by Kristie Cook
“And there’s no other way?” I asked.
He stared down at me. “You could give me your soul." His eyes darkened.
I almost stepped away from him then but managed to hold my ground. Curiosity kept me rooted. “And the ring is worth the risk? Why not just take my soul?” He’d had ample opportunities to kill me and he’d chosen not to. Why?
The look he gave me was fierce. “Do not mistake my saving your life for anything more than self-preservation. I don’t give a damn what happens to you.”
I leaned closer. “Then why not kill me now?”
Marcas growled. “There are some questions I won’t answer, Blainey.”
His tone was final. There was nothing I could do but respect that. I was afraid to push the Demon in him too far.
“Then I won’t ask you to, Craig,” I said reluctantly.
Marcas reached down suddenly and grabbed the front of my robe. I started to fight him until I realized he was tightening the belt.
“Get some rest, Blainey. Then get dressed. I’ll be coming for you,” Marcas ordered.
He dropped his hands and turned toward the door.
“Where will we be going?” I asked his back.
“To find the ring,” he answered.
I froze. “My friends? I won’t leave them.”
“They are safer here, Blainey. I recall you telling me that you didn’t want to see them die.”
I stared at the way his shoulders moved as he reached for the door. “But they came all this way to be with me,” I protested.
“And if you want them to go back with you, you’ll listen to me. They have a lot to learn here. They will be involved. Damon has made this a war, Blainey. We may never get the ring and, even if we do, it doesn’t end there. You and all of your friends are in for the ride of your lives. And it won’t be an enjoyable one.” He opened the door and stepped through.
I walked over and touched the wood as he shut the door behind him. My forehead fell against the door.
“Monroe, Conor, Jacin, Lita …” I whispered as I finally turned toward the bed.
I’d grieved my parents, made mistakes, lived with an Order of insane women, and been bound to a Demon. And, through it all, I somehow managed to forget that I’d not only lost a family but I’d gained one as well. No one could ask for a better one. And, if Marcas was right, this was just the beginning of our journey. This leg of it seemed focused on the two of us, but my friends were still there and they would help me when it was time. I was scared. Would the ring kill me? What would happen to my friends? What would happen to Amber? Where was my father? Who’d killed my mother? Why did Marcas protect me? What kind of Naphil powers did I have? A million questions flooded me, and I did the one thing I truly hated to do. I cried. I cried until there wasn’t a single tear left to shed.
Chapter 26
The Swords of Solomon are a group of men and women sworn by the church to protect the Seal of Solomon. They are trained warriors, skilled Demon slayers, and unmerciful to anyone who attempts to break through their ranks.
~Bezaliel~
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t sleep. I walked the room instead hoping the exercise would work out the personal demons eating away at my heart. It didn’t help. I spied the clothes lying on the chair I’d sat on earlier, and I picked them up carefully. The cardigan was beautiful, made to drape the figure but loose and comfortable enough to be easy to move in. The jeans were the same.
I shed the robe and pulled them on over the underwear and bra Marcas had left on the bed. The undergarments were the same color rose as the cardigan. The bra was a size A push up, and I cringed. It really bothered me that Marcas knew my size. I felt so tiny and young compared to everyone else. Weren’t Angels supposed to be tall and magnificent?
I moved to the vanity next to the fireplace and took in my appearance. The cardigan was v-neck and fitted in the chest before draping loosely over the waist and dangling over my thighs. The look was appealing and far from the baggy, concealing clothes I was used to.
“What are you thinking, Marcas?” I asked my reflection as I ran my fingers apprehensively through my hair. It hung loose to the middle of my back and the curls framed my face chaotically. I had learned a long time ago that there was no way to tame my hair. How was red hair Angelic? I’d always felt Amber resembled more of what an Angel was supposed to look like. Not me.
I ran my fingers across the cardigan before glancing down at the skinny jeans Marcas had left. They were made of stretch material and very comfortable. I wondered again where he got the clothes. They were too lived-in to be new.
Taking one last look in the mirror, I moved toward the bed, almost tripping over a pair of boots as I went. I looked down in surprise. Where had those come from? Had Marcas left those too? I picked them up and looked at them curiously. They were black and knee high. I was more a tennis shoe kind of girl, but I wasn’t going to turn down the loan.
“Not bad are they?” I asked the room as I slid the boots on and zipped them up over the jeans carefully. They were surprisingly comfortable and made me feel taller. Sexy, even. The need for a little makeup was overwhelming.
“Didn’t think of everything, did you?” I smirked.
I had cried as much as I could cry today. There was nothing left to do but smile. I wasn’t going to wallow in despair. It’d just get me killed faster.
I moved to lean against the bed. It had been two hours since Marcas had left my room. I wasn’t sure I was patient enough to wait much longer. I climbed up onto the bed and weaved stories in my head to pass the time. They were typical stories, tales of princes and princesses mingling with stranger tales, unsettling ones. Should it disturb me that I kept imagining the hero as Marcas? He should be the villain. I brushed aside the image and thought, instead, about the events of the past two weeks, cursing fate as I thought about my past, the present, and the future. With no paper, I wrote in my head, the first line one I’d written the night Monroe slept over at the Abbey.
"Ludicrous is he, the tyrant that rules the past you see.
Smug is she, the ruler of now-a-day forever to be.
Enchanting will be the child,
Future’s eaves hanging from her hair so wild …"
The bedroom door creaked open, and I jumped.
“It’s time, Blainey,” Marcas said from across the room.
This was it then. Climbing off the bed, I moved toward him. His gaze raked over my frame, and I blushed. It was a stupid way to react.
My eyes met his as I passed him and moved into the hall. “Thank you for the clothes.”
He didn’t respond. I was used to that by now, and I let him take the lead before following him along the corridor. A noise made us both freeze.
“Where do you think you’re going, Demon?”
I turned slowly to find Conor leaning against the wall not far from the bedroom I’d been assigned.
Marcas moved up next to me. “We don’t have time for this, gargoyle,” Marcas said coldly.
My gaze passed between them.
Conor’s face reddened. “I won’t let you go without me. It’s my job to protect her.”
I hadn’t counted on running into anyone, and my gaze went to the floor.
Marcas moved in front of me. “This isn’t your fight, gargoyle. This isn’t your war. If you want to protect her, you need to realize that staying here now is the best way to do that. There’s a lot you still don’t know about Demons, Reinhardt. A lot that Luther can teach you.”
My gaze moved back up again, my eyes finding Conor as he paced the hall.
“Then why take her, Demon? She isn’t prepared for this battle anymore than the rest of us. You’ll just get her killed,” Conor argued.
I didn’t disagree, but I knew why Marcas needed me.
Marcas sighed. “I don’t have a choice, Reinhardt. She goes because she has to. She needs to be the one to take the ring. I will protect her with my life.”
I inched closer to
the Demon.
Conor’s surprised gaze followed me. “Why are you doing this, Craig? Why are you protecting her?”
Marcas growled. “That’s not an answer you need right now.”
Conor was walking on thin ice.
“I won’t let you take her!” he protested.
I felt the sudden heat come off Marcas and I placed a hand on his arm before moving between them.
My pleading gaze met Conor’s. “Don’t do this, Con."
He stepped forward. “I won’t let him do this to you.”
I stared at him. “He isn’t doing anything. I agreed to go."
This made Conor pause. “Why?” he whispered.
“Because I really don’t have a choice. I’m more of a danger bound to Marcas than I would be if I wasn’t."
Conor shook his head. “There’s no guarantee it will work,” he said hoarsely.
He was right. The risk was great, and I still wasn’t sure it was worth it.
“Do you love me, Conor?” I asked him suddenly.
His head snapped up, his conflicted gaze locked on mine. “I do,” he admitted.
There was no doubt in his voice. My heart clenched.
I moved to stand before him, my face peering up into his. “Then let me go,” I whispered. “If you love me, then let me make this decision. Let me go now. Let me make this sacrifice for you and for Monroe. Give me that."
His hand came to rest on my cheek, and I didn’t pull away. I wouldn’t this time.
He bent over me. “I’m not sure I can.”
Our faces were so close I could smell the mint on Conor’s breath. It was such a familiar, comforting feeling.
The smile I gave him was small and soft. “Yes, you can.” My hand went to his cheek.
Conor’s eyes darkened. I saw the guilt there. I knew he felt he’d failed me because he hadn’t been there to stop my aunt and Damon. He was young. I didn’t blame him. I let my eyes show him that.
“Let me go,” I added gently.
His eyes fell shut, and then opened again reluctantly. “You better come back, Red,” he said darkly.
I grinned, and his frown slipped. I didn’t promise to come back, but I let my eyes be the open book he’d told me I was. They promised I’d try.
Conor moved so close our noses touched. “I love you," he whispered.
“I know you do." I couldn’t say it back, but he didn’t seem to expect me to. I started to pull away, but he held me tight, his free hand coming up to rest on the other side of my face,
“Give me this much,” he breathed.
His lips met mine. The contact was so unexpected I froze as his mouth moved over mine. The pressure was pleasant and warm. Give me this much, he’d said. I kissed him back. That much I could do. My hand slid to his shoulder and I gave everything I had to that kiss. Fire burned between us. I did it because I knew he needed it. I did it because I wasn’t sure I could ever kiss him again. Not in that way.
Conor pulled away. “Come back,” he pleaded.
I nodded and backed away.
Turning, I found Marcas watching me with an unreadable expression. My eyes locked with his. I wasn’t going to feel bad for that kiss.
Moving next to him, I murmured, “Let’s go.”
He turned and walked back down the corridor. I followed him. Neither of us said a word until we reached the stairway that led to the street above.
And then, out of nowhere, Marcas asked, “Do you love him?”
My gaze moved up his back, up the new leather jacket he’d changed into. He climbed the stairs.
I followed. “In my own way,” I muttered.
Marcas stopped at the street and peered cautiously into the night. I moved in close and fisted my hands into his jacket. I was nervous and the contact made me feel better. He shifted and my hands fell away.
Loneliness gripped me. “You don’t like to be touched, do you?”
It shouldn’t hurt when he pulled away. I didn’t even like the man for God’s sake, but he was all I had at the moment and I was scared.
He didn’t look at me. “No, I don’t like to be touched."
I peered out into the street. It was empty. The one time I had the chance to see Italy and, of course, it’d be at night.
“No contact at all?” I asked.
I couldn’t let it go. Everyone needed some kind of affection. Was it different for Demons? Was it always all about hatred and sin?
Marcas stepped out into the street and turned toward me, his face pale in the darkness, his gaze full of irritation. “Do you want to touch me, Blainey?"
My gaze shot to his. What a bastard thing to say! And just when I was beginning to feel we were making some type of progress. Not friends maybe but at least more civil.
“Not in the way your tone suggests, Craig. Not if my life depended on it,” I answered crossly.
He turned away and started across a stone path next to the building we had exited. I stumbled as I followed. There were lights throughout the city, but the alley he was moving into was dark. I couldn’t see a thing.
I started to reach for him again and stopped.
“You could see in the dark if you tried,” Marcas said from in front of me.
My eyes narrowed. “How?”
I’d always been blind in the dark. My mother used to say I was night blind.
Marcas turned to face me, and I bumped into him. He steadied me, his hands resting on each side of my head. I froze, startled. Warmth flowed into me.
“Close your eyes, Blainey,” he ordered.
I looked up at him in the dark. “I thought you didn’t like to be touched."
His hands were in my hair, and he tugged it in agitation. It made my toes tingle. “Just shut up, Blainey, and close your eyes."
This time, I complied.
“Imagine a light. When you see it, watch it grow and expand around you,” Marcas prompted. His voice was hypnotic, but even if it hadn’t been, the task would have been simple enough. I’d always had a great imagination. Light blossomed in front of me, and I pulled it toward me with my mind. I stepped into it.
Marcas’ hands tightened. “Now, open your eyes.”
I lifted my hands and placed them over his. Gently, I pushed his away. If he didn’t like to be touched, then I didn’t either.
Our hands fell apart, and I opened my eyes. “Oh, my God!”
The alley was still dark, but I could see everything in it plainly. I looked at Marcas. Every line of his face was visible to me.
Awe filled me. “What did you do?”
He turned away. “I didn’t do anything. You did. It’s part of being a Naphil.”
He started to walk away, and I rushed to catch up with him.
“I’ve never been able to do any of this before,” I said reasonably.
He had to have done something. Maybe it was part of being bound to him. His powers?
Marcas kept walking. “You didn’t try before,” he pointed out. “But it’s not the first time someone’s tried to show you how.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. What did he mean? Marcas came to the end of the alley and stopped, but he didn’t turn around. I didn’t move. Look for the light, Day.
“Jesus!” I mumbled. My father. The dream. “Is that how you knew to show me?” I asked.
I knew he’d seen my dream. I’d known it on the plane, and I had been grateful to him for not commenting on it.
“Demons can already see in the dark. Angels can too. Because you are half mortal, you have to work a little more at it. But the power is still there,” Marcas answered.
I gave that some thought before moving to catch up with him. “What does my dream mean?”
We stuck to the alleyways as we moved. I wondered if I’d even get to see Italy.
“It’s not my dream to decipher,” he answered.
I rolled my eyes. Why couldn’t anything ever be simple? If he saw the meaning, why couldn’t he just tell me? And why the hell didn’t my dad find
a simpler way of getting in touch with me? Was the dream even from him?
Marcas came to the end of an alley and turned again.
I was getting tired of walking. “Is there a faster way to get where we’re going?” I asked wearily.
“We could fly.”
I shuddered. “I don’t know which would be worse, the height or you having to endure touching me."
Marcas ducked under an overhanging roof. “Do you, by any chance, have an off button?” he asked.
I followed him under the roof without having to stoop at all. “Didn’t you know? I’m one of a kind, Craig, with a few necessary malfunctions.”
We moved into a tiny courtyard. The house it belonged to was small. A cross was hung carefully on the arched wooden door. Marcas sauntered up the walk to the small porch beyond. He paused in front of the door.
I followed carefully. “The cross doesn’t bother you?” I asked.
He reached up and knocked. “You read too much.”
The cross on the door shook suddenly. My eyes widened, and I moved closer to the Demon, my hand finding its way into his jacket. To hell with his dislike for touch! There was no telling what would open the door. Marcas didn’t shake me loose. Someone yelled in Italian from within and Marcas answered.
The door creaked open. “Speak English,” Marcas ordered coldly.
I peered around him to find myself staring at an old, stooped woman with gray-peppered black hair twisted into a severe bun. She wore a dark blue house dress and had a rosary hanging plainly around her neck.
She was scowling. “What do you want, Demonio?”
There was evidently no love lost between the two of them.
Marcas put his hand on top of the door and shoved it open. The woman fell back, a nice string of what I assumed were Italian curse words sprouting from her lips. He moved into the house and I moved with him.
“Be gone, you lousy Demonio!” she shouted.
Marcas’ eyes glowed red. “Now, Maria, I’ve heard much nicer things from you before," he crooned.
The woman spat at his feet. Her ire was evident, but the fight was slowly draining out of her. There was no denying Marcas had the upper hand.
“What do you want?” she asked.
Marcas moved further into the house. I let go of his jacket but stayed close to his side. Maria switched on a light and I blinked. It was too bright, too fast.
