Seduced by Shadows (5 page)

From primitive club to switchblade battle-axe quicker than her stuttering heart could find its beat.

“Oh God.” She cringed back against the wall.

“I never got around to naming it.” He gripped the weapon just below the wickedly recurved blade and tugged up the sleeves of his coat and shirt.

The razor edge carved the cold light, sharper than the look he threw her as he laid the gleaming blade against the inside of his right arm between the inky lines of his tattoo.

“No.” A sickening beat of horror skipped through her, in the same way as when she’d seen the SUV hurtling toward her, about to change her life forever.

The tattoo, neither Celtic nor tribal but even more primitive, swirled over his knuckles and spiked halfway up his arm. Against the black, the skin of his wrist looked tender, veins and tendons standing out in marbled relief.

He stilled, and despite the dread-filled thump of her heart, she found her gaze drawn to his.

“Unforgivably melodramatic,” he said, “but effectively convincing.”

He sliced the blade down his inner arm. Blood foun tained up behind the silvery edge into a gruesome rooster tail.

With a wordless cry, she jumped forward. A sweep of her elbow knocked the axe from his grasp.

The momentum of her leap sent them both tumbling to the pavement. He swore as his back hit the ground with a jolt.

She straddled him, both hands clamped on the terrible injury, stemming the inexorable outflow of life. Her heart raced, matching each gushing pump of blood from his wrist.

“Sera.”

“Are you crazy?” Was she? He’d had an
axe
, for God’s sake. She tried not to wonder if the weapon was far enough from his reach, if he would use it again, this time on her. “I can’t let go of you.”

“If so, you would be the first.”

The glimmer of old pain in his gaze ensnared her. But each heartbeat she spent wondering, another pulse of his blood eked between her fingers. “Shut up unless you’re going to make sense. We have to tourniquet your arm. Damn it, why don’t I have a scarf?”

“Sera, let go.”

Her stomach twisted. “I feared I was trying to kill myself, but I guess you beat me to it.”

“’Tis harder than you’d think.” His voice was soft, and he shifted under her, his thighs hard between her knees. “Sera, please.”

His tone made her pause. She was practically molesting him, something she hadn’t quite gotten around to with his doppelganger. He was too big for her to restrain, too sensibly calm and level eyed for her to tell herself he was totally nuts. Adrenaline ebbed, leaving her dazed.

“I already know you’re not a healer,” he said. “You’re
a guide. You of all people should understand release from pain can be dearer than life.”

She shook her head, slowly at first, then with more vigor. “Who told you that? That’s not why . . .”

“Let go.”

“Damn you.” She did.

Only a tracing of scar remained. The white line gleamed like pearl beneath the transecting smears of blood left by her fingers. She gasped and stumbled back.

“Easy.” He reached out to steady her.

She evaded him, as if by avoiding his hand she could ignore what she’d just seen. “It’s a trick.”

“All demon-kind delight in trickery.” He swept his hand over the scar, smearing her fingerprints into his skin, then folded the axe away and rose to his feet. “But I have not tricked you. Your possession will be hard enough without fear and doubt undermining you. Trust me on that.”

He tucked the club back into the folds of his coat and held his hand down to her.

“Trust you?” She clenched her fist, sticky with his blood. If she refused to listen to him, then she couldn’t believe her own senses either, which would mean she was broken in ways beyond the damage of a speeding SUV. That possibility was more frightening than anything he’d said. This time, the collision course was between what she’d known before and . . . “Possession?”

“The demon came to you. You let it in.”

“I didn’t know it was a demon.” Just saying the word made her feel as if she were playing on the flip side of sanity. “I can’t believe I’m listening to you.” But she took his hand.

He drew her to her feet. He stared down at their matched bloody hands a moment, then released her. “Remember what I said about believing? You’re already going through the first symptoms of possession
as the demon metastasizes. Your anger and blackouts, the sensation that you’ve been cut off from everything you’ve ever known.” The gray lake and sky cast a silvery pall over his eyes.

His distant, pensive expression made him seem too . . . too much like her. She curled her fingers tight against the urge to touch him again, to recall his focus from the empty horizon.

He continued. “You’ll tell yourself you’re losing your mind, that you’re embroiled in a government conspiracy, whatever makes you feel better.” The silver haze hardened to bronze again as he looked back at her. “But when the demon ascends, you can reject my words and die. Or listen to me and just maybe survive.”

“Survive possession.”

“And what comes after. Now the demon travels this world in your flesh, and when its influence rises, you draw unnatural power through the residual link to its realm.”

“That’s how I knocked the axe out of your hand.”

“I was momentarily distracted.” He glowered at her beneath lowered brows. “It won’t happen again.”

She couldn’t stop a quick grin at his disgruntlement. Then she thought about what he was saying, and her grin faded. “There’s psychological degradation as well?”

Up went one brow. “Like homicidal schizophrenia?”

She winced to hear the accusation she’d thrown at him on the bridge tossed back like an armed grenade. “Like voices in your head, telling you to do things.”

“The hierarchies in both other-realms are great believers in free will. Free, right up till you discover the price.” He waved his tattooed hand dismissively. “You’re still in the driver’s seat. Only now you have a passenger. A silent passenger, possibly with a gun to your head, who’s supercharged your vehicle for his own mysterious purpose and won’t let you go. But you’re not a puppet.”

If she turned her focus inward, would she feel this
otherworldly passenger? The thought made her want to crawl out of her skin. But it was her skin, damn it. “You describe it like a parasite.”

“Technically, symbiont. The demon doesn’t just take. It gives. Technically.”

The last was muttered under his breath, and she studied him, wondering whom he was trying to convince.

He shifted beneath her regard. “A weakness in your soul made you vulnerable to a demon matching itself to the emptiness in you.”

“I wasn’t weak or empty,” she protested. “At least not until . . .”

This time, he studied her as she fell silent. Bad enough she’d sometimes felt her body, her mind, her very future, were casual stakes in a poker game where she hadn’t been invited. Now it seemed her soul was in the pot too.

When she didn’t speak again, he said, “The danger is greatest in the last stage of possession, during the demon’s virgin ascension. Until the bond between you and the demon stabilizes, your soul might be pulled through the link to the other side.”

“To hell?”

He shrugged. “No one’s come back with a travelogue. But there’s some reason our demons want out.”

“ ‘ Our’?” She’d been thinking only of how this strange fate applied to her.

The gray surroundings were less stark than his expression. “How else would I know all this? I am possessed too.”

Archer took her for coffee. He’d seen that bewildered, undercaffeinated look often enough in his mirror, waking from mostly unremembered dreams.

Preferably unremembered.

They found a secluded table in the glass-ceiling atrium at Navy Pier, where wintry lake light gave the
palm trees a surreal cast. She huddled over her frothy, butterscotch beverage, a far cry from the simple black in his own cup, but he figured she needed as much consolation as sugar and whipped cream could offer. “Did you want chocolate sprinkles too?”

At the disbelieving look she shot him, he realized he should have come up with more meaningful conversation to follow his, “I’m demon-possessed” and her mumbled, “I need a drink.”

She leaned back, fingertips brushing her cup. “I’ll pass on the sprinkles. I hear temptation got me into this mess.”

“My demon is annihilation-class, with no special bent for enticement. I can’t know you so thoroughly to tempt you as your unbound demon did.”

“My demon.” Her gaze wandered over him. The track of her scrutiny raised a prickle of awareness in his skin that had nothing to do with his enhanced senses. He couldn’t know her—had no intention of knowing her—but some odd intimacy crackled between them all the same.

After all, the demon had come to her looking like him.

He crushed the thought. No intentions and good intentions seemed to lead to the same inevitable destination. “Is the coffee helping?”

“Making me feel human again? I guess you’ll tell me if I’m not human anymore.”

“You are. Mostly.”

She scowled at the “mostly.” “And the rest?”

“Is an other-realm emanation, latent at the moment, that matched itself to susceptible receptors in your idiopathic, perpetual etheric force.” When she blinked at him, he added, “More commonly called your soul.”

“Did I catch a demon or a cold?”

He slanted her a faint smile. “Our philosophers compare
possession to an infection, where demonic viral code overwrites exposed portions of our humanity.”

She shook her head. Her wrists, thin and pale against the black aluminum mesh table, seemed unbearably delicate, ill-suited to the fight ahead, and he wondered why the demon had chosen her. “Demon philosophy. I can’t help thinking. . . .”

He made an encouraging sound, but her glance was more irate than reassured. He made a mental note that she was not a woman to be patronized. First he had to dust the cobwebs off the mental file where he kept his notes on women.

“If this is true,” she continued, “I might finally get some answers.”

Archer lifted one eyebrow. “To what?”

“Heaven. Hell. God. What is the soul?” Her voice picked up speed. “Does it matter if we are good people or bad? How good do you have to be? If God is good and God made everything, why would he make bad? Why can’t—?”

“Is that how it lured you?” She blinked at his curtness, and he tried to modulate his tone. “It won’t give you answers. You’ll only have more questions.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to know.”

“Tell that to Adam.”

“I didn’t cause the downfall of man.”

His body tightened with the remembered weight of her straddling his hips. Most often such a scuffle involved some demonic entity eager to kill him. But she’d wanted to save him, to fall under her again. . . .

He felt the shift within him, not just in the suddenly snug crotch of his jeans, but the restless demon rising at his distraction. Damn. He’d said they weren’t puppets, and here he was, losing control like any newly possessed or rogue talya.

He dragged his mind back to the conversation. “Regardless,
Eve didn’t pass along any apples of knowledge. We have generations of historians who’ve filled archives with what they’ve learned, but they’d fill Lake Michigan with what they still can’t fathom. They’d overflow the Great Lakes with what they haven’t even thought to ask.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are there many like you?”

He noticed she didn’t include herself. “Leagues of talyan exist in pockets around the world.” When she frowned at the strange word, he explained, “One of those first scholars tagged us talyan, an unkind comparison to Aramaic sacrificial lambs.”

She stared off into the middle distance, contemplating. “Aramaic? See, now I have more questions.”

“You’ll find no religion or science with answers. We’ve culled the sects of a hundred cultures to find words for what we face, but the faiths of centuries offer no solace, and the science of today provides no explanations. We are heretic and madman rolled into one.” He reached across the table to take her chin in his hand, forcing her to focus on him. “Your only task now is to survive the coming days.”

Her hazel eyes speared him, and his demon surfaced like a leviathan on a gaff hook. She couldn’t know what lurked below. He was a fool to rile it with the touch it both longed for and feared.

He let go abruptly just as she jerked her chin up. “I’ve probably survived worse.”

His fingertips tingled with the flush of her skin, the heat flickering up his demon’s mark like ignition along black lines of gunpowder. “No doubt you have, or the demon would have chosen another.”

“When I had the vision of it, it said I’d called it.” She fixed her gaze on her hands wrapped around the coffee cup. “It said I was lonely. It said it loved me. How desperate is that?”

Love. The word exploded in an empty place in him,
as if that powder had burned to the end of the line. He clamped down until the echo died. “Desperate on the demon’s part? Or yours?” When she glared at him, he shrugged. “It makes a bargain to fill what’s missing in us and then takes what it needs.”

“But why me?” She wilted a bit. “Seems a little conceited to think I’ve had any more tribulations than the next guy.”

“Haven’t you?” He waited while she considered. “But it’s not about the quantity of your suffering. It’s the quality. Demons are quite the connoisseurs of pain.”

She grimaced. “Me too lately, I guess.”

“Exactly. When the demon crosses over, it seeks a matching target, a soul that resonates with its energy. Somewhere in your past is a penance trigger. It defines the headwaters of an invisible fault line in your soul, cutting a path right to the moment when the demon breaks your life in two.”

“A penance trigger?” Some memory brought a hazy glitter to the corner of her eye. “So it was because of me.”