Raven. Alison Paige
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he stood straight, the old body was a good two inches taller than she was, and Akram never slouched.
The body didn’t matter, it was the strength and potency of the soul Akram craved—what he fed on. Though to consume the soul destroys the body in the end, Akram had the power to sustain the host’s outward appearance until the very last drop of soul was gone. He’d cut it dangerously close more than once.
The transformation always amazed her. It wasn’t the first time she’d chosen a body so dilapidated that when the demon restored it to good health she scarcely recognized it. Though she would always recognize Akram, no matter what body he wore.
He flicked his gaze to her, his golden eyes gleaming through orbs born blue. The memory of eyes the color of a swimming pool flashed through her head. The demon’s eyes were always golden, always Akram. “Does that please you, my little Raven?”
Morrigan shrugged, ignoring the butterfly flutters in her belly when he called her his. “Europe, the States, Asia, doesn’t matter. Just tell me when it’s time for the next hunt, demon.”
“Fifty-one years together. Are you so eager to be free of me?”
Morrigan met his gaze, held it so there’d be no misunderstanding and replied coolly, “Yes.”
Akram looked away to hide his flinch. He was a fool to hope he could please her. He’d never be more to her than what he was, her demon master. Why did the prospect bother him so? He couldn’t be sure. These sorts of thoughts and longings had never arisen in him before.
He glanced at the pile of dust that was once his host and tossed the filthy shirts on top. He shoved out of the jeans, so ripe with stench they could almost stand on their own, and added them to the pile. A lone shoe was last to go. He didn’t ask about the other. It didn’t matter.
“Clean that up,” he said, catching her midnight eyes taking in his naked form. “We leave tonight.”
Akram strode from the room, refusing to give more weight to Morrigan’s passing physical interest than it deserved.
So she wished to be free of him. He should release her. Let her remember what it was like to be without the comforts he provided.
But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. And not just because he enjoyed the luxury of her skill at securing him hosts. He needed her, but he’d be damned if he’d play the sentimental fool.
“Sentimentality…pfftt,” he said to himself, taking the carpeted oak stairs two at a time. She’d take it as weakness, and to his mind it was.
Akram, ancient demon, survivor of torments and time’s unending march, would have none of it. He would not be torn asunder by a woman.
On the second floor of the mansion he slammed the bathroom door behind him, striding to the long double sink. His spirit had worked its magic on the new host, taking back years lost to abuse and neglect. He was still filthy and smelled like dung, but the flesh had tightened over hard muscle, once-rotting teeth were healthy again, and some of the gray hair had returned to its original ebony shade.
Akram turned his chin from side to side, eyeing his reflection. He needed a shave, but the silvery shoulder-length hair suited him. Or it would once he’d washed it.
He closed his eyes, his spirit warming as it pulled energy from the host’s soul. An exhale gushed from his lungs. Damn, it felt good to soak his spirit in a full, deep well again. Every day that well would grow shallower, every day there’d be less and less to sustain him. Akram pushed the unpleasant worry from his mind.
He opened his eyes and stared into the dead-gray eyes of his brother. No. Wait. Akram shook his head. Richard wasn’t his brother. He was the brother of Daniel, the host whose body Akram now possessed.
Akram clenched his jaw, braced his hands on the sink he knew was there but couldn’t see through the memory the host forced him to witness. Jeezus, he hated this part, the last fit-‘n’-fight of the host trying to oust him. It was always a wretched experience, some vile memory he was forced to endure, touching, smelling, feeling every nuance as though it was his own memory.
Akram’s gaze shifted to his hands, shocked for a moment to see them tight around his bother’s throat, his long fingers turning white from the squeeze. But they weren’t his hands, it wasn’t his brother; it was Daniel’s, his host. Not that it mattered. The emotions storming his brain were real enough.
Morrigan had a habit of choosing the worst dregs of society, those souls whose after-death trip would likely be short and at a downward tilt.
Pure, absolved souls use pity as a weapon in the battle for possession—heartfelt glimpses of loved ones to try to play on his guilt, try to break his heart, his determination. The wicked used their sins against him, trying to shock and disgust him into letting go. Neither worked, though both were a torment to endure.
This host’s last stand was no different. Richard, the brother, flailed at Akram’s shoulders and head in the vision, though the slaps that stung his cheeks and rattled his brain were as real as anything.
Akram ignored the pain, Daniel’s anger burning through him, tightening his hands, shifting his weight to press everything he had against his brother’s miserable neck. Why can’t Richard mind his own damn business? Just shut up, you stupid jerk. Shut up. Shut up.
The flesh around Richard’s lips shifted from red to blue, the color quickly spreading to his cheeks, around his bulging eyes, across his forehead.
Richard clawed at Akram’s hands and arms, desperate to break his grip. Blood beaded along the scratches, the wounds burning like acid, but he ignored it. The little jerk never could beat him in a fight.
Then suddenly his kid brother stopped. Stopped slapping, stopped scratching…stopped moving. It was over. Richard stared up at Akram, his blue eyes dulling. Shit
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