When Temptation Burns: A Shadow Keepers Novel (Shadow Keepers 6) (34 page)

Pain ripped through Doyle. Brutal, horrible, biting pain brought on by tendrils of electricity that shot upward from the floor and outward from the walls, propelled by thin, dangerous wires. It curled through him, the electricity like a sharp-fanged serpent that was biting and tearing and ripping him up from the inside. Pain so great it brought him to his knees, collapsed him, and ripped away his control over his powers.

But there was something even worse than the pain—his fear for Andy.

She was here, in this place, and she was afraid.

He’d caught the scent of her terror, and it had filled him, overcoming even the smell of his own burning flesh.

Let her be safe. Please, please let her be safe
.

But he knew she wasn’t. If Creevey had exposed him, then odds were he’d exposed Andy, too, telling Paul that she was a reporter. And he might even know that she and Doyle were together.

Would Paul kill her? The thought made him writhe with a fear even more potent than the electricity that was draining him.

He had to get out somehow. Had to get away from this cell that had been rigged for only one purpose: torture.

Another whack of electricity shot through him, and he convulsed, dropping to his knees, his limbs shaking, his body no longer under his control.

He wouldn’t last long like this. The electricity wouldn’t kill him, but it would sap him. Drain him so far that when they returned there would be no fight in him. No strength to protect him through the final indignity when Paul stood in front of him and with one swift swing from an ax, beheaded him.

Or maybe he’d burn him. Or rip out his heart.

Doyle didn’t know how—didn’t care how—but he knew that the end was coming. That he was alive now only because Paul wanted to play with him or use him for a bargaining chip.

No! He had to think. Think and act and get himself free
.

Andy.

He pulled her image close to him, using it to anchor his wildly spinning thoughts.

Another tremor rocked his body, and he focused on breathing. He sucked in air through his teeth and told himself he could stand it. But that, of course, was a goddamned lie. The Tasers they’d used to capture him had more power than the standard devices that were available on the open market. These were serious shit—a good shot would have killed a human. As it was, it had taken down a paradaemon. He hated to admit it, but his enemies were formidable. And they had Andy.

Conjuring all his strength, he forced himself to look around, to focus on the room. Any little details that
might help him escape this room and the violent attack of electricity.

There was nothing. A door. Walls. Metal all around. Not even a keypad. Just the small holes from which the Tasers shot. Just the door through which they’d drag his body once the energy had done its work and reduced him to rubble.

Think, dammit, think
.

He lifted his hand, determined to find the strength to conjure a wormhole, and the movement was met with a lightning storm of currents. Movement, apparently, increased the storm. He tried again, hand thrust out, mind focused. But of course nothing happened. He’d known it wouldn’t. He needed strength to call a wormhole, and the electricity was steadily sapping his strength.

The only way out was through that door. If he could gather enough energy—if he could pound against it hard enough—maybe he could blow it open.

A quick surge of excitement shot through him, and he focused on the door, sucked in air through his nose, and rushed forward. His scream of pain seemed to shake the walls as the electrical currents—the strongest so far—curled around him and through him.
Too much. Too much …

And yet the current skittered over the door, too, ripples of sparking electricity scurrying across the polished metal like tiny spiders.

Maybe … just maybe
.

He backed up. One step, then another. Wincing with each movement as the currents shot from the walls, trying to snare him in their grip.

One, two, three
.

Another leap forward and he tossed himself at the
door. More skittering spiders. On the door. In his head. His hands buzzing and his feet tingling as the dancing currents swarmed over and through him. Over and over through the metal of the door.

It worked—it had to have worked.

But when he thrust himself against it again, the door stayed firmly closed, and Doyle had to accept the simple truth: He was trapped. Trapped and alone and helpless.

And terribly afraid for Andy.

Andrew peeled open his eyes and realized his cheek was pressed into something warm and sticky. Blood. His own blood.

He blinked, trying to remember, then gasped when it all came back in a flash. The gun. The bullet.

The pain.

He was on the floorboard of his car, and it was dark. Night?

No.

It took him a second, but when he could finally see through the driver’s side window, he realized that he was in a garage. Someone had moved his car, then left him here.

Experimentally, he moved his fingers, and when they complied, he slowly lifted his hand to his head. He felt the warm and sticky injury, and when he brought his hand down he saw blood mixed with crushed bone and little bits of gray matter.

They’d left him for dead. They’d left him for dead because that’s what he was. Or would be soon.

He didn’t fear death, but for some reason he wasn’t ready for it. Why? What was he waiting for? Why couldn’t he just let go and drift away to his reward?

Andy
.

Fear, sharp and brutal, cut through him.

He remembered
—his daughter was in danger.

He didn’t understand everything that had happened, but he knew enough to know that Paul was dangerous—and that Andy was with him. Except she wasn’t. She’d aligned herself with that creature. With Doyle. And if Paul knew about Doyle, then he surely knew about Andy.

And that meant Paul would hurt her. He’d hurt her the way he was hurting Doyle.

He gasped, his body convulsing as death edged near.

No
. He pushed it back, determined to cling to life. Determined to think of a way to help his daughter.

But he was locked in a garage with a hole in his head. There was no way.

The vault
.

The monster was in the vault.

If he released the monster …

But no, he couldn’t do that. Doyle was evil. Inhuman. A demon cut from the fabric of hell.

Except Andy trusted him
.

His daughter was a fool. But if Andrew didn’t do something, then soon she’d be a dead fool.

With incredible effort, he gathered his strength, then reached up and grabbed the passenger door handle. He tugged, and the door clicked open. He pushed it ajar.

But he couldn’t sit up.

Clawing at anything he could get purchase on, he tugged himself across the floorboard toward the door. And then, with one final push, he fell in a lump onto the concrete.

He lay there for a moment in a pained heap, telling himself that he couldn’t die. Not yet. He still had a job to do.

He looked around, searching for a way into Paul’s house, then realized how much God was looking after
him when he saw a door leading to the vault instead. It was on the far side of the room. Why did it have to be on the far side?

He inched in that direction, making small moaning noises as he moved, leaving bits of blood and brain in his wake. He wouldn’t even be a person by the time he got there, but he
would
get there. He’d get there, he’d free the monster, and then, dammit, he’d pray.

Just a few more feet, just a few more inches.

Yes
.

He was there
.

The latch, however, was too high. He’d need to get on his knees. But how? He didn’t have the energy. There wasn’t enough blood pumping through his veins.
Do it
.

He burst up, knowing this would be his only shot, and grabbed the metal handle before collapsing back onto the floor, his heart beating so hard it would surely explode.

The door clicked, then sagged open a single centimeter.

“Doyle,” he whispered. But there was no reply.

“Doyle,” he said again.
No, the monster couldn’t be dead. Please, please don’t let the monster be dead
.

“Doyle.”

And then the door burst open and Doyle fell out, his skin mottled and burned, his eyes blazing.

He looked hard at Andrew, his expression confused.

“They have Andy,” Andrew said. “Save her. Please. I’m trusting you to take care of my daughter.”

For a moment, he wasn’t sure the monster understood. Then his face softened, and Doyle nodded. “I will,” he said, and Andrew believed him.

It was enough. It was all he could do.

Andrew let go, and let death take him away.

Andy
.

From his prostrate position on the floor, Doyle looked across at the body of Andrew Tarrent and said a silent thank-you. He’d given Doyle a chance. Given Andy a chance.

Now Doyle had to make sure he didn’t waste it.

Exhausted, drained, he forced himself back onto his feet, then shuffled, hunched over, to the far side of the garage and the door that he assumed led into the house. He had a vague, pain-tinged memory of being brought through here, Bryce holding him tight, the electricity coursing through him all the while.

Overcome, he stopped, then vomited on the concrete floor.

Weakness enveloped him. How the hell was he going to be of any use to anyone?

He reached the door, his hand resting on the knob. He turned it, and when nothing happened, he feared that it was locked. Then he realized he was so damn weak that he hadn’t turned the knob forcefully enough.

Once he put all of his strength behind it, he managed to get the door open. He stepped over the threshold into a small kitchen. Not the kind of food that was going to give him strength.

He heard a noise from the next room, though. Footsteps coming toward him. He looked around, knowing that he needed a place to hide. He didn’t have the strength
for a full-on attack. His only chance at survival was if he had the element of surprise.

Just in time, he slipped in behind the door. It swung open, then closed, and Travis Sullivan walked in. They’d left Travis here alone? Why?

And then the answer dawned on him—they’d used Sullivan’s ID and parking card to access the building. Travis wouldn’t want to incriminate himself, and Paul would agree—Travis’s political position was too useful to compromise. So he’d say that he was kidnapped. His cards stolen. He was an innocent, drawn into something horrible.

Fuck
.

With his back to Doyle, Travis started to walk toward a full pot of coffee on the far counter. Once he got to it, he’d turn around and see Doyle. Travis would have plenty of opportunity to grab a weapon because Doyle would be across the room from him.

Doyle wished he wasn’t so weak, but he had to move now, and he lunged, grabbing the back of Travis’s shirt and sending both of them tumbling to the floor.

“You!” Travis shouted, as he tried to push Doyle off of him.

“Me,” Doyle said. “It’s good to see you, Travis. It just so happens, I need your help.” Doyle bent closer, and he could smell the man’s soul, could practically taste the essence of him, dark and rotting and tattered. But it was there. By the gods, it was right there.

And although Doyle reviled the direct taking of a soul—although he’d spent his life cursing himself and what he needed to do to survive—this time there were no curses. There was only joy in the knowledge that what he needed had come so willingly to him. And that
by taking the soul of this putrid creature, he could gain the strength to stop Paul and, he hoped, save the woman he loved.