Demon's Kiss (26 page)

Fury swelled inside him. Pounding. Rich and vivid. He savored the feeling, tasting it. The demon part of him was strong. So strong.

With concentrated focus, he squelched the last of his resistance. The light sorcerer was no more.

Snarling, Ciarran lunged forward, his blades sinking deep into Asag’s flesh. The demon screamed, and Clea dove to the side, her shoulder skidding along the ground as she landed. Ciarran grabbed Asag, spun him in a twisted dance, closer and closer to the breach.

“Go back to your world, back to your cage.” Ciarran’s breath came in great, heaving gasps, his heart pounding wildly, the darkness pouring through him. Asag was strong, fed by the blood of countless human lives, his power fueled by desperation.

Asag’s cry of rage rang in the air as Ciarran shifted them both toward the gaping hole between dimensions. It was mushrooming in size, growing by the second.

Safe. Clea would be safe.

The realm of man would be safe.

All else was of no matter. Ciarran gave his magic free rein, his light a faint glimmer, nearly overwhelmed by his darkness, and he let the killing blades slide deeper, reveling in Asag’s cries of frustration and fury.

Muscles screaming, he shoved the struggling demon toward the void, feeling the frigid pull of it, a vortex that sucked all heat, all light. He summoned his demon parasite, called on the rank thing that bled dry his soul, let it creep to the fore and battle with its own kind. Asag snarled and hissed, a rabid beast, trapped.

With a mighty heave, Ciarran sent him spinning through the portal, back to the stinking pit of brimstone and rot he had escaped decades past. Back to the evil that had spawned him.

A terrible cry tore the fabric of the night, and Ciarran struggled to find a remnant of light magic within himself. So little remained. He needed it to close the gate, slam it shut before Asag, or worse, the Solitary, came through. That job was one no amount of dark sorcery could do.

He locked his gaze on Clea, one final desperate glance to last him an eternity. She was struggling to her feet, her face white and drawn as though she sensed his terrible intent, and he felt the sting of regret and lost dreams as he backed toward the portal.

Before he fused the doorway, he was duty-bound to send one last demon to its realm:
himself
.

He knew he must consign himself to hell, must cast himself into the pit, lest the demon he had become take his reason and his mind, lest it twist him into something that would threaten the mortal world. Then he would seal the breach from the opposite side, bury himself alive. There was no option he could see.

With a strangled denial, Clea ran at him. On instinct, he opened his arms, caught her against him, warmth and love and light, and he spun them both away, in fear that they would tumble through together.

“Don’t even think it.” She locked her arms around his waist, her fingers intertwining at the small of his back, her body flush with his.
“Don’t even think it,”
she reiterated fiercely.

He felt her there, inside him, her magic, his magic, such strength, greater even than the darkness. A blending. A fusing.

“Whatever happens, you
cope,
you
deal.
” She was breathing so hard, he could barely understand her words. “Terrible things happen, but you ride them out, and life gets better.”

“That is not an option,” he rasped, certain of that. He was not what he had once been. He could never go back.

“You’re staying right here,” she said, her voice forceful. And then she gasped, clutched him tighter as she stared in horror at the portal.

A foot, horned and mottled, enormous in size, protruded from the ever-widening breach.

The Solitary.

The time for talk had passed. Ciarran called the last vestiges of his light magic, opening a pathway between himself and Clea, melding their power as one. She was a conduit of the strongest kind, channeling an enormous amount of energy, cocooning it and funneling their combined strength. Light burst from his fingertips, a bright glow, and he wove the pattern that he had knit again and again for over a thousand years, sealing the breach, closing the gate.

A horrific, inhuman cry seeped through the shriveled hole, rage and pain and fury. Ciarran dove forward, breaking the contact with Clea. He was too late. The night sky snapped shut, shearing off the foot and sending it rolling erratically across the ground in a smoking, sizzling blur. In the portal’s place was a smooth band of sparkling stars, as though the breach had never been.

Ciarran stood, panting, heart pounding. He was on the wrong side of the portal. He was still in the world of man. And he was demon.

With a great heave, the dragon current bucked and finally settled, the disruption in the
continuum
gone.

“Ciarran!” The voice was Dain’s.

Hands fisted at his sides, Ciarran struggled for control, a deep resentment snapping at him. Where had they been during this battle, his brothers of the Compact? Two decades past, they had come too late to save his hand. Tonight, they had come too late to help him save the goddamned world.

Clea stepped forward, blocking Dain’s approach, as though intent on protecting Ciarran. He smiled in grim amusement. All she needed was a plastic gold letter opener.

Traitor. Dain is the traitor.
Ciarran felt the reemergence of his earlier reservations and suspicions, heard the whisper of the darkness as it made its accusations.

He tensed, his body centered and ready.
Kill him. Kill the traitor
. He would kill Dain. Make him suffer. Make him pay for what he had almost done to Clea. To the human race.

Dain stood before him, scanning the carnage, his lips drawn in a grim line.

Not right
. Ciarran shook his head. Something did not feel right. The conclusions he reached were too easy, too obvious.

It wasn’t Dain alone who had failed to arrive as backup. Darqun. Javier. Baunn. None had come. Why?

The darkness hissed and reared, obscuring his thoughts. Frustrated, he tamped it down, a sharp hiss of surprise escaping his lips as he realized he had calmed it, soothed the beast.
Christe
, how had he learned to do that so easily?

As though sensing his turmoil, Clea moved to his side to wrap her arm around his waist, her touch a balm.

He struggled to clear his thoughts. To be sure. And then it came to him, the identity of the traitor, a concept too terrible to bear.

A theory that could only be conjured by the darkness in his soul.

Except the beast was silent now, and there was only the clarity of his own thoughts in his mind.

The traitor.

Images spun before him, of the fight he had witnessed between Dain and the Ancient. Understanding came, swift and brutal.

“The Ancient betrays us.” The words were flat, lacking emotion, devoid of doubt.

Dain’s burning gaze met Ciarran’s, the truth etched there, stark and bare.

“Why?”
Bewilderment stifled him, followed by rage, and finally despair. Ciarran was left feeling as though everything he knew, everything he was, had turned to rot.

“Why?” Dain shook his head. “In the beginning, his motive was pure. Information. He believed that he could deceive the demons, lure them into a position of trust, pick bits of knowledge from them and turn them to the common good.”

“You knew this?” Ciarran asked, watching the flicker of pain cross Dain’s face. “And said nothing?”

“I suspected. And I was blind to the depth of the deception, blind to the dangers until it was far too late. As was the Ancient.”

“I get it,” Clea interjected. “It’s like an undercover cop who goes too deep.”

Both sorcerers looked at her.

“Sometimes, when cops go undercover to investigate drugs or organized crime, they end up sinking so deep they lose themselves, forget why they were there in the first place. They play the role so well, they blur the boundary between the character they’re playing and the person they really are, until there’s no boundary at all.” She shrugged, looked back and forth between Dain and Ciarran. “I . . . uh . . . saw it in a movie.”

“Your analogy is apt.” Dain inclined his head to her. “The Ancient originally believed that the only way truly to defeat the Solitary was to make him believe he had become his ally.”

“How long?” Ciarran asked, as suspicion bloomed. Had the Ancient been involved in the crash that killed Clea’s parents, in opening the portal and freeing Asag?

Dain steepled his fingers and brought them to his lips. “I’m guessing a century.”

A century. One hundred years of trickery and deceit.

“And the day I came upon you fighting the Ancient . . . ?”

“Was the day my reservations finally overcame my trust and loyalty.”

Frowning, Clea listened to the exchange, obviously trying to piece together the gist of their conversation.

Ciarran felt something harden inside him as he recalled the Ancient encouraging him to embrace the darkness, to learn from it. The exchange took on an entirely different meaning in retrospect, a twisted meaning. “Where is he now?”

“Gone.” Dain’s eyes were pinched with tension. “After you left the meeting today, all began to unravel. I confronted the Ancient, hoping he would deny all.” With a slow, measured breath, Dain made an obvious effort at control. “He fled. Darqun sought to follow, but we both know he will fail.”

“He’ll try again,” Clea said. “If what you say is true, your Ancient will do this again. He’ll try to summon the Solitary”—she shuddered—“again.”

Ciarran recoiled, the magnitude of the betrayal striking him. The Ancient had pledged to the Solitary. The ramifications were beyond thought, beyond reason, too terrible to consider, let alone accept.

“No,” he said, but even as he spoke the denial, the pain of the treachery gouged at him.

The Ancient was their mentor, their leader, the strongest among them. And he had succumbed to darkness. Ciarran looked about him, at the corpses of the dead
hybrids,
at the place that had almost become the bridge to the world’s destruction.

His gaze dropped to his hands, one strong and healthy, the other twisted and gray, visible testament to his own private battle. Good versus evil. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes.

If the Ancient had surrendered, what hope had Ciarran to withstand the lure?

Breathing in the scent of caramel and coffee that permeated the car, Clea was grateful that Ciarran had gone to the drive-through window at the all-night donut shop. She took a sip, savoring the taste and the warmth and the fact that she was alive to drink it. The euphoria of that was indescribable. Yet accompanying this was a harsh edge of ambiguity, tinged with worry for Ciarran.

She shifted in her seat, grimacing as the movement caused a shard of pain to radiate from the scratches Asag had made on her abdomen. Ciarran stiffened, and she ached to reach out, to touch him. With a sigh, she stifled the urge. The one time she’d laid her fingers on his arm as they roared along the highway, he’d shifted away from her and sent her a haunted look that made her want to weep.

He had been betrayed. The Ancient had deceived them all, violated centuries of trust, and then he had escaped—a torment to all the sorcerers, she imagined. But Ciarran had paid the highest price.

“So what happens now?” she asked, her mood uncertain.

“The remnants of the Compact of Sorcerers will need to meet,” he said flatly. “And decide how to go on from here. A new leader must be chosen.”

Her heart broke to hear the weariness in his voice and realize that he answered in generalities rather than in personal affirmation. She wanted to know what would happen to
them
.

“A new leader, huh?” She tried to force a light tone, but it came out as more of a croak. “Who?”

Ciarran exhaled harshly. Of course his brave Clea would stab at the heart of the matter. Who, indeed?

The horrific truth was that
he
was now the most powerful sorcerer, perhaps even stronger than the Ancient. But his was the power of darkness. He hardly considered himself a viable leadership candidate. Perhaps Dain . . .

His grip tightened on the steering wheel, and he focused on driving, on guiding the car instead of touching Clea. Because that was what he really wanted to do. Touch her. Weave his fingers with hers, pull her close, feel the beat of her heart. Love her.

Things he might have won the right to as a sorcerer of light.

Things he had no right to claim as a mage of darkness.

Gritting his teeth, he guided the car along the near-empty streets toward the alley that led to his home. The remainder of the drive passed in tense silence.

Ciarran felt a swell of emotion as he watched Clea climb from the car. She was alive. She was safe. How many times would he marvel at that fact before it became real to him?

She gave him a long, measured look before she walked toward the fountain, pausing there to dip her hand in the water. He waited a moment, then followed.

Pressing her lips together, she glanced toward the place where Terry had fallen, her throat slit by the
hybrid
.

“Thank you,” she whispered, looking back at him, her eyes luminous. “For Terry’s life. I’m so glad that she’ll survive.”

Did she judge him? he wondered. For saving Terry now, though he had failed to save her parents those many years ago. Could she understand his reasons and the differences in the situations?

“Terry’s soul had not departed. Her wounds were not fatal.” He fisted his ruined hand. “It is not forbidden.”

“Not forbidden, but not sanctioned either, right?” She stared at him for a long moment; then she nodded. “I’m glad you saved her. I feel responsible for what happened to her, even though I know it wasn’t my fault. On some level, I blame myself for her getting hurt.”

“Clea—”

“No. No reassurances. I don’t need them.” She walked to the front door and pulled it open. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

She sounded like she believed it.

“You bent the rules for her, though. Right?” She cast him a look over her shoulder, her expression intent.

“I broke no law.”

Turning until she rested her back against the open front door, she watched him, waited for him. “Mmmmm. Didn’t break the law, but
bent
it. Ever hear of shades of gray? You
chose
to save Terry.”

Her gaze burned into his.

Shades of gray.

Choice.

One side of her mouth quirked in a smile.

“It’s about what you choose,” she said. “Not about what tempts you or twists you . . . but about what you
choose
to do.”

Of course.

His heart lurched, hope flooding him with such intensity that he stood rooted to the spot for a breathless moment, struggling to get his emotions under control. In the turmoil, she was his one constant. He needed her, needed her strength, her warmth, her light.

A few long strides, and he was by her side, dragging her up against him, soft, yielding. Unafraid. She’d
seen
him, seen exactly what he was, the worst he could become, and still she turned her face into the crook of his neck and pressed her body to his as their hearts beat in time.

The feel of her . . . warm . . . alive . . . he was nearly overwhelmed by the magnitude of his relief, and as he held her, he started to believe, just a little. It was real. She was real.

And then he felt it. The tentative slide of her magic, mingling with both his darkness and the tiny bit that remained of his light.

Twirling in a slow circle, he spun them into the entry hall, letting the door swing shut behind them. She rained kisses on him, his neck, his collarbone, whatever exposed skin she could reach, her fingers running over him, tentative strokes, as though reassuring herself that he was whole.

The thought made bitter regret sift through him. He was not whole. He was not anything that he had once been. Tensing, he made to pull away, but she held him, her fingers closing about his tattooed wrist.

Inside him, the beast leaped, reaching for her. And she let it, calming it, taking it into her and easing the pressure in Ciarran’s heart, in his soul.

She laughed, and for a moment he thought she was overwhelmed, unhinged by all she had witnessed.

“I’m not crazy,” she said softly. “You know that no matter what it is, I’ll cope. I’ll deal with it. But, the thing is, it’s you who has to deal with something now. I’ve learned so much from you. Now it is your turn to learn from me.”

He tipped her face toward him, studying her eyes, her laughing, dancing eyes, and again that crashing wave of hope overtook him.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

She ran her fingers over the wounds that Asag had torn in his chest, a sizzle of magic shimmering from her fingertips as she touched him, healed him. He lifted the shredded hem of her T-shirt, the breath leaving him in a sharp hiss as he saw the gouges left by the plague-demon’s claws. She suffered, and yet her first care was for him.

Without thought, he summoned his own magic, casting light on the vicious gashes, closing them, taking her pain. And then he realized what he had done, and froze. There was yet light in his darkness. Somehow, he was surprised by that.

“See? You can choose.” She laughed softly, the sound tapering to a sigh of understanding. “You just need to learn to deal with it.”

“Deal with what?” Besides the darkness that clawed at him. Besides the uncertainty over what exactly he had become.

“For one thing, your preference for solitude. You’ll have to get past that,” she said. “You can’t ever go back.”

He knew that, knew he could never go back, never be what he had once believed himself to be. His body, his magic, even his soul had changed. All his beliefs, his certainties, torn asunder.

“What do you mean, get past my preference for solitude?” He shoved down the hope that flared, a bright flame, unable to imagine that she could mean to stay with him after all she had seen.

“Don’t you understand? Alone, you could not win.” She cupped his cheeks, her body straining toward him, her expression intent. “But together”—she exhaled in a rush—“together, we cannot lose.”

The truth of her words touched him, buoyed him. A surge of emotion rose, clogging his throat, blurring his vision. He had wanted to save the world, save her. In the end, it was their bond that had succeeded where all else failed, their shared magic that had sealed the portal.

If he didn’t fight the pull, then she did not draw from him. Instead, she filled him and strengthened him and made him more than he was alone.

Together. That was true strength, the power of two.

She was so beautiful, light shining from her soul. Clea. Brave, resilient, undeniably strong. His Clea. His love. By his side for time eternal.

He reached out to stroke her hair, froze, his gaze locked on his ruined hand, encased in nothing more than the leather glove he had taken from the ground where Clea had dropped it. Beneath the edge of the glove, he could see skin. Gray. Like demon hide, only subtly different. Smoother, with a faint glow. He had left behind the alloy sheath, for it was no longer of any value. The darkness could no longer be imprisoned, no longer held at bay. It was too much a part of him now, never again to be confined by a convoluted brew of magic, wards, tattoos, and metal alloy.

Drawing back, he let his gaze roam her face, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe, the choking truth of what he was congealing in his throat. There could be no together for them. He was darkness, danger. He was demon.

“Oh, no you don’t.” She dragged his head down, kissed him hard on the lips. “You’re thinking that you’re going to do what’s best for me, save me, sacrifice your happiness.” Her breath hitched in. “Like you were going to sacrifice your life back there,” she whispered, shuddered, and continued, louder, stronger. “No. No. And no. You’re going to love me—”

“—I do love you.” The words exploded out of him, the purest certainty.

“I know.” She smiled, kissed him again. “And you’re going to let me love you, for whatever time I have left . . .” A shadowy sadness clouded her gaze. “That’s the only thing I’m sorry for. The fact that I’ve got, what . . . maybe sixty more years? While you’ve got eternity.” She paused. “I wish that was different.”

He frowned down at her, not understanding; then suddenly, he did. “Clea, you don’t have sixty years.”

“Less?” she whispered.

“More.” Happiness clawed free of the chains he had imposed, the emotion so foreign that for a moment, he didn’t recognize it for what it was. She loved him. She had seen the darkest part of him, and she
loved
him. Accepted him.

How could he do less? How could he not accept himself?

He kissed her then, deep and full, letting all the love in his heart pour into her.

“Eternity, Clea. We are together for eternity.”

She gasped, her eyes wide, her brow furrowing in confusion as she tried to assimilate his meaning.

“You are sorcerer. As I am immortal, you are immortal,” he said. “You have been since you first took my magic as a child, but your physiological growth and development continued until you mastered your power to an apprentice level. Such is the way of our kind.” He pressed his palm against the small of her back, drawing her closer. “And we have eternity to figure out the why of it.”

For a moment, she couldn’t understand him, couldn’t believe him; then she realized that he spoke the truth. Sorcerer. Immortal. By his side.

She could love him for eternity.

She could do so many good things. Work toward cures for dozens of human diseases. Utilize the resources of his pharmaceutical company . . .

Love him for eternity.

“OhMyGod . . .”

Relief surged through her, so clear and sharp that it made her legs weak, rubbery, and she sagged in his embrace, supported by his strength. He tightened his arms around her, the warmth of his body surrounding her, and he smiled against her mouth, kissing her.

Silky strands of his hair brushed her cheek as he drew back, and she opened her eyes, studied him. She loved the way he looked at her, the way his lips parted just a little, the sexy light in his iridescent eyes.

She loved everything about him, the emotion so achingly intense, wonderful and terrifying and beautiful.

There was darkness mixed with his light, but it was not so very bad. Not so very bad at all. Because she could trust him to choose well.

He had accepted the demon, acknowledged it and worked with it. But he had not succumbed to the darkness. He had done as Gram had once told her, facing the evil in his own soul and choosing to walk in the light.

Running his hand along her hair, he studied her, his expression growing intense. He dragged her up against him, put his hard mouth on hers, deep, slow, sultry kisses, spinning her in a web of desire, his body tight against her.

She pulled back, letting her hand slide along his shoulder, his arm, her fingers tracing his and then dropping away.

“You know . . . Your shower has twenty heads,” she said as she took a step back, and another, her pulse throbbing. With a low laugh, she spun away, looking back over her shoulder to send him a wicked smile. “I can think of great ways to use about nineteen of them.”

Naked desire flared in his gaze. “We can angle one showerhead here—” She ran her palm along the top of her shoulder and took a step. “And one here—” She let her fingers slide down until they rested on the swell of her breast. “And one here—” She slid her palm along her hip, reaching back to squeeze the globe of her butt.