Bound by Darkness

by Annette McCleave

  “There’s plenty of frozen pizza at the bunkhouse. We can pop one of those in the oven.”

  “It’s not the same. Frozen pizza tastes like cardboard.”

  He stared at her, unmoved.

  Emily sighed. “Fine, we’ll stay home.” Certain that Murdoch was going to turn around any second and spot her, she tugged harder on Carlos’s hand. “But I need a break, okay? Just one evening where I don’t have to train.”

  With a shake of his head, he allowed her to lead him down the pea-gravel path. From here, her home was barely visible—only a couple of bleached cedar shingles from the roof peeked between the branches of a walnut tree.

  “You don’t take your role seriously enough, Em.”

  In the distance, Emily heard Murdoch call out her name.

  She glanced over her shoulder. They were hidden behind the corner of the main house now, so even if Carlos dug in his heels, she’d get a brief reprieve. “I think the headaches are making you crusty. You used to like skipping out with me. Wasn’t all that long ago you got a thrill out of taking me to a rave or feeling me up in a dark theater.”

  “I still do.” He stopped, forcing her to halt, too. The zesty scent wafting off the field of wild onions swirled around them. “But things are getting bad, Em. Satan’s starting to do some really evil shit.”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  “I never said it was.”

  She turned back to look at Carlos. He’d grown his hair longer over the past six months, and it now hung in inky waves around his lean face. Almost as if he were trying to hide. His eyes were the same moody brown, though. The feature she’d fallen in love with and still found hard to resist.

  “You expect me to fix it, though.”

  “No,” he insisted. “I don’t. At least, not on your own. But you’ve been given a gift, Em. You know what you’re supposed to be. I’d give anything to have the insight you have, to have the purpose you have. I can’t understand why you don’t want to make the most of it.”

  “Is that why you’re so mad at me all the time?”

  “I’m not mad at you.”

  “Are you kidding? I can feel the anger rolling off you. It even wakes me up in the middle of the night sometimes.”

  Gravel crunched on the path, not too far behind them, but out of sight behind the myrtle hedge. “Emily?” Murdoch’s gruff voice floated on the sultry afternoon air.

  She stood completely still, afraid to breathe. Soul Gatherers had superkeen hearing and they could pick up the smell of Viva La Juicy perfume even from behind closed doors. Lifting her eyes to meet Carlos’s, she sent him a silent plea not to give her away. Murdoch’s boot steps drew closer, and he called her name again. To Em’s immense relief, Carlos remained silent. They stood there, biting their lips for the long moments it took for Murdoch to wander off in the opposite direction.

  “I’m not mad at you,” Carlos said quietly. “It’s—”

  “Are you pissed that I spilled your name to Drusus? ’Cause that was totally an accident. I didn’t know he would do anything.”

  “No. I told you before, that never bugged me.”

  “Then you’re mad that I left you down there so long? Because I didn’t mean to, okay? I had no idea how to bring you back.”

  His eyelids dropped over the dark pools of his eyes. “Em—”

  “I did the best I could.”

  “I know you did,” he said. The warm gold of his skin turned a pasty gray. “I know you tried to make things right. But you should have left my soul where you found it.”

  Her stomach heaved. “As if I could—”

  “Drusus broke me, Em. Long before I fried.”

  Her gaze locked on his face. “What?”

  “He broke me. Halfway through the night, he had me begging to serve him in hell.” Self-disgust curled his lip. “I cried like a goddamned baby and promised to do anything he asked of me. I went with him willingly, not because I was being punished.”

  Gut knotted, Em grasped his arm. The muscles beneath his jacket sleeve were hard as rock. “Only because he was burning the flesh off your bones, bit by bit.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He opened his eyes. An ember of rage glowed in the inky depths. “Point is, I don’t belong here, Em. I belong down there. In hell.”

  “No.” That was ridiculous. Carlos was a good guy, as different from Drusus as a person could be. He wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t evil, either. “I don’t believe it.”

  “You believe it,” he said. “You just don’t want to admit you made a mistake.”

  Emily wanted to slap him. Instead, she slid her hand down his arm, over the cold silver buckle on his sleeve, and threaded her fingers with his. “Why are you doing this, Carlos? Why are you trying to push me away?”

  His body remained stiff, but his fingers tightened around hers. “I’m trying to protect you.”

  “From what? A broken heart?”

  A harsh laugh escaped his lips. “No. A broken heart is the one thing I can’t protect you from.”

  “Then what?”

  “From this.” He held up their entwined hands, and almost immediately a wave of searing heat shot through her fingers. Her pale skin turned a furious crimson. Her eyes flew up to meet his, uncertain. The heat intensified until it felt as if her hand were on fire. Pain tore through her flesh, but an instant before bile rose up her throat, he released her hand and stepped away.

  Em stared at her blistered hand in horror.

  It throbbed, and her eyes filled with tears. “What did you do?”

  “Almost nothing,” he snarled, in a voice that sounded like ripping sandpaper. His eyes couldn’t seem to leave her hand. His face was twisted with grief. “That’s just a drop of the scary fuckworks I struggle to hold in every day. You were right. I’m not the guy I was before. I’m a monster, Em.”

  He turned on his heel and strode off through the field.

  Stunned and angry, she let him go.

  Pain radiated up her arm with every sluggish pump of her heart. Emily closed her eyes, envisioned a hand free of burns, and felt the pain slip away. The blisters soothed; the flesh mended. When she opened her eyes, her fingers were a bit swollen, but otherwise healthy and whole.

  Carlos had disappeared, leaving only a trail of bent grass leading toward the bunkhouse.

  She still couldn’t believe he’d burned her. Even though he knew she could heal herself, it was a really mean thing to do. But she understood why he did it.

  He wanted her to believe she’d made a mistake in bringing him back. But there was no way that was true. No matter what Drusus had made him say, no matter what he’d done in his previous life, he didn’t deserve to serve an eternity in hell. That fire inside him was the very justifiable rage he felt over being tortured by Drusus, of being helpless in the demon’s power.

  A feeling she knew only too well herself.

  Emily shoved her hands in her jeans pockets, shoulders hunched. But she wasn’t helpless anymore; she was powerful. Quite possibly more powerful than anyone else on the ranch. And Carlos needed to see that in a tangible way. He needed to know that she could handle herself and him. No matter what that might mean.

  She sucked in a deep breath.

  There was at least one thing she was uniquely qualified to do. And if she succeeded, she’d instantly win everyone’s respect. No one would treat her like a baby anymore.

  Feeling lighter than she had in days, she continued up the path to her mom’s house.

  Lena came very close to vomiting all over Brian’s shoes.

  He knew, her conscience screamed. He knew everything.

  Except... he couldn’t.

  Only a handful of people knew exactly what happened that day in New York. All but two of them were dead. And if Brian had real facts instead of mere speculation—if he knew she’d been the one who lured a Protector into that stairwell—he wouldn’t be wasting time asking questions. He’d simply kill her.

  “I wasn’t in New Y
ork,” she lied.

  It felt good to know that Brian had gathered Amanda’s soul. If someone had to do it, Brian was the best she could hope for. Honorable, competent, respectful, and... hot. Amanda would have liked the hot part. Posters of Brad Pitt and Zac Efron had decorated her bedroom walls for years.

  “Interesting to hear that you were, though,” she added. To give herself a few moments to recover her composure, she opened a reputable online archive and busied herself with typing. “Being clear across the country, standing on a New York City block just as a demon attacks that very spot? That’s a rather large coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  He smiled. “It wasn’t a coincidence. I was following a lead.”

  “In Saks Fifth Avenue?”

  His smile deepened. “I was killing two birds with one stone. I needed a new shirt and I’d arranged to meet a contact there, a priest by the name of Graeme O’Shaunessy.”

  It took every bit of self-control Lena possessed not to blanch at the mention of O’Shaunessy’s name. She concentrated on the computer screen, logging into a subscription-based historical database. Hopefully Brian wouldn’t notice that little date in the bottom of the screen—the one that said her last visit to the site was two years ago.

  “Still sounds awfully convenient.”

  “Not for O’Shaunessy,” Brian said dryly. “He died in the attack.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  And she was. More than Brian would ever know. O’Shaunessy had died a very difficult death, doing everything in his power to protect the coins. Things might have worked out better if the priest had not brought the real coins to the meeting along with the fakes, but she could hardly fault him for that. His vow had not allowed him to leave the coins unprotected, even for a few minutes.

  Brian circled the desk to stand at her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  The warm scent of his lime-and-cedar cologne distracted her, and she struggled to remember what her goal had been. “You asked how I tracked down Duverger’s set of coins. I thought I’d show you where and how I got my information.”

  “Very generous of you.”

  It would be, if it were true. “Fortunately, more and more historical societies and academic institutions are putting their records online,” Lena said, doing an initial search on the Knights Templar. “Still, some of the best stuff remains on paper. You need to befriend the odd librarian.”

  “Which you apparently do.”

  She shrugged. “Most people I’ve met are thrilled to meet another history fan and they happily help me track down rare details.”

  “Can we do a double-entry search?” he asked, peering over her shoulder at the screen that came up. “I have a theory that the coins are linked to other relics.”

  “Of course.” She typed in Judas Iscariot coins, then paused. “What are the other relics you think may be linked?”

  “I only know of one so far. The Pontius Pilate Linen.” He frowned at the screen. “But as far as I know, the Templars never had the Linen in their possession.”

  “It’s cared for by the Protectorate?”

  His gaze sharpened. “Yeah. You know about them?”

  How much did she want to reveal? “I’ve crossed paths with the odd Protector.”

  “And they just offered up information about their role, no questions asked? So much for being a secret organization.”

  She met his silvery eyes. “What are you accusing me of, exactly?”

  “Knowing a little too much about things you shouldn’t,” he said. The words were softly spoken, but an edge of steel lay beneath them. “The Protectorate holds its cards pretty close to its chest.”

  “You know about them.”

  “Only because MacGregor’s brother was one.”

  Lena sat back in the chair, the leather protesting faintly. “I’m in the relic business. Does it really surprise you that I know the various groups responsible for guarding them?”

  “No, but it does make me wonder if you were truly unaware the rest of the coins were in New York. They were in the care of a Protector.”

  Dangerous ground.

  “They’ve never given me a list of the relics they protect,” Lena said honestly. Surely the truth would sound convincing? “We’ve simply bumped heads over the odd item.”

  “I want to believe you.” He reached over her, grazing her fingers with his large hands, and added Pontius Pilate Linen to the search field. Then he hit ENTER. “I have the craziest feeling that you and I were meant to be a team. Maybe even more than that. I won’t even bother denying you make my dick dance and my brain turn to mush. But there’s a small problem. We’re not working on the same side, are we, Lena?”

  She tipped her head up and stared into his eyes. Eyes that were filled with an unsettling mix of hot desire and grim self-mockery. Eyes that held equal parts promise and threat, and somehow stole her breath away. Before she could come up with a coherent response, a knock sounded at the door.

  “Brian?” The mage’s voice. “I think we have a problem.”

  Brian stared down the driveway.

  “Erickson called up from the gate and said there was a pizza delivery guy there,” Stefan explained as they waited on the front porch. “Bale told him to send the guy packing, but got no response. A moment or so later, I felt the barrier spell fall away and Bale confirmed the gate is now open.”

  “I’m going to kill her,” Brian said, without heat.

  What was the point in getting mad? Emily was a teenager and teenagers did stupid things. He pulled his sword free of the scabbard. If he needed someone to blame, all he had to do was look in the mirror. He should have made sure someone drove into town instead of assuming she’d follow orders.

  On the horizon, a tiny white dot appeared, getting larger with every second.

  “Alert the other Gatherers,” he said to Stefan. “And then find Emily and make sure she gets somewhere safe.”

  “Bale already hailed them,” the mage said, “but you might need me—”

  “Take care of Emily; then come back.”

  Stefan might have argued further, but Lena spun around, wrinkled her nose at the man, and pointed her finger down the gravel path to the other houses. “I caught a glimpse of her through the library window, headed in that direction.”

  Stefan eyed Lena’s face for a moment, then trundled off the step and around the corner of the house. “I’ll return as quickly as I can.”

  The stiffness in Brian’s shoulders eased. Stefan would be a definite loss to their defense, but he needed to know that Emily would be safe. He descended the stairs to the front yard, his gaze locked on the approaching car.

  A late-model Honda.

  Three heads bobbed inside, but it was very unlikely any of them belonged to the two Gatherers assigned to man the gate. Only a fool would let a strange car onto the estate, and fools didn’t last long in the soul-gathering business.

  “If you know anything about what’s coming up the driveway, Lena,” he said quietly, “now would be a good time to talk.”

  “They could be thrall demons.”

  “Those are the ones that possess humans, right? Leap into their bodies and overpower them?”

  “Yes.”

  Several other Gatherers arrived at a run, swords in hand, and Murdoch jogged over from the arena. They were now eight against three, not counting Lena. To be honest, he wasn’t sure he could count on Lena.

  “Keep them apart,” Lena offered. “You’ll have better luck defeating them.”

  He tossed her a frown.

  “The power of three is as true for demons as it is for holy beings,” she added, shrugging. “They feed off one another.”

  The white car didn’t slow as it neared the house. In fact, it sped up. Not bothering to follow the curve of the lane, it bounced across the grassy front lawn, narrowly missed the rock garden, and drove headlong for the house. Brian stood his ground as long as he could, then dove out of the way.

  He rolled to his
feet in time to see the crash.

  The wraparound porch folded like an accordion under the impact of the car, but it wasn’t enough to stop the vehicle. The car slammed into the front wall next, shattering the big picture window. It likely would have collapsed the whole west side of the house if the front axle hadn’t snapped and a wheel rolled off into the rose-bushes. The car came to a grinding, groaning halt atop the big metal box that housed the central air-conditioning compressor.

  “And stay away from the blue smoke,” Lena murmured.

  Three humans, all college-age young men, poured out of the wreckage—bloodied, broken, but still alive. Fireballs spit from their fingers, strafing the Gatherers who surrounded the wrecked car with their swords drawn. The battle quickly dissolved into chaos as the Gatherers fought back. Deflected by mystical shields and swinging swords, fiery bombs ricocheted in all directions.

  Brian didn’t have to wonder about Lena’s cryptic blue-smoke reference for long. Dark blue wisps began to seep from the three men’s clothing only moments after the fight began.

  Swatting away a fireball with his sword, Brian came to the defense of one of the other Gatherers, a young man by the name of Mick Wilson. The poor kid had fallen to his knees, wreathed in midnight blue smoke. Dazed and slack jawed, the Irishman had ceased to fight, and his sword hung loosely at his side.

  Brian reached for the fellow’s shirt collar, intending to haul him out of range. But before he could grab him, the swirling smoke around Wilson suddenly sparked and erupted into a fiery pyre. Hungry red flames swiftly ate his clothing and his hair, but Wilson never struggled or screamed. In less than ten seconds, the young Gatherer was completely engulfed.

  The scent of burning flesh paralyzed Brian for a horrified moment. Then he shoved the event to the back of his mind. He wanted to feel more, but he had no time.

  “Stay out of the fucking blue smoke,” Brian shouted to the battling Gatherers.

  And he plunged back into the sea of bodies.