My Soul to Keep (12 page)

Resisting the urge to close that hairsbreadth
distance and taste his mouth again, she reminded herself that he was her enemy now. That maybe he always had been. She'd just been too young and naive to know it.

“Go to hell, huh?” He stared down at her, his expression more perplexed than offended. With a soft voice, he whispered, “I still see you in there. You haven't changed that much.”

“Please get off me.”

A long moment passed before he finally moved, rolled off her.

For a while neither of them moved. They both lay looking up at the ceiling, side by side but not touching.

Lacing her fingers over her stomach, she struggled to even her breathing … to stop herself from rolling over and pouncing on him as every fiber of her being screamed at her to do. Damn dovenatu instincts.

He flung an arm over his forehead and released a heavy sigh. “You're determined to make me the enemy.”

She inhaled shallowly. Before she said anything more that she might regret, she shoved herself off the bed. Looking down at him, she tried not to let the delicious sight of him, with his rumpled gold hair and wild eyes, entice her.

He might not serve her father anymore, but he
worked at some other foul purpose now. She'd left the shadow behind and had stepped out into the light. Clearly, he had not.

“I'm going to get my things together and leave. Don't try to stop me, Jonah.”

He stared at her, his expression hard as concrete, the white flames twisting at the centers of his eyes telling her he wasn't going to go along with that. “It's not that simple.”

“You pointed out that we're practically invincible.” She nodded once before striding away from him, calling over her shoulder, “
Practically.
Don't make me put it to the test with you.”

Sorcha …” He drew out the sound of her name, his voice heavy with warning.

She stopped and looked over her shoulder, sending him a slanted look, her brown eyes peering out beneath a fringe of dark lashes.

“You're not going anywhere until we reach an understanding.” And even then, even if she did see reason and agreed to give up hunting Tresa, he struggled with the idea of letting her go. Letting her walk away as if he'd never seen her. As if he'd never learned she was still alive. “Don't take another step.”

A sudden stillness came over her. Her eyes intent, deep and fathomless as any he'd ever seen.

His nerves tightened, squeezed dry. He watched her, devouring the sight of her. Something rippled across her face. Confusion maybe. Or maybe something else. Something more. The light at the centers of her eyes arrived, burning bright and clear, eclipsing the dark irises.

He lifted his hand to scratch his jaw. The move flared her to life and ignited her in a way he had not anticipated.

She bolted.

With his heart in his throat, he sprang after her, vaulting through the bedroom door. His fingers snatched a handful of her ink-dark hair.

They crashed onto the floor in a tangled pile of flailing limbs. Her strength was no match for his, especially after her recent attack. He flipped her over. Straddling her, he pinned her to the ground, his hands locked down on both her shoulders. “Sorcha! Enough!”

She thrust her chin out and shouted, “Get—off—me!”

Not the sign of surrender he was looking for. He shoved his face close, staring into the hard glitter of her eyes. “What's wrong with you?”

Her eyes raked him as if he were the lowest sort of vermin. “Right now the only thing wrong is that you didn't die in that explosion,” she hissed, surging up from the waist, trying to buck him off her.

Her words continued, lashing him like a whip. “Now you'd rather see me dead, hold me prisoner to protect some—”

“Sorcha,” he growled, staring at her flushed face for a long moment before the rest of his words exploded from his lips in a rush. “You think I'd
kill you now? I still see that explosion when I close my eyes. I see
you
!”

The hostility faded from her eyes. Tension ebbed from her. She felt soft, yielding beneath him. He remembered those moments on the bed together and grew hard again. He'd never allowed himself to think of her in that way before, when she'd been alive to him. It seemed disrespectful when he cared for her the way he did …

“I'm a demon slayer,” he began. “Well, in a way. It's not like I wanted to be … it's just … what I am. I can detect witches and demons, the goal being to protect white witches from demons … to keep demons from possessing them and turning them into demon witches.”

“A demon witch like Tresa.”

“Like Tresa,” he confirmed.

“Then why are you trying to protect her? She's already possessed. Already a demon witch.”

“You can't kill a demon witch without releasing her demon. And you can't handle this particular demon.”

Her tension returned. She stiffened beneath him. “I'm no weakling—”

“Do you even know how to kill a demon?” he challenged. “What it involves? It's not easy. Practically impossible.”

“But
possible,
” she stressed. “That's good
enough for me, then. I'll take the chance. I want Tresa dead.” Her jaw locked, a muscle feathering the delicate flesh.

He glared down at her, not sure if he wanted to shake her or take her in his arms. He still couldn't get over the sight of her … the knowledge that this was
her.
His Sorcha.

No, not his, he quickly amended. She'd never been his. And yet, this close to her, his blood pumped hard in his veins, eager to possess her.

At that moment the wood floor began to shake beneath them, vibrating as if the earth itself had just awakened, hungry and roused with temper, ready to devour all and everything.

“What's happening? Is it an earthquake?” she called over the breaking of glass.

A roaring beat filled the air, accompanied by a whistling wind. He shook his head, realizing at once what
it
was. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her to her feet. He opened his mouth to answer, but he never got the chance.

The door burst open, shattered off its hinges, breaking into splinters as a dozen armed men flooded the room.

S
ORCHA'S NOSTRILS FLARED AGAINST
the sudden crowd of strange men. All armed to the teeth. Instantly her flesh rippled and burned, crawled
with an awareness of the sudden danger. Her core vibrated, smoldered.

Jonah took position before her like a great barrier.
Her protector.
The gesture both rankled and comforted her. She'd done without a protector for over ten years.
Too little, too late.

One of the men spoke into his mouthpiece. “Two subjects located.”

A scratchy response crackled back, “Status on the witch?”

Suddenly another chopper arrived outside, beating the wind and whipping freezing air inside the house. Icy snow sprayed through the busted door and broken windows. Even with the mounting heat inside her, the subarctic temperature was difficult to tolerate. Rising back to her feet, she fought to hide her shivering, hating the idea that they might read her shaking as fear.

She pressed closer to Jonah's hard back, exhaling cold breath on him. Tossing her bangs from her eyes, she surveyed the group of mercenaries. “Um, friends of yours?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“Quiet,” one of the dark-clad men barked, jabbing a weapon in their direction.

The pounding chopper blades slowed outside, then stilled to a stop. In the sudden quiet, a new figure emerged, walking through the door as if he
were strolling into a dinner party and not into a cabin in the Alaskan tundra.

His booted feet thudded on the floor, crunching over glass. A dark floor-length coat brushed his ankles as he stopped in the middle of the room. A hissing breath escaped Sorcha's lips. Even before he removed the dark sunglasses from his eyes, she knew, she felt it, smelled it on him.
Lycan.

Jonah's hand reached behind him to seize her arm, and she knew he felt it, too.

The dark-haired stranger cocked his head, the motion predatory. His silvery eyes narrowed on both of them. Like pewter ice, able to freeze, to kill with a glance. He was old, maybe even ancient, despite his youthful good looks. She got that at once. Inhaling, she smelled death from his every pore. It curled its tainted tendrils around her.

“Two lycans?” he murmured with a deep inhalation, scenting them in turn. His hard features gave nothing away, not pleasure or concern at finding them here. “Didn't expect to find a pair of my brethren—” His nostrils flared sharply, a muscle rippling across his square jaw. “No.” He stepped forward, looked over Jonah's shoulder, directly at her, blasting Sorcha with the full intensity of his cursed stare.

She tried not to flinch beneath his pewter gaze, letting her father's hated voice roll over
her … taking courage from the memory of his words—the only thing she had ever agreed with him about.
Lycans are dogs. They have not our strength, nor our intelligence. They lack all will, all control. They're fit only to be our slaves.

Well, maybe she didn't agree with the last part. That had been her father's madness talking, after all. In her mind, lycans needed to be destroyed, wiped from the earth.

Yet somehow her father's words failed to ring true gazing at this lycan. He hardly smacked of weakness or stupidity. No, surrounded by gunmen, he looked very organized. Deadly and systematic. Not an opponent to underestimate. Unlike any lycan to cross her path before.

“Not lycans,” he murmured, clicking his tongue as he realized just what she and Jonah were. “Dovenatus.” He laughed then, the sound dark and deep. “How interesting. Fifteen years ago I did not even know dovenatus existed, now I seem to run into them everywhere.” He sobered, tilting his head to allow his gaze to slide over her.

She shivered beneath that stare. There were few men who could inject her with fright. Well, no
man
really. There hadn't been since that night years ago when she'd first transitioned …

She was in danger here. She knew that at once, read his unhealthy interest in her.

A lycan was a formidable opponent, but mostly during a full moon. Their inability to shift at any other time put them at a disadvantage against a dovenatu … that's what made them so easy for her father to enslave.

But this one … he was different.

He wasn't your average lycan. He made her feel decidedly unsafe even in the absence of a full moon. She looked him up and down, fought to hold his icy stare, to show courage. This one her father could never have taken.

Her skin rippled, burned, ready to fade out. Ready to give way to the beast. Her best shot at protecting herself was in full shift.

She reached up, gripped Jonah's shoulder, forgetting that moments ago she had considered him her enemy. Now he was the lesser evil.

The lycan angled his head, assessing her over Jonah's shoulder. “Don't worry. I'm not here for either of you. You're safe. Why don't you come out here, sweetheart, so that I can better see you?”

Jonah made a growl-like noise in the back of his throat. His arm shot out around her, stopping her, holding her in place behind him in case she decided to comply. “She's not going anywhere.”

“Ah, yours, is she?”

“I'm not anyone's!” she hissed. “Would you mind getting these guns off us?” A bullet might
not kill her, but it was no less unpleasant. She'd already endured enough pain and wasted time regenerating.

“You heard her,” Jonah commanded. He motioned to the mercenaries. “Find somewhere else to point those rifles before I unleash myself on your thugs here.”

“Easy,” the lycan soothed in a voice that did nothing to put her at ease. He strolled a short path back and forth in front of them. “I'm not here for either one of you. As interested as I am in what the two of you are doing here, I'm more interested in where the witch is.”

Sorcha's fingers dug into Jonah. They were here for Tresa.

The lycan glanced around, as if she was hiding behind a piece of furniture. He inhaled and, if possible, his eyes glowed brighter. “She was here. Where is she now?”

“Gone,” Jonah bit out. “You missed her by a couple of days.”

“Hmm.” The lycan approached, stopping beside the gunman nearest Jonah. “Now why would she have left? Anything to do with either one of you?”

Jonah and Sorcha exchanged glances.

The lycan continued, “Because that annoys me. Very much. I've invested a great deal of time and energy into tracking her down.”

Sorcha nudged out from behind Jonah, tired of hanging back. She wasn't about to start hiding behind someone now, after years of being on her own. “Yeah? You and me both.”

“Sorcha.” Jonah's voice rang heavily with warning.

She spun to face him. “Don't say my name like you know me or something. We're nothing to each other.” Spinning back around, she glared at the lycan. “You want to know what happened to Tresa?” She jabbed a finger in Jonah's direction. “Ask him. He's the one who ran her off.”

She stormed back into the bedroom, found a heavy coat in Tresa's closet. Shrugging into it, she snatched up her gear. Sword in hand, she strode back into the living room. All guns swung back on her.

“Take it easy, fellas.” She gave her sword a little shake in the air. “I'm not planning on using it on any of you. Just passing through on my way out.”

The lycan lifted a dark eyebrow in mild surprise and flicked a glance toward the door. “Out there?”

“Don't worry. I've got a ride.”

“Sorcha.” Jonah grabbed her wrist. Each of his fingers left an invisible mark on her. “What are you doing?”

“I'm going. I don't have any reason to stay here.
Not now.” She paused, the words oddly thick in her throat at the thought of leaving Jonah. Never seeing him again.
Stupid.