Redemption (Redemption Series Book 1)

by R.K. Ryals

  ~Bezaliel~

  “Is she going to be ok?” Monroe asked Marcas uncertainly.

  I looked faintly down at my blood covered arm. The gashes were already beginning to heal. The question broke the tension between the two of us.

  “She’ll live,” Marcas commented as he pulled the knife he’d used to demonstrate our bond out of his pocket. He made a small gash on his wrist without flinching. I felt the same wound open up on my own wrist.

  “Don’t you think you’ve made her bleed enough?” Conor asked with a growl.

  I looked up at the two of them. Marcas glanced at Conor with a look of disgust. They seemed to know each other. This confused me.

  “Drink,” Marcas said suddenly, holding his wrist out to me without taking his eyes off of Conor. I stared at his wrist in horror.

  “Hell no!” Conor yelled.

  “Omg!” Monroe exclaimed.

  “Seriously?” I asked in a whisper. Marcas turned to look at me.

  “It won’t strengthen the bond. And it will restore you."

  I continued to stare at the wrist.

  “You don’t know that!” Conor said angrily. Marcas glanced at him.

  “Leave the Demonology to the Demon, Gargoyle. I’m aware of the limits on bonding,” Marcas hissed. My eyes widened. Gargoyle? Monroe swore.

  “What the fuck is a gargoyle?” she asked, her tone shocked. “Oh, this is wonderful. Dayton is bonded to a Demon hunted by psychos and I’ve managed to call in a gargoyle.”

  I was too weak to care what anyone was right now. My legs buckled and I went down on my knees. Spots swam before my eyes. Marcas kneeled.

  “Drink, Blainey, before you’re too weak and before I have to open another wound,” Marcas whispered.

  I looked up at him. Our eyes met.

  “Drink,” he ordered.

  This time I complied, closing my eyes as my mouth closed around the wound on his wrist. Blood filled my mouth and I fought the urge to gag. I forced myself to swallow. The blood was thick and it burned. Pain engulfed me.

  I tore my mouth away and fell to the ground. Marcas’ hands were suddenly on my shoulders, keeping my back to the damp forest floor as I seized. Liquid fire coursed through my veins. I screamed. Conor moved in close but Marcas growled and flashed his fangs when he made to touch me.

  "Don't!" Marcas yelled.

  The heat in my body increased, and I screamed again. Hell. It felt like the fire pits of Hell. Marcas pushed down harder, and I realized my body was bucking as the effects of the Demon blood started waning. I felt open wounds on my body sear closed, and I panted as the liquid fire pooled around the injuries before dimming. My eyes found Marcas'.

  "I think I'd rather have died," I whispered weakly. Marcas didn't reply. 

  Conor yelled something at the Demon as I pushed at Marcas' hands and fought to sit up. Marcas released my arms and put a hand behind my back for support.

  “I didn’t say the healing would come easy,” Marcas answered in a low tone as the pain began to pass.

  I looked up at them all. Marcas was a little too close for comfort, and my heart rate sped up. Conor bent close.

  “You can move now, Demon,” Conor said, his tone surly.

  Marcas' gaze moved between the two of us, and he moved aside slowly. I braced myself against the ground, the loss of Marcas' support causing a heavy feeling in my chest. The wounds on my arm were gone and I moved my limbs experimentally. No stiffness.

  “We need to go,” Marcas said from above me.

  I looked up to find his gaze on the wrecked carnage behind us. He was right. It wouldn't do for us to be found here. Conor and Monroe flanked me quietly, and I used their hands to help lift me off the ground. Blood rushed back down into my body, and my breathing came easier. No dizziness. The weakness was gone.

  “Not with you she doesn’t,” Conor threatened.

  Marcas turned on him, his face coming even with Conor's. The contrast between them was startling. Light and dark.

  “The gargoyles failed to protect her. Now she’s stuck with me. Don’t blame me for something I didn’t want,” Marcas said, his voice low. Conor’s eyes narrowed.

  “I wasn’t aware of your brother’s intentions,” Conor defended. Marcas never even blinked.

  “There is where you failed. We both underestimated him. Now we’re stuck with the consequences,” Marcas replied.

  I watched them both quietly, my eyes moving between Conor's golden frame and Marcas' dark one. Why did it always seem everyone but me was discussing my future?

  “I’m voting in Conor’s favor,” Monroe added glibly from beside me.

  I glanced down at my arm before moving my gaze to Marcas’ wrist. There was no sign of injury, but the memory was still there. He'd been hurt, I'd been hurt, and he had healed me. I closed my eyes. We were bonded. It was time I got used to it. Marcas' words haunted me, "You can turn a deaf ear and a blind eye, but when you open yourself back up, it's still going to be there."  He was right.

  “I don’t think I have a choice,” I said quietly.

  Marcas looked over at me and, for the first time, I noticed something akin to compassion in his gaze. The look was gone as fast as it appeared. He swept his arm toward the wreckage.

  “We move now,” he ordered, his eyes on the empty car Samuel had left behind. It was damaged but usable. Conor stood defiantly, his arms crossed.

  “We’ll take my car,” he said suddenly.

  I looked up at him, startled. He was going with us? Our eyes met, and I saw the challenge there. He was not accepting arguments. Monroe moved to his side. She looked scared and unsure. Coming as close to death as she'd come, I knew she was feeling insecure and helpless. The fact that she was still here spoke highly of her strength.

  “I concur with the gargoyle,” she said, flipping her thumb in Conor’s direction. I think, at this point, anything familiar was less terrifying than the alternative.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Marcas complained, his eyes rolling upward.

  “A little break here,” he said Heavenward.

  There was no reply. He looked back down, resolved. He could have argued, even challenged Conor to a fight, but he didn't. And I found myself respecting him for that. He was stronger than all of us. And what he may lack in strength, I knew he made up for in experience. His eyes were ancient. I'd watched him kill the Demon Samuel with a cold efficiency that only came with time. Or, at least, I hoped it came with time. I'd rather the kill had been a defense mechanism and not because he had no human emotion. My knowledge of demons was practically nonexistent. Marcas sized Conor up.

  “Then I drive, Gargoyle, or no go."

  Conor looked like he was ready to argue, but I shook my head. I didn’t like the position we were in, but I did trust Marcas to an extent. He knew more about the danger we were in than we did.

  Conor's jaw tightened perceptibly and his gaze found mine, his eyes searching. What he saw there made him swear and he looked away quickly, the car keys jangling as he threw them at the Demon.

  "This isn't over," Conor said to Marcas before sliding into the passenger seat.

  Marcas didn't reply. He looked pointedly at Monroe and me, and I moved to the car as Marcas slid into the driver's seat. Monroe and I climbed into the back.

  “This should be fun,” I mumbled sarcastically as Marcas started the engine.

  He shifted into drive and eased the car around the wreckage in the road. I looked at the blacktop and noticed Samuel’s body had disappeared. Where had it gone? The image of Marcas leaning over Samuel's prone figure flashed through my head, and I felt sick to my stomach. I had never seen anyone killed before, and I had been a part of it. I swallowed convulsively.

  “What’s a gargoyle?” I asked Conor suddenly, my eyes closed against the image as my mind sought distraction.

  I heard Conor shift subtly, and I opened my eyes to find him glancing into the backseat. Monroe and I both stared back a
t him expectantly. His gaze moved between us.

  “They are guardians, protectors,” he said carefully. “It’s an ancient line made up of families assigned by Heaven. We are, in a way, a type of Angel. It’s hereditary. Each family is broken down by crests. We live as mortals live, die as mortals die. Every once in a while when there’s a great need for protection of certain individuals, we are assigned as guardians.”

  I stared at him as he explained, each new sentence working its way past the gut-wrenching feeling of disgust I felt over Samuel's death. I concentrated on his words. Assigned as guardians? My eyes searched Conor's, and he looked away. But I had seen the conflict there. I thought of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, and I leaned forward slightly.

  “I thought they were gothic statues,” I said.

  “We can be perceived as such. I can turn into stone,” Conor said unexpectedly.

  I was too numb from everything that had already happened to be much surprised. I just nodded, accepting his explanation with much more aplomb than even I expected. I just couldn’t find it in me to be shocked. I thought back over his words again, over the conflict I'd seen in his eyes, and I sighed heavily as another invisible burden settled over me.

  “How long have you been my guardian?” I asked.

  He looked up, resigned. He knew I wasn't stupid. It wasn't hard to deduce. He'd always seemed to show up at my worst moments, always seemed to have the solution to whatever problem arose. He didn’t argue my conclusion.

  “A year," he answered.

  I nodded and laughed, the sound tinged with hysteria. I saw Marcas glance at me in the rearview window, and I kept my expression even.

  A year. The next thought came unbidden. "I realized I wanted you to give me your pain. I wanted to take it away from you," Conor had said when I'd had the vision of Marcas and Damon, a vision I now suspected had been caused by Damon himself. Had Conor ever really had feelings for me or had the scene in my bedroom been an act, an attempt to get closer, a job even? Monroe seemed to come to the same conclusion.

  “Bastards, all of you,” she mumbled.

  I looked away, my eyes searching the dark ever-changing landscape through the tinted windows. Shadowy trees made way to street lights and empty buildings. Jackson, Mississippi.

  “I didn’t lie,” Conor said. I knew he was referring to the moment we'd shared. I didn’t answer.

  “Like you didn’t lie to us about what you were all these years,” Monroe argued in my stead. Her hand made its way into mine and I squeezed. Conor sighed.

  “Monroe—"

  She snorted and gave him the hand. It was childish, but I understood why she did it. We’d known Conor for as long as we both could remember, and we'd always believed there were no secrets between us. My mother and his mother had been close friends. Very close friends. I stared up at Conor hard, my mind struggling with the idea now taking root. Pain radiated through my stomach. I plunged my free fist into my gut. I hated this feeling, hated the invisible parasites I'd been infested with the moment Mrs. Cavendish had told me my parents were dead.

  “Your mother is a gargoyle,” I whispered. It wasn’t a question.

  Conor shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Yes.”

  I choked down a sob.

  “She was my mother’s protector, wasn't she?”

  Conor turned in his seat. Marcas glanced at me again in the rearview mirror. His expression was unreadable.

  “Dayton—"

  “What went wrong?” I asked Conor. Where had my father been when my mother died? Why hadn't he been able to stop it? Where was he now? And why had Mrs. Reinhardt failed?  I dug my fist in. Conor fidgeted.

  “I’m not sure,” he answered finally.

  His troubled expression was genuine. I left it alone. I would find answers about my mother's death. Someone was going to pay. But now wasn't the time. I knew that. I bit down on my tongue. Marcas glanced up sharply from the front seat. I saw his jaw tighten in the rearview mirror, but I ignored it, looking instead at the airport parking lot he suddenly pulled into.

  “Where are we going?” I asked Marcas boldly.

  He stopped the car and shifted into park. I unbuckled my seat belt and leaned forward.  I was getting a direct answer from him. Meek Dayton was long gone. His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. I didn’t look away.

  “Italy,” he answered.

  Monroe gasped. Conor didn’t say anything. I continued to stare. Marcas' words registered in my brain, but the ability to be shocked seemed beyond me. I actually felt relief at his answer. I needed to get away.  

  “Don’t tell me. We have an audience with the Pope,” I said mechanically, my attempt to lighten the mood falling flat. Marcas didn't break eye contact.

  “You’re as much an enemy of the church as I am now, Blainey,” Marcas said coldly.

  I watched him as one of his brows lifted inquisitively. I think he expected to see fear in my eyes at the remark, but there was none. I was too numb.

  So? I was an enemy of the church now. If Samuel was any indication, they'd need to take a number and get in line. I let my gaze linger on Marcas' face. He was stained with blood but it didn’t take away from his appeal.

  “Guess this means a tour of the Vatican is out of the question,” I quipped. I thought for a moment Marcas was going to smile, but Conor interrupted.

  “We’ve got one problem,” Conor stated with a wave of his hand.

  I looked over at him blankly. I felt so, so very cold. Would I ever feel warm again?

  “And that would be what exactly?” I asked.

  His gaze moved down my shirt before glancing over at Marcas pointedly.

  “If you think airport security is strict about weapons being brought aboard a plane, I’m pretty positive a blood covered Demon and Naphil won’t make it past the door."

  I saw his point. Marcas looked at Conor a moment before holding his hand out, palm upward. A black t-shirt appeared, and he wrapped his fingers around the material before bringing his other hand up. A clean red dolman materialized. I looked at them in amazement.

  “Please tell me I can do that,” I said in awe.

  All the plays and books I'd ever read about the devil offering people their heart's desires in exchange for their soul came to mind. It made me wonder what Marcas was capable of. How many people had he bribed in the past with his powers? Marcas threw me the dolman before shrugging out of his leather jacket and pulling his shredded black tee over his head.

  “Don’t push your luck, Blainey,” Marcas said as I gaped at the sight of his chest. I hoped I was inconspicuous about it, but the man was an Adonis. A marble statue couldn’t be carved any better than the abs I saw before me.

  Marcas pulled the clean, new shirt over his head and down his abdomen. I noticed even Monroe stared.

  “Your turn,” Marcas said as he pointed at the dolman on my lap. Thank God I wore a black cami on under the ruined shirt I had on now.

  “It's just a reproduction of the clothes we had on before,” Marcas explained as I pulled the bloodied, torn dolman over my head. The black cami underneath was still in one piece and unsoiled.

  I pulled the clean shirt on hurriedly before anyone had a chance to comment on my pink bra straps clearly visible under the cami. We still had dried blood on our bodies, but Conor produced a pack of wet wipes from the glove compartment of his car and we cleaned up the best we could. Monroe even handed me a pony tail holder she had wrapped around her wrist. I pulled my hair up on top of my head and left it that way.

  “That’ll have to work,” I said as Marcas climbed out of the car. A few curls escaped my pony tail as I climbed out into the night. I hated my hair.

  “We don’t have passports,” I said as we all met at the front of the vehicle.

  Marcas held his hand out again, and I watched intently as a group of cards materialized. It looked like such an easy gesture for him, like walking or breathing. I really wanted to be able
to do that. He handed each of us a card. I stared at mine numbly. There was a picture of me, but the name was different.

  Danielle Mays

  I glanced at the other cards. All of us had an alias. Conor was Chad Edwards, Monroe was Ellen Edwards and Marcas was Mark Mays. I stared at the last names. Danielle and Mark Mays?

  “Is there a reason for the shared surnames?” I asked Marcas suspiciously. He didn’t look at me.

  “With Reinhardt’s and Jacob’s height and blonde hair, they can pass as siblings. We’re married."

  I coughed. What?

  “Fuck that!” Conor exclaimed, his gaze full of horror.

  I coughed again. Monroe patted me on the back.

  “W-why?” I stuttered.

  Marcas looked around the group. His expression never changed. I wondered what he’d look like if he laughed.

  “Because the best you can pass as is nineteen and that’s barely. It’d be less suspicious for us to leave the country as a couple and siblings than as a group of independent teenagers and one adult. It's just until we land,” Marcas said.

  He didn't look much older than we were. Twenty at the oldest. I glanced again at his passport. He had his age at twenty-one. It's just until we land. That was a relief.

  “Guess that means we’re newlyweds?” I asked him cautiously. He had my age at nineteen. He looked at me.

  “Yes, my dear. You are my young, loving new wife,” he said coldly as he pushed to the front of the group. I cringed at his callousness. I wasn't used to lying, and I wasn't an actress. Forgive me for being wary.

  “Smartass,” I muttered as I followed.

  Conor moved next to Marcas.

  “This is bullshit!” Conor said as we walked.

  Marcas glanced at me.

  “I would have gladly made her your wife,” he said evenly. I was insulted.

  “Can we just do this?” I asked sullenly.

  Monroe snorted next to me. I looked over and realized she was trying not to laugh.

  “What?” I hissed. She just shook her head.

  “If it wasn’t for the danger, this trip would be interesting as hell,” she said with a laugh.

  Our humor was returning. I flipped her the bird, and she stuck out her tongue. The gestures felt familiar and nice. We moved into the airport and Conor fell back next to Monroe. He’d done subterfuge before. It was obvious by the way he suddenly grinned and elbowed his "sister" as if they shared a joke.

  Marcas took my hand and tucked my arm into his. My skin crawled. Nerves overtook me. We moved through the terminals easily. No one questioned our motives and when it came time to produce tickets, Marcas handed four over without blinking an eye. I was having a hard time saving face. Monroe had always been a good actress and Marcas and Conor seemed experienced in lying. I was sorely unprepared for this.

  “Mrs. Mays,” the lady said respectfully from behind the desk as she handed back my ticket. It took me a moment to realize she was talking to me. I reached for the slip of paper with my left hand and almost gasped at the beautiful diamond solitaire engagement ring and white gold wedding band that suddenly appeared.

  “Ummm . . . thank you,” I said with a smile.

  She looked at me curiously before moving to Conor and Monroe. I had a hard time not staring at the ring. The diamond on the engagement ring was heart-shaped and tinted pink. It was very unusual. I walked through the metal detector and met Marcas on the other side. He took my hand once more. The tingling hit me again. It made my stomach ache.

  “Are you ok, Mrs. Mays?” a flight attendant asked me when we finally made it on the plane. Marcas had produced first class tickets. I was impressed.

  I looked up at the woman sheepishly.

  “Just a little nervous about flying,” I answered.

  It wasn’t a lie. I’d never flown before.  She smiled and assured me it was safer than being in a car. I wasn’t convinced. At least a car didn't disregard the rules of gravity. Marcas let me take the window seat. It was a nice gesture, but I wasn’t appreciating it in the least. I didn’t like heights. I was sure my face was turning green and we hadn’t even taken off yet.

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Italy,” Monroe said cheerfully as she took the seat in front of me. She was still in character. She popped a piece of bubble gum with her finger. Oh, how I could use a dumdum! Conor glanced at Marcas and me before sitting down next to Monroe glumly. I wanted to tell him I’d much rather be sitting with them, but I didn't have a lot of choice in the matter. The plane filled up and the seat belt light came on. I was already buckled up.

  “Breathe, Blainey,” I whispered to myself as the plane’s engines started up.

  The pilot came over the loudspeaker and the flight attendant began a safety lesson. I ignored them both as I searched the seat in front of me for a barf bag. I found it and grabbed at it greedily. Marcas glanced at me. I ignored him.

  “Try this,” Monroe said from in front of me, and I looked up to see her holding a piece of gum over the back of the seat. It was spearmint. She must have gotten it from Conor. I took it gratefully. Both of them knew I had a phobia of heights and spiders. Both tended to paralyze me. The shock from the Samuel incident had worn off, and my body was on high "frantic" alert.

  “Thanks,” I muttered before unwrapping the gum and popping it into my mouth. It did help some with the nausea. The plane moved.

  “Oh, my God!” I uttered helplessly.

  Marcas took my hand, and I looked down at it, startled. I was about to pull away when I noticed the flight attendant looking our way. I let him take it. His other hand suddenly moved to the back of my neck, and I cringed.

  “Relax,” he said quietly, and I realized he was concentrating. His eyes were focused, the pupils dilated. The tension in my stomach eased. The plane lifted off. Marcas kept his hand on my neck. The nausea went away. The seat belt light went off.

  “Ok?” Marcas asked.

  I looked over at him. I knew he’d done something to ease my fear, I just wasn’t sure what.

  “Yeah," I answered.

  He removed his hand. My skin felt instantly cold.

  “Thanks."

  He didn’t look at me.

  “I didn’t think having to produce another shirt because you got sick a very good idea,” he said in return. I shrugged. Either way, I was still grateful. A flight attendant appeared next to our seats.

  “Can I get you some champagne?” she asked us kindly.

  I shook my head. According to my I.D., I wasn’t old enough anyway. Marcas nodded. She disappeared. I glanced at Marcas.

  “I’m beginning to see my life in movie shades,” I told him lightly. I was attempting, if somewhat feebly, to make small talk. Marcas glanced at me sharply.

  “What?” he asked. I shrugged.

  “You ever seen that movie Just Married? You know the one where Brittany Murphy and Ashton Kutcher get married and have all kinds of honeymoon mishaps?” I asked conversationally. Marcas looked away and didn’t answer.

  “Not a movie guy, huh?” I asked. He still didn’t answer.

  “Oh well."

  I’d tried. Of all the Demons in the world, I had to get bound to this one. He was the coldest, most unreadable person I'd ever met. Maybe it was a Demon thing. Maybe Demons abhorred small talk. Who knew? He didn't look like a Demon. I had to remind myself that he wasn't human. The flight attendant brought Marcas his champagne. She smiled at him. He didn’t smile back.

  “Does craving blood make you an asshole?” I asked Marcas after the attendant walked away. Marcas took a sip of his champagne and took his time savoring it before looking at me.

  “What is it about you Angels? Did you want me to smile at the attendant?”

  I snorted. It was so not ladylike.

  “I wouldn’t know. And a little grin wouldn’t have hurt,” I said with a frown.

  I didn't know anything about being an Angel. I still couldn't believe my father was one and that I shared hi
s blood. And what did Marcas have to compare me to? How many Angels did he know? 

  “I’m supposed to be a newlywed,” he said dryly.

  I lifted my brow. The attendant had smiled at him. I didn't consider that flirtatious. He'd obviously never seen a Southern girl circling a guy she was interested in. Southern women had gumption.

  “Could have fooled me. Newlyweds SMILE. They look happy,” I pointed out.

  Marcas leaned over slightly and bared his teeth. They were fangs.

  “That better?”

  “Real attractive,” I said with a grimace. He looked away. The attendant walked by and I asked for a pillow.

  “Can I get you anything else?” she asked pleasantly.

  I hooked my thumb in Marcas’ direction.

  “A new husband. You can have this one."

  The woman choked before looking at us both, her eyes wide with shock. Oh yeah, she wasn't from the South. If she had been, shock wouldn't have been the reaction I'd gotten. A Southern woman would have either verbally destroyed the man next to me for whatever crime he'd committed to ignite my ire, or she would have taken the cards I'd laid on the table and made a play for my "husband." Monroe snorted from the seat in front of me.

  “Ma'am?” The attendant asked. I waved my hand.

  “Sorry. Lover’s quarrel. Give us some time. You know what they say about make up sex.” I said with an apologetic grin.

  Someone called out to the attendant and she moved on quickly. Monroe was laughing fully in front of us now. Conor was silent.

  “Like you know anything about that,” Marcas muttered. “Are you always this aggravating?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Marcas moaned. “This is going to be one helluva long flight,” I heard him whisper.

  I wasn’t going to disagree. I grew silent. Time moved slowly. The darkness outside finally caught up with me and I yawned.

  “Why does everyone want me dead?” I asked Marcas softly. I didn’t want anyone around us to overhear. He leaned back in his seat.

  “Because of what we are,” he answered.

  I didn’t understand and I told him so. He looked down at me.

  “It is not unusual for Demons to bind mortals to them. Many enjoy having human servants with increased strength and a long life who can serve them on earth for centuries. When they tire of these mortals, they take their souls. Never before has a Demon been bonded to an Angel. Ever. There are no rules for this. It could have disastrous results. It’s not natural. My brother believes it will bring the race of Cain redemption. Others believe it will throw the war on the side of good or evil. Right now, they are equally matched. Neither side can afford for the other to get the upper hand,” Marcas said. I looked at him.

  "So we're writing the rules for this as we go then?"

  I didn't really expect an answer. And he didn't give me one. I watched him as he turned away from me, his profile erect, and I wondered how he felt about this whole debacle. Did he hate me for what I was? Or did he hate his brother for binding us? Did I need to hate him because my father is an Angel?

  “You said your father was Cain. The Cain that killed Abel in the Bible?” I asked Marcas. He looked away.

  “Yes."

  I had a hard time swallowing that.

  “And your mother?”

  Marcas looked at me again.

  “Are you always this chatty?” he asked. I shook my head.

  “I’m normally worse,” I answered. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

  Marcas leaned his head back.

  “My mother is the Demon, Lilith, the first perceived wife of Adam,” Marcas said. I frowned.

  “Adam had another wife before Eve?” I asked, confused.

  “So some believe. It’s more myth than fact. The truth remains, though, that Cain did lie with a Demon and our race was the result.” Marcas said.

  I touched his arm. He looked down at my hand pointedly. I pulled away. So he didn’t like touch.

  “So you’re the descendant of Cain and Lilith?” I asked. It didn’t seem possible that he was the son. He looked me in the eye.

  “I am their first born son,” he said unflinchingly.

  My eyes grew wide. He was serious.

  “That makes you—"

  “Really old,” he finished for me.

  I sat back. Well, I hadn’t expected that. And here I thought Monroe was the one attracted to older men. God, I should be disgusted. I looked at Marcas from the corner of my eye. He looked confident even leaning back in the first class seat of a 747. It was hard to believe he’d existed before the invention of flight.

  “How many of you are there?” I asked him. He didn’t move.

  “Millions,” he answered. I thought about that. Vampires may not exist, but I had a feeling Marcas’ race had been the basis for the myth.

  “This doesn’t feel like reality,” I said quietly. He didn’t answer me. I yawned again but fought sleep. I still had one more question.

  “How are we supposed to get unbound?”

  The interior lights of the cabin were dimmed. Most of the passengers were asleep.

  “I’m not sure yet,” Marcas answered. That was comforting.

  I stood up and looked over the seats in front of us. Monroe and Conor were both asleep. I sat back down and turned toward Marcas.

  “I don’t want to die,” I whispered. “And I don’t want my friends to die.” 

  Marcas glanced over at me, his gaze intent. The cabin suddenly felt way too small. 

  “I can’t promise anything,” he said.

  I knew that. I just felt better knowing someone knew I did care about what little life I had. Even if it was a Demon. I gave him one last look before leaning my head against the back of my seat and letting my exhaustion take me away. 

  Chapter 23

  There are few ways to unbind a Demon from his/her charge. One would be for the Demon to steal the soul of those bound to him. The other way is less known. It has never been attempted.