My Soul to Keep

by Sharie Kohler

  “Did you think you could just waltz in here and leave with her?” Ivo laughed. “Nothing is that simple. You killed my demon. I must confess some shock over that … and disappointment. You’ll have to pay for that”

  “Enough with these games!” Jonah roared.

  Ivo’s demented laugh rumbled through the air again. “Games … funny you should say that. I happen to like games very much. Very much indeed. You should remember that about me.”

  That Ivo was a sick bastard who liked to torment those around him? Yeah. He remembered.

  Steps sounded behind Jonah. He swung around, his bloodstained sword at the ready. The mark on his neck tingled and burned … as it had for some time now. From the moment he’d stared into the darkened maw of the room and felt the demon’s eyes on him. He’d barely noticed, too worked up fighting for his life and struggling with the realization that Ivo was alive.

  A nonthreatening-looking woman descended the steps. She was very earth mother in her brown wool dress and orange knit cap tightly fitted to her head. Her frizzy gray-streaked hair escaped the sides like straw bursting from a scarecrow’s hat. She reminded him of a vagrant he’d given change to outside his favorite restaurant in Seattle.

  “Ah,” she clucked, appraising him. “A dovenatu. Imagine that. Two in the same week. How lucky are we?”

  “Ingrid.” Ivo’s voice rolled over the air with a touch of impatience. Clearly he had tired of playing with Jonah. He had always been like that, given to wild swings in mood. “You know what to do.”

  “Yes, of course.” She gave a very businesslike nod.

  Jonah poised the sword above his head, ready to defend himself and attack … not about to let the fact that she looked like someone’s grandmother deter him from shielding himself. Dying now was letting Sorcha down, and he’d vowed not to do that. Not ever again.

  Then something changed. He felt the shift on the air current, a sharp thinness.

  His muscles constricted. His skull pounded, a twisting pain squeezing at the temples. A buzzing filled his ears, gradually turning into a soundless voice. Drop the sword. Drop the sword. Drop the sword. Pain thudded at his skull, tiny hammers seeking a way inside.

  He resisted, his arms trembling from the force it took to hold on to the sword. “What are you?” he ground out even as he already knew. His sixth sense around witches was clamoring loud and clear. This was the witch from Darby’s vision. The powerful one, the one who’d overtaken Sorcha. The one, Darby had predicted, who would overtake him. The one he couldn’t beat.

  She frowned. “You’re strong,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes and working her fingers in the air as if she were performing a magic trick on him.

  The voice in his head intensified, a whispering mantra. Drop the sword. Drop the sword.

  His fingers unfolded. A violent bellow ripped from his lips as his sword clattered to the floor. She pointed at the demon’s cell, directing him.

  Without a word, he felt himself turning, twisting around. His feet moved, each one in a leaden step, one after the other. The dark cell loomed closer and closer. He couldn’t resist, couldn’t fight the witch mind-fucking him into doing her bidding. No wonder Ivo was able to control lycans, demons, Sorcha … him.

  Maybe Darby was right. Maybe he would die at Sorcha’s hand. Maybe this witch would have her kill him.

  The door clanged shut behind him. With a curse, he rotated in the room that stank like the demon who’d occupied it before him. He muttered, “Nice shithole.”

  As he was coming to expect, Ivo’s voice rolled out over the air. “There are better accommodations to be had. Please me, and who knows, maybe you’ll get an upgrade. Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll put an end to your life tonight.”

  Jonah squinted, adjusting his eyes to the swelling darkness. “Just tell me what you’re going to do with me.”

  This time there was no answer.

  SORCHA FELL BACK ON her cot, the scream she’d heard moments before ringing in her ears. It had sounded unearthly and full of pain but oddly familiar, too. Almost as if the cry had been her own. The sound still echoed in her head, made her heart pound faster.

  Rolling to her side, she curled her legs and tucked herself into as small a ball as possible. “Jonah,” she whispered, and the sound of his name made her feel better, closer to him even though he was a world away from her. Where she wanted him to be. Where she needed him to be. Safe.

  She felt warm inside, light and free, knowing he was safe and far from this.

  “Jonah.” Closing her eyes, she let his face fill her head, remembering the times she’d studied him asleep in bed beside her. She would always have that. Every time she closed her eyes, she would have him. It was all she could hope for. Right now it was everything.

  The manner in which life ends means nothing, she decided. It’s meaningless. She almost laughed when she realized she was contemplating the end, her death. For so long she’d thought that was virtually unattainable for her.

  Now that it was real, looming close and a very likely possibility, she felt human. For the first time since she was a girl. Then, she did laugh. The sound spilled out, rusty and broken. Innately human. Human was something she had hoped to be on more than one occasion.

  It’s the living that counts, and the time she had lived with Jonah was what she would hold close, tucked to her heart forever.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Ingrid came for her the following morning, grunting in satisfaction to see that she was dressed and her tray was empty of food. Did she think Sorcha wouldn’t eat? Sorcha snorted. She wasn’t about to go without nourishment. She needed her strength for whatever her father planned for her.

  She walked with firm steps, in steady silence, her jaw aching from the tension knotting it as she followed Ingrid through the myriad corridors, deep into the unknown.

  They finally arrived at a large, airy room she’d passed through once before. Lonely manacles dangled from the walls and floors. It had been empty then. Now the hard eyes of four others followed her. Apparently none of them required restraints. She eyed them openly in return, combatants, she guessed from their attire … attire so like her own.

  “Here you are. Pick a seat.”

  Sorcha sank down beside one of the players.

  She didn’t even hide making a study of them. If she was to fight alongside them—against them—she wanted to know as much about them as possible.

  For a brief moment, she wondered when she had become this. So mercenary, so intent on her survival that she measured everyone for their weaknesses. And then she didn’t think about it again. She wouldn’t. Not if she wanted to live through this. To see Jonah again—

  To see Jonah again? Is that what mattered to her most right now?

  She blinked once, hard, letting herself absorb this realization, take it deep inside her and then tuck it away. For later dissection. Now, she could only think about life. About winning her life.

  As far as she could tell, none of her companions was lycan. They wouldn’t be sitting before her with all the appearance of humans if they were. She could tell it was moonrise. Even buried beneath the earth, she felt the pull of the moon deep in her bones. Her skin tingled and her core smoldered with heat. She could turn in an instant if she willed it. And in the ring, she very well might. Anything to survive.

  But then, that’s what her father was counting on. He wanted a show. She frowned darkly. Like it or not, she would give him what he wanted. As much as she loathed the idea of playing in his death games, she was not ready to die in some form of indignant protest. If she needed to turn to live, she would.

  She eyed the others again, hardly registering Ingrid leaving her with them alone. So if they weren’t lycans, what were they? Mere humans wouldn’t satisfy her father’s sense of drama. Not if he’d wanted Tresa to compete among them. They had to be serious threats.

  Her companions in the holding room seemed equally fascinated with the mystery of her.

  “Hey, newb. What’s
your story?” the lone female asked. She was the epitome of female warrior. Her long blond hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Armor covered all her vital parts, but the rest of her was tantalizingly bare.

  “Isn’t it clear?” a guy asked. He was big, brawny, with arms like tree trunks. “She’s like me.”

  Sorcha inhaled, her nostrils flaring wide. He was right. He was a dovenatu like her. Her pores snapped open, recognizing her own species.

  Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees. Every inch of his bulging muscles looked greased. Better for the fight, she supposed. “Not too many of us around, huh? Name’s Sheppard.”

  “Is that your first name or last?”

  “Both.” He smiled, a blinding flash of teeth, and sent her a wink.

  “Just great.” This came from a scrawny boy who looked barely out of his teens. “Just what we need … you two bonding.” He rose and paced a few feet with angry strides. “I can’t keep doing this every week. None of you likes me,” he accused.

  “No arguing with that,” the blonde woman muttered.

  “See!” he continued. “I’m not going to make it—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Phillip. None of us is going to last very long down here. That’s the whole point,” the female bit out. “So why don’t you stop acting so helpless? We’ve all seen what you can do.”

  The third guy held silent, his ink-dark eyes slowly assessing Sorcha, as well as the others. He somehow managed to hold himself apart from them, and it wasn’t just because he was silent. With his head dropped back against the wall, he looked removed, untouched by it all. Almost as if he were bored.

  Waving his reed-thin arms, Phillip shouted at the brooding man, “Would you stop looking at me that way?”

  What way? Sorcha wanted to ask. It seemed as if he were looking through the teenager rather than at him. It seemed as if he were looking through all of them. Clearing her throat, she asked, “So are we supposed to fight each other or what? What’s going on?”

  The four exchanged looks of mild surprise.

  “You don’t know anything, do you?” The female sounded annoyed.

  “None of us is here to fight one another,” Sheppard volunteered.

  “Tell her nothing!” Phillip hissed. “Let her figure it out for herself. She doesn’t need an advantage over us.”

  “God, Phillip, chill out.” The blonde wrapped her fingers around her ponytail and smoothed her hand down the waist-length rope of hair. “As I recall, we told you how the cow ate the cabbage when you first got here.”

  Phillip’s face reddened, the blemishes standing out more brightly, now angry purple splotches on his pale skin.

  “You should be glad the gamekeeper gave us someone to replenish the ranks.”

  “We began with thirty fighters! She’ll hardly improve our odds.”

  “Can someone tell me what’s going on?” Sorcha persisted.

  “We’re supposed to fight the defender,” Sheppard answered, moving to sit beside her. His thigh aligned with hers and she scooted over an inch. He was good-looking and he was a dovenatu. Two qualifications that should have sparked her interest. Two qualifications that would have delighted her a month ago. But not now. Now he failed to affect her at all. He simply wasn’t Jonah.

  “Who’s the defender?” she asked.

  “He’s the reigning champion … and has been for the last year. Everyone expects him to wipe the floor with us.” The blonde leaned back against the wall. “Like he always does. Once blood is drawn, once someone is killed, we’re herded back and given another week of life.” She shrugged. “I’m Mila, by the way.”

  A chill chased down Sorcha’s spine at how matter-of-factly Mila related the depravity of her father’s kill games.

  “I’m Sorcha,” she replied numbly, still running over all the blonde had just said. “A fight to the death,” she murmured, sickened to know that Ivo’s blood ran through her veins. That this was her father’s doing.

  “A fight to the death,” Phillip echoed angrily. “For one of us at least.”

  “It’s simple really,” Sheppard said beside her. “We fight the defender together. They’ll release us into the ring and we’ll try to kill him before he kills one of us …” He paused to grimace. “So far, though, he always kills one of us.”

  “Don’t tell her anything,” Phillip cried. “Someone has to die. Let it be her. Give us another week!”

  “If I’m prepared,” Sorcha snapped, at the end of her rope with the kid, “I can better help all of us. What is this defender, anyway? A lycan? It’s moonrise, he’ll be stronger—”

  “You’ll wish it was a lycan.” The dark-eyed quiet man finally spoke up, his black eyes drilling deeply into Sorcha.

  “Ah, he speaks,” Mila cheered in mocking tones. “Gonna bother telling us your name yet, stud?”

  Apparently he hadn’t been with them long either. He swung his dark eyes on Mila, but offered nothing else.

  “No? Shame.” Looking back to Sorcha, Mila answered the earlier question. “The defender is a demon. Nasty and big and invincible as far as we can tell.”

  A demon? In corporeal form? How had her father captured a demon? No doubt Ingrid had a hand in keeping it captive. Her mind raced, thinking over all Jonah had told her about demons. Somewhere on the demon’s body was the mark of the fall. She just had to find it. “We can kill it,” she announced, her voice ringing with conviction.

  “You don’t get it. There’s no salvation here for any of us,” Mila interjected. “The gamekeeper won’t halt the game until one of us dies.”

  “So what happens if one of us kills the defender?”

  “Then one of us gets to be the new defender.” Phillip waved his hands in the air. “Fun. Who wants that job? I’ll just work on not getting killed.”

  The air came alive with cheering shouts. Sorcha looked in the direction of the door. “That’s the arena?” she guessed. “What’s going on out there now?”

  “Pregame show.” Sheppard shrugged his massive shoulders. “Every moonrise they fill the ring with a dozen or so lycans and an equal number of hunters. It’s one big free-for-all. The hunters love it.” He swung his gaze on the dark-eyed brooder. “Isn’t that right?”

  Sorcha stared back and forth between the two men, not missing the steady flow of animosity between them, the crackle of hate in the air. Then it clicked. “You’re a hunter?” she demanded.

  Dark eyes shifted to her, obsidian black. His lips barely moved as he spoke. “I used to be.”

  “Makes you feel warm and fuzzy to know he’s fighting beside you, doesn’t it?” Mila’s lip curled up. “A year ago he was hunting your kind down like dogs. Now his buddies are out there cheering for his blood.”

  Something flickered in his gaze. Just for a fraction of a second, but Sorcha hadn’t imagined it. The mention of his friends turning on him had stung deeply. “I never hunted dovenatus,” he murmured. “Even though the Federation ordered me to.”

  “Is that how you got thrown down here? Because you’re …” Sorcha searched for the right word. “Uncooperative?”

  “Rogue hunters aren’t much better than lycans to EFLA.” His lip curled as he looked at her. “Just like dovenatus, we’re deemed expendable. They thought this might be a more entertaining way to end my life.”

  Sorcha shook her head, marveling that some of the spectators were his former friends and comrades.

  A door clanged loudly. Ingrid appeared, breathless, as though she’d just jogged a mile. “It’s a madhouse tonight. The crowd is wired,” she exclaimed as if the news might please them.

  Sheppard stood and clapped the hunter on the back as if they were old friends. The animosity flowing between them told otherwise. If they weren’t about to fight a demon for their lives, they would gladly be fighting each other. “C’mon, let’s go see all your old friends.”

  The hunter flung Sheppard’s arm away with a growl.

  “Oh, leave each other alone already and let�
�s get this over with.” Mila stalked forward. Instead of using her hand, she nodded once and the doors were flung wide open. Without a blink, she strode ahead to lead the way.

  “A witch,” Sorcha noted beneath her breath, but she’d already suspected as much. Only Mila wasn’t like Ingrid. No demon possessed her. She was a white witch. The tough-as-nails blonde answered to no one, that much was clear, and Sorcha could understand how she’d survived this long in the arena when others had not.

  The boy lingered, clearly reluctant to enter the arena. She stared hard at him, trying to figure out how he had stayed alive this long. What was his talent? “And why are you here?” She knew her father well enough to know that the boy couldn’t be helpless. For all his complaints, Phillip had to possess an advantage. If he survived where so many others had not, he was no weakling.

  “Nothing … I’m … just a mage. A mage in training. I was an apprentice when they took me and my master almost a year ago. He owned a magic shop in Dublin … mostly sold books, novelty items.”

  A mage? As in a wizard? She’d never even known they existed. Sorcha shook her head, feeling her world shift again beneath her feet. Although if witches were out there, why not mages?

  He strode past her, his voice high in defense. “I didn’t even get but a few months of training before we were captured. Trust me, I’m nothing …”

  “And yet you’re still alive.” Striding ahead of the boy through the doors, she hardened her heart, not fooled for a moment by his helpless act.

  Entering the narrow tunnel that led into the arena, she emptied her head of all thoughts, of Jonah, of everything but what waited ahead of her. She didn’t need any distractions if she was going to make it through this.

  The other three walked steadily in front of her, their movements indicating a certain jaded familiarity that only heightened her sense of inadequacy. Not a good feeling. She pulled back her shoulders. Game on, Sorcha. You can do this. Until you figure out a way to escape or talk Ivo out of this insanity, you must.