Lost in Shadows Read online

  If I got her back at all.

  "You're sure?" I repeated, since Zane hadn't yet answered me.

  "You are off to hunt this night?"

  I shook my head. "The pub," I said. "And then I'm going out with Gracie." I looked down at my feet, suddenly embarrassed, as if it were foolish for an Über-assassin-chick to care about such things. Clarence, I was certain, would think so.

  Zane, however . . .

  Zane only smiled, then moved toward me, making the air between us fizzle and pop. He took my hand, and I almost looked into his head, wanting to go deeper than I had once before.

  When I'd peeked in before, I'd seen only sadness, but I'd broken away quickly, afraid he would feel me poking around in there. I knew now that the sadness was the weight of eternity bearing down upon him. A weight that I would eventually come to know, but which right then didn't feel real to me.

  To Zane, though, it was beyond real. Alive forever, and yet confined to this small basement. He'd made a deal, he'd once told me. Train the warriors, and his mortality would be restored. Train, and eventually he would be allowed to die.

  The real hell for him, though, was that after so long being alive, the reality of death now terrified him. And he was trapped between a desire to end his tenure on earth, and his fear of what he would face once gone.

  As for me, my fears about immortality were more practical. I was terrified of being alive forever and yet trapped like Zane was. Maybe I could survive in a pimped-out basement with television and the Internet, but what I really feared was being dismembered and left in small pine box. My arms removed. My legs taken. And only me and my thoughts for all eternity.

  I shivered.

  If Zane noticed my discomfiture, he didn't say so. "It is good that you are going with your friends, ma Cherie.” He stroked my cheek, the simple touch making my senses fire. Zane was sexuality personified, an immortal incubus, whose essence I'd absorbed, and the call of like to like was making me tingle. Making me burn. I wanted him. Wanted his kiss, his touch.

  And yet I didn't, because I knew it wasn't real. It was the thrall of the incubus, that heady sensual cloud that I cast over the men I squeezed up against at dance clubs. A fake lust, a pretend infatuation.

  I didn't want pretend. I wanted the real thing, and my mind was filled then not with Zane, but with Deacon. A man I still didn't trust but who set my body to melt even so. I was, perhaps, a fool to crave him so desperately, but I was powerless to escape my own emotions.

  "Zane . . ."

  "I know, ma petite. He calls to you still, this other man. This one you will not name."

  I licked my lips. Wanting to tell him. Wanting to tell him everything and learn if what I was slowly coming to believe about this man was true—that he had no more loyalty to Clarence than I did. That if he knew my true battle, he would help me even more.

  Those weren't words I could say, though, and so I simply smiled. "I'm not going with him tonight. Just Gracie. Just friends."

  "And again, I say that is good." He twirled a strand of my hair between his fingers, and the sadness I saw in his face about broke my heart.

  "I wish you could come, too," I said.

  "Ah, cherie, so do I. So do I, indeed."

  I left him to his melancholy, knowing that he would watch over Rose, and confident that Johnson would stay well buried in Zane's presence. But as I moved through the hallway toward the door that led to the dank alley that accessed Zane's basement, I realized I wasn't much in the mood to go out with friends. Instead, I was in the mood to go kill something. To feed the darkness and the sadness growing inside me.

  I couldn't even do that, though, because I had to go to the pub. Had to go be Alice and put together the pieces of the real life I'd adopted when I'd slipped into her skin.

  The Bloody Tongue was somber when I arrived, Egan's death hanging over the place. The demons were frustrated that their source for innocent girls had been so soundly removed, and the human patrons were merely expressing their condolences for a family that had lost its patriarch.

  I tried to look upset that Egan was gone, but despite the fact that I'd become a method actor by default, I'm not entirely sure I managed.

  Rachel was behind the bar, and when she caught my attention, I headed that way, passing by two round, bald men nursing Guinnesses in one of the booths.

  "That her?" Tweedledee asked.

  "That's the one," Tweedledum answered.

  I started to turn back to them. To ask them ever so politely to step outside. But before I could do that, Rachel called, instructing me to get my butt over there, pronto.

  "About damn time," she said, as I sidled up. "We need to talk."

  She signaled for Trish, who stepped in to take over. Gracie was there, too, and she sent me a supportive smile as I followed Alice's big sister into the back, then down the stairs to the small stockroom, a place that would, at least, give us some semblance of privacy.

  "We're selling the pub," she said without preamble, the moment I shut the door behind us.

  "What? No." I didn't know what the future held, but I did know that the pub was a demon magnet. And that meant that I wanted to keep a hand in it. I didn't have Kiera's nose for demon scent but if they gathered here, I could surely weed them out from the humans. And then, I thought, I could kill them. Get a nice little hit of strength for me and eradicate another demon from the world.

  And, yeah, the thought of letting that dark curtain fall over me for just a moment held some pretty significant appeal, too.

  All in all, a win-win situation.

  But not if Rachel wanted to sell the pub.

  "You can't," I said. "We own it together. We have to sell it together, and I don't want to."

  "I'll ask the court to partition," she said. "Sell the pub under court order, split the proceeds. I've already talked to a lawyer, Alice. It's what I'm going to do. So get used to it."

  "But why?" I could hear the whine in my voice and took a mental step backward. "Why not just go back to your life and let me deal with the pub? I mean, why are you even here?" She'd never worked there before. For that matter, I'd only actually met Rachel once before, when she'd burst in at Alice's apartment and asked me to watch her dogs. Then she'd bopped off to London for some work thing. "You have your life," I pushed. "Let me have mine."

  She drew in a breath. "I gave it up."

  "What?" I had no idea what she was talking about.

  "My jewelry business. I signed all the assets over to a charity."

  "You what?" None of this was computing.

  "You heard me, dammit. I should never have had the business in the first place." She turned away from me, then drew her arms in tight to her chest. "Uncle Egan's murder just drove that home."

  "But—"

  She rounded on me. "Go to Harvard, Alice. Call them and tell them you'll start up in January. Get out of this life. For once, do what Mom wanted you to." She sucked in air. "I'm going to try. I'm really, really going to."

  There was a whole conversation going on under the surface, and I was pretty certain I understood the gist of it. Pretty sure, but not positive. And I needed to know. I really, desperately needed to know if Rachel was walking away from the dark arts.

  I took a step toward her and held out my hands. "Rachel," I said, and when I did, she looked in my eyes. That was all it took, and this time, when the pull came, I didn't rip away. On the contrary, I held on tighter, even when I heard her gasp. Even when I got sucked into the black. Even when I saw the rituals and the candles and the dark symbols. When I learned how she'd started her business with blood money, and how just days ago she'd screamed and ranted and destroyed the inside of her apartment, wishing all the while she could destroy the inside of herself.

  She'd given it up, just like she'd said. She'd given it up, but she still felt trapped. Trapped, and afraid, and lost.

  And now she wanted to run.

  With a pop, the connection between us broke, and I stepped back, only to feel the
sharp sting of her palm against my cheek. "Dammit, Alice. You do not do that. Ever. Do you understand me?"

  I nodded, not planning to say anything else. But the words that came out surprised me as much as they surprised her. "I'm not Alice," I said. "I'm not really your sister."

  18

  “What the hell are you talking about?" Rachel asked, staring at me as if I'd gone completely out of my mind, a reaction that didn't much surprise me.

  "They killed her," I said. "Egan sold her to the demons, and they killed her."

  "'Her,'" Rachel repeated, and I could imagine her dialing 911 and asking the operator to send the men in white coats to come pick up her sister.

  "I'm not Alice," I said again, and even as I spoke, I wondered why I was bothering. Except that this was Alice's sister. The woman who'd loved her, and who wanted Alice to be free of the dark. Who was, in her own way, fighting the demons, too.

  Or maybe that was just a bunch of random justifications. Maybe I just wanted someone to know the truth.

  She took a step backward. “This isn't funny, Alice. If you think that pulling this sort of bullshit prank on me is going to keep me from selling the pub—"

  "No. It's not about the pub. Rachel, please. It's true. My name's Lily Carlyle." I paused. "And they killed me, too."

  She stared at me, and for a moment—one brief, sparkling moment—I thought she believed me. Then her face tightened, and she pointed a finger straight at my face. "You have to stop this, Alice. I don't know what kind of sick bullshit you've gotten sucked into, but you have got to stop this."

  She yanked off the apron she'd been wearing, and threw it on the floor. Then she spun on her heel and stormed out of the stockroom. I took a deep breath. So much for my maiden voyage into the land of bitter honesty.

  "What's up with Rachel?" Gracie asked, when I returned upstairs. I just shook my head, too disheartened to come up with even a plausible lie. Gracie cocked her head, picking up on my melancholy. "Brian's looking forward to seeing you again."

  I managed a smile. "Great. Can't wait." But I know she could tell I was lying. So much so that I could see the disappointment on her face when it was time to lock up, and I told her to go ahead and I'd meet her there.

  "Dammit, Alice—"

  "I just have to finish up here," I said. "I swear, I'm only five minutes behind you."

  "Really?"

  "Promise. I need a night out," I said. And it was true. It really was. I wanted a night of trying to be normal. A night of not craving the fight, the kill.

  Of not hoping for a demon so that I could suck in its essence and get a nice little hit of the dark.

  Yeah. I was totally down for the night-out plan.

  Of course, that five-minute estimate turned out to be a little off because when I returned from taking out the trash, I found that not everyone had left the pub. Tweedledum and Tweedledee were still there, standing side by side in front of the bar.

  "We're closed, boys."

  "Glad to hear it," Tweedledum said, and before I could even react, he'd whipped out a knife and had lobbed it straight at me. I rolled to the side, but it didn't matter. It sliced my arm, bare because I was wearing a Bloody Tongue tank top. The scent of my own blood filled my senses, riling me, and I was up on my feet even as Tweedledee joined in the fun, coming at me with a knife of his own. Screw that.

  I didn't have my own knife on me—it didn't go with the pub-girl outfit—but that didn't mean I couldn't find another weapon, and I dove over the bar and smashed the butt end off a bottle of tequila. One of our house brands. Not the top-shelf stuff.

  "Foolish girl," Dum said.

  "Indeed," Dee agreed.

  "We will cut you," Dum said, opening a duffel they'd shoved under their table. "We'll break you. We'll slice you up good."

  Dee's eyes narrowed. "We know your secret, little girl. And we'll lock you up and keep you forever and ever and ever."

  "No!" I shouted, knowing that I shouldn't let fear and anger get the better of me, and that I should stay behind the bar and hunker down.

  I knew all that, and yet I lunged, leaping over the bar to land a solid kick in Dum's face, sending him reeling. He was back up in seconds, agile despite his girth, and he smashed and flashed and twirled and pummeled, and I met each of his attacks dead on, desperate to knock him back long enough so that I could race to the kitchen and retrieve my knife from the pocket of my coat. I could kill with any old knife, but only if I killed with an owned knife would the demons be reduced to goo.

  And only with an owned kill would I gain the strength and absorb the essence—something I damn sure wanted.

  The two of them attacked from opposite sides, and I dove, finding myself in front of the knife that Tweedledum had first thrown my way. A knife that had drawn my blood.

  Shit. That blade was mine now, and I snatched at it, kicking as the two demons tried to pull me back by the legs. My fingers brushed the hilt and then, yes, I had it.

  I twisted at the waist and thrust myself up, leading with the blade. And not a moment too soon. Tweedledum had been only inches away, his own blade falling harmlessly to the ground as my knife sliced through his neck, and the demon dissolved into disgusting black goo.

  There was no celebration for me, though, because as my blade was outstretched, Tweedledee had come up from behind, and now he had his knife at my throat. "Headless," he said. "I think it's fucking beautiful."

  To my complete mortification, I actually whimpered, then closed my eyes, trapped, and knowing that I'd lost. For the world, for myself, and for Rose.

  I waited for the pain, then for the awareness that came from being broken but alive.

  It didn't come. Instead, the knife jerked sharply, cutting me, but not killing me. And then I felt the demon behind me turn to goo, and the slime dribble down my back to puddle on the floor behind me.

  I whipped around to find Deacon standing in the kitchen doorway. He'd thrown his knife, and he'd thrown it true.

  "Deacon," I said. And I rushed him. My body was humming from the kill as much as from fear. From the knowledge that I'd almost fallen into my worst nightmare, and by the need—desperate and demanding—to hold on right then to the man who embodied my most ardent fantasy.

  He met me halfway, understanding what I craved, what I needed. His mouth was hot against mine, and I drew him in, our tongues doing battle as our bodies slammed together. He was all heat and muscle, all danger and dark, and I had to have him. So help me, I had to let the dark take me. Had to let desire rule me, and I pressed him back, farther and farther until there was nowhere else to go.

  "More," I demanded, and he complied without complaint, his mouth deepening the kiss, his hands hard on me. On my hips, on my waist. On my breasts.

  The tank top was flimsy, and he yanked it up, then shoved my bra down, giving him access to my breasts. I arched my back and moaned, the pleasure that shot through me absolutely exhilarating, and completely overshadowing the slow, burning ache that had begun in my arm. I had no idea why my arm had decided to go on active duty, and right then I didn't care. I was content to ignore it.

  I wasn't about pain right then; I was about pleasure. Pleasure and heat and complete satisfaction, and the way that Deacon was touching me wasn't enough. I needed more. I needed all.

  Desperate, I fumbled with the button on his jeans, and when I couldn't manage that, I fumbled with my own, then wriggled out of them until I was standing there in the lacy pink panties that Alice favored and I hadn't had time to replace.

  Deacon's hand dipped down, his fingers following smooth skin, then easing slowly, so slowly under the waistband of the panties. He teased me, his finger dipping down, finding me wet, then making me whimper as he refused to touch me the way he knew that I wanted.

  I grabbed the belt loops of his pants and urged his hips forward. "Dammit, Deacon," I said. "Now."

  And this time, when I fumbled with his button, I actually managed to make progress, and before I knew it, our jeans were on t
he floor, and we were on the couch in front of the fireplace. The leather couch with cloven feet.

  "Lily," he said, as though my name were both a prayer and a curse.

  "Don't wait," I begged. "Don't wait. Don't stop."

  I was breathing hard, my body on fire, lust running through me like a wild beast. And when Deacon thrust inside me, I rose up, desperate to meet him, to match him. To take him over the edge with me.

  We moved together, hard and demanding, as if we'd both just discovered something we couldn't get enough of. And as the pressure built and built I clung to him, pulling him closer, this man who I had come to need so desperately. This man I barely knew.

  His body shuddered against mine, and he cried out in pleasure, sending me right over the edge with him. I collapsed against him, sated, and breathed in deep of the musky scent of sweat and sex. Of us.

  He had claimed me and, so help me, I'd claimed him, too.

  When I could breathe again, I rolled over, trying to shift to a more comfortable position. I had my hand pressed to his chest, and I smiled at his face.

  He smiled back, and our eyes locked.

  And, yeah, that was a big mistake.

  The vision snapped, and I jerked as it sucked me in. I had a glimpse of the darkness. A sensation of fear, then the cold press of the pub floor against my cheek.

  I sat up, rubbing the side of my face, realizing as I did that Deacon had actually thrown me off him rather than let me look deep inside.

  Shit.

  I crossed the pub to grab my jeans and started stuffing my legs back into them. Suddenly I didn't feel nearly as warm and languid. Now I felt irritated. And not even at Deacon. At myself.

  "Lily."

  "Don't." I held up a hand. "I shouldn't have done that."

  "Unless my memory is faulty, I think we both did that."

  I rounded on him. "Dammit Deacon, I don't need this. This thing," I said, gesturing between us. "I can't fight it—I don't even want to fight it—but I'm goddamned terrified of it."

  "Why?"

  I stared at him. "You know why."