by Allie Gail
Loc barely registers annoyance. After all, it was probably what he expected.
“Really, are you going to be petty about it? You don't like where I got my toys so you intend to break them like a petulant child?” His eyes drop to the scraps of paper.
And I watch in terrible fascination as the pieces slide back together of their own accord, like a puzzle reassembling itself. Within seconds the contract is whole again, without even a crease to show that it was recently sundered.
“The contract is mine,” he reminds me apathetically. “As the proprietor, my hands are the only ones who can destroy it.”
I stare at him, all my energy and emotions draining away into some deep, silent abyss. “Why are you doing this?”
“It's what we do.”
“Not you. I know you better than this – I know you're not capable of destroying someone this way.”
“Minutes ago you were calling me a killer.”
“I didn't mean it.”
“Of course you did, darling. And you were right. I am quite the heartless creature.”
“No, you're not! I know you're not...”
Tucking the paper back into the folder, he closes it with a grim finality. “You're free to go now, Miss Sterling. Shall I arrange for a car?”
I just stand there. Like a wretched zombie. As much as I hate to admit it, Markie was right on target with her assessment. What was I thinking? That he was going to kiss me one last time and send me off with an exchange of email addresses and promises to keep in touch? How could I not see that there had to be some underlying motive in this?
“There's nothing I can say to change your mind?” I persist woodenly.
“You'd better go get your things together.”
“There must be something!”
“It's been a pleasure. Please do take care.”
Straightening defiantly, I lay my last card on the table. “I'll give you my soul. It's yours. In exchange for his.”
My offer doesn't surprise him. Not even a little bit.
“Yes,” he murmurs icily. “Somehow I thought you would.”
“I'm serious, Loc.”
“I know.” He sighs, and I'm not sure what to make of it. He sounds almost...sad.
“Then you'll do it? You'll let him out of his contract?”
“Do you even realize what you're offering, Jude?”
“It doesn't matter. I can't let him take the fall for me. This is my fault. And even if it wasn't, I'd still do it.”
“He means that much to you?”
“Yes, he means that much to me. I'd do it for anyone I loved.”
Unexpectedly, he demands, “Would you have done it for me?”
His question catches me off guard. “I don't know. Maybe.”
“Maybe.” He eyes me with a withering glare. “Well, maybe you're just some foolish little twit who got played. And maybe, in the future, you should use a bit more discretion. Be more careful who you trust. Although I suppose it doesn't matter now, does it?” Reaching into one of the desk drawers, he draws out something slender and white. It resembles a thermometer, though I doubt that's what it is. “I accept your offer.”
It takes a moment for his acceptance to sink in. When it does, I'm not sure whether to be relieved or whether to collapse in terror. My nerves are a maelstrom. I can't believe I'm doing this. Can't believe he's making me do this. He hasn't just backed me into a corner – he's backed me into an intersection with semis roaring in from all sides.
“Your soul in exchange for Max Fallon's,” he clarifies. “Same terms. Collection upon death, with no external interference. Are we in agreement?”
Numbly, I nod.
“I'd like to hear it out of your mouth. Are we in agreement? Yes or no?”
Lifting my chin, I make my voice loud and clear. “Yes! I agree.”
“Very well.” He unscrews the top from the bottle of ink in the holder, then uncaps the white thing from the desk drawer. “I'll need a drop of your blood, please. It's just a formality. I know it's a bit archaic, but we do tend to hold with tradition.”
Oh. The thing in his hand isn't a thermometer, after all. It's one of those lancing devices people use to check blood sugar.
I offer up my index finger, wincing when the tiny lancet pops out to prick me.
This is happening so fast. I guess it's a good thing, that way it doesn't give me an opportunity to panic. Best way to do this is like ripping off a bandage, quick and relatively painless, just do it and get it over with. Before I fall to pieces. Before I have a chance to dwell on the horrible consequences.
There's no point thinking about it. I have no choice here. It's me or Max, and I won't let it be him.
Oh Max, why did you do it? You sweet, altruistic white knight...you sacrificed yourself without even realizing that I never needed rescuing. Why? Why would you do that? I'm not worth it, not worth even a fraction of your beautiful soul...
Holding my finger over the bottle, Loc squeezes a single droplet into the ink. I watch as the tiny red bead falls, blending with the blackness and disappearing. It's an apt analogy for what will soon be happening to me.
“This feather was snatched from one of the wings of Saint Peter,” he comments, lifting the snowy white quill from its slot. “Procured during a skirmish between our army and Heaven's forces. Quite the trophy, wouldn't you agree?”
“I hope Heaven's forces kicked every one of your asses,” I reply sweetly.
“They always do.” There is a sense of weariness in his admission. As if he knows, has known all along, that he's fighting a losing battle.
“Did it ever occur to you that you're pulling for the wrong side?”
“It's only the wrong side until the tide turns.”
“What makes you think that will ever happen?”
He offers the pen and I accept it with trembling fingers, clutching it tightly as he leafs through the folder until he locates what he's looking for. Apparently he has no intention of answering my question.
“Our standard form,” he explains, sliding the paper across the desk to me.
I scan it quickly, realizing instantly that the entire thing is drafted in some weird language I've never seen before.
“What the hell is this? I can't read this!”
“I would be happy to translate it for you, if you like.”
Oh right, like I'm supposed to take his word for it. Well, whatever it says, it can't make much of a difference. I'm being sentenced to damnation – how much worse can it get? I can't back out, regardless. Not if I want to save Max.
“Don't bother,” I mutter. “Just tell me one thing. What does my birthday have to do with this?”
“Need to know basis. And I'm afraid you don't qualify as needing to know.”
“You said we had until 1:36. Why is that? What happens then?”
“Nothing, so long as you sign this form.”
“And what if I don't?”
“Then your precious Max takes your place,” he snaps sharply. “That's what happens.”
“I wish you'd just stop for a minute and reconsider. What difference can one person's soul make in the grand scheme of things? You don't have to do this, you know.”
“You know nothing of the value of a soul. You know nothing of me. Now sign.”
Trembling all over, I dip the quill's nib into the inkwell. “This was your plan all along. Wasn't it?”
“Sign here, please.”
“Fuck you, Price.” The words come out flat and remote. There is no emotion in them. No anger, no fear, nothing. I am dying inside already. At this rate, he'll be coming to collect in no time.
“Sign here, please.” His voice sounds strained, as if he's on the verge of losing his temper, though his stony expression never changes.
The quill hovers over the paper. My hand is shaking. I feel disconnected from reality, detached, as if it's someone else standing here instead of me. None of this feels real. It's a nightmare, it must be, and I would give any
thing to wake up.
If only I could. But this is one nightmare that will never end. Because it's real. And the crushing reality is that I'm about to sign away more than my life. I'm relinquishing my soul. Giving up everything to spend an eternity in Hell.
Forever. Forever without end.
And yet, if I don't, then it will be Max who suffers for it.
God, forgive me.
With that silent prayer, I lower the pen.
“Wait,” Loc barks, startling me.
I look up at him, irritated. “What?”
“Just...wait.” He frowns, his eyes never leaving the quill in my hand. “Wait a second. Let me think.”
I gaze at him uncertainly. What scam is he trying to pull now?
“Let's just get this over with.” Don't give me time to lose my nerve.
“Shh. Quiet. I need to think.” Holding his head in his hands, he tangles his fingers through his hair and rubs vigorously. “I just need...I need to think.”
I don't move. I barely even breathe. What's going on? Since when is Locryn Price this indecisive? If anything, he's overconfident.
“Damn it all,” he curses softly. “Who's playing who here?”
Is he having second thoughts? A tiny seed of hope sprouts within me, rising out of the darkness in search of sunlight. If only I knew what was going through his head. If it were anyone else, I'd say he seems torn. Conflicted. But that can't be, can it? Could it be he's rethinking his decision?
But then another thought hits me – what if he's decided he'd rather keep Max's soul? What if he's starting to realize that it's worth more than mine?
I press the nib against the paper and start scrawling, determined to make this official before he can change his mind.
“No!” Covering my hand with his, Loc stops me in mid-signature. “Don't.”
“I'm doing this, Price.”
“The hell you are! I told you to stop.”
“What's with you? I thought you wanted this!”
“I never wanted this!” he shouts in frustration. “I never wanted any of this!”
My mouth parts as if I actually had something to say. I don't. There are no words.
“I can't do this. I can't. The devil be damned, I won't do it!” Gathering up the papers, he crams them messily into the manila folder and stalks out of the room, taking the whole thing with him.
Stunned, I remain rooted to the floor for about ten seconds before I pull myself together enough to scurry after him.
I find him in front of the fireplace. He has one arm propped on the mantel, the way he did this morning, and he is gazing into the glowing embers. I walk over to stand beside him. And wait to see what he will do. A burned-up log collapses, breaking apart, releasing a spray of sparks that flit above the ashes like fireflies.
He looks over at me, our eyes meeting for a long moment.
Then he tosses the folder into the flames.
We stand there together, silently staring into the fireplace as the flames leap to life, blackening and curling the pages of the red folder. Tendrils of sooty smoke rise like ghostly fingers clawing for escape, billowing up into the chimney. The flames chew away at the paper. Soon it is swallowed up altogether in the blue-orange heat.
“My contract was in there,” I murmur.
“Yes,” he says softly.
“Max's too.”
“Yes.”
“Does this mean...”
“Your debt is clear. You're free. Both of you.”
I shake my head, gazing at him in wonder. “I don't understand. Why did you do it?”
There are so many ways that question could be interpreted. Why did he do what? Why did he allow himself to be captured? Why did he let my brother torture him? Why did he bring me here? Why did he burn the contracts? I'm not even sure, myself, just what it is I'm asking.
He hesitates, long enough that I am beginning to accept that this is one more riddle that will go unsolved.
And then, unexpectedly, he pulls me against his chest and holds me there in a tight embrace. The cocoon of his arms is protective, comforting, safe. The antithesis of everything it should be.
“Hell is a cold and desolate place,” he murmurs in a faraway voice. “I can't send you there. Not you. Not for them. Heaven help me, not even for me.”
I close my eyes and relax against him, weak with relief from the crushing weight that has been lifted from my shoulders.
And the odd prickling of a premonition comes to me, from the darkest depths of my consciousness, suggesting that this is the last time I will ever feel his arms around me.
Time stands still.
The past fades away into nothing, and the future will never exist so long as we stay here like this. Without moving. Without thinking. His warm breath stirring my hair, my fingers clenching the fabric of his shirt, his heartbeat pulsing against my cheek.
But too soon, as if remembering that it has a duty to the rest of the world, time draws a new breath and returns to life.
Clearing his throat, Loc releases me and says gruffly, “Now go upstairs and get your things. I'm taking you home.”
“You?” I look up at him hopefully.
“Yes. I'll drive you myself.” With an uneasy glance over his shoulder, he adds, “Make it quick. We might want to get out of here before Silas has a chance to report back.”
Fair enough. Any questions I have, they'll keep for the ride home.
Halfway up the stairs, I pause to look back at him. He is still watching the fire, the flames dancing in his eyes. A man of such exquisite beauty that the mere sight of him makes my heart ache.
A man. Not a monster.
Softly, I say to him, “Do you remember how you once asked me to define love?”
“Yes.” His gaze never leaves the ashes. “I remember.”
“I think...maybe you're starting to understand.”
Shifting, he turns his back on me, muttering, “Don't be absurd, Judith.”
But I know I didn't imagine the starlight glistening of a tear in his indigo eye.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It doesn't take long to gather my belongings. All I have to do is retrieve a few things from the bathroom, stuff my clothes back into the travel bag, and I'm set.
The events of the day are swirling crazily through my head. So much has happened, and I haven't yet had time to process it all. What's striking me as most incredible right now is the fact that Loc went to all that trouble just to claim a soul, one single soul, only to back out at the last minute. On the one hand it seems so unlike him, but on the other...well, he's not what you'd call predictable so maybe it isn't unlike him after all.
I don't know if I'll ever be able to figure out the enigma of Locryn Price.
Scanning the room one last time to make sure I haven't forgotten anything, I am just about to zip up the bag and head downstairs when I get that strange, prickly sensation again. As if I'm being watched. A feeling of dread, that eerie premonition that warns of impending danger. My ears are ringing, and I realize with growing apprehension that everything around me has gone dead silent.
There is no sound. Nothing but an unsettling stillness.
“Loc...?” Rising from my crouch, I call down to him. I do, I know I do, but the sound never materializes. Instead of his name, all that reaches me is the humming white noise of an empty void.
The panic barely has time to register when I feel fingers closing around my forearm, cold fingers, from a hand so icy cold its touch burns like fire. And quickly, before I can even turn my head to discover the source, the hand is yanking me with brutal force into a vacuum of darkness.
I gasp, unable to see or hear, and the thin air cuts into my lungs like shards of ice. I am drowning, drowning in a sea of arctic water, only there is no water. No wetness. No liquid sensation. There is nothing, nothing to touch or grab onto – I'm falling or drifting, I'm not sure which, and I can't feel a thing. Nothing but the bitter sting of cold. It sl
ashes through my clothes, drilling deep into the marrow of my bones to freeze them into brittle kindling. I am afraid to move my fingers, fearing that if I do, they will snap off like dry twigs and float away.
Oh my God, what's happening? Where am I? Someone help me, get me out of here! I'm dying!
I try to scream, but it's too painful to breathe. My body feels like it's encased in ice, and lungs are incapable of drawing air from a glacier. The cold hurts. I never knew cold could hurt so much. It sears like fire. I am dying, suffocating in winter's embrace, and all I can see beyond the pain are the fragmented mental images of those closest to my heart.
Mama, belting out Broadway tunes as she flattens a pie crust with a rolling pin.
Daddy, patiently showing me how to reel in a lake trout.
Russell, holding my hand as he walks me to the door of my kindergarten class.
Gabby, laughing until tears roll down her cheeks at my phone's autocorrect goofs.
Max, kissing me gently and unexpectedly for the first and only time.
And a pair of piercing blue eyes that belong to a half-demon hybrid.
The blackness gradually lifts like a dark cloud drifting away. My vision wavers and begins to clear. Sucking in the welcome oxygen, I gulp in deep breaths, panting white puffs of vapor into the frigid air until my pulse resumes a more normal rhythm.
I am lying on the ground, somewhere outdoors. The cold has subsided into a more tolerable chill, but still I feel as if I will never be warm again. My teeth are chattering uncontrollably. I'm shaking all over. Sitting up, I wrap my arms around myself, rocking back and forth in a vain pursuit of any residual body heat. I'd give anything for my parka right now, blood or no blood. My jeans and thermal shirt feel about as useful as gauze.
Looking around, I blink several times, trying to see through the frosty veil. It takes a moment for me to understand that the heaviness of my eyelids is nothing more than ice crystals clinging to my lashes. I rub them briskly with stiff fingers, then force myself to stand on legs that have gone numb. Despite the thick socks and boots, my feet are blocks of ice.
Gray. Everything is a dull, monochrome gray.
