Devil’s Kiss (25 page)

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Authors: Zoe Archer

Tags: #Romance, #General, #Paranormal, #Fiction

BOOK: Devil’s Kiss
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She took a few deep, steadying breaths. Her trembling subsided as she drew upon the courage he admired. “After you collapsed, the
geminus
took your place. It wanted to know where my magic came from, but I wouldn’t say. Then . . .” She fought a shudder.
“Then?”
“It tried to kill me.”
Rage the color of blood poured through him. He had sworn to protect her, and when a threat had arisen, he was nowhere to be found. Where had he been? More images flitted into his mind: an overcrowded room, young men laughing, a vast chamber with stone walls. When he tried to reach toward these impressions, they retreated.
“You fought back,” he said to assure himself.
“I tried. But I stopped.” He felt her fingers at his sleeve, and he hissed when she brushed against a wound on his arm. The injury pulsed hotly. A burn.
“It’s not like you to halt an attack.”
“And hurt you if I went on?” She gripped his shoulder. “The
geminus
said that as long as it has your soul, any damage inflicted on it hurts you, too. So, we can’t do anything to it. Can’t hurt the damned creature. Can’t kill it. Our hands are bound.”
He cursed. There had to be something they could do to strike out against the
geminus.
The
geminus
might have been lying, but that was a gamble he was not willing to take. Yet something Zora just said troubled him. He struggled to grasp at it. What?
“You said that as long as the
geminus
had my soul, if we harm it,
I
am harmed, too.”
“If we can believe it.”
His fingers threaded with hers. This, too, felt wondrous, the press of palm to palm. Incredibly, despite her scare, she no longer trembled. Instead, she was warm and steady.
“We need your light to guide us back to the horses. Our path leads northward. To Oxford.”
As they picked their way carefully through the forest, Whit’s deep voice and the feel of his hand steadied Zora.
“I was myself, but I was the
geminus
, as well. Living inside it. Thinking its thoughts, sharing its feelings.”
She shuddered. “Awful.”
“It wasn’t.” The firelight from her hand sharpened his frown. “It felt ... incredible.”
“A trick, some kind of enchantment. Making you feel something that wasn’t true.”
“
Power
. That’s what I felt. The hunger for it, the sources of it all around me.” His jaw tightened at the memory. “I was in an alehouse in Oxford, a place I’d gone to countless times when I’d been at university but too young to sit in the senior common room.”
“You revisited a memory?”
“I was
there
. Nothing had changed. The tables, the stains. There were students everywhere. And all I could think was how they were perfect victims, how easy it would be to steal from them.”
“Steal money.”
“Steal souls. Feed upon them. Each of them belonging to me.” He narrowed his eyes as he recalled the sensation. “A greed unlike anything I’d ever experienced, yet I recognized it, too.”
She stared at him, aghast.
“I’d known it at the gaming tables. In my need for more.” His footsteps slowed. “Zora, the
geminus
is
me
. It couldn’t exist unless that darkness and greed was already within me
.
And what it offers, what it seeks ... it tempts me. Stronger than words could say.”
She heard the struggle in his voice and wondered what that must be like, to inhabit the dark side of oneself, and feel those dark feelings without reserve. He was not far from that. Only a few days ago, his darker self had kept her imprisoned in his home. Her captor hadn’t been the
geminus
, but Whit.
The divide between him and the
geminus
was no thinner than a playing card. Was it the same for everyone? Were their own darker selves just a whisper away? She thought of her own wicked impulses, the deeds she had done, the desire to hurt those who hurt her, and sometimes worse.
She had to believe everyone felt those things. The trick lay in not giving in.
“Whatever the
geminus
offered,” she noted, “it wasn’t enough. You came back.”
He stopped in his tracks, holding her gaze with his own. In the shadowed forest, with only her fire magic illuminating him, his sinner’s face was beautiful. “Because of you.”
Her mouth dried. She had reached out to him, called his name, and somehow she had breached the distance between them. This was another kind of magic existing only between her and Whit. A kind of magic for which she wasn’t fully prepared.
Once, Whit had been her jailer, the man who had dragged her into a sinister world of demons and stolen souls. Now, nothing was as simple as captor and captive, as hate and affection. She knew only one moment from the next, a series of small steps that led in a mysterious direction.
They must move forward. That much she understood. She tugged on his hand, and they resumed walking. “If the
geminus
was in Oxford, likely it’s moved on by now. Especially if it’s aware that we know where to find it.”
If he wanted more from her, he did not press for it. “Perhaps. Something did happen when Livia cast that spell, something other than the
geminus
and I changing places.” He was silent for a moment, then spoke again. “Mariners employ a thing called a bearing compass to find their way at sea. It uses magnets to locate direction.”
She did not know anything of devices called bearing compasses, nor of magnets. It sounded like magic to her. “You have some kind of bearing compass that shows where the
geminus
is.”
He rubbed a knuckle between his ribs. “Here. I can
feel
where the
geminus
is, as if we were magnetized, and I am drawn to where it is.”
“So that mad ghost’s spell worked,” she murmured to herself. The initial result of that spell had been terrifying. Never would she forget the icy determination in the
geminus
’s gaze as it stared at her, nor its resolve to crush her like a bark beetle. The fact that it had Whit’s face, his eyes and voice had been the worst part. Even in his darkest moments, he had never looked at her like she was a worthless object.
“What we’re seeking isn’t the
geminus
.”
“That was the point of the spell.”
“Perhaps originally. Yet I saw something when the
geminus
and I traded places. I took—rather, the
geminus
took—a soul into a room in the alehouse. It was a vault, not a room. Impenetrable stone walls. Shelves reaching as far as I could see, and some of the shelves held more souls. Including mine.”
Her heart began to pound. After what felt like a lifetime of being chased and being at a continual disadvantage, here at last could be their chance of taking the lead against
Wafodu guero.
“If we can reach that alehouse and find that room—”
“We can reclaim my soul.”
Chapter 11
 
The Rom seldom traveled at night. Their caravans were too cumbersome—dozens of wagons, scores of tents, horses and donkeys, families with children. It was easier to move during daylight hours, when no one might accidentally get left behind, and the hazards of poor roads could be navigated. There was another reason, too, more than the coordination of transporting a large band of people and animals.
Evil wandered freely after dark.
Zora had long ago dismissed Romani superstitions. There were so many, they cluttered up one’s life like dusty bottles rattling on a shelf. Menstruating women were
mochardi
, unclean, and forbidden to cook or touch food intended for a man. To see a dead crow in the road presaged bad tidings, and the traveler would have to turn back. Countless others.
As she rode beside Whit through the night, she thought of all the cautions against being abroad after sunset.
Passing through a grove of willows, she hunched her shoulders protectively.
Whit sensed her unease. He raised up in the saddle, his hand straying toward the hilt of his sword. “What do you see?”
“Shadows.” She pulled her cloak closer. “Stories.”
“Fireside tales.”
“At night, willows uproot themselves and walk the countryside. Frighten the unwary.” She glanced cautiously at the branches. “I heard many warnings about swarms of evil creatures roaming the dark, searching for victims, for the incautious.”
He, too, looked up at the swaying trees, his gaze assessing. “Any truth to those stories?”
“Once, I thought
baba
’s reprimands were only to keep me stuck beside the campfire. Now ... I wonder how much might be real.” A shiver ran through her.
She thought of her fire magic and took strength from it. Should anything happen, she was not defenseless. Even before she had been given her magic, she had power. Perhaps not physical power, but her mind was its own weapon, as sharp as a blade. Still ... she liked knowing that she could summon fire when necessary.
“The world has changed,” she murmured.
“
We
have changed,” he said.
Whit’s hunting coat bore marks of battle: tears, bloodstains, the singe on his sleeve. His snug doeskin breeches were not new, his boots scuffed. Yet the set of his shoulders, his upright confidence as he rode, even the tilt of his jaw revealed him to be a born nobleman. This was her traveling companion, the man she knew would battle beside her when more danger inevitably arose.
She was Romani. Her mother gave birth to her in a tent. She owned almost nothing, save for the gold around her neck and on her fingers. Under normal circumstances, she and Whit might meet once, briefly, before continuing on in the arcs of their lives.
These were not normal circumstances. Something was loose upon the world, something evil, and instead of running from it, she ran
toward
it.
“Everything has gone mad,” she said, “and we have gone mad, too.”
“Merely a different kind of madness.”
“Maybe
you
were mad before,” she answered, “but I wasn’t.”
He slanted her a considering gaze. “I saw how you looked at me when I rode into your encampment.”
It felt a thousand years ago, yet her face heated as the memory returned with vivid clarity. Whit on horseback, with his dashing friends beside him, all of them full of barely restrained energy, dangerous, alluring. He, most of all. She had not been able to take her eyes from him the moment he had emerged from the darkness.
“I can’t deny I thought you handsome.”
“You saw into me, but I saw into you, as well. Admit it, you were on the verge of going mad from boredom until I showed up.”
His insight alarmed her.
She
was the one who read faces, who saw what people tried to hide. This ... unsettled her. “Rich
gorgios
don’t need any more flattery.”
“You think of me as more than a rich
gorgio
. Just as I think more of you than a Gypsy girl.”
The heat and intensity of his words ran like a dark caress down her spine. “
I
don’t need flattery, either.”
Miles had passed. The horses’ energy was flagging.
“Damn,” Whit muttered. “The horses need resting.” He surveyed the land around them. A few farm outbuildings hunched at the crest of a nearby hill, but beyond that, the signs of habitation were scarce. “By the time we reach a coaching inn that might have horses, we’ll be dragging these animals behind us.”
Clearly, he burned with impatience to reach Oxford, but Zora knew horses well. The animals would run until they were dead unless someone told them to stop. Given how the horses’ flecked sides heaved, another hour at a punishing speed meant they very likely
would
die.
He pointed to a lane leading off the road. “We can follow the lane to that structure on the hill. If we’re lucky, we might find a farmer and some willing hands to help cool the horses.”
“The odds are yours to control,” she noted.
He gave a humorless laugh. “I’ve discovered limits to my gift.”
At the top of the lane, she discovered this, as well. Not a house, nor a farm. Its conical roof revealed it to be an oast house. She and Whit dismounted and, after they discovered the wide double doors to be unlocked, peered inside. Zora summoned her fire magic to investigate further.
“I don’t know when I will get accustomed to that,” Whit said. A corner of his mouth turned up, softening the hard edges of his face. Stubble darkened his jaw, and hours in the saddle had pulled strands of dark hair loose from his queue. He looked part aristocrat, part highwayman. A lethal combination.
“Always be on guard around me,” she said.
“Love, when I’m around you, there is no danger of complacency.”
She did not like how easily he called her “love,” nor did she like the spike in her pulse to hear him call her that. To regroup her thoughts, she held her hand aloft like a torch and appraised the structure.
No one was within. Light weakly filtered in, revealing enough room for them to bring the horses in from the cold.
The air inside smelled of bitter hops. A few dried blossoms crunched underfoot.
Zora doused the flames around her hand. Wordlessly, she and Whit removed their horses’ blankets and saddles. The animals steamed, their hides glistening with sweat. She swallowed her groan of frustration. They would have to wait until the horses dried before putting the tack on again. Knowing that Whit’s soul awaited them, less than thirty miles away, tried her patience strongly. It had to be a thousand times worse for Whit.
He made a tense, shadowed shape in the darkness. Though he said nothing, she felt his restlessness, his need to move forward, like an invisible flame giving off heat. Zora watched his swift, efficient movements, unable to look away.
The burning brand
, Livia called him. A perfect name, for he blazed, and he scarred. However long Zora walked this earth, she would always bear the unseen marks of his touch upon her innermost self.
He stilled, and though darkness filled the oast house, Zora knew he stared back at her. She felt his gaze on her, that burning brand, and she turned away. She busied herself with removing her horse’s bridle, then patted the animal’s velvety nose as it eagerly released the bit.
Lucky beast
. It took so little to make a horse happy. Zora supposed that if she spent most of her day with a metal bit in her mouth, dictating her every move, she would relish having it taken out, as well.
Being a Romani woman, she sometimes felt as though she had a bit clamped between her teeth. Always someone trying to control her, pull her one way or another. Whit had seen that, when no one else had.
She handed her horse’s lead rope to him. When he sent her a questioning look, she glanced meaningfully over her shoulder toward the open doors. Outside. Privacy. He nodded with understanding and a silent admonition to be careful. In response, a flame enveloped the tip of her forefinger. He smiled, but his eyes remained sharp with caution.
Once outside, Zora tended to her personal needs. A nearby pump yielded water, and she did not mind the water’s frigid bite upon her hands. Her stomach growled. It had been many hours since her last meal back at the inn. She remembered the suspicious looks she had received in the taproom, and Whit’s unexpected fury on her behalf.
She spotted a shape a short distance from the oast house and smiled to herself. Hearing Whit inside walking the horses, cooling them, she slipped off noiselessly. Her people could make a lot of noise, but they could also be very quiet when necessary.
Moments later, she stepped back inside.
Whit still did not speak, but his expression indicated that he had been growing concerned.
In answer, she held up her hands, revealing several ripe pears. She tipped her head toward the direction from which she’d just come. A pear tree grew nearby, and she had helped herself. He made a low chuckle of appreciation. Their fingers brushed as she handed him some fruit, and the contact of skin to skin ran like liquid flame through her body. His breathing hitched.
They had been clawing at one another hours before. A simple, brief touch ought not to stir her after the intimacies they had shared. Yet it did. Instantly.
She took back the lead rope for her horse. They continued to walk the animals, cooling them, as they ate their pears. The pears were sweet and musky, autumnal. An unexpected pleasure in a night fraught with tension. When the fruit had been consumed, Whit pulled a canteen from his saddlebag and handed it to her. The wine warmed her throat, and watching her drink from the canteen warmed his eyes. They traded it back and forth, and if their hands touched more than once in its exchange, Zora did not mind. Between the wine and these fleeting touches, the night’s chill soon left her body.
When the horses were cool enough, they secured the leads to a post supporting the roof. There was nothing to do but wait while the animals rested. Whit went to the sacks of dried hops stacked against one wall. He hefted a sack, then brought it over and laid it upon the ground. He gestured for her to sit and use the sack of hops as a cushion for her back. She sank down, grateful. He eased to sitting beside her, stretching out his long legs with a groan. A laugh escaped her.
Despite her eagerness to be on the road and reach the
geminus
’s vault in Oxford, her eyelids drooped. Weariness made her head heavy. She caught herself nodding several times, and snapped awake, but then fatigue would overtake her again.
Whit tugged on the edge of her cloak. She glanced over, and he patted his shoulder, offering it to her as a place to rest her head. Her brow raised.
What about you?
He waved his hand.
I’m fine
.
For a moment, she hesitated. His frown indicated that he would brook no refusal.
Her immediate response was rejection. But then she hesitated. Maybe just this once, she would allow someone to be in charge. It was only because she was so blasted tired that she permitted it.
She edged closer and tentatively put her head on his shoulder. She barely rested against him, more of a cautious lean than a repose. With a growl of command, he wrapped an arm around her, his large hand cradling her head, and pressed her closer.
Arrogant man!
Yet, even though she bristled at his literally heavy-handed attitude, and even though his shoulder was far too hard with muscle to make a really comfortable pillow, her eyes drifted shut, as if in secret alliance with him.
She started at the brush of his fingers upon her cheek. She must have slept. Shifting slightly, she glanced up through her lashes to find him watching her, their faces barely inches apart. He scanned her face, his gaze like a possessive touch, both tender and fierce.
His fingers moved from her cheek, lower, to stroke her mouth. Only the smallest of movements, the back-and-forth of his fingertips against her bottom lip, as if testing its softness, its warmth and texture.
Her tongue darted out. Quickly. Then retreated back into her mouth. But not before she tasted his flesh, salty, and the lingering traces of pear juice that sweetened him.
He sucked in a breath, as if burned.
Some spell must have taken her, for she could not move, could not breathe. She could only wait, staring up at him. All that moved was her heart beating thickly in her chest.
One of the horses snorted and shook its mane, as if reminding them both that they needed to get back on the road to Oxford. Where Whit’s soul was being held.
At the sound, the spell broke. Zora rolled away and to her feet. Whit did the same. They stared at one another in the dark oast house. A tremor passed through him, and his breathing came quickly, as though he fought to keep something inside. Whatever it was, he mastered it, and his breathing returned to normal.

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