Soul Deep: Dark Souls, Book 2 (10 page)

She almost touched the tip of her finger to the river’s glittering surface, but an irrational shiver of dread stopped her. Those days were gone. Never again could they be recaptured.

As for the future, it unfurled before her, as murky and treacherous as the stream swiftly carrying them forward, toward a destination still unknown.

Chapter Fourteen

Kyros stood at one of the lookout points, obsessively scanning the surrounding woods for signs of an intruder. Ever since the Watchers had instigated the collapse of the catacombs, the Kleptopsychs had become nomads, a traveling circus of freaks, constantly on the move in a futile endeavor to keep the Watchers from locating them.

For the time being, an old World War II bunker buried in Oregon’s mountainside served as home. Strategically positioned at the end of a hiking trail that was obscured by wild flora and brushwood, the bunker boasted several cement posts similar to the one Kyros now stood upon. Its vast web of underground chambers mirrored the catacombs and offered a temporary refuge.

Despite his best efforts, Kyros feared that sooner or later Cal and his faithful brethren would uncover and raid this location as they had all the others, so he spent countless hours up here, scanning the forest.

He’d erected some shields around the bunker. These shields were effective at keeping most intruders out, but he knew Cal had the power to dismantle them. Without Athanatos here to cloak them, the Kleptopsychs were sitting ducks. Their only hope was to stay alert and band together. A little angel’s blood wouldn’t hurt, either.

So far, Kyros had succeeded in assembling a few hundred soldiers. Getting them to follow him hadn’t been easy, especially since they’d viewed Athanatos’s death as a liberation of sorts. For centuries, they’d feared Kyros’s father’s retaliation, so they’d remained true to him, despite the tight demands he’d placed on them. Kyros had had no choice but to loosen the reins a bit, and that implied an increased number of feedings, the freedom to mate at will and the occasional night out on the town, where his troops could satisfy their dark urges.

Kyros considered himself a fair leader. He couldn’t offer the protection his father had, but he could make certain allowances. High on the souls they’d ingested, the Kleptopsychs were stronger and more content than they’d ever been under his father’s rule.

Tendrils of mist curled around him, an unavoidable side effect when a significant number of them gathered in one location. The fog glowed blue in the late afternoon light as it wafted toward the sky.

The world was a beautiful place. A beauty that was sadly wasted on the humans. Kyros had great plans for the future, had already put them in motion. If you asked him, the ancient ways should never have been abandoned. The Kleptopsychs were at the top of the food chain. They deserved to own the world, not hide away from it. Humans were merely animals, placed on this earth to sustain them, and like animals they were meant to be farmed.

His father had allowed fear to rule him. As a survivor of the Great Flood, he’d been reluctant to do anything that would rock the boat, so to speak. So he’d chosen to live in the shadows.

Those days were over. The time of the Kleptopsychs had arrived, and Kyros was determined to see them finally claim their day in the sun.

A figure suddenly materialized at the edge of the forested trail, and Kyros snapped to attention. The intruder was dressed in a black suit and a matching black trench coat. His hair, too, was black, and he walked with the air of a king.

How had he gotten past the shields? Kyros would have to remember to reinforce them later. But first, he had to deal with the interloper.

“Turn around. Walk away.”

His suggestion failed to take root, and the foolish man continued to approach the bunker.
 

Kyros shot down the stairs and disappeared within the bunker, where his troops awaited his orders. “Someone’s headed this way,” he told them. “Get ready.”

When the stranger arrived, Kyros greeted him at the door like a good host should. “You’ve taken a wrong turn, friend. I suggest you leave immediately. Forget this place and everything you’ve seen here.” Hopefully, now that the stranger was within hearing distance, the suggestion would finally sink in.

The man took a step forward, undaunted. Hawk-like features narrowed on Kyros. “Why would I want to do that, when you are precisely who I’ve come to see?”

Working as one, the Kleptopsychs whipped out their swords. They watched the intruder with predatory stares, waiting hungrily for Kyros to issue his next command.

“You’ve come to see me?” Kyros was both surprised and a little amused. “For what purpose?”

“It seems we have a common enemy—Cal, leader of the Watchers. I need you to help me stop him.”

Cocky son of a bitch, wasn’t he? “And why would I do that?”

The stranger had a disconcerting aura about him, a sense of arrogance and confidence that rubbed Kyros the wrong way. “Because I’m prepared to offer my services in exchange for your full cooperation.”

“I don’t usually make a habit of
cooperating
with people I don’t know.”

“Perhaps.” The presumptuous bastard came to stand nose to nose with him. Tension crackled through the cave-like chamber. “But in this case, you’ll find it’s in your best interests to make an exception.”

Any amusement Kyros may have experienced vanished. “Are you deaf as well as stupid? I told you, I don’t cooperate with strangers, let alone take orders from them.” With nothing more than a nod of his head, his troops attacked.

Various blades slashed at the intruder, tearing his clothing, lacerating his skin until it bled, but he remained standing. Within seconds of being inflicted, the wounds marring his flesh healed.

The Kleptopsychs backed off, suddenly wary. Kyros’s smug satisfaction morphed to concern. He studied the creature, unsure what to make of him. “
What
are you?”

With a raise of his hand, the stranger willed a sword from the grasp of one of Kyros’s soldiers. His muscles coiled, then lashed out with snakelike precision, slicing the Kleptopsych nearest him in half. Instantly, black smoke and white light gushed from the carcass to dissipate in the air.

“I am Micah,” the intruder said, “angel of the divine plan.”
 

After his little demonstration, Kyros knew he spoke the truth. Only angel’s blood could reduce a member of his army to ash and smoke.

“This is what I propose.” Micah tossed the sword at Kyros’s feet. “I will grant you protection, cloak you in the same manner Athanatos did. You will be virtually untraceable. Not only that, but you will have access to an unlimited supply of angel’s blood.”

Interest sparked within Kyros. Perhaps they could strike a deal after all. “In exchange for what?”

The angel smiled. “A few small favors. I will come to you as I please, and you will do as I command, no questions asked.”

Marcus lay on the couch in the junior suite they’d rented in a hotel in Portland, trying to settle his jangled nerves. He’d kept it together for Regan and Ben’s sake, but braving the river hadn’t exactly been a day at the beach for him, either. He, too, was cursed with the crippling aversion to water that plagued his kind.

He could still remember the time he’d spent in the tank, the water doggedly creeping up to his chin, the chilling, paralyzing effect of it. If it hadn’t been for Cal, he would’ve drowned that day. The man had saved his life, and this was how Marcus had repaid him—through betrayal, mutiny. As far as he knew, he and Regan were harboring a soul that could destroy everything the Watchers had spent centuries fighting to preserve.

They’d escaped their pursuers today, but he knew for a fact the Watchers wouldn’t give up. Sooner or later, they’d catch up to them, and then what? Would he kill his fellow comrades, strike them down with the same lethal efficiency he reserved for his enemies?

Traitor or not, he was still a Watcher…and so was Regan. Her devotion to Ben had blinded her, just as Marcus’s loyalty to Regan had blinded him. Now they were both in way over their heads.

Beyond the blackened windows, a faceless moon mocked him. The inky darkness was deep, impenetrable, and yet moonlight perforated the night, silvering everything it touched.

The moon’s radiance was an illusion, merely a reflection of the sun, but its effect wasn’t any less powerful. Tall buildings shimmered, their windows blinking in the shadows. Thin threads of clouds unraveled across the bruised sky like spools of gauze, their gray bellies bloated with a luminous glow.

Like the moon’s light, his emotions couldn’t be trusted. They were only reflections of the soul he’d once possessed, so he made it a point to ignore them as much as he could.

Regan’s question chimed in his head.
“Don’t you feel anything? Ever?
”

He did his damnedest not to, but once in a while he failed, and when he did Regan was usually to blame. The woman had always brought out the best and worst in him, now more than ever. Something about her spoke to the man he’d once been before his soul had forsaken him.

“I finally got Ben to sleep.” She sailed into the room, wrapped in nothing but a terrycloth robe. The dress he’d bought her had gotten soiled and torn during their unexpected trek through the woods, but since it was the only item of clothing she had, she’d washed it and hung it up to dry in the bathroom. “He had a lot of questions. I had no choice but to tell him a little about us.”

Marcus tried not to notice the way her robe parted at the neck to reveal a long line of creamy skin, failed. “What, exactly, did you say to him?”

“That we’re different, like him. That we can make things happen, do things regular people can’t. He took it better than I thought.” She came to sit beside him. Her fresh scent invaded his personal space and filled him with the crazy urge to bolt.

She pried her hair loose from the elastic band, running her fingers through it. As much as he wanted to look away, Marcus watched, transfixed, as an abundant mass of curls fluttered over her shoulders. A sweet, burning sensation raced through his bloodstream until his face flushed with heat. The walls of his throat thickened, and his breathing grew short and quick. His starved fingers suddenly itched with the urge to touch.

She sank into the couch and let her head fall back, exposing the gentle arc of her throat. He could all too easily picture his mouth on that throat, tracing a burning path along her pale skin, his lips wandering down toward the spot where the robe parted slightly to hint at her cleavage.

Moonlight and shadows, truth and illusion, none of it mattered. Desire was desire any way you looked at it. Problem was, he wasn’t allowed to act on it. The second he’d gone rogue, he’d broken practically every vow he’d taken when he became a Watcher. His vow of celibacy was all that remained of his promise to Cal, and he intended to keep it.

He turned to find Regan watching him with a heavy-lidded stare, as though she was attempting to read his mind. “Good thinking with that kayak,” she told him. “I wasn’t exactly sold on the idea at first, but now I see the genius behind it.”

Amusement yanked at his mouth. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you just call me a genius?”

She grabbed a cushion from the couch and threw it at him. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He caught the cushion, tossed it right back at her. The robe slid off her shoulder to expose her toned arm, her long, delicate neck, the soft swell of her breast. His mouth went dry. Centuries of pent-up need rammed into him, more powerful than anything he’d ever experienced before. The urgent need to possess, to stroke and explore, flooded his veins. All he could think about was how soft, how warm and silky, her skin would feel beneath his eager palm.

Regan quickly tugged the sleeve back on, but red-hot desire continued to hum in his veins. He could barely remember the last time he’d been with a woman or what it had felt like. His last experience hadn’t been an act of passion but one of duty.

Tonight, however, passion seemed to be running the show.

He cleared his throat, left the comfort of the couch to go stand by the window, where Regan’s proximity could no longer torture him. Refusing to afford him even this small grace, she stood and bridged the distance between them.

“Penny for your thoughts.” A smile ghosted over her lips.

“Is that all they’re worth?” he teased, flinging her words from the other night back at her.

The levity only lasted a few seconds, then her features grew serious again. “Marcus.” His name was a breathy whisper in the sweet-smelling air. She placed her hand on his biceps, and her heat singed him and made his pulse sprint. “I know you’re worried. I can see how much Ben unsettles you.”

“It’s not the boy, it’s what he can do.” He met her sparkling gaze, nearly lost his train of thought. “You saw what he did to his parents, to those coyotes in the woods. He’s dangerous, Regan. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure what we’ve put into motion here.”

Her hand fell away, and he mourned the loss of the contact with an intensity that shocked him. “I’m not sure, either,” she confessed. “But I have to trust my instincts.”

Shadows danced across her face, drawing his attention to her beautiful mouth. He wanted to taste it. Badly.

Tearing his gaze from her lips, he stared beyond the windows instead.