Crimson Sins

by Madeline Pryce

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” he said quickly.

  She sucked in a breath of air and got a lungful of smoke instead. Pain seared through her with each racking cough. Stars danced in front of her, and the world teetered. The copper sting of blood trickled into her mouth. Was it from her lungs? A cut on her face? How badly had Ronan hurt her?

  The only thing that got her moving was Bastian’s arm around her waist, pulling her. He ducked her head low, out of the worst of the smoke, and headed in the direction of the window. She tried to walk, to keep up with his long strides, but her knees buckled under her.

  A figure she felt more than saw appeared on her other side. She turned and gazed up into what looked like Ronan’s glowing green eyes. Her first instinct was to scream. Her second was to curl into Bastian. She did both with more than an ounce of shame. This man was a veritable stranger to her, how could she blindly trust him?

  “Shush, it’s okay. This is Rory, my brother. He won’t hurt you,” Bastian said softly.

  Rory. Not Ronan. This was the man she’d watched whither and rot, the one she’d seen heal and rise up from the ground. Soot and blood caked a face remarkably similar to Bastian’s. Not the eyes nor the hair, but the bone structure, the nose, the squared muscular jaw.

  Brothers. Yes, she could see the resemblance.

  Rory flashed a toothy grin. “Normally I’m a lot prettier.”

  “Rory,” Bastian all but growled. “Shut up, and help me get her out the window. We’ll have to take the fire escape. Where is Nolan?”

  “Right behind you,” the third man, Nolan she guessed, barked in a gruff voice. “Move your asses.”

  Bastian kicked the window, and shards of glass rained to the ground. When she would have moved through, Rory stopped her. He scraped the sill and knocked out the jagged pieces. One by one, they stepped out onto the metal grate of the fire escape. The cool, clean air swept over her. Grimacing through the pain and exhaustion, Morgan let her head fall back against Bastian’s shoulder. Snowflakes dusted his dark hair. He looked down at her and pushed a crimson strand off her forehead just as Mother had.

  Tears fell from the corners of her eyes, froze, and tightened numb cheeks.

  “We gotta get you down.” He tugged the lapels of the jacket closed before he buttoned it shut with quick efficiency. “This will hurt. I heard something crack when I gave you CPR.”

  She shook her head, had to clear her throat before the words could come. “Ronan broke my ribs when he kicked me in the side. Let’s get this over with. I want to get as far away from here, from him, as soon as possible.”

  He nodded and stepped close.

  “Wait,” she said and licked her swollen lip.

  “What it is it?”

  “My neighbor. I told her to turn off her hearing aid and go to bed. Sometimes when she can’t sleep, she takes pills that knock her out.”

  “Shit.” Nolan glanced back through the window where flames consumed what used to be her apartment. “I’m on it. I’ll get her out, make sure the other tenants evacuate too, and meet up with you guys.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Bastian said before he placed an arm around her waist and lifted.

  Instead of throwing her over his shoulder, he held tight at the small of her back and pressed their stomachs together. She hooked an arm around his neck, her hand brushing his nape. He flinched at her touch and almost dropped her.

  “Try not to jostle her,” Rory said. “You don’t want the broken ribs to puncture a lung.”

  Bastian recovered quickly and readjusted his hold. Glaring at his brother, he snapped, “I’ve got to climb down four flights of stairs. There will be jostling involved.”

  He turned back, tightened one hand on the flaking black ladder and started the descent. His muscles flexed, and the movement squeezed her to him. She buried her face against his neck and breathed in his scent. He smelled of sandalwood. Despite the comfort, she cried out each time his foot found a new rung. Pain bloomed into an all-encompassing heat. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see.

  “I know it hurts. Just three more flights to go,” he soothed.

  His words, the creaking of the ladder, the steady drum of his heartbeat, were the last things Morgan heard before agony stole her consciousness.

  THE ROUGH, COLD concrete scraped Ronan’s shoulder. He pushed from the wall and stumbled blindly down the long dark tunnel. Injured and temporarily out of magic, he’d had to resort to stealing a car as opposed to his preferred method of traveling through shadows.

  Those ungrateful brats. Only the weak and pathetic resorted to cheating. Bullets were nothing but an annoyance. Three on one and they still hadn’t killed him. He should have taken care of them long ago. Yet, how could he when he looked at their faces and saw his beautiful Auri? She was his reason for breathing. Her death, the torment of losing the one person who’d ever loved him, and her subsequent reanimation had given him an ultimate purpose.

  Warm blood seeped down his abdomen, leaving a trail behind him with each step. Pain licked his chest with each breath. If it weren’t for supernatural healing, he’d be dead. No man-made weapon would send him to his final demise. Raging hot fury gathered in the pit of his stomach, gave him strength. No one could defeat him. No one.

  A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, the anticipation easing the sting of his failure. Morgan would be his, and Auriella would live once more. Nothing his sons could do would stop him. In the end he’d have exactly what he wanted. He always did.

  The tunnel opened into a small stone chamber. The rattling of chains calmed his rage. Such pretty pets he’d found.

  “No, please no,” the black-haired woman whimpered, trying to press tight into the wall behind her.

  Naked, covered in bruises and bites, the woman was a piece of art, and he took a moment to admire his work. Such a pity he’d have to kill her so soon. Priorities, priorities. He looked to the other side of the room to where his second plaything had surrendered to death at some point during the night. She hung lifeless, head bowed, skin already graying.

  “Let me go. I’ll do whatever you want. Please.”

  “There, there now, lass,” he cooed and limped into the room.

  Tears streamed over her gorgeous mocha skin. The liquid was like glistening jewels he wished he had time to lick from her flesh, if only to feel her tremble. But there wasn’t the time. Even though he was safely tucked inside his mausoleum fortress, he didn’t like the vulnerability of being wounded.

  “We’re going to play a game, you and I. Would you like that, little girl?” He withdrew a butterfly blade from his back pocket. He’d left his pectus mocrone behind, damn it.

  “No more,” she whispered and shook.

  “Oh, don’t be like that,” he chastised and traced the blade across her stomach.

  Blood ran down her abdomen and through the dark curls between her legs. Oh, so tempting. The woman whimpered, hung limply in front of him. She didn’t try to fight or twist away from the knife slicing through her skin like butter. No, she sniveled and wept.

  Pathetic human.

  His Morgan had fought, screamed, and never stopped struggling. How sweet she’d been, both inside and out—too bad he hadn’t gotten a chance to fuck her. He licked his lips, grinned. All a part of the game. She’d be his soon enough.

  He stroked his hand through the woman’s hair. “Tell me the best way to get to Bastian.”

  She looked up, met his eyes, and flinched back. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

  “You worked at his bar? Surely you must know something.”

  “It’s Nolan’s bar…I thought.”

  He pressed his fingers against the fresh cut, and she gasped.

  “There is a woman.” His captive started to babble. “Jodi, her name is Jodi. She manages the bar…I think she and Bastian are dating. She’d know the best way. “

  “That’s all I needed,” he said and shoved the blade in to the hilt.

  The woman’s agoniz
ed scream hardened his cock, and he shivered from head to toe in pleasure. The rush, the power, the ultimate high of taking a life had him twisting the knife for maximum effect. Hot blood ran over his hand and splashed to the dirt floor. Ronan stepped back, threw his arms wide, and called forth the last sparks of his magic. Death hung in the air, the human sacrifice a sweet calling his energy had no problem latching on to.

  Ronan inhaled the power—let it fill him. The runes on his chest heated and melted through the ice of his necromancy, giving him an edge no other necromancer alive had. Black magic. Knife in hand, he slashed first one wrist, then the other. He turned, fresh blood dripping to complete his ritual circle.

  “I call you, shadow, to feast upon my blood, my sacrifice that I offer. Come to me, shadow, and merge as one.”

  A black, writhing mist crept from the ground inside the circle. The mist bubbled around him, a cool press of darkness that smelled of brimstone.

  “Necromancer,” the shadow hissed, a sound that came from nowhere and everywhere.

  “Let us become one,” Ronan said, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes.

  “As you wish, Master.”

  He parted his lips, and the hot shadow filled his mouth, moving inside him. His body jerked, instinctively trying to fight the invasion. Inhaling, Ronan swallowed the ink, allowing the darkness to fill in the holes the bullets had left.

  A cry of agony spilled from his throat as his body convulsed. The shadow within flexed, and if felt like his skin would split from the inside out. Ronan flew back, hit the protective wall of his ritual circle, and crumpled to the ground. Blood ran from his mouth, the tips of his fingers, all feeding the power of the ritual magic.

  When it was complete, he’d be healed.

  Chapter Six

  “Le diable nous a trouvés,” Morgan murmured.

  She drifted from one nightmare to another. Asleep or awake. Either really sucked. No matter how hard she fought to get free of the dreams, the moment she woke, the skull-splitting agony lured her back into the arms of the devil. She ached inside and out.

  Through the darkness, glowing red eyes loomed above her. All over again she experienced the press of Ronan’s cold, hard body against hers. Biting teeth ripped into flesh. Shallow cuts spilled warm blood over skin. The searing ice. She just wanted the torment to end.

  “Le diable nous a trouvés,” she repeated.

  “Non, mon petite. Le diable est sorti, il ne peut pas vous blesser ici,” a familiar voice whispered. Bastian.

  She followed the soothing lilt of his voice into consciousness. He spoke in a language she somehow knew but didn’t understand. Something cool and wet swiped over her forehead. The temperature soothed the feverish heat. She struggled to open her fluttering lids. They were heavy and swollen. How long had she been asleep?

  Bastian’s foreign words niggled at the back of her mind, the translation trapped behind a door not accessible to her. Her mother’s blue eyes and silver-streaked hair flashed behind the same door before fading away.

  Le diable. The devil.

  Ronan.

  Her eyes snapped open into complete darkness. She couldn’t see. Felt only her broken body. Panic eroded the pain and cleared the lethargy. Frantic to get away, she tried to move and found she couldn’t. Something, someone pushed her back.

  “Le diable!” she cried.

  No. No. No.

  “Let me go!” She fought to get free.

  “Morgan!” Bastian’s sharp tone cut straight through the terror. “Look at me. You’re safe.” He cupped her face and steadied her thrashing head. “Look at me,” he repeated, gentler this time.

  In the semidark of the room, her shallow, panting breaths and racing heart were the only thing she could hear. The face slowly coming into focus chased away the last vestiges of her nightmare. She stared into Bastian’s eyes and focused on them so she could forget everything else.

  Thin rings of cobalt rimmed both the outer circle of his iris and the pupil. Between the two dark rings, the lighter, almost textured shade of sapphire glowed. She expanded her gaze to take in his entire face and categorized each detail. Strong, straight nose. Dark eyebrows slashes against his pale skin. Square, muscular jaw covered in a dusting of stubble, and shadows under his eyes. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been covered in blood and ash.

  “That’s it; just breathe.” He held up a washcloth to let her see it before he brushed it slowly across her forehead. The cloth drifted down the side of her face. Was he cleaning her?

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “Something you said, it, I don’t know…” She closed her eyes to get away from his penetrating gaze.

  She listened to the sound of water sloshing inside a bowl. A second later the cool cloth came back to her skin. Each cleansing pass soothed both the heat of her skin and the fear binding her.

  “My French is a little rusty,” he said softly, almost as if embarrassed.

  The small admission that this man might have a weakness had her cracking her lids open. She studied him. “You could have fooled me. I don’t speak French, didn’t really understand anything you said except ‘le diable,’ the devil.”

  She tried to sit up and regretted the immediate stab of pain through the center of her chest. Bolts of agony spread over her ribs, curled into her stomach. Sucking in breath sharpened the sting, brought a new awareness to the tenderness in her face.

  Damn it, was there anywhere she didn’t hurt?

  “It’s probably best if you don’t move. Your ribs are broken, and based on the level of bruising, you may have some internal bleeding. If you were human, I’d take you to the ER.”

  If I were human?

  He put a hand behind her back and adjusted the downy-soft pillows propping her into a sitting position. The angle shifted, made it easier to breathe.

  “Better?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  Bastian stared at her. The expression in his eyes was unreadable. Pity? Fury? Tenderness? Surely he felt something. “For someone who doesn’t speak French, you’ve been doing remarkably well. You’ve been rambling for the better part of an hour in your sleep. You keep repeating ‘the devil nears,’ among a few other random phrases in French. Like I said, I’m a bit rusty.”

  He dunked the cloth in the bowl on the nightstand before wringing out the bloodstained rag. Slowly, barely grazing the skin, he brought the towel down her right cheek. At her grimace, he lessened the pressure.

  “What were you saying when you replied in French?” she asked, now anticipating the next soothing wash of cool water.

  “I said, ‘The devil is gone. He can’t hurt you here.’”

  Morgan looked around the darkened room. “And where would ‘here’ be?”

  She had already cataloged the various shadows in the room as a dresser, a bookshelf, and a nightstand. She was probably in his bedroom. The darkness lightened as her eyes adjusted to the meager light. Clothing littered the floor, mixed with stacks of worn paperbacks.

  A soft glow of light shone from a partially closed door off to her right. The clock beside the bed glowed 8:36. Automatically she looked to the large window on the left side of the room and found metallic shutters blocking out any would-be daylight.

  Was it morning or night?

  Bastian ran a hand through his shaggy hair. Ash hid the midnight streaks, and grime made the strands stick up. “We weren’t sure what to do with you, so we brought you back to my apartment. Not sure if you remember Nolan, but he owns the bar, Haven, on the first floor of the building. He and Rory live on the floors above this one. Is there someone you want me to call to let them know you’re alive? Boyfriend, girlfriend, relative?”

  She had no one. “None of the above.”

  “What about your boss? You work at Porky’s Grocery; is he—”

  “I got fired tonight. Or at least I think it was tonight. I don’t know what day it is, or how long Ronan…”

  His mouth snapped closed. After a moment of staring at her, he
said, “I don’t think he had you long. A few hours maybe. He likes to take his time. It’s Friday the eighteenth.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Fired and attacked in one night. Rough.”

  Her snort hurt. “I would say I’d had worse, but I don’t have the energy to lie. If you’ll just call me a cab, I’ll leave. Thanks for the rescue and all…” But she had to get out of here before he called in his police buddies.

  “A cab?” he asked, sat back on the bed, and stared at her as if she’d grown a second head. “I just told you that you have broken ribs and internal bleeding, and you want a cab? You aren’t going anywhere.”

  His words pricked her abused pride. She narrowed her eyes, or at least she tried to. It was hard to tell what expression she managed when her face felt three times its normal size. She must look horrible.

  “I’ll go anywhere I want, thank you very much. And, yes, a cab so I can go to the hospital. I don’t have insurance, but surely they won’t let me die on their waiting room floor. I should have guessed you’d be arrogant.”

  His lips twitched. Great. He found her amusing. “You aren’t going to die.”

  Pfft. What did he know? It sure as hell felt like she was going to die.

  “Look, Morgan, you don’t need a hospital. Too many questions you won’t be able to answer without a psych lockup. You are tougher, harder to kill than a mere mortal. If you’ll let me, I can heal you.”

  A mere mortal? What in the hell did that mean? Better yet, heal her? So that scene back at her apartment with the decomposing flesh falling from bone hadn’t been a hallucination? She remembered his brother Rory. How Bastian had sunk to his knees and pressed a glowing palm against the rotted chest. There had been urgency in his every move, in the fierce lines etched on his dirt-smudged face. He’d willed his brother back to life.

  Cop or no cop, if she knew nothing else about Bastian, that single memory should be enough to gain her trust. This man had secrets, secrets like her.

  “You healed your brother.” She wanted the confirmation. Needed to know insanity hadn’t taken hold, that she wasn’t still trapped in one nightmare layered upon another.