Far From Heaven

by Cherrie Lynn

  His love could damn her soul…

  Ashemnon’s demonic hunger for Madeleine Dean’s pure, vibrant soul has tormented him throughout every lifetime she’s lived on earth. Now, thanks to her desperate father, he has a blood-tight contract in hand. Soon, her soul will belong to him.

  All her life, Maddie has been haunted by strange occurrences, hallucinations and increasingly intense nightmares. As her ex-boyfriend walks away, she can almost hear the pieces of her life falling around her. And then she falls—literally—into the arms of a stranger who’s the first and only person to understand.

  Ash meant to pluck her soul, not sweep her off her feet. Yet the moment they touch, the temptation to seduce her again and again is more than he can resist. Despite the risk, he finds himself succumbing to her charms. And, impossibly, falling in love.

  Then Ash learns the reason it’s taken centuries to get to this point: He’s not the only one with a claim on her soul. Heaven and Hell are in a tug of war—and Maddie’s the rope. Control wrested from his hands, Ash can only wait for her to make a choice that will damn one soul to Hell…or damn her own.

  Warning: This title contains obsession, soul possession, and hot carnal transgression. Oh, and a few scares for good measure. You can’t keep this bad demon down—though you’ll want to try.

  eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  Far From Heaven

  Copyright © 2011 by Cherrie Lynn

  ISBN: 978-1-60928-432-9

  Edited by Linda Ingmanson

  Cover by Kanaxa

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: April 2011

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  Far from Heaven

  Cherrie Lynn

  Dedication

  For my mom, who completely rocks and is in no way an inspiration for some of my heroines’ wretched mothers (and yes, she’s asked me this before). She believes in me, encourages me, and most importantly, she’s very proud of me. If not for her, I wouldn’t be doing this. I love you, Mom!

  Prologue

  Twenty-seven years ago

  The knock on the door sounded innocent enough. Pleasant, even. Light and friendly.

  It wasn’t.

  The man sitting at the battered old desk seemed to know that. His balding head jerked up from the lines he was snorting with a rolled-up dollar bill, and he blanched whiter than the powder scattered across the scarred desktop. Whiter than the wife-beater he wore…which, come to that, wasn’t all that white, but torn and yellowed with sweat stains.

  Apparently he at least suspected that death was standing outside his door. What he didn’t realize was that a far more dangerous foe sat watching the scene from the tattered living room couch, cloaked in invisibility.

  Ashemnon narrowed his eyes as the man leapt from his chair and stared at the front door with the whites of his eyes showing all around blue irises—though his pupils were so dilated the blue was nearly eclipsed by discs of black.

  Blue, like her eyes will be.

  Ash fidgeted as impatience gnawed at him. He wanted to get this show on the road, but not quite yet. Better to let the man’s fear build to a fever pitch, to a point of desperation that would impel him to do anything, pay any price, for his life to be spared. He was in bad trouble with worse people…people who would knock on your door and shoot you in the face. Without any sort of intervention, he was going to die here, now, riddled with bullets and left to rot until someone complained about the smell and sent management to investigate. This was the sort of seedy establishment that housed hollow-eyed tenants who normally didn’t see you as long as you pretended not to see them.

  It didn’t matter one way or another to Ash what happened to the waste of life currently rummaging through a desk drawer as silently as he could. But the man—whose name was Gatlin—possessed something he wanted, something he needed, and a moment like this was when he would be most likely to part with it for the promise of deliverance.

  The knock sounded again, more insistent this time. The human jerked a pistol out of the drawer and plastered his back to the cracked drywall. Inch by inch, he crept along toward the door, staying out of the line of sight of anyone who might begin shooting from the opposite side.

  As dust floated lazily in the single dingy shaft of sunlight slanting through a grime-encrusted window, Gatlin’s breathing threatened to go out of control and Ash imagined he could hear the mortal’s heart pounding. Given the several hundred milligrams of cocaine bubbling through the man’s bloodstream, it was amazing a heart attack wouldn’t fell him before the bullets could.

  The idiot was opening his mouth to call out to the person at the door.

  Now. Ash dropped the shields that kept him invisible to human eyes and threw up one that would protect them both from being heard, wrapping himself and his target in a protective cocoon separate from the time and space of the human’s realm.

  The clock on the wall stopped ticking. The rush of traffic outside the thin walls ceased. Absolute silence descended.

  Blinking, Gatlin looked around, his brow furrowing…until his gaze fell on Ash lounging on his couch. Then his eyes flew even wider, and he swung the weapon up and pointed it directly at Ash’s chest.

  Ash only grinned. “You’re going to die.”

  “Fuck you,” Gatlin rasped and opened fire.

  One…two…three…four…

  Ash made a show of yawning as the man succeeded only in putting six neat bullet holes in the back of the couch. It hadn’t been a quality item in the first place, brown and stained and leaking more stuffing than it contained. Ash sighed and crossed his ankle over his knee as Gatlin continued frantically pulling the trigger until it merely clicked.

  “Are you quite done?”

  “How the…who the hell…?” Gatlin’s nostrils flared with every loud, desperate breath. The gun fell from his seemingly nerveless fingers and clunked on the floor.

  “I’m not who you think I am, obviously. Or else I would be bleeding out on your floor, would I not?” Ash allowed his upper lip to curl. This was the fun part. “I’d hate to know that hideous vomit-colored carpet was about to become the last thing I beheld. But here’s the thing, Gatlin…you’re about to get up close and personal with it. You’re two minutes away from watching it go red with your blood as the life pumps out of your body. The man standing on the other side of that door will blow so many new holes through you, my friend, I’ll be able to look through you and see daylight on the other side.” For dramatic effect, he stood and began pacing slowly toward the blubbering man, never blinking, never letting him escape his gaze. Gatlin slid down the wall, muttering nonsense, his fists clenching and unclenching spasmodically as his chin fell to his chest.

  Ash fought down a surge of renewed revulsion. He was almost tempted to end negotiations before they began. End them, and let this scourge on humanity eat lead. His was a soul Ash could reap on the spot, no questions asked. No angels would be coming to wing him to his rest.

  But it wasn’t his soul he wanted right now. Gatlin…he was too easy. Drugs, assault,
burglary, rape. Hell would be welcoming him with open arms eventually, and right now Ash’s superiors were content to let Gatlin carry on doing his dirty work upon the earth. Ash didn’t plan on making any provisions regarding the man’s afterlife. This was all about saving his ass now.

  The soul Ash was really here to collect was one he ordinarily couldn’t touch.

  Gatlin looked as if he was about to pass out. With the toe of one black boot, Ash tilted his chin up. The man’s eyes rolled upward, his bleary gaze finally focusing.

  “Get up.”

  The stuttering began to form words. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is—”

  Ash gave him a mouthful of boot leather, knocking his head hard against the wall. “I’m sure she has more deserving sinners to pray for. I said get up.” Without waiting for him to try, Ash leaned over and hauled him up by the front of his shirt, half-tearing it in the process—the man was damn near dead weight. Ash deposited him in a nearby chair that was in worse shape than the couch, then sat across from him on the scarred coffee table. Gatlin watched in slack-jawed fear as Ash rested his elbows on his knees, steepled his fingers at his lips and simply stared.

  “Wh-what do you want from me?” Gatlin stammered. A trickle of blood ran from his busted lower lip.

  “It’s quite simple, really. I want to save you.”

  Gatlin swiped at the blood on his face, then stared at the stark crimson on his fingers. The blow had apparently knocked some sense into him. Or at the very least, sobered him up a bit. “You’ve got a hell of a way of showing it, pal.”

  Ash grinned at that. “Indeed. I won’t sugarcoat things. You’re in a dire situation, Maxwell Gatlin, and for a price, I’ll get you out of it. This time.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t like repeating myself, and I won’t tolerate stupid questions. Use what little brain you haven’t fried. I appeared out of thin air. Every bullet you fired should have pierced my chest, but you murdered your couch instead.” He grinned again, letting heat gather behind his eyes so they would burn red. Gatlin clumsily tried to scramble back in his chair. “Yet here I sit, offering you a chance to escape certain death. And make no mistake, death is certain today unless you accept my help.”

  “All right, man, I get it. If you can get me out, fucking do it already.”

  “Ah, but I haven’t even named my price.”

  “Name it.” Gatlin glanced back at the door as if he expected it to burst open at any moment in a rain of gunfire.

  All amusement left Ash’s demeanor. He felt it drain at the thought of her, felt the muscles of his throat constrict. The words tore loose in a strangled growl. “Your daughter.”

  Gatlin’s incredulous gaze swung back around to him. “You got the wrong guy. I ain’t got no daughter.”

  “That you know of.” He watched the man’s face slacken. “Her name is Madeleine. She’s six months old.” Ash leaned over until they were almost nose to nose, only a few inches separating them. “And I want her.”

  He could see the calculations going on behind Gatlin’s eyes, trying to figure out who he’d knocked up well over a year ago. Now wasn’t the time for him to have an attack of conscience.

  “What does it matter to you?” Ash asked. “Her mother was a prostitute whose fee you stiffed and then forced anyway. Not an uncommon occurrence for you, if I understand correctly. So, congratulations. But why would you possibly give a damn? It’s not as if the kid would have anything to do with you, even if her mother let her. Just another person in your life to someday tell you what a slimy piece of shit you are. Do you really need one more?”

  Gatlin just stared dumbly. Ash leaned back and feigned nonchalance. “Of course, you can always protect her and fulfill your fate, which is to drown in your own blood after getting punched full of bullet holes. I can’t promise a quick end. I think you’ll feel every hit, and then you’ll have the agony of—”

  “Stop! I’ll do it. You can have the girl. I won’t ever know her anyways.”

  At the proclamation, Ash felt the weight of centuries of longing lift off him and he felt almost…free. Happy, even. He wanted to hang his head in exhausted relief, but he kept it high, kept his gaze steady on the man before him who’d just handed him everything he’d been chasing for a long, long time.

  Standing, he reached into the inside pocket of his black coat and pulled out the contract he’d drafted stating the terms of the bargain. He unfurled it on the coffee table, holding it flat so Gatlin could read. It was quite a simple one. The girl’s soul, taken at a time of Ash’s choosing, but not before her twenty-fifth birthday—Hell had no interest in younger souls; they weren’t tainted enough. In exchange, Ash would immediately remove him from one and only one situation that would end in his death. He watched Gatlin’s gaze move intently across the parchment as he read. When he was done, he looked up, his jaw tense.

  “How do I sign?”

  Ash produced a quill from his pocket and gestured for Gatlin to give him his hand. He gasped when Ash drew a fingernail across the back, slicing it open and releasing a thin ribbon of blood. Without further explanation, he held out the quill.

  Blowing out a breath, Gatlin took it, drew it through his own blood. And signed over his unknown daughter’s soul to a demon.

  Ash grinned as he snatched the parchment away and pressed his thumb to the bottom, leaving an intricately scripted A sizzling and smoking once he lifted it away. The hands on the clock whirred forward, the sunlight in the room quickly melted to darkness except for a faint red neon glow from well outside the window. Any armed assailants were long gone.

  “Now,” he said, quickly rolling up the scroll, “I suggest you get out of here before someone comes back.”

  Gatlin nodded vigorously, looking as if he wanted to go down on his knees in front of him. His words were as breathless as if he’d just run ten miles. “Thank you. Fuck. Thank you so much.”

  Ash turned his back and strolled toward the door, tucking the precious document safely in his coat. She was his. At last. “Save your thanks, Gatlin. I’m sure we’ll be seeing you soon enough.”

  Chapter One

  Present day

  “Damn, damn, damn.” Maddie staggered on her heels as she scurried down the sidewalk. She was late again. Again. How the hell it had happened, she had no idea, but David was not going to be thrilled. She could almost hear his reprimand echoing in her head.

  She rounded a corner and the restaurant swung into view, separated from her by a steady whizzing stream of city traffic. With her gaze anxiously locked on the red Do Not Walk light, she reached the post and furiously thumbed the button.

  “Come on, come on.” Her newly reset watch read seven twenty-one. Over twenty minutes late. Oh, forget not thrilled—David was going to be livid. She’d tried to call his cell, but he hadn’t answered. Whether he’d silenced it out of respect for the other restaurant patrons or he was just ignoring her, she didn’t know.

  David seemed to care an awful lot about what other people thought of him…except, it seemed, for her. Their entire relationship was balanced on a knife’s edge, teetering toward the side of peril all the time. She feared one nudge might send it crashing, but she was probably only being paranoid. God knew it wouldn’t be the first time.

  Tonight, she’d been hoping they could talk about what they could do to change things. She was going to tell him how wretched he’d been making her feel lately and, if all went well, they’d sort through it and end up back at his place. Laughing and watching old movies and making love all night, the way they used to in the beginning, when things were good.

  Well, that was the fantasy. Now it was shot all to hell.

  The light changed and she all but sprinted across the street—as well as she could in these freaking heels, anyway. She was accustomed to sneakers and flip-flops, and already her arches were screaming, “Woman, are you insane?”

  Her mad dash up the steps took what remaining breath she had, and she could hardly tell the h
ost that she was meeting someone who’d already arrived. What if David had grown tired of waiting around and left? Oh God, that would be so humiliating. But she couldn’t say she’d blame him.

  A sigh of relief escaped her after she told the man David’s name and he turned to lead her toward the back of the restaurant, in the direction of their favorite table. Whew, he was still here. Fuming, no doubt, but depending on his mood, he might get over it in a few minutes and they could enjoy their evening. He was a firm believer in punctuality and often chastised her about being one of the most unorganized people he’d ever met.

  Well, she thought sadly, there was really no use denying it. It almost seemed as if something was preventing her from being anything other than a woman with a complete inability to get her shit together. As if some kind of cosmic prankster was constantly shadowing her, throwing monkey wrenches into her life. And it was all coming to a head, about to culminate in…something. She didn’t know what, but it was nothing good. All her life, she’d lived with the sense that the axe was poised and ready to fall. It was only a question of when and where and how many necks it was going to sever.

  David’s sandy-blond head came into view and she fortified her resolve with a deep breath as she stepped around the table and dropped into the chair the host pulled out for her, the apology already forming on her lips. When she lifted her gaze from David’s slowly drumming fingers to the anger simmering in his eyes, the words died before she could lend them voice.

  In her lap, she twisted her fingers together. She bit her lip for a second and tried again. “David, I’m-”

  “What was it this time? Flat tire? Wardrobe malfunction? Alien abduction?”

  All my clocks were wrong. All of them.

  She knew how crazy it would make her sound if she spoke the truth, that she’d thought she was right on time until she left her apartment, got into her Jeep and saw the time on the radio display. Weird, she’d thought. It must’ve been running fast. Then she’d seen it on the sign as she drove past the bank up the street from her house. And heard the DJ say it on the radio.