Bind the Soul (30 page)

Their plan was basic. Scary-basic. They couldn’t prep beyond a sketchy outline. Ash didn’t know where Samael kept his antidotes, but he knew the Hades Warlord always kept some close. And, conveniently, Samael was nice and close to them. Like, three hours away.

Three hours away in the middle of an army of two hundred lethal daemon soldiers.

Ash wanted to go in alone to find the antidote. Only the impossibly slim chance of success had allowed her to talk him out of it. He would never be able to get in, locate the antidote, and get out again alive. On top of that, he wasn’t sure he could recognize the correct antidote unless it was clearly labeled. The risks were too high.

Her plan was much better. In her plan, she definitely got the antidote and lived. The part after that was the reason she was standing in front of her closet, trying not to hyperventilate.

This was all Micah’s fault. She wished she’d shot him right there at the gala. He’d probably already poisoned the others by the time she’d confronted him. That was why his ring hadn’t had much poison left on the tiny, retractable pin. He’d already used it on eleven others, all of whom had died within days. The tiny dose was the only reason Piper was still alive a week later.

At most, she had three days to live. Ash said the antidote had to be taken before the other symptoms—the fever and headaches—started or it wasn’t guaranteed to work, which meant they couldn’t delay their plan for even a few hours. The final stage of the poisoning could kick in at any minute.

She stared sightlessly at the closet. Part of her wondered whether dying was better than what she planned to do. But if she didn’t do it, Ash would attempt his plan—and they would both end up dead.

“Pick something,” she whispered to herself. Her voice shook. Calm. She needed to be calm.

Her door opened with so much force that it crashed into the wall. She turned.

Ash stalked in. He’d changed back into his draconian warrior clothes: head-to-toe black, short swords hanging along each thigh, the black wrap looped loosely around his neck. His hair was back in its usual braid alongside his head, minus that red strip of silk. The only thing missing was his armor-like vest. His bare arms, covered only by wrist-to-elbow armguards, flexed with tension as he stalked toward her. His eyes were black. Had been black since he’d realized she’d been poisoned. The longer he stayed shaded like that, the more slippery his control would become.

“I changed my mind,” he snarled. “You’re not going.”

She stiffened. “Yes, I am.”

“No.”

“We’ve been through this already,” she snapped. If he tried talking her out of it again, he might succeed. She couldn’t let him; otherwise, he would get killed trying to save her. “We’ve controlled the risks—”

“We’ve controlled nothing.” He stopped in front of her, towering over her.

She didn’t know whether he was deliberately intimidating her, but either way, she didn’t like it.

She jabbed a finger into the middle of his chest. “So you’re saying you won’t be waiting for me in three hours?”

“Of course I will, but—”

“And if I don’t meet you, you won’t try to reach me when Miysis’s force and Samael’s soldiers start fighting, whenever that is?”

“You—”

“Or, if that fails, you won’t ever have a chance, between now and forever, to get me out? I won’t be going anywhere. Samael wants me alive, remember?”

He bared his teeth at her. “You know I won’t leave you there.”

“Good. Then there’s no reason not to go through with—”

He even stepped closer.

“There’s
every
reason,” he snarled, “for you
not
to surrender yourself to Samael.”

She opened her mouth but he spoke over her.

“We’ll find another way. There has to be a better way. I can return to Asphodel while he’s distracted by Miysis and force his healers to give up the antidote. Anything is better than you handing yourself over.”

She put a hand on his chest and pushed. Glaring at her, he didn’t budge. Then he allowed the pressure of her hand to move him, stepping back so she could move around him and into the middle of the room where he couldn’t corner her.

“How long would that take?” she asked quietly, her back to him as she stared across the room. Fear coiled in her belly like a squirming snake. “A day? What if you couldn’t find it? That’s a day I might not have.”

She exhaled slowly. “Samael needs me. He’ll give me the antidote right away. It’s the only guaranteed way I’ll get it in time. After that, I can wait as long as it takes for you to get me away from him. Samael doesn’t have the Sahar, so he won’t have any immediate use for me.”

Silence answered her. She turned around.

Ash watched her with eyes full of more than one kind of shadow. For the first time ever, traces of his past reflected in his face—countless nights of pain and terror repeated a thousand times over since he was a child.

“He’ll hurt you, Piper,” he whispered.

Her hands shook. She clenched them. “I know.”

If she could escape within three hours of getting the antidote, Ash would be waiting for her on the periphery of Samael’s army. The chances of that were miniscule, but if she did somehow manage to get away, she’d need Ash’s wings to get her out of Samael’s reach, fast. If she couldn’t escape—a far more likely scenario—she’d have another chance when Samael attacked the Consulate. In the midst of the fighting, Ash would try to grab her. It was risky, but Ash would try whether or not she gave him permission.

Most likely, both attempts would fail and Samael would take her to the Underworld. And then she would have days or weeks or months to wait until Ash found a way to get her out.

There was a chance he would never find a way. A good chance he would die trying. It wasn’t as though Samael didn’t know Ash’s strengths and weaknesses. The Hades Warlord would make certain that Piper couldn’t slip through his fingers a second time.

Yes, in all likelihood, she would never be rescued—and Samael would have a very long time to punish her for what she’d done on her last visit.

If she weren’t a coward, she would’ve let Ash try one of his other plans. He would probably fail and the poison would kill her, but that would be better than spending the rest of her life as Samael’s slave. But she was afraid to die. There was a chance, however miniscule, that Ash would save her from Samael. So she would take her chances and hope she didn’t end up regretting it.

She managed a weak smile for him. “I’ll be fine. It won’t be for that long.”

He looked at her with torment in his eyes, so still and silent. She was reminded of the way he’d stood on the rooftop of the Styx before he’d returned the Sahar he’d stolen from her—a decision he’d expected to seal his fate.

His expression hardened. “I’m going to tear Micah to pieces,” he said. “Slowly.”

“No,” she said. “
I
want to kill him. Slowly. Now get out of my room so I can finish changing.”

She planted her feet and gave him a commanding look.

He studied her, eyes still dangerously black, then melted into motion. He glided toward the door, movements sleek and fluid. Predatory. She remembered that gait, had watched him stalk her like that through an entire building.

An impulsive plan took form as he passed her. It was stupid, but seeing that haunted look in his eyes had scared her. She’d never seen it before and she hadn’t forgotten Vejovis’s warning that Eisheth’s collar could have done permanent harm to him. She needed to know he was strong enough for what was coming, because she seriously doubted
she
was strong enough.

She waited for him to pass her, then launched into motion. He heard the movement and started to turn—too late. She sprang onto his back. Grabbing his shoulder with one hand, she braced her feet on his wide belt. While he staggered from the sudden addition of her weight, she pulled a dagger from her boot and smoothly laid the flat side against his throat.

He went still.

“So,” she drawled, “in case you were thinking I wasn’t tough enough to handle Micah on my own.” She tapped his throat with the blade. “Have I convinced you?”

He was silent, maybe considering her words—maybe not. She had no idea.

“Am I convinced?” he asked.

She shuddered as his voice hummed through her. Her muscles threatened to turn to jelly from the sound.

“Not even close.”

Before she could recover from her reaction to his voice, he jerked forward so swiftly that she was flung over his head.

She managed to roll instead of face-planting, but no sooner had she leaped to her feet than he grabbed her by the back of the shirt. A seam ripped with a spectacular sound as he spun her around. She crashed into him, front to front. By luck more than skill, she managed to keep her dagger out of his grasp as he locked her other hand behind her.

She whipped the dagger up and put the blade against his throat for a second time. Sharp edge in. His hand closed around her wrist at the same instant the deadly edge touched his unprotected skin.

They froze like that.

Breathing hard, she craned her neck to look at him. Because he couldn’t look down with her dagger under his chin, she couldn’t check his eyes for shading. His grip on her other arm was tight but not painful.

“Convinced
now
?” she asked. She wasn’t sure herself whether she had the advantage. His hand on her wrist flexed. He could pull her hand away but there was a hypothetical chance she could cut his jugular if she bent her wrist just right. Not that she would.

“Hmm,” he pondered.

His arm pinning hers to her back tightened, inadvertently pushing her against him. Her heartbeat leaped and she fought to keep her head clear. Off limits. He was off limits. Damn it. How had her simple little plan to make sure he was up for a fight gotten so out of control?

His hand slid off her wrist and over her hand. She didn’t know what he did, but the next second he was holding the dagger instead of her. She stared stupidly at her empty hand. He tossed the dagger without looking. It hit the wall point first and stuck there. His hand captured hers and then both her arms were locked behind her back. She blinked at his neck, the part of him on level with her stunned stare.

He tightened his grip, making sure she was well and truly helpless. She met his stormy eyes, eyes that slid right through her, all iron will and steely determination. Not even the tiniest hint of weakness in them. Looks like she’d been worried for nothing.

“Maybe you’re tough enough for Micah,” he said, his eyes darkening, “but are you strong enough for Samael?”

Fear zinged through her at the reminder. She swallowed hard. They stared at each other and she knew he was thinking the same thing as her: this could be it—the last time they saw each other. She might not survive the night. If she did, she might never see freedom again.

“Well,” she said, trying to keep her tone light; it trembled instead. She gave her arms an experimental tug but his grip was impossible to budge. “I may not be able to take Samael in a fight, but I am damn good at escaping.”

With that, she yanked both feet off the floor.

Her sudden weight pulled him off balance. They both went down. Her back thumped against the floor, cushioned by a pile of rejected clothes. Ash landed on top of her, half squashing her before he caught his weight on his elbows. Her arms were suddenly free. She grabbed his head, intending to push him off her—but that wasn’t what happened.

Was it her hands that disobeyed and pulled him closer instead? Or did he lean in?

For the briefest moment, his lips hovered over hers, almost touching. Their breaths mingled. Her heart tried to stop. Her fingers twitched.

His mouth closed over hers.

Heat swept through her. She arched into him. Her hands tightened in his hair, pulling his mouth harder into hers. He responded in kind, pushing her into the floor until all she could feel was him, his heat, his strength. His teeth nipped her lower lip, the gentle bite a dizzying contrast to the aggressive way he pinned her. She pulled on the back of his neck, demanding more. He fit his mouth over hers, his kiss fierce and ruthless. She slid her hands to his shoulders, fingers urgently digging into his flesh.

He sat up abruptly, pulling her with him without breaking the kiss. She found herself straddling him, hands still clutching his shoulders. One of his hands held the back of her head, keeping her lips tight to his, not giving her the option of pulling away—an option she didn’t want. She sucked in air as he tilted her head back, mouth unrelenting and insistent, tongue teasing hers.

His other hand, still tangled in the tear in her shirt, slid under the fabric and up her back. His arm tightened, crushing her against him. She wound her legs around his waist and sent her hands in search of the bottom hem of his shirt. If she didn’t touch him soon, if she didn’t feel the heat of his skin under her hands, she would scream.

She worked her hands down, tugging feebly at his shirt caught tight between them. Frustration flared.

“Ash,” she growled against his mouth. She gave his shirt a yank. “Now.”