The Unforgiven (10 page)

“Even if I agree, it might not work. You could die.”

“Cade didn’t die.”

Cade. Her closest friend since Artur had rejected her. She missed him terribly. Almost as much as she missed the man Artur had been before she’d laid eyes on Cade.

“That was different,” she said. “Cade was an unaware dormant. He didn’t go looking for his brush with death. It found him. If I’d come across him even an hour later, he would’ve been lost to Oblivion. I didn’t want to anchor him. I did it because I had no choice.”

“There’s no choice now,” Gareth said earnestly. “Vaclav Dusek has made sure of it. Cybele, I want to perform the death-seeking. I need to. You’re the only one who can save me afterward.”

“There’ll be another possibility,” she said. “When Cade returns.”

“Blast it. A slave woman as anchor?” Gareth’s expression twisted. “With Cade a part of it, too? As her master? I’d rather face Oblivion.”

Cybele didn’t doubt he meant it. The thought of a three-way transition with a slave turned her stomach, too.

Gareth came to stand before her at the window. He placed a hand on her forearm. “It has to be you, Cybele. You know it as well as I do. Will you do it?”

She tipped her head until the back of her skull tapped the window glass. She often forgot how tall Gareth was. How much raw energy poured off him. He might be young, a full four years younger than she, but he was of age. Undeniably a man. An unwilling pulse of interest kindled in her belly.

She exhaled. “Your death-seeking would be hell. For both of us. There’s no guarantee you’ll survive, even with my help.”

It was a tricky thing, getting close enough to death to trigger transition without actually killing yourself in the process.

“I’ll survive,” Gareth said.

“I don’t want you to even try! And anyway, this whole discussion is pointless. Artur would never allow you a death seeking. Not with me as your anchor.”

Was that pity that sprang into Gareth’s eyes? Cybele felt suddenly ill. She closed her eyes against the rush of hurt she knew was coming.

“I already spoke with Artur,” Gareth said, “before I came to you. In fact, that’s why I’m here. He sent me to you.”

He’d drank his fill of the water she had offered. He had called her Daughter. She had called him Father. He had not dismissed her.

Lilith stood, uncertain, as he turned back to his workbench. He lifted his new sword and ran one long finger down the edge of the blade. She could not look away.

He resumed his work, polishing the weapon. He drew a supple leather rag down the length of the blade, over and over, inspecting the shine after each pass. His touch was gentle, loving. How she yearned for just a fraction of that care!

How long she stood beside him, watching, her errand of water drawing forgotten, she could not say. Her father was well aware of her continued presence. And yet, he did not command her out of his sight.

She would never grow tired of watching him. His Watcher aura was so strong. So beautiful. It framed his head and shoulders in pure crimson light. His hands were large and graceful. He stroked the cloth from the sword’s hilt to its tip. The bronze gleamed as if lit from within.

Lilith found that if she stood very still, she could sense his celestial magic—powerful, glorious!—flowing into the earthly metal. When she blurred her vision, unfocused her mind, she could even see it. Feel it. A tingle of red. A sparkle on the blade. A sensation like a feather brushing her bare skin.

Her father raised his head. His dark eyes narrowed. She stared at him with wide eyes and open heart.

He put the cloth aside. Rising, he sheathed the polished sword in a newly made scabbard. He hung it on the rack with the others, then turned to face her. His gaze traveled the length of her body, from her headscarf to her sandals.

Spine straight, chin raised, she stood very still under his scrutiny. Excitement and fear beat inside her ribs with the wings of a trapped swallow.

“
You wish to tell me, Daughter, of your magic.
”

Her throat closed. Her reply was nearly lost. “Yes.
”

He held out a hand. “Come.
”

This was crazy. For the second night in a row, Maddie found herself slipping out of the hut alone.

Hadara was asleep. A similar peacefulness eluded Maddie. She wanted to sit up and scream. How in the hell could she sleep with Cade’s kiss playing over and over in her mind? All she could think of was him catching her as she fell, him cradling her in his arms. The lingering sensation of his erection—as huge as the rest of him—throbbed in the cleft of her buttocks. And so, for the second night running, she found herself alone under a star-studded desert sky.

This time she didn’t wander away from the camp. Driven by an obsession she hardly understood, armed with flashlight, trowel, and bucket pilfered from the storage trailer, she headed to the dig.

Heart pounding, she climbed down the ladder into the pit where she’d fainted. Her torch cast an arching glow on the earthen walls. Strange ruby shadows lurched in the spaces between the shoring.

The red, pulsing light pouring from the ancient well
was utterly undeniable. Blinking didn’t erase it. Neither did rubbing her eyes. She moved her head from side to side. The light didn’t waver. It was definitely
there
. Not in her head.

The illumination was so strong, she switched off her flashlight and laid it on the ground. An eerie feeling of being separate from the mortal world overtook her. The earthen walls of the pit muted the sounds from the desert above. The only noise she could discern was a rhythmic, leaden thumping. Her heart.

She placed her palm over her chest, as if the gesture could calm the organ. It did not. She approached the well slowly. The light shone from the bottom, too far to jump. Not daring to stop and think about what she was about to do, she grabbed the ladder she’d just descended, dragged it over to the hole, and lowered it over the edge.

Bucket and tools looped over one arm, she eased herself over the ledge and down the ladder. Quickly she descended. And as she stepped off the bottom rung, she saw that a hazy red fog seeped up from between the grains of dust and grit under her feet.

Something was buried here. It had to be. Crouching, she began to trowel dirt into her bucket. Light filled the hole like a red puddle. She shoved away thoughts of blood and kept digging.

The excavated dirt was warmer than the earth that surrounded it. That was exceedingly odd, but Maddie didn’t stop to consider. Sweat beaded on her forehead and dribbled between her breasts as she dug deeper.

The tip of her trowel glanced off a rock. Her hand slipped.

“Ow!”

She’d torn a fingernail on the edge of the digging blade. A drop of blood welled from the jagged rip. The broken chunk of nail hung from a sliver of cuticle. She brought her finger to her teeth and bit it off.

As she sucked at the wound, she scrutinized the hole about eight inches in diameter and probably twice as deep. Warm red light filled it, pulsing like a beating heart. A bead of blood formed on her ripped cuticle and trickled down the side of her finger. It dripped from her flesh into the hole.

“
My God.
” Was it her imagination, or had there been a flash of gold?

On her hands and knees, she bent low to peer into the hole. Something was there. A golden circle. The source of the light?

Heart pounding, she reached into the void.

The blighter throwing darts was host to a hellfiend.

His mates didn’t know it, of course. A bearded man threw opposite the possessed man, unaware his friend’s body was no longer his own. Two other blokes stood to one side, swilling ale and offering advice and jeers. To an untrained human eye, they were four working men spending a friendly evening at the pub.

Not a single DAMNer in sight to set things straight. Just Artur, his magic shielded behind a Druid glamour too complex for a hellfiend to comprehend.

Artur drained his whiskey. Poor human bastards. They’d be dead by dawn, the lot of them. Unless he interfered. Which would be messy.

But it might also be entertaining. Truth be told, he was tempted. A bit of action might keep his mind off . . . the other thing.

Under cover of the scarred tabletop, he eased out his modified Glock, which shot both mundane and magical projectiles. Annihilating a hellfiend was always a challenge. Sometimes, depending on how deeply the fiend’s possession had taken hold, the human life was already doomed and the host died once the demon inside was gone. Other times, the host’s soul was still alive and fighting its possession. In that case, if the demon could be driven out, the human life could be preserved.

Then there were times like these. When one had to put aside one’s scruples in order to serve the greater good.

Artur slid his left index finger into place on the trigger. This was when the real fun began.

“So here you are.”

Every muscle in his body went rigid—along with something else between his legs. Bloody hell. He hadn’t seen her enter the pub, hadn’t so much as caught a whiff of her perfume. He peered into his empty glass. He must be rat-arsed indeed.

Quickly, with a glance at the hellfiend across the room, he expanded his glamour to include Cybele. She skirted the table and came into his vision, all lush breasts, round hips, and long, long legs. Her loose hair streamed down her back in a riot of unruly blonde curls. She might have been poured into that tee and those denims.

He stared broodingly at the glimpse of tattoo—a single rose on a thorned stem—peeping from the edge of her scooped neckline. His mood, already dark, blackened. The woman was a carnal invitation to the entire male gender. A glance about the pub showed any number of human males glancing her way, primed to accept.

He itched to kill every last one of the rotters, just for daring to look at her. It was a wonder his pint glass didn’t crack, his grip was so tight. Emotions seethed in his gut like a swarm of vipers.

When at last he looked up at her, his expression showed nothing but disdain. Her lips thinned. He willed her to turn and leave, which would keep things simple, he told himself. He liked things simple. Right.

She slipped into the empty seat across the table.

“Blast it, Artur. What are you doing in this dive?”

His cock twitched at the sound of her husky Texas drawl, and he raised an eyebrow. “I could ask the same of you. I’d have thought you’d be spending the night quietly at home, watching Gareth kill himself.”

Anger hissed through her teeth. “You bastard. Why did you put him up to this?”

She was so beautiful, he ached. “Why shouldn’t I? So you won’t have to deal with it?”

She flushed scarlet. “He’s too young. He’ll suffer. Horribly.”

“Gareth’s of age and perfectly capable. As an adept, he’ll be a valuable asset to the clan. We need him.”

“You could have put him off until we see what magic Cade brings back. There’s no need for Gareth to risk a death-seeking so soon.”

He regarded her steadily, not really hearing her words. His gaze was focused on the movement of her mouth. There was only one place he wanted those plump red lips, and it wasn’t across a table, bitching at him.

“Are you listening to me?”

“It’s Gareth’s right to choose. It’s your right to refuse.” Under the table, the rough grip of the Glock was a comfort to his palm.

“Damn you, Artur. Just . . . damn you.”

“A bit redundant, that, wouldn’t you say? Come on, Cybele. Gareth’s a fine male—but if he’s not up to your standards, simply tell him no.”

“It would serve you right if I told him yes.”

Artur leaned back in his chair and forced a laugh. In truth, he wanted to punch something.

“If I refuse Gareth,” Cybele continued through gritted teeth, “I challenge your approval and shame you before the clan. You’d be forced to kill me or lose the chieftaincy. If I anchor him, you’ve got an excuse to hate me even more than you already do. As usual, you’ve manipulated the situation to punish me. There’s no honorable way I can escape your trap.”

Artur tilted his glass and looked down into the dying froth. “Sometimes dishonor is the only choice.”

She shoved to her feet. “Forget it, Artur. Forget I even came here to try to reason with you.” Her loose hair swung forward as she rounded the chair. An emotion very near to panic squeezed Artur’s chest as she turned and began to walk away.

“Cybele,” he said. “Wait.”

She stopped in her tracks, her hands fisted at her sides. Several seconds passed before she turned.

“I suppose you want my decision. Well, I—”

“No. Not that.” Artur’s eyes cut to the dart game. “Over there. Bloke in blue. Next up to throw. What do you make of him?”

Cybele’s confused gaze followed his. An instant later, she sucked in a breath. “Possessed.”

“Help me kill him,” he said.

She huffed out a laugh. “As if you need my help! And anyway, that poor human host’s eyes are still his natural color. Not a trace of demon red. What he needs is an exorcist, not a hole in his chest.”

“And his three friends? What do they need? Look closely before you answer.”

She turned back to the dart game, brows furrowed. He saw the exact moment the truth hit her. It amazed him, sometimes, how no one else seemed to see these things as clearly as he could.

“Shit,” she said. “They’re already marked. Three of them!” She bit her lip. “That fiend must be very ancient to have managed that.”

Artur smiled. It was unusual to find a fiend old enough to mark two humans simultaneously, let alone four. This one would be a pleasure to annihilate.

“Exactly,” he replied. “It would be impossible to destroy such an ancient without killing its host. Not when it’s got three potential hosts ready and waiting.”

He could shoot with magic only, preserving the human
host’s life, but the fiend inside, with three backup host souls already marked, would have plenty of time to dive into one of them. And the mark on the first host couldn’t be erased without the assistance of a trained exorcist. As long as the four humans remained alive and marked, the fiend could pop back and forth between them indefinitely.