Demon Familiar

By Jory Strong

Supernatural Bonds #7:

Pulled from the void by a binding spell, demon essence becomes mortal-familiar, and Ianthe forms, yielding to her preference for the female shape. She longs to live a human life, to love as a human, and while she’s escaped the dark realm and the lord she called master, she can’t escape her nature.

Incubus, succubus, Ianthe is able to shift between male and female forms, though both aspects need to be fed. She could have any man, but it’s Homicide Detective Miguel Torres she wants, the man who unknowingly summoned and bound her. Their attraction is intense, immediate, and Miguel believes he’ll never want another—until he meets Ian, Ianthe’s mysterious twin.

Attempting to withstand needs and urges denied since childhood, Miguel buries himself in Ianthe’s lush body as he battles his attraction to Ian. Then drowns in shame when he succumbs to it—only to have the murder of a gay teen force him to revisit the past...before he loses his future.

Please note: A previous edition of this story was published by Ellora’s Cave.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jory Strong
• Release date: Dec 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370167340

Jory Strong

Jory Strong has been writing since childhood and has never outgrown being a daydreamer. When she's not hunched over her computer, lost in the muse and conjuring up new heroes and heroines, she can usually be found reading, riding horses, or walking dogs. Her stories have won numerous awards, as well as been national best sellers. She lives in California with her husband and a menagerie of pets. She loves hearing from readers. Visit her website at jorystrong.com or contact her at [e-mail].

Book preview

Demon Familiar

Supernatural Bonds

Jory Strong

Copyright 2011 by Jory Strong

Smashwords Edition

Cover design by Syneca Featherstone

* * * * *

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Thank You!

About the Author

* * * * *

Prologue

Miguel Torres sat in the corner near the altar, the old wooden chair pushed against the wall. Truth was, he'd be on the other side of the wall—outside in the fresh mountain air and free of this—if he could.

Respect for his mother kept him in place when the need to bolt nearly overwhelmed him. The smell of old age and sickness, tobacco smoke and copal, pitch incense, filled his nostrils in a mix of scents that made him slightly nauseous.

Freaking amazing, how he could stand over a dead body at a crime scene and never—well, not since the first time during his rookie year on the force—feel like puking, but here he was fighting the urge to hurl. Then again, to give himself credit; he was handling being named a brujo, a witch, pretty damn well.

Looking up from his study of the rough wooden flooring, he checked on his tatarabuelo, his great-great-grandfather, who sat in a recliner in front of the altar. The old man appeared fragile and ancient. Today only his face was visible in the wrap of colorful blankets meant to keep the chill at bay.

He should be in the hospital. Miguel had said as much, multiple times since coming to this remote village in the Sierra de Puebla with his mother.

I'm not afraid to go permanently to Talocan, was the old man's response. The lords who rule there know me. They know what I've been up too here. I'll introduce you to them, but not for a while yet. Better not to draw their attention until you understand their ways.

Miguel shivered. He didn't actually believe he was a witch, despite what his great-great-grandfather claimed. Even so, the prospect of visiting Talocan, the place sometimes called Most Holy Earth or the inferno, and the underworld of his tatarabuelo's belief system, was enough to lift the hairs on his arms and make his chest tighten.

Not happening. No way.

He could handle the weird. But that didn't mean he wanted to be a participant in the weird.

His tatarabuelo stirred, eyes moving behind his lids for long moments before they fluttered opened. It took moments longer for him to fully rouse and focus on Miguel. Good, you've kept your promise and stayed. There's not much time now.

A knock on the door had relief surging through Miguel. He stood. I'll get it. But it opened before he could take a step.

His great-great-grandfather's sister stuck her head inside. Someone needs your help. She's traveled a long way.

The old man struggled with his blankets, finally freeing his hands and arms so he wouldn't appear like a swaddled infant. He told his sister to send the woman in.

Miguel rose and got another chair for his tatarabuelo's guest, the longing to escape sharpening with the sight of blue skies and colorful flowers through the open doorway. He'd offer to step outside to allow for privacy, but it would do no good. Since his tatarabuelo had claimed the recliner in front of the altar shortly after taking his breakfast in bed, he'd insisted Miguel remain with him.

Miguel's guts knotted. He couldn't shake the idea that his great-great-grandfather meant to make sure he died in his presence.

Reclaiming his seat, he let his mind wander, tuning out a conversation spoken in Nahuat. After the woman left, his tatarabuelo said, "A coyote killed her daughter's son."

Miguel straightened though he knew there was nothing he could do. He had no pull with Mexican authorities, and coyotes, human smugglers, were frequently connected to powerful cartels that controlled areas along the border through terror and bribes.

He knew he'd probably regret it, but curiosity made him ask, Why did she come to you? He didn't need to ask why she hadn't gone to the authorities. Fear.

His tatarabuelo smiled, eyes shining with approval. "She wants something bad to befall the coyote. There are ways to ensure it. I will teach them to you. The lords of darkness can cause terrible things to happen among the living when they see someone's cause as just. Once you know their ways, you can request their aid."

Dios. That's the last thing he wanted to do, tangle with beings he'd grown up thinking of as demons.

* * * * *

Chapter 1

She craved sex. Not the sustenance stolen from sleepers caught in webs of carnal fantasies, but the touch of skin to skin, the pounding ecstasy of penetration.

Until the summoning, it had been hundreds of years since she had walked among humans in her female aspect. Seductress, enchantress—succubus, stealing seed and sometimes life. It had been the same number of years since taking on a purely masculine aspect, becoming incubus in order to seduce the unwilling as well as to impregnate those witches who hoped for a child with dark, unearthly gifts.

Phantom lips curled in a smile as she thought of the medallion with its hidden spell for a secondary summoning. Wise, wise mage to have bargained with her when he first pulled her through the portal. He'd been made safe from her retribution, though he'd deservedly met his end at the hands, or rather, the teeth of another.

In the dark of the abyss, she was formless, unable to pleasure herself, sentient only because she was bound to the medal. But even that was preferable to returning to the dark realm and demon lord whose will she was subject to.

When she emerged from the abyss she would need to feed both aspects of her nature, though she had a decided preference for assuming the female form. She would be free, or as free as one of her kind could be after they'd escaped the shackles of their masters by binding themselves in a familiar-bond to a witch.

The next time she walked among humans she would be fully mortal. She would be human, perhaps as she once was, or perhaps for the first time, she didn't know which. Few demons knew the truth of their origins. What she did know was that slowly, over the long span of her existence, the dream of being human had taken hold and filled her with a longing she could no longer deny. All that was required now was for the right person to come into contact with the mage-spelled medallion.

* * *

Miguel felt the tension ebb as he drew near to his partner Conner's house, and the party already in progress. Dios, it was good to be back. He needed this. Between a good time with friends today, and reporting for work tomorrow, he could distance himself from the weird shit that had started in Mexico.

Maybe one day he'd share the experience with someone outside of family, but not likely. He was a homicide cop first, foremost and always.

Mierda. Shit. His tatarabuelo naming him a witch shouldn't have made it true, except somehow it had.

Power of suggestion, Miguel mumbled, but the words sounded like a lame attempt at denial even to him. The spirit-walking had started the very night his tatarabuelo had died.

Despite the Florida heat, he shivered at remembering being greeted in his dream by his great-great-grandfather. Come, let me show you Talocan, the old man had said as they walked over a field of bones, the crunch of them beneath their feet so real, so visceral, the sound had still echoed in his ears after waking.

Every night since had come with surreal dreams, with introductions to the dead and knowledge about them that, when tested by asking relatives he'd never met before Mexico, couldn't be explained away.

He reached for the volume control, cranking up the tunes and filling his head with music for a minute before twisting the knob in the reverse direction. Last thing he needed was to get pulled over for a noise violation.

He glanced at the passenger seat and the Dos Equis he'd swung by the grocery store to get. Not that Conner wouldn't have plenty of brew, but all beer did not taste the same and he'd picked up a couple of six-packs, the first because he intended to share, the second because Storm O'Malley was at the party—and she wasn't alone.

Fuck! He'd been gone what? A little over two weeks, doing his duty as a good son and playing escort to his mother. A fucking two weeks, and in that time, Storm—who he'd been so sure was going to be the one once he finally convinced her to say yes to a first date—had found someone else. FOUND in capital and permanent letters, according to Conner.

Miguel massaged the area above his heart, soothing away pain he knew was more intellectual than real in nature. It wasn't like he'd shared anything personal with Storm. She'd never led him on about his chances, but damn…

He'd been half in love with her.

Grimacing, he admitted a different truth to himself. He was in love with the idea of being in love with her and she was just the latest challenge, though he refused to give up the belief completely that she might really have been the one.

Banging badge bunnies got old. He wanted what his mother and father had, what a couple of his brothers and three of his sisters had; a solid marriage, someone to come home to at the end of the day.

Apparently he wasn't the only one who'd reached that point, though he'd reached it long before his friends had. First Trace, taken out of play by Aislinn. And now Conner, snagged by Khemirra and already talking wedding dates.

Who next? Dylan, Trace's partner?

Miguel laughed, wishing he wasn't driving so he could open a beer and lift it in a silent tribute. As much as he wanted to be in a committed relationship, he wouldn't mind seeing Dylan get bumped to the front of the matrimonial line. Because when Dylan's turn came, it was going to be one hell of a show. Dylan wasn't going to go down easy.

Turning onto Conner's street, Miguel grinned. Cars lined the curbs on both sides. No surprise. Free food, free booze, both guaranteed a good turnout, but the real kicker for the cops in attendance was showing up to meet the woman who'd snagged one of their own.

He claimed the first parking spot he saw rather than risk having to circle the block, and putting the truck tight against the curb, grabbed up the Dos Equis before making his way toward Conner's house. A country song twanged from the backyard, a male voice singing about seeing his ex in the arms of another man.

It was enough to vibrate phantom strings in Miguel's chest and have him going through the front door instead of the side gate. He needed a minute to steel himself against seeing Storm.

Female voices drew him down the hall toward the kitchen, that and the fact he'd be able to observe through the window. Better to get the first look of Storm with her boyfriend and get used to the sight without being surrounded by sharp-eyed cops.

In the kitchen doorway, he got distracted by Aislinn and a woman who made him rethink his long-standing and nearly exclusive pursuit of blondes. He knew who he was looking at; had to be, given the legs that didn't stop and the exotic beauty.

Setting the beer on the table, he gave Aislinn a hug then pulled the stranger into his arms. I'm Miguel Torres, Conner's partner, and I'm guessing you're Khemirra, the reason we're all here.

You're right on the first count at least.

He laughed, releasing her. The attitude in her voice said it all. She was perfect for Conner.

Miguel reached for the beer but his eyes were drawn to a medallion on the table. His hand followed without it being a conscious decision and he picked up the medal.

Fuck!

He flung it down hard enough for it to bounce a couple of times.

Heat flamed through his cheeks. Sorry, guess I'm still a little jumpy from my trip. It felt like my hand was on fire.

A burst of laughter gave him an excuse to shove the weirdness aside. Through the window he saw Dylan, Conner and Trace, and a short distance away, Storm next to a long-haired blond.

Mierda. They looked good together. Right together.

He surprised himself by being able to smile. It was okay. He could risk going outside without whimpering like a puppy or giving her sad eyes—both of which would lead to some merciless teasing, and fuck, he'd endured enough of it because of his well-known infatuation.

Lifting the cartons, he said, I'll leave you two to your girl talk.

* * *

Inescapable summoning pulled her from the abyss, and in the moment of her mortal birth, pride gripped her. She refused to stand in for another, to glimpse her image in the mirror and know it was a copy of the original, a fantasy made flesh and based on a woman known as Storm.

She created herself in an image of her own making, choosing facial features more feminine than masculine, but only slightly so, minimizing the energy that would be required in order to shift between her two physical aspects. She did the same with her height, the knowledge gained the instant the familiar-bond snapped into place allowing her to match her body to Miguel's, so that when they lay entwined, male to male, or female to male, their eyes and lips would meet and their genitals would touch in perfect alignment.

Miguel Julio Torres. She tasted his name, felt the hum of it through her veins, the beat of it in her heart as her sex throbbed, her clit already erect, a tiny version of the penis she possessed in her male aspect.

She gave herself generous breasts, for her pleasure as well as his, though it galled her that the unknown Storm was also lushly endowed. Her eyes she left the dark sapphire blue she'd chosen when first called and forced to serve as a soul-sighted bloodhound wearing only the illusion of humanity.

She made her skin tone similar to Miguel's and her hair the same black as his, though vanity sent it cascading down her back in thick waves. It would cost her energy to shorten it when