by Jessa Slade
Even with the demon, visibility was zero, but the fine brush of silt drifted past her tight-clenched lips. Not an encouraging sign. Dirt on the floor meant this was still the rough tunnel, not the start of the higher, finished passage. Despite her blindness, she felt the current from Jonah’s body rush around her. With just one hand, he must be struggling too.
Her heart cranked up a little faster, as if the orchestra percussionist had gotten bored with the steady beat and decided to join a marching band. At Mardi Gras. Jonah would be telling her not to swear or scream. Since even one good curse would mean drowning, perhaps she’d listen to him this time.
Too bad she might not get the chance to tell him how this impromptu baptism had converted her.
She probably should have mentioned she was a terrible swimmer. She much preferred lying topless on Oak Street Beach, under the hot sun and angry glares of the girls who had the boobs but not the backbone to minimize their tan lines. Yeah, she would’ve liked to see his face when she mentioned that.
Now her heart had run off to join a punk band. Her arms burned from paddling, and she found herself clawing at the water. Her fingertips raked the concrete.
Concrete, not dirt. The floor was slanting up.
Still no light. But of course there wouldn’t be. Unless someone were waiting for them. The dark was better, since—considering their luck so far—she could guess what’d be on the other side.
Never mind the salambes; her lungs burned, legs burned, throat burned. Water crept into her nostrils, but she did not breathe. Very good demon.
Had to be just a little farther; then she could gasp all she liked.
Her good intentions jolted out of her when something grabbed her from behind.
CHAPTER 10
She flailed and cracked her head on . . . on the ceiling? The floor? Every direction seemed like down.
She wanted to scream this time. Scream Jonah’s name. He would be forging on ahead without her, oblivious to her capture. It would drag her away. . . .
Whatever it was didn’t drag her, though, just held her, which was death enough, of course.
She reached behind her, half expecting fangs. The hook that would have held the power line for the tracks somewhere below her kicking feet had snagged between her backpack and spine. She slipped out of one strap of the backpack, but the other wrapped like a tentacle around her arm. She wrenched at it, tearing cloth and skin like she was a fish on a hook.
She couldn’t help it. She let out the last of her breath.
But as the bubbles left her open mouth, a strong arm wrapped around her chest.
His hook dug under her breast, but she didn’t care. Water flooded her throat, and the utter blackness sparked with stars. Odd. Or maybe not, if she were dying.
The cold touch of open air poured over her face as the water fell away, and Jonah roared her name.
He slogged through the chest-deep pool. Was he swearing? Impossible. Maybe that was just her inner voice.
Then he was running. She jounced in his arms, and suddenly all the water in her spewed out in a silty gush.
How embarrassing. Thank God it was dark except for the deep-sea-fishes gleam of the reven between her thighs. She didn’t want him to see the blush on her cheeks, except she felt so cold, maybe blushing would be nice.
Before his boots cleared the edge of the water, he laid her out on the concrete floor.
And then his mouth covered hers.
Maybe that stupid, drowning gasp hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.
His lips were as cold as hers, his first breath as desperate as her last one, but it filled her with fire.
Her heart slam-danced to the demon’s pulse. She reached for Jonah, but he rolled her to her side and another lungful of water drained from her. She choked and snorted, wishing her reven would dim enough to not add the party lighting to her after-hours-style purge.
He touched her shoulder. “Just lie back.”
There was something she’d never expected to hear from him. She coughed a few more times and then pushed against his hand. “I’m all right now.” She gathered her legs under her and sat up, her palm flattened against her chest.
He peered at her. “Still water in there?”
“No. I ripped up the back of my shirt on that fucking hook. Not much left.”
He sat back abruptly.
She started to snicker at his prudish recoil. Then he peeled out of his T-shirt, and she choked again instead.
How did a missionary man get abs like that? The concrete where she had bashed her head had nothing on the hardness of his obliques. Apparently, machete swinging needed its own workout video. Or maybe almost a century of demon swatting had some advantages. The soaked cotton clung to his broad shoulders for a moment, then released with a sound like a wet kiss.
She took the shirt when he handed it to her, too stunned to do otherwise.
“Wouldn’t want you catching a chill.” His gave her that lopsided grin she was beginning to recognize.
Despite his teasing, the reven that half spiraled around him from the back of his neck to the bottom of his rib cage flared with the presence of his demon. He wasn’t nearly as cool inside as his skin temperature indicated.
She let her shredded T-shirt fall and tugged his over her head. Her back twinged where the hook had caught her as the shirt settled around her, several sizes too big, but damp enough to cling. Too bad the muddy stink of the water had washed away whatever scent he left on his clothes.
While she wrestled with the wet cotton, he’d risen to his feet and was staring down the corridor.
“I had the flashlight in the backpack,” she said. “It’s probably not too far down.”
He shook his head. “What are the chances it will still work? Between us, we make enough light to see any places the tunnels diverge.”
“I’ll have to change my stage name. Phoebe the Phosphorescing Floozie, maybe.” She dug her fingers into her thigh as she remembered—how had she forgotten?—that she wouldn’t need a stage name anymore. She had more important sins to indulge.
Jonah held his hand down to her, the crooked set of his mouth more wry than amused at her antics. Apparently, he didn’t need any light to know what she was thinking. “If you’re strong enough to feel guilty, let’s go.”
“You mean we can outrun guilt?”
“At least we can keep it in shape.” He kept her hand for a moment, testing her balance, she thought. When he released her, his fingers were slow to slide free.
She understood his reluctance. If there was anything worse than running from monsters in the dark and getting nowhere, it was desperate kisses in the dark that didn’t go anywhere either.
Chilled droplets crept down her spine, as if to rejoin the black water behind them. “We did outdive the tenebrae, though.”
“Yes.”
“So we’re in the clear.”
“No. We’re very much still in the dark.”
“Maybe your friends—the other talyan—were able to stop them.”
“Maybe. We’ll find out. If we find a way out of here.”
More guilt prickled. “The map was in the backpack too.”
“Like it was doing us any good.”
She wasn’t liking how much he sounded like her drowning voice. Maybe she hadn’t been the only one to hit a low point at the tunnel’s low point.
“Jonah,” she said softly. “Thank you for saving me.”
“The teshuva would’ve gotten to it. Eventually.”
“Sooner was better, really.”
He inclined his head. “I got a good look at the map, so don’t worry—” The words must have struck him wrong, because he gave a harsh laugh. “I should stop saying that.”
Man, she’d flashed her tits at him and that still hadn’t brought him back from his dark place. This was why dating a missionary man would be bad for her ego. “I bet having a knack for maps was useful in the jungle.”
He shrugged. “About as useful
as down here. Jungles are so wild and ever changing. . . .”
She wondered at the note of pleasure that crept into his voice. “You liked it?”
“I loved it. From the first dime novel I read about the dark continent, I wanted to go.”
“To convert heathens?” She couldn’t resist needling him.
He laughed, more honestly this time. “To find treasure. Or a lost tribe. Or monstrous dinosaur bones. The dime novels were very explicit about what I’d find.”
“Bare-breasted native girls?” She gave him a wicked smirk.
He returned a good-boy grin. “Not that explicit. Not in those days.”
“Mobi could’ve been your sidekick. Well, in the end, you did find monsters. And a lost tribe. Of a sort.”
His smile slipped. “True. A demon’s finger tightened on my penance trigger, and the teshuva gave me exactly what I asked for.”
She cursed herself—silently—for ruining the moment. She was so good at that. “Oh, you know the demon is a big, honking liar, taking advantage of us to make itself look better. It’s no better than one of those old, fat, balding farts who shows up at the club, waving his pinky ring and a roll of twenties, but spends more time watching himself in the mirror than drooling over the dancers.”
Warming to her topic—and to the barely visible return of his smile—she went on. “Maybe the teshuva is more like the frat boy who shows up hooting and hollering, but fifteen minutes later, he’s puking between your platform heels. If you’d ever tried to jump backwards without warning in platform heels, you’d know what a bitch it is, and you can bet he doesn’t remember to tip. And then it’s just you dancing again.”
“What a colorful array of customers.”
“Yeah.” She brooded a moment, thinking of the ones that hadn’t made it out of the Shimmy Shack. What a terrible place to die. “I’m sorry I puked on you, by the way. I always hate that.”
“So you said. It was just bilge water. I was already soaked with it.”
She smacked her lips. “I’d actually pay eight bucks for one of those nasty energy drinks right now. Heck, I’d pay ten.”
He frowned. “Do you feel all right?”
“Other than having recently drowned, you mean?” When the tense set of his body didn’t change at her teasing, she gave it a little more thought. “I feel thirsty and sad and gross and stupid for losing the backpack, and cold and—”
“No teetering on the verge of insanity?”
“Uh . . .”
“Even you’d recognize it.”
“What? I said ‘heck’ instead of ‘hell,’ and you think I’m losing it?” She scowled at him. “I’m feeling a little mad, but not crazy, no.”
He relaxed—as much as he ever relaxed anyway. “By the clarity of your reven after possession, the teshuva seemed well integrated in you. But you haven’t even had a chance to sleep since its ascension, and the league doesn’t know enough about female talya to be sure the absence of your demon’s artifact might not put you at risk.”
“What? If a girl doesn’t have her jewelry, she freaks out? I’ve heard of feeling naked without earrings, but not insane.”
He slanted a glance at her. “Your ears aren’t pierced.”
He’d been looking at her ears? “I don’t mind feeling naked.”
He dragged his fingers through the waves of his hair. Somehow he’d managed to come out of the mucky pool looking like a sexy swimsuit-calendar model, all beach tousled hair and glistening skin. Except for the soaked jeans clinging to his hips. Which would just make him a sexy jeans model.
The flush of heat through her body should have been welcome in the cavelike chill, but she didn’t want to want him. She had enough troubles without wanting things she couldn’t win with a flash of flesh.
But she could make him squirm. “I have enough holes in my body without adding more voluntarily.”
“What about the burns on your legs?”
She stopped as if she’d run into one of the black walls.
Fucker, bringing that up.
He turned back to face her. “You just going to stand there?” His voice bounced around the curved tunnel until it seemed to come from all directions. “Refusing to get up out of your own darkness wins you no points, Nim, not even with the tenebrae.”
When she didn’t answer, he stalked toward her. As he approached, her reven pulsed brighter and the old scars ached.
He kept coming until he was right inside the circle of her arms, had she been that kind of dancer. He didn’t touch her. But he didn’t have to. His gaze weighed on her heavier than Mobi’s coils. “Not so long ago, someone was stubbing out cigarettes in your skin. Who else hurt you, Nim?”
She lowered her eyes. Around the reven, her flesh seemed to fade, drifting into another realm. The small, round scars, which had been almost invisible, glimmered white as stars in the void.
Man, why had her thrall demon picked a missionary man, of all people?
She gazed up at him through her lashes, then took the last step into his space. “Speaking of languishing in your heart of darkness, how long did you stay in the jungle after your wife died?”
He half turned, as if she had struck him, and the curling lines of his demon’s mark flared in answer. “Long enough to know it didn’t help. But why listen to me? Between the burning and the drowning, I’m sure you have a few lives left.”
“Did you just call me a pussy?”
“Would you prefer—?” He bit back the next word.
She goggled. “You were about to call me a bitch too?”
He rubbed his neck where the reven pulsed his anger. “How did you ever make any tips with that mouth?”
“No one asked me to use it to talk before.” She thought he might pull out his wallet to shut her up.
Instead he wheeled away and started walking again. “You need to contain the fire. And the dark deeps, for that matter.”
“Then quit provoking me.” She stomped after him.
“Me? Provoke you?” He hesitated. “You’re right. We’re like a nuclear reactor—precariously balanced destruction on the verge of total annihilation. We can’t melt down or we’ll take the world with us.”
She paced at his side in silence a moment as she thought. She wouldn’t make him pay for that moment. “I wouldn’t want to take out the whole world,” she said finally. “Just parts of it.”
His lips twitched. She was close enough to see how the ebb and flow of his reven had settled into rhythm with hers. “Maybe the parts with the tenebrae.”
“That’d be good.” And maybe, just a little bit, she’d like to melt with him.
“Would you take out the balding fat man and the frat boy? And the man who raped you?”
So he was testing her. Maybe repentance needed a booster shot. “I’m over it. I’m over the human fire extinguisher thing too. No more matches for me.”
He slowed but didn’t stop. “Some of the scars aren’t that old.”
Her fingers twitched to reach down and rub the faded wounds. “They look ancient now.”
“That was the demon’s doing, not yours.”
Irritation quickened her steps, and she stumbled once as the beat of their matching light show faltered. Like she needed the reminder of the darkness in her. “I did do it. I snuffed out matches on myself. I liked the pain, okay? But I’m getting plenty of that from other sources now.” She gave him a significant look.
Then wished she hadn’t when he stumbled to a halt, his face stricken. “I don’t understand.”
She sighed and walked past him. “I suppose you haven’t had much reason to read up on the adult expression of childhood sociosexual traumas. I’m textbook.”
“But—” He hastened to catch up.
“There’s nothing to understand,” she said. “I knew it was fucked-up. And I didn’t care.”
“The same way you became a stripper.”
“Weren’t you listening when I explained about proudly owning my body?”
>
“That song and dance? No, I didn’t listen. But I watched.And what I saw wasn’t about pride or pleasure.”
They came to a junction, both paths equally dark. He didn’t hesitate, and she fell behind a step, her way lit by the quiet glow of the reven on his bare back.
“Sometimes,” she admitted, “I wasn’t sure who owned it. So I started putting out matches on my skin to see who jumped. It was always kind of a relief to see the scars. They meant I was still here.” Her voice bounced off the hard walls and fractured. “How did that old song go? ‘Nobody here but us chickens.’ ”
Except now, of course, there was the demon, which owned her, body and soul.
“If you burned yourself, I would flinch,” he said.
She grimaced. “Do the teshuva link us that closely?”
“No.”
She pondered his answer. Then why would he care?
He paused while her slowed steps brought her even with him again. “I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”
Weird how he seemed to read her mind, though he said their demons weren’t that close. “Why not?”
He reached out and touched her cheek. “Because.”
His touch was warm, but in the fitful light of the reven, his eyes were too shadowed to read. He lowered his hand and kept walking.
Damn, she was tired of playing catch-up. She was tempted to just sit down, maybe curl up in a ball, like Mobi sulking around a dead rat.
The corridor grew dark, and she realized her reven had sputtered out. And really, once she’d thought of rats in the darkness, she wasn’t that eager to sit down. Fine, then. She’d stay caught up.
She brushed her fingers over her skin where he’d touched her. What kind of man could listen to her nasty stories, could look right at her scars, could argue with her—even lose—and yet still touch her so gently that even as the sensation faded, she wanted more?
Never mind teetering on the edge of insanity; she’d apparently flung herself over with a “cowabunga” for unnecessary emphasis.
She stayed on his heels, though not so close she’d have to talk anymore. Something about being with him, in the mostly dark, made her say things she didn’t even like to think. Must be some confessional vibe he gave off.