by Megan Starks
He carried the body, slung over one shoulder like some lumpy, rolled-up rug, and she carted the trash bags. It would be stupid to bury them together, but if they managed a decent conjuring, burning the evidence would be enough.
They hiked for a solid twenty minutes, boots shushing in the underbrush and the pine trees thick around them. The woods smelled of peat and ripe persimmons. There was no breeze, no rustling of leaves, and they relied on Shade’s heightened vision to guide their path in the dark. He stepped and she followed. Neither of them spoke, breathing hard in the wet summer air.
At last, they settled on a spot deep enough into the woods that she felt confident no one would stumble upon. He dropped the body unceremoniously, squatting to catch his breath. Bowed wide, his back looked pale and sheened against the backdrop of night. A symbol as red and dark as drying blood marred his left shoulder. She stepped closer, looking down at him to get a better view. It looked like a tattoo, a series of connected, slashed lines, and yet it swam and flared at the edges of her vision when she stared at it too long. A powerful rune had been seared into his skin—a branding.
“A word of binding?” she asked.
“A name,” he confirmed. “Rhogan.”
She reached down to touch the mark, fingers brushing over his skin. He stood, saying nothing while she traced the lines that formed his master’s brand. It smoldered beneath her fingertips, warming at her touch, and she jerked her fingers back, appalled. Something about the mark made the pit of her chest hurt—felt so wrong she ached in her very soul. She wanted it gone.
He turned to face her and she could see the faint etchings of another symbol, a different brand, scarred and splotchy, barely visible over his heart. She’d glimpsed it before, in the Office of the Paranormal, but with everything that’d happened, she’d forgotten about it, hadn’t realized what it was.
She found her fingers moving to touch it, unbidden. In response, the mark flared to life beneath her hand, bright and strong, and he gasped as if she’d burned him. But the look on his face wasn’t one of pain. He closed his eyes and his breathing sped, but she didn’t pull her hand away.
“They tried to get rid of it. Tried to burn it away, cut it out.” His voice was hoarse with emotion. “Made them furious that I wouldn’t let go. But I couldn’t have even if I’d wanted to.”
She wanted to ask whose name it was, but couldn’t, overcome with the terrible, wracking feeling that she knew.
“Why?” It felt like her very soul was being pulled into the palm of her hand, that it was pulsing in beat with Shade’s shuddering heart.
He leaned closer to her, brows drawing together. His irises looked impossibly dark in the dimness of the night, and she realized with a shock that he was watching her with a demon’s eyes.
“It was my entire life’s purpose,” he answered, as if explaining that the Earth was round or that there were seven Gates of Hell. As far as he was concerned, it was an irrefutable truth.
“Who was your entire life’s purpose?” she asked, unable to hold the words in. They spilled out like a hasty love confession, and she bit the inside of her mouth, cheeks burning.
Shade lifted her hand to his lips, kissing down the line of her knuckles and then licking and sucking at the pads of her fingertips. His teeth scraped her skin and she shuddered. His eyes, blacker than a moonless night, watched her with the intensity of a predator.
“I can’t tell you that,” he murmured before nipping the underside of her wrist.
She felt like the world was caving in under her feet. She was falling, lost and scared. It had to be a lie—a crafted illusion, a rewriting of reality. Or he was manipulating her, implying what he thought she wanted to hear. Either way, it couldn’t be real. There was no way a boy could have ever belonged to her. No way she’d died as a child.
“Stop,” she said, voice cracking, and the mark on his chest died, cold and dormant.
She tried to pull away from him, but he held her wrist tight, unrelenting.
“Calm down,” he said.
“No. Let go.”
His nails had elongated into claws, long and sharp enough that they bit into her wrist where he gripped her. He jerked her flush against the front of his body, crushing her to him with an arm crossed over her back, nails digging into the exposed skin of her shoulder. She gasped against him, breathing in the scent of his skin, face pressed to the side of his neck.
He smelled like cold rain and thunder-struck clouds, tasted electric against her lips. She twisted but couldn’t get away, could feel nothing but the hard cage of his body around hers.
His lips moved in her hair; his calloused fingers rubbed trembling circles over the nape of her neck.
She couldn’t explain it—didn’t understand it—but she sobbed, wretched-sounding and body-wracking, against his collarbone, and then bit him to quiet her crying. She ached with a terrible, consuming sadness from a loss she didn’t even remember, that might not even be real.
She clung to him, hugging him as if she’d lose herself if she let go. “How many times?” she asked. “How often have you lied to me since we first met?”
He tensed, dangerously silent.
“Tell me.” She put all of her emotion behind the words, flooded them with the bitterness and bereavement that coated the tip of her tongue.
In response, Shade sucked in a sharp breath. The mark on his chest glinted and gleamed like a shooting star before once more falling dark.
“Outright or including omissions and misdirections?” he asked, the words grinding from between his teeth. “And define when you mean when you say that we first met.”
“Outright. And three months ago.”
He sagged a bit in relief, but it was short-lived. “At least twenty-six, twenty-seven times? Maybe more. I can’t remember. But I—” He licked his lips. “It wasn’t to hurt you. I had my reasons.”
And that wasn’t even counting lies of omission or lesser manipulations? No, she couldn’t forgive that.
“Don’t ever lie to me again,” she commanded, eyes closed against her tears, the weight of her emotions—the sheer strength of her will—empowering her words. “I don’t care if you can’t tell me, but don’t lie.”
He trembled, his whole body responding to her. There was loose magic in the air, she could taste it, acrid behind her lips. Her words were binding him.
“It will be done,” he intoned, sounding like he’d said the words a hundred times before, and maybe he had.
He swallowed hard, looking both worried and strangely pleased. Turning her face into his neck once more, Gisele felt steadied in his embrace—and calm, like she’d gained a grip on herself once again. She cupped a hand to the back of his head. There were too many things spinning out of control. If focusing on Shade kept her sane, grounded, then she’d use him without apology—anything to save herself, and maybe in the process, him as well. She leaned back to look at him, and he loosened his grip to let her.
Sliding her hand from the back of his head to the side of his neck, she traced the circular burn mark from the collar. He had enough marks on his body. Gisele wanted them gone, every one that felt wrong, that marred the perfection of his skin. But this and the elghoul’s claw slashes were the only ones she knew how to get rid of. In the depths of her mind, she knew she should be more worried over getting rid of the body, but she couldn’t seem to bring herself to care about anything other than her need to see Shade healed and whole.
She kissed him, soft and sweet, and he melted into her, his body relaxing as his eyes slid closed. He gripped her hips, loose and gentle at first, but then pulled her closer to bump against him, unable to bridle his need.
“Please,” Shade breathed, but she ignored him, focusing, trying to hone her intent, trying to heal him with her kiss and touch.
She pulled him back to her mouth, and he obliged, deepening the kiss as she caressed the ridge across his throat. He groaned, hands sliding up her back, gripping her shirt before slipping around to
the front, hesitating below her breasts.
“Gigi, tell me I can,” he begged.
“Stop talking,” she shushed him, ignoring his request and the way his palms rubbed over the dips and curves of her body, leaving her taut and tingling. She moved to kiss his throat, trailing his burn mark with her tongue. He shuddered, breath catching. But as far as she could tell, it was having no effect toward healing him at all. Maybe he’d been right when he’d said she had nothing to do with it in the car after the Office of the Paranormal. She barely noticed when he shifted his hands down, returning to grip her hips.
Why wasn’t it working? She’d flushed his skin, made him redden and squirm and moan, but he was no different, no better than he’d been before.
“You’re unhappy with me,” he said. “You’re rejecting me.”
“I am not,” she answered, but she realized he was right. She was frustrated. Blaming him for everything that had recently exploded in her life. “I’m sorry, it’s just been a tough…several months.”
“Since I showed up.”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes and relaxed against him, hands pressed to his chest. He held still, waiting, scarcely breathing. She’d accepted Beast so easily into her life, why couldn’t she seem to allow the same for Shade? Hadn’t he earned his place? He was tangled up in this mess, snared and struggling just as much as she was.
Her feelings toward him softened, resentment fading away, and he sucked in a sharp intake of air as his body reknitted at an accelerated, near-bursting rate. He groaned and bowed against her as if she’d force a shape-shift from him, would rip the change she desired right from the center of him. His chest felt hot beneath her palms, the rune-mark over his heart dazzling like a blood-red garnet, and she honed her intent, funneling the whole of her desire into it.
Heal, damn you.
He cried out, fangs ripping from his gums, cutting into his bottom lip, longer and thicker than she’d ever seen them before, and she heard a snap—the sound of a sail unfurling—as his wings spread wide behind him.
His wings were blacker than the night, an impossibly huge and dark silhouette spanning before her, blotting out the pale light of the distant moon. Awed, she reached a hand out to brush the underside, pleased to find it was warm and soft as fine leather. The wing twitched, flexing where she rubbed against the supple skin, and she hooked her fingers under to the backside, feeling the scales there, ridged and rough as stones. It was a strange sensation, even for her, someone familiar with the feel of protruding horns.
Shade flushed and averted his gaze. The mark on his neck was gone. She peeled free his bandages to reveal the smooth expanse of his oblique muscles. She’d healed him.
“Changing consumes magic and energy,” he said, sounding a little amazed himself. “It doesn’t create it, doesn’t wash you in a flood of it. What did you do, Gigi? I feel—I haven’t felt like this in years. It hurts, but it’s a good hurt. It feels tender like new skin.”
“You can fly?” It squeaked out from her too tight vocal chords, a stupid question even to her ears. But faced now with the truth, it rattled her that it really was like in her dreams. That he was a winged dragon. And she could heal him incredibly, undeniably—because he was bonded to her in some integral way.
He smiled, looking both amused and a little brash. “I would show you. I could take you to the sky. But we should bury the body before we run out of night.”
Throat swollen shut, she stumbled back from him, breaking the soft, electric-like hum she felt when their skin touched. The night seemed to grow colder, making her shiver despite the summer heat. With a gesture, she indicated the spot between them. “After you.”
He crouched down, wings tilting and flaring effortlessly to balance him as he retracted them close to his body and touched a hand to the hard-packed dirt. The skin of his arm rippled then re-formed, onyx and garnet and azurite scales bursting forth like a thousand, multi-faceted spikes thrust from under the surface, colors bleeding and changing in the moonlight like precious stones. How had she never noticed the beauty in his form before? His wings gleamed like a slick stone too, catching and refracting the soft light, and for a moment it stole her breath away. She forgot her unease and just admired him.
As if sensing her thoughts, he grinned as he flexed and demonstrated the strength of his newer, tougher, naturally armored forearm, digging into the dirt with thick, clawed fingers. He dug with both arms, putting his back into it, making quick work of the ground, furrowing a hole three feet deep by two feet wide. He was sweating by the time he’d finished, and he wiped an arm across his forehead, smearing grave dirt across his brow.
“Good enough,” he grunted.
“If the body burns,” she agreed. “Otherwise, we’ll need to go deeper.”
“We’ll burn it. I’ll carve a circle for containment.”
A circle to trap the spell in; it was a good idea.
He tossed the body and the bags into the shallow grave, rubbing his hands on his pants to dislodge the caked dirt after. He took her hand, hesitant when her delicate fingers slid through his clawed ones, but she accepted his touch easily, unafraid.
“Close your eyes and focus on the conjuring,” he instructed. “I’ll anchor you.”
“But wouldn’t you be more adept at this?”
He answered with a gruff, “No.”
And she didn’t argue further.
She squeezed her eyes shut tight, tongue dry and feeling heavy. She wouldn’t be able to do it. Or she’d burn the whole damn forest down. This was a terrible idea.
Why wouldn’t Shade attempt the spell? She’d healed him. He was better than new, not looking at all as exhausted as she felt, so he had no excuse. Plus, he was a full-blooded demon, naturally more gifted than she was. She’d never set a persistent spell before. When she stopped weaving the magic, the spell always sputtered and died.
Right, hellfire was all-consuming. That’s probably why he wanted her to conjure it. A lasting fire that could eat through the earth was a terrible idea.
She exhaled, forcing as much breath from her chest as she could manage, emptying her lungs and her mind. Usually, drawing in magic was like tugging against a huge, iron chain anchored in the ocean. It was impossible to lift, but her hands came away wet and rusted enough that she had something to work with—enough to trick someone into thinking a blank page of paper was a search warrant, enough to light a candle in the darkness. But to conjure hellfire, she’d need more than that. Much more. She needed to pull like her life depended on it.
When she inhaled, she yanked the magic to her like she could drag the moon from the sky, like she would call the currents of the ocean crashing over her. And maybe she did, she was so staggered by the force of energy that slammed through her. Her knees buckled, and Shade caught her, hauling her up, holding her with her back against his chest.
“That’s a little much, don’t you think?” he croaked, and she realized his muscles were trembling. “We don’t want to merge Heaven and Hell, Gigi. We’re just trying to kindle a few flames.”
But she didn’t want to let go. The magic felt good, thrumming through her veins. It was more than she’d ever held in her whole life. If she wanted to, she could burn the world down.
A throaty groan cut through the night. Hers.
It felt so good. Like she was floating down a hot, bubbling river. Like she could fly. Oh, this was bad.
She didn’t want to let it go, but now that she’d channeled the burning, swirling magic, she didn’t know what to do with it.
How was she doing this? Was this the strength a pureblooded demon could grant her—for a cost?
“What do I do?” she breathed.
“Ease off, first,” he said, sounding concerned that she didn’t already know. “Think of it like water dripping between your fingers. You just want to cup a palmful.” His voice softened, teasing as he added, “Anything more and you’ll singe my eyebrows off.”
He nuzzled his face
against her neck, and she felt his teeth graze her skin. A scaled arm squeezed her so tight around the middle, she gasped for breath. He was grounding her, like he’d promised.
All she had to do was let go.
17
Gisele had no idea how she was supposed to think of the magic as a handful slipping through her fingers when it had filled her entire body to the brim. It leaked through her every pore. She was bubbling over, dripping energy from the top of her head through the tips of her toes, but still—she could take more.
It was tempting to suck it in with another shuddering, bone-deep inhale, but instead she tried to do as Shade had instructed her, tried to let it go—tried to shut out the sensation of how damned good it felt. She struggled, feeling the magic pouring over and through her, ignoring her attempts to diffuse it by degrees.
Stop! No more. Go away.
Then it was gone, like she’d flipped a switch and pitched herself headfirst through a dark, spiraling drain.
She shivered, cold.
Gone, gone. The magic was gone. Lost. She tried to pull a sliver of a thread back to her, the tiniest hint of a tingling, but groping in the darkness, she came up empty.
Whatever door had opened, she’d just slammed irrevocably shut.
“I lost it,” she said.
She wanted to scream.
“It’s harder to control when you’re worked up. You’re like a seesaw tonight, but that’s understandable given the circumstances.” He stepped back from her, letting her stand on her own, only their hands locked together. “It’s fine. Draw some back. Just don’t full-throttle it this time.”
She tried. But each time, it felt like she was fumbling in an endless void, smacking her hands against an invisible dam where there should have been an ocean.
“It’s not working.”
“If you really can’t help it, then forget trying to ease it. Just stop holding back,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.