Forevermore

by Kristen Callihan

  Augustus lurched to a sitting position, his body swaying with effort, but he half-turned so that he might face her. “Woman, were I not so weakened, I might have a true fit about now. How can you be so utterly stupid, so incredibly blind—”

  “Do not throw names at my head! I state only the truth—”

  He grabbed her by the nape and hauled her close, his mouth crashing into hers. Damn it all, he was done. Her lips were plump and perfect. She resisted for a breath but then yielded, her kiss as angry as his, biting, seeking, her tongue thrusting into his mouth as if she was the one starved for a taste.

  His fingers threaded through her silken hair as he kissed her back, letting himself take what he’d always wanted to be offered. And there were only the sounds of them enjoying each others’ mouths until, with a snarl, he broke away, not letting her go, but pulling back enough to meet her slightly dazed gaze. “Who am I?” he demanded.

  She frowned, licked her wet lips—which made his cock pulse—then frowned again. “Augustus.”

  “No.” He gave her nape a small squeeze. “Who am I?”

  Her dark gaze bore into his. “You are Judgment.”

  “And my word is law.” Another squeeze, a little shake. “And how did I judge you?”

  “I . . . You deemed me worthy to live.” Her cheeks flushed red at that.

  “I deemed you mine.” He ground his teeth to keep from shouting. “I deemed you my other half. So tell me, Lena mine, if you can accept that I am Judgment, why can you not accept that my word is law?”

  She pulled back, her gaze cutting away.

  “No,” he said, “do not evade. Answer the question.”

  “How . . .” Her teeth met with a click before she looked at him again, her dark eyes flashing. “How can you love me?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully, almost laughing when she appeared hurt by his reply. “But I do. Love just is.”

  Gods but she was stubborn. Her chin lifted again, her sweet mouth set in a straight line.

  “The question is,” he said, “do you love me? If you do, then get off your arse and claim me. For once I go, so does your chance.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Another ball, another bloody night of watching Layla dance with other men, laugh and chat with them. And all night her gaze would collide with his, the elegant sweep of her brow lifting upward slightly as if to say, Well, when shall you throw your hat in?

  She was not taunting Sin; no. Layla was simply showing him that life would go on with or without him. Which stung just as painfully.

  He could choose her, choose to live among light and happiness. But he would not take what was offered without her knowing all of him. And there was the rub. To do that, he would have to tell her of his past, of the things he had done.

  Call it pride, self-preservation, it did not matter; Sin thought about opening his mouth and letting the truth pour out, and he promptly felt ill. He remembered his sister Miranda’s look of utter disgust when she’d found out he’d been with Mab. It gutted him then; it gutted him now.

  To see even a shadow of that in Layla’s eyes would be a wound from which he would not recover. Better to watch her from afar and do some good in the world than lose all and fall to bitterness.

  Still, it chafed. And when it was time to go, as Sin escorted her down the wide stairs of some fussy lord’s townhome it was all he could do not to pull her aside and claim her mouth. He wanted to imprint himself on her skin, surround her with his scent so that any Other within a hundred miles would know she was his.

  Like a damn dog, he thought with a shake of his head. He would not do that to Layla. St. John Evernight’s name was as good as mud.

  “Had you a good time?” he asked her politely—or as damn well near it as he could manage—as they made their way along the side of the drive.

  “Well enough.” She kept her eyes to the pavement, the line of her shoulders hunched beneath her silver silk cape. “I am tired now.”

  The ball had been a crush and carriages were lined three deep on the drive, not one of them making headway. Drivers sat casually on their seats, smoking pipes and cigarettes, knowing full well they weren’t going anywhere for some time.

  Sin had asked his driver to wait on the road to avoid the traffic snarls. The night was clear and cold, the moon drifting in and out of sight behind the lacy clouds. It was coming on three in the morning. Behind them came the light sounds of the ball, still going on. But here on the street, where the lamps were flickering and shadows lurked where their light could not touch, it felt too quiet.

  Sin moved his hand to the small of Layla’s back. She stiffened, going straight, her eyes clear and focused now. “What is it?”

  He loved the way her mind worked, as if she was his partner, not his charge. He pressed his hand a little more securely to her back, feeling her warmth and the neat curve of her spine through the layers of clothing. “I do not know. Something is off.”

  She nodded, her fine features tight with concentration. “And that scent . . . I cannot quite place it.”

  “Scent?” He drew in a deep breath. There, just a hint. Brimstone. Sin tensed. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  Sin did not have time to answer. In a blink, a figure stood in the middle of the street.

  “St. Claire?” Layla said. He hadn’t been at the ball, something Sin had been grateful for at the time.

  “Hello, my dear. Did you miss me?”

  Layla’s nose wrinkled. But Sin spoke first. “You smell of hellfire, St. Claire.”

  “Mmm . . . So I do.” St. Claire shrugged. “I grew weary of cloaking it.”

  That wasn’t all he’d been cloaking. Sin could feel the power coming off him in waves that rippled through the air and punched into his chest. St. Claire was not some low-level demon or bored Elemental.

  Brimstone marked him as a being of Nowhere. A Primus—or one of the original supernaturals, born of the fears of human thought and not diluted with centuries of human interbreeding. At least, that was what Sin hoped St. Claire was. However, he feared it was not.

  “Is this a social call, then?” Sin asked lightly. He would not be able to use fire on a being who smelled of brimstone. They loved heat. Ice, earth, lightning. Those would have to be his tools, for he knew full well St. Claire had no intention of letting Sin walk away.

  As if he heard Sin’s thoughts, St. Claire gave him a lazy smile. “I rather thought I’d take Layla home with me. Get better acquainted.”

  Sin laughed. “And here I thought Primus were without humor.”

  “I am no Primus, boy.” St. Claire transformed before their eyes, growing in height, his skin darkening to blood red, his hair fading to black. Powerful wings rose behind him.

  “Damnation,” Sin said, his blood pumping with the need to kill. And so it begins.

  Yellow-gold eyes flashed. “Sired by the Original.”

  Bollocks. Sin did not want to fight this thing with Layla here. It would be messy and brutal, his chances of survival about even with St. Claire’s. But he’d long ago discovered that what he wanted and what he got were two different things. St. Claire had no intention of letting them walk away. And Sin had no intention of cowering.

  “Jolly good for you, mate,” Sin said as if unaffected. “That still won’t help you tonight.”

  St. Claire’s grin was wide and crooked. “So self-assured for a young one.” He shook his head, tutting under his breath. “Before we start, I thought you might want this.” He tossed something through the air, and it landed with a sick thud at Sin’s feet. St. Claire shrugged. “I have no use for it, at any rate.”

  A strangled cry left Layla, and her grip tightened on Sin’s sleeve. He stared down at the dull-silvery shape on the ground as his body began to tremble: Augustus’s wing. The stump raged—a knob of bone, like a broken joint, poking from its end.

  The ground rumbled as ice raced along the pavers and over his skin.

&n
bsp; “Layla,” he said, not taking his eyes from St. Claire. “I need you to step back.”

  “Not a bloody chance,” she growled.

  He almost smiled at the belligerence in her tone, but he was too angry. “Yes, love, but I need a bit of room.”

  “Oh,” she whispered. And when he felt her drift off, he let forth a blast of ice.

  St. Claire jumped high, straight into the lightning bolt Sin released. The bastard’s body thrashed about in midair before falling down. He landed in a tumble then leapt to his feet, his wings smoking, his white-blond hair blazing.

  “Not bad, St. John. My turn now.”

  He came at Sin like a storm. His speed was blinding, too fast for Sin to keep up. Razor sharp claws slashed through him again and again. Sin’s hot blood splattered over St. Claire’s grinning face.

  From a distance, he heard Layla shouting. Sin could only fight back, try to get a hit in, try to freeze the air around them to slow St. Claire down. And then St. Claire let loose another power, a high-pitched sound so strong that Sin’s head felt as if it would break apart.

  He stumbled back and got a kick to the ribs. Crashing to the ground, he rolled away just before St. Claire’s foot smashed down.

  Bollocks to this. Sin sent a punch of power just beneath St. Claire’s feet. The ground opened up, and the Damnation toppled into the deep cavern. Sin closed it tight; then, using his waning power, froze it solid.

  It was a struggle to get to his feet. But he only had moments. And he was going to use them to fight another day. Layla ran to his side.

  “Saint. Oh God, I thought he’d kill you.” Soft hands fluttered over his flayed skin. “Sin. What did he do to you?”

  He caught her up in his arms. “Hold tight, love.”

  She did, pressing herself close, her arms going around his neck. Sin took a breath and launched himself upward, praying that he’d have the strength to carry them both.

  Layla knew she ought to be afraid. She kept telling herself this as Sin opened his massive silver wings and launched up into the sky. She ought to be terrified seeing the ground grow farther away, the houses appear smaller, the fissure caused by Sin’s fight with St. Claire nothing more than a small crack on the street. But she was not scared. She was exhilarated.

  Wind whistled in her ears; her innards felt buoyant and her head oddly heavy. She laid it on his shoulder and heard the gentle whoosh of his wings. Blood, deep red yet glittering with flecks of silver, soaked his shirt and crusted on his skin. He’d had so many deep gashes that she’d wanted to scream. But they were already healed up now, leaving behind nothing but smooth skin. Even so, she could not help but flick out her tongue and catch a line of rapidly drying blood. It tasted like butterscotch and bitter chocolate.

  Sin stiffened at the touch. “Quit that, Layla. You’ll make us fall.”

  Cringing, she burrowed her nose just under his chin. “Sorry.”

  “Lick me all you want later.” His tone was only half jesting, but his grip was secure, and she was not afraid of falling. The air was cold and somewhere along the way she’d lost her cloak. But Sin was warm, almost too warm. Below her, the Thames shimmered like a black snake, winding through the glittering grid of the streetlamps and house lights of the city.

  Just in front of them, St. Paul’s familiar dome loomed. Layla glanced back from where they’d risen and saw a small, black blot rise up into the sky.

  “I think he’s following,” she said, wanting to somehow crawl further into Sin.

  He did not look back but held her tighter. “Steady now, we’re going down.”

  She gave a little squeal when he dove, her stomach rising up into her chest. The ground rushed to greet them. At the last moment, Sin pulled up and landed on light feet just before St. Paul’s. Not pausing, he rushed to the doors. They flew open with one well-placed kick.

  Sin pushed inside then kicked the massive door shut again. Then he set her down. “Come,” he said, taking hold of her hand.

  The church was dark and cold, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the cavernous space.

  Layla had been here many times, but not when it was closed. It felt wrong, somehow, to be invading this space now, as if the faces in the stained glass windows frowned down at them.

  Outside she heard the unmistakable sound of thunder. It was loud enough to rattle her bones and echoed through the cathedral.

  “Hurry,” Sin said, not glancing back. “He’s here.”

  Sin led them to the back of the church and down the stairs to the crypts below. Down the old stone steps they raced, Sin holding her hand so tightly and going so fast that she feared she’d lose her limb. But she clung to him like a lifeline. Fear skittered up her spine, and she’d rather not be trailing behind. Something Sin seemed to realize as well, for he glanced back, his expression grim.

  “I’d carry you if I could.” There was no room for that. Not with her bulky skirts in the way and the narrowness of the passage. They both knew as much. His voice was soft, not at all out of breath. “Just a bit farther.”

  The ground rumbled, trembling on all sides, and dust rained down from between the cracks in the old stones. “He’s going to bring it down on our heads.” The idea terrorized her.

  They reached a landing. “No,” Sin said. “This is his church more than it is our sanctuary.”

  Layla skidded to a halt. “What?”

  With a tug he kept her going, past the stone sarcophagi of England’s long-dead royalty, knights, and heroes. “Do not dally.”

  “Why,” she hissed, “did you bring us here if he can follow?”

  Sin stopped by a large black sarcophagus deep within the crypt. Intricately carved with cross pattée and fleur-de-lys, it was situated under an archway against the wall. He dropped her hand and began to slide the top down. The heavy lid moved easily under his strength.

  “He is a guardian. Which means he cannot destroy the abbey. But he is also damnation, which means he cannot enter consecrated grounds.” Sin got the top halfway off. “Now jump in.”

  Layla balked. “Why? No. Why?”

  His smile was swift and tight. “Because he just might try it regardless of the laws. And, yes, you are. This is made of iron, painted with the blood of a Templar knight. Damnation cannot touch it and keep his strength. Does that answer all your questions?”

  “Not hardly.”

  Another violent tremor rent through the abbey, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Cursing under her breath, she gathered up her skirts and made to climb in. Only she paused as a new horror occurred. “Is there a body inside?”

  His green eyes twinkled. “There shall be two. Yours and mine.” When she glared, he shook his head. “No bodies inside, Layla. Now get in.”

  She did as told, hating every moment. The space was cold and dank and narrow. More so when Sin climbed in after her. Trying to give him room, she pressed herself against the wall of the coffin, and cold seeped through her clothes.

  “How long must we remain?” she gritted out as he settled down next to her, his body so close their knees bumped and his shoulder moved under the curve of her neck.

  “’Til dawn.” Sin reached up and started to draw the lid over them, blocking out the weak light. “Which is close. Be still now.”

  “We’ll be without air.” Trepidation had her voice rising.

  “There are a few holes,” he said calmly. “I’ve had to lie here before.”

  “When?” She didn’t really care, but simply needed to hear the sound of his voice as darkness stole over her.

  “Training. We have safe places to hide but must learn to use them.” His voice was soft. “Not all of them are this accommodating.”

  “I do not want to know,” she vowed tightly.

  “Likely not,” he agreed before closing the lid completely.

  And then there was nothing but a blackness so dense even her superior eyesight could not cut through it. The air grew thin and close, pulled out of her lungs. Layla tried to tell hersel
f to calm but the walls of the tomb seemed to push in at all sides.

  A tomb. She was in a tomb. Sin’s body next to hers only served to highlight how tight the space was, how little air they had to share.

  A sharp sound left her, and it sounded much like a whimper.

  “I’m frightened, Sin. I’m sorry . . . You must let me out.” Stars sparkled in the blackness as her breath grew short. “I cannot. I don’t like the dark. Sin . . .” Panicked, she bucked, bashing her head on the lid.

  “Shhh . . .” Sin’s arm drew her closer, and his warm palm smoothed over her cheek. An anchor in the darkness. Gentle yet firm. He touched his lips to her forehead. “Easy, Layla. Easy. I am here. I won’t let you go.”

  Shaking, Layla leaned into him. Her throat was raw, her corset too tight. “I cannot breathe. Saint . . .” A sob left her.

  “Focus on me, little bird.” As he spoke, he reached behind her and grabbed hold of her bodice. The delicate fabric ripped like paper. Another firm tug and her corset strings snapped.

  Air rushed into her lungs. Sin murmured soothing nothing sounds as he pulled the corset from around her waist. It fell behind her, and then his wide palm was firm against her back, rubbing slow, gentle circles over her thin chemise. “It’s all right now. It’s all right.”

  A shuddering breath left her, and she sagged into his hold. They were face to face, her legs tangled with his, her palm spread wide on his chest where she could feel the steady beat of his heart.

  For long moments, she simply rested her forehead against his and just breathed, listening to his quiet sounds of reassurance, feeling his hand explore her back. Warmth stole over her; exhaustion flooded her limbs. Despite the utter dark, her eyes fluttered closed.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered after a time.

  Sin paused. “Why?” His voice was just as soft.

  “I should not have panicked.”

  His sigh brushed over her parted lips. “Don’t ever apologize for your fear. Feeling keeps you human.”

  Layla snuggled closer to his warmth, moving carefully for fear he’d realize and put a distance between him. But he remained as he was, gently holding her. Carefully, she pressed her palm just a bit more steadily against his hard chest. “Have you ever been afraid?”