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EIGHTEEN
Pain greyed Alethia's vision, but it didn't dull her hearing. The dust barriers were beating in the wind again, just like wings, and the chill night breeze stroked her face, keeping her conscious, but just barely. She probably shouldn't have had so much vodka, but how else was she supposed to stay warm in winter when she was only wearing a skimpy top? And pants, of course. Couldn't go to a graveyard without pants. Imagine all the corpses, looking up your skirt as you went by. They'd get an eyeful.
Like that blue-eyed doll that had scared her silly. Bile rose up in her throat at the memory.
"Wait, stop, I'm going to be sick," she mumbled to the man carrying her. "Put me down, quick!"
He set her down on her feet, but her ankle wouldn't hold her, sending a stab of pain all the way up her leg as she fell to her knees.
Never drinking vodka again, she thought to herself as she threw up most of it at the poor man's feet.
Wait...why were they on concrete? How did they get to be on...a rooftop?
"Need to get down. Need to get home," she said to his feet. And they were his feet, not his shoes. What kind of security guard went to work without shoes?
She let her gaze drift upward.
Or...pants...or any clothes at all...and were those...wings?
Now she knew she'd drunk too much vodka. Because the spell couldn't possibly have worked. She couldn't possibly be looking up at the impressive package of her own, personal demon protector.
"Who the fuck are you?"
"I am your demon protector, at your command, miss," he said in That Voice.
"Get me up off the ground, er, roof, please, demon protector," she said.
In a moment, she was in his arms again. Up against a rock hard chest with muscles all the way down and wings. He really had wings.
"Take me home, please," she said.
"Where is your home, miss?"
Oh, God, she wanted him to use that voice in her ear, while he did very bad things to her. And maybe some good things, too. All kinds of things.
Probably best to do them at home, though. Not on some random rooftop.
"Where is your home, miss?" he said again.
Demons weren't known for their patience. She needed to gather her wits, and fast. She peered down. "Uh, that's my balcony, over there." She pointed.
In a few wingbeats, Mr Hot and Hard with Horns set them both down on her parents' balcony, narrowly missing the wrought iron lace table and chairs. Only the door to go inside wouldn't open. Locked.
"Oh, wait, I have the keys for this one." She fumbled in her pocket for them, then fumbled with the lock for even longer.
The demon sighed. He set her down on one of the chairs, picked up the keys she'd dropped between two delicate claws, and had the door open a moment later.
Then she was in his arms again. How he managed to fit those huge wings through the sliding door, she didn't know, but somehow he did it, for he stood in her parents' lounge room, towering over the furniture.
"Shall I set you down now, miss?"
No. Never.
She really hoped she hadn't said that out loud.
God, it was hard to think. Between the hot demon and the vodka still sloshing around in her brain and how much her ankle hurt...
Hurt. There were pills for that.
"Take me to the bathroom."
He bent down so that she could grab some pain relief from the cabinet, and a cup of water to wash it down with. Then three more, to chase away the bile and make sure she wouldn't have a hangover. That done, there was only one place she wanted to go.
"Take me to bed, please, demon protector."
And he did.
