Bittersweet Magic (5 page)

It was fire-wielding fucking peasants all over again. No clue what they faced, so they just presumed it was evil. She gritted her teeth. “I’ve never actually sacrificed anyone,” she ground out.

“Hey, I never said you had.”

“You were thinking it.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

A black cat weaved its way in from the kitchen, distracting her attention from Ryan. “Shit,” she muttered. Just what she needed. Her night off was turning out real great.

“Hey, nice cat,” Ryan said. “I didn’t know you had any pets.”

“It’s not a nice cat, and I don’t. It’s a nasty, mangy stray, and it can get the hell out of my house.” And perhaps it wasn’t the right time to mention that the cat wasn’t always a cat. She got up, stalked across the room, and opened the door to the hallway. “Out.”

It stared up at her with cunning green eyes then tiptoed out of the door. She slammed it behind the animal and took a deep breath. And another. Finally, she sat back down, picked up her drink, and sipped.

“Sorry,” Ryan said.

She glared. “What for?”

He grinned, showing slightly crooked white teeth. “Actually, I really have no clue.”

Roz sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Okay, maybe she’d overreacted. She refilled his glass as a peace sign and turned her attention to the photograph.

Resting her fingertips against the smooth paper, she willed herself to “see.” Nothing came to her. After a minute, she shook her head.

She was exhausted, and that never helped. There were also certain things she could do that would assist—but she’d only resort to those if all else failed. And certainly not in front of Ryan or he’d be back to thinking she was some sort of monster.

“You’ll keep trying?” Ryan asked.

“Of course.”

“I have a feeling we’re running out of time on this one.”

So did she. Exsanguination. She’d heard rumors over the centuries but never felt the urge to chase up answers. She wanted no part of that world. Or at least as little to do with it as possible.

“I’ll leave you then,” Ryan said. “I have to get back to work.”

“Okay. I’ll call if I find anything.”

Ryan stood up and placed his glass down on the table. He nodded to the sofa. “I think your other visitor has gone to sleep on you.”

Roz glanced at where Sister Maria was slumped in the corner against the cushions, her eyes closed, dark lashes shadowing her pale cheeks.

“Yeah, it’s been a long day,” Roz said.

“I bet, and sometime you’re going to tell me about it, right?”

“Wrong.”

Briefly, she wished she could open up to Ryan. But how could she mix anyone up in her fucked-up existence?

After showing Ryan out, she went back to the sofa, touching Maria lightly on the shoulder. The sister let out a squeak then blinked. “Sorry, I’m a little jumpy.”

“No problem. Why don’t you take a shower and get some rest?”

She nodded but stayed where she was. “Who are you?”

“I told you—Roz. That’s all you need to know.”

“You’re a good person, Roz.”

“Yeah, of course I am. I’m a positive angel. Come on, I’ll show you where everything is.”

Once she’d gotten Maria settled, Roz puttered about the apartment, putting off the moment she went to bed. She was quite aware of why she was reluctant; the dream hovered on the edge of her consciousness. It didn’t come to her often now, only when she was tired or stressed. She blamed the damn cat—she’d known as soon as she’d seen Asmodai’s sidekick, Shera, in her kitty-cat form tonight that the demon wouldn’t be far behind. Ample cause to give anyone nightmares. Sure enough, as soon as her head hit the pillow she was dragged back to that long ago night…

Her mind refused to function. This wasn’t real. Her mother couldn’t be dead. But outside, the screams of agony had died to nothing. Through the high window, Rosamund could see the flicker of the flames against the darkness, hear their crackle over the mob’s cries. The sickly-sweet stench of roasting flesh drifted through the air. She gagged then rolled onto her hands and knees on the bare earth floor and retched. Her stomach was empty and the foul taste of bile burned the back of her throat.

Her strength was almost gone, eroded over the days of torture and the never-ending questions. But she dragged herself to her feet, leaning against the rough wall. Biting her lip, she closed her eyes and prayed for courage. Though why would God answer her prayers now? Had he listened as her mother screamed for mercy?

Gathering the last of her willpower, Rosamund pulled herself up on the bars so she could see out of the small window. It framed the village green lit by flames. She averted her gaze from where her mother’s body appeared to dance in the flickering firelight. Instead, it was drawn to the second stake. The villagers were piling brushwood around the base, pouring oil over the dry wood.

People she’d known her whole life had just murdered her mother. Now they were preparing to do the same to Rosamund. Soon they would come and lead her out, tie her to that stake, and watch her burn.

Since the arrest, she’d clung to the hope that this wouldn’t happen, that someone would save them, that the people would see they were mistaken and her sweet mother was innocent. That hope perished amid her mother’s screams as the flesh roasted from her body. Now hatred replaced hope, and she allowed it to saturate her mind.

Releasing her grip on the bars, she dropped to the floor, her legs giving way so she collapsed to her knees. Her breaths were coming short and fast, panic threatening to overtake her. She slowed her breathing, clearing her mind of the fear and grief.

She’d done nothing wrong. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t. Her mother was innocent of everything they had accused her of. Her only crime: loving the wrong man, and she’d paid for that with her life.

But while her mother had been innocent of the accusations against her, Rosamund wasn’t. She didn’t know what she was. She wasn’t even sure what the word “witch” meant. Not what the ignorant villagers believed, that was for sure. Now, as she knelt in the filthy cell and waited for them to come for her—to punish her for a crime they understood no more than she did—the hunger for revenge rose inside her. Someone must pay for her mother’s death.

Something slumbered in the dark recesses of her soul, something she had always shied away from. Now she closed her eyes and focused her mind. She visualized a door, locked and bolted.

Under her breath, she began to recite the prayer that came to her mind.

“Lucifer, aid me in my hour of need...”

She woke with a start.

Stumbling to her feet, she crossed the room to where she’d left the file, needing something to distract her from the memories. She carried it back to bed with her, pulled out the photograph, and slid her fingertip over the young girl’s face, the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. Fear filled her mind. For a moment, she fought the sensation, then she closed her eyes and let it take her.

Terror saturated her every cell.

She was naked, but hot as though in a fever. Her throat ached where the monster had bitten her. Now he was back and panic clawed at her insides.

Frantically, she tried to scramble back. His harsh laughter filled the room as a hand wrapped around her ankle and dragged her toward him.

A whimper escaped her throat, and her heart fluttered as though trying to break free.

He licked up her leg almost as she’d imagine a lover would caress her. Then teeth sank into the flesh of her inner thigh, and she felt the spurt of her lifeblood. He drank greedily, sucking, swallowing, and for a brief while, her panic and fear faded. No pain. Just a tugging that pulled at places deep within her body, and the vague sadness that her life was draining away.

When he’d finished, he raised his head. Her vision was fading to blackness as she stared into his handsome face…

She recognized that face—the man from the convent. Jack.

A touch on her arm dragged her back to her own body. Roz sat up abruptly. The lamp was on, casting a crimson pool of light, illuminating the man who sat in the chair beside her bed. Although “man” was hardly the right word to describe him. Lucifer might not have answered her call all those years ago, but she’d gotten the next best thing.

“Shit,” she muttered, pulling herself up, tugging the sheet with her. She was naked and while she’d been naked in front of him before, that was a side of their relationship that had ended more than four hundred years ago, and one she had no wish to resurrect. A shiver ran through her at the memory of the pleasure and the pain. “Don’t you ever knock?”

“Your house is my house.”

Yeah, that was the goddamn truth. Bastard. He was smiling again. Why did that make her nervous? “You’re looking very cheerful,” she said. That wasn’t going to last.

“Is there some reason I shouldn’t be?”

She supposed she’d better get this over with. Her body braced itself for the pain. Asmodai had never been one to smile in the face of failure.

“I didn’t get your Key thingy.”

“I know.”

“You know?” She frowned. “So how come you’re so happy?”

“The Key can wait. Tell me what happened at the convent.”

She gave herself a mental shake and started to go over what had occurred the night before. The tension was seeping out of her limbs as she realized that he wasn’t going to exact some terrible retribution. He really had mellowed, and she wondered what had changed. The love of a good woman? She almost snorted at the idea. What use would Asmodai have for a
good
woman? She shoved the idea aside and concentrated on telling her story. Occasionally, he’d stop her and ask a question. And just once, she asked one of her own.

“The man, Jack—do you know him?”

“No.”

“But did you know someone else was after this Key?”

“Maybe.”

Roz glowered at him. “And you didn’t think it would be useful for me to know that? That the information might just possibly have kept me alive?”

“I had no real worries on that score—you’re a born survivor. Besides, while I was aware someone was looking, I didn’t expect he would find it.”

“So how did he?”

Asmodai considered her for a moment. “The Key’s exact hiding place was passed down to each Mother Superior, though they didn’t know the significance. Shortly before I approached you, I found out that the current holder of that position had died without passing on the information.”

She remembered now. He’d told her the person who knew the whereabouts of the Key had died. However, he’d failed to mention it was the Mother Superior of the convent. “Some more information might have helped me if you’d told me a little earlier. I would have been on my guard.” Might have even taken that gun—not that it would have helped much against a hoard of demons.

He shrugged. “The death was sudden and the timing unfortunate, but the circumstances
weren’t
suspicious.”

She had no clue whether he believed that, so she continued with her story.

“You went to the Order?” he asked when she got to the part about coming to London.

“Well, I didn’t know it was the Order at the time. And I got out of there as quickly as possible.”

Finally, she sat back, exhausted.

Asmodai got up and wandered out of the room. He came back a minute later, carrying her scotch and two glasses. He poured them both a drink and handed her one. She took it with a frown.

“Have you been taking classes?” she asked.

“Classes?”

“How to overcome your demon tendencies and become Mr. Affability—or something similar.”

He laughed. Which was weird in itself.

“So what did you think of Piers Lamont?” he asked.

“That he was an arrogant asshole.”

His lips curled up in a slow smile. “An accurate assessment. But a handsome arrogant asshole, perhaps?”

“You think so? Well, you’re welcome to him. Enjoy.”

He chuckled. “I don’t think he’d have me. We haven’t always agreed in the past, though I helped the Order out recently, and you could say we now have family ties.” He smiled almost reminiscently. “You say Christian Roth was there?”

“He was.”

“Did he appear…well?”

She didn’t understand the question, so she shrugged. “I suppose.”

He sipped his drink and stared at the ceiling. Roz held her breath while she waited.

“You’re going to have to go back,” he said eventually.

“Go back where?” She was being purposefully slow, but she didn’t want to go back. Or maybe she did, but she knew she shouldn’t. An image of Piers Lamont in all his black leather gorgeousness flashed in her mind, and the muscles low down in her belly clenched.

“Why, Rosamund, I do believe you’re excited at the prospect of seeing Mr. Lamont again.”

“No, I’m not,” she replied automatically. She hated, really hated, that he could read her so well. “And I don’t want to go back. You said they would kill me.”

He shrugged. “Maybe not straight away.”

“Hah-hah.” She swallowed the last of her drink and held out the glass for more. “Well, that’s comforting. Not.”

But even as she argued, she realized she was going back. She remembered her vision. Jack was the key to finding the missing girl, and she was running out of time. Piers Lamont knew who Jack was; she would bet her last drop of scotch on that.

“Do you know what they are?” Asmodai’s question broke into her thoughts.

“Who?”

“Piers Lamont and Christian Roth.”

“I have no idea.” But excitement uncurled inside her. It was so very rare that Asmodai would tell her anything about the world he inhabited, the one she lived on the fringes of.

“Well, chances are you’ll discover that for yourself.”

Damn! He was one irritating demon. And he knew it. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to calm down. “You could always tell me. It would be nice to know what I was confronting…
this time
.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough. Piers was never one for personal restraint.”

She sighed loudly. He wouldn’t tell her, however much she asked, and she wouldn’t waste her time playing that game, so she satisfied herself with glaring at him. Unfortunately, looks couldn’t kill. At least not this particular demon—or he’d have been dead long ago.