by J. Kenner
And they would be forgiven. Erased. Because in the end, I’d won. I’d served the master well, and I would be rewarded.
No.
I fell to the sidewalk, my hands pressed to the concrete as I forced myself to slowly and methodically think the truth.
That isn’t me. I haven’t won. I’ve lost.
I’ve lost, and the Box is still out there. Ready to be Called. Ready to open the gate.
The emotions racing through me weren’t mine. I was experiencing the last visceral reaction of the lousy bastard demon who’d managed to defeat me.
The gates of hell were going to come flying open, and it was all my fault, and I did not want the smug son of a bitch doing a victory dance inside my head.
But he was, and as far as I could tell, I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop him. Not yet, anyway.
Damn, damn, damn, damn!
So instead of trying, I pressed my forehead to the concrete, willing it to pass. Willing myself to absorb the essence. To metabolize it. Take it in. Fucking process it so that I could get on with the business of my life—and not the business of living the life of every Hell Beast I killed.
Gravel crunched in the distance, and my head snapped up, the adrenaline rush compartmentalizing my emotions in a way that blunt mental force could never have managed. The sun had dropped below the rooftops, and now shadows consumed the alley. A figure stood in the dim light, his identity enshrouded by the gloom.
I squinted, fighting the urge to run as I tried to get a look at his face. I couldn’t make out anything. At least not until he took a step forward. Then I saw the glint of his knife, cold and malicious as it shimmered in the light from nearby streetlights.
I screamed, then yanked my sleeve up and slapped my hand over the symbol on my arm, desperate to rebuild the bridge and escape. I felt the tug, I saw the blackness, and then—blam—the handle of a flying knife knocked my hand away from my arm. Instantly, the portal fizzled and popped, and then disappeared.
It was gone. The bridge was gone. And though I pressed my hand again over the mark, the symbol had faded. It no longer worked.
It was done, and I was under attack.
The arm drew back then, and the blade went flying. I yelped, thrown completely off guard, then twisted my body down and to the side.
The knife missed my chest, but caught me in the shoulder, slicing neatly through my svelte black bodysuit. At first I felt nothing, and then the pain registered—a deep burning sensation as my body processed the nature of this assault.
I bent to retrieve my attacker’s knife, my shoulder aching with the movement even as I moved my other hand to the hilt of my own still-sheathed knife. Considering how fast my body now healed, I expected to be back at full capacity in no time.
Bring it on, baby.
At the end of the alley, he stepped out of shadows—a tall, thin figure dressed all in black, even his face covered. Just like me. Two anonymous warriors, ready to do battle. And since I had the whole immortality thing going, I was feeling decidedly superior. At least until I tried to grab my knife and discovered that I couldn’t do it. The sensation in my arm was gone, replaced by a million red-hot pins jabbing into my nerve endings.
A burst of fear scurried up behind the hubris I’d just been spouting.
Holy shit, what is wrong with me?
The sensation spread. My chest tight with cold. My belly trembling as icy fingers moved through my body.
Poison.
He lifted a crossbow . . . aimed . . .
And as he let the arrow fly, I forced my legs into action, my muscles screaming as I fought the subglacial temperatures that had settled into my bones.
I ran, and I kept on running, the world spinning around me, turning all sorts of interesting colors. I could no longer feel my arm or my chest. I was breathing, which I thought was a very good thing, but I had no visceral connection with that process. My lungs might be expanding, my heart might be beating, but from my perspective I was as stiff and unmoving as a mannequin.
I wasted a few precious seconds to turn and look behind me. He was there, that man in black, walking slowly toward me, his weapon at his side, ready to fire when he was in range. He wasn’t hurrying, though, and I knew why. He’d infected me with a paralytic. And once my arms and legs quit pumping—once I lay helpless on the pavement—he’d pull off my mask and slide a blade into my heart.
I’d come back. That much I knew. But suddenly I was faced with a new fear—like, what would happen to me if he cut off my head? If he buried me in a pine box? If he trapped me in wet cement?
I couldn’t die, but I could suffer, and right then I think I was more scared of living trapped or headless throughout eternity than I’d ever been of dying.
Move, Lily. Move your goddamned feet!
I stumbled into the street, dodging the few cars that zipped by. Horns blared, but I heard nothing, too obsessed with the picture that ran through my head over and over: the blade, dark boxes, my head. Mentally, I shuddered, though my upper body was no longer capable of such a reaction.
I thrust myself blindly in front of an oncoming car, holding my hands out in a desperate plea for it to stop.
I saw the female driver’s eyes go wide, and she swerved, missing me even as she slammed on the brakes. The tips of my fingers in my right hand still moved, and I used that motion to pull open the car door, brandishing my knife.
The woman screamed, and though I couldn’t speak, she figured out exactly what I wanted, stepping on the gas and thrusting us forward, her hands tight on the wheel as she shot terrified sideways glances in my direction.
As for me, I kept my eyes on the shadows, finally finding my tormentor standing in a pool of light from a single porch lamp. He turned, defeated, as the car went by.
I’d won this round, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. My body was giving out, I was in a car with a woman I’d kidnapped, and soon, I knew, I’d be meeting my foe again.
“What . . . what should I do?” the woman asked after we’d traveled a few miles down the road.
I stayed silent, my lips nonresponsive to my commands. I craved a cell phone, but what good would it do me? I had no number for Clarence or Zane, and there was no one else I could count on.
Besides, I wouldn’t be able to dial the damn thing.
The driver glanced at me, glanced at the knife, and made a hard right into a vacant lot. She opened the door with the turn and jumped out before the car had even stopped. It rolled forward, smashing into another vehicle, and slamming me forward so that I hit my head on the dash.
Immediately, a car alarm started blaring.
I tried to use my fingers to open my door, but they’d stopped functioning. There was still some life left in my legs, though, and I pushed and scooted and shoved until I fell like a lump of dead meat out of the car and onto the rough gravel and broken glass that covered the lot and now dug into my cheek and hairline.
I couldn’t turn my neck, but managed with a few shoves and kicks to get my body oriented so that I could scope out the area. No one. My hijack victim had disappeared, though if I was any judge of human nature, I had a feeling she’d be back, and with the police.
I needed to get out of there, and with the last bit of strength in my legs, I scooted across the lot, ripping my oh-so-fashionable assassin costume as I aimed myself toward the edge of the lot.
This was where that extra oomph of strength really came in handy, because there was no way I could have managed this in my old life. At the same time, in my old life, there was no way I would have found myself paralyzed in a vacant lot after carjacking an innocent woman.
The lot ended at a grassy easement that sloped down to a second street. I rolled down the hill, pleased to find a smattering of tractors and bulldozers, all shut down for the night. I settled underneath a tractor, not because it seemed like an amazing hiding spot but because my legs had finally given out.
I closed my eyes and prayed, hoping that God was keeping an eye on his nasc
ent warrior . . . and hoping that the police would assume that a carjacker would leave the scene and not be stupid enough to camp under the nearby construction equipment.
Moments passed without a sound except for the gentle whiz of passing traffic. I closed my eyes.
Whether I died or merely slept, I didn’t know. Certainly with the paralytic, my heart could have stopped. And with Zane’s essence, it would have started up again.
Or, maybe I simply passed out.
I didn’t know. Which, frankly, was a little freaky.
Not that I intended to dwell on the freaky. Instead, I needed to get the hell out of there.
I rolled out from under the tractor, my muscles stiff but once again fully functional. I saw no one nearby and breathed a sigh of relief. If the cops had come, they were gone now. And whoever my attacker had been, he hadn’t found me.
My shoulder still ached, but a quick glance showed that the wound had healed. My clothing was ripped to shreds. I wanted a shower, but even more than that, I wanted answers.
And I knew of only one place to go to start asking questions.
30
It was past midnight by the time I reached Zane’s door. I used my palm to gain entrance, then took the elevator down to the training center floor, my eyes searching for Zane even before the cage-style elevator came to a stop.
Empty.
But I knew he was there. He had to be there.
I scanned the room, finally noticing a small, unmarked door on the far side, beside a metal shelf that held white, fluffy towels. I marched to it and pushed the door open, then slid silently inside.
I was in a spare room, and Zane was there, on a metal cot, his body covered by a thin blue blanket.
I moved forward with stealth, then sat on the edge of his bed, my hand pressed flat on his naked chest, right over his heart.
His eyes flashed open, the warrior in them fading to relief when he saw me. “We’ve been concerned. The portal closed, but you hadn’t come through. Then hours passed and you didn’t check in.”
“How do you stand it?” I whispered. “How do you stand knowing that you can’t die but that you could suffer endlessly? That you could be hacked into bits and left for dead? But you wouldn’t be. Or buried in a cement vault for hundreds or thousands of years? How do you live with that?”
I felt the sting of tears in my eyes, then the gentle press of his hand over mine.
“I live with it, ma fleur, because I have no choice.” He sat up, revealing the rest of his bare chest and firm abdomen. The sheet fell around his hips, and I had a feeling that the rest of him was bare, too. “What has happened tonight, chérie?” he asked, his voice infinitely gentle.
I pointed to where the knife had sliced through my now-battered skinsuit. “I was attacked. After the assignment. Poison on the knife. Something. I’m not really sure.”
At the word poison, he’d tensed, leaning forward to look at the now-healed wound. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell exactly what happened.”
I told, and watched as his eyes went hard and flat.
“They did not know the truth about you, chérie,” he said. “But the greater truth—who you are and why you are here—that, they must know.”
“That’s what I figure, too. End me, and evil takes a holiday.” I glanced sideways at him. “Then again, maybe they did know that I’ve sucked in your essence. Maybe they paralyzed me so that they could chop me into little immortal pieces.” I shivered at the thought. That really creeped me out. “But I got away.”
“Possible,” he said, looking thoughtful. “Though it would not, I think, have been that difficult to locate you. It is after midnight now, and you left here before dark. Plenty of time to locate an unconscious warrior.”
“Which is why I didn’t come here to slice off your head,” I said, giving voice to a suspicion that had been gnawing at me. His brows lifted, but I pressed on. “You would have known what to do. How to stop me for good. You would have found me, and you would have done that. But here I am. Which means you didn’t sell me out.”
His eyes narrowed. “Although I am pleased to be off your suspect list, I had no knowledge of where you were. The portal reveals its destination only to you.”
I frowned. I hadn’t realized they wouldn’t know where I was.
“Beyond that,” he continued, “I would like to know why you would think of me as a traitor for even a moment.”
I tilted my head, but never took my eyes off his. “You’re a demon. An incubus.”
The hard edge to his eyes glimmered with amusement. “Am I?”
I swallowed, certain I was right, but at the same time knowing it was one hell of an accusation, especially considering whom we both worked for. But it made sense. His immortality. His intense sensuality. The way he was able to melt me with only a look.
And the way the heady power of that sensual fire now burned within me.
He was an incubus. He had to be.
He rose, the sheet dropping away to reveal his perfect, naked body. I stood firm, my knife held out, forcing myself to keep calm as he drew near. He might not have been the one who attacked me, but I couldn’t fully trust him. Not knowing the truth about him.
He moved toward me, stopping his advance when his flesh touched my blade, a single drop of blood beading on that perfect caramel skin. “And what do you intend to do with that knife?”
“Isn’t this what I’m supposed to do? Kill demons? Don’t I at least have to try? Even against the immortal ones?”
He turned, ignoring my knife as he pulled on a pair of thin gray sweats. “You assume that is what I am,” he said, moving back toward me with slow purpose. “That this sensual buzzing and humming between us comes from a dank, dark place.” He’d pitched his voice low, and the thrum of my body deepened, all of my senses coming to life as he spoke.
I forced myself not to touch him, though I desperately wanted to. “Turn it off,” I demanded, even though I knew that part of it now came from me. Our two natures—hot and quick and designed for pleasure—seeking each other out. Craving release.
I swallowed, my mouth gone suddenly dry. “Turn it off now.”
He ignored me, coming closer still. “So quick to condemn what you do not even understand. Tell me, Lily, what is it you think an incubus is?”
“I already told you,” I said. “A demon. One who draws strength and power through sex and drains the victim in the process.” I glanced across the room to the cabinet that held the books I studied during breaks in physical training. “I’ve been doing my reading, remember?”
“You forgot the best part,” he stated calmly, circling me as he spoke, his body mere inches from mine, his proximity working like static electricity and making my skin tingle. “An incubus makes love like no other. The pleasure he brings his partner is unrivaled, and his skills as a lover are unmatched.”
“Back off,” I demanded, my skin heating and my senses tingling.
“Ah, chérie. Sexuality is not about being ungodly. It depends entirely on how it is used. Pleasure?” he asked, running his fingertip lightly from my chin down my neck, and then brushing over my breasts ever so lightly. To my abject horror, I felt my nipples tighten and knew without a doubt that my panties were wet.
“Or control,” he said, and before I could react, he’d cupped my ass and pulled me close, his rock-hard erection pressed against my Lycra-covered thigh. “There is a difference, no?” He released me and stepped back. I stood there, gasping for breath, the heat of this man starting a fire inside me.
“Sit,” he said, nodding at the bed.
“I prefer to stand.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He moved and sat, and I had to wonder if I’d made a mistake. He was half naked and on a bed, and I was in a libidinal fog. Possibly not the best move on my part.
“You are right, of course. I am an incubus—or what human culture would call an incubus. But that does not make me evil, Lily. It does not make me a traitor. And it certainly d
oes not mean that I am a demon.”
“But I thought—”
“You thought that the bedtime stories were true. They are not.” He reached for me, and without thinking I moved to sit beside him. “There is nothing inherently bad about those of us with sensual allure. It is only those who would control—who would use that allure for power and persuasion—who kneel at the altar of evil.”
“And you?” I whispered.
His hand stroked my cheek. “Sexuality can also be a form of worship, ma chérie. The connection, both physical and spiritual.”
He sat back and drew in a deep breath. “Do not condemn me, Lily. I am not evil. Far from it. I am, in fact, much like you. Caught in the middle. We are alike, you and I, in more ways than the essence we share.”
I pressed my lips together, feeling lost and foolish. As if I didn’t know where good ended and evil began. Something that should be the simplest question in the world, and now it seemed unduly complicated.
“Poor Lily,” Zane said, looking at me with gentle eyes. “The world is not like the stories of your youth, n’est-ce pas?”
“No, it’s not.”
“At least for you, it is simple. You hunt demons. Do not make it more complicated than it must be.”
“But I’d always thought that an incubus was a demon—”
“Forget what you know,” he said sharply. “You must let go of the old ways of thinking.”
“I know! I understand. But—” I cut myself off, trying to form the thought that filled my head, demanding and yet amorphous. “Can a demon be good? You say kill them all. But are they all evil?”
The amorphous cloud in my head took form, and I concentrated on the floor, afraid Zane would see the reflection of my thoughts on my face: Deacon.
“A most interesting question,” he said, his voice low and scholarly. If he had any clue as to the motivation behind my question, he kept it to himself. “Like all things, there is a hierarchy in the heavens, and the demons who thrived when the universe was a formless void drew back into the dark when God breathed light upon this world. The darkness shrank, shut out by the light. And the dark-dwellers—the demons—did not seek this new dimension. Not at first. Not until something new and wonderful appeared and walked there.”