The Unforgiven (15 page)

Fear coiled in her belly. “What . . . what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you, Maddie. I’m talking about your very existence, proof of your Watcher forefather’s unforgivable sin. You’re not dying of cancer. You’re changing. From what you thought you were into what you’ve always been: the forbidden offspring of a fallen angel. A crossbred atrocity, cursed by God and man alike. A human with demon essence where your soul should be.”

He dragged in a breath and said, “Maddie, you’re Nephilim.”

The trouble with killing hellfiends, Cybele thought, was that the deed left you feeling dirty and wondering if perhaps you weren’t every bit as disgusting as your victim.

Oh, she didn’t deny it was fun. Exhilarating, even. There was a sexual rush to the chase and the strike. The high lingered for hours after a kill, and the lust . . . The sexual hunger awakened by a kill was fierce. Even the sight of the poor dead human who had been the hellfiend’s host didn’t diminish that. Nor had the bumbling, panicked escape of the three marked humans.

No, it had taken Artur to kill her high. After the hit, he’d simply turned his back and walked away without a word. He’d left her standing alone at the mouth of the alley. She’d spent a full five minutes hurling curses at his back. Blast the man straight to Oblivion; the cold wall he’d erected around his heart just wouldn’t crack. How she wanted to smash it, obliterate it, reduce it to rubble! Sometimes she felt that her heart would never be whole until she’d brought Artur Camulus to his knees. Until she heard him rage, cry, and howl. Until he could
feel
again.

She wondered if he ever would, or whether it would be better to follow his example herself. If you didn’t feel, there could be no pain. No regrets. Just . . . nothing. A preview of Oblivion. Maybe Artur was already halfway there.

After dealing with the hellfiend, after Artur had abandoned her, she’d returned to the East End alone to find both Brax and Gareth had left Artur’s flat. She had the place to herself. Now, hours later, she was still alone.

Restless, she prowled the bedroom, the living area, the kitchen, and wished the place was bigger. Sick of brooding about Artur, she brooded instead about Cade’s mission in Israel. If all went as planned, he’d return with a slave. The role of slave master would change him in ways she didn’t want to contemplate. Her own bond with him, born during his transition, would be weakened if not broken entirely. As Artur had surely intended, she realized now.

And, what about Lucas? Was her brother even alive? He’d left London for Texas six months ago. Three months had passed since he’d last checked in. Luc had always been a loner, but he’d never been out of touch for so long. It was hard not to imagine the worst. Especially since the Glastonbury massacre.

DAMNers were more zealous in the States than they were here in Europe. Had a DAMN demon annihilator blasted Luc to Oblivion? She broke her pacing and dropped onto the sagging couch. She was staring at the blank television, debating whether to turn it on, when the door to the flat opened and Artur stepped into the room. Their gazes locked. For several wild beats of Cybele’s heart, time hung suspended. Then Artur advanced, his leather duster billowing behind him, like a movie image that had just been taken off pause.

He shrugged out of the coat, tossed it over a chair, and stood silently looking down at her. The expression in his eyes told her nothing.

“I thought you might be out with Brax and Gareth,” she said at last.

“I wasn’t.”

“So I see.”

He strode to the sideboard where he kept his liquor. “Well, then. The two of us can enjoy a cozy night at home.” His sarcasm, as always, lit her fuse.

“You shouldn’t have sent Cade to Israel,” she said to his back, mostly because she knew it would piss him off.

He paused in the act of pouring his whiskey. “I don’t remember asking your opinion.”

“He’s angry about the massacre, grieving for his son.”

“Please. He hardly knew the child.”

“That’s what’s so terrible. On top of that, now you’ve bruised his pride. It’s not a good combination, Artur. He could turn violent.”

Her warning described Artur’s mental state more than Cade’s; surely Artur realized it. He shot her a glance, something ugly flaring in his eyes, and Cybele braced herself. He’d walk out the door now. Or retaliate with a cutting remark and a reminder of his dominance.

He did neither. He set aside his full whiskey glass. Lowering his tall body into an armchair and slumping against the cushion, he passed a weary hand over his eyes. “What else was I to do, Bel?”

She stared in shock. He hadn’t used the old nickname since . . .

“Cade was on the verge of challenging me,” Artur continued. “Sure, he backed down in time, but if I let him stay here, eventually he would have spoken the words. He wants you for a mate.”

“He knows that won’t happen,” Cybele said.

“Intellectually, maybe. In his gut, no. As long as he feels that way, he’s in danger of challenging me. And you know if he does that, I have to kill him. And despite what you think of me, I really don’t want to do that.”

The honest exhaustion in his voice set her heart to pounding. Blast it. She knew how to deal with Artur’s anger. She’d become an expert at deflecting his contempt. She had ready weapons against his sarcasm. But this? This glimpse of vulnerability? It was all she’d hoped for, but now, confronted with the reality of it, she found she didn’t know what to do. What to say. She didn’t even know if she liked it.

“Cade might still go for your throat when he returns,” she said at last, shakily, as if in consolation.

Artur, one arm flung over his eyes, laughed.

“That wasn’t supposed to be funny.”

“No,” he agreed, sobering. “I admit it’s possible he’ll try. Much less likely, though. He’ll have anchored a dormant. And he’ll be a slave master. His bond with you will be very much weakened.”

He seemed on the verge of adding something. He shook his head instead, as if clearing the thought from his mind.

“Still,” Cybele insisted. “You shouldn’t have sent him to Israel. He’s too new, too inexperienced.”

Rising, Artur retrieved his glass and took a long sip. Pacing the threadbare carpet, he paused at the window. He set his hip against the sill and said, “You worry he’ll hurt the dormant. He won’t. Much as I dislike Cade, I know he would never harm an innocent.”

“And if this unaware female isn’t innocent? If her power turns out to be greater than his? He might not be able to enslave her. She might enslave him.”

Artur leaned against the wall, cradling his glass in his hand. “An unaware in transition enslave a full adept? Impossible.”

“Cade’s only been adept for a year,” Cybele pointed out. “He was unaware before that. Acting as anchor is a lot for him to handle. Maybe too much. You should have sent Brax. Or gone yourself.”

Artur’s black eyes turned mocking. “What? You wouldn’t have minded? But no, of course not. You would have delivered me right into the female’s arms.” He sipped his whiskey. “And, perhaps, stayed to watch?”

She hated him then. Hated him every bit as much as she loved him. “Go to Hell, Artur.”

He laughed. “Sorry, love. Our kind doesn’t even rate that privilege.”

He had a mocking answer for everything. When had the cynical light in his eyes turned permanent? She wanted to wipe it out. She wanted to hurt him as he hurt her every damn time they were together.

“Gareth wants to perform his death-seeking as soon as possible,” she said.

The set of Artur’s features didn’t change, apart from a slight hardening around the eyes. “What method is he contemplating?” For all the emotion he betrayed, he might have been asking Gareth’s dinner order.

“Blade.”

“Good.” He nodded once. “A courageous choice.”

Cybele’s own choice had been poison. “I still can’t believe you put him up to this.”

“He wants it. And the clan needs every adept it can muster.”

“And you need to punish me.”

The ugly expression was back in his eyes. He put aside his glass. With angry steps, he crossed to her chair and stood looking down at her. “Believe me, Cybele,” he said, “if I wanted to punish you, I wouldn’t use Gareth to do it.”

His gaze raked her body so lewdly that she felt stripped of her clothes. She fought the urge to cover herself—or fling herself at his feet. Eyes raised to his stare, she let her anger and her contempt show.

“Just how
would
you do it?” she taunted.

His jaw tensed. “You’ve sworn fealty, Cybele, like all the others. You owe me your obedience.”

Her lips curved into what she suspected was a ghastly smile. “And submission, Artur? Willing submission? Do I owe that, too?”

He reacted not at all to her dripping sarcasm, nor to her insolent smirk. Only to her words. He leaned over her, his right hand supporting his weight on the arm of the chair. It took
conscious effort for her to not shrink back into the cushions. His left index finger touched the base of her throat. Slowly, he drew a line down, down, between her breasts and over her belly. He stopped a scant inch short of the throbbing pulse between her legs.

“You do owe me submission, Cybele. Willing or otherwise. I am your lord. Your master. For now, I allow you the illusion of freedom, but not forever. One day, I promise you, I will issue the command. And you will not refuse.”

The words were meant to shock, and they did. But try as she might, Cybele could not deny the truth behind those words. She was Artur’s. She always had been.

His finger hovered over her sex. Even through a thick layer of denim, his touch burned. Raw need, like boiling honey, poured through every cell in her body. Her nipples constricted and tingled, her belly spasmed. Moisture wet her thighs.

Primitive animal arousal. And yet, so much more. She was acutely aware of Artur’s life essence. All that she was yearned in response.

She wanted desperately to grind her hips against his hand. To beg him to issue that command
now
. How he’d laugh at that!

Somehow, she found the strength to remain silent. But in her mind, she begged.
Kiss me. Oh, please, Artur, kiss me. Forget Cade. Forget the choices I made when I found him.

He didn’t. Didn’t touch his lips to hers, didn’t plunge his tongue into the welcoming depths of her mouth. His eyes grew cold. His hand withdrew; he stepped away. And she knew she’d lost him again. He’d withdrawn to a place as distant and unreachable as Heaven or Hell.

He flashed a nasty grin. “That should hold you, love. Until I want more.”

A flush crept from her chest to her neck and face. The bastard. She hated him. For what he wouldn’t give her, and
for how the loss of what he’d once given so freely drove her to places she didn’t want to go. Never before had she experienced the urge to wound. If only she could force a spark of heat into his icy black irises.

“I look forward to it.” Her voice, at least, remained calm. “But tell me this, Artur. When I anchor Gareth, do you intend to watch?”

His expression chilled even more. “No.”

“I don’t believe you,” she pushed. “I think you will. I think you won’t be able to stay away. At the very least, you’ll be outside the door, listening. Imagining every act, every touch, every wave of pain and pleasure . . .” She laughed. “It would feel like you and me. Together again. Except this time, with roles reversed.”

Artur didn’t move. He didn’t reply. His eyes were a void. The sight chilled Cybele to the bone. It was like catching a glimpse of Oblivion.

He turned and left the room without a word. Cybele wondered what the hell she was doing.

Civilization was ugly. And dirty, too, Luc thought as his boots kicked up a cloud of dust, staining the legs of his jeans. He made his way across the unpaved parking lot toward a tired building, passing a couple rusty pickups and a Ford sedan on the way. The single window by the entrance cast tired fluorescence into the night. Above it, an illuminated sign stuttered.
CROS _ROADS D _NER
, it read.

The interior was cleaner, at least, though a scent of grease hung in the air. The dull linoleum floor showed no dirt past the mat at the entrance. A television mounted from the ceiling droned a late-night talk show. His gaze swept the room: two men—one old, one young—on stools at the counter. A pair
of middle-aged women sitting in a booth near the entrance. Sisters, probably, from the looks of them. A lone waitress wiping down a table near the kitchen. All four heads swiveled in his direction. One of the men grunted a greeting, then returned to his meal.

Luc folded his large frame into a corner booth near the cigarette machine, back to the wall, aware of an acute discomfort. It had been three months since he’d entered any man-made structure. His instincts screamed for him to get out of the place. The sky belonged above his head, not stained yellow ceiling tiles.

He ignored the urge to flee and picked up the menu to study his choices. His stomach rebelled. In three weeks, he had eaten only what he’d foraged in the wild, and he knew he had to reintroduce civilized food carefully.

The waitress appeared by his table, order pad in hand. She was short and plump, pushing forty, he thought, her frizzy blonde hair laced with gray. But the lines of fatigue around her blue eyes smoothed and her gaze kindled with interest as she examined him.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” she said. “Looking for a job at the mill?” Her tone approached hopeful.

“No,” Luc said. “Just passing through.”

“Figures.” A sigh escaped her. “Well, hon, what’ll you have?”

“Eggs,” he said, putting aside the menu. “Over easy. Toast. And coffee. Black.”

“Sausage?” He considered his queasy stomach and declined.

The volume on the TV kicked up a notch as the talk show yielded to commercials. Reflexively, Luc glanced over. A blindingly handsome priest had appeared on the screen. “
Demon Annihilators Mutual Network is an international nonprofit
organization dedicated to the eradication of demonkind. I’m Reverend Jonas Walker . . .
”

Blast it all to Oblivion! Luc gritted his teeth as DAMN’s public service announcement played out.