And why should she want Sorcha dead?
Suddenly, the pillow lifted and she tasted air.
She knew it could only have been a moment with that pillow on her face, but it felt like forever. Her lungs filled with sweet oxygen and she knew, felt in her core, in the stretch of flesh over her expanded bones, that she had fully shifted. She had turned and still been unable to fight off Darby. How was it possible that Darby had overpowered her?
Gasping, she jerked to her side and glanced wildly around.
Darby collapsed to the floor, shuddering, holding herself tightly as she convulsed.
Jonah dove out of the bedroom, a streak of movement.
Trembling, Sorcha gave Darby a wide berth. Still unsure if the woman was out to kill her, she staggered after Jonah.
With one hand pressed to her heaving chest, she leaned against the bedroom door, gasping, struggling to catch her breath. Bewildered, she watched Jonah tear through the living room, vaulting over furniture as if he was being chased.
He looked like a madman racing naked around the condo. Possessed.
He clutched his sword, wielding it like some kind of warrior of old, swinging it through the air. At first it appeared he struck nothing, stabbing into empty space.
And then, she realized what was happening. She understood.
He wasn’t being chased. He was chasing … something.
Squinting, she detected the cloudlike shadow twisting through the room, over furniture, around objects. A demon. Jonah followed it, slicing furiously and stabbing with his sword. He’d turned, too. His body was huge, his skin a tawny bronze, rippling with muscle and sinew.
She tried to follow his quick movements, but he moved so fast he looked almost as blurred and hazy as the demon’s shadow he chased.
The croaky voice at her side made her jump. She turned, snarling, on Darby, remembering that moments ago her friend had tried to kill her.
“Oh, God,” Darby managed, clinging to the door jamb, watching in horror. Her lips trembled.
“What do you see?” Sorcha snapped. “What’s it look like?”
Whatever Darby saw as she gazed at that shadow must have been terrible. She didn’t even flicker an eyelash at Sorcha in full shift beside her. She rubbed her arms and shook her head fiercely, gawking at the demon shadow. “It’s horrible,” she whispered. “He … it took me in my sleep.”
Sorcha released a slow, hissing breath, understanding at once. A demon had used Darby to try to kill her.
SIXTEEN
Sorcha dragged a shaking hand down her face, her own heart hammering with a frenzied beat. Steel clanged loudly on the air as Jonah’s sword made contact with a lamppost.
Darby shook her head, her fiery hair a floating nimbus around her head. “It’s never happened to me before. They’ve never invaded me and made me do things—” Her voice ended with a choke. “They’re not supposed to do that to a witch. Not without the witch submitting, giving consent …”
Sorcha grabbed Darby’s arm and forced her forward, pointing to the living room. “What do you see?” she demanded, her voice thick and garbled in her mouth.
Darby shook her head again. “I’ve never seen a demon like this. He wears his bones on the outside, stretched over this horrible, gross”—her fingers worked on the air—“black flesh. I see the mark of the fall on him … Jonah sees it, too … it’s right near a horn that’s sticking out of his back.”
Sorcha absorbed her words, tried to imagine the scene described as she stared at Jonah chasing the shadow and plunging his sword into it again and again. “The mark of the fall … what’s that?”
“The only place he’s vulnerable. Jonah has to stab him there to kill him.” Darby yelped suddenly. “There! He almost got him!”
The shadow took a sudden dive toward the front door. Jonah dove after it, landed on top of it. For a moment it looked as though he were riding the air. The great shadow billowed up around him, swallowing him in a cloud of smoke and char.
Jonah lifted his sword high in both hands and plunged. The sword embedded itself in the carpet with a heavy thwack. Sorcha watched, her eyes aching, wide in her face.
Darby shouted, the sound exultant.
The demon cloud grew then into a great billow, rising, twisting up, up, up, until it reached high in the air, where it faded, evaporated like fast-fading smoke.
“Is he gone?”
Darby nodded. “Yeah.” She released a breathy little laugh. “He did it. Sent it back to hell.”
Jonah rose and yanked his sword from the floor with a vicious pull, indifferent to his nudity. His bronze-hued flesh rippled like a beautiful animal as he moved. He stared up at the last curling wisps of shadow. He swallowed, the tendons in his neck working. “What the hell happened here?” he spat out.
Eager to reclaim some semblance of calm, of normalcy, Sorcha forced her heart rate down into an ordinary range and shifted back. Her bones tugged, pulling into place with a faint crackle. The heat at her core ebbed.
Jonah pointed a finger in the direction of where the demon had once been and glared at Darby. “Explain how that demon took possession of you.”
Darby looked at Sorcha uncertainly, apology all over her face. “I don’t know. He must have sensed me when I was having a vision …” Her voice faded, her hazel eyes bleak.
“In your sleep?” Jonah barked. “How in the hell did he take possession of you and force you to stuff a pillow over Sorcha’s face?”
Darby waved her arms. “I—I don’t know! I don’t remember doing that! The dream realm operates at a different level. I guess as long as I didn’t wake, he could guide me—”
Jonah advanced on her, his expression furious enough to make Sorcha cringe. “And why didn’t you just wake up?”
Darby’s eyes sparked. “I never wake during my visions. I’m practically catatonic in those moments. Look, I wasn’t trying to smother your girlfriend! And can you shift back, please! You’re terrifying yelling at me like this!”
Jonah inhaled a deep breath, the muscles of his chest undulating.
Sorcha stepped between them. “Jonah,” she said in a low voice. “Get hold of yourself. It’s not her fault.”
Darby moved to the bar counter, and sank down on a stool, shaking her head in slow torment, inhaling deeply, as though she was fighting tears. “This has never happened to me,” she muttered softly. “What if it happens again …”
Jonah drew in a deep breath. His body turned back then, shifted in a blurring flash.
“It can’t … if it does, then anyone with you is at risk,” Jonah snapped.
The color bled from her face, and Sorcha knew what Darby was thinking then. Her family. Her friends. Any future family. A lover, husband, children … She could never have any of that and keep them safe from her.
“Sorcha.” Darby looked at her then. “I’m so sorry.”
“Of course,” Sorcha cut in. “Do we have to talk about this now?” she asked quickly, her voice almost shaky. “I … think I need a shower.”
“There’s plenty to talk about,” Jonah growled, marching into the bedroom. He was back in an instant wearing a pair of boxers.
Facing them both again, he took his time glaring between them. “You,” he said, pointing to Darby. “Go home. You’re going to have to figure this out … talk with your aunts. You can’t be around us, trying to hunt demons, when you’re a ticking time bomb.”
“Home? What about training Sorcha? You need bait to—”
“That’s over.” His gaze settled on Sorcha, intent, hard. “It was a bad idea from the start. We’re finished.”
Sorcha felt his words like a punch to the gut. She held her ground, masking the impact the words had on her.
“I can’t train you anymore,” he announced.
“You mean you won’t,” Sorcha corrected.
His eyes stared down at her, cold as ice. “Whatever. This isn’t going to work. I’ve been kidding myself, kidding you.”
“Jona
h,” Darby pleaded. “After what just happened, I need to be around you.” Her face flushed, as though it embarrassed her to admit this. In that moment, Sorcha could not recall any of the jealousy she’d harbored toward the witch. She felt only pity.
She remembered Jonah telling her that this was what he hated, what he could not tolerate. Someone needing him. Still …
She stared at him expectantly, waiting, certain he could not refuse Darby when she was in such desperate straits.
Jonah dragged his hand through his hair as if he would pull it out by the roots. “Don’t you hear me? I just want to be left alone.” Releasing his hair, he swung around on Sorcha, leveling on her a blistering glare—as if she was responsible for all this mess. “You need to go home, too.”
“No.” She shook her head slowly, wondering what had happened to him tonight. Why was he so angry? She was the one Darby had tried to smother. Where had the tenderness she felt whenever he touched her gone? She had grown accustomed to it. Craved it.
“Did you see what just happened?” He swiped a hand savagely through the air. “If I hadn’t been here, that demon would have used Darby to kill you.”
Indignation burned down her throat. “She wouldn’t have killed me.” She wasn’t certain of that, but she felt the need to argue the point. She’d survived this long without Jonah, after all.
He pointed at her. “You’re not a slayer. You can’t pretend to be one. Go home.” Something quivered deep inside her, a jagged, shuddering pain at the ring of finality in his voice, at his flat, dark stare. He was finished. Finished with her. “Just go. Pretend you and I never met up with each other again.”
She drew a deep, wounded breath, getting it at last. Understanding. He was afraid. Afraid to get involved, afraid of being needed. And failing. “I took you for many things,” she whispered, “but never a coward.”
He jerked back, flinched as if she had reached out a hand to slap him, but then he changed direction, came at her, an angry light in his eyes.
“Jonah!” Darby’s voice rang out, stopping him cold.
He inhaled sharply and looked at Sorcha, standing there as if he didn’t even know her. With a shake of his head, he growled, “Go to your room, Darby. Start packing.”
For a moment, they all held still, emotions swirling thickly around them.
Then Darby finally moved, her voice tight and small, her eyes suspiciously bright. She looked like such a little girl that Sorcha felt a surge of protectiveness toward her. But before Sorcha could do anything, Darby was gone, vanishing into her room.
Alone with Jonah, Sorcha looked down, glared at the wood floor as if she saw something there in its swirling pattern, something that made sense out of why he was sending her away.
She shook her head in frustration, her hands curling open and shut into fists at her sides. It was happening all over again. Damn him. “Why can’t I stay and train?”
“This isn’t for you. I know you’re looking for purpose, meaning … but this will only get you killed.”
She laughed brokenly, inhaling through her nose and catching his scent in the shirt she wore—his shirt. She’d put it on sometime during the night, cold in bed beside him.
“Look,” he bit out. “I want us to part knowing that I didn’t set you on a course that’s going to get you killed.”
“You, you, you,” Sorcha hissed. “We’re discussing my life. I’m not a little girl anymore whose fate is in someone else’s hands … it’s not in your hands anymore, Jonah.” Bitterness filled her as she glared at him, absorbing the tiresome truth of that statement.
He stared at her steadily for several moments, his gaze cool and unflinching. “You know, when I first saw you—when I realized it was you—I was so glad, so relieved that you were alive.” He blinked long and hard before reopening his eyes, settling them brightly on her.
Their gazes clung. She held her breath, not wanting to ruin this moment. He had shared so little with her. Just his body. Never any other piece of himself. For once, she felt that she was seeing the real him.
“I’m not sending you to your death now,” he finished at last, his voice as resolute as she had ever heard it.
Crossing her arms, she thrust out her chin, determined that he not slip away, that she not lose this moment, this closeness …
“Maybe I like it here too much to go.” Dropping her arms, she pushed out her chest, letting the hard points of her breasts pebble against the cotton of Jonah’s shirt. “Maybe you like me too much to let me go.”
He moved before she could blink, grabbing her by both arms and nearly lifting her off her feet. “Can’t you see you’re making a fool of yourself? Staying here when I don’t want you?”
She flinched. His words drove dangerously near the old wound. Her cheeks heated with the stinging memory of her sisters, quick to tease her for trailing after him. Or watching him. Or inventing excuses to talk to him.
His voice continued, sharp as a whip. “This thinking you can be a slayer when you’re not is pathetic, Sorcha.” He shook his head. “Go. Just leave me alone and go. I never wanted you here. I never asked you to come knocking on my door.”
“Then you’ll have to let go of me,” she hissed between her teeth, certain if he didn’t unhand her in that moment, she would do him harm, come at him with teeth bared and fingers clawing. I never wanted you here. Who knew he could be so cruel again? She would never have thought it. “It looks like my father taught you well after all. You’re an expert at being a real shithead.”
His gaze burned her up. “Yeah.” He nodded, the motion jerky, fierce. “You won’t be alone for long. Enjoy your money. Why don’t you find a boy gigolo?”
“Bastard.” Her hand whipped up, fingers curled, ready to claw his face. He caught her hand in a crushing grip, jerked her against him with an angry growl.
The tiny hairs on the nape of her neck tingled and she knew she had provoked him too far. His face flickered, blurred, his eyes flame-bright.
The air changed subtly, thickened, grew electric. He snatched both her wrists and pushed her back into the bedroom. Shoving her on the bed, he pulled her hands above her head.
“What are you doing?” she demanded as he pressed the hard length of his body down over hers.
His unsmiling face stared down at her, watching her intently as his head dropped. She dodged his mouth.
His eyes narrowed to slits, mouth thinning into a grim line. Releasing her wrists, he flipped her over on the bed, crushing her beneath him. His breath warmed her neck, puckering her flesh. A small, tantalizing shiver rippled through her.
He grasped her hips in rough hands, pulling them up slightly from the bed. A gasp escaped her as he nudged her thighs apart. She wore nothing except his shirt. Nothing barred her from him.
“What are you—” Her voice froze, trapped in her throat as his hands slipped beneath her, up and under her shirt to fondle her breasts. The hard bulge of him prodded at her ass.
His fingers rolled, tweaked and squeezed her nipples into rock-hard points. Desire pooled low in her belly. A keening moan escaped her. She turned her face and rested one cheek against the cool sheets, unable to move, unable to resist the delicious assault.
Then his hands fell away.
She moaned in disappointment. Until she felt him yank her shirt higher. Cool air caressed her. His hand traveled over the backs of her thighs, her ass. A hissing cry escaped her when he slid down and nipped at her quivering cheeks. His hand slid between her legs, fingers probing, pushing deep inside her from behind.
She came out of her skin, sobbing into the bed as his fingers worked inside her, in and out in erotic drags. Then his touch vanished. An anguished whimper ripped from her throat, swallowed up in the pulsing night. She bit her bottom lip, waiting, desperate for what was to come, what she had thought she would never have again because he’d just told her to get out of his life.
Her body burned, ached, trembling between the hard press of him and the bed.
; Strong hands grasped her hips, fingers digging into her softness, lifting her to accept the sudden, hot push of him sliding home inside her. He penetrated her deeply and a scream welled up in her throat.
His hands shifted, hauling her up almost to her knees, angling her for deeper invasion, anchoring her for each of his thrusts. She clawed the mattress, fighting for a handhold, leverage. Her knees felt like water. Only his hands on her hips kept her from sliding flat on the bed in a shuddering, boneless pile.
Cries tore from her mouth at the slick heat of him working over her. He lifted her higher. His breath came hard and fast in her ear as he ground into her.
One of his hands skimmed her hip, sliding around, dipping to find that spot between her thighs begging for attention. He knew her body so well. She gasped as his fingers worked, moving in fast little circles against her clit until she broke, shattered, convulsed beneath the man who had become her entire world. Again.
A few more powerful thrusts and he stilled, buried to the hilt. A mixed sense of elation and horror grabbed hold of her heart, squeezing tightly. A bitter wave rolled over her. He’d just told her he wanted her to leave, so what the hell was this? A farewell screw?
Feeling used and not a little unclean, she lifted her cheek from the bed and gazed dully at the headboard, the ceiling, anywhere. Moonlight washed the walls, tingeing the plaster blue.
He brushed the back of her neck, and she shuddered. “Sorcha—”
“No,” she choked out, loathing for herself—for him—burning up her throat as she squeezed out from beneath him, wrestling her shirt back down. Her hands shook as she rose to her feet beside the bed. “Don’t even talk to me. Don’t speak!”
Something flickered in his gaze but he didn’t say a word.
She looked away from his face. That’s what got her in trouble. That damn handsome face made her knees go weak.
She stalked to his closet and pulled out her luggage, trying to ignore the wetness between her thighs.
“What are you doing?” He hadn’t moved from the bed.
“You’re talking,” she snapped.
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