Without another word, he ended the call. He stroked his finger through a pool of water that had settled into a deep crevasse in the cave’s floor. The black stone colored the water and suited his mood. He tipped the bottle in his hand and poured a few drops of Morgan’s blood into the darkened water. Ronan bent. He blew an icy breath into the mixture and called upon his magic.
Crimson ice spread, solidifying the water. Through the facets of ice, he focused on the image of Morgan’s sleeping face.
“Soon, my love. Soon.”
He rose and strode purposefully into the adjourning cavern. The slackened body of a man hung from two thick chains imbedded into stone. At Ronan’s approach, Morgan’s newest present lifted his head. Bruises and blood colored the once-pale flesh. Naked, violated, and soiled with his own piss and shit, the man had lost some of his appeal.
“We’ve had fun, you and I.” Ronan drew a finger down the man’s hairy chest. “But, it’s time to go. I’ve got other plans for you.”
The man flinched and tried to jerk away. Perfect. He still had a little fight left in him. Ronan needed to relieve some tension. Perhaps he’d make Jodi watch, gauge just how sadistic the bitch really was. Maybe he could persuade her to join—if it suited his mood, he could make her. No. She’d done well last night. She deserved a reward for passing off his spell.
Maybe she’d be useful after all.
“Jordan,” Ronan bellowed, his voice a reverberating boom.
The shuffle, slide, shuffle echoed from behind him, bringing with it the sweet smell of death. Ronan inhaled and welcomed the surge of magic thickening his blood. His blood slave came to his side and submissively bowed his dark head to wait for further command.
His zombie’s hunger radiated and trickled down Ronan’s spine like the fingers of a favored lover.
“No, no more.” The man chained to the wall, strained, struggled, and kicked out his legs. Panic widened bruised, swollen eyes. “Please, God, I’ll do whatever you want. Don’t let that thing touch me again.”
A wide, pleased smirk pulled at Ronan’s lips. He curved a hand around Jordan’s waist. He stroked the dirt-smudged, low-slung jeans hanging from straight bony hips. “It ain’t God you should be shouting for, boy. They call me the Devil. Now, it’s time to pay your dues. Once upon a time, you touched what was mine. For that, you’ll die.”
Chapter Eighteen
Frost trailed up the back of Bastian’s spine and tightened his skin. The hair along his arms prickled. Fingers of unease pulled him from a deep, dreamless sleep.
Thud.
Had he heard something? He drew in a breath. Rot. Decay. The foul odor filling his lungs was out of place amid the cinnamon. Death lingered in the air. Sleep vanished, and his eyes snapped open. The only thing he saw were the brown and crimson locks of Morgan’s hair. Chest to chest, legs to legs, she sprawled naked on top of him with her face pressed into his throat. One of her hands curled around his bicep, and the other was palm down over his heart. She didn’t even twitch when he glided his hand along the contour of her back.
That’s when he felt them, like hundreds of tiny ants crawling over his skin.
Bastian pushed Morgan’s hair off his face and looked to the side, into the many terror-frozen faces of the dead swirling around the bedroom. The ghosts made a pattern he’d never seen before. Males, in an almost protective fashion, made up the outer ring, while the woman and children were closest to the bed and farthest from harm.
Like a tornado, they circled the bed in rapid rotations, each time coming closer and closer. The windows shook. The books on the shelves danced to the ground where their pages ruffled back and forth. The ghosts’ howls synchronized in a single piercing wail. Just as suddenly as the apparitions appeared, all but one vanished.
Left in the chaotic mess was a girl in a ripped nightgown. Tears shimmered on her cheeks. “The devil comes to collect his prize. Run,” she said.
Ronan.
“Shit, Morgan, wake up.” He set her to the side of him and rolled the opposite direction to reach under the nightstand for the gun he’d holstered there. His fingers closed around his GLOCK 22. The moment his feet hit the cold, hard floor the ghost in front of him jerked back with a screech. Beside him, Morgan rubbed her face sleepily into the pillow but didn’t wake up.
Thud. His entire body jerked at the sound.
Both hands cupped under the butt of the weapon, he swept the lingering shadows in the room for the threat pulsing deep in his gut. A glance at the clock told him it was just after three in the afternoon, only an hour after Morgan and he had fallen into an exhausted sex-induced slumber.
“Babe, you gotta wake up,” he said a little less gently.
“What’s wrong?” she asked through a yawn.
Bastian glanced at her as she sat up and pulled the covers over her bared breasts.
Morgan rubbed her eyes and blinked at the ghost standing in the middle of the room. “Lana? What are you doing here?” To him she said, “What’s she doing in here? The wards…”
The little girl sniffled. “It’s not safe. Run. Please, he’s a bad man. Just run!”
Morgan’s eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Who’s a bad man, sweetie? The men who hurt you? I’m taking care of that. Bastian said he would help.”
Lana shook her head. “The devil. He’s coming.” A trembling finger lifted to point at Morgan. “He’s coming for you.” And then, the little girl vanished.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Morgan flinched at the jarring noises coming from the other room, and screamed. She clutched the sheets tight enough to whiten her knuckles. Her panicked gaze shot straight to him. “Tell me that’s Rory fucking around in the hall.”
“Get dressed.” He crossed to the bathroom, found his jeans, and pulled them on.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Ronan’s voice rang clear, and Bastian’s heart thundered.
Adrenaline surged. Magic came at his command and forced his shallow breaths out in an icy blue mist. The thought of Ronan touching Morgan, hurting her, forcing her… No. Emotions Bastian hadn’t thought possible stirred. She wasn’t just a fuck. Morgan meant something to him, and Bastian would die before Ronan put a finger on his woman.
“Stay in the bedroom. If I yell ‘go,’ I want you to crawl through the window and go. Remember what we talked about a few days ago? There’s a spare set of keys taped under the right wheel well of my car. You’ll find cash sewn into the cushion of the backseat.”
She was already out of bed and pulling clothes from the closet. “Bastian, no—”
Ignoring her protests, he shut the broken bedroom door as much as it would go. He pressed his back against the smooth wood hallway wall. Gun aimed, finger on the trigger, he sidestepped to the living room. His gaze never left the front door, the only thing separating him from evil.
“I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your door down,” Ronan sang.
The door flew open with a crash and an explosion of splintering wood. Through the settled dust, Ronan’s form came into view. Bastian’s father looked like something from a nightmare. Ronan stood with fists clenched and eyes glowing red. Bright scarlet blood dripped from his face and saturated his clothes as if he’d bathed in it. A shadow, black and writhing, billowed around him.
The grin curving Ronan’s mouth churned sickness in the pit of Bastian’s gut and beaded droplets of sweat at his forehead. His heart sped. For just one moment his magic dipped at the heat engulfing him.
“Gotcha,” his father said.
Images swam through Bastian’s mind. All over again he saw, felt Morgan’s nightmare. Ronan on top of her. The vile grunts of pleasure while he thrust inside her. The terror on her face morphed into that of the woman Ronan had forced Bastian to pin to the haystack so many decades ago. Her image turned into another woman, then another, and then another. So many goddamned women.
Bang! The gun in Bastian’s hand kicked back when he fire
d.
The bullet burrowed through Ronan’s cheek in a splatter of dark, glistening blood and sent his father jerking back. With a howl of rage, Ronan charged the doorway. Bastian fired one bullet after another and forced the deafening ringing in his ears to fade as his training dictated.
In the split second it took Ronan to rush from the hall to the doorway, he held his breath. His father hit the threshold and flew back. Ronan’s momentum spun him face-first into the hall outside the apartment.
The inner wards hadn’t been compromised, at least not by Ronan.
Thank fucking God.
Morgan. He had to get her out of here, somewhere safe.
“Go!” he shouted to the bedroom and took aim at his father. He fired off three more rounds. Each bullet tore into flesh and ripped holes in the fabric of Ronan’s black silk shirt. Right where his heart should have been. The hole in his father’s cheek knitted together. One by one, bullets wormed out of bleeding holes and plopped to the ground.
“How’d you get past the first set of wards?” Bastian asked while he stalled, giving Morgan an opportunity to run, to get away.
Ronan seethed. The blood covering his face cracked, exposing the pale skin beneath. His red eyes glistened with death and vengeance. Ronan’s anger was a physical manifestation that sent Bastian back a hundred years where only pain and torment reigned. Ronan banged a fist against the invisible barrier at the front door.
Red foam bubbled from his mouth as he spoke. “Two sets of wards. Smart and rather annoying. As for the building, I didn’t have to do anything. It was down when I got here, so I strolled right in and made myself at home.”
Bare feet slapped the ground, something Bastian barely heard over the echo of his pounding heartbeat. Bastian gritted his teeth when Morgan slid to a stop next to him. Stubborn woman had a fucking death wish! Oh, when this was over, he was going to spank her ass again.
“Get back in the bedroom,” Bastian ordered.
Never taking his gaze from Ronan, he stepped in front of her.
“I’m not helpless,” she snapped.
“She cares about you, Son. How terribly sweet.”
Ronan’s hands glowed red, and he let loose. One icy blast of magic after another slammed against the threshold. Bastian tensed, readying for the hits that never came. The wards flared blue; the air crackling with electric sparks.
His father threw his head back and screamed with unrestrained rage. The windows lining the right side of the living room trembled. Glass shattered as one after the other blew out.
Morgan yelped. The scent of cinnamon drenched his senses as her magic surged out of control. Wind streamed in from the open window, and Bastian’s skin puckered in goose bumps. Crimson necromancy caught in the freezing currents of air and spun into a tornado, much like the ghosts had earlier. Around and around, magic swept the room. The couch skidded across the floor and slammed into a wall. Books flew from bookcases, pages tearing, adding to the growing vortex. Swirling energy swallowed the broken shards of glass and spit them out. Debris flew at Morgan and him with enough velocity to embed straw into walls.
“Oh shit.” Bastian tackled Morgan to the ground and wrapped himself around her.
She trembled underneath him. Razor blades of ice, glass, and paper sliced his arms, shoulders, and back. The tearing pain had him sucking frost-laden air in quick, shallow breaths.
All at once, the whirlwind stopped, and the roaring din faded. Bastian lifted his head cautiously and looked to the door. Chunks of glass stuck out from the walls, the ceiling, and floor. Untouched, the black shadow billowing around his father encompassed and protected him from the explosion.
“Sorry,” Morgan whispered. She pushed at his chest in an effort to move him. “Why is he just standing there?”
Bastian rolled off her and jumped to his feet. He held out a hand to help her up. Blood trailed down his arms and dripped to the ground. His skin tightened when the various slices flaying his flesh healed.
“There’s a second ward, one at the entry point of the apartment. He can’t get in, and neither can his magic.”
“Lana?”
“I don’t know.”
Ronan prodded at the doorway, his lips twisted in a grin. The shadow flowed in and around him, following him as he paced. “Come on, Sebastian. Are you afraid to fight me man-to-man? Too much of a pussy?”
Bastian knew what his father was doing. He’d been the recipient of the mental games for far too long before making his escape. He fought not to give in to the anger slowly building inside.
Ronan’s gaze drifted past Bastian to Morgan. “I watched you with Morgan. In my scrying bowl.” He licked his lips, wiping away some of the blood. “Eating her sweet little cunt. After I got her all wet and ready.”
The disgust emanating from Morgan was strong enough for Bastian to feel. He didn’t blame her. The thought of his father watching them tangled his guts into knots. Idiot that he was, he should have thought of that when he’d pulled Morgan from the nightmare.
As if Ronan read his mind, he spoke. “That was a truly spectacular dream I created.” Ronan’s gaze met Morgan’s, but his words were meant for Bastian. “Did you tell my bitch how you much you get off on that sort of thing?”
Bastian put the bullet right through Ronan’s throat, but Morgan’s panicked, “What’s he talking about?” still reached him.
Ronan roared and sent another blast of magic against the barrier of the ward. He hawked up the bullet and spat it out with a mouthful of blood. The mangled projectile bounced off the invisible wall and landed at Ronan’s feet. Oleander filled the room and drowned out all other smells inside the apartment.
The cloying scent coated the back of Bastian’s tongue and roiled his stomach. Anger morphed into an ugly, raging monster he had no control over. He clenched his jaw. Each breath came out in a slow, measured pant. The murderous haze blinded him to everything except Ronan and the death he’d imagined so many times over the decades.
“Shut your mouth, Ronan,” Bastian growled and stepped closer to the doorway. He barely felt the glass piercing the bottom of his feet. Adjusting his hold on his weapon, he leveled the barrel between his father’s eyes.
“Pussy,” Ronan taunted and curled his upper lip. He ran a bloodstained hand down his chest, stomach, and then cupped his crotch. “How’d she taste? Like cinnamon, I bet. Warm, spicy, and slick. I’m going to make you watch me fuck her. I watched her cry and thrash in your bed. The way she clawed at her throat as if she could feel my hands there made my cock so hard.” Ronan squeezed his dick. “I stroked myself, imagined her hot cunt around me while I did it.”
“That’s it. Give me the damn gun. I’m gonna shoot his dick off.” Morgan moved to his side and held out her hand expectantly.
He spared her a quick glance. Her hair was windblown, and the T she’d thrown on was torn in spots. A fierce light flared behind her eyes and illuminated her fury. Curling tendrils of her magic wisped into the air and cooled his anger. Common sense slowly pushed away the rage. Ronan was baiting him.
“You know how to use it?” he asked.
She nodded, and he handed her the weapon. She took up a two-handed stance that made him proud. Showtime. Bastian gathered his magic and all the hurt Ronan had ever caused. He filtered the emotion into a glowing ball of energy, stoking the icy flames of hatred. Ronan was a dead man. Ice ran down Bastian’s arms. When he could no longer stand the cold, he released.
Magic spiraled across the room and passed seamlessly through the wards. Ice slammed into Ronan’s chest. His father staggered, and Bastian watched him fight the death magic. Bang. Bang. Bang. Gunfire exploded from the weapon Morgan held. The bullets hit simultaneously with the curse he’d released. Ronan bellowed with rage and charged. He slammed his body against the threshold as if he could force his way through.
The shadow around Ronan surged and swallowed him whole. For a moment, Bastian’s father disappeared, and silence reigned.
“What the fu
ck?” Morgan lowered her gun. “I wasn’t finished!”
“Parlor trick. He’s cloaked in shadows. Wait until he reappears,” he ordered.
Bastian forced more magic through the tips of his fingers. The shadows in the hall pulsed and dissolved. In its place, Ronan snarled and released another barrage of magic.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Bastian struck with another spell and felt it collide with one his father threw out to protect himself.
“It’s not working. He’s canceling yours out!” Morgan shouted and threw the empty gun to the ground. “You have another plan?”
A plan. Fuck. Then it came to him. “Touch me,” he ordered as he recalled how they’d combined magic before.
She gave him a speculative glare and wrinkled her noise. “I don’t think now’s the time—”
“No! Not like that. I meant put your hand on my arm. Shove all the magic you have into me.”
“What? No. I’ll hurt you!”
He gripped her chin in one hand and turned her face up to his. “You won’t hurt me. I promise. Close your eyes. Concentrate, and let the ice flow through your veins. Press it into me. Imagine our energies mixing like it did when I was inside you. Make us one.”
Bastian let go of her face and gave her a nod of encouragement. He held out his arm. She grabbed his wrist and closed her eyes. Magic built. Ice shot through him and stole his breath. For a minute, thinking past the rush of pure, raw power was nearly impossible. Her energy flowed up against the surging tide of his blood. Automatically, Morgan’s necromancy zeroed in on the part of him not quite living. The place Ronan liked to slip in and control. Bastian gritted his teeth and erected a wall around that part of him. He opened his eyes, locked gazes with Ronan, smiled.
“What are you doing, Son?” Ronan asked as he paced in front of the door like a caged animal.
“Fuck you, old man.” Bastian gathered all Morgan’s magic and entwined it with his.
Purple ice dripped from his fingers. Ronan sucked in an outraged breath. “No,” he hissed. “Not possible.”
Death and destruction was Bastian’s intent, and he let loose. He forced everything out and hurled it at his father. The ball of magic pulsed and gathered strength as it flew to its target at a speed he’d never seen.
Crimson Sins Page 20