Deliver Me from Temptation (27 page)

I
have
something
to
do
first.

Jessica woke, her eyes fluttering open. The shock of reality against the blissful peace of the light had her wishing she could close her eyes again and forget whatever it was that needed doing, and she naturally sought solace in the hum of the florescent lights that bathed the overly warm room. But then other scents and sounds came to her. A foulness in the air. Death. Evil. And two men speaking in heated tones.

She came fully awake then, but instead of attempting to rise, she closed her eyes again, listening. It took her a moment to decipher Logan’s voice as one of the two men speaking. His normally smooth baritone was laden with a mix of anger and something else: pain.

Jess felt the agonizing draw of his every breath as if it were her own. Practically choked on the thick warm taste of his blood as it coated his mouth. She was so distracted by Logan’s agony, it took her a while to work out what the voices were saying. Their talk of keys and realms and who would gain entry.

But she finally did.

Jessica staggered up, her gaze immediately landing on Logan’s prone form. Seemingly ignorant of her, the man from the desk—Damon’s father—stood above him, his hand raised, and though it held no weapon she could see, she knew that whatever he meant to do next would mean the end of Logan’s life.

She couldn’t let that happen.

She’d thought that staying with Logan, growing old and dying as he didn’t, would be the worst hell on earth. She’d been wrong. There was one thing that would be worse, and that would be living without him.

Jessica lunged.

***

Logan watched in horror as Jessica stumbled to her feet, her gaze quickly traveling from him to Ganelon, her chin taking that stubborn tilt. He knew the second before she lunged that she was going to try and stop Ganelon. And he could do nothing.

Ganelon spun, his hand taking the motion with him, the hit meant for Logan, sizzling from the tips of his fingers, arching outward. Logan couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. His life was crumbling to the floor before him and he couldn’t so much as lift a finger. Not that he didn’t try, but the severing of their bond, even though never fully completed, was so painful it made Ganelon’s wimpy attack of before feel like child’s play.

The moment of immobility lasted only a second before the dreadful pain gave way to adrenaline-pumping fury.

He screamed, his hand fisting around his knife as he threw his body forward. A boot connected with his jaw, snapping his head back. He slashed out and found his arm pinned by a cloven hoof. At the same time a knee came down on his back, shoving him to the floor.

“Watch the knife, boys.”

Logan twisted his head, catching sight of the two ugly mugs holding him down. Definitely merkers, though not the pretty kind you normally found aboveground.

“Do you want us to bring him?” the more human-looking of the two asked through his deformed mouth.

“No, let him go,” Ganelon said, though his gaze never left Jessica. “I have a feeling he’ll be joining us soon enough.”

Then, followed by his offspring dragging the inert merker, Ganelon left the room, his diabolical laughter echoing throughout the cavernous warehouse.

Logan sat in Jessica’s loft studio, the distant sound of breaking waves drifting in through the broken pane of the patio door below. That he was the one who broke that window caused him less than some inconsequential guilt. He’d had to come here. Smell her scent. Draw in her essence that was stamped into every wall, every piece of furniture, every floorboard of the room.

See the spot where he completely gave himself over to love.

It may have started on some dirty street in the Bronx, but this is where he’d completely fallen. This loft where, for one night, he’d made her his.

He would never be graced with that passion again. Never watch her stretch like a cat beneath him. Never see her smile, her gaze teasing as she invited him to do his worst. Never moan as he made love to her again.

Jessica was gone.

It had been twenty-one days since she died. Twenty-one days since he almost died trying to pour his own life force into her body, anything to revive her. Anything to complete the bond.

Twenty-one days. Seven times the number he’d known her. Nothing compared to the lonely centuries of earthly life he had ahead of him, but an infinite amount of time as far as he was concerned.

He remembered Ganelon’s parting words, knew his father and brothers feared he’d snap one day and make them true.

Logan was pretty sure he wouldn’t. He had a duty. He’d see it through.

He had nothing left but that. That and faith. Faith that, despite his moments of doubt, despite the fact he’d failed to complete the bond, failed to protect his mate, that He would be merciful. And that Jessica would be waiting for him when his time here ended.

She
will
be. She rejected the demon. Sacrificed herself for another. For
me
. Just please, let us be together. And let it be soon.

As much as he may have wanted to, he hadn’t died—no thanks in part to Roland, who came charging in just minutes too late, followed almost immediately by Valin, Logan’s father, and more than a dozen other Paladin brothers. Nor had he fallen into the spinning cycle of anger and hatred that the others had feared he would. He was simply numb. Nothing mattered anymore.

He spent hours in the dark of her apartment, wrapping and unwrapping one of her hair elastics around his hand. More just sitting in her bedroom, smelling the pillow that still carried her scent. He’d eventually had to leave though. The residual evidence of the violence done there driving him away. So tonight he’d come here. To the studio where he and Jessica had first made love.

He sat here now, the sharp scent of turpentine burning at the lining of his nose and eyes as memory after memory washed over him. Jessica laughing, Jessica smiling, Jessica raising her chin in that stubborn tilt. Still he couldn’t cry. Which was good. Crying would mean he could feel, and without her? What was the point?

A shift in the air told him someone else had used the hole he’d punched in the patio door to enter the beach house. He didn’t move, almost hoped it was a demon he could fight, though he knew it wouldn’t be. Numb or not, his senses hadn’t completely disappeared and he recognized his father’s step and scent.

Even as light-footed as his father was, the stairs groaned beneath his feet. The creaking stopped when he reached the top and Logan could imagine him standing with a scowl on his face, his arms folded across his chest.

“You think this is the safest place to be?” his father asked, and then when he didn’t answer, he added, “That cop, Ward, is still poking around, still asking questions. One of which is where you are.”

“Let him ask, I don’t care.” Hell, Logan was inclined to go find Mike. New York didn’t have a death penalty, but he thought if he told Mike how Jessica died because of him the cop might be willing to oblige.

A large hand connected with the side of his head—hard.

He blinked, twisting his head to look up at his father. “Did you just
smack
me?”

The absolute absurdity of it had him lifting a hand to check and see if his scalp was tender. It was.

His father stood with folded arms, and he also scowled, but there was something else there, a glint in his eyes that showed a whole lot more than annoyance. “Thought I might knock some sense into you.”

Logan glared at him.

His father unfolded his arms, lifted his hands out to the side in an exaggerated gesture. “What, isn’t that what you’ve been wanting? For me to act like a father rather than the head of the council?”

“Fine time for you to choose to do so.” Years and years of indifference, followed by years and years more of annoyance-laced disapproval. And he chose now to act like he cared?

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Logan stood, poking his finger at his father and getting into his face. “It means, where were you when I needed you? Where were you when my mate was dying? No, scratch that, I remember now. You were the man pulling me off her.”

“Logan. She was already dead.” The way his father said this, choked up as if he had the right to mourn her too, was the greatest offense.

Logan fisted his hand, working hard to not let it connect. “I could have saved her.”

“No, you couldn’t have.”

“Then you could have let me go too!” Logan spun away, spun back, spun away again. There it was out, he’d said it. Not insane, not consumed with vengeance, but God, he wished he could just curl up and die.

A hand fell on his shoulder, the grip tentative, almost shaking. “Logan, He may be a merciful God but do you really think He’d reward you for ending your life that way?”

Logan clenched his jaw.

His father sighed. Moving around Logan, he grabbed up a canvas and set it aside to free up a chair. He sat, with his elbows on his knees, chin cupped in his hands.

Logan tensed for the lecture, resisting the urge to turn his back. Stubborn old man would just move around to the other side.

“When your mother was killed,” his father began, “I didn’t think I could go on, the absolute agony of losing my mate—”

“Don’t!” He made a slashing motion with his hand. “Don’t compare your life to mine. Don’t. You had her for 500 years. I had my mate for three days. Three.” He shook his head, swallowing past the wedge that seemed to be lodged in his throat. “Even then I was too stupid, too cowardly to claim her, to bond with her.”

His father shifted forward on the chair, speaking earnestly. “Someday, Logan. Someday when our duty is done here and we’ve been called back to His side, you’ll see her again.”

“Will I?” God, why hadn’t he claimed her? Why hadn’t he bonded their souls forever? Then at least he would have hope of seeing her again when his time was done.

She’ll forget me. She’ll move on. Whether in another life or simply in Heaven, her soul is too strong, too endearingly stubborn not to attract the love of another.

His father shifted, his mouth opening.

“Don’t say anything else,” Logan cut him off.

“I wasn’t going to. You’re not in the right frame of mind to listen.” He heaved himself up out of the chair, shaking his head. “Still, you know how to reach me if you need me. Even if it is just for sharpening your tongue.”

His father left. Logan stood for a while, looking around the empty loft. Idly, he picked up a paintbrush, twisting the dried out bristles in his hand. Remembering how he scattered them on the floor in his eagerness to have her and then how carefully she picked them up the next morning and set them back in place. Ironic that those brushes would represent the same thing to him now as it must have to Jessica: A tie. A connection. A shared memory.

Damn his father. He’d been perfectly content not feeling anything, and if there was one thing his father’s visit did it was crack him out of the ice-shell he’d managed to cocoon himself in.

Anger. He wasn’t sure if his father wished to illicit the emotion, but that was the result, and now he stood here, staring at the empty jars, paintbrushes, and beautiful artwork and all he wanted to do was destroy them. To stab deep at the heart of something she’d loved. How dare she leave him? How dare she choose his life over her own? Didn’t she understand he was nothing without her?

Of
course
not, asshole. You never told her.

There was another shift of air, the ocean breeze threatening to cleanse the cabin of Jessica’s lingering scent. Which made him angrier. If anyone or anything was going to destroy the last pieces he had of her, it would be him.

“What do you want now?” he yelled, stomping to the edge of the loft.

Below, just inside the wide-open patio doors, stood not his father, but a woman in a flowing white gown, the highlights in her dark curling hair glimmering in the morning light.

“Jessica?” he asked, then raced down the stairs, but when he got to the bottom, only a couch length separating them, he forced himself to stop.

It couldn’t be her; he watched her die. So therefore it was either some sort of sick joke or his mind was playing tricks on him.

“Your father’s right, you know. He,” she gestured with her head toward the ceiling, “wouldn’t reward you for thinking such thoughts.”

Logan rubbed his eyes. Definitely losing his mind. Or maybe suffering some guilt-ridden hallucinations; conjuring up his Jessica in order to scold himself into sensibility, because, damn it to Hell, Logan knew his father was right.

He reopened his eyes, not completely surprised to see her still there. Though this time he saw the things he should have before, the things that marked her as false.

His Jessica couldn’t be more beautiful than she already was. But this one was. Her skin practically glowing, her eyes brighter, rounder, with almost an exotic tilt to them, her lips, always full and plump had more defined edges and a distinctive angel’s kiss beneath her nose.

“Oh, I don’t know, you’re here,” he said, playing along. Better to let his mind work this through. Then maybe he could brood in peace.

She smiled, stepping further into the house. And God, what a vision she was. Though she hadn’t needed improvement, so this version seemed more imposter than not.

She stopped a few short feet away, her smile dimming as her head tipped to the side. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He shook his head. “More like an angel.”

She laughed, the same husky bedroom laugh, but it was layered with rich bell-like tones to fit her angelic features.

“Not an angel. Not anymore at least.” She twisted, letting the shoulders of her flowing garment drop to show him her beautifully sculpted shoulder blades. It took him a minute to really see what she was showing him; he was so entranced by the sight of her creamy skin, the memory of what it felt like to run his calloused hands over it, but then he saw them. The two silvery lines that glowed faintly below the surface, marking a newly healed wound.

She turned back, sighing, a dreamy smile crossing her face as she rolled her shoulders freely. “But I admit, they sure were cool while I had them.”

An angel. A real one. And she gave them up? Gave up the blissful peace of His light to come back down here?

“Jess.” He shook his head, bewildered. “You volunteered?”

“I think it was more of a divine suggestion. Think He was sick of me disobeying orders.”

Logan couldn’t help it; he laughed. He could just picture it. Her up in Heaven, trying to fit in with the other angels as they monitored His creations: the epitome of the eternal desk job. She would hate it. If He were present, Logan might have asked why He’d invited such headache and even given her the wings, except Logan knew: He had planned this.

God did not choose His warriors lightly, and He would not have accepted her as a Paladin unless He thought her up to the task. And what better warrior for His children than a head-strong cop with a soul so passionate she’d made the rank of angel?

She’s real.

He hadn’t believed it until this moment. He must have truly thought she was a ghost. He couldn’t believe she was really with him to stay.

But
she
is.

He itched to touch her. Hold her.

But he didn’t deserve to, didn’t deserve her. Not when he’d failed her so. Not when he denied what was between them, questioning His plan.

He dropped his head, looking at his feet. “I don’t deserve you. If I did, I would have told you about the bonding, made you understand what it meant.”

“I wouldn’t have been ready to beli—”

“It doesn’t matter. You needed to know. Better, I should have just done the ceremony and bonded us so that you
could
understand.”

“Why didn’t you?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

He fisted his hands. She had to know the truth. “I loved you so much, wanted you so badly, but every time I was with you all I could think was why? What had I done? What part of me must be such a failure that He would do this to me? Why give me the perfect woman, why send me my mate, when she was destined to die on me?” He lifted his head. “I didn’t want you.”

She sucked in a breath.

He laughed, a self-deprecating sort of sound as he ran his hands down his face. “No. That’s not true. I wanted you. God, I wanted you. But I refused to let myself need you. I didn’t believe in us. Didn’t believe in His plan.” He nodded up toward the ceiling. “And didn’t want to believe in the mate-bond. So I refused it. Never allowing it to truly form even knowing that it might cause me to someday fail you, but still I kept myself apart. Holding back. And do you know why?”

“No, why?” she whispered.

“Because I thought it would be better that way. That by holding a part of myself back, we’d never be truly bonded. And if I could do that, if I could keep you and I separate, love you but not
love
you, then if, no when, I lost you…”

He couldn’t go on. He had lost her. And the black hole of pain had threatened to suck him down. He’d been ready to succumb. If she hadn’t come back when she did…

Another horrible thought occurred to him. What if she couldn’t forgive him? What if she didn’t want to?