Relentless Flame (Hell to Pay) (20 page)

“But my brother had been conscripted from our
rote
, a group of farms, in
Varmland
to represent us in the military. We weren’t rich and couldn’t bribe the selectors, so he got picked to go to war. My
moder
, mother, was frantic for his safety. At that time, we all knew the war wasn’t going well anymore, and I agreed to enlist with him in the infantry and serve alongside him. I promised
Moder
that I’d keep Lars safe.”

His face lit up when talking about these so-called family members. Hannah searched for deception but saw no visible evidence of lies in his damnable, sincere, blue eyes.

Dante inhaled and continued. “That failed campaign in Norway became part of what history later termed the ‘Carolean Death March.’ We called it frozen hell on Earth. About 10 percent of the soldiers survived the blizzard that caught us in the mountains between Norway and Sweden. Lars had collapsed, frostbitten, dying. I loved my brother. My
moder
would never forgive me if he didn’t return. I had given him my food, my clothes, my last tinder, and yet he still lay dying. So I called out to the sky for someone to help me. I would do anything if Lars could live.”

He scrubbed at his forehead and took a big breath.

“And?” she said. He might be making up this fascinating story, but he appeared to believe it himself.

“Jerahmeel, the manifestation of Satan in human form, arrived. He said he’d save my brother if I agreed to his terms. I had nothing to lose. I signed on the dotted line right away, no questions asked.
Loven Gud
, praise God, Lars got up and walked home. Out of thousands of men, he and I were two of only a handful in my regiment who survived.
Moder’s
prayers came true. Lars survived.

“But I could never go home again. Jerahmeel had me bound to his eternal contract. I now have to kill a certain number of criminals each year to maintain the possibility of ending the contract. To avoid eternal servitude.”

“I don’t understand.” She tucked a piece of hair back behind an ear.

“We have to kill with the knife in a strike through the heart. That’s the only way the kill works. Normally, we use our judgment to find our victims. For example, I could stalk a criminal myself—I know what to look for nowadays—and kill the scumbag. That counts as part of my regular quota. But at other times, Jerahmeel discovers a particularly disgusting, evil specimen and instructs me to kill, like with Raymond. As long as I keep up the regular quota and take care of the special orders along the way, there’s still a chance.”

“A chance for what?”

“That I might break the contract one day.”

“How likely would it be to get out of your contract?”

“Not very, in my opinion. Jerahmeel needs nasty souls to feed upon. It gives him his strength. The meaner the criminal, the more nutritious the meal. We sustain him. He’s not interested in any of us retiring.”

“If you can’t retire, why couldn’t you just stop? In protest?”

He held out his big hand, palm up. “Good question. For a while, I can resist the mandate to kill, but then the urge becomes overwhelming. It takes over my mind, my body. The need burns like a fire worse than anything you’ve ever known, and I kind of ... go crazy to put out that fire. With blood.”

“Good grief.”

“The lifestyle kind of sucks.”

“Fair enough.” All of a sudden, a million pounds weighted her shoulders. “So how are your friends involved? How are they in danger?”

“They’re only involved in an indirect way now. Technically, Jerahmeel can’t touch them anymore. But he’s got other ways of hurting people, and that’s what worries me.”

“I don’t understand.” Did she truly want to know more about the world in which Dante operated? Only a crazy person would sit here and continue asking questions.

When Dante shifted to face her, the regret that creased his brow made her chest ache. A lump formed in her throat when that regret turned to cold, blank resignation.

“It’s very rare for one of us to complete our contract. You need something called a Meaningful Kill, but I’m not convinced it’s always possible. I’ve performed all sorts of quality kills, getting rid of some of the most horrible people in society, but still I’m not released from the contract.”

He rubbed his lower leg that dangled over the edge of the dock, fingering the knife beneath the denim. Hannah watched him, her nerves tightening. What if he couldn’t stop himself? She inched away from him.

“But have others succeeded?” She hoped to distract him from his interest in the knife.

“
Ja
. My friend Barnaby apparently did it many years ago. Then Peter got released last year. Exactly how, I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“They can’t tell me. Rules. But suffice it to say, Jerahmeel wants as many people as possible working for him, feeding his power. To lose an employee weakens him, reduces his energy supply, and frankly, it pisses him off. He needs to retain those of us who are left, now more than ever. Needs each of the remaining killers to supply more souls to make up the deficit.”

“There are more like you?” The back of her neck prickled as she sensed imaginary fingers reaching for her.

“
Ja
.”

She looked over a shoulder. “How many?”

“Not sure, maybe a hundred across the world. Barnaby thinks our numbers are decreasing.”

“How? You all live forever, right?”

“Like I said, maybe a few get out with the Meaningful Kill. And it’s possible for our kind to die. It’s difficult but not impossible.”

She rubbed the back of her neck where the muscles ratcheted into a tension headache. “I don’t understand. How does all of this eternal Meaningful Kill stuff tie in with Ray?”

“I killed one of Jerahmeel’s minions last year, which piqued my boss’s interest. Then, right before I killed Raymond, your stepfather asked me to find you and apologize. That act attracted Jerahmeel’s attention—in a bad way. The way he sees it, any mission other than collecting souls is counterproductive.”

“What can he do about it?”

“Jerahmeel hates to get his hands dirty, so he inserts bad beings—minions—into situations to carry out his wishes and to ensure that employees stay employees. He uses the minions to stop us from trying to attain the Meaningful Kill.”

“So, a minion tried to stop Peter?”

“Yes, and in the process, it almost tortured Allie to death.”

“Oh no.” She rubbed the goose flesh on her arms, unable to imagine anyone wanting to hurt Peter’s sweet wife.

He ground a fist into the palm of his other hand. “Oh, yes. I may be an
oåkting
, a bastard, but I won’t stand by while innocents get hurt. I killed the minion, Peter saved Allie, and well, the rest of it, as you can see, is history.”

“So where does Brandon come in? How—”

At a sudden rustling in the trees at the water’s edge nearby, Dante tensed.

“Don’t move.”

With one arm, he slid her back behind him, and he leapt to a crouch on the edge of the dock. Keeping one hand back on her shoulder, he peered into the foliage across the pond. Waves of heat flowed from his hand into her skin.

Hannah’s heart tattooed her ribcage. Had someone found them? Was Brandon here? Oh God, what he had done to Dante before ...

The rustling noise increased. Sweat beaded her upper lip.

The leaves quivered until two chattering birds erupted from the foliage. She gasped and put a hand over her mouth. After her heart slowed to a normal pace, she smirked at her silly fears.

But as Dante’s posture, still in a crouch, attested, danger awaited them.

His shoulder muscles bunched as he smoothed his hand over his pants leg near the ankle. Over and over. Caressing the knife, as if he were in a trance. The danger was long gone, but he looked off into space, rubbing his leg.

Tentatively, she touched his back. “Dante?”

He whipped around, knocking her back. Her head bounced off the wood planks. When he crouched over her, she shuddered. His eyes had turned onyx. He didn’t act like he saw her, but instead looked right
through
her.

With a feral grunt, he pinned her shoulder to the dock with one heavy hand as he reached for his knife with the other.

Her heart thudded in her chest.

Dante blocked out the sun.

Her world narrowed down to the black stare inches away from her face. Death. He had become death, hungry and desperate for a soul to feed the knife.

And any lifeblood—including hers—would do right about now.

She had often wondered what emotion lay beyond fear. With a glance at Dante’s dark, possessed expression, a brand new feeling encompassing terror, horror, and betrayal reared back, about to strike at her heart.

“Dante?” She tried, without success, to rise.

His harsh breaths burned furnace-hot air over her skin. When she struggled, he stilled her, his massive weight pinning her in place.

She saw a glint of light on metal.

Oh God, he had the knife.

Even in the bright autumn sunlight, the foot-long blade glowed with an eerie green intensity. Like a man in a trance, he drew sinuous patterns in the air with the tip of the knife, his blank stare focused on the green metal.

“Oh, yes,” he said, his voice a singsong croon. “You’re hungry.”

He’d told her there would be a time when he couldn’t control the knife. Flat out, mind-sucking panic took away her ability to think. Like when Ray had taken her into the basement and destroyed everything.

But maybe Ray hadn’t annihilated all of her spirit. She still wanted to live. Even after all that she’d been through.

Ray. Dante. The knife. The hand holding her down.

Damn it.

She wrestled for a grip on her eroding sanity.

Fight for her life or accept her fate?

We all have to die sometime.
Damn it, though, she didn’t think it would be now, like this.

“Dante!”

She grabbed his hard jaw with her free hand. He didn’t react.

“Stop it!” she screamed.

Despite his blank expression, the knife drifted lower, over her neck.

She slapped him, the sound sharp in the still air. He blinked, and blinked again, but the knife continued toward her heart. The metal threatened to blister her skin.

Closer.

She strained her head away but continued to track the weapon’s inexorable path.

When the heated blade brushed her skin, a scream burst from her lips.

“
Herre Gud!
”

Dante flung himself off of her as he vaulted in one fluid movement over her and onto the grassy bank. He knelt, holding the knife toward her in two hands, like a dowsing rod. The tip of the blade shook as it pointed at her. Sweat rolled down his face as muscles bulged under his sleeves, like he fought in a tug of war with an imaginary opponent. He tilted forward and then shook as he pulled the knife back toward his body.

“Hannah,” he rasped. Sweat now stained the neckline of his thermal shirt.

She knelt on the end of the dock, the water behind her and a crazed giant wielding a knife before her. Did he truly see her now? Would he stop?

This is what he meant by the urge to kill. She shuddered.

“Please stop. Please.” She pitched her voice low.

Don’t make a movement. Hold perfectly still. Maybe he’ll wake up.

“Dante. You don’t want to do this.”

“Oh yes, I do.”

She stopped breathing.

The knife tip quivered as if magnetized, pulling his arms toward her. With a guttural yell, he heaved forward and plunged the knife into the dock.

“But I don’t want to do it to you,
ålskling
.”

The knife continued to glow as it remained embedded in a wooden plank.

Silence wrapped steely fingers around her ribcage.

When he moved toward her, she lurched backward, nearly falling off the dock. He grabbed her hoodie and pulled her up toward him, wrapping her in his arms.

She fought against him, not sure which Dante held her, the struggles futile against his iron grip.

This man determined whether she lived or died.

“Please don’t kill me.”

“I will not.” He bit out the words.

With a curse, he stepped back, holding her wrist but giving her space as he balanced on the balls of his feet. That black stare made him appear lost.

“What the—”

“Forgive me. Please.
Kristus
, I almost—”

She glanced at her body—all there. Her heart—beating closer to a normal rate. Air—moving in and out of raw lungs.

She’d survived. Again. Giddiness, like a bubbling fountain, burbled up into her chest. She was still alive. Hadn’t thrown in the towel.

All right, then. Now what?

Time to check on Dante.

His lost expression cut a jagged hole in her heart. Every muscle remained in bunched tension as he stood, frozen.

She spoke first. “Are you okay?”

“Am
I
okay? I tried to kill you.” He yanked her back into his inferno of an embrace.

While nausea roiled through her gut, she held still as he ran his hands over her face, her arms. When he reached the notch above her sternum where the knife had been aimed, he paused and rubbed it, his rough fingers gentle on her quivering skin. His jaw clenched with so much tension, she thought the muscles would burst.

His mouth formed into a hard slash of fury, and his brows drew together, hooding his gaze.

After another minute, he took a deep breath and touched the skin of her neck once more, as if to reassure himself that it was unmarred.

He blinked, and the black color reverted to blue.

Dante had returned.

The angry corners of his mouth curved downward. “There are no words.”

“That’s an understatement.” She stepped back, cold despite the streaming sunlight all around. “You’re better now, but for how long?”

“As long as it takes. I am so sorry. This will never happen again, I swear.”

“Can you guarantee that?”

His muscled chest heaved once. “No.”

“So then I should feel ... reassured?”

He jammed his hand into a pocket. “I respect your skepticism, but understand that I would kill myself first.”