Soul Deep: Dark Souls, Book 2

by Anne Hope

  “An unavoidable risk.” If one of the subjects were to die, it would be regrettable but hardly catastrophic. For every human in this facility, there were millions of replacements out there, waiting for their chance to serve his cause.

  Diane smiled icily, the black cesspools that were her eyes glistening with greed. “And if some were to die, can I help myself to their souls?”

  Kyros realized Diane walked a tightrope between subservient obedience and the staggering desire to go rogue. That was why his father had decided to terminate her. If Kyros didn’t need her services, he would have used some of the angel’s blood Micah had provided to put her out of her misery. Looking at her face disgusted him.

  “No.” Had his answer been different, he suspected all of his subjects would suddenly meet an untimely end at her hand. “Those on the verge of dying are to be transferred to the extraction chamber.”

  He’d enlisted the help of some of the greatest scientific minds—albeit against their will—to devise a method that would allow them to store souls for later consumption. A human’s essence was pure energy. If energy could be stored, then it went to reason that souls could be preserved as well. Kyros would soon revolutionize the way the Kleptopsychs fed. This was the twenty-first century, after all. The time had come for old ideals to merge with current technology so as to bring forth a new world order. Athanatos had held the Kleptopsychs back. Kyros had every intention of leading them proudly into the future.

  He left Diane to her work and returned to his shiny new Mercedes. If he could no longer journey via the catacombs, then he would ensure he traveled in style.

  Regan had left him alone with the kid again. As if his old job hadn’t been challenging enough, now he was reduced to babysitter. As long as Ben was upstairs in his room, glued to the television set Regan had hauled up there, Marcus could easily pretend the boy wasn’t there. But the second the child ambled downstairs looking for someone to entertain him, Marcus’s self-delusions evaporated like water boiling over an open flame.

  “I have nothing to do,” Ben squeaked. “Can we play a game?”

  Marcus put the printouts he was studying aside, trying not to look annoyed. “I don’t play games.”

  Ben cocked his head, eyeing him curiously. “Then what do you do for fun?”

  “I—” He faltered. Fun wasn’t a concept he entertained often, if ever. “I have more important things to worry about than fun and games.”

  The boy visibly deflated. “Grownups are so boring.”

  Marcus had been called many things, but boring had never been one of them. He didn’t understand why, but the accusation got under his skin. “Believe me, kid, there’s more excitement in my life than I can handle.”

  Ben seized one of the printouts, looking at it, unimpressed. “Is this a story?”

  “Think of it more as a puzzle, and I’ve gotta piece it together.”

  The boy grimaced. “Puzzles are too hard. I like stories better.”

  “Then make one up in your head. That’ll keep you busy for a while.”

  Sitting down next to him without being invited to do so, Ben continued perusing the page. “I want you to tell me a story,” he whined. “Tell me a story about them.” He pointed to the pictures of those who’d gone missing.

  Marcus sighed. “If I do, will you return to your room and let me get back to my work?”

  A hundred-watt smile lit up the kid’s face. He nodded and huddled closer. The act nearly stunned Marcus speechless. Affection was as foreign to him as the idea of fun, and yet here it was, spiraling through him, as disturbing as the feelings he’d been having about Regan.

  He tried to remind himself that Ben was a liability, that he could potentially obliterate the world, that attempting to keep him alive was about as futile as trying to stop the sun from setting. But his efforts were in vain, because as much as he tried to stay rational and unattached, his old humanity kept rearing up within him. For the first time he admitted the truth to himself. He wanted Ben to live, to have a future, whatever that future might be.

  Raking his fingers through his hair, he grumbled in frustration. “Fine, here goes nothing.” He searched his mind for something to say that would appeal to a seven-year-old. “Once upon a time,” he improvised, “there was this evil warlock who craved power. He wanted to rule the world, but to do that he needed human souls. Lots of them. So he kidnapped humans and locked them in a dark tower—”

  “It doesn’t look like a tower,” Ben interrupted. “It looks like an old building, with yellow bricks and a crooked sign.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  The boy squeezed his fingers until the page crackled in his hand. “I can see it. In my head.” He pointed to one of the photos, the picture of the young woman abducted from the university in Eugene. “She’s there, in a dark room with no windows.” Confusion drew his thin brows together. “No, that’s wrong. There is a window, but it’s covered with wood. She’s scared, but she can’t move. Her brain won’t let her.”

  Ben pointed to another picture. “This one feels very sick. They gave her bad medicine, and it’s making her tummy hurt.”

  “What else do you see?” Marcus probed. He wasn’t sure if Ben’s rambling was the product of an overactive imagination or an actual vision, but he was nonetheless intrigued.

  The boy suddenly went pale. “I don’t like this story anymore. It’s scary.”

  “Please, Ben,” he encouraged. “It’s important that you tell me everything you can about this place.”

  “I see a nurse. She’s holding a needle.” He shivered. “She’s so ugly. Her face is all wrong, blue and bumpy. She looks like a witch. No, a zombie.”

  Ben stiffened. His breathing grew ragged, and Marcus could hear the boy’s heart raging out of control. “He’s there.” All color leached from the kid’s face.

  “Who?”

  Ben raised two frightened, imploring eyes Marcus’s way. “The man who’s going to kill me.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Regan returned an hour later with an armful of groceries and a swarm of frenzied butterflies fluttering in her stomach. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t shake the feelings Marcus’s near kiss had elicited within her. The tightening sensation in her chest persisted, as did the electric hum in her blood.

  She took an emboldening breath and entered the townhouse the old-fashioned way—through the front door, which Marcus hadn’t bothered locking. She found him standing by the window, next to a console blanketed by a wild scatter of pages, his back turned to her. She didn’t have to see his face to sense the tension snaking through his limbs. Dropping the bags she held, she swallowed her unease and ventured farther into the house.

  “Where’s Ben?” she asked, when she failed to sense the boy’s aura.

  Marcus kept his back turned to her. “I dropped him off at Adrian’s so we can talk in private.”

  Panic gushed in to drown the butterflies. “You did what? Are you out of your freaking mind?” She marched up to him, her spine straight, her gut gathered in a painful snarl. “I don’t care if he’s your son, he’s still a Rogue. And Ben’s soul is pretty darn compelling.”

  He spun around to face her, his expression grim, rage sizzling in his eyes. “He’s safe. Which is more than I can say for the rest of humanity.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You’ve been holding out on me, Regan. The boy’s been having visions of Kyros pressing a knife to his throat, and you don’t deem it important enough to tell me?”

  Crap. She should’ve known better than to leave the two of them alone together. Now the cat was out of the bag, and she had no clue how Marcus would react.

  “It was just a dream,” she said, averting her gaze even as she willed herself not to.

  “Who are you trying to fool? Me or you?”

  “Nothing is certain,” she argued. “We can’t predict the future.”

  “But Ben can, and he’s convinced Kyros is going to kil
l him.” Muttering an oath, he stalked away from the window. “We fucked up, Regan. Royally. Cal was right. By choosing to protect Ben, we’ve all but damned mankind.”

  She gripped his arm, felt his muscles flex beneath her palm, as unyielding as a spool of braided wire. “We don’t know that. The future isn’t set in stone. We can still change it.”

  He turned on her. “And what if we can’t? What if everything we do, every choice we make, leads only to one possible outcome?”

  “Then we’ve got nothing to lose. Either way, the world is screwed.” If fate truly couldn’t be altered, then their actions didn’t matter, not one goddamn bit.

  The fight went out of him. He rubbed his eyes, sighed. “Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to do the right thing.”

  “And what is the right thing? How do we ever really know which path to choose?” That question had been harassing her a lot lately. She was conflicted, torn between reason and instinct. Her gut told her one thing, her mind another. Which of the two should she trust?

  He captured her gaze with his, and emotion all but obliterated thought. “Wish I knew.”

  She noted the reluctance in his gaze, the faithful shadow of doubt. Ignoring caution, she raised her hand to his cheek. “Please don’t bail on me now, Marcus.”

  His sharp intake of breath should’ve warned her. She should’ve known better than to touch him, to allow him to see her so vulnerable, but the truth spilled from her heart before she could stop it. “I need you.” Not only for Ben’s sake, but for her own. The thought of going on without him left her raw and bruised and aching inside.

  Another oath, then his hands whipped up to bracket her face. He yanked her close, and his mouth crushed hers with a hunger that stole her next breath and made the butterflies rage out of control again. His kiss was like nothing she’d ever known, tender and brutal, all fire and desperation, yet graced with a reverent temperance that made her feel cherished.

  Energy swept through them, consumed them. She wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him to her. The feel of his hard body pressed against hers, the gentle roughness of his fingers as they combed through her hair to cup her scalp, the sweet, intoxicating taste of him made her knees buckle. If she hadn’t been holding on to him, she might have fallen.

  With a violent sweep of his arm, he sent the pages flying off the console and lifted her onto it. He wedged himself between her legs, his mouth assaulting hers in a way that banished every last thought from her head.

  Those maddening hands of his traveled down her back, sent a pleasant shiver skittering along her spine. He flattened her breasts against his chest as he continued to drink from her mouth.

  It wasn’t enough. She wanted more, needed him closer still. As close as two people could get.

  Forgetting everything but the fire in her blood, she raised her leg to grip his thigh. He groaned and crushed her greedily against him. She felt every exquisite muscle, every hard ridge of his body beneath the maddening clothing that divided them.

  Suddenly she wanted it gone. She wanted to feel nothing but naked flesh against naked flesh. She wanted no barriers between them. No doubts or regrets.

  She undid the clasp of his pants, and he reciprocated by ripping off her sleeve. An eager sound issued from deep within his throat. He placed his palm on the console to steady himself, applied a little too much pressure, and one of the legs moaned in protest. Then the damn thing broke, sending Regan sliding into him. With a muted gasp, she gripped him by the neck to keep from falling.

  “Jesus.” He hunched his shoulders and held on to her.

  Regan tugged at the buttons of his shirt, eager to return to the business of getting him naked, but he seized her hands. “I don’t think this is such a great idea. We’re liable to do some serious damage.”

  Something told her he wasn’t referring to the furniture. “Marcus, if you stop now, I swear I’ll kill you.”

  His hot, ragged breath singed her cheek. “You’ve already destroyed me.” His voice was gruff, taut with pain. “You’ve stripped away my honor, my loyalty. What else is left?”

  She refused to let the moment pass. Yanking at his shirt, she made a couple of buttons pop. “Your clothes.”

  His head fell forward, and for one unsteady heartbeat she was sure she’d won, that he was going to kiss her again. But he peeled her off him and took a defensive step back. Staring at her swollen mouth, he shook his head regretfully. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

  For the third time that day, Marcus knocked on his son’s door. He’d made a mistake sending Ben over here—not because he didn’t trust Adrian with the boy, but because he didn’t trust himself with Regan. Being alone with her was more dangerous than a thousand blades dipped in angel’s blood, more perilous than copper shackles or the turbulent sea.

  Even now he fought the overpowering urge to return to her and finish what they’d started. Nothing had ever felt as good as Regan wrapped in his arms, gazing up at him with that smoldering look in her eyes, her sumptuous mouth waiting expectantly for his kiss.

  He groaned inwardly, wondered what was taking Adrian so damn long to answer the door. He needed a distraction, fast, or he’d turn around and head back to the townhouse, where he’d undoubtedly make the greatest mistake of his life.

  If he made love to Regan, there would be no turning back. His life as a Watcher would be officially over, and he’d be left to flounder again. The minute Cal cut him off, the darkness would spread inside him until it completely took him over. His connection to his lost humanity was tenuous at best. Without the Watchers’ bond to anchor him, he could lose it entirely.

  The door finally swung open, and Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m here for Ben,” he said, stalking past his son in search of the kid.

  “He’s in the den playing video games.”

  Marcus shot Adrian a curious glance. “What are you doing with video games?”

  “Most of the Hybrids here were teenagers when I recruited them. I had no choice but to get with the times.” His son assessed him with his gaze. “What happened to you? You look like hell.”

  “Gee thanks.” He refrained from telling him that he and Regan had nearly trashed unit 10C in a frantic attempt to get at each other.

  “Come in, have a seat,” Adrian invited. “I’ll get the boy.”

  Marcus sat at the round wooden table in the breakfast nook, while Adrian left to retrieve Ben. He returned a few seconds later, with nothing more than an apologetic look and a shrug. “He completely ignored me. I’m not even sure he heard me. I could try planting a suggestion if you want—”

  “That won’t be necessary. He’ll come when he’s ready.” Marcus was in no hurry. The longer he stayed away from Regan, the better.

  His son circled the table awkwardly, not bothering to sit down. “I’d offer you a beer, but I don’t think it would do much good.”

  Their kind metabolized alcohol so quickly, it failed to have any impact on them. “I’ll take it anyway.”

  Adrian went to the fridge and pulled out two icy bottles, dropping one on the table in front of Marcus, then claiming the seat across from him. “So are you going to tell me what’s going on? What happened to send you running from the Watchers?”

  Marcus had no desire to rehash the whole sordid ordeal. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got time.” Adrian brought the bottle to his mouth, took a swig of the beer.

  Silence stretched between them. Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t awkward or unsettling. His son had a patient quality about him, as though he could wait forever and never grow bored or restless. His gaze was sharp and penetrating, yet calm and appeasing.

  “Stop trying to read me,” Marcus grunted. “I’m not one of your head cases.”

  “We’re all head cases, especially those of us who refuse to admit it.”

  Marcus grabbed the beer bottle by the neck and brought it to his mouth. The liquid was cool and soothing, but as expected
, it did nothing to numb his senses. Realizing Adrian could sit there for hours staring him down, Marcus finally threw the guy a bone. “Cal thinks the boy needs to be destroyed to keep Kyros from acquiring his soul. Regan decided to protect him, and I—”

  “You decided to protect Regan.” Adrian’s matter-of-fact tone was void of condemnation. He’d gone from being judge, jury and executioner to empathetic counselor. It shocked him just how much his son had changed.

  “Now I think I may have made a colossal mistake.”

  Adrian took another swallow of his beer, leaned back in his chair. “Does it feel like a mistake?”

  “Honestly?” Marcus loosened his grip on the bottle, afraid he’d pulverize it, given his current mood. “No. But it should.”

  “Why? Because Cal tells you so?”

  Marcus drank to douse the flare of irritation that erupted within him. “You don’t know how it is between Cal and me. No one does. The man saved me. He’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a—” He trailed off. Adrian was the last person he wanted to speak to about father-son relationships.

  “To a father?” Nothing got past Adrian. He was too perceptive for that. “That doesn’t make him right.”

  Marcus recalled all the years he’d hunted his son, the blind conviction that Adrian was beyond redemption. He’d been wrong then, and so had Cal.

  Could they be wrong again?

  “Things happen for a reason,” Adrian tagged on. “Every experience, every encounter, however brief, has the power to change us.” His expression grew distant, deep and thoughtful. “I used to think the world was black and white. That people were either good or evil. That if you were born in darkness you could never walk in the light.”

  He raised his eyes to Marcus’s face, and his stare shone with the strength of his belief. “I was wrong. Someone showed me that things aren’t always as they appear, that hope can make all the difference.”

  Marcus put the empty beer bottle on the table and focused his full attention on Adrian. “You never told me what happened to her.”