Delilah Devlin - Lost Souls

She leaned closer and pressed her mouth against his to shut him up.

For a split second, his mouth remained firm, but then he groaned and opened, his tongue pushing into her mouth. He rolled over her.

Opening her legs, she welcomed him inside. As he began thrusting, their mouths moved in greedy circles.

Her arms wrapped tightly around his back, fingertips digging into solid muscle. He was so solid, so real. Right here. Now. How would she ever let him go?

A sob ripped through her.

Sam leaned back so he could connect with her gaze, his own softening. “Don’t cry, baby. Please don’t.”

His features blurred, and she blinked fast. “I’m sorry. For everything. For letting you down. For pushing you away. We wasted so much time.”

Sam’s eyes filled and overflowed, a tear dropping onto her cheek. “No regrets, baby. I don’t have even one. Don’t be sorry. You’re the strongest person I know. Stronger than me. You can do this. You can move on.”

Their hips moved together, the sweet coupling deepening. Sam’s body shuddered as he came, and Cait watched his face, committing his features, his changing expressions, to memory.

When he fell against her, he kissed her shoulder. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You always took care of me first. Always.” She caressed his jaw. “Let me give you this. No regrets,” she said, her voice thick and watery.

Despite the shadows around them, the moonlight filling the chamber, she knew the moment had arrived.

A golden flicker of flame shined in his eyes. A sad smile stretched across his face. He withdrew and then gave her one last look, filled with longing and promise. And then his body wisped away, lightening atop her.

Breath caught in her throat, she dropped her arms to the mattress, watching as he faded away.

When she was alone again, she didn’t move. She lay with his scent wrapped around her. Her tears slowly dried on her cheeks. Cait O’Connell sniffed once and then sat at the edge of the bed, reaching toward the floor for her clothing.

“I’m sorry, Cait.” Morin’s voice came from the spiral staircase.

She ignored him, finished putting on her clothes, and then walked toward him. Muscles heavy with sadness, she raised her hand and pointed a level finger at his chest. “I don’t accept this is over. You and I know there are ways. We just have to find one.”

Morin stood rigid for a moment, and then held out his hand.

She pressed her palm in his, accepting a firm squeeze.

She looked him directly in the eye. “There’s something you want, Morin Montague. If you help me, I’ll help you.”

His nod was short, sharp. “I’ll make a pot of tea.”

Although time stood still outside Morin’s strange little shop, inside Cait was aware of its passage. Twice, they refilled the oil lamps scattered on the sturdy wooden tables in the library. Once, they stopped to eat roast beef sandwiches made with the fresh-baked loaves that appeared inside his bread bin.

“Reanimating his corpse isn’t feasible,” Morin said, his eyebrows quirking at her dark glare for his frank choice of words. “The thing will be to find some way of preventing his death in the first place.”

A memory popped into her mind. She thought about the elevator door opening to the past. “Or maybe somehow ‘catching’ him when he arrives in the past.”

Morin’s dark brows rose higher. “You’d have to be there—with the demon—when it happens.” Mouth set into a tight line, he shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. You’d simply be caught in the same vortex, your body twisted up with his. Hardly a workable solution.” Morin closed his Book of Shadows, the heavy leather binding giving a thud rather than a snap. “There’s nothing in there.”

Sighing with exasperation, she glanced up from the book she’d been combing through. “Why couldn’t these be written in plain English?”

“They are. Maybe you should have spent more time studying them rather than mooning over me. You wouldn’t have so much trouble translating.”

Frustration gripped her chest, and she frowned. She had to find a way to do this. “Morin, there’s nothing here. Nothing helpful.”

Morin tapped the table with a finger. “Think about the spells you’ve read, the books that describe them. Until someone actually tried it, that spell didn’t exist.”

“But you’ve said so yourself, there’s power in a spell when it’s practiced.” Maybe talking this out would help it make more sense. “The more often the words are spoken, the stronger the spell becomes.”

With slow moves, Morin nodded. “Because the energy of the person doing the casting mingles with the words. The spell is no longer just words but a wish spoken aloud, imbued with a power all its own.”

Cait blew out an exasperated breath. “I can’t wait for a spell of my own making to earn bonus points for every time it’s used. It has to work the first time.”

Morin leaned over the table, his dark eyes sparkling under an arched eyebrow. “So you have to make sure that you are imbued with all the power you can harness.”

She gave her head a shake and rolled her eyes. “Do you ever give it a rest? I’m not getting naked with you again to draw down the moon.”

His chuckle was rich, a jarring sound in the pall that had fallen over them as they’d searched. He sat back, shaking his head. “You’ve already taken everything I can give you. Expended a lot of it. Now you have to be the one to go to the source. The well, so to speak. Draw your own powers, my dear. Draw it from the ether. Wear it as a garment of your own making, not a borrowed cloak.”

“See?” she said, aiming a hard glare his way and crossing her arms over her chest. “That’s the problem. When you speak, poetry is natural. When I try, the words that come out are complete crap.”

“It’s not how pretty the words sound, Cait. It’s the depth of feeling, the energy your emotions give the incantation.” He waved a hand. “But you’re right. This spell is more than words. Because you’ll be defying time and death, you need something to focus the power, an object.”

Cait thought hard. “Like the bellows I used to suck the demon out of Leland?”

“Exactly. Any ideas?”

“This is all about time. About defying it. A watch?” She glanced at her wristwatch with its digital face. Definitely not the candidate. “Something old. With hands.”

“A pocket watch?”

She nodded and then sat back in her chair. Uncertainty edged her thoughts. What powers did she really have? She should have been practicing for this all her life. “Are we kidding ourselves that I can make this work?”

“How much do you love Sam?”

Cait held her breath against the instant tightening in her chest. A tightness that threatened to choke her. Just the mention of his name opened a new wound. “More than anything or anyone. Morin, if this doesn’t work…”

“No more ‘if.’ Doubt will leach away power, corrupt it. And pretty words and a pocket watch aren’t enough. An offering must be made. A proper tincture. Ceremony and pomp. This ritual is important, and you have the time to do this right. The Powers will demand a sacrifice, whether it’s tangible and bloody or simply measured in effort. This is the reason why the gods demand trials.”

“Like Psyche’s trial in the Underworld—”

“Hercules’s twelve labors.”

Naming what she had to do eased her mind. She smiled across the table. “Thanks. I was beginning to panic. Afraid there wasn’t a solution.”

He braced his arms on the table and leaned forward, his gaze intense. “But don’t go thinking that every time you lose something to death that you can drag it back.”