Shadowman (5 page)

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Authors: Erin Kellison

BOOK: Shadowman
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kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
Maybe the shrink could help with that, too.
Light from the street fell into the interior, but it wasn't enough to get an impression of the space. The air smelled faintly smoky. She swiped her hand on the walls near the door, felt a kind of humid griminess, but no light switch.
Good thing she had a backup. She fished in her jacket pocket, produced a small flashlight, and pressed the button. The flashlight had a strong but narrow beam, so she had to cut the darkness to get a hint of what was around her.
Her immediate vicinity was dusty and bare. Rope. Some chain. Rotted wooden pallets stacked in a corner. Whatever had been there once had been cleared out long ago. Except for the
kat-a-kat
in her head, the warehouse was silent.
According to Zoe, she was supposed to be looking for a person. A
he
, in particular.
He
who? Another disgusting street thug? Layla doubted it.
Research hadn't helped and Zoe was nowhere to be found for further questioning. This dockside warehouse was the nearest of Thorne's considerable assets to New York City. If this wasn't it, she could try a couple other places farther away, but she wasn't hopeful. The lead was simply too vague.
“Hello?” she said, but her voice didn't carry. She wasn't keen on shouting either. The place felt claustrophobic despite its size. Much better to tiptoe forward, then run like hell should anyone appear.
She moved farther, swinging the light left and right. Just more empty, dirty space. The smoke thickened in the air as she progressed. Above, to one side of the building, was a row of high windows. Even though it was midmorning, no light seeped through them. Spooky.
Metal debris clanged underfoot. She swished the light to her feet to find a curling, black piece of metal.
Curious, she toed it. The piece rolled to the side. The curls became open leaves around a strange, wrought-iron flower.
She stooped and picked up the creation. The flower should have been cold, like the weather and the room, but it was warm, near hot. It was heavy too, larger than her palm, and clearly made by hand. A black flower, delicate and . . . wicked. A treasure left behind as junk.
When she brought her attention back up, she noticed a low-licking fire, its glow barely lifting the press of darkness. And nearby an anvil, flat and wide, with a horn on one end. On its surface lay a hammer.
A blacksmith's workshop. On the New Jersey docks. In one of Thorne's warehouses. It made no sense whatsoever.
“Hello?” This time she called loud and clear. The smith had to be near. No one would leave an open fire unattended in this old building.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
answered her. This time it wasn't in her head.
Shocked, Layla turned, and though the warehouse was matted with shadows, she could easily see a gate looming black and beautiful before her. The iron portal shook on its posts. How could she have not seen it until now? The sound should have been audible from the street.
Even to her untrained eye, she could tell that the gate had been crafted by a master. The vertical pieces were tall, barbed spears, made for war. But laced among the black shafts, giving them structure and support, were twisted vines. An occasional gorgeous bloom, like the one in her hand, faced outward.
The gate trembled, as if alive. Her bones trembled with it. She tried to turn away, but her stiffened muscles wouldn't obey.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
It called to her, had been in her head for days. She knew now that it would never let her go. It was
made
for her.
Never alone again,
it said.
Her eyes teared. She felt exposed, the hole in her chest so easily revealed. She crossed her arms over the pain. Ty had tried to fill it, had offered her a fantasy of children, a happy life without the drive of her dangerous work.
kat-a-kat: Never alone.
But Ty wasn't the answer. He was just a nice guy. And she was his challenge.
Home,
the gate promised.
The gate knew her. If she opened it, her isolation would be at an end.
The darkness around seemed to shift, as if something or someone was coming—the street thugs or dreaded wraiths even—but she couldn't so much as lift her flashlight to pierce the dark.
Her deepest wish could come true.
kat-a-kat,
the gate explained, and Layla understood perfectly. The gate was meant to be opened. Why else make a gate, except to open it?
The shadows churned, whipped, and lashed.
Layla dropped her flashlight and stretched out her hand as she stepped closer. A turn of that twisted, black metal and her lifetime longing would be at an end.
“Don't,” a man said in her ear.
Where he came from, Layla had no idea and didn't care. His urgent, low voice was compelling and familiar, but the pull of the gate was stronger.
“It is evil,” he explained.
“Can't be,” Layla answered. Her every cell quaked with expectation. She took another step.
The man's voice came out of the shadows. “You fought those men on the street. Fight this.”
kat-a-kat: Open me! Now!
Layla shuddered, eyes tearing again in awe of the livid creation. There was no way to explain this feeling. It was much easier to keep it simple. “I don't want to fight it.”
 
 
Shadowman knew he never should have saved her. Meddling with Fate always had repercussions. The woman should be dead in the street, her body slack, her soul just entering Twilight.
And now she was clearly going to open the gate to Hell. The thing must have insinuated itself into her weak mortal mind.
Death gathered Shadow to him until the mass of darkness snapped and thrashed in his grasp. He sent it rolling toward her, to crush her, to knock her from her path to the gate.
If it had any effect, she did not let on. Her reaction was the same as it had been at the door. The same as with his repeated attempts to impede her progress through the warehouse. She was impervious.
He could not use Shadow against her and didn't have the time to figure out why.
There would be no retrieving Kathleen if devils poured out into the world. He was work weakened, gate plagued, and he didn't even have his scythe.
He'd kill her himself if he had to. And with the gate's control over her mind, he most likely would.
Shadowman poured his strength into forming a body. Lungs to move air. Tongue and teeth to shape words. Hands to throttle her with. The body he created was the one most familiar to him, the one created from Kathleen's imagination, the hero of her dreams. Better still would have been the terrors other people made of Death. Monsters of deepest nightmare. Something to scare her into submission.
“Don't,” he repeated in her ear. His spine cracked into place. His legs assumed the weight of a man.
But her arm was already outstretched. Her hand gripped black metal. The cursed lever turned.
He threw himself toward the gate as her weight shifted back.
The woman turned to face him, still gripping the metal behind her, her confusion and terror bleeding into the shadows. Where before her heart had calmed, now it raced again. “I . . . I'm sorry.”
A queer deathlight lit her features, illuminating, stripping away the mortal coil of her life, shining through her fresh, pink flesh as if the atoms had little substance at all, revealing her soul.
It cannot be.
And Shadowman slammed the gate shut again. Held it closed with his greater strength while the woman trembled in the cage of his arms, her lips parted, breath frozen mid-inhalation.
But too late. Something
wrong
was in the room with them. A presence edged with bloody menace. A devil.
Shadowman almost didn't care, not as the woman got her first good look at him. Her mind functioned as all other mortal minds did, remaking Death to her conception of him, and for once in almost thirty years, his Shadows nearly obeyed. Such was the power of mortals. Shadowman had held Kathleen's conception of his physical form, her dark prince, since their meeting. Kathleen, who had named him. Kathleen, who had loved him.
But now, this woman . . . here, today . . . threatened to shred him completely and make him over to fit
her
idea of Death.
Of course he had to forgive her, escaped devil and all. He had to forgive her everything and damn himself, holding on to his favored body with every iota of power he had, lest the woman see a beast and know his true nature.
No wonder his Shadow could not stop or harm her. His Shadow had ever sheltered her.
Kathleen was not in Heaven. And Kathleen was not in Hell.
She'd kept her promise. She'd found a way back. She'd traded her memories for a slim chance, a small hope that they'd meet once more.
Shadowman's gaze raked the woman's face, memorizing her new features. She had wide-set, gray eyes in a narrow face, a small nose, defined cheekbones and jaw. Sweet, full lips. Dimpled chin. And a mess of light brown hair waving to her shoulders.
He gripped the gate to Hell for a little calm.
Kathleen was not dead.
She'd been reborn.
Chapter 4
“How did you find me?” The blacksmith's gaze roved her face. Firelight cast a flickering band across his features, but Layla could make out slightly tilted black eyes, tensed with strong emotion. Her heart stumbled in reaction; the intensity of his gaze was painfully familiar and cut straight to her core. A sudden fierce burn rushed along her nerves, so when he shifted to stroke her hair, her shock allowed the intimacy.
“I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't mean to—” She was shaking with confusion. The attack on the street must have been worse than she'd thought, because the rattling gate, the strange blacksmith, the impenetrable dark . . . She was used to her visions, fighting them, compartmentalizing the real world from the aberrations she saw from time to time. This was different.
“Kathleen. Tell me you remember.” His voice was husky.
She felt his fingers lightly stroke the side of her cheek. Where he touched, sensation spread, sensuous and enticing. Her blood sang as heat flooded her, humming through her system in a gorgeous awakening of want and need. This was too much, way too much, so she turned her head away.
The gate behind her breathed against her body, a living thing.
Throw me wide.
The voice hurt her head.
I was made for you.
This wasn't right; gates did not speak, did not simmer with life. She understood that now and gritted her teeth against the compulsion to obey.
“Be at ease, Kathleen,” the man said. “You've nothing to fear. I'll take care of everything.”
She gave a tight shake of her head. This, at least, she knew, and it was a start at getting things straight. “I'm not Kathleen. You must have me mistaken for someone else.”
And she could take care of herself; she had since she was a kid. She found her spine and slapped his hand away from her face to prove it. What had gotten into her? She didn't know this man, and he certainly didn't know her. Why did his open arms seem like a haven of safety and comfort?
“I am not mistaken.” His lips curved into a slight smile. A smile. Here. In this black hole, with this . . . this
thing
burning at her back.
The man was out of his mind, and so was she to respond. She had to be very clear. “Get the hell away from me.”
The smile grew fierce. “Same spirit.”
Drugs. It had to be. Something in the air was causing her to hallucinate. That's why she felt this way. She needed to get out of this smoke, breathe clean, industrial smog and rancid river, and then maybe her head would clear. She peered into the darkness beyond him. The exit, she hoped, was that way.
kat-a-kat: You'll be alone forever. Throw me wide.
“No!” Though she didn't know whom she answered. If she could just get out. Find her car. Then maybe—
“Shhh. Be still.” The man raised his hand again, but hesitated, holding it in the air over her heart. Or maybe he wanted to cop a feel. What was it with men today?
She gripped her flashlight, but found she held the iron flower instead. Fat lot of good that would do her unless she could knock him out with it, then . . .
. . . then throw me wide.
Yes, then open the gate wide.
A sudden bright light caught her attention, a door opening in the dark. So white-bright it made her eyes tear. What now?
“Damn fool angel,” the blacksmith growled under his breath.
Angel? He was absolutely, unequivocally stark raving—
Layla didn't have time to dodge the swift caress of his fingers to her forehead. “Sleep,” he commanded.
Even as her mind sparked with anger against his touch, her legs gave in a watery whoosh and she fell into darkness.
 
 
Shadowman caught Kathleen's fluid drop and lifted her against his chest. Elation had him humming, trembling with excitement. He had to check himself so he wouldn't crush her body.
“That her?” Custo asked as he approached. His gaze quickly flicked to the gate, hardened, then returned to Shadowman.
“Yes,” Death breathed.
Custo's doubt and impatience infused the crowded Shadows. “Then why is she mortal? And why is she out cold?”
“I cast her into sleep so the gate wouldn't plague her while I dealt with you. And she wasn't in Hell after all.” Shadowman drew deep to inhale her scent; under the cloying perfumes of modernity was tangy, feminine sweat, turned slightly with fear. “She came to me.”
Custo's doubt redoubled and his brow lifted. “If you build it, she will come?”
Shadowman frowned. The boy was laughing at him.
“Talia is twenty-eight.” Custo jutted his chin toward Kathleen. “Shouldn't she be in her fifties?”
The woman in his arms was indeed young, fresh, new to the world. “She was reborn.”
“Reincarnated? That's very rare. Damn near unheard of. Are you certain it's her?”
Shadowman did not deign to answer a second time. As if he wouldn't recognize the woman who'd changed everything for him. Kathleen.
“Okay, it's her. Bully for you.” Custo's gaze moved to the gate. “So that thing wasn't necessary after all?”
“The gate drew her, did it not?”
“Next time make a compass. Leave Hell and its devils alone, please.”
A sear on his senses told Shadowman there were more of Custo's kind massing outside the warehouse. The jumble of heartbeats confirmed it. They had come for the gate, but somehow he knew they'd refuse him Kathleen as well. They could not have her. He'd fight them if they tried to take her.
“They're coming,” Custo said. “You'd better get her out of here.”
“The gate?”
“We'll take care of it. No way it's staying here, vulnerable.” His gaze dropped to Kathleen. “And I think your attention is going to be elsewhere.”
The boy was ever naive. To transfer the keeping of something so drenched in power could never be that easy; such creations were bound to their maker. The gate would have to be
unmade,
which was a great deal more difficult than merely dismantling the metal.
But the angel would have to learn that the hard way. Shadowman would take his reprieve to be with Kathleen. To help her remember. She had to remember.
Shadowman reached into the darkness, parting the veil. “The hammer is on the anvil.”
He watched as Custo strode over and gripped the hateful tool.
Now only the devil remained, but Shadowman could deal with it on his own. The devil would wreak havoc with any it encountered, and so needed to be put down immediately. Otherwise, Kathleen would blame herself for the lives it took.
But Custo need not know about that either. Knowledge of the devil would prolong the angels' stay.
Death stepped into darkness, his woman clutched at his chest.
“Wait,” Custo called.
Shadowman paused but didn't turn.
“Where can I find you?”
As if he would ever let that happen before he was ready. “I'll be in Shadow.”
 
 
How to begin? How to help her remember?
Shadowman laid Kathleen on the soft earth under the glittering boughs of the dark trees. Fae voices murmured on the rise and gust of the wind.
This incarnation of Kathleen would have her own idea of Death, created by this life's experiences, fears, hopes for her future. Of all that, he knew nothing, and so could not chance revealing himself.
At least in Twilight, Shadow sustained him. His form would be easier to hold. He filled his essence with the dark stuff. He'd need every bit until she remembered him and what they were to each other.
Please.
Her sickroom? Kathleen had loathed it.
Then where? What could possibly reach her? He'd have to work quickly. Too long in Shadow and a mortal would go mad.
He cast his gaze down. Kathleen's head was tilted to the side, her lips were slightly parted, and her eyelids fluttered as she dreamed. The wavy swath of her hair gleamed gold in Twilight. Her hips were turned, narrowing her waist and accentuating the swell of her breasts. She was Sleeping Beauty all over again.
And then he knew. Kathleen's fantasy when she was a girl. He'd start there, where he'd been her hero.
 
 
Layla woke in fairyland. She raised a hand to her groggy head but stopped short when she saw the princess sleeve with pointed cuff of the—her gaze examined the rest of her attire—gaudy yellow princess dress she wore. There was a slight weight on the crown of her head, and she knew, given the atrocity of her getup, that it had to be a tiara. Or, hell, worse—one of those satin cones they sold at the Renaissance Fair, ribbons coming out of the tip.
Obviously she was asleep and in the middle of a nightmare.
Fact of the matter was she'd been working too hard. The signs had been there for a while. The events of the last few days only confirmed it. Her recent breakup hadn't helped either. If she didn't let up soon, she was going to have a nervous breakdown. Considering all the things she'd been seeing lately, maybe this was it.
She struggled against the billows of fabric to stand on two feet. She didn't know, but could guess, that she was wearing some sort of slippers completely unsuited to a dark and dense forest. Her waist was cinched tight with a wide ribbon, the bow blooming from her backside.
Maybe when she was three she'd have enjoyed a dress like this, all princess and fairy tales. But not for long. Weak damsels in distress that lay around waiting to be saved made her want to scream. She hated feeling weak. Helpless.
“Okay, Layla, wake up,” she said aloud to herself.
She scanned the area but saw only crowding trees and darkness. The trees were weirdly familiar, as if she'd seen them all her life, but couldn't place where. Among them, like an ashen vampire, tall, narrow, and wrapped in a cloak, was the blacksmith from the warehouse. At least, the tortured gaze was the same, resting heavy and soulful on her. Shadows still concealed the rest, but somehow she could guess that his body would be dreamworthy. All that physical labor at the fire, pounding metal day in, day out. Yes, very nice.
She ached with a beat of need, as if part of her were already leaning toward him, but she held herself back. She didn't have that easy, warm-comfy feeling of bed. She couldn't recall making it home from the warehouse, much less outside the building to her car. The dream, like the dress, felt like a trap. She'd learned a long time ago to trust her instincts.
“Wakey, wakey,” she sang, eyeing the blacksmith while denying the coil winding tight in her pelvis.
“You don't remember.” The man sounded like he was in pain.
No, so tell me.
“Remember what?”
“Anything. Your life as Kathleen.”
Kathleen again. This
was
a nightmare. “For the last time, I'm not Kathleen. I'm Layla Mathews.
Lay-la
.” She exaggerated that last bit with her mouth. How could she want a man who didn't even know her name?
“Lay-la.” His rough, wounded delivery made her wonder about this Kathleen chick. The woman had obviously broken his heart.
“Listen—”
“No.” He swiped the air with his hand. “I was mistaken. This is not the way to reach you.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Layla sighed relief.
“We will just have to begin again,” he said, and darkness inundated her vision.
 
 
Shadowman patted Layla's cheek to wake her. Layla, not Kathleen.
Layla.
The name was made of tip-of-the-tongue sounds, rather than the throat pull of his beloved. So different. How could she be different?
He closed his eyes and drew what strength he could from the earthbound shadows. The gate had cost him much. Reforming his body had cost him more. Holding it for any length of time would be very, very difficult.
“Come now,” he said. “Wake.” He'd crouched near Layla's fallen form and gently lifted her shirt to bare her skin and the white undergarment that snugged her breasts, though he knew doing so would embarrass her later. He should have sent the human vermin who'd attacked her deep into the river and let the ghosts within the flows grasp at the rapists' limbs until the men drowned. Too bad it wasn't their time.
Layla turned her head in the alley dirt.
“You're all right,” he said to counter the confusion billowing out of her. The woman had a strong mind and a stronger will. He could not blot out the memory of the hellgate or Kathleen's fairy tale, however brief, but he could make her doubt they had ever really happened. They would seem like dreams to her. Would she succumb to this adjustment in her reality?

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