My Soul to Keep

by Sharie Kohler

  Great. Was she really so jealous? Really still so infatuated with him? She hadn’t come here to start something between them. She had come here because she wanted to know more about demons and witches … because she still intended to find Tresa.

  “Tell me about your husband.” His voice rolled over her in the gloom, tugging her from her jealous thoughts.

  “Gervaise?” She flexed her fingers on the crisp cotton pillow beneath her head. “I met him when I was hiding in his carriage house about a year after I escaped Istanbul.” She winced at the memory of that night, the night she’d killed Gervaise’s groundskeeper and taken her first life.

  Cold and starved, she’d broken into the carriage house, hoping to find some food … and a place to crash. Instead she found a man happy to abuse a defenseless teenage girl, a female he thought he could rape without reprisal. And if she hadn’t transitioned that night—at long last—he would have succeeded.

  Jonah shifted, rolled a little closer. “Did your husband know what you were?”

  “He knew. It would have been hard for him not to.” She sucked in a breath. “He found me standing over the corpse of his groundskeeper.” She laughed, the sound broken and hoarse. Why was she telling him this? Still, she heard herself continue. “It wasn’t a pretty sight. Not me. Not that body.”

  “What’d the groundskeeper do to you?” He breathed these words against the side of her face as his hand closed around her arm, gripping her as though he would never let go.

  She closed her eyes and sighed, moving into his lips, savoring the brush of them against the side of her face. It shouldn’t have comforted her that he automatically knew the murder had been justified, that she wouldn’t have killed without reason, but it did. It mattered that he knew her that well.

  “The groundskeeper attacked me. I reacted thoughtlessly, instinctively, to protect myself. Gervaise walked in and saw me in full shift. He didn’t call the police. He seemed to understand the situation at once. He was so … kind. Hard to imagine. For all he knew, I was a monster.”

  “Christ.”

  “It was the first time I shifted. Some Initiation, huh? I’d begun to wonder if it would ever happen … like Ivo feared.” She shook her head at the cruel memories of her father trying to force her to transition.

  Jonah’s hand slipped through the dark to grip her arm. His thumb roved in small circles on her skin. “How did you end up married to him?”

  “He took me in, fed me. Put me in an elegant room, cleaned me up. He offered to marry me after only a few days, and I accepted.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “He was fascinated with what I was, and he wanted to help me, too. He was old, had a weak heart. I think he was searching, hoping to make his final years matter. For whatever reason, he thought they would matter with me in them. He didn’t have any family and neither did I. We became that for each other. He brought me back to life. Gave me the world, art, music, society—when we chose it. Beautiful clothes, travel. We discussed science and politics—”

  “And in exchange, you warmed his bed.” His voice cut like a whip. His grip on her arm tightened, became less comforting and more punishing.

  “No.” She couldn’t continue that lie. “It was never like that between us. That would have soiled what we had. Even if Gervaise could have performed his husbandly rights, he would not have tainted our relationship.”

  “You mean you were married and you never—”

  “No. I took my first lover after he died. Even though we were not intimate, I could not bring myself to break our vows while he lived. It seemed disrespectful.”

  “So since Gervaise died you’ve been sowing your long-suppressed oats, is that it?”

  Sighing, she studied the hard lines and angles of his face. “I might have exaggerated on that. There’ve only been a couple of men. Two.”

  He was utterly still for a moment. His naked chest hardly moving, hardly drawing breath.

  She continued, “I lied to make you mad. If you were angry, I knew you couldn’t keep control. You’d stop looking at me as little Sorcha and give in.”

  He slid a hand around her waist, pulled her closer. “And you wanted me that much?”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “Like I said, I’ve only been with two men and neither really knocked my socks off—”

  “How could they? They were mere men.” She heard the smile in his voice as he said this.

  “But you’ve taken women to your bed.” She winced at the accusing ring in her voice.

  “And none have been as good as you. Isn’t that what you want to hear?”

  Her breath released in a shuddery gasp. A smile fluttered on her mouth.

  “It’s what we are,” he added. “Two sides of the same coin.”

  “So it’s like my father said. We’re meant for each other.” Her lip curled, fighting the idea that her father had been right about anything. Even something she might want him to be right about.

  His hand stilled on her waist. “We’re not getting together to breed dovenatus to create a new world order, Sorcha. Get that out of your head. This is just about sex. Satisfying a need. If you have to put a name to it, call it friendship.”

  She flinched, stung in a way that she shouldn’t be. She wasn’t in possession of many friends. She should be glad for one, glad that she and Jonah had moved past fighting.

  Still, she could not stop the thickness from entering her voice as she said, “Of course. I wasn’t saying we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together.” That would be too much like the dreams belonging to the stupid girl she used to be. Now she had dreams of vengeance. Dreams of serving long-needed justice. That warmed her as no lover could … even Jonah. “Don’t kid yourself. I didn’t think we were talking about happily ever after. I’m going to learn all you and Darby have to teach me.”

  And from there, she would track Tresa down again. Sorcha couldn’t forget about her, or the fact that she’d created so much misery for everyone, for thousands … millions, maybe.

  His hand slipped, gliding down her stomach. She forced herself to relax, told herself that he was right. This was just sex.

  “You’ll have to do everything I say,” he warned. “You’ll have a hard time fighting what you can’t see. I’m not sure it’s possible.”

  “I have confidence in you. You’ll teach me.” She swallowed a yawn. Rolling onto her side, she spooned herself into him and tucked a pillow close to her front, locking one thigh around it and forcing an emotional barrenness to sweep through her, hollow her and push everything else out. “It’s possible.” Anything is possible. Even ghosts you thought long dead returning to face you.

  “Tired?” he asked at her second stifled yawn.

  “Yes. The last few days have been … a lot.”

  He chuckled low and deep. The sound made the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck prickle. “Yeah. They have.”

  “Good night,” she murmured, slipping into sleep’s waiting embrace.

  FIFTEEN

  A week later, Jonah followed Sorcha and Darby into his condo, removing his sword and then sliding off his long trench coat. He hung both on the steel pegs near the door, fighting back a weary sigh.

  A weariness that had everything to do with Sorcha. Being around her was taking a toll. Having her, holding her and enjoying her while knowing it could never last …

  Sighing again, he dragged a hand through his hair. It had to end. Hunting for demons was a joke. Tonight had proved that. He was humoring her so he could have her around. He admitted that to himself. He craved her like a drug. This girl he had never thought to have. The idea had been reprehensible to him. And now he was here, taking her at every opportunity, sinking into her heat, fusing himself to her body. Countless times. Countless ways. Ivo must be having a good laugh in hell.

  “Figures,” Darby announced, plopping down on the couch. “When you want a demon to make an appearance, it’s a no-show.” She kicked off blood-red pumps and flexed her squished-looking toes. C
urling her long legs beneath her, she ran a hand through her perfectly arranged red hair, loosening the smooth style that brought back memories of the thirties.

  Sorcha moved to the window, arms crossed. She stared out at the night, silent, her expression pensive. He watched her, wondering at her thoughts. He sensed her disappointment. Was she ready to quit? End this game and leave? The thought of her leaving, moving on, made his gut clench. Like the way he’d felt in Istanbul when he stared at the blazing inferno he’d thought to be Sorcha’s funeral pyre. His jaw hardened and he pushed the sensation down. Well, he would just have to get over that. He’d moved beyond before. He could again. He’d have to. This arrangement with Sorcha wasn’t permanent. She wasn’t a pet to be kept.

  “Okay. So. What’s next?” Darby asked carelessly. “Can we try a different venue? I’m really not into spending another night hanging out in a smoke-infested club and being hit on by another loser who wants to know if I’m a natural redhead.”

  “Demons hang out around negative and intense energy,” he reminded her. “There’s plenty of that at the Dungeon Room.”

  “Yeah, well, there was plenty of negative energy there tonight and no demons,” Darby muttered. “Can’t imagine more meth heads or bikers in one place. Your girlfriend there nearly started a riot with that skirt. She stirred up plenty of intense emotions, and guess what? No demons.”

  Sorcha shot Darby an annoyed look, clearly not appreciating the reminder of the brute who’d grabbed her ass. Of course, it could have been Jonah beating him to a pulp—and his sorry-ass friends who jumped into the fray—that she wanted to forget.

  “What else attracts demons?” Sorcha sat down, lowering herself carefully to the couch in her short skirt.

  Darby spread her arms wide. “Me. Witches. Demons flock to us, eat up whatever pheromone we put out like bees to sugar and honey.”

  “That’s it?” Sorcha frowned. “Well, then, you would think tonight would have done the trick.” She shook her head. “There’s gotta be something else we can do.” Arching a dark eyebrow, she looked back and forth between them.

  Yeah, give up, he thought, but said nothing.

  Darby bit the corner of her lip. “If a witch is in the process of using her powers, that’s usually a red flag a demon can’t resist. Whatever it is we emit is stronger then. Many witches give up their powers altogether for fear of attracting demons.” She frowned, her forehead creasing. “Unfortunately, it’s not that simple for me.”

  Jonah leaned against the bar and settled his gaze on Sorcha. She hadn’t looked at him since the fight and them being tossed out of the bar. Even now, she stared at Darby, ignoring him.

  “What are your powers exactly?” Sorcha asked. “Can’t you just use them … summon them or whatever …”

  “I have visions. Usually in my sleep, in my dreams. It’s not something I can summon.” Her red-glossed lips twisted. “Useful, I know. My aunts keep telling me I’ll eventually learn to manipulate my visions.” She shrugged. “Until then, I’m at the mercy of my power.”

  Jonah moved toward the bedroom, finished with talking about demons. They’d done little else in the last week. It grated on him to see Sorcha dragged into the mire, too. He hadn’t found her alive all these years later just to lose her again fighting some demon she was ill equipped to battle. “Let’s call it a night.”

  “You two go ahead.” Darby slipped off her shiny bracelets and pulled the cream-colored mohair throw from the back of the couch. Snuggling into the blanket, she grabbed the remote control and punched a button. The flat screen gleamed to life with a soft chime.

  “’Night, Darby.” Sorcha walked toward Jonah’s darkened bedroom, her miniskirt fluttering around her thighs as she moved. It was a sight that had tormented him all night.

  She’d just cleared the door and was reaching for the light switch when he shut the door abruptly behind them and swung her around in the dark. Aligning his body with hers, he pressed her to the door. “All night I’ve watched you. Watched other men stare at you, imagined having you …”

  Her eyes were wide and dark as any animal’s, the light at the center burning low. He fought the sudden tightness in his throat and buried a hand in her hair, dark and sleek as a seal’s pelt. “When that bastard touched you—”

  “You nearly killed him,” she cut in.

  “He’s lucky I didn’t.”

  “We were working tonight,” she reminded him. “You shouldn’t take any of it personally. You got us kicked out.”

  He laughed roughly. “When it comes to you, it’s personal.” He tightened his grip on her hair and forced her head back. “It’s always been personal, Sorcha.”

  Her gaze roved over his face, dropping to his mouth. His gut tightened, cock hardening with anticipation. “From the first moment you stepped out in this fuck-me skirt, I’ve been imagining getting you home. In my bed.”

  Her breath escaped in a flutter of air. The look in her melting brown eyes … Shaking her head, she wet her lips and spoke. “You’re going to have to stop getting so distracted. We have a job to do.”

  His hands skimmed up her thighs, beneath her skirt. Reaching her panties, he ripped the thin strings at her hips. When he slipped a hand between her thighs, he found her ready.

  Their gazes clung, locked with a deep hunger.

  “Right now,” he rasped, “we have only one thing to do.”

  With a single hop, she locked her legs around his hips.

  He wedged his hand between them and freed himself. In one move, he buried himself in her clinging wetness. It was still as good as their first time. Too good. So good it scared him to think of letting her go and never having this anymore.

  She gasped and bit his earlobe with a ragged moan.

  He carried her to the bed and fell down over her, pumping and moving inside her with feverish intensity. Her hands seized his shoulders. She forced him to roll over so that she could straddle him.

  His hands squeezed her thighs, so slim and warm and giving beneath his fingers. She placed her hands on either side of his head, lowering her face so that they were nose to nose, eye to eye. Her hair fell like a curtain on either side of his face.

  She kissed him, devouring his mouth as she moved over him slowly, working her hips in deep, sinuous drags. She prolonged their pleasure, moving her body against him when he wanted it hard and fierce and fast. Every time with her was like that, bringing out the animal in him.

  He cried out her name, a strangled sound that sounded like death in his throat. Like life. Perhaps for the first time he truly lived.

  He came then, shattering apart as she pushed down on him, burying him deep in her clenching warmth, her fingers claws on his shoulders.

  He ran his hands deep into the silk of her hair, his fingers curving to the contours of her scalp. He pressed his lips to the side of her throat in a breathy kiss, the taste of her skin sweetly addictive. Potent and alluring, weaving a spell on him.

  With a sigh, she nestled against his chest, so trusting, so natural and easy, that his throat thickened.

  Because it couldn’t be. This was beginning to feel dangerously good … something he wanted to make permanent.

  Her breath deepened and slowed, fanning warmly against his chest. She was asleep. Sprawled in his arms, their bodies still joined, it didn’t get any more intimate. Any better.

  Any more desperate for him to end.

  THE SHADOW ENTERED THE condo, slipping beneath the door and crawling like a slow-slithering snake through the silent space, searching, hunting its prey through each still room.

  It found what it sought at last, asleep in one of the bedrooms. Her hair spilled a dark red around her on the mattress, a bloody beacon in the deep of night.

  It hovered above her, a shape darker than the night, floating, flexing, pulsing heat on the air.

  She felt the sudden warmth. Uncomfortable, pulsing heat. Kicking off her covers, she whimpered the moment before the shadow swooped in, vanishing inside her b
ody, rooting and burrowing deep in her vulnerable shape.

  SORCHA OPENED HER EYES, her skin tight and snapping, pulling with an alertness born of the beast.

  Murky night surrounded her. She blinked and glanced around, wondering what had woken her. She wasn’t in the habit of waking suddenly in the middle of the night. Especially after thorough and body-shattering sex.

  She held herself still, her gaze flicking left and right, nerves stretched, reaching, feeling for whatever it was …

  Jonah slept soundly beside her, on his stomach, one arm disappearing off the edge of the bed.

  Her skin rippled and she shivered. Lacing her fingers over her stomach, she listened to the silence. Nothing. If she’d heard something, if there was anything to worry about, Jonah would have woken, too, she reasoned. He was like her, hypersensitive to sound and movement.

  Sighing, she closed her eyes, determined to reclaim sleep. Tomorrow would be another long night of scouring the city.

  Eyes closed, she tried to sink back into darkness, lose herself in the swirling dark, shapeless black.

  Then she felt it again, whatever sensation had torn her from sleep moments ago. Her skin shivered.

  Her eyes flew back open, and she gasped.

  Darby stood over her. Still as a statue and silent as death. Only it didn’t look like Darby. Something was different. Her eyes weren’t hers. They looked darker, deeper, motionless black space.

  Sorcha opened her mouth to ask her what she was doing in Jonah’s bedroom when she noticed the pillow in Darby’s hands. Before Sorcha could speak, Darby swooped in faster than she’d ever seen a human move. As fast as a lycan or dovenatu.

  Sorcha opened her mouth to scream, but no sound escaped before the pillow slammed down over her face with surprising force.

  Writhing, she inhaled, but couldn’t draw breath through the heavy press of cotton. She clawed at Darby’s hands, her nails scoring the flesh.

  This wasn’t right. Darby shouldn’t be this deadly strong. She shouldn’t be capable of such an act.