Page 4 of Stolen By the Demon

“Let them go,” Vasili implored. “You create a bloodbath here, now, and everything you worked for will be gone. Your father will be pissed.”

My focus had been solely on Roger and his vampire clan; I had pushed everything else from me, but now, slowly, the noises of the club penetrated my consciousness again, I saw the young faces of my patrons, laughing, dancing, kissing, having the time of their lives, oblivious to how closely death was hovering about.

It wasn’t that I felt any pity for them. I hadn’t felt anything in a long, very long time. Curiously, Blanche’s nearness reminded me of who I was with her and that I liked that person a lot better than the demon my father had created me to be.

“You better be right about that,” I snarled at Vasili.

I didn’t let go of Blanche’s hand, but the next time she tugged on mine, I allowed her to free herself. She sent a hesitant glance at me before she stepped over to Roger, who grabbed her instantly.

I stepped forward, but Vasili put a cautioning hand on me, holding me back, “They won’t get far, I promise.”

“That’s better,” Roger snarled derisively toward me, “Wouldn’t want daddy to get mad now, would we?”

I ground my jaw and swore that I would make Roger pay. He was dead already; he just didn’t know it yet. His immortal life would come to an abrupt end in a few minutes.

“I’ve got you, Blanche, trust me,” I promised when she turned one more time toward me before Roger pulled her up the stairs.

I didn’t wait for Vasili; I started up the stairs after them as soon as they were out of sight, pushing and shoving humans to the side, uncaring if they fell down the stairs or not. In all the thousands of years of my existence, I had only ever cared for one human: her, the one I had thought dead and lost for more than four hundred years.

The one my father had ripped my heart out for before he threw me into the seven hells for three centuries: Blanche!

I didn’t understand much of what was happening, but the man who came to my rescue calling out to me, calling me Blanche, ripped something inside my chest open. A tsunami of images and emotions threatened to drown me, too many to cling to one or see long enough to form any kind of picture.

How did he know me?

And why did I feel as if I had known him for a long time?

Roger pulling me up the stairs cut my musings short; my fear of him and my father outweighed anything else. He would take me back now to that terrible place where they had killed a woman, and every part inside of me revolted against that.

“No!” I yelled, pulling on my arm, freeing it from his grip because he hadn’t been prepared for it. I rushed up the rest of the way faster than I would have thought myself capable of running, past the burly door guards.

“Stop right now, Blanche!” Roger yelled after me. He had recovered from his surprise and was closer behind me than I liked.

“Hold up,” the guard by the entrance called out, reaching for my wrist and pulling me around.

“Let go of me!” I cried, shaking the hand he was holding and pushing against him with my other.

To all our surprise, my push made him stumble backward, right into his friend. Before he had a chance to regain his footing, Roger punched him in the face, knocking him out for good.

I took this moment of the men being occupied with fighting and dashed past the throng of people still standing in line, watching me, gasping and talking.

Blindly, I entered an alley filled with cans made from a material I had never seen before, and for the first time, I wondered, really wondered, where I was. Or when. How long had I been asleep?

A side door opened, and several burly men appeared; one spoke into his hand, no he held something in his hand. “She’s here. We’ve got her.”

Roger and his men turned the corner, holding a strange weapon in their hands.

“Get over here, Blanche, right now,” Roger yelled.

The men who emerged from the side entrance also held black weapons, and suddenly, the air was filled with the loudest, deafening bangs I had ever heard. I threw myself to the ground, covering my ears, as both groups of men staggered back as if hit by something invisible, all the while the banging staccato gained intensity.

“Blanche,” the man from the bar was back. Shielding me with his body, he pulled me to my feet. “This way, come.”

Just as I was about to take his hand, Roger tackled him with such power and force that the stranger was pushed away from me against a wall.

“You just don’t know when to stop, do you?” Roger snarled.

“And you have no idea who you are tangling with,” the man replied, changing into a different form that knocked me to the ground. His skin color changed from a deep olive to bright red, horns grew out of his forehead as his hair receded, and his ears turned pointy.

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