Demon Chained (Shadowfae Chronicles) by Erica Hayes

they get hurt. If they'll gift you that surrender . . . priceless.
    Such fascinating insight, Tam. Now get on with it before they see you.
    I ease the door closed—like they're gonna notice me anyway—and shamble out. On the stairs, I pass a drunken spriggan, dragging herself upwards on pointy black elbows with her stumpy legs trailing behind, gurgling happy spit onto her chin. A crumpled yellow fifty drops from her pocket, and I risk bending over to pick it up, my spine crackling. Black blood leaks onto it from my ripped palm as I hold it out to her. "Hey, darlin', you dropped something."
    She twists her fat neck and goggles at me, wiry hair springing. Her piss-yellow eyes narrow, and she snatches the money back with black claws. "Fuckin' dirt on it," she mutters, and heaves herself away.
    That ain't dirt, sister. That's Tam-juice. Tasty yet nourishing.
    I let myself out at the bottom, the screen door screeching on one bent hinge. I step around the lumps of dog shit blotting the concrete pathway to the street. Rainwater trickles in the gutters, gleaming under the streetlight, and steam drifts from the warm road. A dented panel van splashes by, scattering oily puddles into my path.
    Humidity slicks my skin, threatening, and I can almost feel the bacteria doing a happy fuckdance under there. I rot faster when it's hot, and already my fingers feel spongy, more flesh peeling from my palm as I wipe blood from the mess on my forehead. It's getting pretty bad tonight. All that banging my head against the wall wasn't the greatest idea.
    I turn left, towards the city. Back to Unseelie Court. Hopefully Kane's still there, and I can ditch this weird lamp, wallow in the noise, wait till they're all drunk and high, until someone's senseless enough to touch me and give me the sensation I need to shape up.
    That's how it works, see. Pain, pleasure, it's all the same: distant, wasted, a shadow of what it used to be. But I need it, or I won't ever heal. Without sensation to keep my nerves alive, I'll rot away.
    Pain will do the trick, but let's face it, pain is pretty fucking unpleasant. Trouble is, when you're dead, picking up isn't quite the same game it used to be. I might look okay from a distance, but up close, they all prefer themselves a guy who isn't bleeding and losing bone fragments. Shallow, but true.
    Oh, I'm sorry, am I grossing you out? Just telling it the way it is, folks. Welcome to my world.
    Idly, I picture her as I walk, the smoke girl, not that secret image I still have of her naked and wet—that one's for later—but as I first saw her, jagged black hair flying, eyes wide and beautiful, those sweet blue lips shaping open in surprise. As I walk I turn my new bag over in my hands, trying to feel the slide of satin, maybe absorb a wisp of her somehow, seeing as I'll never touch her again. I press the bag to my nose and inhale. I can't smell it, but I pretend that I can, all spice and smoke and woman. I close my eyes, the better to imagine her.
    And that's when some prick rams his knee into my groin.
    Bile explodes into my throat, there's a swift lava burst in my balls. Dry heave, acid searing my tongue, my stomach a knot of distantly screaming nerves. My eyes burn and flood, and I stagger on watery legs.
    The next blow smashes into the base of my spine, and flesh splits with a sick crunch. I crumple, my knee joint squelching awry again. The agony's a slow burn, but I can feel it all right, and fury washes my blood with ice water. I twist, the pain a sweet wake-up to my nerves, and through a wet reddish haze I glimpse the smug blond smirk of Whippy Turd DiLuca before someone else punches me in the face.
    It throws me backwards, and I skitter on my hands like a broken crab, my skull rattling. Warm sour blood gushes over my lip and into my mouth. I fumble blindly for my pistol, but someone wrenches it away, cracking my knuckles back like rotten sticks.
    Son of a bitch brought a friend. Fair enough. I would've, in his place.