Immortal Flame (16 page)

“She was suffering, and the doctors told me she wouldn't survive. I needed to settle her personal matters.”

“How awful.” Allie covered her mouth with her hand.

“Well, I wasn't about to prepare her last will and plan for her imminent death. I got mad, really mad. Like drunk and screaming-in-the-streets, pissing mad. Here I'd survived the war—hell, survived the Ardennes—and now the woman I loved would be dead soon? No, sir. I refused to accept it.”

When Allie reached over and squeezed his hand, he focused on the gold flecks in her green eyes. Despite being long-lived and superhumanly strong, he'd never told anyone the entire story of Claire, never shared the pain his decision caused every time he remembered his wife's suffering, tear-streaked face. Something about Allie sitting here and listening with seeming acceptance shored up his strength.

“Apparently running around the streets yelling that I would do anything to save my wife attracted attention. The wrong kind of attention.”

“I don't understand.”

Releasing her hand, he rubbed his face. “I ended up in an alley with a dapper-looking man named Jerahmeel. He looked like a slick salesman, fancy gold rings and chains, oiled hair. But he promised me he could save my wife. What did I have to lose? I was drunk. So I signed some paper Jerahmeel put in front of me without reading it, shook his hand, told him to go right ahead and try to save my wife, even wished him every success with his efforts.”

“And?”

“Damned if she didn't get out of that iron lung within the week. Walked shortly after that. Doctors said it was a miracle.”

He stared past the wood grain on the kitchen table—if only he'd appreciated that brief halcyon time before his real life ended and hell truly began.

Allie cleared her throat. “But?”

“A few months later, Jerahmeel knocked on my front door and told me it was time to pay up. That was the last time I saw my wife.”

“What?”

“I told Claire I was going out for a drink with an old friend. I still remember the look on her face. She knew something wasn't right and tried to make me tell her what was going on. I wasn't allowed to say anything. So I lied. The last time I saw her, she was yelling and crying. And I never went back. God knows what she thought of me.

“Then I was in a cold cave somewhere. Jerahmeel strapped the knife to my leg and explained that I had, indeed, made a formal deal with the devil. I always thought that was a figure of speech. I was dead wrong.”

“There really are deals with the devil?”

Pointing a thumb at his chest, he frowned. “I'm living proof.”

“Jerahmeel is the devil?” Her green gaze bore into him.

“Pretty much. He's the human representation of Satan in this world. And he has the power to destroy. He has the power to command those who are under his control—under contract. He requires me to find and kill bad people and trap their souls' energy into this knife. Jerahmeel feeds off the energy. It's how he survives. And there's something extra-special about criminal souls that are tastier. The more evil, the better, as far as he's concerned. The knife gets hungry when he's hungry.” He motioned toward his lower leg.

The condemnation in her eyes hurt like a spear in his chest. “So what I saw? That was you, killing people? On command?”

He was so tired.

She didn't understand his struggle. Why should she? It didn't make sense to him, even after all these years.

“I have no choice, Allie. I'm what is called an Indebted. Jerahmeel owns me. I have to kill. The only way to break the contract is to make what is called a Meaningful Kill. Dammit, I've tried that numerous times. I enlisted for the Korean Conflict, Vietnam, and the Gulf and Iraq wars, trying to kill as many bad guys as possible, hoping that each time would be my last murder. I've tracked down rapists, serial killers, and pedophiles. You name the heinous crime, I've exterminated the perpetrators. Nothing. No Meaningful Kill. Still under contract.”

She shoved her chair back. “I don't believe this. You can't be a cold-blooded killer.” Her eyes glistened.

“If it's any consolation, the only people I kill are people who are bad.” It even sounded lame. Like how he'd justified his actions for decades now. Damn Jerahmeel and damn this cursed job.

“Why only criminals?”

“Jerahmeel is compelled by certain rules. I don't know all of them myself. But my friend Barnaby has known him for centuries. Jerahmeel might be powerful, but he is limited in how he can replenish that power.”

Crossing her arms, she said, “Sounds like a convenient excuse to commit murder.”

“I agree it sounds that way. But there's nothing I can do about it.”

Silence descended on the kitchen. He couldn't even hear her breathing, though her chest rose and fell beneath the sweatshirt.

There it was: bleak, blank nothingness. He saw nothing when he considered a future with Allie. She was correct. He had no good answers for her, nothing to commend him as a man. Nothing to offer anyone.

A tear rolled down her cheek and landed on her arm. “Do you have an assignment to kill me?”

“No!” he roared, jumping to his feet. “I would never hurt you, I swear.”

Dammit, she flinched away from him.

“What if you were compelled by this Jerahmeel guy?” Her voice shook.

“I wouldn't do it. Besides, you're not a bad person. You're not a criminal.”

“But I thought you had to kill whoever he chooses?”

All good questions. “Sometimes it's his choice, and sometimes it's mine. But I would rather die first than hurt you.”

“Aren't you dead now?” The question hung heavy in the air between them.

“Not exactly. I was human until the day Jerahmeel got hold of me, but I'm not dead. I'm something in between. It's virtually impossible for me to die. I guess it's possible, but difficult. As you know, my healing rate is fast. We apparently don't age, either.”

“Are there others out there like you?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“I don't know. But most of them have been around a lot longer than I have.”

Her fingers shook as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “So you may walk the Earth for, what, hundreds of more years?”

“There's a good chance I'll still be here many years from now.”

Peter couldn't meet her eyes.

• • •

Leaving him to stand next to the table, Allison jumped up and walked to the cabinet, took out a bottle of red wine, and attempted to open it. Damn it, her hands trembled. She couldn't hang on to the bottle. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Here.”

She startled.

Peter had moved behind her. With steady hands, he uncorked the bottle and poured them both a glass.

She downed hers in two gulps, nodding at him to pour another. She didn't care about his somber expression as he filled her glass. She took another swig.

Swiping at her damp cheeks, she cursed her stupid emotions. Allowing herself to feel this deeply was what got her into this morass in the first place. “So who're you here to kill in this dangerous town of La Grande?”

Her tone was sarcastic, and she didn't care. All she wanted was a nice man in her life, some affection, safety, and companionship. Someone who wouldn't die after she saw visions of him. Apparently, that was too much to ask.

Actually, in a twisted way, she'd gotten her just desserts. Allison had landed herself a grade-A, half-dead, devil-possessed murderer—apt punishment for predicting her father's death years ago, and all the subsequent deaths. The tears started fresh again, and they ran unchecked.

She lifted her glass for another splash of wine. “You didn't answer my question. Who are you here to kill?”

“I think it's the man who's stalking you.”

“You don't know for sure?” Her voice rose a notch and cracked. “Shouldn't you, like, confirm who's supposed to die before you start killing folks?”

“It's not that easy this time. Jerahmeel's toying with me. I'm not sure why. But yes, I believe my next kill is the man you saw earlier today.”

Hysterical laughter bubbled up. “Fantastic. So we could be part of a demented riddle? Maybe you're not here to kill the guy who wants to kill me. Maybe you are. So this guy is like you, right?”

“He's nothing like me!” Peter growled, leaning toward her.

She should've been nervous. His eyes turned jet-black and heat radiated from him. Tense lines formed at the corners of his mouth as he stared at her. It would be stupid to provoke him. He could tear her apart with his bare hands. But what did it matter?

She pressed forward, choking on inappropriate giggles. “Maybe this stalker guy is the same as you. The images in his mind do feel somewhat similar, though his are a hundred times worse.”

Ignoring the vein bulging out on his tense neck, she took another gulp of wine. The surface of the liquid quivered in the glass. “So, if it's ‘very difficult' for you to die, then I would presume that this guy is similarly … difficult to kill?”

His lips thinned to a white line before he replied. “I think we have to assume that yes, he is difficult to kill. This guy seems to be similar to me but perhaps stronger, as best I can tell.” He spoke too quietly, too calmly.

“So he appears to be stronger than anything you've seen before?” She hiccupped and poked a finger hard into Peter's rock-hard chest.

A muscle in his jaw jumped.

She had passed the point of caring if she hurt him two glasses of wine ago. “What makes you think you can kill him”—poke, poke—“before he kills me … or runs over any other family members?”

Peter's stunned silence dragged at the air between them.

He blinked, his eyes remaining black. “That's a decent question. I don't know. But I promise I will protect you.”

“I don't think that you can.” She finished the glass, off-balance. Defeated. Her head started to swim. “Really, it doesn't matter if he kills me. All I've done with my life is predict other people's deaths. What a useless skill.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it with a click of teeth.

She laughed mirthlessly. “Now, thanks to my
gift
, I have a clear idea of how this guy will torture me. All I have to do is wait around for it to happen. Now there's something to look forward to.”

“Allie, please.”

“What do I have to live for anyway? To predict more deaths? No, thank you.”

He stretched out his hand and then dropped it.

His lost expression was even funnier considering he'd faced down bayonets, German tanks, North Koreans, Punji sticks, Scud missiles, and IEDs. But he had no clue how to handle a hysterical woman. Hilarious.

She raised her hand. “Oh, wait, I'm not done yet.” The last swig of wine in her glass tasted sour. “My dog's been run over, and I welcomed a not-quite-human into my bed. And I'm having death visions of my six-year-old niece. Which, by the way, my visions
always
come true. Always. Did I cover everything?” She reached for the wine bottle again. “Life just doesn't get any better than this cluster.”

She held up her hand as he opened his mouth to speak. “No. I tried to make a fresh start. I tried to have normal. It makes no difference what I do, this shit keeps coming right back.”

“Allie … ” He intercepted her arm.

As she struggled against his iron grip, he tried to pull her into his arms, but the dam burst at his steady touch.

Sobbing, Allison pounded on his shoulders. All the years of pain poured out of her. Anger and helpless terror drove her as she hit him on the chest, her weak slaps loud in the quiet house. She had never hit another person in her entire life.

He stood there, arms loosely encircled around her, absorbing her blows without flinching. His forehead crinkled with worry, or was it pity? Those black eyes, while directed at her, had become lifeless, shuttered.

After she spent her energy, she cried, exhausted and limp, as he held her. How long he stood there, patiently letting her sob into his shirt, her foggy brain had no idea.

She straightened up. Clarity steamrolled her into sobriety.

There would be no more crying on his shoulder.

Stepping out of his arms, she forced herself to look at his handsome, sad face; the tenderness there hurt even more. But she'd made her decision. Time to rip off the Band-Aid.

“You need to leave.”

His eyes widened. “I don't understand.”

“I can't do this.” She touched her chest and waved her hand at him. “Us. Together. In here, my head. Any of it.”

“What?”

“Look, I'm sorry for what you went through. I'm sorry if I led you on. But there is no future for us. For me.”

His Adam's apple bobbed twice, then his eyes hardened into obsidian beneath the angry slash of his dark eyebrows.

“I see.” He spun on his heel and stormed out faster than she could follow with her eyes.

After the front door slammed shut, the entire house shuddered into silence.

• • •

“Have you finished your assignment, Anton?” The way he asked made it clear he already knew the answer.

“No, my lord Jerahmeel. But—”

“But nothing! Get the job done.” Jerahmeel adjusted his curled and oiled black locks in his vehicle's rearview mirror. “I'm getting hungry, and I hate losing an employee.” One pinky finger smoothed his eyebrows. “The loss of Barnaby is too fresh. And Blackstone's too close to his Meaningful Kill. If things continue, he's going to figure it out.”

Anton couldn't keep the instructions straight. “At first you only wanted me to check on Blackstone to make sure he hadn't blown his cover by that lame car crash. Then that yummy lady came along who might make him want to quit his job. Now you want me to kill him?”