by Kat Colmer
She wasn’t wrong. The expanse of marble between the stately double entry doors at the other end of the foyer and the grand staircase that rose from the center of the space was vast. My gaze followed the curving banister up to where the stairs branched off left and right, leading to several closed doors on either side.
I shivered. It was cold in here. Not just air-conditioned cold, but Manly Beach in the middle of winter cold.
Bloody freezing.
I rubbed the goose bumps that had sprouted along my arms and caught Cora doing the same.
“Guess hell has finally frozen over,” she whispered. I smiled at her joke, then the gravity of this crazy-ass situation slammed into me and weighed down the corners of my mouth.
“Upstairs or the corridor?” Beth asked over my shoulder.
Good question. Where would a demon lord keep an ancient and powerful tome like the Book of Threads?
“Let’s split up and do both,” Leo suggested.
His idea left me uneasy. “I don’t think that’s smart.”
“Dude, if we split up, we take less time to cover the same ground.” He came to stand in front of me. “And I’d really like to get out of here sooner rather than later, if you know what I mean.” A muscle twitched in his jaw.
I frowned at him. I may not have had an iron-cast plan, but I figured we were safer together than apart. Still, he had a point.
Beth edged up beside Leo. “We’ve got the swords. You have the Protection Charm. We’re practically even.” She gave me a plaster-cast smile.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at her; we both knew we were far from even. I looked to Cora for help. All I got was a shrug.
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll take the corridor. You two do upstairs. Text if you find anything.”
They both nodded, and khopeshes gripped with both hands, disappeared upstairs.
Hugging the cream walls, Cora and I stole our way down the corridor. She was light-footed, almost ghost-like in her movements. If it weren’t for the occasional distracting warmth of her breath on my nape, I’d have never known she was there. Her ninja stealth was reassuring, but what I really wanted was confirmation that last night’s makeout session had covered her with my Protection Charm. Then I’d breathe easier.
When we came to the first door, I put my ear against the smooth wood and listened. Nothing. Except my heart pounding out a heavy metal solo in my chest. I looked at Cora and nodded. She drew a shaky breath, and without making a sound, carefully pushed on the door handle. Slowly, so slowly, she edged the door open and…
“Nothing.” Her whisper was paper thin in the frigid air of what looked to be a small sitting room. She closed the door and we continued on.
I counted another three doors ahead. One on the left, another on the right, and a third double-panel door at the very end of the corridor.
We came to the second door, and despite the arctic temperature, I had to wipe clammy hands on my shorts as I put my ear to the wood. This time I heard something: another door opening, then Cora’s sharp intake of breath before the wooden surface against my ear disappeared, and I was shoved inside the room.
“What the hell?” I spun and found Cora rushing to push the door closed behind us.
“Someone was coming.” Her face was pale. “Farther down, the door at the end.”
I closed my eyes and willed my pulse to slow. Close. Too damn close.
When my breath had steadied, I looked around. Thankfully, this room was also empty. A music room. Spacious, with a baby grand at one end. It didn’t seem right that scum like the Groth Maar could enjoy music and top-notch wine. Outside, footsteps neared, then passed without stopping.
When everything was still on the other side of the door, Cora grabbed me by the back of my T-shirt. “Let’s try the room at the end.”
I raised a brow in a silent why?
“It looked like a study,” she said. “I saw books along the walls.”
A study. With books. And possibly an ancient, leather-bound tome.
Seconds later we were back in the corridor, heading for the double-paneled doors.
After making sure no one was inside, Cora and I snuck into the study. With a soft click, she closed the heavy hardwood doors behind us, then we turned. And froze.
“This is like something out of an Austen novel,” Cora said, taking in the cavernous room. No, not just a room, a mammoth library that made the prof’s study look like a Kindergarten reading corner.
We were surrounded by a sea of polished marble. The cool stone was broken up by rosewood bookcases filled with row after row of aged volumes. Artworks hung on the cool cream walls. Some of them looked familiar. Was that a Picasso? The missing one with the weird head? I scanned the room. You’ve got to be kidding me! I wasn’t an art expert, but I’d have bet my right one all the costly paintings in it were either stolen or thought to have been destroyed. And meters above us? A frescoed ceiling, complete with winged cherubs, topped it all off.
Who the hell has fricking cherubs on their ceiling?
The irony wasn’t lost on me; winged messengers of love gazing down on the very demons out to destroy them. And the way the eyes on the Botticelli faces stared down at us had me fighting a bone-deep compulsion to turn and run. This time, when a shiver skittered the length of my spine, it wasn’t the arctic temperature causing it.
After exchanging a quick look, Cora and I edged farther into the room, our cautious footfalls echoing behind us. I wanted to hurry, search the place quickly, but the stillness of the space compelled me to go slow, for fear I might trip an unseen sensor if I moved faster.
Marble. Cold and pale everywhere. The rosewood shelves offered a contrast for a stretch of wall, then more marble in the shape of a columned fireplace, above which hung a—
“Cora.” My hand shot out so fast to grab her that the sudden movement startled us both.
She inhaled sharply when she saw what I was looking at. “Is that—”
“It has to be.” I rushed for the fireplace on the other side of the library, all need for slow caution forgotten.
Chapter Thirty
Cora
The Sword of Absolom hung pride of place above the mantle. In plain view. Where Elymas would see it every time he was in this room. Why would he want to look at the one object that could end his existence? But then I remembered—it was the object that had ended the existence of his wife’s lover, Amnon. It was also the one object that could end the existence of someone like me, a Loose Thread. Plenty of motivation for keeping it in plain sight. My muscles tightened, partly with fear and partly with the urge to kick Elymas in the face. Hard.
Although worn with age and battle, the sickle sword pulsed with an aura of ancient power. “It’s bigger than in the picture.” My eyes were fixed on the gleaming bronze blade. Was it as sharp as it looked?
Jonas reached up toward it.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking it down. This thing can send Elymas back to where he came from, so in the unfortunate but likely event we run into the demon bastard, I want it in my hands, not his.”
But it hung just out of his reach. “I need a chair or something to stand on.” He moved toward a massive slab of carved hardwood at one end of the room that was more altar and less the writing table I assumed it to be. My gaze slid along the sharp blade of the khopesh above the fireplace, then back to the wooden slab, and a shudder rolled through me. With the sword, the table, and all the marble, the room held all the key elements for a sacrificial rite of some sort. My brain screamed for me to get out. Now. Somehow I swallowed my fear. Make yourself useful, Cora. A chair. We needed a chair.
Jonas grunted. “Give me a hand with this, can you?” He was pulling out a heavy-looking chair from behind the behemoth desk and struggling. I rushed to help him.
Grasping the hideous chair under the
armrests, I scrunched my nose. “Elymas might have expensive taste in wine, but his taste in furniture sucks.”
“Just lift,” Jonas told me, and we heaved the thing off the ground. Two steps were as far as I got before I dropped my end of the ugly contraption. Its heavy legs hit the marble with a thud almost as loud as the sudden rush of blood in my ears.
Jonas lowered his end. “You all right?”
“Forget the sword.” I stared over his shoulder.
He turned and sucked in a breath. In a break between the rosewood bookcases, tucked away in a sunlit alcove and sitting high on its own lectern, was a large leather-bound tome.
“The Book of Threads.” Jonas stood so immobile I wondered if he was still breathing. He stared at the book for what seemed like the longest time.
“What are you waiting for?” I wanted to bolt into the alcove and do what we came here to do—release both of us from this curse. But it was Jonas who had to tear the page out. The professor had said as much. So why wasn’t he moving?
He tore his gaze from the book and examined me like he might find the answer to my question somewhere on my face. Only seconds ticked by, but it seemed like an eternity. Just when I thought I would have to slap him out of it, his feet finally moved.
The closer we edged, the more I felt it: an unmistakable energy radiating from inside the alcove, drawing us toward the Book of Threads. The khopesh had a similar effect, but it didn’t compare to the leather tome. The Book of Threads hummed with its own power. This proved the word really was mightier than the sword.
His mouth set in a tense line, Jonas stared at the gilt-coiled triangle on the book’s front. A shaky exhale and, finally, he reached for the leather cover.
The parchment appeared fragile, but as Jonas turned the first few pages it became clear they weren’t going to fall apart. Samara Wang. Daniel Tierney. Petra Mason. Guardian name after Guardian name in the center of each page, surrounded by names of potential romantic interests.
I searched for some semblance of order but found none. “Guess a table of contents was just too hard.”
“Yeah, real inconsiderate of them,” Jonas said. “Looks like we’re reading this from cover to cover.” But when he reached for the pages again, they billowed and turned. One by one, they gained speed until the writing on them blurred before our widening eyes. Dust motes and our awestruck anticipation filled the alcove air. Then the pages stopped. And my breath caught halfway up my windpipe.
Jonas Leander.
There it was, front and center, surrounded by other names. Lots of other names. It was no secret he’d got around, but seeing it tallied in black and white was confronting. A sensation not unlike indigestion flooded my stomach. I gritted my teeth and acknowledged it for what it was: jealousy. Crap, Cora. Stupid. So stupid. And completely counterproductive, because any errant thoughts I’d had that Jonas might want more than friendship lay crushed beneath the mountain of names on the page before me.
I forced air into my lungs and snuck a sideways glance at Jonas. His eyes were trained on the book, the space between them tight with lines. Was he surprised at the number of names? Seriously, where did he find the time to get it on with all these girls?
Gaze returning to his Book of Thread’s page, I scanned the names. Ashley’s was there, so was Sarah’s and Jess’s. Like all the other names, theirs were attached to Jonas’s by a single gray thread snaking its way along the parchment.
And then there was my name.
Tucked in one corner, it stood out like a psychedelic neon sign, the four quicksilver letters shimmering and shifting on the pale page. That in itself wasn’t surprising; I’d seen the last coil on Jonas’s Guardian letter do the same. No, it was the threads that made my breath uneven on each inhale. They bled liquid silver along the parchment until they attached themselves to every part of Jonas’s name. So many, they were too numerous to count. Gossamer bonds, tying us together. The potential for something lasting, something real. Something Jonas didn’t want.
Frozen, I stared at the page. The shock of it had robbed me of my voice. When I finally found it again, it came out thin and reedy. “What are you waiting for?” Too rattled, I couldn’t look at him. “Tear it out.”
He never got the chance.
The double doors closed with a thud, sending a dull echo along the marble floor and a warning shiver along my spine. For a fraction of a second I thought it might be Beth and Leo, but the slow and confident stride of dress shoes on the stone floor told me otherwise. I turned and swayed slightly as I came face-to-face with my own personal nightmare.
Flanked by Baptiste and his vile friend, a striking raven-haired man stopped a few paces into the room. He looked to be around Helena’s age, maybe a little younger, but I knew his arresting lean form had been around for a lot longer than that. Centuries longer.
His aristocratic face bordered on disturbingly perfect. The kind of face that turned both male and female heads. I’d never formed any particular image of Elymas in my mind, but I hadn’t expected the devil to be a walking Armani advertisement.
Adjusting one cuff of his perfectly cut suit, he angled his head and considered us with freakish violet eyes. “So considerate of you, Mr. Leander, to personally bring her here. It makes my task so much simpler.” The demon lord’s conversational tone chilled the marrow in my bones.
“Although, my two charges will now be disappointed.” Elymas glanced to either side of him. “They were so looking forward to another tussle with the lovely lady. But perhaps we can accommodate them regardless?” Baptiste’s friend leered, and bile collected at the back of my throat.
That was when Jonas moved. It should have been easy. His hand shot out so quickly toward his page in the book, it was no more than a blur in my peripheral vision.
But Elymas proved quicker. One moment Jonas was standing beside me, the next his body was airborne, tearing through the frigid air. His back slammed into the wall beside the fireplace, hard enough to crack the plaster. Pain slashed across his features as he slid to the marble floor.
“Jonas!” My strangled scream reached every corner of the room. I raced to his side, drawing air into collapsed lungs. Elymas’s inhuman ability to catapult a person across the room with the flick of a wrist elevated my fear to near freak-out level. The guy was definitely more Carrie than Matilda. He couldn’t kill Jonas; I knew that much. But seeing Jonas hurt had my body reacting before my sense of reason could.
Keeping one eye on Elymas, I bent to help Jonas up.
“I’m fine.” He heaved himself off the floor. He sounded winded but showed no obvious signs of injury. Relief washed over me, then quickly evaporated when Elymas spoke.
“Such a touching display of concern.” The demon hadn’t moved from his vantage point near the entry doors. He gingerly rolled one Armani-clad shoulder, the only indication he felt any of Jonas’s pain courtesy of the Protection Charm.
“It makes one wonder why she has rejected you, Guardian.” Elymas smiled, an emotionless lift at the corners of his mouth.
Anger pushed through my fear. I clamped down on the emotion. It would cloud my judgment and I needed my wits about me more than ever.
Three against two. If Elymas and his demon cronies had been human, we’d have had a chance. But they weren’t. Even with two Groth Maar against the two of us, I would have put money on Jonas and me. It was a long shot, but based on available evidence after the fight the other night, not a lost bet. With Elymas in the mix, however, logically we were as good as screwed. Then again, the last two weeks had challenged my definition of logic.
Also, I wasn’t one to go down without a fight.
I glanced at Jonas and hoped last night’s pheromone-inducing exercise had worked. We were about to find out—Baptiste and his friend were heading in our direction.
“We do this like at the library,” Jonas whispered over his shoulder. “I le
t them land a hit, then you kick the shit out of them.”
“But this time there are—” He didn’t give me a chance to argue. The force of his kick sent Baptiste staggering back a few paces. The other demon used that moment to deliver his own hit, smack in the middle of Jonas’s stomach. The two of them doubled over, the Protection Charm doing its bit.
My turn.
A swift hook kick to the face. The room spun as I delivered a vicious roundhouse to the torso. God, I hope I’ve ruptured something important. Baptiste’s buddy swore and buckled, just before my side exploded with shards of brittle pain.
Baptiste had recovered. And he didn’t look at all like he was in any pain after delivering his brutal kick to my side. Which meant last night’s pheromone experiment had failed.
Crap.
The blows that followed were unrelenting. Hit after hit, Baptiste’s assault pushed me backward. His strikes were quick, leaving no opening for a counterattack. I parried until my arms burned with the effort. When my back hit the wall, I was in serious trouble.
Focus, dammit.
He was too close for a kick, but maybe…
Tiger Claw.
Bullseye! A direct hit to his windpipe. Baptiste’s eyes bulged, two purple marbles in his too-pretty face. His hands flew to his throat as he gagged for breath. A kick to the lower back from Jonas sent him careening over the hideous chair we’d abandoned in the middle of the room.
“The window. In the alcove. Now!” Jonas grabbed my hand and we ran—right into the mammoth desk, which slid into our path along the marble floor. Slow and deliberate applause had us whipping around.
“Now I see why Baptiste and Clay failed last night.” Elymas brought his hands together in a final clap, then stretched out a long-fingered hand to stop the two demons about to charge again. Much like last night, Clay wasn’t happy about being held back. Teeth bared, he kicked the chair Baptiste had just been up close and personal with. The heavy piece of furniture slid along the marble floor like a pebble skimming across water. It hit the wall where Jonas had damaged the plaster minutes before.