Deliver Me from Darkness: A Novel of the Paladin Warriors (15 page)

His father’s command came in the nick of time. Logan’s gift of pulling heavenly light might not have hurt any one of these men, but he wasn’t beneath fighting dirty if the need arose.

It was his father’s authority, and that alone, that had the men stepping back again. Anyone else would have been ignored. “Is the east wing suitable for visitors?” he asked Gerar.

The east wing, of course—his father would want to keep her far from where the other Paladin resided.

Gerar looked a bit taken aback but nodded. “It should be. The caretakers are ordered to keep it up.”

Logan stepped forward, ready to offer his aid.

“No,” his father rebuked. “Alexander will carry her. I think you’ve caused enough trouble for one night.”

Feeling like a scolded puppy, Logan stepped back. He gritted his teeth as Alexander bent down again, and then fisted his hands as the brute lifted her, cradling her head against his chest so it didn’t loll over his arm like a rag doll’s.

Frustrated with his inability to help, Logan followed them out of the hall, meeting the accusing gaze of every Paladin as he did. Of course they would accuse him. Even though every one of them had been ready and willing to do the same.

“Are you done posturing yet?” his father asked in a hushed whisper filled with disapproval.

Guilt and agitation, sizzling through Logan’s veins and prickling at his nerves, went hot. So hot it burned white. It was all he could do to keep the fire from erupting in a brilliant flare of light.

“Wasn’t it you who taught me that face is everything?” he asked softly. On this one thing his father and he agreed. Family politics should be kept among family.

His father grunted but didn’t say anything further until they were well out of the hall, the heavy doors closing behind them. Then it was simply a directional command to Alexander.

“This way.”

They crossed the dimly lit expanse, heading for the rarely used east wing. Once, the entire complex had been filled with Paladin. Now the roman arches framing the long hall, the Gothic columns, the exquisite marble inlay of the floor seemed but a cold show to an absent audience. Less than fifty Paladin were left and only half of them resided at Haven. Logan preferred his small row house to the vast, lonely corridors, the endless supply of unused rooms at Haven.

His father pushed open a set of ironbound, wood doors. Simultaneously Logan and his father cast a pair of glowing orbs to light the way.

Logan started forward, but his father raised his hand. “Wait here. Make sure no one else comes in.”

“If she wakes she will feel safer if someone she knows is there.”

“The same someone who attacked her?”

Logan clenched his jaw but wisely kept his mouth shut. His father had a point. He folded his arms, pointedly turning his back so he didn’t have to watch Karissa being taken from him. Regardless of his father’s logic, he still felt like he was abandoning the woman he’d promised to keep safe.

“You will stand guard at the entrance to the connecting hall,” Logan’s father told Alexander when he returned from settling Karissa in her room.

Alexander nodded and pushed through the heavy wood door. The doors had no sooner closed when Logan’s father lifted up a large block of heavy-duty wood, sliding it into the iron grooves, and effectively bracing the door shut.

“Hold on while I put a shield on this,” his father said.

The task was simple, a gathering of power, then build it into a spinning illusion of energy using the doorframe to mark its edges. It wouldn’t last forever and there were some who could break through, but it was another barrier at least, and as long as Alexander kept the rest of his brothers at a reasonable distance, it was one that shouldn’t be needed.

“You are putting a lot of faith in Alexander. He could absorb the energy of the shield if he wanted,” Logan said when his father was done.

His father flicked his hand expansively in the air. “Alexander wouldn’t be interested in the likes of her.”

Why the hell not? Now that it was obvious to every single man present tonight that she had power…

A horrible thought cropped up: Maybe she
was
part merker. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t been able to mark her. A Paladin’s mark would be like an attack on a merker’s essence. The inherent opposition of their purpose morphing the purpose of the bond.

“Why…” He cleared his throat. “Why did my attempt to mark her not work?”

“Not here.” Calhoun Sr. spun on his heels, forcing Logan to follow if he wanted to get answers. They ascended the stairs to the main hall of the wing, traversed another short hall past endless doors before they entered into an old study of some sort, dusty books lining the shelves and groups of seating arrangements with various lamps and tables between them, each draped in ghostly sheets.

The door hadn’t even latched behind them before his father had spun back around. “Damn it, Logan. What possessed you to try to mark her?”

“Did you see what was happening in that hall? Every single one of those men was getting ready to take a shot at doing what I did.”

“So it should be you?”

“I know her. She knows me. Besides, I didn’t do it to force a pairing. I did it to protect her.”

“Some protection.”

Logan stilled. The painful truth of that statement was enough to reopen the floodgates of guilt. He shouldn’t have brought her. At the very least he should have better explained what would likely happen once her powers were revealed. The way things had gone down, it had been all but a virtual ambush.

But Karissa had seemed so absolutely sure about her need to leave Roland’s apartment. Practically terrified, really. He’d been swayed by her wide-eyed pleas and the trembling hands clutching his arm.

Logan frowned. It didn’t fit. Nothing about this fit. Which brought up the question, what the hell had happened between her and Roland?

She’s not a merker. Don’t tell me she’s a merker.

“Why,” his voice came out hoarse, so he cleared his throat and tried again, “why didn’t the marking ceremony work? Did I do something wrong?”

His father sighed, settling down in the cotton draped chair behind the desk. He fidgeted, leaning forward, then back, crossing then uncrossing his arms. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You can gift energy, yes, if she is accepting and has the room to take it in, but you cannot use your energy to injure or mark one of your own blood. The Father will not allow such an abomination.”

Ice chilled Logan’s veins. “What do you mean of my own blood?”

His father sighed, raking his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, son. I should have told you before now. I just never thought…No, I hoped…”

“Hoped what?” Logan stepped around the desk, demanding his father’s full attention.

His father dropped his hands, lifting his gaze to that of his son. “I’d hoped she would remain hidden, safe, for years yet to come.”

“You knew of her?”

“Of course. She’s my daughter.”

Karissa’s head had been split open. No other explanation. She sat up, clutching at her throbbing temples as if by doing so she could somehow hold her brain inside. She hadn’t had a headache this bad since…since, well, never. And given that she was prone to migraines after using her gift, that was saying a lot.

“Oh, God, kill me now,” she moaned as another spike of agony pierced her skull, then immediately bit her tongue. She’d been taught not to waste her prayers on those things that were not important, or self-serving, or in this case fallacious. The headache would fade. She just had to survive until then. A better thing to pray for would be a way out of this mess.

First step: Sit up.

Careful of her movements, she planted her palms on the musty sheets and pushed. Her head throbbed so bad she swore that gray matter was about to ooze out of her ears. Yet somehow she made it to upright.

Good. Now to figure out where the heck I am.

Karissa carefully pried her eyes open and met a vision of hazy brown-red. If she hadn’t experienced this sort of thing before, she would have panicked. Migraines had a tendency to affect her vision. So she waited, until finally the red started to recede and the brown morphed into shapes and outlines.

Wow. Talk about archaic. The furniture was massive, heavy, and decorated with intricate carvings and gold gilding. The floors were stone and had three separate area rugs that she supposed were meant to take away the chill. The walls were a deep mahogany paneling covered by saintly paintings and faded tapestries. And over there…holy crap, was that a washbasin?

Monks. These men lived liked Middle Age monks.

Not
quite, Karissa. Monks don’t go barbaric over a scrawny woman like you.

Her hands flew to her throat. Tender, but not warm or swollen. Not like you’d expect after being practically strangled.

No, not strangled. Branded. Roland had warned her, and he’d been right. There was no doubt in her mind now that every man here wanted to “claim her.” And it looked like Logan had decided to stake his territory from the get-go.

Heck no. Not even if the world was coming to an end.

Blood pumping, she flung back the covers and thrust her legs off the edge of the bed. A knife twisted in the back of her skull, sending shooting pains down her spine and out into her extremities.

Okay then. A little slower.

More conscious of her limitations, she eased to the edge of the mattress until her feet sunk into the plush area rug below. Step two: Get to the door.

Using every available piece of furniture she could reach for support, she whimper-walked across the room. The last few steps were more of a stumble as she plunged across the gap from dresser to door, but then her hand closed around the knob and she sagged into the welcoming warmth of solid wood. Victory.

Maybe.

With eyes closed and a prayer on her lips she twisted the handle. Unlocked. Was this for real? Were her newest set of captors such idiots that they were going to let her waltz right out of here?

Her excitement fizzled the moment she pushed the door open. Pitch dark. Figures. It was not her captors who were stupid, but the person who dared to go bumbling around in the dark.

Karissa squared her shoulders, facing down the oppressive darkness. Stupid or not, she was going to get out of here.

***

Gabriella’s heels clicked on the crumbling sidewalk, a measured beat to the sway of her hips. As disguises went, this one worked as well as any. Maybe better, given the genes she’d inherited from Mommy Dearest.
May
she
rot
in
hell
.

It was because of that witch that Gabriella was here at all, strutting in her five-inch stilettos down these dark streets that positively reeked of drugs and despair. Okay, maybe placing tonight’s exact activities on her list of it’s-all-Mommy’s-fault indiscretions was a tad much, but Gabriella didn’t really see it that way. Gabriella wasn’t like some girls who believed every painful milestone or unfairness of life was her parents’ fault, but she did believe in placing blame where it belonged. And the fact that Gabriella was out here, on Christos’s orders,
was
her mother’s fault. The greedy, power-hungry whore had been willing to trade anything—including her daughter’s immortal soul—for a chance to rise in the ranks. Didn’t matter what ranks, as long as there was power and prestige at the top.

The
sharp
sting
against
the
base
of
her
throat. A scream lodged beneath her budding breasts. Arms pinned. Hot tears. An elegant hand brushes them away, a murmur offering false reassurances. “Mommy, no! Don’t let him do this, Mommy!”

Gabriella’s body jerked. She stumbled a few steps before she managed to catch balance both physically and mentally. It was over. Done with. In the past.

She looked down at her shaking hand, clenched it into a ball, and forced herself to start walking again. At least neither Mommy Dearest nor Christos had gotten what they wanted from the deal. Mommy had enjoyed a brief span of increased prestige, but that had been fleeting, ending in her death. And Christos? Christos liked the power he got from controlling a half-blood like her, sure, but that’s not why he’d turned her.

It was no secret that the one who found a way to eradicate the Paladin would be raised to right-hand man status. Christos had probably figured that even with a siren mother, the daughter of one those do-gooder Paladin would be precious enough to use as bait. Idiot hadn’t calculated things right, though. Nope, he’d been naïve to think her mother’s genes could be so easily overlooked and then he’d royally screwed it all up when he’d turned her. The Paladin were a snobby sort, only concerned with “light” vs. “dark” and pureness of soul. Well, there was nothing pure about Gabriella, nothing “light” either. She was bad through and through. Bad enough to dream of blood and death. Bad enough to crave the hot, thick liquid until her stomach twisted and her fangs etched grooves in her own gums. Bad enough to want to drive a stake in Stepdaddy’s chest, lop off his head, lap up the gushing life-fluid, and then burn his body to ash to make sure he could never come back.