Relentless Flame (Hell to Pay) (28 page)

“You’re a little late, aren’t you?”

“Ah, Dante, your woman.” Ruth indicated toward the floor.

Hannah’s face was purple. Curled in a ball, she convulsed violently, her entire body spasming. Veins stood out starkly against her thin neck. Her eyes rolled back, unseeing, as she gurgled. Blood flowed from her mouth.

No,
ålskling
, no! Not after everything we’ve overcome
.

He sunk to the floor, cradling her in his lap as she suffocated in his arms.

Barnaby knelt next to him.

“What, old man? Can you help me?”

“No.” The bald man smiled and winked.

Dante struggled to understand what Barnaby was trying to convey.
Tell me.

Jerahmeel called out to Barnaby, “You can’t intervene, my friend.”

Barnaby replied, “And you can no longer interfere. Your minion failed. Rules are rules, my lord.” He looked straight at Dante and repeated, “Rules are rules, got it?”

Barnaby winked again.

What the hell?

With sudden clarity, the pieces of a puzzle came together: the Meaningful Kill, Hannah’s healing power, Dante’s inherent ability to heal himself. There was a connection.

On instinct, Dante stripped off Hannah’s tattered shirt, wincing at the damage. Her sternum had caved in from the strike, purple and crushed, her ribs moving out of sync around the breastbone. Sharp bone edges jutted up against the skin of her chest. He quickly removed his shirt as well. He lay flat on the cold, concrete floor and pulled her on top of him and into his arms.

Please don’t let her be too far gone.

“
Ålskling
, my love. Let me in.”

She wheezed a horrible, tortured gasp and stopped breathing. There was nothing he could do, except maybe one thing.

“Please, Hannah, let me in.”

She now lay deathly still on his chest.

Kristus
, no. Not this woman. He chafed her cooling arms and her blue-tinged skin, trying to revive her.

She was gone.

Pulling her into his body, he put a leg over her thighs, trying to surround her with his body heat, to revive her. He wanted to give her what was his—his immortality, his strength.

His love.

Nothing.

No breath.

Just her still, tiny frame draped over him.

Tears seared the sides of his face. He hadn’t shed tears since Lars lay frostbitten and near death on that fateful night. The night that put everything in motion and led Dante to this moment.

Their chest walls pressed tightly together, Dante detected a tiny flicker of sensation. Then sluggishly, as if the dying cells sensed the great effort it would take, the transfer began. One drop at a time.

Too slow.

Please, keep going
, he begged silently.

She lay limp, hanging over his body.

“Come back to me,” he said to the warehouse ceiling.

Coldness surrounded him, the frigid floor beneath him, the ice-cold body on top of him. He opened his soul, his heart, his being, to the little connection that remained between their skin. He visualized pushing his will and his soul into her and pulling the damage away from her. A trade. Within the connection between them, her damaged body tentatively probed back. Within the transfer, her skin clung to him, as if they were magnetized.

More
. He wasn’t sure which one of them had that thought, linked as they were.

The knife. This had something to do with the knife.

He bent his knee and released the starving blade. Pressing it flat against his own bleeding chest, he took care to avoid Hannah’s body. The knife glowed hungry and green, pulsing in time with Dante’s heart.
Ja
, he’d give the knife what it desired tonight. Slake the blade’s relentless urge to drink its fill of a soul.

The transfer now flowed more briskly between them; the remnants of her essence moved into his body, trading with his Indebted healing ability. Agony sliced through him as her pain rushed in like a tornado, sucking his life force out. Wounds bled anew. His chest ached as his own sternum cracked and collapsed as he absorbed her suffering. He couldn’t breathe.

Take it. Take all of me for you,
ålskling.

He found his purpose. A reason to live all these years.

He would trade his life for hers.

Fire-laced cuts, snapped bones, ripped muscle. He wanted it all. Every ounce of pain he absorbed reduced her torture. But would it be enough? Would she make it back to him?

An odd sensation grew against his chest until he realized her ribs had pushed back into proper position. The strange creak of her sternum expanding against his chest sent an empathetic shudder through his spine. Then his own breastbone caved in.

Had she warmed up or was that just his own body heat radiating back toward him?

One thump. Did he imagine it? Then two. Doubt. Elation.

Her heart beat once, twice, against his shattered ribs. The knife pulsed in time to the slow, stuttering rhythm. Dante’s blood flowed over the greedy knife, coating it, feeding it what it most desired.

Please, take more,
ålskling
. I give you everything
.

He concentrated on opening his body and soul. Visualized propelling his essence into her small body. Icy death coursed through his veins. He let it stream into him, let it consume him. He didn’t care as long as it helped her.

He took all of her pain. Exchanged it. Welcomed it.

Eternal release, his soul for hers. Anything it took to get the destruction away from Hannah.

Above him floated three faces. One wrinkled and worried, one nonplussed, one fashionably furious.

“This is unacceptable.” Jerahmeel scowled. “I have to keep my employees working to feed me.”

“Looks like your plan to get rid of the distraction may have failed. Remember, you cannot interfere,” Barnaby said.

“Well, you’d best recall your end of the bargain, old man. No help,” Jerahmeel growled. “Let it run its course. If Blackstone survives, he should never again bring attention to himself or I’ll find him and destroy him myself.”

It sounded like the two men were talking in a bowl; their voices were separated from Dante by miles of empty space.

Barnaby dipped his bald pate. “Of course, my lord.”

“Hell. I’ve lost another minion and one of my sources of power. I will not soon forget your meddling, old man. Your days are numbered.” Jerahmeel tipped his dark head to the ceiling and howled, “
C’est vraiment des conneries
!”

Barnaby smiled. “Yes, I know you think this is bullshit, but you’re powerless in this situation, m
y lord
.”

Ruth’s disembodied head displayed a satisfied smirk. Funny, Dante didn’t picture her the jocular type.

“I haven’t forgotten your presence, as well, madam.” Jerahmeel stared at Ruth. “You look particularly lovely this evening. Perhaps we can spend more time together.”

Her upper lip curled as she cringed away.

The fury on his countenance darkened. “Well, then
mademoiselle
, you’d better perform exceptional work now that I’ve lost another employee. If you don’t, anyone you care for will suffer. That’s a promise.”

Her neat eyebrows rose as she melted away into the shadows, out of Dante’s line of sight. His field of vision dimmed around the edges. The knife glowed brightly now, and Dante couldn’t hold it anymore. He dropped it to the concrete floor, but it continued to consume his pooling blood.

“I should simply finish him myself. Put all of us out of our misery. This theater of suffering is ridiculous,” Jerahmeel said with a glare.

Dante struggled to keep his weakening arms locked around Hannah.

Barnaby cleared his throat. “You shall do nothing, my lord. If he’s alive at the end of this ordeal, then he’s alive. If not, he’ll be dead. Either way, it’s no longer your concern. He won’t be part of your cadre of soul-takers anymore.”

A howl of fury echoed off the concrete and metal of the warehouse. Jerahmeel leaned down and snatched the knife away from Dante. The evil one gazed longingly at the sated, glowing knife and licked his ruby-red lips. He stroked Hannah’s bruised shoulder with an expression of desire mixed with anger. Then, with a rumble from deep in the Earth that shook the entire warehouse, Jerahmeel disappeared.

Footsteps on the concrete grew louder. Dante twisted his head to see Ruth grab a bloodied Scott, stopping his headlong rush.

“Going somewhere?” she said, her eyes turning the Indebted’s characteristic black of heightened emotion.

“Hannah, oh God.” Scott panted, sweat and blood mixing on his face. “I left this building, but then all of a sudden, there was no Brandon here—” He pointed to his head. “What the fuck happened? I remember bits and pieces. It’s like the last few weeks were a big fog. Hannah? Jesus, is she dead?”

“Yes, thanks to you.” Dante wheezed against his broken ribcage. “Get him the hell out of here.”

“My son, reconsider,” Barnaby said. “I daresay this boy was under the minion’s thrall.”

“That’s no excuse. If you really loved her, you would have fought it.” Dante clamped his teeth together at a wave of pain. Hannah’s pain.

“I tried to fight him, damn it, but nothing worked. Even when he let me go, I tried to stay here, but the need to leave was too much. I had to get out of this place. Christ, I’m a bastard.”

Scott knelt and laid his hand on a less-bloody area of her back. She didn’t move.

“Is she dead?” he whispered.

“Barnaby?” Dante stared up at his elderly friend.

With his limbs becoming icy and lifeless, Dante couldn’t hold her any longer and his arms dropped to the floor. Hannah lay motionless on his chest, her skin warming him. Normally he would love to have her body against his, but not like this.

Still unconscious, she gave a paroxysmal, shuddering gasp and fell limp again, her repaired ribs rising slowly now.

“Barnaby, help her. I can’t,” he whispered.

The man nodded solemnly. “We will take care of both of you.”

Scott sniffed. The wetness on his face was from more than sweat and blood now.

Dante took a deep, painful breath and exhaled completely, one long whoosh emptying his body of air, of life, of 300 years of meaningless existence.

Dante Blackstone finally died.

Hannah burned.

She swam through a surreal watery expanse. When she tried to inhale, she clawed at the frigid liquid lodged in her throat.

So cold. Her bones froze, cracked. Was this real?

As she tried to surface, she bumped up against solid ice, smooth and hard beneath her fingers. Not air. She skimmed beneath it, searching for an opening as she held her breath for an infinite amount of time. She should desperately need air. She should panic.

There, a break in the suffocating frigid depths.

Through that opening in the ice, odd sounds washed over her, indistinct, murmuring. Maybe a whale? Or bull seals chatting somewhere above her? How had she gotten to the Arctic?

So cold. It was becoming difficult to fight the downward pull. Blackness beckoned with the promise of succor, luring her into the depths to sleep forever. Why try to push through the ice above when she could simply drift into the open arms of the deep?

Aching legs propelled her upward once more. Where was that opening? She pressed against the hopelessly endless ice that stretched far into the distance. Why try to find a way out?

She couldn’t come up with a single good reason within the mind-numbing, cold watery expanse.

Too much effort.

Couldn’t move.

Rippling sound rolled over her suspended body once more. She couldn’t discern individual tones. Piqued curiosity motivated her to push against the enticing blackness below.

Move, legs, move
.
Up
.

Too tired.

I’ll rest in this deep. Drift lower, away from the unyielding surface. It will be so much easier.

She had no reason to push through the ice.

As she sank back into the depths, the water sounds flowed over her once more, forming into words she could not quite hear. Interested, she struggled again toward the barrier, listening.

A soothing, familiar voice, warmth coursing over her in the frigid darkness. Out of reach.

She skimmed below the surface, not caring to breathe. Her heavy legs barely moved for all the exhaustion.

“‘... for most men are unaware ...’”

Kicking the water a few extra times, she strained upward to press a cold ear against the smooth ice.

“‘... that what is in the power of magicians to accomplish ...’”

Where was that opening in the ice?

“‘... that the heart can also accomplish ...’”

She raised a hand against the glacial smoothness and propelled herself along, looking for release from the watery tomb. Pressing harder on the ice, she began to panic. Her lungs burned, craving oxygen.

“‘... by dint of love and bravery.’”

Don’t stop.

She had to get to the voice. A line of warmth flowed from an opening in the frigid, watery abyss. When she held up her arms, the warmth tugged at her.

She floated in air, not water. A crisp flapping sounded familiar, like a page being turned.

A throat cleared.

As she rose once more, she squinted against the brilliant glow. Abused lungs ached with futile effort.

The rumble next to her felt familiar.

She wanted to reach out. Couldn’t. Too tired.

Lying on a fluffy cloud in the heated air, she let the words roll over her as she left the cold depths far behind.

“Fold your arms ’round me close and strain me so that our hearts may break and our souls go free at last.”

The low, vibrating tone resonated through her bones.

Tristan and Iseult
?

“‘Take me to that happy place of which you told me long ago.’”

His smooth bass voice broke. Squinting against the painfully bright light, she saw his golden head bowed over the book as he sat in a chair next to her.

Dante? What was he doing here? Where in the world were they? Without her glasses, she could only make out a bright area nearby, probably a window.