The Devil Inside Page 6

  A whimper came from James and his head shook from side to side as though he were having a bad dream. Miranda moved to retrieve a syringe filled with a sedative. I leaned closer to James. Some instinct had me trying to uncover something with my inspection, and for some reason, I thought if I was right up close, I’d discover it. But when my eyes were in line with his, a hand span away, he opened them and stared into my soul.

  “James, we’re going to help you,” I said and placed my palm firmly on his shoulder.

  He blinked, and I noticed a black film coating the edges of his eyes. A sick feeling rolled inside. So much like a witch, yet, it was impossible.

  “James?” I asked. “Can you hear me? It’s Cash. Do you remember me?”

  A growl rumbled from Jame’s throat. “You took something from my room.”

  “What was it, James?”

  He bared his teeth. “I want it back.”

  Then he thrashed about, fingernails sharp as claws as they slashed for me. I pulled back, narrowly missing injury. When Miranda drew close, he went for her too. I held the boy down while she injected him. Within seconds, he relaxed, closed his eyes, and sighed before going still.

  Miranda gathered herself and fussed with the plastic gloves on her hands. “Wow. Whatever he’s taken, that’s some drug. Did you get a sample?”

  I paused. “No.”

  Miranda pursed her lips, eyes condescending over the newly adhered surgical mask. “Then it will take longer for us to figure out how to help him and whether this is contagious.”

  “I know that,” I snapped. “I’ll send for a team to canvas and clean the site. There may be another witness who can provide clues.” I hated being wrong. I should’ve taken the empty syringe, but I hadn’t. “James smells like a witch. Something isn’t right. It’s not possible for a witch to be in a male body.”

  “Well, there’s nothing you can do right now. We’ll take it from here and, please, get yourself checked out. Don’t leave the building until the lab results are back in and the quarantine is lifted.”

  “I’m immune to witchcraft.”

  “What if this isn’t witchcraft?”

  My jaw clenched, but I stayed silent.

  “If you get the all clear, go and sort out the rest,” Miranda added.

  Who did she think she was, my mother?

  In the end, I left the boy in the hands of the professionals and headed to my office. My mind revved like a performance race car—I couldn’t stop the thoughts coursing through and, yet, I couldn’t settle on one. I ignored Miranda’s suggestion to get checked out. I was fine.

  Fucking peachy.

  I slipped my jacket off and neatly folded it to hang over the back of my leather office chair, then called operations and tasked a sweep and keep team. I left Jed out of it, purely because I wasn’t ready to go back and face Roo yet. She’d had such admiration in her eyes the last time she saw me. I needed Jed to stay put for now.

  Plus I had a mountain of paperwork. I filed through the pile of papers on my desk. To sum it up, there had been a few reported cases of maleficent possession in the last few weeks, but each case had been closed by my men. There were a few pro-bono requests I needed to sign for, and some applications for me specifically to head the hunt—mostly from the government. Speaking of government, I scrunched up the offer for direct employment from them. It was the third time they’d sent a letter in the past month. The last thing I wanted was to take orders again—no more contract killing. I shuddered. The next hour was spent going through the paper work and wincing every time my range of movement spanned more than a few centimeters—hell, every time I moved.

  The fading light from my window reminded me the day was almost done, and my protesting stomach told me I hadn’t eaten.

  “Nell,” I said as I strode out of my office. I sidestepped an indoor plant I didn’t remember being there and almost tumbled into her desk.

  “Yes, Mr. Samson?” She stood up from her seat. Her earpiece was still in, and she had bags under her big round eyes. Her light brown hair had strings of gray spliced through it. She had aged since I’d last seen.

  “How is the boy? I feel terrible,” she asked.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I should’ve called you earlier. I’m so sorry.”

  “You were only following orders—my orders—that I wasn’t to be disturbed. Never mind that. Before you clock off, find me some food.” That was a bit rude, I thought, and remembered my early memory flash about not being so abrupt. I added in a softer voice, “Thank you. Please leave it on my desk. Also can you arrange for someone from Research and Development to report on this as soon as possible? Then you can go home. Thank you.”

  I handed her the gold scarab.

  “Sure. I’ll get right onto that.”

  “And take the day off tomorrow.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’ve been working overtime, so have a break. Paid of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Samson,” a gruff voice said behind me.

  I turned to find Bertram, my personal physician, standing a meter away, white eyebrow arched high, unimpressed. His long, angled nose made him appear superior even though I was a foot taller. I straightened unconsciously. Bertram wore a white medical lab coat over his slim body and held his hands in front, fiddling with a chipped button.

  “No one is leaving until they pass a physical, ya? Miss. Nell, you report to my rooms before you leave for the day, Dr. Cassie can see you. As for you Mr. Samson, you were injured. Have you healed then, or are you in need of assistance?” His German accent was slight, but recognizable. East Central Dialect, perhaps Berlin or Frankfurt. The knowledge surfaced from my subconscious. Without a doubt. Perhaps I’d lived there before in an old life.

  “Uh…” I darted a glance around the room. Nell had returned to her computer, searching the online menu of some restaurant. If I agreed to an examination, Bertram would discover my bodily failings, but I had no choice. “Yes. Fine, I’ll go first.”

  “Okay.” Bertram looked surprised. “Ya, okay then. This way.”

  He ushered me into a medical examination room on the next floor and asked me to perch on the edge of a gurney.

  “Is any of that blood yours?” Bertram pointed to my shirt.

  “I’m not sure.”

  He mumbled incoherently, inhaled sharply and blew abruptly through his nose. “Take it off.”

  “Yes, sir.” I unbuttoned my shirt and winced as invisible needles stabbed my torso. I smoothed the shirt on my lap, folded it, and then placed it next to me in a neat pile.

  The doctor clucked and leaned forward to inspect my bruised skin.

  “How long ago did you say this was inflicted?”

  “About two hours.”

  “It looks fresh.”

  “And?”

  “Don’t get smart with me, young man. You know very well what I meant. You aren’t healing at the rate befitting your biological makeup. This should be gone by now, ya?” Bertram straightened. “I want you to postulate why this is so. Explain what has happened to you since I last saw you.”

  I took a deep breath. How much to tell?

  As if he could hear my thoughts, Bertram added, “This partnership only works with honesty. I may be Player like you, but I still have a Hippocratic oath to uphold, ya? Nothing you say will leave this room. I have already pledged to your House, what more can I say?”

  “I’d thought you’d
have your hands full with the rest of my team. Not all of them are Players.”

  “Ya, it is true that I treat them and, ya, it is also true your Gamekeeper takes up a ridiculous amount of time—”

  “Marc comes here?”

  “Ya, of course. I treat everyone. That is my oath.”

  “What the hell does Marc have to be worried about, health wise I mean.”

  Bertram’s white eyebrows lifted. “You know I cannot discuss another patient.”

  “But I pay your wages.”

  Bertram shrugged. While his demeanor said he was letting that comment wash away, his eyes held another story. He meant business.

  I supposed he was right. Bertram had given a blood oath to serve my House, but he was still a Player which meant if the Gamekeeper came calling, then he had to stop everything and serve. Either way, he was invested in this. A pang of regret sliced through me as I realized Bertram wasn’t the only Player with a stake in my game. There were many others who had pledged to my House. Many others who would suffer if I prematurely ended my life on this planet and devolved in the next.

  I settled on telling Bertram everything. I spoke about my soul parts recently reuniting and the discovery that my body was human, not Nephilim and hence, weaker.

  Bertram nodded as I spoke. “You are aware the reason Seraphim interbreed with humans is to make vessels resilient enough to handle the possession of their superior souls?”

  “Of course.”

  “So then you know that your vessel is dying.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes.

  “Cash,” Bertram continued. “You are dying.”

  “When you say it like that it sounds so appealing.”

  “While your newly gained sarcasm is a refreshing change, it will get you nowhere, Mr. Samson.”

  “So, how long do I have?” I could use this, the expiration date. It made my decision easier.

  “I do not know enough to be accurate. You used to heal fine, but now with your full powered soul, you do not. I would assume at least the same time it takes for a witch to burn through her host—a few months to a few years, depending on innate resilience. Then again, a witch has only a fraction of the power of a Seraphim soul, so you would perhaps burn out more rapidly. And where have your markings gone? Your body used to be covered with a star-map.”

  Bertram took a photograph of the extensive bruising at my chest and then asked a few more questions so he could establish a timeframe for my body’s rate of decline. The cut on my palm happened a week ago and had healed—just. They would run tests, assess my injuries in a few days and compare my current telomere regeneration rate to that of old. But combining all of my recent activities and evidence, Bertram guessed my healing was just above the level of a human, and being up against an army of demigods and demon witches that was nothing.

  I put my shirt back on.

  Bertram prescribed extra strength anti-inflammatories and Arnica for the bruising, then sent me away with strict instructions to rest up until the results were in.

  But I couldn’t rest. I was angry. Filthy, rotten angry. I kicked over the pot plant at Nell’s desk on the way back to my office. When I saw the steaming takeaway food on the table with a Post-it note, I went back to replace the plant to its rightful position. With a churning mind I went back to my meal. I read the message written on the yellow note:

  Phone call while you were away.

  From: Roo??

  Message: Sorry about my bossiness earlier. Are you home for dinner tonight? Should I save food for you?

  I stared at the note for a long time then sat down at my desk and shoveled the curry into my mouth, re-reading the words. It was strange for someone to be waiting for me to come home.

  Home.

  A foreign word to me.

  What did it mean? A place to rest your head, a familiar place where you reside, family to share it with… The meaning had changed so much in my lifetime that in the end, the word became empty. But when I’d read the word knowing she had spoken them, I became restless.

  When I was done eating, I walked passed my memorabilia shelf and trailed my finger along the wood. Each item represented a past life of mine.

  The first few weeks after I’d started remembering, I thought I was crazy. Then I had a flash of something that felt familiar and followed the clues. I had to know if it was a dream, real, or if I was going insane. I discovered bones in a forest that day, and a bag of personal belongings. Clearly, I was not insane. After that, each time a memory surfaced, and if I could get away from my work, I would investigate and trace the visions back to a buried, sunk, or lost item now found. I touched the rare bottle of wine I’d salvaged from a shipwreck, then the first edition book found in a box buried under a tree, but the item that took my attention was an autographed baseball from my current life. I picked it up and laid down on the office couch. I rested my weary head on the armrest and repetitively threw and caught the ball to stop myself from falling asleep. Too much to figure out. Every time I caught it, I listed a name, or described the face of a person I had failed in some way. I could go back centuries.

  At the top of my list was my current mother. I’d brought nothing but pain into her life, killing her husband by accident when I was young, and now taking her youngest son.

  I thought of Jed. I was supposed to train him.

  The staff and children at the orphanage—they needed me.

  The Office. Nell and her gray hair.

  James.

  Marc.

  Roo.

  I caught the ball and gripped tight.

  Thinking of her made me think of her father—the head of Urser House at the Australian Ludus. He was also a Watcher, the Queen’s brother-in-law, and an evil son-of-a-bitch. I was sure the situation with James was directly linked to him. No matter what I did in my life, I always came back to Urser.

  Fucking Urser.

  I threw the ball and caught it, then turned over the curved worn surface to inspect the stitching. My knuckles went white with strain.

  To follow through with my promise to quit the game, I had to leave Roo in the clutches of that monster. The thought hollowed me out. To make it worse, how was I going to tell her I was dying? She clearly had feelings for me even if she didn’t act on them. And I… what did I feel?

  A tightness in my chest answered for me.

  Fuck feelings.

  This was too hard. I ditched the ball at the wall, heard it drop and thud on the carpet. I turned over on the couch and let a wave of exhaustion roll over me as I faced the reincarnated demons that danced behind my eyelids, trying to decide if the familiarity of it made me feel like home.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Marc

  “SIGN THIS, AND this, and fill out this one.” A woman with silver pixie hair and oversized glasses slid a pile of forms across the bench to me, pointing at each as she spoke.

  I stared at the papers, then back at the lady. “I’m sorry, love, not following.”

  She adjusted her round, red glasses, looked up and down my body with disdain, handed a black pen to me and then spoke slowly. “If you”—she waved at me—“want me”—she waved at herself—“to extract mem-or-ies from your arc-hive—”

  I raised my hand, cutting her off and lifted a brow with a wink. “Love, you’ve done something with your hair, yeah? You look particularly ravishing today.” That’ll do the trick.

  Her lids drooped. “It’s Annie, not love, and we’ve never met.” She turned back to her computer, fingers flying over the keyboard, nails clicking on the keys.

  I was shocked. The compliment barrage didn’t work. It always worked. Maybe she was a Player, sometimes my charms were lost on
Players. I snorted, checked myself, and patted my body down. Is this thing on? Parts all there. Buff body, there. Magnetic personality: check. Threads: tight. No wait. Where were my clothes?

  Whoops. I conjured clothes and righted myself in no time and then tried again. Perhaps I should’ve gone to another Ludus, but I heard this Librarian at the Australian Ludus was the best.

  “You do know who I am, right?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And I don’t have time to fill out forms, I don’t need to… I’m the Gamekeeper!”

  Without looking my way, she lifted a red-nailed finger to point at a sign over her head and recited, “No forms, no memories.”

  Right-o then. I looked at the paperwork and blew air through my nose. I could work with this. How bad could a form be?

  Bloody bollocks and bullshit.

  Five minutes later and I still filled out the rubbish. Who in their right mind would waste precious time doing this? After a quick glance at the she-devil, I decided there was nothing for it, and finished the sodding forms as fast as I could, quietly having a laugh at the absurdity of the situation. The last time I had to fill out a form was… I couldn’t even remember. I really needed a session.

  When I finished, I cleared my throat, swallowing my pride and impatience. I deserved a medal for this. Really.

  Annie peered over the rim of her glasses then picked up the papers, licked her finger and flicked through them. After what seemed like an age, she laid the entire ten page form across the bench horizontally and pointed to a spot on each paper. “You haven’t used block letters. It specifically states you need to use block letters. Do you know what that means?”

  “Sod your bloody block letters.” Flames engulfed my hands, roaring and crackling in disdain. It was an accident. I was old enough to forget an entire age, yet, I still had trouble controlling my power under extreme conditions. Like a bleeding teenager. Yep, there went my patience, scurrying under the bench like a little twat. My power crackled as I restrained.