Ransom (Redemption Series)

by R. K. Ryals

  "Oh, I won't interfere, Ashley. She's just a child. But children grow, and when she's old enough, I'll be there."

  "You underestimate my daughter," Ashley growled.

  Damon raised a brow.

  "And you'd know that about a ten-year-old?"

  My mother's eyes shimmered with tears, and yet she laughed. Her death was near. She knew it, and she looked at Damon.

  "I've seen what she's capable of even now."

  Damon's face morphed, his teeth bared as he opened his mouth, his hands growing claws.

  Marcas's vision blurred, but it didn't leave me, and I wasn't prepared for what came next, wasn't prepared for the claws Damon sank into my mother's side before his mouth fastened on her neck. I wasn't prepared for the blood that raced out of her wounds as he fed, wasn't prepared for her screams, and I sobbed as Marcas ended the vision abruptly, his lips suddenly crashing down onto mine.

  It was an odd moment for a kiss, and yet so right. An awful memory, a heartbreaking scene replaced by a forceful caress, his lips hard as he wiped away my tears, and I grabbed his shirt, my mouth pressing back into his desperately, seeking what, I'm not sure. Comfort maybe. There was no time to be surprised, no time to wonder what either of us was doing. No time to consider what this would do to our bond, to our normally distant relationship, to us.

  There was only time to consider the kiss, his lips moving over mine, his arms drawing me closer. He was giving me a part of himself, his lips almost violent as I sobbed against him, my kiss filled with all of the emotions I'd had pent up since we'd met. I nipped at his lip and recognized the anger, the grief in the gesture, then ran my tongue along the wound, recognizing the act for the forgiveness it was, not for those who caused me pain, but for Marcas. And Marcas reciprocated.

  We took, and we gave back, our kiss full of hatred. His for a love gone wrong, for a brother whose sanity was gone, for a mother who wanted to use him to gain power. Mine for my mother's senseless death, my father's abandonment, my aunt's betrayal.

  And then the kiss changed, becoming a caress full of something different, something bigger than both of us. It was an emotion I was afraid to define, and yet, strangely enough, the jumbled feelings had me clinging to him greedily. I couldn't get enough.

  My hands were suddenly on his face, gliding up into his hair as he picked me up, walking with me until my back was pushed up against the bedroom's chilly, marble wall. I would have shivered if the stone hadn't felt so good against my heated skin. And I sighed as Marcas' hands moved, one spanning my waist as the other tangled itself into my knotted, wildly untamed hair.

  And still I sobbed, my tears gliding down my cheeks, slipping over my chin before dropping to the floor, and with each tear, Marcas' lips pressed harder. It's almost as if we were fighting, working hard to punish the other with kisses rather than punches, both of us pushing, first angry then needy until I felt my lips begin to bruise, Marcas' skin heating beneath my touch.

  I gripped his head, holding his face to mine, the kiss deepening, and I felt years of loneliness grip me and then melt away. It astounded me that one kiss could give and take so much, and yet here I was, taking comfort while giving my loneliness to a Demon whose brother had stolen my mother's life, who had once been sent to kill me, who had loved an Angel and lost her. And I couldn't find it in me to regret it, not when I felt his own loneliness in the way he moved against me, in the hungry way his lips moved over mine, the way his tongue sought entrance.

  I dropped one hand and let it move to his shirt, slipping under the fabric until I felt the tense muscles in his back, and I kneaded in an attempt to soothe him. Marcas growled, the rumbling vibration moving through his body as he nipped my lower lip, and I felt his hand move to the hem of what was left of my shirt. I couldn't fight him.

  I felt like I was drowning and for the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid of going under. My fingers played with the skin on his back, hovering over areas of swollen flesh, and I knew I had discovered his tattoo. The way he healed, I wondered briefly how he'd managed the design, and I was just beginning to trace the cobra with my finger when I heard the bedroom door swing open.

  The sound startled us both. The interruption had Marcas pulling his face from mine, but he didn't move away. We stood frozen, and I saw Marcas' eyes darken as faint footfalls sounded on the plush carpet. The intruder stopped only a few feet from where we stood.

  "Lucas," Marcas said, his voice low. I moaned.

  My lips burned from Marcas' kiss, and I closed my eyes as I realized my father's protégé was now standing at Marcas' back, witness to my fall from grace. I was suddenly glad Marcas was so tall.

  "Marcas," Lucas answered.

  "Looks like I have more than just your cursing to correct," Lucas' voice said in my head, his tone hard.

  I gripped Marcas' t-shirt and laid my forehead against his chest. He was breathing hard.

  "Leave, Lucas. Now!" Marcas bit out.

  I heard Lucas chuckle.

  "You really think I should?" he asked. "You know better than I why this is wrong, Marcas. You've been here before."

  Sophia again. I felt my stomach tense as Marcas lifted the hand he had at my waist, using it to brace himself against the wall next to my head.

  "I said leave, Luke. You have nothing further to worry about."

  Lucas chuckled, the sound dark. It seemed even his amusement had its limits.

  "I should hope not. You do realize we can see into her thoughts, Marc. The Naphil has not yet learned to shield," Lucas warned. "And I'm a fallen Angel. There are times I can fool the Hounds into not seeing me. I am watching."

  I felt a flush crawl up my neck, and the skin on Marcas' back heated as his muscles tensed.

  "I won't tell you again," Marcas growled. "You are in my domain. Don't make me remind you why I am who I am."

  Lucas didn't answer, just moved away, and I opened my eyes as the bedroom door clicked shut behind him. Marcas was watching me, his gaze unreadable once more, but his jaw was tight, and I knew he was conflicted. He didn't apologize. He wasn't the type, and he didn't try to explain anything, didn't try to tell me how it was going to be now between us. He just pulled away, placed a hand against my cheek and pointed at the clothes I'd made, laying haphazardly now on the floor not far from the bed. The white stood out starkly against the red carpet.

  "Go clean up, Blainey."

  I edged away from him, stopping only long enough to grab the clothes and press them against my chest. I looked up at him, a silent plea in my eyes. The words I wanted to say were obvious, but I left them unspoken, refusing to ask for anything. Marcas' gaze locked with mine.

  "I'm not leaving," he said.

  The relief was immediate. I turned away and walked to the bathroom, stopping at the door to glance over my shoulder. Marcas had his head down.

  "I never liked Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare had that story wrong."

  It was all I said before I closed the bathroom door behind me, leaning against the wood, my breath coming fast. I looked up and there opposite me hung a mirror. In it was the reflection of a Naphil. Not a girl. Red hair stood up everywhere, pale cheeks streaked with dust and tears, shirt shredded, dried blood across her abdomen. But the difference was the glow. She was surrounded by it, her power singing down her skin. The memories of her human mother's death still fresh. And she smiled, her bruised lips redder than usual.

  "Damn you all."

  It was all she said, but it was enough.

  Chapter 10

  Vengeance is the path of the Damned. It is not a path taken lightly. For a Naphil, it could mean ransoming her soul.

  ~Bezaliel~

  I was a coward. Simple as that. A powerful coward, I'll admit, with a new taste for blood, but a coward nonetheless. Even as I watched myself transform, first in the fire pits and now in Lilith's sordid black stone bathroom, I found myself shaking, my hands trembling as I fought to remove my damaged clothes.

  "Shit," I whispered as I almost stumbled w
hile removing my pants. What the hell had just happened between Marcas and me? And why had I let it?

  "This is ridiculous."

  I looked around the room I was in, noted the black walls, the elaborate sink opposite me, red porcelain with a large mirror hung above it, and I grimaced. The room was too dark, lit only by a single source of light, a dim chandelier. The black room "ate" the light quickly.

  I moved to the built-in tub in the center of the room, the floor black onyx, straight and smooth until it suddenly "fell," became a recess filled with steaming water. Where the water came from was beyond me, and at this point, I didn't care.

  I found steps that led subtly into the tub and almost slid trying to get in. Water splashed, and I grimaced. I wouldn't give Lilith the satisfaction of breaking my neck.

  "Ahhh!"

  The water felt good. Even if I figured out how to use my power to clean myself, I wouldn't want to give up hot baths. They took away too much tension, gave me plenty of time to think. And I needed to think right now, even if that meant contemplating the kiss. And what a kiss it was! I had lost myself in that kiss, become as much Demon as I was Angel, become as much a part of Marcas as he was a part of me. And that scared me.

  "He's a Demon, Blainey. It ain't goin' nowhere, sweetheart," I told myself.

  I ducked my head into the water and looked around, my eyes landing on a bar of soap that magically appeared on the side of the tub. The helpful hocus pocus made me nervous. Marcas?

  "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth . . ."

  I grabbed the bar and started to scrub, the irresistible scent of honeysuckle filtering up to my nose. It reminded me of home. It was a nice gesture. I wasn't a roses kind of girl, but sunflowers and honeysuckle . . . the Demon had me pegged.

  I looked at the bathroom door. Marcas. I had a lot to figure out when it came to the surly Demon. He wasn't the most charming man in the world, he was unreadable, he was stubborn, and, Lord knows, he was irritating as hell, but there was something about him that drew me to him. The bond maybe? I didn't want to believe the bond could confuse my emotions, and yet I had to consider it a possibility.

  And that dead-blasted kiss! It was like being consumed by fire and loving the burn. I scrubbed my hair with the soap, then ducked, letting the water wash away the memory. I couldn't afford the complication. And I had seen the look in Marcas' eyes. Even as unreadable as he could be, I knew his past spoke to him. Demons and Angels didn't make great house mates. They made even poorer couples. Point being: It doesn't work. Time to move on, get unbound, and get the hell outta Dodge. I needed to find my father, get Amber out of the Abbey, make sure my friends were okay, then somehow make a life as an Angelic outcast. Put that way, it didn't seem so bad.

  Oh, but wait! Let's not forget a female Demon hell-bent on destroying me. Top that off with the fact that the man I'd just kissed had a twin brother who wanted me to bear either his or Marcas' child, and I would make a great guest on the Jerry Springer show.

  "Stop over-analyzing everything, Blainey," a voice called from the other side of the bathroom door, and I stiffened. A towel appeared, folded and warm next to the tub. I knew now he was the one who'd made the bar of soap materialize.

  "Should I be concerned that you keep meeting my needs in here without actually being in the room? You don't have x-ray vision, do you, Craig? Cause that would be waaay overstepping the boundaries of this thing called personal space," I called out.

  "I think we've already overstepped those boundaries."

  I stood up and grabbed the towel, pulling it around me before moving to the door.

  "Are we talking about this now?" I asked, turning so my back was against the wood, my face gazing once again into the mirror. The glow was still there, the girl more relaxed and clean. Her eyes were wide.

  "There's nothing to discuss, Blainey."

  I so begged to differ.

  "Isn't there?"

  My question was followed by silence. I let my chin fall to my chest.

  "You are complicated, Marcas. Just sayin.'"

  "And you're not?"

  I refused to answer that.

  "Get dressed, Blainey. We have bigger issues to deal with."

  I looked at my reflection. I knew we had trouble, knew we had a lot of obstacles to overcome, but nothing seemed as giant as that kiss at the moment. The kiss changed a lot of things. Maybe not for him. But it had for me.

  I stepped away from the door and toweled off before pulling on my clothes. Glancing into the mirror, I grinned at the sight, the boot-cut jeans and off-the-shoulder white tee. The word "Angel" was scripted plainly across my chest. It made me grin. Okay, so maybe Marcas was right. I was goading Lilith.

  I brought my hand up to my hair and frowned. It was damp and curly, and I could feel the knots as I ran my fingers through the mess. I was just about to look for a brush when one suddenly appeared maybe an inch from my face. I grabbed at it and swore. Was this Marcas' idea of fooling around?

  I marched to the door and pulled it open slightly, just enough to allow me to peek at the Demon standing inside the bedroom. He was leaning casually against one of the bed's posts, his face utterly unreadable.

  "Okay, the magic mojo is beginning to freak me out just a tad."

  Marcas lifted a brow.

  "You didn't need the brush?" he asked.

  I threw open the door and walked out of the bathroom while tugging the brush through my hair. It caught on more than one tangle, and I scrunched my nose.

  "Even when joking, you're irritating," I complained as I made my way over to the vanity.

  I sat down on the cushioned chair and looked into the mirror. My reflection met me along with the reflection of a tall, dark Demon a few feet behind. It was a disconcerting sight. It was like looking at a picture, the two of us placed just inside its frame. His dark t-shirt and my sparkly "Angel" getup certainly marked us. Marcas pushed away from the bed and moved toward me. I tensed.

  "I know you don't want my help, Blainey, but you're going to be a little underdressed," Marcas said as he came to stand behind me. I turned on the stool.

  "What do you mean?"

  Marcas motioned to the bed, and I stood up so fast, I almost rammed the top of my head into Marcas' chin.

  "You've got to be kidding me!"

  On the silk sheets, there lay a ball gown so intricate, I had trouble focusing completely on it. It was silver taffeta, strapless, and closely fitted down to the waist. From there, the skirt was full and long and covered in sparkling silver jewels. The skirt was pulled up on one side with more beaded taffeta beneath. It was more than just beautiful, it was . . . incredible. I looked at Marcas. What kind of reception was this? Hell's version of the Academy Awards?

  "I'm supposed to wear that?"

  He nodded, and I moved around him to the bed, my hand coming to rest on the silver material.

  "And you let me create clothes knowing this?"

  Marcas didn't approach me.

  "I let you do it because you needed to know you could."

  He had a point. As much as I hated it, he definitely had a point. I turned to face him.

  "What is this reception for?"

  Marcas watched me, his eyes moving from my face to the dress on the bed.

  "To promote me," he answered. "You should get dressed."

  He didn't give me time to question him, to find out what he meant by "promote." The word gave me chills. Promotion in Hell couldn't be a good thing. I reached behind me and picked up the dress. It was surprisingly light, and I held it up in front of me. The length was perfect. It would just touch the floor.

  "You did this?" I asked.

  Marcas didn't answer, just turned away.

  "I'll come back when you're ready," he said as he made his way toward the door. I almost tripped over the dress in my hands in my attempt to stop him. I reached out and touched his back.

  "Don't!" I cried out.

  He paused. I tried asking him to stay and failed miserably, coughing
instead. I knew if we were together, Lilith would be less likely to approach me.

  "Dammit, Craig! I don't like asking for help. I don't like being afraid. So make this easy on me and don't make me ask. Please."

  Marcas turned to me, his gaze looking down into mine.

  "You are the least afraid person I know, Blainey."

  "Compared to what?"

  "To this simple fact, if anyone else was in your position right now, they'd beg me to take their soul."

  I didn't know how to reply to that and Marcas knew it. He lifted my chin with his hand.

  "You've just gotten a taste of what will happen to you because you're bound to me. Damon not only made you a pawn, a reason for Heaven and Hell to go to war on Earth, but he put you in the middle of a political battle in Hell. And you're still here, Blainey. Asking me to turn my back while you change clothes isn't cowardice. It's reasonable."

  I was speechless, his words washing over me, warming me in ways I knew it shouldn't. My skin burned where he touched me, and I found myself leaning forward without meaning to then just as suddenly stepping back. Marcas' hand fell away.

  "Get dressed, Blainey," he said as he gave me his back.

  I stood there a moment before finally beginning to shimmy back out of my jeans, folding them carefully and setting them aside. I didn't know if I'd need them again. The shirt and bra followed. Thank God for built in boobs. I stepped into the dress carefully before pulling it up, holding it against me as I reached back to pull the zipper up as far as I could get it to go alone.

  "A little help," I said sheepishly, turning before I had a chance to see Marcas' face.

  I felt his hands against my bare back and it made me shiver. I dug my toes into the red carpet just as his breath wafted against my ear.

  "When all things charm me I ignore

  Which one alone brings most delight;

  She shines before me like the dawn,

  And she consoles me like the night."

  Marcas' sudden whispered words made me freeze. I recognized the poem. It was by a French poet. Charles something or other, and I knew this was Marcas' way of saying things he wouldn't say to me otherwise. I fought not to turn around.