One For Sorrow: The Veil Series, #5.5 (4 page)
Read One For Sorrow: The Veil Series, #5.5 Online
Authors: Pippa DaCosta
S
he burns
. Every part of me, each infinitesimal molecule that binds demon to human, recoils, and yet I want…more. I watch. Time is a brittle frozen thing, captured and halted in my hands. I see through a gauze of ice and witness all that she is, all she will be. A half-thing. As I am. Yet even half-a-thing holds power, more so for the passion with which it seeks its missing piece, its opposite. I reach out a hand, pushing against the blanket of heat, denying pain its purchase. Fear burns bright in her wide eyes. She sees demon, hardened by ice. I see her. Muse. My contradiction, my opposite. Even as her proximity repels me, I seek her embrace. I touch her face, skipping my fingers down her cheek. She hisses and turns away but does not run. Her demon wants. So does she. These thoughts, they are wrong. These desires, they will distract. She will devastate. I know all of this. I see it all in her eyes, but still, I cannot pull away. Ice seeks to smother her fire. My element surges, hungry and eager to quash her threat. Power feeds through me, rising, threatening to drown us both; to smother, to kill. I know its wants. I want the same. Demon. Human. Lost somewhere between. Pulled apart, stretched thin. I can devastate her. I see enemy. Fire to my ice. She is a predator. So am I.
I am motionless, captured as surely in indecision as I am in ice. I could—should kill her. Here, now, she is weakened, restrained. She thinks me incapable. In that, she is wrong. I am glacial. And yet, despite it all, her death would shatter me. Demon. Human. I am captured between, crushed, amalgamated. I could not hurt her. Would not. Despite everything, she warms my cold. Her fire melts my resolve, and my ice quells her fear. Webs of ice lace from my touch and skitter across her cheek. She looks into me, sees me, all of me. Muse has always witnessed the truth of me. The warmth of her skin and the rapid beat of her heart ground me, offer a clear path through the squall blanketing my thoughts. I realize with conviction that I will protect her from all who seek to harm her, from the Prince of Greed, from the netherworld, from the Institute, from my father, from herself. I can protect her from everything…but me.
We are enemies. Opposites. An immovable object and an unstoppable force. I am afraid of my own desires. She sees the stark truth of me, looks into the eyes of winter, and braves the storm. She is more than I can possibly know, more than I can hope to avoid. This moment, the past, the future, all funnel to the now, and I see a glimpse of what is to come. I see blood on a blade of ice. I know how this ends. And she sees—with her dark, fire-touched eyes—she sees it too.
I
s it hot in here
, or is it me? I take a seat and shrug my jacket off, fussing with my notepad, pen, and iPhone on my lap. He watches me. I can feel his gaze, or is that the warmth rolling off the fire dancing in the grate behind him?
The apartment is sleek and modern, not something you’d expect a Prince of Hell to call home. But I already know he’s not the average Prince of Hell, if such a thing exists.
“Thank you for coming.” In those few words I glean a sense of endless history. He hides his melodic, ancient accent from most but doesn’t waste time trying to hide it from me. I already know most of his secrets.
“How could I refuse?”
“Quite easily. My reputation has been known to intimidate some.”
I smile tightly. There’s a fragment of amusement playing in his dark eyes. It’s the only hint I get that he’s teasing. He’s draped in a chair, exuding a masculine elegance, like a lion basking in the sun, a killer at rest. The tailored suit wraps him in an air of sophistication. The firelight ripples shadows across his face. I know he can move from that chair and fix his hands around my neck before I could gasp a breath to scream. He knows I know. And so we sit like this, reading each other with our eyes, saying little with our words.
“You have questions?” he asks.
“Just one, what do you want with Muse?”
He moves from the chair with that liquid grace the ancient ones master. I watch, not daring to blink. He’s taller than I remember, which is odd, considering I created him.
“Is it such a stretch of the imagination that I want what’s best for her?” He stands beside the fireplace, leaning a shoulder on the mantelpiece, arms crossed.
Now I smile. “You can’t fool me, Akil. I know everything about you. I know you keep a dog-eared photo album at your house outside Boston. Inside are pictures of Muse. You go there sometimes, the home you kept her safe in. You go there to remember her when she worshipped you, when she was young, and you were all she knew. You ache to have her back. You want to remake her innocence and capture her soul all over again.”
His smile twitches. “You don’t know me at all. I don’t pine over the past. Immortals who lose themselves in the past are hollow wraiths. I stare ahead. I see what is to come, and I plan accordingly. The devil is in the detail.”
“What are your plans exactly?”
I sit very still and watch him with the same intensity he affords me. Beneath that sharp suit and the overbearing masculinity, an ageless demon waits. He is a trap. What you see is not what you get. The truth is there, behind his eyes. People, our lives, our loves, mean little to him. We’re just dust in the wind.
“I am the Prince of Greed. The clue is in the name.”
“You want it all?”
“I do.” Fire touches his eyes.
“Are you ever satisfied?”
“No. That is my curse.”
“Then is it because Muse denies you that you want her?”
He smiles. “Perhaps. Would that answer satisfy your curiosity?”
It would have, had he not posed it as another question. I’m beginning to appreciate getting answers out of Akil is like pushing water up hill. The second you think you have him, he slips around behind you, and the answers become questions all over again.
He pushes away from the fireplace and crosses the floor in a few strides. I peer up at him, fighting my instinct to dart away. He grips the arms of my chair and leans in low. His spicy, otherworldy scent tingles on the tip of my tongue. I fight the urge to flick my tongue across my lips. He’s so close. I see amber fringing his dark irises. Inside, the demon watches. If he thinks to make me squirm, he’s picked the wrong author.
“I could delete you,” I say.
“Kill me off?” He tilts his head and leans in closer still. He’s trying to unsettle me. He crowds to unnerve his victims. It works. “Do you think you could?” he whispers. “The world would be a much colder place without me in it.”
I hold his stare. He could make me cringe away from him if he called his element. He could drop his human vessel and summon Mammon. But he won’t. He’s all about control—his control—and the control he has over me.
I lift my chin. “Why did you invite me here?”
“To ensure we’re on the same page.”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t trust easily, Writer. Trust is a weakness.”
“Trust is freedom.”
He narrows his eyes and steps back. I know I’ve ruffled him when he straightens his shirt cuffs. He sees me watching and presses his lips into a thin line. “I
trust
that you will tell our tale without bias." His tone has hardened. He's colder. "I
trust
you are the right person for this task. I
trust
you will not fail me.”
I blink, gather my things, and stand. “I work for the story, not you. You can trust that.” I turn and leave. His heated gaze crawls across my back, burning deeper with each hasty step.
What is it Nica once said? When we play with fire, sooner or later we all get burned.