Come on, come on.
He felt his left shoulder pop back into joint. He reached forward, digging his fingers into the soggy ground, trying to pull himself forward. He touched the knife blade, closed his fist around the hilt.
Over the pounding of the rain, he heard tires crunch on gravel.
Shit, shit, shit!
He felt the tingle creep up the base of his skull, soothing and calming the swelling.
"Paul!” Sander's voice. “Paul!"
Paul couldn't yet lift his head. He heard feet slipping and sliding down the bank. He saw Sander's Italianate loafers, enjoyed the smears of mud across the leather.
"You idiot."
He felt Sander's hands on his shoulders. His body lurched forward as Sander pulled. His brain quivered and the tingling faded.
Sander flipped him onto his back. Paul's brain somersaulted in his skull. His eyes refused to process light and shape with any logic and order. He recognized only the motion of the rain. He stabbed into the rain. The knife stopped suddenly. For an instant he thought he'd managed to sink it into some part of Sander. Then he registered the feeling of fingers around his wrist. Sander pried the knife away. He heard it hit the wet leaves so far away.
"Idiot."
Sander heaved him upright, and Paul fell straight down into blackness.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dark layers of unconscious bliss peeled away one by one. Paul floated to the surface of his awareness. Some eternally vigilant part of his brain registered the impending sunset. He opened his eyes to familiar shadows and familiar shapes that didn't waiver or double in his vision. He was home, in his own bed, alone with his failure.
Experimentally, he pushed himself up on one elbow. The curse had worked its magic. His bones were whole, his muscles re-knitted, his brain undamaged. Under the blanket he realized he was naked. Blood rushed to his face as he realized how he must have become so. Not only had he failed to kill Sander, but he'd left himself vulnerable to whatever revenge Sander might have in mind.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and levered himself into a sitting position. It had all gone wrong. All of it. The demon sent a wave of anger and resentment through his blood.
What, should I just lie back and wait for Kate to save me?
The rush of its non-verbal YES spun Paul's head and left him bent in half, gasping for breath.
I couldn't save Alina. Why do I deserve to be saved by Kate?
The demon's bitter rejection of the self-pity left an old-penny tang in Paul's mouth. He was the one supposedly in love with Kate, but the demon had more faith in her than he did. But no one could win against Sander. Not even Kate.
The demon rattled his ribcage with a ferocious internal howl.
Paul scrubbed a hand over his face, hopelessness closing over him like a cold rising tide. The curse had healed the damage to his body, but it had left him weak. He wanted to sink back down onto the pillow and give himself up to oblivion. What was the point of fighting? The battle couldn't be won.
Kate's voice lashed out from his memory, accompanied by the demon's own fierce rage. You fight. You do whatever, but you don't give in to him.
Paul exploded out of bed, covered himself in jeans and a t-shirt. Kate had said fight. Paul was going to fight. So hard that either he killed Sander or Sander would kill him.
If she thinks I'll let her die for me, she's crazy.
The demon threw itself against his ribcage, screaming its frustration and fury. Clearly it didn't agree with his reasons for fighting. But it was a demon. What did it care about Kate's life? It only wanted to be free. Paul ignored its internal ravings and went downstairs. There were knives in the kitchen. More than enough from which to choose. Wide-bladed chef knives. Wicked little de-boning knives. Serrated bread knives that would take forever to cut through to Sander's blood-rich veins.
His bare feet pattered a quick rhythm as he took the stairs at a run. The pale, watery light trickling through the front door window hummed at him, promising sunset soon, too soon. He had to kill Sander before Kate got here and Sander killed her. He turned the corner into the kitchen.
Sander sat at the table, head down, in a chair facing the doorway. On the table's surface was a bottle, an empty glass streaked with the legs of good wine, and Paul's military knife stuck point down in the scarred wood.
Fear radiated through Paul's nerves, his own and the demon's. He shuddered to a stop just beyond the doorway, unable to force his legs to take another step.
I am so tired of being afraid of this man.
But he couldn't move forward another inch. His hands clenched, imagining the sensation of Sander's larynx popping under his palms. Hot coppery flavor gushed into his mouth as if he'd already reached Sander's carotid artery with his teeth and nails. But he couldn't move. His fear overshadowed his desire to murder.
Sander lifted his head. His usually perfect hair stood up on end, still damp from the rain. Sticky tear tracks marred his thin face. “Paul."
The sight froze both Paul and the demon. In a hundred years, Sander had shown no weakness. Not ever. Paul couldn't move. He couldn't look away. It was like looking through his own eyes at the moon. Sander crying? Impossible.
"You were really going to kill me.” Sander sounded heartbroken. Fresh tears shimmered in his eyes. “You were really going to do it."
"I'm still going to do it.” Paul's voice came out hoarse, and he still couldn't move. He expected Sander to mock him, to laugh. Instead, a new tear pooled on his eyelashes and dripped down his cheek.
"You would rather be eternally damned than be mine."
"Yes.” Inside, the demon wailed. For the first time Paul wondered if the demon feared living night and day as much as Paul did. The world under his feet seemed to be shaking apart. He didn't know where it was safe to stand or what was safe to believe anymore.
Sander inspected him through his shining eyes. “I don't understand."
"I'm not going to explain it to you.” He should be moving now, while Sander was vulnerable. He should tilt the table out of the way and put his foot on Sander's throat and crush the breath out of him. But he didn't. Instead he whispered, “I love her."
Sander winced. “For how long?"
"A year,” Paul told him, to show that he had been fighting.
"Really?” Sander's lips edged up slightly. “So I almost had you.” He lowered his head to the table again, his cheek resting on folded hands. “It shouldn't have been like this."
"No,” Paul whispered. His throat was too tight to speak at a normal volume. A part of his brain screamed kill him now, now, now! The demon sent a rush of blood through his head to block it out.
"It should have been perfect,” Sander said, his voice hollow. “It should have satisfied me."
Paul knew how Sander lived. Wealth, power. Any woman he wanted. Any man he wanted. Freedom to be anywhere he chose. Never dying. He thought of Sander as a man who would be filled to the brim by such an everlasting life.
"It's never been enough.” Sander sounded like he was crying again. “It's never, ever been enough."
He feels as trapped as I do. A shadow of that thought had never fallen over Paul's mind. Never once. A bitter sense of compassion welled up inside him, even though Sander had condemned them both. The demon's presence rippled ominously through him. Condemned them, all three.
The world rippled and tilted under Paul's feet. He sat down at the table across from Sander before he fell down. Hope seemed to glow from the cracks in the world, admitting a new reality Paul had never dreamed possible. “End it now."
Sander spoke in a choked voice, as if Paul wasn't even there. “I've been chasing it all my life. This life and the first life."
The words seemed to trip a projector in Paul's head. Silent visions flickered: swallowtail coats, feathered hats, jewels winking under the stars. No Mercedes turbos. No supermarket ice cream sections. No Kate.
"I'd thought,” Sander went on, his tone dropping lower and
lower into regret, “that I'd find it. With her."
Both Paul and the demon went deadly still.
"I should have found it with you.” Sander raised his head and studied Paul intensely through bright gray eyes. “I don't understand how I could have failed so ... spectacularly. After a hundred years, you should be mine. Completely. Totally. But you and her. Both would rather die..."
"Sander.” The gray eyes stopped their empirical study of Paul. They stared dazedly, as if Sander had finally noticed that Paul had been sitting across the table through his entire soliloquy. “End it now."
Sander's jaw contorted. A tear slid down his cheek and he brushed it roughly away. “I can't. Not now.” A light flared in his eyes, different from the brightness of the tears. “But I will in a year."
A year. The same span of time he had given Kate. Paul felt like the electrons and protons and neutrons in the table under his hands and the floor under his feet were rippling. The world was changing in a completely unpredicted way. Again.
"What do you mean?” He had to scrape the words out of his suddenly tight throat. The demon quivered in its prison. Paul could feel waves of hope and fear emanating from it.
"I mean give me a year of yourself. Totally. Everything. Then I'll free you from the curse, and you can be with your Kate."
Paul stared. The demon stayed silent as the grave.
"I won't settle for nothing, Paul. I want a taste. I want to know if it would have been enough to fill up this hole inside me.” Sander tapped his chest. “I need to know if it would have made it right. Do you understand?"
Paul did understand. It was the reason he waited for Kate that morning with two mugs of decent coffee. It was the reason he met her every morning for breakfasts that could never be anything else. He had to know if she would fill the empty burning hole inside him.
"It isn't fair.” The mad light in Sander's eyes flared. “If it wasn't for you, I might have found out with her. And if it wasn't for Kate, I might have found out with you."
No sense in denying it. If Kate hadn't filled up his heart, Paul would have closed up the inner void with Sander's bouquet of white flowers.
"It isn't right that both of you get what you want and I get nothing,” Sander said, his tone reasonable even though his eyes still glowed and tears still traced down his cheeks. “You'll have the rest of your lives to be together. I'm only asking for a year."
A year. Paul couldn't remember how to breathe. Inside his chest, the demon hummed excitedly. A year and it could be over. Forever. Kate wouldn't be in danger. And, after that, a normal life, together.
"Give me a year. Give yourself to me for one single year. Then I'll release you from the curse."
What was a year? He'd already lived over a hundred of them. How hard could it be to survive one year? Three hundred sixty five days, with the rest of his life as the prize at the end. With Kate as the prize at the end, never in danger, waiting to take him into her arms and heal whatever damage Sander could inflict. The demon would help him survive. Together, they could survive one more year and win their respective freedoms.
Paul took a deep breath. The room rushed in on him. He smelled the phantom perfume of the crushed white flowers. “A year?"
"You can't be broken, Paul, I can see that now. I admit failure. I admit you have won.” Sander opened his hand on the table's surface. The wine glass and the knife framed the smooth pink flesh and the maze of lines across the meat of his palm. “Give me this little thing, and then we'll be done with each other, forever."
Paul's heart thudded. Escape. A way out. Kate safe.
"This would be the last ritual. I swear. Next year, I'll undo the spell. But give me one year."
He could survive it, for Kate. For the first time in his life, he felt hope for a future. He stared at Sander's open hand. The fingers flexed nervously as he waited.
"Just one year, Paul."
"And after, you'll undo the curse?"
Sander nodded. He stared into Paul's face, looking as hungry for resolution as Paul felt.
Paul inched his hand across the table. His index finger touched Sander's.
Sander's hand snapped over Paul's, quick and vicious as a snake strike. Paul jerked back, but Sander's fingers closed too tightly over his wrist. He couldn't pull away. “One year,” Sander said in a gloating voice.
The demon flooded Paul with bitter dismay just as cold, wet air gusted into the kitchen.
"You idiot."
The voice was Kate's. Sander's head snapped up, and Paul jerked his head around. She stood in the kitchen doorway.
"Can't you see he's lying to you?"
Lying? The word dripped down through Paul's mind, clean rain through the smoke of Sander's words. The demon vibrated with budding anger, like a second heart beating in his chest. “Lying?"
"Lying."
Kate's arms were up, stiffly held out from her body.
"It's all he knows how to do,” she said.
It registered with Paul finally: she's holding a gun. Why the hell would she be holding a gun?
"He'd never give you up once he had you."
Sander came out of his chair. Paul scrambled back. His chair hit the floor with a slap of wood on wood. His back hit the door's frame. His head bumped something cold and hard: the barrel of Kate's gun.
"Get the hell out of the way.” Kate pushed his shoulder with her shoulder, advancing into the room. “How could you believe him?"
Because it was the only way I could save you from dying.
"I'm not lying!” Sander slammed his fists onto the table. His eyes turned to Paul and tried to hook into his flesh. “I'm not lying. I'm not lying, and,” he banged his fists with every word, “we made a deal!"
"Shut up.” Kate's voice snapped with a tone of command that made Sander's nostrils flare and his eyes widen.
"She just wouldn't want what was left of you,” Sander sneered, “after I was done with you."
"Shut up!"
Her tone made Sander jerk his eyes away from Paul. “What'll you do? Shoot me?"
Kate fired.
* * * *
The shot slammed into Kate's ears. The flash lit up the kitchen. The bullet took Sander in the upper right quadrant of his chest, spinning him around.
A year. What is it with these guys and a year?
Her finger tightened on the trigger again. Another report slapped through her. Sander's spine bowed and he toppled to his knees. Kate flicked open the barrel, shook out the remaining bullets. She turned on her heel and pitched the bullets out the door in one direction, the empty gun in another. She threw them hard and far. Sander would have no chance to shoot her back. At least not with her own gun.
Paul grabbed her by the arms. “What the hell are you doing? Are you crazy? That was our best chance!"
Kate closed her fists in Paul's shirt and dragged him down into a fierce kiss. Their teeth scraped; Kate tasted blood. “Shut up and let me save you,” she gasped when they broke apart.
"I won't let you..."
She stopped him with another kiss. She felt his hand tangle in her hair before he pushed her away.
The kitchen table scraped against the floor. Kate opened her eyes. Sander pulled himself to his feet. The gray silk of his shirt was puckered and burned, spotted with an initial spray of blood but nothing else. Even though she expected it intellectually, the sight of it made the hairs on her arms quiver straight up.
She hooked her hand on Paul's arm and pulled. “Come on. We have to get downstairs before he puts up the wards."
Paul set his heels, and Kate found herself trying to pull along a pile of iron and ice. “I won't let you...” Suddenly, his jaw clenched. Pain rippled across his face. Kate realized that the sun must be setting, and she was running out of time. “He'll kill you."
"Yes I will!"
Kate heard Paul whisper, “Oh, God,” just as she saw the gray blur coming at her. She pushed Paul away and spun in the other direction. Sander missed her completely. La
urie had been right. Like Vern, Sander was too used to magical solutions. And, like Vern, he thought Kate was too weak to win. Kate took three skipping steps back, put her body between Sander and the basement door.
Sander stumbled, caught himself after a few steps. But then Paul loomed behind him. He jerked Sander's arms behind his back and locked his arm around Sander's throat.
Kate froze. This was definitely not in her plan.
Sander went still as well, his eyes wide and his nostrils flaring. “Paul..."
Paul tightened his grip.
"Paul, no!” With one twist of his arm, Paul could ruin everything. He could damn both of them forever. They would have enough time for one last kiss. Maybe. Panic electrified Kate's nerves. “Don't you even think about killing him, Paul.” If she still had that gun, she would have put it to her own head, to stop him.
"I can't let him win,” Paul whispered.
"I won't let him win.” The scent of rosemary drifted past Kate's nostrils, and a bright light filled her mind. “Trust me, Paul."
She saw the struggle on his face. He'd been tortured too long to hope. Like Ellie, he was about to pull the trigger.
"Trust me, Paul. Trust love."
Kate took a step forward. Paul twisted his arm, and Sander gasped, choking. His hands pawed at Paul's forearm, his eyes rolling up in his head.
"Don't do this, Paul.” Kate captured Paul's gaze, pulled him in. For that moment, everything else ceased to exist. There was only Paul. “If you do this, you'll kill my heart. If I have to die, let me go down swinging."
Pain rippled across Paul's face—emotional from her plea, or physical from the curse? Kate couldn't be sure. His grip relaxed just a bit. Sander lunged, and Kate dared to hope. Then Paul jerked him back. The muscles in Paul's forearm flexed, and Kate gasped a breath to scream, NO.
"Quick.” Paul bowed Sander's spine, forcing his head onto his shoulder. “Touch him. I can't hold him much longer."
Yes! Kate surged forward, ripped open Sander's gray shirt. Buttons skittled across the floor. “I love you."
"Just win."
Kate put her palms flat against Sander's smooth chest. An icy shock flared through her nerves. Sizzling blue light flared over her hands. The symbols Vern had painted on her skin ignited with sudden white flame.
Bonds of Darkness Page 24