“Oh, I didn’t know …” For a moment, she looked uncomfortable, her features tight. Her fingers clutched the strap of her bag. “I thought I would find you alone.”
He crossed his arms and glared at her, not bothering to explain Darby’s presence. Sorcha’s being there was too dangerous to him, far too enticing. “I’m still trying to figure out why you’re here at all.”
She tore her gaze from Darby to him again.
He sighed. “It’s all right. Darby knows about us.”
“Does she?” Her perfectly tightened lips barely moved as she spoke. Her eyes narrowed beneath her arching eyebrows. “How nice.” She circled the room, the heels of her boots clicking over the wood floor, her gaze trained on the other woman.
Darby eyed her with something akin to awe. Sorcha’s black leather jacket hung open above her snug-fitting jeans and silk blouse. She looked sexy as hell.
“I thought you’d be on a plane home,” Jonah said. She’d sure been in a hurry to leave him the last time he’d seen her.
“I thought I’d pop in on you. Learn a bit more about what it is you do.”
“And what is it I do?” He frowned, not sure he even knew.
She swung around, leaning her back against the tall marble counter, hands buried deep in the pockets of her leather jacket.
“Yeah. I’d like to know that, too,” Darby piped up.
Jonah cut her a glowering look.
“Demon slaying,” Sorcha explained. “I might be interested in learning about how that works. How all this demon and witch stuff works.”
“Why? Still looking to take Tresa’s head?” Darby asked, a touch of anxiety in her voice.
Sorcha merely shrugged.
“No,” he bit out. “Forget it. You’re not a slayer. I’m not even going to pretend I can train you to be one.”
Her eyes drew to slits, the brown almost black.
“No,” he repeated, his voice hard. “You’re either chosen to be a demon slayer or you’re not. It’s cut and dry. Black and white. Supposedly I’ve been chosen.”
“No supposedly about it,” Darby objected. “You have been.”
Sorcha crossed her arms. “Who chose you?” Her dark arched eyebrows seemed to say that choosing him had been a mistake. He couldn’t disagree with that. He wasn’t a particularly religious man. Not because he doubted God’s existence or anything. He believed God existed. Kind of hard not to. Whenever he stepped on consecrated ground he felt slightly ill. That was no coincidence.
He simply believed God wanted nothing to do with him. He was a cursed dovenatu. According to the covens, God was involved in choosing slayers. It had to have been some mistake selecting Jonah as one of his holy assassins. Only humans had been chosen as slayers before. Why him?
“God,” Darby readily supplied, butting her nose in as usual. “God chooses slayers. Or more specifically, the angel Gabriel.”
“God,” Sorcha said, the skepticism rich in her voice, “chose Jonah?”
He pressed his lips in a thin line, trying not to take offense. She only echoed his thoughts. Still, it rankled that she thought him of so little worth.
“Yes. Jonah is God’s instrument. He and all other slayers are charged with fighting Satan’s minions who would have influence here on earth.”
“Jonah?” Sorcha repeated—again. “You do know he’s led a fairly wretched existence? Ten years ago, he was the right-hand man to my father.” Her lips twisted and she joked dryly, “My father, who may or may not have been Satan.”
Jonah smiled despite himself. Her assessment of his life at that time was accurate. He had led a wretched existence in service to her father. The sad thing about it all was that he would still call his life wretched. Ever since he’d lost her …
He cut off the thought with a swift shake of his head. Sorcha had never been his. And you can’t lose something you never possessed in the first place.
“It’s not our place to question God’s decisions,” Darby pointed out, somehow managing not to sound sanctimonious.
Sorcha gazed unflinchingly at the witch, assessing her from the tip of her fuzzy socks to the top of her wild red head. “Who are you, anyway? How do you come to know so much?”
“I’m a witch. Jonah’s a member of my coven. Not that he’ll have much to do with me or my aunts. I keep chasing him down, hoping he’ll answer his calling and move in with us.”
“I don’t need to live with you and sign my life away to act as your slayer,” he ground out.
He glared at Darby, tired of this conversation and even more bothered that he was having it in front of Sorcha. He felt bare, stripped and exposed beneath her intense gaze.
“I’ll do it,” Sorcha announced.
“What?”
Darby cocked her head. “Do what?”
“I want in. He doesn’t want to move in with your coven and protect you all? Fine. I’ll do it. You can teach me everything I need to know—”
“There’s nothing to get in.” Jonah stalked closer, reached for her arm. “It’s not the army. You don’t simply join.”
She eased her arm out of his reach and strolled to the stretch of glass that faced the night. The skyline winked up at her, a thousand white and blue lights.
“Sorcha,” he growled, trying to keep his voice controlled and even. His patience was running thin. “You heard Darby. Slayers are chosen … you haven’t been chosen.”
“I can be useful—”
“You don’t get it,” he growled. “I can see them. They’re shadows that only I can detect. You can’t. And you can’t fight what you can’t see.”
“It’s not an unreasonable offer. Something to consider. I can train her.” Darby rose and approached the window. “You’re a dovenatu, right?”
Sorcha gave a single nod.
“We could use your talents.”
“No.” Jonah shook his head. “She won’t even be able to see what she’s fighting. She can’t see demons. She won’t know where to strike to kill them.”
“We can train her. I can work with her … help coach her.”
“This is insane. You’re not taking her home with—”
“I’ll go,” Sorcha announced.
“Great.” Darby looked at him. “If you don’t like it, Jonah,” she added with an evenness that set his teeth on edge, “then why don’t you help train her? Make sure it’s done right.”
“Yeah, Jonah,” Sorcha said, her voice faintly mocking. She crossed her arms. “Train me. If I can do your job, then maybe they’ll quit harassing you to move in with them.”
Muttering, he glared out the window. “You can’t see them.” It was the one point he couldn’t get around. She’d be helpless against them.
“Teach me to see them,” she whispered, stepping close, her voice so soft he doubted Darby could hear her. “You owe me, Jonah. Give me this.”
He inhaled, the heady scent of her filling his nose. He winced, closing his eyes. This was Sorcha. Little Sorcha. She was right. He did owe her. He’d always felt protective toward her. The thought of taking her to mate at the tender age of fifteen and using her for the purpose of procreation had sickened him. Protecting her had been one of his life’s overriding ambitions. And he had failed. He’d failed her.
“All right,” he agreed even as he wondered if he wasn’t making a mistake. Training her to fight demons, to fight what she couldn’t see … did she even stand a chance?
But he couldn’t say no. Not when she looked at him with such desperate hope in her eyes, even if she tried to hide it. Thrusting out her chin, she almost passed for a hard-ass. Except for the eyes. Her eyes pleaded with him, and he was reminded of the last night he’d seen her in Istanbul, eavesdropping on him and her father discussing when he was going to take her to mate. She’d waited for him in the corridor, and put the question to him directly. She’d bared her heart to him in that moment, offered herself to him body and soul, and he rejected the offer. Rejected her.
That look in her
eyes was his last memory of her. Standing here now, she looked at him with the same hunger in her gaze. Only the hunger wasn’t for him. It was for what he could do for her. He couldn’t say no. Not twice. He’d do this for her, and then call it quits with Sorcha. Any obligation or responsibility he felt for her would be relieved then.
“Thank you,” Sorcha said, her voice louder. With a wobbly smile, she sent Darby a nod.
“Just don’t get yourself killed,” he growled. “I don’t want that on my head.”
Her glossy lips curved. “I’ll do my best.”
“Well,” Darby said as she settled back down with her box of lo mein. “Not an official slayer, but you have to be better than nothing. Hard to kill, that’s for sure. I think my aunts will be pleased.”
“Heartening,” Sorcha murmured dryly, all the while looking at him, peering intently, as if she could read his mind. He didn’t look away either, kept staring at her face, her lips … imagining that mouth tasting its way down his body.
He jerked his head from such thoughts. This was Sorcha. He couldn’t think of her like that. What’d he’d done to her in that cabin could be forgotten as long as he didn’t repeat the mistake.
What he did with women was never sweet or gentle. The idea of doing those things with Sorcha stabbed him with guilt … and lust. Except the guilt was more powerful. At least he told himself that. He told himself guilt would keep him in check.
“So, where do we begin, Jonah?” Darby asked. “I’ve never tried to find a demon. Actually, I spend most of my time hiding from them. How does one go about hunting one?”
Jonah tore his gaze from Sorcha and smiled at the witch he’d come to know so well. “With bait, of course.”
Darby’s smile slipped as she looked uncertainly between him and Sorcha. Stabbing her chopsticks into her box, she leaned back on the couch, her gaze sliding uneasily to Sorcha. “I’m not going to enjoy this, am I?”
THIRTEEN
So,” Darby began mildly as Sorcha selected things from her luggage that she would need for her shower. Sorcha glanced at the younger woman where she lounged on the bed with a familiarity reserved for old friends. Jonah had given up his room for Sorcha. Darby already occupied his one guest room, so that left the couch for him. At least it answered her question regarding his relationship with the redhead. “Jonah’s like your brother?” Darby finished.
Sorcha’s head snapped up at that question.
The moment Sorcha had first seen Darby she’d felt a hot flush of jealousy. Horrible considering she thought all feelings for Jonah dead. All softer feelings anyway. The soft, warm kind that led to emotions like jealousy.
“Brother?” Sorcha echoed, mulling over the word, letting it sit like bad food on her tongue, a foul bite she resisted swallowing. She’d never viewed him as a brother. Not even when she was five. Especially not when her father reminded her every day that she and he were destined for each other in order to increase their race. “Not exactly. Is that what he said?”
“Something like that.”
She wouldn’t characterize the things Jonah did to her in Alaska as brotherly.
Maybe that’s why his eyes looked so coldly at her. Like frost over a darkened lake. Maybe he saw only the girl he’d turned away from all those years ago. A girl he never wanted in his bed then. Or now.
She slammed the lid of her suitcase shut. “We grew up together.”
“Huh,” Darby replied, looking at her speculatively. “I bet that was interesting. Jonah’s kinda tight-lipped about his past.”
“I suppose,” she replied, feeling that familiar stab of jealousy. Clearly the witch was attracted to him. It was written all over her and in the drip of every word. Sorcha didn’t miss the slight hitch in her breath or the skip in her pulse when she mentioned his name.
“I’d like to hear about that someday.”
Sorcha frowned. “What?”
“You and Jonah … as kids.”
She didn’t bother explaining that Jonah’s youth hadn’t been hers. She doubted Jonah had ever really been a kid. At least she hadn’t known him when he was. “You’ll have to ask him about that.”
“Yeah.” Darby snorted and lightly punched at the pillow balled up under her elbow. “Because Jonah’s all about letting it hang out. He’s a real open book.”
Sorcha pulled open the bathroom door, wondering why it bothered her so much that this female appeared to be half in love with Jonah. It wasn’t as if Sorcha had any claim on him. It wasn’t as if she wanted that. Those feelings had died long ago. She wouldn’t travel that dark road again, fantasizing that one day the two of them would live out their own fairy tale. Fairy tales didn’t exist. She wouldn’t let herself believe in what wasn’t real ever again.
WHEN SORCHA EMERGED FROM the bathroom later, her only thought was of falling into bed and sleeping off the last several days.
Rubbing a towel against her wet head, she jumped at Jonah’s deep voice rolling across the air. “What are you doing here, Sorcha?”
Clutching the towel close to her silk pajama top, she faced him with as much composure as she could manage.
“Where’s Darby?” she asked, scanning the room for the redhead, suddenly eager for the sight of her.
“She went to sleep.” He sat on the bed, hands dangling off his knees as though he had been waiting for her for some time.
She wadded up the wet towel in front of herself. “Don’t assume that because I’m staying in your home you can walk in on me whenever you choose. I realize this is your room, but I expect my privacy.”
He rose in one swift motion and approached her with the slow stealth of a jungle cat. “You’re the one who barged in here uninvited. You’re in no position to place requirements on me. You don’t know what you’re getting involved in here, Sorcha.”
“Should I be so scared, then?” She tried for an edge of mockery, but her voice gave out at the last minute and shook a little. He was just too damn close. So overwhelming. So big. So male. So … everything.
“You should be,” he said in a voice like smoke.
She crossed her arms, hugging the damp towel to her body, letting it soak into her silk top.
He stared at her for a long moment, standing closer than she wanted him to. His eyes flickered, roved over her hurriedly. “What are you doing here?”
“I have to do something.”
“So it’s let me train you or else … what?” His eyes scoured her. “You still want to hunt down Tresa, don’t you? That’s what this is all about. Why should I train you to go after her?”
She shrugged. “You don’t have to train me. I can go home with Darby. Learn from her … help her coven. You won’t, after all.”
“Darby is none of your affair.”
Her throat tightened at what she imagined she heard in his voice. Possessiveness. “What? I think she’s a nice girl. Why don’t you marry her?” She spat the words out, surprised at how they stuck in her throat.
He scowled at her. “Funny. Darby and the others … the witches in her coven—” He stopped and dragged a hand through his hair, feathering the strands back from his forehead. “They’re not my responsibility. I don’t want anyone needing me.”
“Afraid you’ll fail them?”
He inhaled sharply, and a grim look crossed his face. “They expect too much from me.”
“C’mon, Jonah.” She shook her head, her chest tight with envy for what he had. “Don’t be a fool. At least you’re needed, wanted. They know the real you and still want you. Do you know how lucky you are?” The only person who ever knew her, loved her and accepted her was dead.
“I like it alone. Like living alone.” He punctuated each word, his eyes distant.
“Well, I don’t. So I want this. I’ll take the life you don’t want. A life with purpose.”
He studied her thoughtfully, angling his head, as if wondering whether to believe her. Moonlight slanted in through the window. Even in the dim light of the room, his hair gleamed
a lustrous dark gold. “Is that what you’ve been looking for, Sorcha? What this whole Tresa thing has been about?”
“At least I’m living and not hiding.” She stared at him pointedly.
“I don’t hide,” he replied quickly. “I’m simply a realist. I’m not human.”
“Darby and her coven need you.”
“And I’ve helped them. I simply prefer not to mingle with them as though I’m an average guy. I’m fine with hunting and slaying demons.” He laughed harshly. “What would you expect of me, Sorcha? A house in the burbs? A nine-to-five job? Minivan?”
“I don’t expect anything of you.” She paused, bit her lip. “But what would be so wrong with any of that?” It sounded a bit like heaven to her. A slice of normal, forever unattainable for her. Something she’d had for a too brief flash of time with Gervaise. God, was she back to dreaming about fairy tales again?
“Is that what you’ve been doing? Trying for normal?” At her silence, he pressed, his voice hard and intent, an unforgiving lash. “How does hunting down Tresa do that exactly?”
“I lived a normal life.” Her lips twisted, pain stabbing her heart. She glared at him, the emotion hot in her throat as she thought of her life with Gervaise. “As normal as I could get. I married. I lived the dream, had the great house, companionship, dinner parties …”
For a moment, something passed over Jonah’s face. A flicker of emotion she could not identify.
“You married?” he asked, his eyes distant.
She paused. His voice sounded strange. Subdued. “I was.”
“You’re divorced?”
She lowered her gaze and walked across the room to her luggage. “He died. Tresa took him from me. For that, I will end her life. And her demon’s.”
He didn’t acknowledge this. Instead, he asked, “He was human?”
She nodded, wondering at the tightness in her chest. It had been a long time since she’d wept over Gervaise. She wouldn’t do it now, in front of him. She’d show no weakness.
He sighed heavily. “Sorcha. I’m sorry.”
“Yes, well, that’s what humans do.” Finding her robe, she tugged it from her suitcase and yanked it around her. Facing him again, she added, “They die.”
My Soul to Keep Page 11
