A Soul So Wicked (Moon Chasers) (16 page)

“Let her go. You have another more willing medium these days.”

“That I do, that I do. A most accommodating host.
She
doesn’t fight me. I don’t even have to guide her. Leaving her to her own devices has been—” Tresa suddenly looked like she was savoring the finest chocolate. “Gratifying. She’s most creative. I’ve enjoyed giving her free rein. I can’t wait to see what she does next.” Tresa motioned at herself in disgust. “Unlike Tresa. She’s useless to me.”

Darius gestured back toward the house. “Is she here? Your new witch? Who is she?”

Tresa’s mouth curled wickedly and she crossed her arms over her chest in gratification. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Suddenly Tresa cringed and bent over, clutching her middle.

Darius moved in her direction, his instinct to help. Until he recalled that this wasn’t Tresa. Not anymore. He stopped and forced his hands to his sides.

She flipped her head back up, tossing her dark hair and glaring at him. Soulless eyes gleamed out like death at him. “She’s especially fierce tonight. Might that have something to do with you, dog?”

“Let her go,” he commanded. “Come out and fight me yourself.”

A laugh rippled from her lips, alien and sinister. “You think you can defeat me? You can’t even see me. I’m only a shadow to your eyes.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Hmm. You could just kill her.” She made a slicing motion to her throat. “Cut off Tresa’s head and I’ll be free… and I’ll form right before your eyes. We could have it out in true style. You could kill me then.”

Darius’s hands grew damp, his stomach knotting at the thought. He couldn’t do such a thing. Even if it was the only way he could see Balthazar.

Even if Darius could see him, he’d be hard to kill. Every demon possessed an Achilles’ heel,
his mark of the fall. This mark could be anywhere on the demon’s body. He’d have to find it first and then strike there,
only
there. Not an easy task when the demon was a mere shadow.

Tresa’s demon continued talking. Even in Tresa’s voice, it didn’t sound like her. It sounded evil. Strange that he had thought her that very thing. But she wasn’t evil. This thing in front of him was.

“You don’t actually care about her, do you? This witch that started your curse?” Black eyes looked him over, considering him,
seeing
him. “Clearly you don’t wish to be what you are. I can see that. How can you care about
her
life?” With a tsking sound, Balthazar nodded. “She deserves to be punished… her life ended. You know it’s true.”

Rage swelled up inside Darius. A week ago he would have agreed without hesitation. Rather than explain his change of heart to this demon, he taunted him with a beckoning wave of his hand. “Shadow or no, let’s have a go-round.”

Tresa suddenly released a hissing breath, bending at the waist as though in pain. The black of her eyes shuddered, the whites appearing for a second before vanishing, plunging to black again.

“Tre?” he called, knowing instantly she was in there, fighting to return.

“Bitch,” Balthazar growled in a contorted, garbled voice, “can you never just stay put and do what you’re commanded to do?”

With an unnatural howl, a great gust of wind surged free from her body, the air murky with the demon’s vague shape.

The inky shadow whirled around Darius, taunting him. Leaves and dirt blew, nearly blinding him. He lurched forward and caught Tresa up in his arms just as she collapsed. Her arms loosely circled his shoulders.

“Sorry,” she said hoarsely in his ear. “So… sorry…”

He squinted at the cloudy shape circling them both, trying to discern the demon within.

A voice came from the clouded figure, scratching the air like sandpaper on his flesh. “You can’t destroy me, lycan!”

And then he was gone, a dark plume winding back toward the house.

“She’s in there.” Tresa struggled to stand on her own, pointing toward the distant house. “He’s returning to her.” Her words rushed with urgency. “We have to go find her. Now! It’s our chance.”

She took a stumbling step toward the house.
She didn’t make it a second step before her knees buckled. He gathered her close. Her heart beat like a drum against her chest. He could feel every thud. He pushed back the dark hair from her face. “How are we going to do that when you can’t even walk?”

“Sorry,” she panted, her gaze fixed on the house. “I’m always weak… after… It was harder to fight him here. Without the cold, he’s stronger.” Her eyes drifted shut and she went limp in his arms.

For a moment an irrational fear seized his heart. He jostled her in his arms. “Tre!” Relief filled him when she moaned. She was okay. Just drained. He lifted her, holding her close like she was something fragile. Which was ironic, considering that she was the least fragile creature he’d ever met. The woman hadn’t survived for generations by being weak.

Holding her in his arms, he circled back to the front of the house, finding his car parked alongside the road with dozens of other vehicles. He secured her carefully in the passenger seat, buckling her in. Her head drooped to the side and silky dark hair fell into her face. He smoothed the hair back, tucking a lock behind her ear. She looked so young and innocent. Not at all like a woman who had lived over two thousand years.

With a sigh, he closed the door. For a moment he hesitated, his gaze drifting to the house. Light and noise spilled out on to the street. Balthazar was in there. And his witch. She was probably closing in on her next victim, Balthazar egging her on.

Shaking his head, he climbed behind the wheel. He couldn’t possibly leave Tresa in the car and resume hunting the witch. Not in this condition.

Reaching across the seat he brushed the backs of his fingers against the gentle curve of her cheek. It seemed he couldn’t stop himself from touching her. He needed to feel her, needed to assure himself that she was all right. Strong and well. Somehow that had become his priority.

She needed him right now. And he wouldn’t let her down.

S
IXTEEN

T
resa woke to a dark room.

She sat up with a gasp, fighting and kicking against the covers, her mind and body reliving the sensation of being trapped inside herself. Balthazar controlling her, taking over until she was locked up in that dark corner of her mind again and unable to do anything. Unable to stop him. It was horrible, second only to the terror she’d felt when she was drowning, water filling her, burning up her lungs… consuming her.

Tears clogged her throat, running hotly down her cheeks as she thrashed, struggling to break free.

“Tre! Tre!” Hands grasped her arms and she struck out blindly, her knuckles making contact with hard, unyielding muscle.

“Tre. It’s me, Darius. You’re safe.”

She stilled, the words sinking in.
Darius
.

She went weak, her body trembling. She
pushed back the hair from her face, hating how her fingers shook.

She was safe. With a lycan. That irony tightened her throat. But as his hands closed around her arms, it felt
right
. Too right.

Her encounter with Balthazar had shaken her to her core. These past months had been so peaceful without him. She’d forgotten just how terrible it was when he possessed her and she lost control of herself. Tonight had brought that all back to her.

And Darius had been there to witness her shame. Perhaps that stung the most.

She swallowed. “I’m sorry. I should have been stronger—”

“To fight off a possession? It’s harder in warm temperatures, right?” He was a shadowy outline on the bed, but she perceived his shaking head. “You did all you could. And you did reclaim yourself eventually.”

She looked down, nodding mutely, uncomfortable with the idea of him making excuses for her. Compassion… understanding. She didn’t deserve it from him.

He smoothed the hair that veiled her face. The tenderness of the gesture shook her.

“Tell me,” he softly commanded. “I want to understand.”

She lifted her gaze. Even in the gloom, his pewter eyes shimmered.

“What?” she whispered, even though she already sensed it. He wanted to know everything. He was ready to hear about her past. To find out
why
everything had happened. Why she’d surrendered to Balthazar. To
know
her. He wanted to understand. Even though he shouldn’t, even though she shouldn’t accept this from him…

Silence floated between them. There was a rustle of movement and then a click as he turned on the bedside lamp. She blinked at the dull glow flooding the room. The muted light softened his features. He looked less harsh, the hard angles less severe. No resemblance to the hard-faced lycan who’d first shown up in her house.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands gliding down her arms to her hands. His broad palms lightly covered her fingers. The heat of his skin radiated over her, warming her from the inside out.

“How have you survived for so long?” he asked.

“I can’t die.” She twisted one shoulder in a weak shrug. “I don’t have a choice.”

“There were choices. You didn’t end up in
some padded room. And you didn’t turn out like this other witch, either, relishing hurting others, embracing evil.”

She wet her lips and his eyes followed the movement. Her stomach tightened. Everything inside her told her to look away, to slide her hands out from under his and scoot a little farther down the bed.

“I just wanted Etienne Marshan punished… I watched him kill my husband, my grandmother. They were the only family I had. And then Balthazar came, promising to punish Etienne.”

Bleakness consumed her as she stared at him, remembering the old hurt. “I never wanted this to happen. I didn’t think he would do anything to hurt anyone else. Just Etienne. God, every day since, I’ve wished I’d died with Michel and Grandmère. If I had just drowned…”

She dragged her hands free and pulled her knees to her chest, burying her face between them. The misery that was never very far washed over her.

A strong, warm hand claimed hers, covering it completely. He made tender shushing sounds, so at odds with what she expected from him. What she deserved.

Shaking her head, she pulled her hand away.
“No. Don’t treat me like I’m something to be pitied.” She started to rise but he pulled her back, folded her in his arms.

She reacted, struggling. He pinned her with his body, his hands coming up to frame her face, and she stilled, captured by his gaze.

The sensation of his hands on her face, the raspy palms against her cheeks, pulled at everything inside her, and she felt something deep within her unraveling, like a ribbon on a package coming loose.

“What are you doing?” She simply breathed the words, her eyes on his mouth, recalling with desperate hunger the taste of him. Her chest tightened, her lungs constricting with the fear, the hope, the prayer, right or wrong, that he would kiss her again.

He shook his head once, as though jogging some sense into himself. With a ragged breath, he released her and sat back. His shoulders rose and fell as he lowered his head into his hands, seizing fistfuls of the dark hair. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

His voice sounded pained, regretful—as if he couldn’t stand himself for touching her so intimately. Of course. However horrible he was, she was worse.

She scooted down the bed, her heart heavy.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered. Helplessly. Inanely. It was all she could say. “You shouldn’t touch me. You shouldn’t even be here.”

Ridiculously hurt that he wasn’t disagreeing with her, she reached the end of the bed, dropping her legs over until her feet touched the ground.

The hurt was there. A deep pang in her chest. She glanced over her shoulder at him. He clasped his head in his hands as if he was weary.

She lowered her shaking hands on the edge of the mattress and pushed up. She wasn’t quite standing yet when his hand clamped on her wrist, his strong fingers a warm vise. She hadn’t even heard him move.

He pulled her around to face him in one smooth move. She stared at him in surprise.

“I’ve never done anything I should,” he told her. One hand dove into her hair and cupped the back of her head as his lips met hers.

He fell back on the bed, taking her with him. She sprawled over him, her lower body slipping between his thighs. His lips moved passionately on hers, loving hers, devouring her.

He kissed her like he was starved for her. Like this was his last kiss on the last day of his life. She touched his cheeks, caressing his face,
assuring herself that this moment was real and not some dream.

The dark mass of her hair fell around them in a veil, and his fingers gathered all the strands, holding them back.

Her excitement increased, as did the kiss. He might have started it, but now she was fully invested. Desire hummed and sparked through every nerve. She felt alive as she hadn’t since the day she’d died.

She angled her head to deepen the kiss, desperate to get closer, to fuse them together. She pressed herself against him, moving and thrusting her hips with an instinct that was deep and strong.

With Darius she didn’t have to think. There was just sensation. Just
this
.

His arms circled her waist and he flipped her on her back, coming over her with every tasty inch of him. Her hands roamed his back and chest, hating the shirt that kept her from feeling his skin against her palms. Her fingers flew to the hem, grasping the fabric and tugging it up. His mouth broke from hers so that she could send the shirt flying.

His lips dragged down her throat, his teeth scraping along her skin in the most delicious way. He growled when he came to the neckline
of her sweater and she arched her back so he could pull it free. She didn’t even feel the air before he was on her, covering her again. He brought his head down to nuzzle at her black-lace-covered breasts.

She sighed and arched, weaving her fingers through his hair, clutching him close.

His mouth came back to hers. Their lips clung, drinking, tasting, devouring as his hands delved inside her bra, pushing the flimsy fabric aside to expose her sensitive flesh. She gasped into his mouth as he cupped a breast, his palm abrading the aroused nipple.