Читать книгу The Immortal's Redemption - Kelli Ireland - Страница 11

Chapter 4

Dylan crouched in the bushes outside Ethan’s house. There were no lights on inside, but a red, new-model muscle car sat in the driveway. Given the earthy scent he picked up from the perimeter and the brush of power he’d felt moments ago, it had to be the warlock’s.

He rubbed his hands down cargo-clad thighs. His face paint was oily, his shoulder holsters chafed and his scalp was tight. Nothing felt right about this. The need to unfurl his own magick, to feel out the house, skated down his arms and burned his fingertips. Reality shifted, blurring his hands. What the hell? Something was messing with his control, ramping up his tenuous hold on the aether.

Ever volatile, his magick didn’t come only when called, like some elemental lapdog he commanded to heel. Aether demanded more recognition than that. If he didn’t exercise the magick regularly, it forced his hand. He’d leak power in a steady drip, drip, drip. Then he’d blow. Surroundings would be fundamentally changed. From the animate to the inanimate, nothing was safe.

The breeze shifted, and the woman’s scent flirted with his senses—lavender and vanilla. Yet underlying that was something dark, a faint smell as pungent as burned hair that tainted her natural fragrance. It hadn’t been there earlier. The warlock’s green, earthy smell confused things.

He refocused on the house as a shadow moved by a window, one that was decidedly too tall to be...her. His chest ached and he cursed long and low. She was his mark. Nothing more, nothing less. He’d carry out his duties as he always had—with cold precision.

The warlock scanned the bushes where Dylan hid.

He wondered for a moment if Ethan could sense his magick. If he could, he’d be more of a contender than Dylan had originally given him credit for. The Assassin in him almost wished for that. His need to take back the control he’d lost this morning in letting the woman get away made him slightly reckless.

The curtains shut abruptly, and he had the distinct sense his wish was about to come true. He did a quick physical inventory of his weapons—short sword, daggers, gun, taser, garrotes, injectable sedation, smoke grenades, tear gas, extra bullets, both plastic and steel cuffs. It was all there. Sidling up to the front door, he used the deep porch shadows to hide and wait.

No one emerged.

Slinking around the side of the house, he scaled the fence and dropped into the backyard. Dylan slipped closer to the house. French doors on the lower patio were the most logical means of entry, but he’d likely be forced to work his way upstairs at some point. Being trapped in a stairwell with a warlock flinging elemental magicks at him would put him on the defensive, and Dylan didn’t operate that way.

He took the steps to the deck, edging up to the glass slider. Going to one knee, he peered around the corner. Few adversaries expected a man his size to come in low.

Unfurling his magick, he let it flood the house like smoke, filling every crevice, nook and cranny. They were there. The feel of them tickled his overstimulated senses. Her scent moved through him, unleashing an altogether different kind of desire in him. Damn her. Damn her for mixing this up.

Need coiled in him like a giant snake, and he cursed her under his breath. It was as if she’d bewitched him. From the moment he’d seen her the first time in his dreams, he’d wanted her. The reality of the woman was far more potent, fueling an irrational desire that called to him to toss duty aside, go to her and forget both obligation and honor.

Dylan pulled back and thumped his temple hard with the heel of one hand. He’d never failed an assignment, and this wouldn’t be his first. Whatever truth he’d been warned so long ago to find in the woman would have to come second to his responsibilities and, if necessary, his life.

Shaking his head to clear the hazy craving that was her siren’s song, he reached slowly for the door handle. It unlocked with a simple mental push. The resounding snick in the oppressive, stormy atmosphere announced his location as effectively as if he’d rung the front bell.

He let the door whisper open.

The first attack came as he crossed the threshold. A short incantation followed by streams of light as bright as the sun. They struck him full in the chest and launched him backward so hard he hit the second-story deck railing. He nearly went over.

A short, female shout of alarm pulled him upright.

Then the damn warlock struck again.

This time Dylan did go over the rail. He managed to tuck and roll into the landing, missing the concrete pad by inches. Not that the grass was that much softer, but at least he didn’t break anything that would keep him out of the fight.

Dylan shoved to his feet and raced to the fence, vaulting it without slowing down. He rounded the house and smashed through the front door in time to see Ethan haul Kennedy down a long hallway. He started after them, his pace leisurely. He waved a hand at the front door. “Chomh luath agus a scoir, anois chuimhne. Oscailte do cheann ach mé.” Once an exit, now a memory. Where the door had been was now solid wall.

Casting a hand toward a window, he murmured, “Phána gloine balla bpríosún, beidh tú a oscailt le haghaidh aon cheann ach mé.” Glass pane to prison wall, you’ll open for none but me.

A slow smile spread across his face. His eyes grew hooded as he recalled the door downstairs had been glass, as well.

They were trapped.

The sound of Ethan’s vehement cursing reached him. “He’s blocked the windows.”

It might have been cruel, but Dylan chuckled. “You’re caught in a gambit of your own making, warlock. This ends now.”

“You can’t have her.” Ethan stepped into the hallway. A burst of black flame raced Dylan’s way.

Dylan let his power free, watched it roil in his palms. It consumed the blaze, changing it to water that splashed at his feet. He wiped his hands on his pants. “Playing dirty, is it not, using black fire against an enemy?”

Even in the poor light, Dylan could see Ethan’s face go ashen. “It’s not possible.”

“What’s not possible?”

“No one controls the aether.” The words were heavy. “It’s not predictable.”

Dylan shrugged. “Amend that to no one you’ve ever known, and you’ve got it right. And as for not being predictable? Neither am I.”

* * *

Dylan’s bitter, cold voice left a thick rime over Kennedy’s skin.

Ethan stepped back and pulled her behind his body. “You’re not taking her, you pile of Irish sheep shit.”

“No? Seems we’re not of an accord, then.” That silky voice, laced with promised violence and pain, bled through the dark.

Ethan shuffled backward, herding her toward the bedroom. “Go. Lock the door.”

“No.”

“What?” His hoarse whisper grated across the air.

Her voice was so steady it surprised her. “I’m not going down without at least throwing a punch.” Stepping around him, she faced Dylan.

Lightning illuminated the Assassin from behind. She might not have been able to pick him out of the dark without that blinding flash. When his eyes began to luminesce, she stepped toward him. “Don’t do this.”

He snorted. “You don’t think to plead, certainly.”

She swallowed so hard she knew he heard it. “If you’ll tell me what it is you think I’ve done, I’ll undo it.”

His lips thinned. “Ye canna undo this.”

“There has to be a way. I don’t even know why you’re here.” This is a nightmare. God, please let me wake up. She forced her legs, which were numb with fear, to move forward another step.

The planes and angles of Dylan’s face seemed harsher in the next lightning flash. He spread his feet and let his hands relax at his sides as he considered her. “It’s not my place to explain justice, only deliver it.”

“If you kill me, it’s murder, not justice.” She pressed the heels of her hands to her temples and shook her head before looking up at him, knowing her eyes were wild with desperation. “I’ve done nothing!”

He looked her up and down. “You’ve truly no idea,” he said softly.

“None,” she answered in kind.

Cursing in another language, he never took his eyes off her. “I’ll give you the truth. Nothing more. I’ve been sent to cast out the goddess, Cailleach, who possesses you, and rebind her to the Shadow Realm.”

A bark of crazed, near-hysterical laughter escaped. “Cast a goddess out? How?”

“The only way. I’ll be taking your head first, heart second, so she canna reincarnate.”

“No!” Ethan shouted, grabbing her arm and yanking her back.

Darkness pulled her under so fast she never had the chance to warn them. She fought to stay alert. Shoving, kicking, scrabbling, she managed to maintain a precarious foothold in the now. The moment she realized what she’d done, she stilled, terrified to disrupt her tenuous hold on reality.

The world looked different. She could see Dylan through the dark, though he still resembled her worst nightmare...and greatest temptation. Lust flooded her, and it took a moment to realize it wasn’t hers alone. What the... Whoever had a hold of her wanted him. Bad. Images and ideas, both hers and whatever consumed her, crashed through her mind. They collided and separated so quickly she struggled to keep from merging with those of her parasite. The creature’s—goddess’s?—thoughts were wild, unhinged, even.

Kennedy heard herself speak, words that weren’t hers breeching the darkness. “I grow tired of this byplay. We all know it will get us nowhere.” The voice was huskier than Kennedy’s, similar yet dissimilar.

“No one invited you to the party, you fruitcake.” Ethan sounded like he’d moved closer, but it was no longer a matter of turning around or reaching back to simply see.

She’d become a passenger in her own body.

“Kennedy, I know you can hear me. Get your ass back here.”

She saw her hand rise. Unintelligible words erupted from her mouth. With the flick of a hand, a huge crash sounded close behind her. Kennedy fought the urge to scream as her feet turned without her directive. She wanted to rail against the sycophant that had co-opted her body.

Ethan lay crumpled on the floor, the drywall at the end of the hall concave where he’d impacted. Blood ran through his blond hair and trailed down his forehead in a broad stripe.

Dylan’s voice drew her joint attentions. “Was that truly necessary, Cailleach?” He was casual, his brogue nearly absent. “He’s hardly worth the effort.”

Clearly, Cailleach didn’t feel the same. “He’s an annoyance the woman and I haven’t the time to deal with.”

Dylan’s left eye twitched. “Is she aware of you?”

Her hitchhiker waited silently. Kennedy experienced the being’s distinct interest—the kind of interest a woman has when the strongest motivator is desire for something or someone. A single word passed through Kennedy’s consciousness. Consort. Cailleach pushed against her, harder this time, and Kennedy held her ground. Her lips curled up even as she pressed a hand against her temple. “The little mortal thinks to fight me. Should I destroy her?”

Panic left an acrid taste hovering at the back of her throat. Her heart skipped a beat before taking up a rhythm appropriate for a fast, dirty salsa.

“She doesn’t believe you’re really here to kill us. Should I crush her hope now and explain who you are, what you’re capable of, Assassin? Or should I let you have the honors?”

This isn’t happening. None of this is happening.

The discordant voice chuckled, low and rough. “Oops. Seems she heard me.”

Dylan watched her with dispassionate eyes that gave away nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice made the hair on the back of her neck rise. “What she is or isn’t aware of means little so long as the assignment is carried out. Say what you will. All you’re doing is tormenting her before the inevitable end.”

In the stillness, Kennedy’s emotions began to fray. I’m just another kill. My blood on his hands means nothing to him.

True, answered Cailleach. The goddess seemed to take over her body and move it accordingly. She now mimicked Dylan’s position, leaning Kennedy’s body against the hallway wall.

Dylan’s phone buzzed in his pocket once then quit.

“Shouldn’t you answer that?” She smiled and traced fingers over Kennedy’s nipples, back and forth until they stood erect beneath her camisole. It was a ghostly sensation, wrong on every level. “No? Fine. I have an arrangement to propose. I’ll need a consort, Assassin. This body could be yours for the taking.” She held out her hand to him.

She’s pimping me out?

His lip curled. Leaning against the wall, he gave no indication of his intent. “I could do better with a Dublin streetwalker.”

“Bastun,” she spat out. “You desire her. I know you do.”

Dylan shoved off the wall and shouted, “De réir Danu, I éileamh an bhean is mo chuid féin!”

At the same time, Cailleach screamed, “Do chroí damanta go luaith!”

Power ripped through Kennedy with the force of a thousand joules. She screamed, strategically cleaved apart only to be slammed back together once the magick left Cailleach’s hands.

Hurled magicks collided midair, creating a burst of blue-black flames that wound together intimately, climbing to the ceiling and spreading out. A shockwave rocked the room and percussed their ears. The glass doors and windows held.

Dylan dove forward, knocking her to the ground.

Cailleach snarled. A brutal swipe to his wrist left it bleeding and his hand limp. Claws curled, she shredded his shirt and ripped a dagger from its sheath, the tip slicing into his forearm. Scrambling to her feet, she clasped the knife as she moved in to plunge it into Dylan’s back.

He rolled away at the last moment and Cailleach stumbled. Kennedy didn’t know whether to cheer or scream. Both emotions fought for a foothold on the tiny ledge where her remaining sanity perched.

Dylan drew his sword, the blade scraping against the scabbard with the hiss of metal against metal.

Magicks silently unfurled around them. His own softened and twisted everything it touched so he appeared to move through ever-shifting surroundings. Cailleach’s dark magick swirled around her feet, as dense as Dylan’s was fluid. The fine black mist widened even as it drifted up her legs, twining around them like some great cat.

Tendrils of the goddess’s magick bled through Kennedy’s consciousness. She struggled to dislodge the sticky, invasive tentacles that seemed determined to dismantle her, one painful, spearing jab at a time.

Cailleach laughed and began to retreat. “We’ll save this for another day. I find I enjoy sparring with you.”

Darkness threatened to swamp Kennedy, a pervasive sense of nothingness—an absolute void she was powerless against.

Cailleach faced the Assassin.

Kennedy watched as Dylan hesitated. The surety of a decision made skipped through his eyes just before he shoved his damaged hand in his pocket and pulled a syringe, flicking the cap off. He charged forward. Slamming into them, he drove them into the wall. They hit hard enough that Kennedy experienced the breathlessness of impact.

Dylan’s body pressed into hers. Their hearts thundered against each other, the stormy rhythm hammering her awareness. She experienced a brief connection with him, intimate in the silence of her mind.

His arms shoved under hers, the needle digging into the soft area between her collarbone and armpit. Dull, aching pain quickly spread as he dug the needle in all the way to the shank. He slid his short sword up between her breasts. The guard came to rest against her sternum as the tip pierced the soft underside of her jaw.

Kennedy arched her neck away from the threat and cracked her skull against his chin. A scream lodged in her throat, but she was too terrified to move as she found herself faced with two attackers—one a physical assailant, the other an emotional terrorist. The shock that he’d drawn blood, had actually acted against her without consideration that it was her—her body, her trapped inside—snipped her last thread of hope that this was all a bad dream.

“I can end this right now,” he said, panting in her ear.

“You won’t,” Cailleach purred. Every word drove that soft spot under her tongue onto his blade. “You may want to slay my mortal host, but you won’t. Not yet. You’ll seek to bind my immortal soul on Samhain, and your honor won’t settle for less.”

He kicked her feet apart, wrapping a foot around her ankle to keep her off balance. “You mean nothing to me, Crone.”

“No, but for some reason? She does.”

Kennedy’s heart stumbled, and she felt Cailleach’s smile.

“She’s the means to your end.” Dylan pressed the sword point deeper, splitting her skin wide. “You’d be an utter fool to bank your eternity on any more than that.”

And just like that, the goddess was gone, and Kennedy was falling against the sword with no idea what scared her more—the cut of the blade or the brutal emptiness of the Assassin’s words.