Familiar Demon Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  A Good Brother’s Spit

  Imp of the Arcane

  Planning A Demon’s Demise

  Step from Sorrow to Sorrow

  Demon Stew

  Under a Rock

  The Youngbloods Go on Quest

  When Hell is Not Hell

  Blue Earth, Red Sky

  Wanderful

  The Time We Stole

  Joy and Chaos

  Never Enough Touch

  What Might Have Been

  Magic, Faith, and Blood

  Clyde

  Redemption Day

  After the Hard Rain

  Purple: Amy’s Alternate Universe

  Readers love Familiar Angel by Amy Lane

  About the Author

  By Amy Lane

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  Familiar Demon

  By Amy Lane

  Familiar Love: Book Two

  For over a century, Edward Youngblood has been the logical one in a family of temperamental magical beings. But reason has not made him immune to passion, and Edward’s passion for Mullins, the family’s demon instructor, has only grown.

  Mullins was lured into hell through desperation—and a fatal mistake. He’s done his best to hang on to his soul in the twisted realm of the underworld, and serving the Youngblood family when summoned has been his only joy. Edward concocts a plan to spring Mullins by collecting a series of items to perform an ancient ritual—an idea that terrifies Mullins. He can’t bear the thought of losing Edward and his brothers to a dangerous quest.

  But every item in their collection is an adventure in brotherhood and magic, and as Mullins watches from the sidelines, he becomes more and more hopeful that they will succeed. When the time comes for Mullins to join the mission, can he find enough faith and hope to redeem himself and allow himself happiness in the arms of a man who would literally go to hell and back—and beyond—to have Mullins by his side?

  To the dedicated few who love my weirdness enough to follow me here. And to the Green’s Hill folk, who were gracious enough to come visit. And to Mate. For always. And to Mary, who only puts up with these books so she can get to String Boys.

  Author’s Note

  SO, THE denizens of Green’s Hill were not all created JUST for this book. They, in fact, have stories of their own. If you’re interested in Lady Cory et al, please visit DSP Publications at https://tinyurl.com/yao3r8pq and check out her first book—Vulnerable.

  A Good Brother’s Spit

  THE MARKET was supposed to be neutral ground.

  Edward Youngblood gathered his thin silk scarf tighter around his hair and face, making sure his features were obscured. His bright green eyes and sunburned skin were obvious over the covering, but he couldn’t help that.

  This was supposed to be a place of anonymity. A sort of “Magic Users Are Us” where those with knowledge of the arcane gathered on a hidden plane of existence to talk shop and trade artifacts.

  But that didn’t mean the name Edward Youngblood wasn’t being whispered fiercely these days, and Edward could feel the sands of time running through his fingers even as he took a step inside the gathering tent and out of the fierce suns of this desert plane.

  He really needed this chameleon’s tongue.

  It wasn’t an actual tongue of an actual chameleon—that would be easy enough to gather and downright cruel. What he needed was rarer and bit more just, to his way of thinking. The spell called for Chameleon’s Tongue, After Use, which meant the tongue of a spy, a shapeshifter who had betrayed his people, right after the act of betrayal.

  He looked up at Cuamo, the barkeep of the Market, and nodded. He had intel—the best—that such a shapeshifter would be in this bar this night.

  Cuamo nodded and looked away, catching the eyes of four hooded figures in the corner of the tent, and Edward stiffened.

  He knew those brown eyes, snapping mad over a hand-woven scarf, and he knew the crossed blue eyes of the man next to him, and oh, God and Goddess help him, he knew the ginormous shoulders and hazel eyes of the man across from them.

  And there was no denying the angel in the corner, with or without his wings.

  Edward tore the scarf from his face, all need for pretense gone.

  “Goddammit!” He stalked to the corner and threw himself gracelessly into the pile of cushions they’d set next to their table for him. “What in the unholy fuck are you idiots doing here?”

  Harry Youngblood, his brother, ripped off his burnoose and let the full weight of his scowl fall on Edward, and Edward felt his fury start to subside.

  “Edward fucking Youngblood—did you really think we’d let you do this alone?”

  Edward swallowed, then crossed his arms on their low table the better to bury his head. “It was supposed to be my quest,” he said, as close to apology as he ever came. “I’m supposed to find the items alone—”

  “And you did,” Beltane Youngblood, the hazel-eyed giant, said earnestly. His burnoose fell off without thought—but then, Beltane barely had to breathe and there were ripples in the world. “You found all—”

  “Some,” Edward corrected.

  “Most of the ingredients here all by yourself, and you put them in the back of my parents’ minivan, which got inconveniently….”

  “Blown up,” Francis supplied at Bel’s side, looking dreamily up at the grown young man he and his brother familiars had known since his first breath. “They got blown up, remember?”

  Beltane smiled besottedly down at Francis, and Edward tried and failed to avoid rolling his eyes. The Youngblood brothers were not technically brothers, nor related by blood. The thing that had started up between Beltane and Francis in the past year both defied description and was never discussed among Francis, Edward, and Harry—but that didn’t mean Edward and Harry didn’t spend their time worrying about how it might end up.

  The whole lot of them were in each other’s pockets far too deeply for a failed love affair to separate two of them—and as steady and loyal as Beltane had been since birth, Francis had always been as skittish as, well, a Siamese cat. Messing with the Youngblood chemistry was not wise.

  But Bel didn’t seem to worry about that. Ever. “Yes, but it was mother who did the blowing up. I mean, she was getting us all away from psychos with guns at the time, but I don’t think she wants reminding.” Bel sounded very earnest, as he should. His mother was, well, the reason they were all walking around—not just on planet earth but on this particular magical plane where none of them had any business being.

  “I’m just saying, there were explosions,” Francis told him mildly. Then he smiled, an expression blissfully cold and deeply disturbing on his narrow, roman-nosed face. “I liked the explosions.”

  “I helped with those, remember?” Bel said with pride. “Mother had just finished teaching me flourishes, right? A little blue, a little green—”

  “I was there, Beltane,” Edward snapped, trying not to let their byplay distract him. “I remember.”

  “But we weren’t there, were we, Harry?” Harry’s beloved, Suriel, turned big earth-brown eyes to Harry’s face. Harry—the oldest of them, the protector—had a jaw of granite and a brow that had been pulled down into a scowl more often than not. In over 140 years of friendship and brotherhood, Harry had proven himself the most aggressive and driven of the lot of them.

  Edward wasn’t sure he was ever getting used to the faintly befuddled look on Harry’s face whenever Suriel turned that limpid gaze his way.

  “No, Suriel,” Harry told him, a flush washing his Irish-fair skin. “You and I were, uh, hashing things out.”

  Suriel smile
d at the rest of them. “We were making love as often as possible,” he told them, smug with it. Something in Edward’s face must have changed because Suriel’s smile faded. “I’m so sorry, Edward. I know you’re getting a bit impatient.”

  “I was really looking forward to that Chameleon’s Tongue,” Edward admitted quietly.

  “Good thing for you we have it,” Harry told him, voice as dry as the dust that surrounded them. Then he stuck out his tongue.

  “What in the hell!” Edward flailed. “Put that away!”

  “I’m a shapeshifter who betrayed you by telling other shapeshifters what you were doing,” Harry said. “And I looked carefully at the spell you showed me—”

  “You cracked my computer?”

  “The password was only sixteen characters and barely encrypted. You were asking for an intervention. Anyway, it didn’t say the tongue. It said….” Harry made a little “c’mon” gesture with two fingers.

  And Edward sighed, because he was right. “It said the spit of the lying tongue, a traitor of the Chameleon people, after he has lied and before the spit has dried,” he recited.

  “Yes. So, you were here to collect some poor bastard’s tongue in a jar, and here I am, just dripping with unrighteous shapeshifter spit. Did you bring a fucking jar?”

  “He didn’t have to,” Suriel said calmly. “You made me bring one for him.” And with that he produced a baby food jar, the kind their mother Emma used to mix her paints. He handed it to Harry, and Harry closed his mouth and made a face like he was scraping his tongue on his teeth. After a moment or so he held out his tongue, drooled in the jar, and then sealed it.

  He handed the jar to Edward with what could only be described as righteous superiority.

  “Thank you,” Edward said ungraciously. “That was awesome. Does it justify the entire lot of you lying to me and then pulling off this dramatic… magical intervention?”

  “Absofuckinglutely,” Harry snarled, suddenly up in Edward’s face.

  Edward, who had spent much of his life as an orange tomcat, backed up and hissed.

  Harry, who had spent even more of his life as a long-haired black tomcat, curled his lips back from his teeth and growled.

  For a moment there was a standoff between them, and then Edward remembered that reason was his watchword, his mantra, and his creed, relaxed his… uhm, upper lip, and straightened. Unconsciously, he brought the back of his hand up by his nose to make sure his whiskers were settled, and took a deep breath.

  Then he hated himself, because not only had he let Harry be the dominant cat, as always, but he’d forgotten himself for a moment and tried to smooth whiskers that weren’t even there.

  For his part, Harry backed up out of fighting space and rubbed the back of his own neck with his hand.

  “Edward,” he said, with a voice so tender it made Edward ache. “Did you think we wouldn’t understand?”

  “How could you?” Edward asked, his voice rough in his own ears. “When I didn’t understand it myself. It’s not… reasonable.”

  Harry turned a look on him that was so damned compassionate, Edward wanted to hide. Had his brother always been this kind? “Love never is,” he said, glancing at his beloved.

  Suriel tilted his head forward slightly. “The mystery is part of the joy,” he said, angelic serenity at the fore.

  “Part of the bloody-arsed… assed… fuck. Fun. Dammit.” Back and forth, from an Irish brat in a gold-rush town to a doctor and practitioner of the arcane who was over a century old, Edward was so undone, his voice couldn’t even decide who he was. To his horror, he felt his eyes burn, and he gave his emotions a brutal stomp.

  Nobody was more shocked than he was when they rebounded, zooming back up to smack him firmly in the solar plexus, leaving him distraught and gasping from pain.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be love,” he said after a moment, his face heating in mortification and despair. “You don’t understand—it was so… it made sense and… then it didn’t… and now he’s in pain and….”

  And Harry, the passionate one, the brother he could always count on, didn’t let him down now. He crushed Edward to him in an almost violent embrace.

  “We’ll save him, brother. We’ll save him. Don’t give up.” For a moment the only sound between them was Edward’s suppressed sobs, deep breaths, really, as he fought not to be overwhelmed by emotion. Harry tightened his grip and he gave it up, let loose tears on his brother’s shoulder, and Harry’s whole body shuddered in relief.

  And Edward fell apart, sobbing in earnest as he remembered once again that even if his lover wasn’t there, he was never alone.

  Imp of the Arcane

  140 Years Ago

  THE DEMON sagged against his restraints, his beastly head lolling, the very human blood torn from his back running down his ribs. The lash rose and fell again, the very sound making Mullins’s skin cringe back from his own beastly head as he hid in the shadows.

  Menoch did so love his work.

  “So, Leonard,” Menoch practically purred, “why are we here again?”

  Mullins must have made a sound, because Leonard looked up from his slump and shook himself. When Mullins had first arrived in hell, he would have found the shivering of the man’s body in conjunction with the beastly head and feet to be an abomination. After he’d had the skin and flesh peeled from his bones and replaced with his own beastly features, he would have felt it to be even more so.

  But not now. Not when this man-beast was suffering the torture of a thousand hells to cover for Mullins’s misdeed.

  Mullins had to come forward—he had to! Even if he suffered the same fate three times over! He made a move toward the red light of the torturer’s torch and saw Leonard shake his head slightly. “No,” he mouthed.

  “Answer me, filth!” Menoch screeched.

  “I forgot your orders, oh torturer of hell, demon of shame.”

  Mullins closed his eyes. Even half-dead, Leonard was lying for him, and if Mullins kept gazing at the spectacle of pain, someone would notice the torchlight reflecting from his slitted eyes.

  The lash rose and fell again.

  “Why?” Menoch demanded.

  “I forgot!”

  “Lies!” Menoch screamed.

  “Truth,” Leonard wept, sobs shaking him as he hung from the heated chains bolted to the ceiling. “I forgot. I’m a demon of learning, milord. Puny and forgetful. I am to blame. I forgot to relay the order. I deserve the lashes of shame.”

  Well, Menoch was the demon of shame—and his lash was diamond tipped. But Leonard maintained the fiction, right up until his spinal column was flayed open. He gave a howl and a wail and lost consciousness, and Menoch’s beating stopped.

  “He fought that for a long time,” he said to the smallish, wrinkled slug thing at his heels.

  “Yes, milord.”

  “It’s always better when they fight, Renotly,” Menoch said with satisfaction. “He suffers for today, as long as he can, and by tomorrow he’s healed, and he suffers some more.” Menoch’s form was that of a giant, grotesque housefly, flesh-colored, with pulsing bulges of pox coursing along his broken exoskeletal skin. “By hell, I lust at the thought of it!”

  “You want to satisfy yourself, milord?” Renotly whined. “I would relieve you!”

  Mullins kept his eyes closed, knowing that if he opened them, he might be chosen for the honor of relieving Menoch’s urges. Nobody in hell wanted that job.

  Nobody but Renotly.

  Ugh.

  The two greater demons of the twelfth sphincter of hell disappeared to do unholy things, and Mullins came forth, lockpick in hand, to help Leonard down from the chains.

  Leonard groaned, and Mullins pulled him up, half carrying his bloodied body into the deepest secret recesses of the twelfth sphincter—an almost clean sector of stone, tidy as a monk’s cell. He laid Leonard on the bed and conjured cool water, using the magic that Leonard himself had taught.

  Leonard was the demon of le
arning, the scourge of the cold academic who refused to see the real-life consequences of learning, even when terrible forces had been unleashed on earth.

  As demons went, he was not exactly terrifying. And when Mullins had come to hell, on his knees, having made a dreadful bargain to spare the life of his younger sister, Leonard had purposefully asked for him as an assistant.

  Hell was… hell. There were no grace notes, could never be mercy.

  But Leonard had never allowed Mullins, even once, to forget that they were both human beings under the guise of crazed beasts.

  A thing Mullins was beginning to regret.

  Using more magic—oh, academia could be a glorious place—Mullins took away Leonard’s pain, closing his wounds with only the barest of scars. Menoch was notoriously sloppy about details. Leonard would be expected to heal anyway—he wouldn’t look to see that the area had been soothed.

  “Give me up,” Mullins begged, holding water for Leonard to drink. “Give me up—please. I can’t stand to watch you—”

  “No,” Leonard said, voice rasping.

  “But… but….” Mullins’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Emma… she’s making plans to pull you out—you can’t do it when you’re half-dead from beating.”

  “Emma understands,” Leonard said softly. “You need to understand as well, my dear boy.”

  “I don’t.” Mullins laid Leonard gently down again. “Why? Why would I understand when… oh hells. Leonard, the things we’re asked to do down here—why does it even matter!”

  “Because they lie,” Leonard said softly. “They tell us we have no souls, and so most of the… the creatures down here act as though that’s fact. It’s not. It’s all lies. We have souls—you haven’t killed a child yet, Mullins. Nor an adult who was not asking for holy retribution. Your soul, should you escape, is still as pure as the day you came. They want you to think it isn’t—that you can give in to fear and cowardice, to cruelty. I did that—for a hundred years I did that, and then….”