Bound by Darkness

by Annette McCleave

  A chill ran through him. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Stop coddling the female Gatherer.” Beelzebub plucked one of the wiry hairs from his chin. “Force the information from her. Break her, if necessary. But get me those coins.”

  “She is protected by the other Gatherers, and a mage.”

  Beelzebub spun around. “Are you admitting defeat?”

  Malumos stood as still as a thrall could. “No.”

  “Show your worth as a demon, for Satan’s sake. Coerce her. Manipulate her. There must be greater lengths you can go to with the girl, Heather. Drag the child into the depths of despair and show the female Gatherer the true cost of rebellion.”

  Across the great hall, a hiss of glee escaped Mestitio’s twisted lips.

  “My lord, the girl’s health is precarious,” Maleficus said from his new location across the room. Out of easy reach. “Beatings, starvation, and the strain of Mestitio’s numerous entries and exits from her body have already taken their toll. Torture may be too much.”

  “If she dies, she dies.” Beelzebub studied the hunger in Mestitio’s feral red eyes and smiled. “The mistake would be in telling the Gatherer.” The huge archdemon gave his image one last check, then strode out of the slime-walled chamber for his war council with Satan.

  The three brothers waited until his retainers had scurried out in his wake and the room was empty before speaking openly.

  “Beelzebub does not appear to know that Ms. Sharpe is capable of locating other relics besides the coins,” Maleficus said, frowning.

  “Because I never told him about the amulet,” Malumos responded. “Or her singular knowledge of the spell that wields it. You’ve found many an interesting fact in your searches through the ancient scrolls, brother. I share only what I must.”

  “We walk a narrow and uneven path with this plan,” his brother said softly. “If we push Beelzebub too far, he will smite us.”

  “He does not see us as a threat.” Malumos shrugged. Tendrils of blue smoke floated up, framing his shoulders like wings. “And by the time he determines what we are up to, it will be too late.”

  “Are you certain we can succeed?”

  Malumos turned a cold eye on his brother. “Of course.”

  “But we’ve been unable to stir her memories. You were confident the visit to the Temple of Dendur would do the trick, and it did not. We still do not have the location of the Book of Judgment, and without that, our plan is doomed.”

  “I need but one moment when the past is especially vivid to her, and the prize will be ours,” Malumos said. “If opportunity does not present us with one, we’ll make one.”

  “But Beelzebub will not tolerate inaction.”

  “Indeed. We’ve no choice but to give in to his demands whenever possible.”

  Mestitio giggled. “Does that mean I get to play with the girl? Drag her into despair? Feed her pain? Make her weep?”

  Malumos sighed. It was a risk he had to take. “Yes. Go ahead. Make Heather weep....”

  Lena glanced up at the clock over the kitchen door.

  Another day had passed with still no word from Kiyoko.

  If she assumed the worst, which her imagination found all too easy to do, that meant Tariq was already looking for a buyer. And if he succeeded in selling the coins, Heather would pay the price. Malumos would not be lenient; mercy was beyond him. Six months ago, when she accompanied Amanda to the police station to identify the photos of her father’s body, Lena had seen firsthand the heinous torture the thrall was capable of inflicting on a human being. Don’s body had been badly flayed, the brutality so fierce the detective had been unable to meet their eyes.

  Lena opened her eyes, her mouth sour.

  She had to escape right now.

  She had to try her luck with Murdoch. Brian had assigned the big Scot to watch her while he was away, but the situation wasn’t entirely hopeless. Yes, the Gatherer was huge, and yes, he was a self-proclaimed berserker, but he was also a man. A man of obvious passions whose gaze had lingered on her feminine assets a time or two, despite Brian’s very public claim. If she wasn’t mistaken, that was opportunity knocking.

  “How did you die?” she asked him, as they stacked dirty plates in the kitchen.

  “In battle.” He opened the dishwasher and thrust a handful of cutlery in the rack.

  “Really? That sounds so honorable ... yet you ended up in purgatory.”

  Tossing her a grimace, he added, “ ’ Twasn’t my warring that got me here. In my youth I developed a number of unsavory habits.”

  “Such as?”

  “Lying, cheating, and adultering.”

  She smiled. Perfect. “Who did you sleep with?”

  “The question might be better phrased, who didn’t I sleep with,” he admitted with a rueful grin. “But the act that assured me a place in the boiling cauldron of hell was sleeping with my brother’s wife.”

  Actually scandalized, Lena took a step back. “I just lost all respect for you, Murdoch. Your brother’s wife? That’s far beyond the pale.”

  Placing plates in the dishwasher one at a time, he nodded. “Aye.”

  “That’s all you can say? Aye?”

  “More words won’t make the truth more palatable. I could admit to being a bloody half-wit, but that’s hardly an adequate defense.”

  She covered the bowl of leftover salad with plastic wrap and stuck it in the fridge. “Were you desperately in love with her? Were the two you of alone together for an extended period of time under trying circumstances? Did she arrive in your bedroom one evening clad only in her nightgown? I mean, you must have had some reason.”

  Murdoch snorted. “Good God, woman, you talk as though you and I were born in a like age. Believe me, we were not. In my time, even an excellent warrior had a life expectancy of less than thirty years. I was simply making the most of the days I had. She was there, she was willing, so I tupped her. I didn’t need a reason.”

  “She was your brother’s wife.”

  “Aye, she was.” He sighed. “I didn’t say I didn’t have regrets.”

  A sudden thought occurred to her. “Was your brother the one who killed you?”

  Murdoch sent her a wry smile. “No, it took seven MacEwens to send me to my maker. To the best of my knowledge, my brother never found out.”

  “Thank God for small mercies.” Lena’s eye caught the clock again. Five minutes wasted on discussing Murdoch’s past. This was taking far too long. Using a search under the sink for the dishwasher detergent to mask her actions, she undid an extra button on her shirt. Then she stood up and faced him. “You must have been quite a skilled lover back then.”

  Murdoch halted midmotion, plate in the air. Almost automatically, his gaze flickered to the exposed skin above her breasts. “Back then?”

  “Well, I’m sure being in purgatory has cramped your style a bit. It’s pretty hard to earn your way into heaven if you keep committing the same crimes.”

  “You would know.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, adding a note of wicked suggestion to her smile. “I would.”

  Murdoch was a bright boy. He got the message. The look in his eyes altered almost imperceptibly, darkening to something hotter and more volatile. But he didn’t leap. Not immediately.

  “Speaking of repeating the same crimes,” he said slowly, “dallying with you would definitely constitute poaching on another man’s claim. Webster hung a DO NOT TOUCH sign around your neck the minute you arrived.”

  She shrugged. “He didn’t check with me first.”

  Folding his arms over his chest and leaning back against the counter, Murdoch studied her. Thoroughly. From the tip of her head to the shoes on her feet, with a couple of strategic pauses in between. “There’s very little I’d like more than to piss Webster off, and making love to you would be an excellent way to toss the gauntlet in his face.”

  Lena deepened her suggestive smile. The competitive nature of the two men was working to her advantage. Murdoc
h was about to fall victim to her wiles merely to get the best of Brian.

  He smiled. “But that’s your intent, isn’t it? To stir up trouble.”

  Lena blinked.

  “I hate being played,” he said conversationally, taking the detergent out of her hand and pouring some into the dishwasher. “While Webster would benefit if your manipulative nature was brought to light, he seems more attached to you than is wise and I suspect he’ll have trouble dealing with the truth. So, I’ll pass on the sex.” He closed the dishwasher, punched a few buttons, then took her elbow. “I’m always up for a good game of chess, though.”

  Lena allowed him to draw her into the living room, her knees weak.

  Dear Lord.

  It would take Tariq almost no time to find a buyer. He had an impressive web of contacts. Twenty-four hours, maybe less. Even if it took another day on top of that to arrange the transfer of funds, the extra hours were meaningless. Escape was out of her reach. Since the thrall attack, Stefan had thrown some kind of dampening spell over the ranch. Her amulet had ceased to hum and every attempt at a hex had fizzled—even a magical miracle was no longer possible.

  Heather was completely at Malumos’s mercy.

  The wooden door rattled shut as Brian traded the respectful silence of the old church for the traffic sounds of a busy San Jose street. He walked across the parking lot, searching for the number of the cab company on his BlackBerry. The best hours of a lovely Wednesday afternoon were gone, but he felt better than he had in months. Admitting his wrongs to a roomful of sympathetic strangers had been astonishingly easy. They’d accepted it all, even the worst.

  Even the part that kept him from sleeping at night.

  “Developing a fondness for churches, are you, Webster?”

  Brian’s heart slammed against his rib cage, temporarily robbing him of breath. He spun around. Three cars to the left, right next to the church minivan, a bearded man leaned against a candy-apple red Mustang with tinted windows, his arms folded over his huge chest.

  Murdoch.

  “What can I say?” Brian said, tossing the other man an easy smile. “When you’re the boss, you occasionally need to consult with the higher powers.”

  The big Scot studied the brick building at Brian’s back for a long moment, then focused his unsmiling attention on Brian. “We had an unexpected visitor not long after you left.”

  “Really?” Was there a sign for the Narcotics Anonymous meeting posted on the church door? He couldn’t remember. “Who?”

  “Michael.”

  “The guy with the white suit and wings dropped by? Why?”

  Murdoch straightened. “He came to speak with Emily.”

  Ah, shit. The archangel knew about the coin. “Did you let him talk to her?”

  Unlocking the car doors, Murdoch grimaced. “Could I have stopped him?”

  “Why didn’t you call me right away?” Brian asked, yanking open the passenger door.

  “The visit lasted only a few minutes. Calling you would have been pointless.” The big Scot slid into the car and started the engine. “Though there’s no question it should have been you who explained the loss to His Glory, not Emily. You were in charge.”

  Brian had no problem with that. The blame for what happened to the coin lay with him, and taking the fallout came with the territory. The only thing that irked him was Murdoch thinking he’d ever willingly let Emily take the heat. “How did Michael react?”

  The big Scot’s expression became grim. “I wasn’t privy to the conversation between Michael and Emily. I was busy minding your woman at the time.”

  Your woman. Brian held back a grin. If Lena was his, someone needed to tell her. But his amusement died when the implications of Murdoch’s confession sank in. “He came and went without your knowing he was there?”

  Murdoch was silent.

  “Great,” Brian said sarcastically. “How did you find out?”

  “Emily told me.”

  There was an odd note in the Scot’s voice, and Brian peered at him. “She came looking for you after Michael left?”

  Murdoch perused the road ahead with unwavering diligence. “Aye.”

  Brian’s stomach sank. “What happened?”

  There was a short pause, then, “He upset her a wee bit.”

  Closing his eyes, Brian struggled to stay calm. “Was she crying?”

  “Aye.”

  Brian sat up and glared at the other Gatherer. “Spit it out. What the fuck happened?”

  Murdoch’s hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel, then relaxed. “Carlos came downstairs first. He was looking for you. I’d say he was angry, but that doesn’t come close to describing his mood. When I told him you were still out, he stormed out of the house. I’ve no idea where he went. Emily came down a few minutes later, blubbering like a bairn, hiccuping, the whole nine yards. Lena got her calmed down enough to discern that Michael had visited and, apparently, had blamed her for altering the balance of the universe and handing Satan more power.”

  Brian had no trouble imagining the whole screwed-up scenario in his head. Until he got to the part where ... “Hold on. If you’re here, and Carlos left the house,” he said slowly, “then who the hell is watching Lena?”

  “You know,” Stefan said gently, “I’m a human, not a demon. A religious symbol can’t harm me.”

  “Maybe not,” Lena agreed, lifting the big silver cross higher. “But it makes me feel better.”

  They sat in the living room: Stefan in the big chair before the fireplace and Lena on the couch. The picture window had been boarded up and the air conditioner remained a twisted heap of dysfunctional metal, but at least the flies couldn’t get in. The house was quiet now that Emily’s sobs had died off, the only sound the soft ticking of the mahogany clock on the mantel.

  “Why? Is it your assumption that I want to kill you? I don’t.”

  “Not right now, perhaps,” allowed Lena. “But the moment I stand between you and something you want, that will change.”

  Stefan sipped his cola. “You sound pretty sure. Have I given you reason to fear me?”

  “You’re a mage.” Really, that said it all.

  “And to your mind, all mages are evil?”

  “No,” said Lena. She strained for the sound of a car outside, a rumble of deep-throated engine that might suggest Murdoch had returned, but heard nothing. “Not to begin with. But mages play with fire. You learn the dark arts, thinking to master them, and then are surprised when the darkness consumes your soul.”

  The plump sorcerer frowned. “Not all Romany mages study the dark arts.”

  “Enough do.” She met his gaze firmly. “You did.”

  “You’re mistaken. I’ve read neither the Book of Gnills nor the Book of T’Farc.” At her arched brow, he explained, “The two grimoires of the Roma.”

  Lena put a hand to the gold pendant around her neck. The memory of its frantic response to his presence was still vivid. “Am I supposed to be reassured? Those are not the only compilations of dark magic in existence. Almost every old civilization has one or two. The Egyptians have several, the Book of the Dead being one of the most famous.”

  “Why would you think that I’d read any of them?” Stefan peered at her through the inky black curls that fell over his brow. “You’re not going to insist I actually smell like dark magic, are you?”

  Perhaps smell wasn’t the best word, but it was the easiest way for Lena to visualize how her amulet recognized dark spirits. And it did recognize them. Up until a few hours ago, it had pulsed against her skin in a mimicry of moral outrage every time she came within fifty feet of the mage. The same way it reacted whenever a demon or a dark relic was present.

  “I don’t know how you acquired your skills,” Lena said, “but I’m confident you possess them. Call it a smell, or call it something else—I don’t care. But I trust my senses.”

  He was silent for a long moment, his gaze on his glass.

  “Not everything we le
arn is a lesson sought,” he said finally. “Sometimes knowledge is thrust upon us by circumstance.”

  Lena stiffened. Was he talking about his knowledge ... or hers?

  Up to the day she died in a narrow Cairo alleyway, her knowledge had been amassed only by experience; nothing had been formally taught. Unless she counted those brief, shining moments when, lost in his love of a time long past, her father would lull her to sleep with earnest discourses on the legends of ancient Egypt. Her mother, had she lived, would have taught her the basic arts of being a woman—how to dance, how to henna her hands, how to cook bread and kushari. Instead, she had found her education on the streets, her talents as a thief honed by the persistent nagging of a hungry belly.

  She understood better than most how circumstance shaped the mind. But she refused to feel even the tiniest bit of empathy for the mage.

  “Every day we are faced with choices. The decisions we make belong to us.”

  A faint smile rose to Stefan’s lips. “I agree.”

  Lena frowned. She didn’t want him to agree. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the mage on any issue had no appeal whatsoever. Their situations were decidedly unalike. “You and you alone chose to pursue the dark arts. You cannot blame circumstances.”

  “I’ve made choices,” he agreed. “But so have you.”

  She could hardly dispute that. “Becoming a thief and becoming a willing slave to evil are two very different choices, mage.”

  “Are they?” Stefan put his glass on the side table. The ice cubes had melted ages ago, but the tumbler continued to sweat in the heat. “When the items stolen are dark relics with the power to destroy the world, the line becomes a little blurred, does it not?”

  Righteous anger bubbled up in her chest and she surged to her feet. “I do what I do to protect people, not to harm them.”

  “So you’re telling me that your life of thievery has not harmed a single living soul?”

  The thrust of his query went deep. Her eyes shut. How tempting it was to respond to his challenge by swearing that she’d never stolen an artifact from anyone who hadn’t acquired it by nefarious means—that she’d specifically targeted criminals. But that wouldn’t account for the innocent blood on her hands. First Don. Then Father O’Shaunessy, then Amanda. If she was completely honest, she’d shoulder the responsibility for the three Gatherers who died yesterday, as well. Because if she hadn’t chosen to use the amulet to support her life of crime, the demons would never have sought her out.