When Temptation Burns: A Shadow Keepers Novel (Shadow Keepers 6) (8 page)

“There was no sin,” he said firmly. “I love you, Kathryn.”

She didn’t seem to hear. “And now brimstone rains down upon us and demons have entered my home.” Her beautiful eyes burned wild. “I did this—I brought it upon us. I brought the fire to dispel the minions of Lucifer himself. I set fire to the curtains, and then I ran, but it spread so quickly, and I got lost in the smoke.”

His mind was reeling. “You? But why? What did you see? No, later. Tell me later. We have to get safe.” Behind him, the flames in the doorway had flared up again, and he turned toward them, his free hand outthrust once more. Nothing happened.

A vile curse sprang from his lips, and he felt a sudden rush of horror. He was, quite simply, exhausted. He’d stayed in Rhiana’s mind for far too long. And he’d breathed the smoke in deeply, weakening his human shell. He’d pushed aside the flames, a gift, yes, but one that extracted a price. And now that he’d found his love, he had no energy left to save her.

No
.

It couldn’t end this way. Not with Kathryn in his arms.

With fresh determination, he called upon his power once again. He felt it rise within him, bubbling up and curling into a hard ball before shooting out through his fingertips. The power thrust him back a step, and he stumbled, grasping at Kathryn to steady himself.

“It worked!” he cried joyfully as the flames descended. “Come, Kathryn, hurry!” He turned to look at her face. Her eyes were wide and horrified, her mouth forming a little O.

“You, too?” she cried, her voice full of fear and horror.

“No, Kathryn, no.” But even as he spoke, he knew
that he could not convince her. Because he could see his reflection in a mirror on the far wall. His eyes were orange, his skin dappled. He looked like the minions she so feared. He looked like he reigned in hell, and she’d seen him command dominion over the flames.

“Kathryn,” he said, taking hold of her arm, ready to pull her out of the room. First he’d save her, then he’d convince her. All that mattered was getting her out. Everything else could come later.

She jerked hard and twisted herself free from his grasp.

Then, before he could take even one step, she tumbled backward into the flames, the hem of her gown catching immediately.

“Kathryn!”

He reached for her, but she recoiled, her eyes darting to and fro as she sought an escape. For a moment, her eyes met his, and he saw the horror that filled them. Then she turned toward the open window, the glass having already shattered from the rising heat.

Her movement thrust him into action and he forced the flames down. It was the wrong thing to do. Fresh fear flooded her face, and as he stepped toward her, she threw herself out of the open window, leaping into the arms of death. He didn’t hesitate—he leaped out of the window too, fear and love bolstering his powers. He commanded the air to cushion both of their falls, but it was too late for her, and she landed in a charred, burned heap on the ground.

He came down with a thump beside her, his body twisting to cradle hers as something inside of him broke. With an anguished cry, he pressed his palm against her forehead, desperate to see what she’d seen, and yet terrified
of what he might learn. At first there was nothing, and he feared he was too weak, his gift fading as his hunger grew. But then he caught the tail of an image. Then another and another. Vague outlines, patterns and shadows that meant nothing and then, like a mirage in the desert, it all came together to form a picture. A terrible, horrible picture. And, seeing it, Doyle understood.

Because in his love’s mind, he saw fangs. And blood.

He saw Lucius Dragos feeding upon a housemaid.

Lucius, who had lost control of his daemon, and in the losing had killed Kathryn as surely as if he’d sunk his fangs into her neck.

The memory flashed through Doyle’s mind in an instant, bringing fresh grief and fresh anger.

He pushed both aside, then froze, careful not to move and inadvertently spring another trap. He had to be careful. To concentrate on
this
moment. On getting this girl out alive.

Cort rushed forward—Doyle tried to stop him, but the agent was too quick. He was obviously intent on leaping over the flames, and he ignored Doyle and the girl, who was screaming that it was a trap.

A split second later, a thin blade burst from the side of the cavern, swooping down in an executioner’s arc—taking Cort’s head right off at the neck.

The girl shrieked, the sound filling the room like breaking glass. Doyle ignored her, because now there was a new problem—the blade had emerged from a slab of stone that doubled as a doorway. Rhys burst from it at a run, heading toward the girl, who had the self-presence
to clamp her mouth shut and run in the opposite direction. But that was no help. She was still caught behind the wall of fire—and Rhys was in the fiery trap with her. Doyle pulled his gun and fired, emptying the magazine, but the wooden bullets burned up before reaching their target. The hematite Taser would be no use, either. Not from this side of the barrier.

There was only one solution, and he didn’t know if he had the strength for it. Even if he made it, he’d be drained by the time he reached Rhys, and the vampire would be able to take him out as easily as squashing a bug.

The girl stared at him through the flames, her eyes wide, her expression terrified. Her blond hair was wild around her face, and he knew that he couldn’t abandon her. No matter how low their odds, he had to at least try.

With effort, he gathered his remaining strength, calling upon his control over the elements, which swirled like a storm around him, gaining power. He drew it in, letting it build, then thrust the power back out toward the flames, demanding their obedience.

It worked—but only barely.

The fire seemed to leap off the ground, leaving a gap of heated, shimmering air between the floor and the base of the flames. Doyle threw himself to the ground, momentum sliding him under the flames and into the enclosure with Rhys and the girl.

It happened fast, and considering Rhys’s almost comically surprised expression, the vampire hadn’t expected his trap to be breached. Doyle took advantage of his surprise, rolling onto his back and pulling out the Taser. Now that he was beyond the flaming wall, the hematite threads it ejected wouldn’t disintegrate. He fired, but
Rhys moved with exceptional speed, managing to evade the danger.

Worse, Rhys was heading toward the girl, and there was no time to reload the Taser and recharge its firing mechanism. That meant that Doyle was unarmed, and he was no match for Rhys in hand-to-hand combat—not on a good day, and certainly not when he hadn’t fed.

There was no time to consider his options—no time to think about the danger he’d be putting the girl in if he drained himself to the point that his body overruled his brain and simply took what it needed. He drew upon his power once again, letting it surge through him before he sent it spinning out into the world, this time even stronger than before, fueled as it was by desperation.

At first, nothing happened. Then the fire seemed to spring to life like dancers in a wild ballet. Spinning and shifting and twirling, it burst into the void between Rhys and the girl. The vampire hissed with displeasure, then turned to face Doyle, who had compelled the flames to encircle the vampire. The makeshift prison held him, but weakness was hitting Doyle hard.

He stumbled, trying to hold on to the flames—trying to maintain the circle around Rhys.

He wished that Tucker was there—with his gift, he could have influenced Rhys, especially weakened as he was by the hematite. Tucker could have told the vampire to leap into the flames or, at the very least, stand still long enough to be captured.

He wasn’t there now, though, so there was no point in wishful thinking.

Exhaustion flooded Doyle, but he kept his eyes firmly on his quarry. Saw the look of dark intensity in Rhys’s eyes.

Waiting. Biding his time
.

He couldn’t risk the fire—it was potentially fatal for vampires. And he couldn’t transform into mist and rise over the flames or call upon his strength to leap over them. The hematite dust had taken care of that.

But he could wait.

And Doyle knew that the vampire’s simple plan would work because he had to concentrate on holding the flames, and he was so tired. His eyes so heavy.

The flames sputtered, and Doyle shuddered, struggling to hold on. There was nothing left in him, though, and as he faltered, the flames fell away and Rhys lunged. It was all over, and despair surged through Doyle.

Then Rhys froze, thin strands of hematite descending around him. Capturing him and holding him tight mere inches from the girl.

Confused, Doyle managed to shift his position, and he saw Rand in the doorway, a ferocious expression on his face.

In front of him, the girl cried out, the sound a mixture of terror and joy. She fell to the ground, then pushed herself up, half-running and half-crawling to Doyle. She wanted his comfort—he could see that much in her eyes.

He shifted, turning away from her. Fighting the urge to go to her. To clutch her close and murmur warm platitudes—and then rip the soul from her slender body.

It would come to that, he knew. He could feel it—the need, the hunger—rising in him, and he dug his fingers into the hard, packed dirt of the cavern floor, ripping his nails and slicing his fingertips as he fought against that horrible, vile reality.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Rand glance at him then rush forward and gather the girl himself. At the
same time, the team moved in to secure Rhys in binders, ensuring he couldn’t escape.

“Thank you,” the girl murmured, her words muffled against Rand’s chest. “Oh, God, thank you all. Thank you all for coming.” For a moment, she only sobbed. Then she seemed to collect herself. She pushed back from the werewolf, her eyes searching his face. “He wasn’t—he wasn’t human,” she said, her tone full of shocked wonder. She shifted to look at Doyle. “He wasn’t human,” she repeated.

Doyle met her eyes and tried to meld himself to the ground, fighting the urge to lunge and feed. “No,” he finally said, the word coming out half gasp, half growl. “No, he wasn’t human at all.”

“You should eat more,” Andrew Tarrent said, setting a metal tin of Danish butter cookies down in front of his daughter. “That was probably my biggest failing as a parent—not making sure you ate better. You get all involved and then you forget to eat and then you get too thin.”

Andy didn’t want a cookie, but she took one anyway, just to please her father. She’d been named after him, and in a way that gave them a special bond. Not that they’d needed a name to bond them; they’d been bonded in tragedy when Andy was only eleven years old. That was the year her mother had been mugged and beaten and stabbed. She’d fought hard for days—Andy could still remember the astringent smell of her hospital room—but the blade’s jagged edge had done too much damage. Andy’s mother had pulled her close and told her that she loved her, would always love her. Then she’d pressed something into Andy’s hand—the gold chain with the beautiful cross. “Wear it,” her mother said. “Wear it and both God and I will be watching over you.”

She’d put the necklace on then and there, liking the way it made her feel closer to her mom, yet hating what it meant. Because even at eleven, Andy understood what was coming. One of her dad’s parishioners took her into the hallway and sat beside her patting her hand, telling
her over and over how the whole congregation was praying for Gretchen Tarrent to rise above this horrible evil that had been done to her, and if she didn’t pull through it was a sign that God wanted her home with him. Andy had reached up and rubbed the cross between her thumb and forefinger as if it were a wishing rock from a dime store. She’d nodded, silent, and pretended the parishioner’s words had made the hurt better. Of course, they hadn’t. The cross, though … That she’d clung to, fiercely wishing for something she knew wasn’t going to come true.

She’d sat there, listening to her companion drone on, until her father emerged hours later, his face pale, his eyes red. He said nothing, just took Andy into his arms, and she’d cried and cried, trying to find comfort in the normal, familiar smell of mint and tobacco that permeated her father’s shirt.