Embrace of the Damned (24 page)

Fingernails scratching the floor, she tried to pull herself away from him, but he punched her twice—once on each side—and agony exploded through her, making her cry out.
All she could do was curl up in a fetal position and try not to sob. She could barely draw a breath.

The demon grabbed her by the back of the head and yanked up, bowing her spine, then flipped her to her back. It was clear the demon had had enough of her—playtime was over. She was glad she’d injured the bastard. At least she’d gone down fighting.

Jessa closed her eyes as the thing lowered her to the floor, his fangs pushing through his gums to make horrible daggerlike points. She wished for a reprieve, a last-minute pardon. In a flashing fantasy, she imagined Broder had discovered where the demon had taken her and was ready to burst through the door at any moment, slay her tormentor, and make everything all right again.

But he never came.

Jessa’s body was far too bruised and battered to defeat the incredibly strong demon, but she fought him anyway. It was no use. He only bore down on her, keeping her still. Her legs kicked and she made small enraged animal sounds that she barely recognized as coming from herself as he used her hair to pull her head back and expose her throat.

She was pissed. Not scared, definitely not resigned—she was
mad as hell.
She didn’t want to die this way.

She didn’t want to die.

The demon hovered over her and smiled. Blood from where she’d popped him in the mouth dribbled over his lip and down his fang, making him look even more grotesque than he already did. He loved this. He’d treated her like sport and he’d won.
Of course
he’d won. She wasn’t fit prey for a demon. She was a rabbit to a wolf.

Her breath rasped out of her from where he lay across her chest, compressing her lungs. Blood trickled into her eye, making it burn. His eyes burned, too—they looked like tiny black coal fires—as she stared into the endless pits of the demon who was about to murder her.

Killed by an agent of the Blight.

She’d never wondered much about how she’d die. If she had, she was pretty sure death by demon would not have
been on her list. She was pretty sure that if she’d had a choice, in her sleep, as an old, satisfied woman, would have been what she’d have chosen.

The demon lowered his mouth to her throat and her breath came faster. Now fear began to mix with the rage. What would death feel like? She focused on a painting of a flock of sheep in a meadow that hung on the wall of the hallway, a tranquil scene that seemed so at odds with what was now happening.

And she felt just like one of those sheep, ready to have its throat cut and become a meal.

The demon’s jaw closed around the column of her throat; the fangs pierced her skin, slight at first, then slid in deeper. Pain exploded through her and she bucked beneath his heavy body, a silent scream issuing from her mouth.

The fangs slid even deeper and Jessa knew pain like she’d never known it before. Passing out would be a blessing, but she remained conscious and aware. Unfortunately, since the blood flowed just a moment later. The demon took deep pulls on her neck, sucking the blood and fluid from her veins and into his mouth.

He made a sound as though she tasted delicious. Maybe she did.

It seemed like the feeding went on forever, pain pulsing through her body all the time, but flaring acutely every time the demon drew on her veins. She wished for unconsciousness, something to end the agony.

Little by little the pain ebbed. Soon it was replaced with a floaty, almost dreamy sensation. The room rocked back and forth, as if she were on a boat, or being rocked in her mother’s arms—whoever she had been.

Soon her body began to go cold, then even colder.

Soon after that she lost feeling in her arms and legs.

Soon darkness started like a pinpoint in the center of her vision and blackness ate away from that point, destroying, little by little, everything in her line of sight, even the painting.

Soon after that she felt nothing and all the sunshine fled the world.

Broder sped down the road leading away from the keep, not knowing if he’d chosen the right direction, just following his gut. He hated that he cared so much about this woman, hated it because to care was to experience fear. He
feared
for her and it was like an icy fist in his stomach. It made him feel helpless and he wasn’t used to that.

He hated it.

Up ahead on the road he caught a flash of black. Squinting with the sun in his face, he tried to make it out. It looked like a man.

Broder slowed the bike a small degree and saw it was a figure dressed all in black standing in the middle of the narrow road, blocking his way. Even though he hadn’t seen him in over a century, Broder knew who it was right away.

Dmitri.

The motorcycle had barely stopped before Broder leapt off it and barreled toward the demon. Dmitri stood stock-still, unflinching and wholly without fear as Broder grabbed him by the lapels of his black leather coat. “Where is she?” he snarled into his face.

Dmitri lifted a solid black brow and glanced down. “You’re damaging my coat.”

“I’ve got a nice pointy knife at the small of my back that can damage a whole lot more than that.
Where is she?
” He knew Dmitri wouldn’t be here if he didn’t know. Dmitri
wanted to help Jessa for reasons Broder didn’t have the luxury to examine at the moment.

“Fifteen Bellerock Road.”

Broder spun on his heel and left. He didn’t ask how Dmitri knew her location or why he’d told him. There was no time.

Jessa could already be dead.

“I canna feel her anymore.”

Roan watched Thorgest pace the polished wood floor of the central meeting room. The day had grown dark and cold rain spattered the long windows that ran down one wall. He held out a staying hand. “That doesn’t mean—”

“That she’s dead?” Thorgest rounded on him. “What else would it mean? I have been able to feel her presence in this country since she landed, even during the nighttime hours when she should have been sleeping. Then, all of a sudden, it disappears. What other conclusion should I draw?”

Roan drew a breath and tried to keep his patience. “Maybe she became frightened and left the country. Have you considered that?”

Thorgest halted and narrowed his eyes at him. “An’ whose fault would that be, if it happened? It’s as if ye wanted to alert her to our plans with yer bumbling.” He turned away, shaking his head. “Never saw the like in all my days.”

Roan held his superior’s gaze steadily, offering no apology. Maybe somewhere deep within he had wanted her to get away, to alert her to their plans. Abigail would not have wanted her daughter here, under Thorgest’s influence. Maybe Roan was carrying out Abigail’s will on some subconscious level. His decision to kidnap Jessa had surprised him every bit as much as it had surprised her.

“Bah. It’s unlikely she left.” Thorgest began pacing again. “The Brotherhood dinna run at the first whiff of trouble. I dinna think Broder whisked her away just because ye mucked it up.”

Roan stiffened a little at the reprimand. Thorgest was the
leader of this coven. His power fueled all members’ power. If Thorgest was displeased, everyone was displeased.

One day, if Jessa was still alive and if they could get her to the coven, she would be the leader. That was how the authority was passed—from head shaman to head witch, by bloodline, preferably. It was what kept them strong.

“Ye bumbled it up, Roan,” continued Thorgest. “Ye know Erik Halvorson. Why dinna ye simply talk to the man? Erik is not Broder Calderson. We have an alliance with him. Tell me why ye chose the path ye chose.”

Roan shrugged and lied smoothly. “I sensed she was on to me and I panicked.” He had sensed Jessa had begun to realize something was not right, but he hadn’t panicked. The urge to push her into the vehicle had simply been impulse. The shortest way to end a big problem.

Thorgest leaned on the table and let out a long, slow breath. “My granddaughter used to name all her dolls Jessamine.” He glowered, rheumy eyes fixed on Roan. “If the lass isn’t dead, I can’t wait to meet her.”

“She looks a lot like Abigail.”

Thorgest grunted. “Just as long as she doesn’t look like Michael.” He clenched his fist.

She didn’t look like her father at all, in fact. Looking at Jessa, Roan could almost imagine she was his own daughter. If Abigail had chosen him over Michael, maybe she would have been.

But Abigail had been stubborn. She’d had a flicker of love for him in her heart, but he had been her grandfather’s choice and, because of that, he’d never stood a chance with her. Abigail had resented her grandfather too much to ever go along with anything he wanted.

“I need to take this into mine own hands. I see that now. It’s too important to trust to the likes of ye. Ye better be hoping she dinna die.” Thorgest looked down at his wrinkled, callused paw and made a fist. “It’s clear I’m the one to do this, so leave off, Roan.”

Roan was happy to leave off. He wanted no part of this now that he’d seen Jessa in person. She was too close to
Abigail in both appearance and personality. The whole thing was opening wounds he’d thought long healed. Thorgest had more motivation than he did, anyway.

Thorgest had been head of the coven for far too long. He was old, even for a seidhr, tired, and his power was waning. He needed Jessa to take up the reins. He had sentimental reasons, too, but Thorgest cared more about the coven than anything else. If Jessa came here and decided she didn’t want to stay—there’d be hell to pay. No one defied Thorgest Egilson.

And Thorgest wasn’t letting another of his kin go. This place would be like the Hotel California to Jessa—she’d be able to enter; but leaving would be entirely a different matter.

Broder burst into the little house on the hill, kicking down the door and sending splinters of wood flying. Immediately his gaze caught a smudge of black disappearing through a doorway. The runes in his coat gave off a pulse and he caught a scent of ice in the air.
Demon.
Broder bolted toward the creature, drawing the knife tucked at the small of his back as he went. Just as he cleared the threshold from the living room to the kitchen, the demon was attempting to exit by the back door.

He threw his blade and it hit the demon right between the shoulder blades. The thing burst into icy fragments, shattering onto the floor with a ringing tinkle. The fragments were larger than usual—that meant the demon was older and more powerful than most, higher up in the hierarchy. He would have to be old and powerful to command magick strong enough to enthrall a Valkyrie.

Not seeing Jessa in the kitchen, he whirled to search the rest of the house. “Jessa!”

No answer. The cold ball in his stomach tightened.

Then he spotted her prone on the floor near the couch. Her skin was the color of alabaster, the unrelenting white broken only by the sick brown of drying blood. It coated her
face, matted her hair, streaked her arms and hands. Her lips were blue. A wound gaped in her throat. Her head rested at an odd angle that made his heart pound, as though her neck had been broken. She had a black eye and a nasty gash marked her forehead. She’d fought the bastard, of course. Fought hard.

Broder knelt beside her and felt for a pulse, a riot of unfamiliar emotion tangling through his head and heart—emotion that he didn’t know how to deal with. It had been so long since he’d had any. Now there was fear and this other odd sensation wending its way through his chest—grief, he suspected. Her pulse was way too fast, a result of the heart trying to pump a much-reduced amount of blood.

He was just happy she had a pulse.

She’d lost a lot of blood, way too much for a human—or a witch—to survive. He needed to get help or she would die, but traditional human medical care was out of the question. He verified that her neck was not broken. He could move her.

He whipped his cell phone from his back pocket and called Erik. “Get here now,” he snarled into the phone after he’d given him the address. After he’d slipped the cell back into his pocket, he gently lifted Jessa into his arms and carried her out the door.

The house the demon had chosen was isolated from the other homes in the neighborhood and that was probably by design. The choice worked to Broder’s advantage now as he sank onto the top step to cradle Jessa in his arms.

He brushed her blood-sticky hair away from her forehead, his gaze running over her pale, closed eyelids, and wished like hell he could trade all his strength for just five minutes of truly stellar healing ability. His skills at treating frostbite wouldn’t help her much now, but he set to work anyway, clearing up all the places on her body where he could see the demon had laid hands on her. There were way too many.

She couldn’t die.
She couldn’t.

Broder had tried to kill himself numerous times over the centuries, but nothing had freed him from Loki’s curse. If
Jessa died he would cease to care—about anything. He would stop trying to end his immortality. If she died, he would allow himself to exist under his curse until the end of time. The small amount of emotion he possessed would be extinguished forever.