Pure & Sinful (Pure Souls) Page 14

  Most of all to his own surprise, Marc’s arm lashed out protectively in front of Riona like a shield. “Actually, she already has a girlfriend.”

  Persephone’s face fell, while Riona’s masked surprise.

  “Your grace, we’re here on assignment,” the priest continued in a dead-on impression of stoic Joe Friday. “Intelligence says you have a demon presence here.”

  Likewise, Persephone grew serious, her smile fading. “Yes, I tipped off the network to get some help. Gods and angels, as you know, can’t fight any human-based entity, like a demon, directly. Luckily, my little brother here had his human mother, so he’s exempt from that restriction. But I didn’t know the current pod of Pure Souls was in the area. Makes a lot more sense now, all the chatter going on in the underground these days.”

  Dee made a mental note to ask more on that later.

  Persephone continued, “I don’t know who it is — a regular, a member of my staff, one of the dealers who sweeps in and out of here a few times each night?”

  “Maybe we’ll have a better idea if you tell us what’s going on,” Marc suggested.

  “Wild, crazy sex,” Persephone answered. Dee grinned, but Marc broke down coughing. Riona had no reaction. “Look, anytime you get a whole bunch of under-thirties, booze them up, have them all dress like dancers in a Kanye West video, and give them a dark room where anything goes, there’s going to be some nookie. But lately, I don’t know what’s changed. It almost turns into an orgy. Even people I know from experience who only come here to let off steam and dance get pulled in. At the end of the day, if everyone seems willing, I don’t get involved. But the other night, Chipper had to pull guys off a girl three separate times when they couldn’t accept that the girl wasn’t with the program.”

  “So you still cut the line at rape,” Riona spat out with a hostility that Marc thought was a little too harsh, even given the sin.

  “I have experiences being forced into a situation against my will,” the club owner spat back. “If two people or, hell, more than two people are doing what they’re doing willingly, I don’t give a fuck. Sometimes I even join in, if the invitation is extended. But no one, no one, while in my club is a victim of violence. And even those who try,” her hands pointed high above the club, to where a sign fashioned to look like a cave entrance hung on the building. Marc could see several skulls worked into the frame like they were part of the motif. “Well, we have ways of dealing with the wicked that don’t require magic.”

  Persephone wasn’t kidding. Inside, the dance floor pulsed with bodies that groped, grabbed, gyrated and pivoted in a thousand divergent expressions of desire. At tables, college students kicked back drinks that came in every color of the rainbow, some eerily glowing in the glass. The walls seemed to be moving, until Dee sharpened his gaze and saw the movement was human-based. Or, more appropriately, human-debased. At random intervals, couples made out with no care for how many could see them. Based on movements at the midline, Marc thought a few were even beyond the point of foreplay.

  “We’d do better if we split up,” Dee shouted over the bass drone interlaced with electronic chords. “Can you guys handle that?”

  Marc and Riona exchanged a heavy look before nodding. Dee and Persephone headed towards the high end of the venue, where the bar was packed with clubber clutter, while the two of them headed to the edges of the dance floor. When she was convinced that neither Dee nor Persephone’s superhuman ears would pick up on the conversation, she pounced.

  “What’s with you telling her about Lucy?” Riona shouted over her shoulder and the boom-nnddn-boom of the speaker’s blast.

  “Is that her name?” Marc spat back with what he hoped came across as indifference. “Why, was that a secret? You still in the closet?”

  “No, I’m not, and no, it’s not a secret. But what business was it of hers?”

  They caught luck and found a table with two chairs that offered a perfect visual sweep of the dance floor. Marc pulled a chair out for Riona, who seemed hesitant and eyed him warily. With a jerk of his head and a roll of his eyes, she gave in and sat on the peg-legged piece. He sunk quickly in the chair opposite. The table’s width was barely longer than the distance from his elbow to his wrist. He could easily lean over and shout in a volume she could pick up on.

  “By all means, if you want to sleep with Persephone, or every resident of Mt. Olympus and Valhalla, go for it. I hear lesser divinities are particularly talented lovers. I just hope Lucy understands.”

  Her steely gaze gave him a shiver. “You hate that I have a girlfriend, don’t you?”

  Marc pointed vaguely to his neck. “I don’t leave the spirit of the collar at home when I dress like a layman, Keystone. It’s a sin in my world. I don’t expect you to follow suit, but I can’t help what I am.”

  “I thought you were supposed to hate the sin and love the sinner?”

  Loving the sinner is part of the problem, Marc inwardly chastised. “I do. Hate your sin, I mean.”

  “And the sinner? What’s your position on her?”

  His tongue bit back the word, missionary.

  “My calling would have me love all sinners, though you make that a challenge. Sometimes I can’t figure out if that’s the reason I care about what you do so much. I…”

  He choked on his words, but it was too late. That devilish little smile of hers was loaded with knowledge and insight. Shit, was it really that obvious to her? Had Dee said something, even though he promised on the way over he hadn’t? Should he just drop the asshat façade and tell her the truth?

  No, there was too much to lose and nothing to gain by admitting his feelings, or for a moment giving her any reason to hope.

  “I’m a priest, I have to love the sinners the most,” he answered stoically, before adding a snarky, “because y’all are the most fucked up and the most needing of attention. Now, are we here to talk, or to find evil?”

  She turned her attention back to the dance floor. They both had the same problem: sin and evil were so easily confused in the passing of a moment and to the casual eye. One was temporary, the other long term, but they looked identical in the moment. A witch like Riona, and even a lesser wiccan like Marc, however, could usually distinguish the two by getting close enough to the party in question to sense the intent of their aura. Proximity was the thing.

  “Too many people,” Riona shouted, trying to sort with her eyes through the throng before them without any success. “We have to get in there, feel them out.”

  Without another word, she shot up from her seat and threw her body into the hive.

  Marc’s heart beat in his ears as echoes of what Persephone had said about women being attacked reverberated in his memory. The chair hit the wall behind him as he kicked it out of the way. With Riona’s bright red hair, she shouldn’t be hard to pick out amongst this crowd who looked like most had dipped their heads in coal dust or bleach. A chick who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two and who, based on her glassy eyes, was already five shots into the bar tab, locked him in her gaze and drew herself in. Marc’s body went board-stiff, resisting her urgings to move with her, as she turned her tight little frame to him and began swinging her hips right against the front of his pants. He backed away cautiously, his hands disciplined at his side, and was oddly relieved when an overly-pierced guy, bound in leather, quickly filled the impersonal void he had left.

  Flashing lights made liars of color and moved in time with the music. There was plenty of sin bubbling up around him — it was so thick it left a metallic taste on his tongue — but no pure evil or demon presence that he could sense. Disheartened, Marc reminded himself that Hermosa had been his friend for fifteen years, and he had never made him out for what he truly was. How in the hell could he be expected to tell from a bunch of strangers indulging in lust at a glance which of them drew a paycheck f
rom Hell? And though she had proven that she could kick ass when it came time, Riona still hadn’t honed her skills enough to be any better. That sort of moral perception took years to develop. A witch, however, and a Pure Keystone witch at that, would have an aura that tasted like a hit of cocaine, meth, and a Starbucks triple espresso combined to a demon. They’d pick her out in a second if they set eyes on her.

  Fuck, he had to find her.

  “Jesus!”

  On the edge of hyperventilating, the hand that landed on his shoulder sent a shockwave of fret through him. Marc jolted. He all but leapt out of his skin when he turned, ready to hit something, and saw Riona looking at him disappointedly.

  The music poured out from speakers directly overhead, too strong to hear anything she might have said, but as she overly-accentuated “blend in,” he got the point. Her body started a white man’s strut against the rhythm that tapped with forceful fingers on their skin. Marc had never really been the dancing type, but did his best to reflect her footing. When he stumbled, stepping on her foot after tenderizing his own, she gave him a crooked grin and moved closer. Dangerously closer. Close enough that he could smell the scent of perfume radiating from her heated skin and see that she had used three bobby pins behind her ear to hold her hair in all the right spots.

  Marc backed away like she was a shot of tequila and he was in recovery. She wouldn’t accept it, only glared at him more sharply as a few curious heads turned to take in his imitation of a pine board. Riona grabbed his shirt and pulled it, circling his neck with her arm as she brought her body flush to his. When he didn’t move, but just stared at her wide-eyed and gap-mouthed, she used her other hand to reach out to his arms and draw it behind her. He tried to ignore the bliss that enveloped him as their bodies began to move in time with the bass.

  The speed of the music slowed, and with it, the tempo of the crowd. Rabid bouncing diminished to a sultry fluidity. Marc could spot over Riona’s shoulder the immediate change in the environment. Distances between bodies disappeared. Hands washed over hips and mouths over necks in perfect time to the slow-driven, hypnotic beat. Marc was so enraptured with the view, his thoughts leaning dangerously erotic as visual stimuli bombarded him, that it took him a moment to realize how his sway and swing had begun mirroring every little sexy move Riona made against him like second nature.

  Or primal nature, which seemed more appropriate.

  Her knees bent as her body, too, began to swerve with the thick electronic chords, taking Marc along for the ride. The witch’s head kept switching out, left than right, surveying the crowd, looking for anyone suspicious. All Marc could do was look at her, and the delectable piece of flesh that his mouth could sink down over each time she stretched out her neck one way or another to get a better view.

  He felt his body and his reluctance easing, and before he realized what was happening, the lead fell to him. His other hand circled around Riona’s back, and with both hands on her waist, he brought her hips in parallel with his. Riona’s head snapped back center when she felt his erection pushing against her, but she didn’t at all pull back, like he suspected she might. Instead, after the moment of surprise evaporated, she beamed at him with heavy-lidded eyes as she bit her bottom lip. Her eyes rolled back when Marc — he didn’t know if it was purposefully or instinctively — used his grasp to give an experimental grind against the area that was barely being covered by her miniskirt.

  Riona’s arms circled around him as her head rested against his chest and one of her legs drew up, over his hip. He grabbed under her knee to steady her against him while using the closer proximity to move his other hand down her backside, before landing on the luscious ass he’d been blaming for his lack of resolve in confession for weeks. It was amazing how ideally tailored their bodies were for each other, as though the curve of her ass and the inside of his palm had been custom-fitted like a lid to a jar. He squeezed, and though he couldn’t hear it, he could feel Riona’s moan vibrate on his chest. They both stilled as her head pulled back just enough to look at him tenderly, expectantly.

  He couldn’t deny what was now inevitable. He had to kiss her, had to taste her.

  The moment their lips met, the bass kicked up and became pulsing, driving. Though the tempo stayed hypnotically languid, their movements did not. Her tongue, her lips, her breath… he was overwhelmed. And unsatisfied. And wanted more. Wanted it all. Wanted her, here, now, even with all these people around, even knowing he’d be doomed to Hell for claiming Riona as his own. He had to be near her, against her, beside her, inside her. NOW.

  When he slammed her against an open spot on the wall, she didn’t complain. Her hands anchored on his shoulders as his hands slipped down to pull her legs up, letting his whistle that needed a good whetting, but burdened by a layer of denim and cotton briefs, rub against Riona’s all-too-ready wetness. Her legs wrapped around him as his hips pinned her in place.

  Out from the bass of the speakers, the sound was less obstructive. He pulled back just a second to take in her expression, to make sure she wanted this too.

  “Tell me no, Riona.” He didn’t know if he was commanding her or daring her. Or maybe it was his last ditch attempt to blame her for this, to leave the ball in her court and make the play hers to undertake.

  Breathless and flushed, she looked at him curiously, her expression full of misunderstanding. With his eyes, he motioned to the imminent connection between them and asked permission.

  Riona’s face exploded into acknowledgement. “Never,” she gasped.

  Her head rolled to the side when he brought his mouth down on her neck and bit. His hand lowered to the place where they pulsed in harmony, as his fingers fumbled with his zipper before reaching out to move the slip of drenched silk from over her entrance.

  How he wished he had her on his bed. He wanted to see that promised land, wanted to lay her flat on his mattress and let his kisses fall on her center, let his tongue explore her, flesh-to-flesh. Here in the club, all he had was sensation, carnal need. He longed for it all, he wanted to hear her call out his name as she gasped beneath him. Or on top of him, if that was the way she liked it. But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down now. This was fate, it was destiny. He needed this. They both needed this. There was no point in denying that he wanted her. Oh, God, how he wanted her. If he thought she’d accept it, he’d tell her now. He’d tell her everything. Then he’d repeat it in his actions when he made love to her, over and over.

  He could feel her wetness on his tip. Just one more moment, one little shift of his hips, one more sin, and he’d be inside her.

  He’d be complete, and they’d both be damned.

  Chapter 17

  Persephone had a swagger that could choke a duck. All divinities were endowed with superhuman sexual appeal, even demigods and quarter-gods. The fourth generation out, things usually got a little more watered down. Brad Pitt made it work somehow. Still, it had been a while since Dee was in a god’s presence. The level of ogling and cat-calling his half-sister endured on the short walk from the bar, up a flight of interior stairs, and to her sound-proofed office that overlooked the swarms of clubbers below, threw him for a loop.

  “What’s a matter, Dee?” Persephone asked as she closed the door behind them. “You seem uneasy in your own skin.”

  He went to the picture window and perched there like a hawk on a telephone pole. The elevation provided the perfect vantage for surveillance — a feature no doubt specifically taken into consideration during construction — and he wasn’t about to be detoured from his purpose.

  “You’ve been around a lot longer than me, but I wonder,” he answered without looking at her, “you ever get used to all the assholes and their comments?”

  A pop and fizz was soon followed by Persephone pressing the chilled stem of a champagne flute into his hand as she joined him at the window. “It’s just another burd
en of the job, Dee. I just remind myself that they’re only human. Besides, up on the mountain, I’m just another pretty face among a sea of exterior perfection. That’s the down side of godly-good looks no one ever considers. After a while, we all look pretty plain to each other. But, no, I never mind being in the showcase, just as long as the glass stays up.” She took a sip before her expression turned circumspect. “So, have to say I’m surprised to see you here. What the hell you doing in a little backwater city like this?”

  “Boston is hardly backwater.” He eyed her incredulously.

  “Yeah, but it’s not Mumbai or Beijing. And it sure as hell isn’t Athens.” She took his chin in her hand and turned his face towards his. “I know you’re only a demigod, Dionysus, but you’re still divine and you’re still royal blood. Father would welcome you, if you ever wanted to sit on the mountain. Think of it: no more aging, no more sickness, no more struggles against demons or trying to pay the bills. No more need to regard petty human feelings and affairs.”

  Taking a hard gulp of the champagne, he turned himself back to the window and pointed at the sea of people beneath, moving to music he couldn’t hear, living lives he could never live. “See, that’s the one that gets me. I like my petty human feelings and affairs. Life on the mountain sounds pretty sweet until you get to the part where you have to rip away that part of your ability to feel regret and shame. Shame reminds me that I’m not actually infallible. Something Dad, and quite frankly, a whole bunch of our family tree could do with being reminded of every so often.”

  “Still not over what happened with Clare, then.”

  Dee sidestepped her comment. “Listen, sis, if you’re so sold on the wonders of the mountain, what brought you down from Olympus? I thought you were a year-round resident ever since Hades lost the underworld and you didn’t have to winter in Hell anymore.”