Embrace of the Damned

by Bast, Anya

  Dmitri lifted a solid black brow and glanced down. “You’re damaging my coat.”

  “I’ve got a nice pointy knife at the small of my back that can damage a whole lot more than that. Where is she?” He knew Dmitri wouldn’t be here if he didn’t know. Dmitri wanted to help Jessa for reasons Broder didn’t have the luxury to examine at the moment.

  “Fifteen Bellerock Road.”

  Broder spun on his heel and left. He didn’t ask how Dmitri knew her location or why he’d told him. There was no time.

  Jessa could already be dead.

  “I canna feel her anymore.”

  Roan watched Thorgest pace the polished wood floor of the central meeting room. The day had grown dark and cold rain spattered the long windows that ran down one wall. He held out a staying hand. “That doesn’t mean—”

  “That she’s dead?” Thorgest rounded on him. “What else would it mean? I have been able to feel her presence in this country since she landed, even during the nighttime hours when she should have been sleeping. Then, all of a sudden, it disappears. What other conclusion should I draw?”

  Roan drew a breath and tried to keep his patience. “Maybe she became frightened and left the country. Have you considered that?”

  Thorgest halted and narrowed his eyes at him. “An’ whose fault would that be, if it happened? It’s as if ye wanted to alert her to our plans with yer bumbling.” He turned away, shaking his head. “Never saw the like in all my days.”

  Roan held his superior’s gaze steadily, offering no apology. Maybe somewhere deep within he had wanted her to get away, to alert her to their plans. Abigail would not have wanted her daughter here, under Thorgest’s influence. Maybe Roan was carrying out Abigail’s will on some subconscious level. His decision to kidnap Jessa had surprised him every bit as much as it had surprised her.

  “Bah. It’s unlikely she left.” Thorgest began pacing again. “The Brotherhood dinna run at the first whiff of trouble. I dinna think Broder whisked her away just because ye mucked it up.”

  Roan stiffened a little at the reprimand. Thorgest was the leader of this coven. His power fueled all members’ power. If Thorgest was displeased, everyone was displeased.

  One day, if Jessa was still alive and if they could get her to the coven, she would be the leader. That was how the authority was passed—from head shaman to head witch, by bloodline, preferably. It was what kept them strong.

  “Ye bumbled it up, Roan,” continued Thorgest. “Ye know Erik Halvorson. Why dinna ye simply talk to the man? Erik is not Broder Calderson. We have an alliance with him. Tell me why ye chose the path ye chose.”

  Roan shrugged and lied smoothly. “I sensed she was on to me and I panicked.” He had sensed Jessa had begun to realize something was not right, but he hadn’t panicked. The urge to push her into the vehicle had simply been impulse. The shortest way to end a big problem.

  Thorgest leaned on the table and let out a long, slow breath. “My granddaughter used to name all her dolls Jessamine.” He glowered, rheumy eyes fixed on Roan. “If the lass isn’t dead, I can’t wait to meet her.”

  “She looks a lot like Abigail.”

  Thorgest grunted. “Just as long as she doesn’t look like Michael.” He clenched his fist.

  She didn’t look like her father at all, in fact. Looking at Jessa, Roan could almost imagine she was his own daughter. If Abigail had chosen him over Michael, maybe she would have been.

  But Abigail had been stubborn. She’d had a flicker of love for him in her heart, but he had been her grandfather’s choice and, because of that, he’d never stood a chance with her. Abigail had resented her grandfather too much to ever go along with anything he wanted.

  “I need to take this into mine own hands. I see that now. It’s too important to trust to the likes of ye. Ye better be hoping she dinna die.” Thorgest looked down at his wrinkled, callused paw and made a fist. “It’s clear I’m the one to do this, so leave off, Roan.”

  Roan was happy to leave off. He wanted no part of this now that he’d seen Jessa in person. She was too close to Abigail in both appearance and personality. The whole thing was opening wounds he’d thought long healed. Thorgest had more motivation than he did, anyway.

  Thorgest had been head of the coven for far too long. He was old, even for a seidhr, tired, and his power was waning. He needed Jessa to take up the reins. He had sentimental reasons, too, but Thorgest cared more about the coven than anything else. If Jessa came here and decided she didn’t want to stay—there’d be hell to pay. No one defied Thorgest Egilson.

  And Thorgest wasn’t letting another of his kin go. This place would be like the Hotel California to Jessa—she’d be able to enter; but leaving would be entirely a different matter.

  Broder burst into the little house on the hill, kicking down the door and sending splinters of wood flying. Immediately his gaze caught a smudge of black disappearing through a doorway. The runes in his coat gave off a pulse and he caught a scent of ice in the air. Demon. Broder bolted toward the creature, drawing the knife tucked at the small of his back as he went. Just as he cleared the threshold from the living room to the kitchen, the demon was attempting to exit by the back door.

  He threw his blade and it hit the demon right between the shoulder blades. The thing burst into icy fragments, shattering onto the floor with a ringing tinkle. The fragments were larger than usual—that meant the demon was older and more powerful than most, higher up in the hierarchy. He would have to be old and powerful to command magick strong enough to enthrall a Valkyrie.

  Not seeing Jessa in the kitchen, he whirled to search the rest of the house. “Jessa!”

  No answer. The cold ball in his stomach tightened.

  Then he spotted her prone on the floor near the couch. Her skin was the color of alabaster, the unrelenting white broken only by the sick brown of drying blood. It coated her face, matted her hair, streaked her arms and hands. Her lips were blue. A wound gaped in her throat. Her head rested at an odd angle that made his heart pound, as though her neck had been broken. She had a black eye and a nasty gash marked her forehead. She’d fought the bastard, of course. Fought hard.

  Broder knelt beside her and felt for a pulse, a riot of unfamiliar emotion tangling through his head and heart—emotion that he didn’t know how to deal with. It had been so long since he’d had any. Now there was fear and this other odd sensation wending its way through his chest—grief, he suspected. Her pulse was way too fast, a result of the heart trying to pump a much-reduced amount of blood.

  He was just happy she had a pulse.

  She’d lost a lot of blood, way too much for a human—or a witch—to survive. He needed to get help or she would die, but traditional human medical care was out of the question. He verified that her neck was not broken. He could move her.

  He whipped his cell phone from his back pocket and called Erik. “Get here now,” he snarled into the phone after he’d given him the address. After he’d slipped the cell back into his pocket, he gently lifted Jessa into his arms and carried her out the door.

  The house the demon had chosen was isolated from the other homes in the neighborhood and that was probably by design. The choice worked to Broder’s advantage now as he sank onto the top step to cradle Jessa in his arms.

  He brushed her blood-sticky hair away from her forehead, his gaze running over her pale, closed eyelids, and wished like hell he could trade all his strength for just five minutes of truly stellar healing ability. His skills at treating frostbite wouldn’t help her much now, but he set to work anyway, clearing up all the places on her body where he could see the demon had laid hands on her. There were way too many.

  She couldn’t die. She couldn’t.

  Broder had tried to kill himself numerous times over the centuries, but nothing had freed him from Loki’s curse. If Jessa died he would cease to care—about anything. He would stop trying to end his immortality. If she died, he would allow himself to exist under his curse until the end
of time. The small amount of emotion he possessed would be extinguished forever.

  Without her, everything left inside him that remembered his humanity would perish.

  “Broder.”

  He looked up to find Erik standing in front of him. Erik’s gaze flicked from her face to Broder’s with concern, then he turned on his heel and started for the car.

  Broder loaded her into the vehicle and they raced, tires squealing, away from the house and back to the keep. Broder kept his fingers on her too-fast pulse.

  Erik met his gaze in the rearview mirror. “The bastard’s dead?” His jaw was locked with anger, his blue eyes flaring with icy hate.

  Broder gave a curt nod. “She needs blood and she needs it fast or she’ll die.”

  “We’ve got it covered. Halla is a universal donor. She’s setting things up right now. We figured she’d be down a pint or two if she tangled with an agent.”

  “Halla—,” Broder started to snarl.

  “—was under the control of the Blight. The ability that demon possessed is very rare. I’ve only seen it five times since I became Brotherhood.” Erik’s lifetime was very long; he’d been the first Loki had ever claimed, over twelve hundred years ago.

  Erik’s gaze lingered on Jessa’s pallid face in the rearview mirror. “Apparently the Blight really want her dead. We may have to reassess her value.”

  Except Broder already knew her value.

  He forcibly unlocked his jaw. “Let’s just get her back to the keep. If she dies she won’t be of value to anyone.”

  Broder kept medical equipment on hand at all his residences. One of the things he’d been stupefied by was the improvement of health care over the years. Since he never knew what the day would bring—and it had brought more than one damaged human to him over the years—he was ready to treat her.

  They’d given her a blood transfusion via Halla and had also given her fluids. Because Halla was Valkyrie, she was able to give more than a human could and her recovery was quicker. Because Jessa was not human, but seidhr, she was able to undergo a more vigorous and quicker procedure and take more risks. That was good, since if Jessa didn’t take the risks, she’d die.

  Halla had been visibly emotional through the whole ordeal. The Valkyrie were bred to be strong and never show their emotions, but it was clear that Halla was suffering deeply for her role in this. After producing her blood for transfusion, she’d slunk away, apparently unable to see Jessa so close to death.

  There was nothing more they could do for Jessa. Now she lay in her bed, pale, but a little less so. Broder clung to that less so in the thready evening hours as he sat at her side, watching the shallow rise and fall of her fragile chest.

  He knew, of course, that Jessa wasn’t fragile. She’d proven that to him already. But any witch or human—hell, even a member of the Brotherhood—was in deep shit when they went up against a demon. And now, watching Jessa lying there, so still, so pallid, he wanted to smash something—someone. A demon.

  Armies of them.

  Watching her lie there made a mixture of fierce protectiveness and immense failure war within him. This woman had made him feel more emotion in mere days than he had for centuries.

  All was silent in the dark room. Outside the moon was coming up and had begun filling the chamber with silver light. He would not leave her side all night. He would not leave her side ever again, fates willing.

  Of course his existence was not dictated by the fates, but by one cruel and self-centered god.

  Broder bent his head over Jessa’s body and whispered, “Loki.” It came out low and rough and soft, but he knew Loki could hear him. It was never a question of whether or not he was heard—it was always a question of whether or not Loki deigned to answer.

  Silence.

  After a moment Broder tipped his head back and yelled, “Loki!” with all the pain and rage and fear that constricted his chest.

  Jessa didn’t move a muscle.

  “All right, all right, I’m here. No need to yell.”

  Broder turned to see Loki standing in the middle of the room, dressed in a black Armani suit. He eased a hand through his perfectly cut dark hair, then adjusted his sparkling cuff links. “Spill it, Broder. I’m on a date with a hot fashion model in Rome right now.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “And we just got to the good part.”

  “The witch is dying.”

  Loki frowned, as if just now noticing the woman in the bed. He walked closer to her. “What did you do to her?”

  “It was the Blight.” Broder ground out the words. “You must have known they wanted her when you gave her to me.”

  “She’s a witch; of course they want her.” Loki stopped a couple steps from her bedside and looked at Jessa with distaste. Broder clenched his fists. The god pointed at her. “You know she’s very valuable to the seidhr, right?”

  Broder gave Loki a sharp nod and tried not to snarl. “It would have been nice to have been given that information earlier.”

  Loki made a mock moue. “But that wouldn’t have been any fun.”

  The gods and their games.

  He forced himself not to yell, but it was difficult. “Do something to help her.”

  Loki laughed. “That’s your job. I gave her to you not only so you could …” Vaguely, he waved his hand at Broder’s pelvis. “But also so you would protect her.” He studied Jessa for a moment. “You’re not doing a great job, Broder. I hope you’ve at least dipped your wick.”

  “Help her, Loki!” Broder bellowed at the top of his lungs at him. “If she’s important to the seidhr, she’s important to the prevention of Ragnarök.”

  Loki seemed unperturbed by his outburst. Loki never got mad; he only got even—spectacularly, usually. All malicious humor had left him and his voice was iron hard. “She’s your responsibility. She lives or she dies because of you.”

  In a blink, he was gone.

  Broder stared at the empty space where Loki had been standing a moment before. Right now he was probably in a hotel room somewhere, reclining on the bed and watching a supermodel slowly disrobe. Loki didn’t care about anyone but himself. He was a god, which meant he was a sociopath. Broder had known that before he’d called him. He should have expected no less.

  He leaned back in his chair with a sigh and rubbed his tired face. “Don’t die, Jessa.”

  All he could do was wait.

  SIXTEEN

  “Don’t die, Jessa.”

  The words filtered through the heavy layers of sleep covering her. They were spoken brutally, in a harsh voice, and with utter truth and deep emotion. The man speaking them wanted her to live more than anything in the world. It sounded as if he would perish if she didn’t open her eyes and return to the living. She wasn’t sure who he was, but it was nice to have someone care.

  Although she wasn’t sure she should return. It was so quiet here, so peaceful and calm. She floated in a velvety ocean of nothingness. Only small flickers of emotion teased her once in a while. Other than those pesky flickers of unwanted feeling, she only experienced numbness. It was a place free of fear, uncertainty, and anguish. She wasn’t sure she could ever leave. Not if it was to return to the world—where fear, uncertainty, and anguish ruled the day.

  Not even if it meant finding out who this intriguing man was and why he wanted her back so badly.

  “Don’t die.”

  The words came again, softer this time, a hint of vulnerability mixed in with the aggressive command. This man was hurt in some way, hurt very deeply inside. This man was also strong, stronger than anyone she’d ever known. This man was protective of those he cared about, so protective he would risk anything to keep them safe.

  This man was … Broder.

  The name fluttered through her mind, teasing her with a soft curl of temptation. Broder. She remembered him. She remembered the look of hunger in his eyes when he gazed at her. She recalled how … when she thought she was about to die … how much she’d regretted not allowing h
erself to grow closer to him. Ah, yes, Broder. An interesting man. An enigma she wanted to solve. Perhaps someone worth returning to the world to see again.

  The first tickle of consciousness was excruciating and she almost thrust it away to sink back into the welcoming arms of oblivion. But once she’d made up her mind to return to the world, retreat was not an option. She could only go forward.

  So she forced herself upward, breaking through the surface of her tranquil black pool and into the bright light of consciousness. She imagined it must be how being born must seem, emerging from somewhere dark, warm, and soft into bright light and jagged edges. Shock. Pain. Why had she left her safe, quiet, dark place?

  Wincing at the pain lingering in her body, she forced her eyelids to part. Momentarily the morning light coming in through the window blinded her, but her pupils adjusted and the room came into focus. A man’s face blurred and then came sharper. It was a roughly handsome face. A familiar one. Yet there was something unfamiliar in his eyes. Where normally she saw sexual hunger, torment, and high emotional bleakness, she saw … hope.