“Tell me,” he urged, skimming his lips up and down her neck.
She muffled something, her mouth pressed to his bare shoulder, his skin on fire.
“Say yes. And I’ll make it all better. You want me. Your body is trembling, aching for me.” He slid one finger inside her entrance, then pulled out, teasing her, knowing what her answer would be. “Say yes, sweet Katherine.”
She arched her neck, facing the demon prince who had broken her spirit and blackened her soul, knowing she would never return from the dark well he’d put her in.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“That’s what I thought.” He lifted her thighs wide and slammed inside her, growling with fierce pleasure. “Am I your master?” He rolled his spine in a sinuous wave, thrusting back in with brutal force.
She cried out…with pleasure, not pain.
“Yes.”
He fisted her hair with one hand and angled her face toward his. The unforgiving line of his jaw and the tyrannical tilt of his head showed her who this prince truly was. “Say it again,” he ground out.
“Yes.”
As he pounded into her, he whispered more lies, like the serpent to Eve. “You don’t need him. Only me. I am your master.”
Her mind drifted, longing to fly away from her reality. Even so, she heard her own raspy voice say, “Yes.”
Chapter Thirty-One
George appeared from the Void with a loud crack, still clutching the arm of the demon, Dommiel. The high demon in Bamal’s service had brought them to the precise location he’d been trying to reach for far too long. George took in his surroundings, his adrenaline riding high, his pulse pumping hard.
Definitely a throne room—dark but for two torches at the door. No guards. George glanced to the right. Three human-size portals, shimmering like mirrors. To the left, three more.
“Which one leads to Damas?”
Dommiel had offered assistance back in New Orleans. George didn’t trust him. He was quieter than the others, more observant, smarter. All good reasons not to trust him. But he was the only one willing to carry George into Hell after he and Jude had finally corralled and imprisoned Bamal. The chase had led them around the globe and back, but they’d finally caught their quarry.
“Which one?” George repeated, seething with new rage, knowing he would soon be in the presence of Damas and wouldn’t be permitted to kill him.
“Before I point you in the right direction, Slayer, I have a request.”
“Ah. I knew that you would. Tell me what you want.”
“New Orleans.”
“Don’t you think your master would like to keep it for himself?”
“My master,” he mumbled with contempt. “Wouldn’t you like to see him dethroned after the merry chase he took you and the hunter on?”
George considered, searching for a reason to reject the demon’s request.
“Look. As soon as you walk through that portal into Damas’s domain, I could sift away. I won’t. I’ll wait. I’ll keep your way clear till you and the woman return.”
“How do you know there’s a woman?”
George’s blood drained away at the mere mention of Katherine. He hadn’t spoken about her to anyone but Jude in decades. He certainly hadn’t informed Bamal or his minions why he needed an escort into the underworld.
Dommiel’s expression sobered, his shoulders slackening as he casually slipped both hands into his trench coat. When he spoke, his words were low but clear, even solemn.
“I’ve been watching you, Slayer. There is only one reason a man throws his life in harm’s way over and over again.”
George turned toward the portals, hardening his resolve, despite the fact that he teetered on a razor’s edge.
The demon spoke again, repeating his offer. “I’ll hold your way clear. I’ll see that you both get through. In return, give me New Orleans. I want a place of my own. I want that ass, Bamal, somewhere else. I’ll keep the rules of Flamma as long as I rule in New Orleans.”
George heaved out a deep breath. “Agreed. Now, which one?”
“The third,” he said, pointing to the wall on the right.
George pulled Silversong from her sheath. She felt good in his grip as he marched toward the portal, which shimmered like water on the wall. Stepping across, he felt the sucking, wet sensation of passing through, then found himself dry on the other side. Prepared to battle demon guards, he was surprised to find Damas’s throne empty. His blood raced like wildfire through his veins. He was so close.
The throne sat empty, as did the smaller one next to it. George swallowed the new fury burning up his throat, knowing full well for whom the smaller one was meant.
Strangely, one marble column had a blackened crack splitting it just above eye level. While an aura of artifice hung in the thin air of Bamal’s realm, here the world felt heavy, laden with untold burdens, hidden secrets and lies. When he paused, closed his eyes and listened, he could feel Damas’s power weighing down the very air he breathed. Even now, after all that George had done to get here, he wasn’t sure Damas would accept the proposition he planned to make or if Damas would even be willing to trade the woman he apparently saw as his queen. George’s gaze fell on the smaller throne again. He gripped the hilt of his sword more tightly and marched on.
The main corridor was deserted. He wondered what kind of prince kept no guards or lackeys about. An arrogant one. The entire first floor was empty. He apparently didn’t keep guards of any kind. As he crept up the stone stairs past a giant painting of the Fall, he sensed a presence behind him. When he turned, it was gone, whoever or whatever it was. He moved more swiftly up the carpeted steps till he reached the stone corridor at the top. That was when he heard her.
He knew the sounds, and he knew it was Katherine, for she had sounded the same on the one night of heaven they’d spent together at Thornton. Steeling himself for what he would find beyond the open door up ahead where firelight spilled into the corridor, he stalked forward, dreading every step he took.
He entered the chamber, but there was no one in the canopy bed with an emerald green coverlet. On the other side of the room, Katherine hung bound against the wall—nude—her arms in a vee above her head, her legs wrapped around Damas’s naked body as he pounded inside her.
George had tried to prepare himself. He’d tried to imagine this moment and seeing this very event take place, but it was all for naught. The physical assault of nausea and bile rising in his throat at the sight of Damas thrusting his hips while Katherine moaned with pleasure threatened to undo him entirely. The one thing…the only thing that kept him from driving a spear through Damas’s back was Katherine. She was here, against that wall, being taken by the demon George hated with unforgivable fury, because of him. He had done this.
Katherine’s head fell back, her mouth open in passion. She must’ve sensed a presence, for her head shot up sharply and her eyes opened. The strangled cry she made when her gaze landed on him nearly brought him to his knees. Damas stopped, still panting, and pressed a slow kiss to her cheek before he stepped away and turned with a knowing smile cutting across his face.
Katherine froze, watching with terror-filled eyes. George focused his attention on Damas, who didn’t bother to hide his naked body or his arousal, another slap in his face.
“Curious to find you here, Draconis. How is that possible, exactly?” Damas didn’t seem alarmed, only surprised.
The blood pounded furiously through George’s head. He could barely keep himself in one place, wanting to leap three steps and plunge his sword into Damas’s black heart. But he couldn’t.
George reached into a satchel around his chest and pulled out a photograph. “I have something for you.”
Damas eyed the photo dangling in George’s hand, clearly wary of reaching for it when George still clutched his sword in the other. “Plac
e it on the bed and back away.”
George did. As Damas came forward and lifted the photograph to observe it, George let his gaze wander to Katherine, his heart shattering at her still bound and vulnerable form. She panted wildly. Her expression of disbelief fell away, replaced by despair. Biting her lip, she turned her head on a stifled sob. Her golden hair fell to her waist in tangled waves and partially covered her body. She sagged in the cuffs binding her to the wall, clearly helpless to free herself or to escape this shame.
“I take it you want to trade a particular someone for my brother.”
George couldn’t speak, his throat thick with frustrated fury. He nodded. The black-and-white photograph depicted a drugged Bamal sprawled on a hotel bed, the only way to keep him from sifting away, with Jude leaning against the wall over one shoulder and Uriel over the other. George waited to see how much Damas believed in the prophecy of old. Only true believers would do anything they could to keep the prophecy from being broken. If one demon prince was destroyed, the prophecy might not come true, and the Flamma of Dark’s chances at dominion on earth would be markedly diminished.
“What are you using on him? Opium?”
“Absinthe. He’s in a perfectly contented state, though he has no idea where he is or who he is at the moment.” George forced his gaze to remain on Damas. “If I don’t return in an hour, Uriel will kill him. If I don’t return with her, Uriel will kill him.”
Only Flamma with superior power like archangels held the power to destroy completely, wipe from existence. George wished he had that power right now, but he knew if he harmed Damas, he and Katherine would never get out alive.
Damas made a disgusted sound. “You would start a war over a woman?”
“Yes. In a heartbeat.” A rivulet of sweat coursed down his back along his spine.
“Uriel wouldn’t kill a prince without heavenly permission,” he said, mockingly.
“If you believe that, then you don’t know Uriel at all. He has never played by the rules. Entirely. The very reason we have an army of hunters chasing down filthy, fucking dogs like you.”
His voice had dropped several degrees, more growl than words. It was impossible to restrain himself much longer. His sword arm shook, not from the weight of the sword but from the intensity with which he held the weapon, longing to see it driven home into the demon prince who stood in naked arrogance before him.
“Let her go. And we will let him go.” He glanced back at Katherine, still cuffed to the wall like an animal.
“How do I know you’ll keep your bargain?”
“Right now, Bamal’s servant Dommiel guards the portal in Bamal’s throne room. You know I can’t sift in or out of hell without a proper escort. Dommiel will sift with us back to the location in the photograph, because he knows exactly where it is, and will bring Bamal to you safely.”
“That’s not a guarantee. You could kill them both when you sift back to earth.”
“Not if I want to be left alone by you for all of eternity. Not if I want Katherine left alone for as long as she lives.”
“Ah.” He smiled. “I see.” His gaze rested on Katherine, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, her face turned away from them both, sagging against her shoulder.
Finally, Damas approached Katherine. Every muscle in George’s body went rigid, wound tight and ready to strike. Damas gripped her jaw and tilted her face toward his. Her pained expression of longing, suffering and shame drove a dagger through George’s chest, knocking the wind out of him.
“The surrender was sweetest with you,” Damas said to her. “Are you sure you want her back, Slayer? I’m not sure this wound will ever heal.” Damas looked back at George, keeping hold of Katherine. “I don’t believe she’ll ever be yours now.”
Acid burned like a pool of lava in his gut. That was exactly what Damas wanted all along. Little did he know how much George loved her. Little did he understand what love was at all.
“I will cherish the day I kill you, demon. Let. Her. Go.”
Not one to be ordered in his own fortress, Damas clenched his jaw. “You have one minute to get out of my domain.”
He waved his hand, and her cuffs vanished into black smoke. His essence. The bastard. Katherine crumbled to the floor. Damas stepped over her as if she were garbage and disappeared into the wall.
George leaped toward her, sheathing his sword. “Katherine.”
“Don’t,” she whispered toward the floor, her head hanging. “I’m disgusting.”
Yanking off his coat, he wrapped her body before lifting her. She was light and frail, but it felt so good to physically have her safe in his arms. She didn’t resist, although she murmured, “Let me go. Leave me here.”
“Never.”
He barreled down the stairs and through Damas’s throne room, leaping through the portal into Bamal’s domain. Dommiel reclined on the throne, his arms crossed and legs outstretched. He lurched to his feet, concern creasing his brow. Without a word about the naked woman cowering against George’s chest, Dommiel gripped George’s shoulder and sifted with them back to the Roosevelt Hotel on the edge of the French Quarter in New Orleans.
They appeared in the room depicted in the photograph George had given to Damas. Uriel, not bothering to cast illusion over his white, gold-tipped wings, turned from the window overlooking the city. Jude didn’t move from his position on the sofa, elbows on knees, hands clasped.
“Let Bamal go. Put him somewhere his lackeys can find him,” George said to Uriel before turning to Jude. “New Orleans is now Dommiel’s territory. And it will be yours as well. Alexander will take over in London.”
George didn’t need to clarify that Jude would now be Dommiel’s keeper, ensuring the high demon and his minions didn’t cross the line. Jude also didn’t protest being reassigned from England. He stood and gave a deep nod. Uriel strode across the room without a word and took hold of Bamal, then disappeared with a sharp crackle of energy. George glanced at his dearest friend, who had endured all manner of hellish obstacles to help him get back the woman in his arms. His gratitude welled and lodged in his throat. George nodded to his friend and vanished, sifting through the dark Void, gripping her tighter against him, knowing he’d lose his soul for good if he lost her again.
He landed on firm ground, the front lawn of Thornton, the house dark but for a few lights left on for him. Katherine hadn’t lifted her head since he’d pulled her into his arms, though he felt her shallow breath against his neck. He marched past the wards and into his home, sifting to the bedroom in which she’d stayed so long ago. With the exception of adding electrical lighting and a bathroom with proper plumbing, he hadn’t changed one thing. He’d kept the bedding, the wallpaper and all the furniture exactly as it had been. Her luggage still remained in the large wardrobe. Her dresses still hung there, though she couldn’t wear them anymore without drawing attention. Not in this century.
He tucked her into her bed, gently pulling away the coat he’d used to cover her. Kneeling at the hearth, he started a fire in the grate. Though they’d traveled far from that pit of Hell and were sealed behind safe wards, Damas’s presence lingered in the room, still barricading him from her. She had pulled the covers up to her chin and faced away from him toward the open window and the view of a beautiful starry night.
He pulled a chair to her bedside, sat and said nothing. His body trembled from the entire experience now, his adrenaline wearing off, his nerves returning full force. He’d gotten her back. Finally. But the reality was that she was no longer the woman she had been before Damas had taken her.
“Katherine. Can I get you anything? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
He wasn’t sure what he’d find after all that time, but she hadn’t aged at all. Not a single day. When she finally spoke, her words weren’t what he’d expected.
“What was that parchment you gave to Damas to make him gi
ve me up?”
George cleared his throat. “A photograph.”
“What is that?”
He’d forgotten. She didn’t know what that was. “Since you’ve been gone, there have been many inventions. One is the camera. It takes exact images of people standing in front of the camera. We had a photo of Damas’s brother in our captivity.”
She made no reply. The silence stretched like hollow wind across the moor. George was lost as to what to do for her.
“Can I get you anything?”
“How long have I been gone?”
“A very long time.”
She rolled over to face him, a cold mask hiding the woman he once knew. “How long?”
“A hundred years.”
She closed her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek. He stood and took a step toward her, longing to comfort her.
“Don’t.” She met his gaze, her mask broken into an expression of deep pain. “Please don’t,” she begged, like the submissive she was for Damas.
Slowly, he stepped back and sat in the chair, though it took all his will not to pull her into his arms.
“Katherine. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t speak. Please.” She rolled away from him again. She didn’t make a sound, but the shaking of her shoulders told him enough. He wanted to claw his own hair out, he felt so helpless. Now that she was finally in his home, he realized she still wasn’t safe.
Too long. Damas had had her too long. Nevertheless, if he’d had her a hundred years more, George would still have fought to get her back.
Bamal had been crafty, evading capture for decades. It wasn’t until they’d cornered his servant, Dommiel, who agreed to assist without too much coercion, that they’d finally been able to imprison the demon lord. George had known that Dommiel didn’t seem the type to be coerced, or certainly not that easily without having an ulterior motive for himself. The trade was of little consequence. He would’ve given Dommiel the entire southern region of the United States if he’d asked for. For that matter, he would’ve given him the whole bloody world. All that mattered to him was the frail woman lying in the bed before him.
The Deepest Well Page 23