Jessa Slade: Seduced by Shadows

Under the cover of deep shadow, Archer watched the woman—Sera—hurry away, her slight figure outlined in whorls of ominous light. The spectral radiance visible from the penthouse balcony had condensed and centered around her. The silver green glow reminded him of a tornado sky, when doom spiraled out of nothing. The unbound demon had chosen.

Zane joined him. “A woman? No way. All demon-ridden are male.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways. But not half so mysterious as the other guys.” Archer steeled the savagery lurking inside him against her thousand weaknesses: the hesitation in her steps from the painful twist of her spine; her not-unwarranted impulse toward violence; the fear that dulled her eyes. Fear of him.

The demon didn’t need a thousand weaknesses. Only one.

“Are we sure she’s the target? Could the demon have gotten confused?” Zane stared across the river, where Sera had gone. The etheric lights trailed behind her like frayed gossamer wings. “She seemed nice.”

The mace hadn’t been pointed at him. Archer was glad he’d told the younger talya to stay out of the way. “The demon wasn’t confused. It only resonates with a matching soul.”

“Then why aren’t we bringing her back with us? Did you tell her why we’re here?”

“You can’t tell them anything until the demon ascends. They won’t believe you before then. Maybe not even then.”

Zane peered at him. “We can’t just let her go. I know we aren’t sure which strain of demon wants her, but no one should go through it alone.” He started forward, as if to flag down the cab.

Archer snagged Zane’s arm, whipping him around. “If she’s wise, she won’t go through it at all.”

Zane faltered. “You warned her? Is that an option?”

Archer shrugged irritably. “You can’t warn any more than you can guide.”

“You’d better hope Niall doesn’t hear about this. Ecco and Raine were watching from the other side of the bridge.”

Archer scowled, even more exasperated. “You think, if it comes to that, they want a woman joining the league? As if we didn’t face madness enough.”

“She’d be no worse than some,” Zane muttered. Then his gaze slid away as if he’d said too much—and to the wrong person.

Archer kept a leash on his flaring temper, but since someone had stuck the tuning fork in his dreams that had him vibrating to this emergent demon, his discipline felt unreliable.

Her accusation he was a psycho killer should have struck too close to the truth. But the zest with which she delivered the line and the glint in her hazel eyes as she aimed the spray can had roused sensations he thought long dead. Dead, buried, and rotted past all unholy resurrection.

Except in the dreams that left him unwilling to sleep. Strangely attuned to the unbound demon, he’d been prepared for violence. As always. But not for this. Not for her.

He wrestled down the rage. “There’s a malice in the alley back there. It followed the pyrotechnics this far. Scare it off before it gets bored and does something annoying.”

Zane glanced back, distracted. “Shouldn’t we drain it?”

“We won’t have time for every petty malice roaming the streets tonight.” Archer strode off.

“Where are you going?” Zane called.

“After more dangerous game.”

Sera hauled herself up two flights of stairs, clenching her teeth on the echoes of well-meaning advice.

“ ‘Maybe you should get a ground-floor apartment,’ ” she muttered. “ ‘Maybe you should fuse those last vertebrae. ’ Maybe you should just shut up.”

Juggling her keys and bag at the front door, she dropped the cane. Too stiff to bend over, she left it and limped down the hall to the bathroom.

She cranked the water to hot and faced the mirror.

Six months ago, she’d draped the light fixture with a filmy scarf, telling herself she was contemplating taking up stained-glass design in her convalescence. As a mental health counselor with a certification in thanatology, guiding people through their last days, she’d seen plenty of injuries and illnesses no surgery could heal. She’d held the stump of a diabetic amputee who swore he could still feel his hands. She’d brushed the last lock of hair away from the startlingly bright eyes of a burn victim. Her own wounds had nothing on those.

She stripped naked, then yanked the scarf off the lights. Time for some hard truths by seventy-five watts.

Betsy was right. She looked like hell. Marion was right. She looked like death warmed over. Scrawny, wan, scarred from waist to knee. If the potential rapist on the bridge had seen this, he’d have been the one to run away in terror.

She let the scarf drop. They’d stuck her father in a nursing home, something she’d promised would never happen, telling her to concentrate on getting stronger. She couldn’t work, couldn’t drive, could barely walk. And now she’d let herself be frightened just because a man had spoken to her.

She couldn’t live like this. Wouldn’t.

She thought of the pills in her bag. Maybe she’d been relying on them too much. Well, no more. And that damn cane could stay in the hallway too.

The mirror fogged as steam billowed over the shower curtain. She swiped one hand across the glass. A face stared back at her, made somehow unfamiliar by the beaded droplets of water.

She frowned at the disjointed image. She knew who she was, where she was going. She’d been thrown only a little off track. Okay, catapulted. But tomorrow, Marion was getting another visit. So was the home where her brothers had put Dad. And then she’d have lunch with Betsy and eat everything on her plate.

The fog returned, but she was done. She stepped into the shower and bowed her head under the hot water. She’d stop shivering in just a second.

Sera walked into her bedroom, still naked. Damp heat followed her out of the shower in a slowly uncoiling mist. Only the slant of streetlights through the blinds lit the room, casting deep purple shadows. And he was there, a lean, dark outline with his black trench coat buttoned tight. Spicy musk teased her senses.

She blinked. “I’m dreaming. That’s why I’m wandering around my apartment naked. I never wander around naked.”

“Not wandering. You were coming. For me.” He stood unmoving, but the trailing edge of his long coat shifted in a draft she didn’t feel. “I will make it a sweet dream.”

She touched her forehead, in lieu of pinching herself and drawing his attention to her naked parts. Dripping strands of her hair tangled around her wrist. “I don’t need a wet dream tonight. Go away.”

He moved closer. “You called. You’ve called forever.”

“I don’t even know you . . . ,” she said, trailing off when he raised a hand to brush back her hair. He had the square, blunt hands of a working man, but his thumb feathered across her temple, almost too lightly to feel. The touch sent ripples of shivery sensation through her body like a pebble in still water.

She’d been close to screaming when he faced her on the bridge. She couldn’t muster the will now. It was just a dream, she reminded herself.

“So lonely,” he murmured. “So lost.”

“I’m sorry for you, really. But I can’t help you.”

“You’re the only one who can. But I meant you, my love.” He stroked the back of his knuckles along her cheek. “You’ve been alone so long, so long afraid, close to giving in, calling all the while.”

“I’m not . . . I am not your love.” She pulled away.

“I’ve breathed your soul. Whom else can I love?”

“You haven’t breathed on anything of mine.” Her skin prickled at the thought—a pleasure she hadn’t indulged in in a long time.