My Darkest Passion (2 page)

“How about ‘Addison fucking O’Henry, did you ritually murder a mageheld and then try to kill Giuseppe Infante?’ If the answer’s yes, I’ll do the needful, and we can go home happy.” He brushed his palms against each other in his imaginary clean up after expressing some of his violent tendencies.

Infante was still inside the house with his toothy smile and three-hundred year old eyes looking at the world from the face of a forty year old man, and it made him sick to think of how that happened. How many of the kin had Infante killed in order to maintain his youthful appearance? He stared at the sky in an attempt to get some other image fixed in his head. This time of year, dusk was at least three hours away, but, at last, he didn’t think he imagined a hint of fog when he breathed in. He tasted salt and listened to the faint roar of the ocean and the keen of seagulls.

To their right, a man in faded jeans and a plaid shirt walked from the stables toward another of the outbuildings, taking the path that took the widest arc from him and Kynan. The man was a nullity. Not human. Not mage. No wonder Kynan wanted to call in a team to take care of the abomination of this place. “How many of them?”

“I counted fifteen just like that one.”

It was too fucking hot out here. He wished he’d taken off his suit jacket when he was inside, but with Infante setting him off, he didn’t want to waste the seconds it might take to snatch his coat if he had to leave quickly. “Let me ask the questions.”

Kynan bowed and made an
after you
gesture.

There was no sound inside the shed, a ten-by-ten wooden structure with one window and a rippled tin roof. The thing looked like one good wind would blow it down. There was old chicken shit encrusted on several of the boards. A rickety porch led to the door, but he and Kynan stopped well short of that. Someone had set up some very nasty wards to keep her in there.

Kynan put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Now that is just fucked up.”

“What?”

“Sloppy work.” Kynan meant the wards. “They must have been in a panic when they did that.”

A dark shape appeared in the window. She didn’t come too close. Who would with wards like that set? She let out a soft laugh, but there was a rasp underneath, a gritty, painful sound. “What, I don’t even get a last meal?”

He held up a hand to forestall whatever inappropriate remark Kynan was about to make. “Am I speaking to Addison O’Henry?”

“My friends call me Awesome.”

Kynan snorted.

“Bad joke that stuck.” She coughed, a dry sound. Guarded. As if she were trying not to cause herself pain. “Used to be funny. It’s not anymore.”

“It would help if you would affirmatively state your name.”

She laughed again, and he could feel the dryness of her throat and how hard she was working to speak. “Wouldn’t want to execute the wrong person.”

“Among other things, yes.”

“Whatever.” Exhaustion edged the word. Not resignation, exhaustion. “My name is Addison O’Henry.”

“Thank you.” He took a step toward the porch.

“I wouldn’t get too close.” Her raspy whisper carried. “This place is booby trapped somehow.”

“We are aware.” He motioned to Kynan. “But thank you for the warning.”

Kynan approached the shed and spent all of fifteen seconds taking stock of what had been done to make sure Addison O’Henry didn’t get out. And, it would seem, that she would suffer while she was in there. “Shield yourself. It’s going to hurt when I blow these wards.”

There was, Harsh felt, a confusion in her silence.

“There’s nothing in here but me.”

Kynan made a face. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, what am I supposed to shield myself with?”

Still with his hands on his hips, Kynan rolled his eyes. “Your fucking magic.”

She didn’t move from the window. “I don’t know how to do that.”

Harsh frowned. She was earnest, much more convincing than Infante, for example, but then it wouldn’t be hard to be a better liar than Infante.

“Right. You keep telling yourself that,” Kynan said.

“Asshole.”

“Honey, you better duck and cover.” Kynan waited for her shadow to disappear from the window. She didn’t move. “Would you just do it? In five, four, three—”

“Wait!”

“What?”

Harsh stared into the shed, but she’d positioned herself out of his sight.

“I don’t have any clothes.”

Kynan was predictably crass. “I’m a tit man. How do you stack up in the tit department?” She didn’t answer, and the silence sent a chill down Harsh’s spine. Kynan, oblivious, grinned. “Not good?”

“Kynan.” Harsh failed to keep the irritation from his voice.

“That’s too bad.” Kynan looked over his shoulder. “Harsh here likes a tight ass. Are you a tight ass?”

“If you touch me, I will kill you.” The power that carried in her voice gave Harsh a jolt. Maybe Infante wasn’t lying about her.

“Honey.” Kynan laughed. “That’s not nice.”

He didn’t like this. At all. “Kynan, please.”

“Awesome, you better duck. Harsh, naked chick in two, one.”

The pulse of Kynan’s magic was smooth as silk and unbelievably efficient. Leaves on the trees closest to the shed rustled, and the window and door bowed outward then snapped back. The air around the shed heated several degrees from the wards he’d vaporized without breaking a sweat. He made it look easy, and it wasn’t. There were probably fewer than a dozen of the kin left who had that kind of power. The crack of the window breaking sounded like a gunshot.

Harsh whipped off his coat and stepped in front of Kynan. Residue from the wards scattered along his skin, popping and crackling. He had to give the door a hard push to get it open, and when it hung broken in the middle, the hot, fetid air made him wish he’d let Kynan go first. Behind him the warlord made a choking sound. Harsh took a deep breath before he went inside, his coat held up and open.

Addison O’Henry lay in a heap in the middle of the floor, one arm over her head. The other had fallen to her side. As she’d claimed, she was naked, but since she was face down he didn’t see much. Other than the faint movement of her ribs, she wasn’t moving. With clinical detachment, honed during his years in hospitals, he noted the contusions on her back, shoulders, and the exposed part of her arms. Most were consistent with blunt force, getting knocked against a wall, for example, by a ward going off. But there were some, the ones high around her thighs and upper arms that were better explained by fingers pressing hard. There were a lot of fading scrapes and new ones, too. He smelled blood, but did not yet see where it was coming from.

Kynan stepped in behind him just as Harsh got his coat over her. “There’s nothing in here.”

“She did warn us.” The walls and floor were faded gray redwood planks, rough hewn but weathered and warped enough in places that, but for those wards, breaking out of here would have been child’s play.

“Jesus, it stinks.”

Psychically speaking, Harsh didn’t get anything from her; not good. Not good at all. Out of habit, he set two fingers over her carotid. Thready pulse. Clammy skin. Strange the way he noticed the darkness of his fingers against her pasty throat. Unless he altered his human form from his default appearance, he was brown, not white. Ms. O’Henry was as white as they come.

Kynan walked to the broken door and looked out, which was decent of him since it left Harsh free to get her arms into the sleeves of his coat without Kynan getting a look at her. Her right nipple was pierced, but that was a well-healed wound. That hadn’t been done here. A year ago, Kynan wouldn’t have had the decency to look away. Two years ago, Addison O’Henry would have already been dead. Three years ago? Kynan would have taken his time before she was dead. Sometimes, Harsh wondered whether Kynan had changed or whether he’d just gotten better at controlling those impulses.

Nothing about her condition made him very happy with Infante. Bruises covered her forearms, her hips, and the inside of her thighs. There were bite marks in all the places where it was easy to draw blood. Fangs, not teeth. Some of them were new.

From the doorway, Kynan said, “Infante called Nikodemus about her two days ago.”

“I know that.” The call had been about a demon who was attacking humans and who, during the supposed rampage, had attempted to kill Infante. Since Infante was negotiating with Nikodemus about whether he was going to accept a truce, both Harsh and Nikodemus had thought it politic to help Infante with his problem demon. As a show of good faith. Harsh didn’t have much love for mages who thought nothing of treating any living creature like this.

Her head was so recently shaved, her hair hadn’t even begun to grow back yet. Odd, that, since she was definitely not mageheld. The process of enslaving a demon included cutting the demon’s hair. A buzz cut was one of the physical hallmarks of a mageheld. In her case, she’d been shaved bald, which made the contusion at the back of her head—an injury that wasn’t recent enough to have happened in here—all the more obvious.

Given the timing of Infante’s call, likely, she’d been locked in this shed for going on three days now. Anyone who went inside, to give her food or water, for example, or bring her a bucket in which to relieve herself, would have had to destroy and recreate the magic that imprisoned her. Plainly, that had not been done.

With the weather this time of year, the shed would have been cold at night and hot in the afternoon. She must have been suffocating in there this afternoon and every other one since they put her in here. Whatever crimes she’d committed didn’t justify this. Harsh scanned her bruises and the bite marks and didn’t like his conclusion about what had happened to her. One thing she wasn’t, though, was Infante’s slave.

“Wake her up, Harsh. The asshole is headed this way with six of his best and brightest.”

“Will do.” He drew a small amount of magic and let that pulse through her.

She twitched, he did it again, and then her eyes popped open. Not instantly aware, which was interesting, since the kin did not experience states between conscious and unconscious. Those middle states were human reactions.

For several seconds she was groggy-eyed. He had to help her to her feet. He yanked on his coat and got her covered decently enough. She was medium height. Maybe five-six. Young, he thought, though with people like her it was never wise to confuse apparent age with chronological age. Her apparent age was early twenties at best.

Now that she was conscious, he was aware of the extent of her power, and it was not insignificant. To a frightening degree. No wonder Infante had locked her up. If she’d gone on attack, the mage might not have had the magical chops to control her, which would explain a failed attempt at enslaving her.

Harsh maintained his grip on her arm and continued to breathe through his mouth. The remnants of the wards and Kynan’s magic swirled around the interior of the shed; tiny flashes of color in the air and a few painful and nauseating pinpricks of contact. She looked too young to be this dangerous.

The more aware she became, the more human she felt. He reminded himself Infante had accused her of ritual murder and attempted murder. Her age, real or apparent, was not relevant at the moment. The conditions of her captivity, however, were. Her injuries definitely were. He got another dose of her power and decided he and Kynan couldn’t afford to take chances.

“Jesus, “Kynan said. “She’s been fucked over.”

He privately agreed, but that was no excuse for not taking precautions. “Lock her down, warlord. I don’t want any accidents.”

A whisper of something swept through the air. The woman groaned, but her consciousness winked into being along with an increased recognition of her as more than human. Other than human. His heart rate settled down once Kynan had her cut off from her magic. Considering how much she had, that was a damn good thing.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” Kynan kept his distance from the stench.

She wavered on her legs, got her balance back, then blinked several times. She swallowed gingerly then focused on him. At first he had the unsettling impression that her eyes were damaged, but that was because her irises were such a pale blue they were almost white. She squinted and rasped, “Who are you?”

“Harsh Marit.”

She continued to gaze at him, and Harsh could not shake the conviction that she was as young as she appeared. Ridiculous, since that kind of power in someone who was genetically human was incompatible with youth. “Hello, Harsh Marit. I’m Awesome.”

“Well, Awesome, how about we get you outside?”

“Can’t.” She shook her head. His psychic impression of her mental state was that she was not as sharp as before she ended up in the middle of Kynan’s work. She was not yet completely aware of her surroundings or her situation. “Get blown clear across the room every time I go near that door.”

“That’s been taken care of.” The smell was too pungent to tolerate so he propelled her out the door and far enough away from the shed to be upwind of the breeze. Kynan, he noted, did the same. She walked as if she didn’t feel the gravel under her bare feet. She should.

Harsh stared at her. He knew damn well she wasn’t safe and couldn’t be trusted. No one here could be trusted. But there some something wrong with this whole set up. She looked half-starved and her eyes were huge in her face, an artifact, in part, of her shaved head. Even knowing that, he wanted to put her in his car and drive her somewhere so he could feed her a decent meal.

Her head whipped toward the house, and she went completely and utterly still. Magic whirled through her even though Kynan had cut her off. The warlord leaned in and said, “Shut it down.”

She tilted her head back to get a better look at Kynan. Her reaction to him made the hair on the back of Harsh’s neck stand up. “I don’t know what you mean.”

In daylight, her bruises and other injuries were appalling. She rocked up on her toes and back down, one hand on her head. Two fingers probed the lump at the back of her head, but she didn’t so much as wince.

Kynan gave her a hard look. “How the hell did you not blow that asshole to hell?”