ear. “Kneel down.”

  Obediently, I slid to my knees on the stones. I kept my eyes on Egan’s though, as if I could impart the last fading vestiges of strength through my gaze. Even when Azazel stepped to the side to take an approving look at the spectacle I presented, I kept my eyes on Egan’s face.

  “See: she does as she is told. She’s mine to command. Open your legs, Milja.”

  I spread my thighs, slowly. There was sweat glistening in the hollow of Egan’s throat.

  “Play with yourself.”

  For the merest moment I hesitated, if only to appreciate the exquisite flush of shame that washed through me. My hand moved to the juncture of my thighs. I was fire, I was meltwater, I was the detritus swept along in the flood.

  Oh God, Egan mouthed. Please, God, no.

  “What’s your problem, blondie?” Azazel sauntered toward him, great black wings flexing and pinions bristling like a canopy of living darkness. “Is she not to your taste?” He looked the bound man up and down, with exaggerated concern. “No, that’s not it—not according to what you’ve got packed in those jeans right now. You like her well enough, don’t you?” He glanced back at me, mischievously. “I think she likes you. Look how keen she is to show you.”

  My hand moved, snakelike. Egan licked his lips as if trying to speak, but no words came out. The hard points of my nipples stung. I watched his face and he watched me, and the air between us crackled and burnt.

  But it still took me by surprise when Azazel leaned up against his shoulder and slipped one hand down the front of Egan’s pants.

  “No you fucker!” Egan howled, throwing himself back and forth in his bonds, but absolutely unable to escape. “No!”

  “Language,” Azazel reproved. “Aren’t you the Nice Guy? The Hero? Though what a gentleman like you is doing with that sort of wood in his pants, I don’t know. What would the lady say if she knew?” His thumb dexterously snapped Egan’s button fly, one stud at a time, from top to bottom. “Are you shocked, Milja?”

  I was stunned. Not by the sight of Egan’s erection as such, but by the way it was brought into view, held firmly in Azazel’s fist.

  Egan banged his head back against the wall, teeth bared and the cords standing out on his neck. “Oh God oh God oh God,” he groaned, his chest heaving. “Holy Mary, Mother of God…”

  “Blasphemy, now?”

  “Oh fuck.”

  “What do you think?” Azazel asked me. “Nice?”

  I nodded, dizzy. He was handling the member in question with ruthless artistry, working it harder and harder.

  “Come closer, Milja. On your knees.”

  I left off touching myself and crawled forward. I could see every humiliating detail: the ruddy swollen flesh, the sweat-soaked ringlets of Egan’s pubic hair, even a scar just on the crease of thigh and pubis.

  “Look at her,” Azazel whispered in his ear. “Look at her.”

  Egan looked. His face was a mask of torment. There were beads of sweat running down his breastbone. But his pupils were dilated with arousal.

  “Big, isn’t it, Milja? Bigger than you thought, I bet.”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes.” Very much. It’s beautiful.

  “Kiss it then, Milja.”

  I put my hands on Egan’s thighs; they felt like rock. I looked up at the crucified man and I wanted to comfort his anguish. I wanted to take him in my embrace.

  “No!” Egan protested weakly. “Milja—don’t!” His legs were trembling with strain.

  “Oh come on; it’s a little late for modesty.” Azazel was all darkness and glittering eyes and bared teeth. His wings stretched out, shadowing us. “Take it in your mouth, Milja. There…that’s right. There’s a good girl.” He moved his hand off Egan and onto the back of my head. “Right to the back of your mouth. Oh, that’s very good. Take: eat: this is my body…”

  Egan made an indescribable noise.

  My mouth was suddenly full of salt.

  ***

  I woke up as Egan scrambled to his feet and threw himself across the boat’s cabin onto the opposite bench. My head, which had been pillowed on his thigh, smacked into the damp plastic padding of the seat.

  Disoriented, at first I didn’t understand what I was seeing: his flushed face, his tousled hair, the spasmodic clenching of the hands he had no idea what to do with. He solved that last one by pointing accusingly at me. Words tumbled from his lips, thick with confusion. “What? What?”

  “What’s happened? I was dreaming…”

  “You said he didn’t have wings!”

  The accusation hit me like a blow, and I cringed as I understood. “Egan?” I squeaked.

  “Shite! Shite!” He lurched to his feet again and blundered to the cabin door. It let in a cold breath of sea night before it slammed, leaving me alone.

  I didn’t follow. I put my hands over my nose and mouth, like I was taking cover from the world. My face was burning and my stomach felt like it was trying to climb up the inside of my throat. And all the time my sex beat with a thick syrupy pulse, the glow of my erotic transport.

  What had he seen? Should I be mortified? Should I be angry at the grotesque invasion of my privacy? I ran the events of the dream through my head, but just felt sick with confusion. What had he seen?

  In the end, I had to go out and find him. Out on deck it was full night, the stars out overhead, the noise of the boat engine not quite masking the beat and hiss of the sea around us. The crew were lounging around the small wheelhouse, smoking and chatting.

  “Where’s Egan?” I asked.

  Someone pointed forward. “I think he went to be sick.” There were muffled snorts of amusement.

  I didn’t find it so funny. I made my way unsteadily up the deck—the sea didn’t look rough at all, but still the boat moved in irregular rhythm that kept catching my feet out. Away from the shelter of the cabin, the night was cool, and only a few scattered lights on the horizon told us that we were not alone on the face of an illimitable dark ocean.

  Egan was huddled right up in the bow, holding on to the inadequate rail. I wasn’t surprised they’d thought he was seasick; he had his head resting on his folded arms.

  “Egan?”

  He lifted his head, just to show that he’d heard me, but didn’t look round.

  “Egan, what did you see?”

  “What do you think I saw?”

  I was glad of the
dark; my face was blazing. “I was asleep.”

  “Me too.” His rage had gone cold, and curdled to bitterness.

  I swallowed, and bit the bullet. “You have a little scar, just at the top of your leg.” It’s sort of sweet, sort of sexy.

  Egan stood up, turning. “You have a mole, just there,” he said, putting one finger right on my breastbone. “In the middle.”

  “Yes,” I said, weakly. It felt like he was boring a hole into my heart. “Oh crap.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was a dream,” I said. “Just a sex dream, I thought. I didn’t know…I didn’t think you’d…”

  “A bit of harmless fun, was it?”

  “It was a dream—you can’t blame people for what they dream about! It’s not under their control!”

  “And yet you seemed to know exactly what was going on. You told me not to worry.”

  “I didn’t know it would upset you—not the real you! For God’s sake, that sort of thing doesn’t happen!”

  “Says the woman who consorts with demons.”

  “I…” I wanted to say I’m sorry, but I was worn out being sorry for my sins. “It wasn’t me. It was him: Azazel. He puts me in these dirty dreams; he likes to mess with my head.”

  “Oh—this happens a lot, does it?”

  I ran my hands through my hair; it felt salty and stiff with sea spray already. “Since I let him go free,” I admitted. “Pretty much every time I go to sleep. It’s like a game he plays.”

  Egan set his jaw, shaking his head. “Demonic obsession.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me, do you enjoy it?”

  “I…thought it was harmless.”

  “Sure, you certainly seemed to be getting into the spirit of things.” His voice was ragged and cold. “Is that your…relationship with him, then? He pulls the strings, and you play the whore? And I’m just something to be used as part of your fantasy?”

  Cold fire lit in my breast. “You weren’t exactly an icon of chastity yourself, as I recall,” said I with chilly precision.

  He took a step back, and didn’t answer. I reminded myself that he had only ever seen me as a helpless waif-girl, a victim of powers beyond my control. He didn’t know my fantasies or my longings or my needs: only my fears. It must have come as a horrible shock to him.

  After all, the deepest darkness of our imaginations is a private place, a secret between ourselves and God. That’s what we’re used to. If other people could see what we really thought…would any one of us be blameless?

  What would your fantasies look like, Egan?

  “Look,” I said, painfully, “please understand. I never asked for this. I fell in… I’m out of my depth, Egan. This is something I don’t understand. I don’t know what’s going on. In my head or out here or anywhere.”

  His voice was hoarse—still cold, but soft now. “Tell me how you feel about him. About this Azazel.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “I need to know.”

  “I don’t know how I feel.” I stopped abruptly and shook my head. I hated it when people said that. I knew exactly what my feelings were for Azazel—however conflicted and contradictory they might be, there was nothing vague about them. It just took courage to face up to them.

  “I…” I licked my lips. “What’s the word in English when you hatch out a duck egg and the first thing the baby duck sees is a pair of green rubber boots? So it thinks the green boots are its mother and it follows them round all the time, and then when the duck grows up it tries to mate with green rubber boots and not other ducks?”

  “Imprinting.”

  “Right. Well, that’s what it is, I think. I grew up with him, Egan. He was always there, this big handsome naked man tied up in a cave. He was the center of our world. We couldn’t leave, we couldn’t let anyone else take the responsibility; he was the most important, incredible thing in my life. I fell in love with him.”

  It was the first time I’d voiced those words, even to myself. Confessing to Egan hurt like fire. I couldn’t look him in the face.

  “And now, when I see him, he is…” I spread my hands in despair. “I want him. He turns me on. Oh, that sounds so weak. He is just the most… My body reacts, it just goes straight past my head, and it has nothing to do with what he is. I just want him. Every time. I can’t help it.”

  “I see.” Did he sound angry? Or disgusted? Or contemptuous? I couldn’t tell. “Do you love him, aside from the perverted sex?”

  Why does he have to ask? I could feel the thump of my pulse in my wrists and belly. The weight of his gaze made me tremble. Egan was my champion and my refuge and this—this, far more than the dream—felt like I was betraying him. But I couldn’t lie. He’d asked for honesty, and I had nothing else to give him.

  “I’m in love. Is that the same thing?” My voice was a croak. “He makes me excited and stupid and crazy with fear. But I don’t know him. How can you love someone, real love, unless you know them? Unless they are human?”

  He bowed his head. “Do you ever see him outside the dreams? In the flesh, I mean.”

  “Not for a while.”

  “But you have?”

  “Oh yes. He’s real, if that’s what you’re getting at. He’s solid.”

  “But the dreams are how he reaches you now.”

  “Yes. I think…I think I’ve had them for years. Since I was sent to America, for sure. But I never could remember them when I woke. Only since I came back here, since cutting him free…I remember the new dreams.”

  Egan snorted. “So you’re saying he groomed you.”

  I felt like he’d punched me in the face. He must have seen that in my expression.

  “What—did you expect me to say ‘How romantic,’ eh?” His lip curled. “After our little ménage? That…thing, that piece of shite, is not some romantic hero. You do get that, don’t you?”

  “I…” Words choked me. Light danced on Egan’s face, bleaching one half and turning the other to darkness. Men were shouting.

  “He’s just using you, Milja.”

  Men were shouting. Crewmen were running up the deck toward us. The light dazzled my eyes when I looked out to sea. “Egan? What’s—?”

  There was another boat, and it had a light trained on us. It was coming in fast, much faster than our fishing vessel.

  “Get down below!” the sailor shouted, and we scrambled for the cabin.

  “Is it the Italian border patrol?”

  Egan shook his head. “I don’t know—I thought we were still in international waters.”

  The new boat was sweeping in alongside, and there was a lot of shouting going on. The light trained on us was blinding, but I could hear voices, and the words were all in Montenegrin.

  “They don’t sound Italian.”

  Egan made a noise that was nearly a growl, pushing me behind him. “Not good.”

  Our captain cut the engine to a purr. The thud-thud-thud of waves beneath the hull dropped away. We stood in the center of the little cabin, facing the door. Shadows swooped across the frosted glass. I peeked past Egan’s shoulder and listened to the orders being shouted.

  “They’re telling them to get down on the deck.”

  “Just stay calm, Milja. No one’s going to hurt you.”

  The door opened.

  “Out! Outside!” Men in dark clothes crowded the hatchway.

  Egan grabbed my hand.

  They gestured us out, and forward again up the side of the cabin to the open fishing deck. Egan surprised me by speaking clearly and calmly in Italian, which I couldn’t follow. Unfortunately our new shipmates seemed to take no notice of his words either. I looked around wildly, trying to get my bearings now that the searchlight was averted. The crew of the Grlica were sitting on the wet deck in a huddle, their hands tucked beneath them, their faces wide-eyed and watchful. Other men—new men, mostly clad in heavy dark clothes with woolen caps pulled down over their ears—milled about keeping an eye on them.


  Egan’s grip on my hand was so tight it hurt, and I have never been more grateful for pain. He kept on talking, addressing them in Italian and then in English. “Who is in charge here? Who do I speak to? Do you want papers? Is that what you are after?”

  Then another man stepped to the front. I’d never seen him before, but he had a big beard and long hair tied back at the nape of his neck, and he wore an Orthodox clerical cassock.

  “Ach,” said Egan in dismay.

  “Separate them,” said the priest, nodding a heavy jaw toward us. The words might have been unfamiliar but Egan worked out what their import was instantly.

  “Don’t you touch her,” he said.

  Men closed in.

  He let go of my hand in order to throw a fist. The first guy staggered and slipped over on the wet deck. Egan turned to face the next—but there were more opponents than he could possibly cope with and they didn’t take it in polite turns. Someone grabbed him from behind and locked an arm around his neck, hauling him off balance and giving others a gap. They mobbed him, and in a few moments they had him down on his knees under a rain of punches and kicks. I was pushed off to one side and grabbed from behind by some burly man, and I screamed with rage and terror.

  “That’ll do!” A man—not the priest; a shaven-headed man with a face like a flat slab—brought the scrum to a finish. The others backed off a bit, revealing Egan on one knee, trying to rise but swaying wildly. As he lifted his head I saw there was blood all over his face.

  “Egan!”

  “Don’t move,” said Slab-face, pulling a handgun from his jacket and pointing it at Egan’s head.

  All the breath went out of my lungs.

  “Search him,” the priest ordered. Someone seized Egan’s jacket and began to go through the pockets, finding his phone straightaway. Egan made a grab and got smacked in the head for his efforts, so hard that only the clutching hands of his captors kept him from collapsing.

  I found breath. “Don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt him!”

  “Now, now.” The priest drew himself up tall, accepting the phone and Egan’s wallet as they were passed over. “Let’s have some calm here. We won’t hurt him as long as you cooperate, girl.”

  “Let him go! He was just trying to help me!”