by Devon Monk
He nodded. “I couldn’t think of any other way for you to believe what I’m going to tell you. So here I am, putting it all out there and on the line in a way that you will know if I am telling any kind of untruth at all.”
“So I can ask you anything, and you’ll have to answer me?”
“No. I don’t have to answer you.”
That felt like a truth.
“But I will.”
That felt like a truth too.
“Is Xtelle your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Is your father as horrible as she says?”
“I don’t know what she told you about him, but whatever she said, triple it, and you might be in the ballpark for his level of darkness and evil.”
“Do you know where I can find the one book with the one page that will tell me how to use the scissors to cut Delaney’s soul from you?”
“No.”
And that didn’t feel like a lie either, dammit.
“But I don’t think there is a book,” he said.
“Why?”
“Well, you got your information from a crossroad demon, and they are all about having backup plans. The small print always works in their favor.”
“Explain that. And tell me the truth.”
“The crossroad demon, Zjoon, is an old hand at getting what she wants and keeping it. She’s had a crossroad so close to Ordinary that it might as well be inside of it.”
“She can’t run a crossroad in Ordinary.”
“I know that. She knows that too. And yet…”
“…she found a way around it. Small print?”
“Small print,” he agreed.
Truth.
“So,” he went on, “Zjoon knows I wouldn’t want her to tell anyone, much less someone who has an ax to grind, about the scissors. And before you ask, yes, they were made by my mother, and yes, they were fashioned to force me to release a soul.”
“Zjoon knew you’d be angry.”
“Furious,” he agreed. “She padded her bet by giving you false information on how to use them. And, well, I wasn’t happy about it. Her giving you the scissors. But not for the reason you think.”
“Because it will force you to release Delaney’s soul and leave Ordinary?”
“No.”
That feeling hit me, the unfamiliar, unfitting piece. “You’re lying.”
He hummed. “Maybe to both of us a little, to you and to myself. I’d like to think the reason I’m keeping her soul isn’t so selfish—staying here in Ordinary, hiding from my world, my father. But I can accept that’s a part of it. It’s not the main reason I don’t want you to use the scissors.”
I waited for that wrong feeling.
It didn’t hit.
I sighed. “Just spit it out, Bathin. You’ve made your point. I can tell when you’re lying, and you can tell when I’m lying. Let’s get this over with. I’m not done kicking your ass.”
His eyebrows went up in surprise. “Not a lie. Good to know. Okay, here’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. If you use the scissors, it will damage Delaney’s soul. Possibly to a point beyond repair.”
The feeling of wrongness never hit. He was not lying.
He was not lying.
Holy shit. He was not lying.
“Okay,” I said, ready to listen for the first time since he’d dropped us in the middle of an Amazonite. “If I use the scissors, I’m going to hurt Delaney.”
“Yes.”
Truth and truth.
“Badly.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who can use the scissors to cut her soul from you?”
“Probably. Yes, well, probably. It hasn’t been tested, but I have a good guess.”
There was a vague feeling of wrongness, but it passed as soon as he clarified his own doubt.
“Who?” I asked.
“Do I have to tell you?”
“Yes.”
He looked pained. “All right. I said I’d be honest. You have no idea how difficult this is. It is completely against my nature. If your father hadn’t…no never mind. I’m deflecting. All right. Because of how the scissors were forged, I think the only person who can use them to free a soul from my keeping is another demon.”
No lie.
“Well, we’re screwed,” I said.
He laughed, and it was a deep round sound that came from his gut and lit up his face, softening all the hardest, darkest edges of him into something lighter, brighter. Something good and real.
Wax melts, given enough time with the flame. Light reshapes it.
“We live complicated lives, you and I, Myra. And our courtship and love affair is going to be just as complicated.”
“We’re not in a courtship,” I said. I shouldn’t have. Because I knew it was a lie, and so did he.
“You did that on purpose,” I whispered.
“Yes, I did. Habit. But that isn’t what we need to address right now. We need to come to an understanding that you cannot use the scissors on me without hurting Delaney. Also, full disclosure, my mother bound us together, you and I.”
Time ticked: one Mississippi, two Mississippi…
“She did what?” I almost yelled. “She bound us together?” I pushed against the stone cuffs.
“That’s the other reason you can tell I’m lying.”
“When? When did she bind us?”
“At the second vortex. With the yarn.”
“You knew.”
“Not until it was too late to stop her.”
And that was the truth, dammit.
“Let me go.”
“Not yet. You’ll fight me again, and while I enjoy it…” he paused so I could feel the truth of that, “…we don’t have time.”
“It hurts you, doesn’t it?” I asked. “When I hit you here?”
“Yes. I feel the physical hit as if we were equal—human and demon—and the power of your emotions lands with each contact like a second blow. I’d like to remain conscious until we make some decisions.”
“What decisions?” My nose itched and I wanted to scratch it. I waved my fingers and turned my head, trying to get my tiptoes under me so my fingers and nose lined up.
“What are you doing?”
“My nose itches.”
“Here, let me.”
“No, I can…”
But he had already crossed the space and pressed his fingers gently beneath my jaw. He turned my face and held it still, peering down his nose at me like a nearsighted school teacher judging my handwriting.
“It’s really…” I said, my mouth dry, “you don’t have to…”
“Hush. I like doing things for you.” He lifted his other hand and rubbed his pointer finger on the tip of my nose. “Here?”
I wasn’t paying attention. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he liked doing things for me.
He liked doing things for me.
“Myra?”
“A little to the left.” He moved his finger, rubbed. “My left,” I said.
He nodded, moved his finger to the other side of my nose and gave it three little rubs. “How’s that?”
“It’s, uh…good enough.”
“Good.” He looked away from my nose and right into my eyes.
For a moment, for the longest moment in my life, he just stood there, breathing softly, holding my face, watching me.
I knew the second he made up his mind. I could feel it. Not like a tug in my chest. No, it was a relief, a lightness. Like my heart had been tied down, weighed down by rocks and now, that look of his, that moment, it was feathers and sunlight.
A slight frown creased between his eyes, as if he knew what he was doing wasn’t wise, but he had to do it anyway.
I didn’t struggle, I didn’t try to move away from him.
Because I didn’t want to.
There were no lies here.
He bent, he had to, he was so much taller than me. I lifted as much as I could, angling my face up, wanting this. To kno
w. Here, where there were no lies.
My eyes fluttered shut and I had to catch my breath to keep from making any sound. He paused, his lips only the barest distance from mine, so close I could taste the cinnamon of his breath.
“Are you sure?” he whispered.
“Yes.” It was the only answer I had, because it was the truth.
He hummed, and it was acceptance and need and hope.
If I had ever imagined kissing a demon, which yes, lately I had, it was always a hot branding, a claiming, a fire-meets-kindling-and-add-some-gasoline kind of kiss.
But this, this kiss was something more. Something better.
Bathin shifted his thumb to stroke gently along the side of my mouth, and the gesture was so sweet, so intimate, I smiled.
He shifted closer with my exhale, his lips pressing, warm and soft—much softer than I’d imagined. He held me there, held us both, suspended in that connection, that first moment of being more than two.
I wondered how long he could endure the sweet ache of this gentleness, wondered how long I would let him hold us both in this moment, before doing my own claiming.
Just when it was too much, when he was drawing away slowly as if even the retreat of our lips was something to savor, he dipped his head again.
And this time the kiss caught fire.
A shiver ran through me—how could I be cold when I was burning, engulfed in flame—my nerves stretched and crackling, little pop, pop, pops of pleasure snapping hard under my skin.
I whimpered and he moaned, dipping his mouth to lick my lower lip and then bite very gently there before licking again.
I wasn’t on fire, I was molten, a volcano.
I arched up into him, needing more, more touch, more. His fingers stroked along my throat, leaving mint-cool paths where his fingers had been, and he molded against me, one hand lowering so he could notch our hips together and move with me, a slow, circular motion.
My breath skipped like a stone over still water. And I still couldn’t stop trembling. His tongue slicked my mouth, already too wet, too hot. I was hungry, but the more he touched, squeezed, stroked, tugged, the more I needed.
“I want,” I gasped in between his onslaughts, the drugging nips and tastes, his tongue, teeth, mouth, the scratch of stubble on my tender skin that felt good, too good, but wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, his hard grinding body. “More,” I begged.
He groped blindly for the binds on my wrist, freed one, freed the other.
I threaded my fingers through his thick, soft hair and groped his back, the hard curve of his ass. I scrabbled to untuck his shirt from slacks that molded against his body like liquid sin.
This. Now. Here.
He twisted, skimmed his fingers under my shirt and then, gently, so damn gently, trailed the back of his fingertips across my lower belly.
“Myra,” he whispered, his head bent into my shoulder, as if he would fall apart, fly apart. He didn’t have to say anything more. I could hear the truth of his need, the truth of him, of us. Could feel it.
“Yes.”
The cuffs on my ankles melted away, and he leaned back and rucked up his shirt exposing miles and miles of deeply tanned skin I wanted to lick, bite. Then his shirt was gone. He rocked forward again, his breath catching as if he’d been holding it for hours, for days, for years and years. I spread my fingers over his chest, then down, riding fingertips over the ridges and dips of his muscles.
His skin tightened, and goosebumps rippled under my feather-light touch as he shuddered.
I wanted more of him. To know what this—what we—could be, no lies between us.
His thumb rubbed the hard round button of my jeans, pushing it through the hole until the cloth parted and he could plunge his huge hand down, inside, questing for warmth.
I moaned his name, lost to that delicious friction.
“Beautiful,” he breathed.
And then there was no time for slow, no time for thinking. There was only here and now and more, in our desperate quest to tear away clothing as quickly as possible.
And when, finally, he drew me down to where he lay, naked and stunning and hard, waiting for me, I followed him willingly, open and needing, until he filled my body, my mind, my world.
Chapter 18
“Tell me about the cats,” I said.
“What cats?”
My head was on Bathin’s shoulder. We were naked, but the stone around us was warm as firelight and silk.
“The three strays that are following you around?”
He sighed. “Five. Five strays. I just feed them sometimes. It’s nothing permanent.”
Lie. But a gentle one as if maybe he didn’t even realize it was a lie.
He grunted softly.
“You feed them.”
“Yes.”
“Give them a place to sleep?”
“Not every night.”
“They were wearing collars.”
“The vet said—”
I laughed. “You are looking after them.”
“Maybe,” he conceded. “Maybe I am. Funny how these things sneak up on you.”
“Things?”
“Life.”
We were quiet a moment. Two.
“How do we go back to before?” I asked.
“Mmmm. To Ordinary?” His thumb stroked my ribs gently, running over the turtle tattoo I never showed anyone.
“To our lives.”
“We don’t have to.”
I traced his chest, let my hand wander lower, along his tight stomach, pressing down the ridge of the V muscle of his groin and lower still.
“We could stay here.” He gasped as I moved my hand, gently stroking him. “Or another stone. Every stone…” I twisted my wrist and he arched, his hips seeking more friction. “Every stone in the universe is ours. Our private worlds.”
My hand was warm, but I brought it up and made sure he was watching as I licked my palm, then laved my tongue between my fingers.
“Fuck.” He rolled, settling his weight carefully on his strong arms, and holding a perfect plank position before he shifted his knees, urging me to open my legs. “Myra,” he moaned.
I lost myself to him. Because I knew this couldn’t last.
I wasn’t made to run away for my own pleasure. I wasn’t made to leave Ordinary behind, leave my sisters behind. I wasn’t made to follow my heart.
He knew that. There was no future for us after this.
But oh, how my heart wanted one.
I dragged my fingers down his wide back, wanting him nearer, but lazy in my needs.
He dropped soft kisses up my shoulder, dipping to my throat. I rocked my head back to give him access, my mind a gentle buzz of sensation, my thoughts wandering to what we’d done here. What we’d said.
Wait. Hold on. Just a second.
I shoved at Bathin’s shoulders. He lifted just enough to peer down at me, his eyelids heavy, his pupils blown from lust. His mouth was reddened, shiny, his hair a mess.
He looked ravaged, and sexy as hell.
“Yes?” he asked.
“What do you mean your mother bound us?”
He blinked. “You’re…” He sighed and looked off over my head. “Wow. Is that a mood killer. Why are you talking about my mother?”
“Because you said. Back before…before…this…” He smiled at me and I frowned. “You said your mother bound us together.”
“I did say that.”
“Okay, that’s it. Sex is off. Move.” I shoved at his arms which were caging either side of my head.
“I’d plead and tempt, but you’re not going to fall for that, are you?”
“No.”
He let his head hang for a minute. “No lying. All right, but since we’re being honest, I don’t want to talk about it. I think more sex is our best play right now.”
I slapped his arm again and he lifted up on one hand, moving his entire body to one side in some kind of power yoga move.
“Show off.
”
He grinned and flexed every muscle. I almost dragged him back down to me again.
Instead, I rolled out from under him, looked around for my clothes, and gathered them up. “Tell me. All of it. What did your mother do?”
“Many, many terrible things. But I’m guessing you want to know about the binding.”
I rolled my hand in a hurry up move, hooked my bra and slipped the straps over my shoulders, then bent and unbunched my shirt, shaking it until it was right side out.
“I didn’t catch it quickly enough to stop her.”
Lie.
“Want to try that again?”
“I didn’t want to stop her. It seemed like a reasonable decision at the time. However, I didn’t know she was going to do it until it was done. And yes, I probably had just enough warning to stop her, but that would have meant the vortex remained open longer. We would have had to start the spell again. And we were about to be buried in frogs.” He rolled to the balls of his feet and then stood.
“I thought one price was worth the other,” he said.
“And that means?”
“Her binding us was worth all those people not turning into frogs. You’d be angry with me either way. Plus, this aligned with my desires, and I am a creature who follows his desires. All the way. You may have noticed.”
“You are so annoying.”
He smiled because he could feel the lie.
“How did she do it?” I asked.
“She used the string, cut by Death’s blade, used to save the living. She bound the connection between the Underworld and above with the string you and I held. Poetry, really. She’s particularly good at those things.”
“Bindings?”
“Screwing with my life.”
I laughed and he looked very pleased with himself.
“What kind of binding is it?”
“I’m not exactly sure. I haven’t had time to explore it, though I did force her to agree to break it. With no strings attached, if you’ll excuse the pun.”
“Is that why she was hobbled?”
“No, I hobbled her because she was threatening to open another vortex and invite every demon from here to sunrise into Ordinary.”
Dread hit my belly and suddenly the softness of this space, the quiet little hideaway safety of it felt stifling. “Can she do that?”
“I thought it was better to assume so.”
