My Soul to Keep

by Sharie Kohler

  Her father held out a hand, stalling Ingrid, keeping her from intervening.

  “You’re right,” Sorcha snarled, waving a hand about the elegant room. “I want no part of this. Or you. You haven’t changed. You’re as horrible as before. As mad.”

  A muscle flickered in his jaw, the only sign that her words affected him. “Sorry to hear that, Sorcha. Especially as you will have a great part in all this.” A smile twisted his lips. “One way or another.”

  The nape of her neck prickled with warning.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re my daughter, my legacy. Either join me and be a true daughter to me or …”

  “Or …”

  He motioned toward the arena. “You’ll have a starring role.”

  She blinked. “You can’t mean …” Her voice faded. Of course he could. Had she thought that because she was his daughter he might spare her? The way her father looked at her, she knew he meant every word.

  “Take her to her cell.” He looked at her, steady and intractable as a stone column, unmoved that he’d just resigned her to a ten-by-ten concrete cell. And beyond that, a fate in his damned blood games. “When you decide to be my daughter, just say the word, and I’ll move you into more comfortable quarters. You’re all I have left, Sorcha. I’ll never release you.”

  His gaze shot back to his demon witch. “Get her on the fight schedule.”

  Surprise flickered across Ingrid’s face. “You don’t want to run her through practice for a few weeks first?”

  “A daughter of mine won’t need such preparation. She’ll fight in the arena tomorrow.”

  With those words, Sorcha felt the noose settle firmly about her neck. Turning, she followed Ingrid from the suite. She didn’t have a choice, after all.

  In the distance, clanging swords and shouts filled the air from the arena far below, and she knew. Soon it would be her turn.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Their footsteps rang out over yet another cobbled walk. This late, the block was fairly deserted. The trees lining the footpath cast suspicious shadows as they walked. “You’re certain it was Paris?” Jonah growled.

  “I’m certain,” Darby snapped.

  He increased his pace. The wind whistled through the branches overhead.

  “Would you mind slowing down?”

  He merely grunted, his feet biting hard into the ground. He’d been like this ever since they’d arrived in the city. A machine driven to find Sorcha. He knew he was behaving less than logically, but he’d been the one to send Sorcha away—directly into danger. It ate at him, clouded his thinking. She hadn’t wanted to go, but he’d forced her to. Shut her out of his life even though she’d wanted to stay. He’d failed her again. Just like before. Only if something happened to her this time, he would not be able to go on.

  The irony, of course, was that he’d never wanted her to leave. He’d denied himself Sorcha by thinking that he was helping her. Doing the right thing. If he found her again—when he found her again—he would not let her go. She was his. Forever.

  He nodded to himself, glancing around. “Does any of this look familiar?” Scanning the area, he motioned to the patisserie. The wood door was faded, more pink than red, but maybe … He could no longer recount how many patisseries they had visited since arriving three days ago, searching for one with a red door.

  Even this late at night, the delicious aroma of baked bread encircled him. “Let’s go over it one more time.”

  “Maybe, no … I don’t think so. Jonah, they’re all starting to look alike now.” She flung her hands up in the air in frustration.

  “It is or it isn’t, Darby,” he growled.

  Darby’s shoulders slumped and she moaned, “Jonah, I’m tired. It’s late. Let’s go back to the hotel.” She strode ahead, her steps fierce slaps on the sidewalk.

  He followed, not even close to quitting. Quitting meant quitting on Sorcha. Jonah seized Darby’s arm the exact moment she jerked, coming to a halt. She pulled her head back, almost as if she were looking up at something, seeing something in all the winter-gnarled branches of the tree stretching over them.

  He stepped around her cautiously, uttering her name quietly. “Darby?”

  She stared upward without blinking. As if she hadn’t heard him. As if she didn’t know he was beside her at all.

  He didn’t speak again, merely waited, watching her as the moments crawled past. It could only have been a minute, but the time stretched agonizingly slowly as he waited for her return.

  Finally, she sucked in a deep breath, as if emerging from a great pool of water. Blinking, she looked around, her eyes losing their glassy quality. “This is it, where they took her. She’s here. Close.”

  Elation swelled inside his chest.

  She turned, staring into the distance, into the memory of her vision. “The demon witch … she’s powerful. Too powerful for Sorcha. For any of us. Sorcha can’t beat her.”

  He’d given very little thought to the demon witch. He’d been more worried about the lycans who’d taken Sorcha. He’d fought hard not to think about them … with her all this time … the horror she could now be enduring at their hands. He knew what they could do to her. Moonrise was tomorrow. Whatever anguish she endured with them now would magnify then.

  Darby closed her eyes for a long moment, as if still seeing it all in her mind. Her breath released in a slow shudder. She reopened her eyes and turned her head to look slowly around, as if finally returning to herself and the present.

  “They took her that way.” He stared where she pointed, at the dark alleyway the patisserie shared with an antiques shop. “There’s a service entrance on the side of the antiques shop. They went through that door, to an elevator belowground.” She focused her gaze on Jonah again. “But you can’t go, Jonah. You’ll never come out. You can’t beat these monsters.”

  And there was more. He could read it in her eyes. He didn’t have to think hard to come up with what it was. “You still see it?” His voice fell flat. “She kills me?”

  She gave a jerky nod, her eyes dark in the shadows, full and gleaming. “I’m sorry, Jonah, but it’s still the same as before. We’ve done nothing to change the future course of events.”

  So Sorcha would kill him? As Darby had first predicted.

  He supposed there were worse ways to go. He lifted his face and exhaled, watching the white cloud of his steaming breath for a moment before nodding, a calming peace settling over him. As long as Sorcha lived, he would be at peace. “It’s fine, Darby.”

  She grabbed hold of his arm. “She’s already lost, Jonah. Don’t you get that? And so are you if you press on.” She bit her lip, her shoulders sagging. “It’s all so hopeless. Maybe I should never have called you.”

  “I’m glad you did. I can’t walk away and leave her to whatever fate—”

  “Yes. I know,” she choked, her voice a rough scrape on the air. Her eyes gleamed wetly up at him. “You love her and you’ll go after her. And you’ll die. And she’ll still be in their prison. No one wins, Jonah.”

  “Wouldn’t you want someone to come after you?”

  A flicker of something passed over her face before she answered him. “Not if there was no hope. Not if it would put him at risk, destroy him. We need you, Jonah … I … do.” She shook her head. “I might be lost, witout hope, but you can still help the covens. Isn’t that more reasonable than following a useless cause?”

  He’d let logic and reason get in the way before. That’s what had led Sorcha into danger in the first place. Logic could go to hell for all he cared.

  He touched Darby’s face then, brushed his thumb against her cheek. “You’ve taken me this far. Thank you, Darby.”

  “Sure. Thank me for getting you killed.”

  “You’ve always been a friend to me, Darby, even when I wasn’t much fun to be around. You got me to Sorcha. Whatever happens, I owe you for that. Go home … or wherever it is you need to be. And try to stay out of trouble.”


  She smiled weakly. “I can’t ever seem to do that.” Her smile slipped then. “I’m a witch. Trouble always finds me.”

  He dropped his hand from her face. “If I survive this, you know I’ll always be there for you. If you ever need—”

  “I know, I know.” She nodded brusquely, her smile resurfacing as she burrowed her hands in her pockets and tossed her fiery hair. “I’ll be okay. I’m tough, like you. I’ll figure it all out. I hear they make excellent coffee in Greenland. Best in the world.”

  With a grim smile, he nodded, hoping she was right, hoping she would be okay.

  Turning, he hurried away, redirecting his thoughts to Sorcha and how he was going to save her.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  When the elevator doors slid open, Jonah had no idea what to expect, but it wasn’t a smiling human receptionist sitting behind a mahogany desk. Smooth music piped in from overhead. He stepped warily out into the heated room.

  “Hello. May I help you?” She looked up from her computer screen, a glossy red smile on her lips, as if she worked in a plastic surgeon’s office and not some antechamber of hell.

  Without altering her gaze, her arm shifted, dipped low beneath her desk. An imperceptible move. Instantly he knew she touched some kind of hidden alert button—or was about to.

  His gaze narrowed on the single door behind her desk.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

  “I want to speak with whoever’s in charge.”

  She scanned him, up and down. “I think that can be arranged. One moment.” She made several taps on her keyboard, then paused, reading something on her screen. Her gaze snapped to him. If possible, her smile beamed several shades brighter. Falsely bright. “Excellent.” She stood from her chair in one graceful move and waved him toward the door. “You can go through this door. Someone will meet you to show the way.”

  Right. He could just imagine who that someone might be. The demon witch responsible for abducting Sorcha? Lycans?

  He rounded the desk, the bump of his sword at his side, beneath his coat, the only reassurance necessary.

  He’d defeated lycans and demon witches before. He’d do it again tonight. He’d fight harder than he ever had because his motivation was stronger. He had to win. He must. Sorcha’s life depended on his beating whatever waited for him. He had to get her out of here.

  Before she kills you? He shoved the nagging voice aside, unwilling to dwell on Darby’s predictions. It wouldn’t stop him, and it didn’t make sense anyway. Why would Sorcha want to kill him? Even if they’d parted on a less than warm note, she’d never wish him dead.

  Passing through the door, he found no one there to meet him. He didn’t see anyone or anything as he advanced, just a yawning stretch of hall. Concrete floor and bare walls closed in around him. With careful steps and one hand tucked inside his coat, he advanced, muscles tight and screaming with awareness. Only one thought pounded through his head. Sorcha was here. Near. He could feel her, almost taste her on his lips. It was enough. All he needed to keep going.

  He passed door after door, all closed. Not a sound scratched the air other than the hum of the ventilation system. Cameras were stationed in every high corner, following his progress. He was walking into the jaws of the beast, descending into the abyss. It wasn’t even a trap. It couldn’t be a trap if he was aware that something nefarious and dangerous awaited him. If he embraced it voluntarily.

  “Jonah.” The voice boomed from above.

  He whirled around, searching for the source, the nape of his neck prickling at the familiar voice. The long chuckle that followed only confirmed the suspicion.

  “Old friend, good to see you again. This is quite the week for reunions.”

  He should have felt surprise at the sound of Ivo’s disembodied voice, but given that he’d discovered Sorcha survived the blast in Istanbul, he was beyond assuming anything anymore.

  “Ivo,” he called out, spotting the speaker vents in the ceiling. “Where is she?”

  “Ah, looking for my little girl, are you? She did grow into a stunning creature. Too bad these aren’t the old days or I would gladly give her to you. Alas, my goals have changed …”

  Suddenly a door opened, as if by magic, swinging quickly near his right side. He jerked, flattening his back to the wall, braced for anything that might emerge from the shadowy space.

  “You don’t hold quite the same appeal. I don’t need you in the same way. Funny how time alters one’s perception.”

  “What happened to building your army of lycans? Ruling the world and subduing man?”

  “There are different kinds of power, I’ve learned.”

  Jonah’s gaze drifted back toward the yawning door. He knew it hadn’t opened randomly or accidentally. “Where is she?”

  “Go ahead”—Ivo’s voice floated over him—“if you want to find her, she’s down there.”

  Not for one moment did Jonah trust him, but he didn’t have much choice except to play this out.

  “Bet you wish you’d taken her when I first offered her to you on a platter.”

  “I think she was twelve the first time you tried to get me to take her to mate,” he growled.

  “Yes, and something tells me she’s not such an easy conquest now. Tell me, have you bred with her already? From the possessive way you’re behaving, I suspect you have.” Ivo chuckled and the sound curled menacingly on the air.

  Jonah stiffened, sick at the thought of Sorcha back in the hands of her father.

  Ivo chuckled. “Apparently I’m right. So much for your grand morals that prevented you from fucking her before.”

  Black rage swept through Jonah. “You should have burned in that fire. I’ll see you burn yet …”

  “Promises, promises. What are you waiting for? Sorcha’s just below. Get going, hero.”

  Jonah moved through the door and descended steps onto another floor … even as he knew something was wrong. Ivo wouldn’t hand Sorcha over to him so easily.

  The air grew dimmer, smelled dank and rotting. The doors he passed now were heavy slabs of metal. His skin felt chill to think that Sorcha was behind one of them. Knowing now that Ivo ran this little operation, he hoped he hadn’t sicced his lycans on her—she was his daughter, after all.

  A sudden loud click reverberated in the air. Jonah stopped, staring straight ahead at the door at the end of the corridor. Larger than the rest, it drew his eye. It was bolted from the outside. He watched as that bolt lifted, the screws creaking noisily, oil-starved.

  Warmth began to build at his center, spreading out through his pulling limbs. His teeth grew, thickening in his mouth as he transitioned.

  The metal door slid open slowly. Jonah stopped, stared hard at the swelling darkness that dwelled inside the room. His heart hammered. Without a thought for the cameras following his every move, he pulled out his sword.

  Instinct blared as loud as a horn in his head, telling him to hold the sword ready, that Sorcha wasn’t inside this room. Something dark and hungry, ready to pounce, watched him from the confines.

  Gradually a sound penetrated as he stared into the swirling black of that room. His ears pricked, adjusted for the slightest sound, undetectable to human ears. But he heard it. Steady and heavy as the rhythm of a metronome.

  The fall of breath.

  Demon breath, gurgling deep and rancid. Even where he stood, it reached his nose, made his limbs pull harder, deeper, and snap into their final position.

  An actual demon watched him in corporeal form, staring out from that lightless room. He flexed his hands around his sword.

  He’d only come across a demon in the flesh once. He’d barely survived the encounter, but the experience had taught him what to look for. Had taught him to expect that he might not survive.

  The moment it charged into the light, he caught only a flash of the large animal shape. The two-headed creature shot toxic spit from its mouth. Jonah swerved to avoid the hissing liquid. It landed on a met
al door with an incinerating sizzle.

  Jonah lunged forward in a blur, stabbing into the demon’s thick, meaty chest. He grunted as he pulled his sword back out, the blade glinting with blood as black as tar. The demon bellowed, in either pain or rage. Maybe both. Jonah knew only that his efforts didn’t stop it, didn’t slow it down.

  Jonah crouched and swung around, surveying the demon’s body as quickly as possible, his gaze moving in a feverish sweep as he searched for the mark that would glow, a red handprint—the mark of the fall, God’s handprint casting the demon into hell. Every demon bore it, though never in the same spot.

  One of its dragonlike heads spit again, and Jonah moved too late. The acid grazed his shoulder in a poisonous burn, devouring his flesh, tissue, muscle. The demon saliva reached his bone and began eating through it. He couldn’t stop the scream from escaping his throat, shuddering through the corridor and lifting up in the air.

  With a bellowed rage, he swung and decapitated one of the heads. It fell and rolled along the floor. Still the demon kept coming at him, its remaining jaw snapping, toxic spit hissing through the air.

  Jonah dropped and rolled, planning to take a leg out from under it—and that’s when he saw it. Buried beneath the belly, almost completely hidden, tucked inside the joint of the front right leg, glowed the mark of the fall.

  Grasping his sword in both hands, he plunged it up into the glowing red handprint.

  The beast howled, fell to its massive side with a loud crash. Its four legs flailed for a moment. Smoke swelled up around it. Jonah staggered back, remembering what had happened the last time. Holding a hand against his eyes, he squinted as it burst into fire and ash. Flames raged over the demon, devouring it and sending it back to hell. From a safe distance, he watched, feeling only grim satisfaction when the demon was almost instantly reduced to a pile of charred rubble.

  The tinny sound of clapping rang out over the speaker system. “Impressive, Jonah. Your knowledge of demons is … unexpected. I’ve underestimated you.”

  Panting, he glared up at the ceiling as if he could see Ivo. “Yeah, well, I’ve changed over the years.” His voice fell thickly from his mouth. “Where’s Sorcha?” he demanded.