Bound in Black (14 page)

I’d been considering possible means of escape ever since Dommiel had agreed to bring me here. I’d interrogated George several times. I remember standing in his high-rise apartment in London overlooking the Thames.

“I’ve told you this before, Genevieve. No soul collector will ever willingly give up one of the souls he or she has collected. It just can’t be done.” He’d combed a hand through his chestnut locks in frustration, tousling his hair in an uncharacteristic manner for the ever-calm Saint George.

He had meant to convince me to give up my idea of going to the soul eater’s realm for Jude. Not that he didn’t care. Hell, Jude was his best friend. But George truly didn’t believe I’d come back. That was when it hit me. His words resonated with the answer I needed the whole time.

I’d gripped him by the shoulder with a gentle hand and smiled. “Have faith in me. I’ll bring him home. I’ll bring us both, safe and sound. I promise.”

That was the moment I knew there was only one way. Jude had summoned Acheron and fed him Garzel when the demon refused to give up information. He’d bargained with the banshee-like soul eater Cocytus to gain entrance to Danté’s castle in order to save me in exchange for the body and soul of the foul prince. I’d deduced the best way to get out was to make my own deal. My only fear was that a soul collector wouldn’t want to wait for payment of fee, that he would demand it then and there.

It was finally time to see if my plan would work.

“Mira, stay close to me.”

Hands firm on Jude’s shoulders, I called to my VS and whispered to the air, “
Acherontis…adeo mihi…Acherontis…adeo mihi.
”

Nothing happened. Mira twisted her head in my direction and chirped once, wedging herself between my outstretched leg and Jude’s torso.

“I’ll try again.”

Closing my eyes, I channeled my supernatural power, calling to Acheron, envisioning his dark form, sweeping out with my Vessel Sense.

“
Acherontis…
”

The veil of vapor and silver light shivered like a drop in a pond, waves rolling out from a central point. The pinpoint at the center cracked, the tendrils of light shifting to the outer reaches of the veil. The sliver ripped up the entire length of the veil, a dark jagged line breaking the ethereal entity. Black-boned fingers wrapped the edges from inside, pulling the veil apart. An eerie aura of blue drifted from within, shading Lethe’s bleak gray world an otherworldly hue.

Acheron stepped from a domain of pitch-darkness. The folds of his sable mantle rolled and billowed. His hood slipped, revealing a shiny black skull atop a spiny neck. Liquid pools of red with pinpoint pupils gazed from deep-set sockets—eyes that held the darkest secrets of the darkest souls.

When I’d formulated this idea, I’d counted on the fact that soul eaters could wander into any realm, even those of their brothers and sisters. In all other ways, they were creatures unbound by any rules. Apparently, my gamble had paid off.

There was no sound in this place. Even the slightest whisper of the faint breeze swirling the mist died. There was only the cracking boom of his voice.

“
Acherontis pabulum.
” The unearthly creature pointed a skeletal index finger at Jude.

“No.” I shook my head. “I have better food for Acheron.”

It tilted its ghastly head, observing me with keen scarlet eyes.

“I want to make a bargain.”

The fey wind pushed his cloak open. A screaming well of woe washed over me. I winced at the scorching sorrow and bitter pain resonating from the souls he’d devoured.

“Hear me,” I begged, palm out. “We request safe passage to the world above. In return, I can give you a soul worth a thousand human souls. It will feed you well.”

The inhuman creature stared, waiting.

“I will give you the soul of a demon prince. If you come to me on the night of the Blood Moon, I will deliver Prince Bamal to you.”

The soul eater continued to watch for a painfully long moment. I thought perhaps he didn’t understand. He spoke only in Latin. Recalling my Latin lessons last semester, I tried again.

“
In supremae nocte—
”
On the night
, I said, when he waved a bone-black hand in the air, silencing me.

His spidery fingers threaded in the air as he raised a hand to the sky, though here there was no real sky in hell, only a blanket of darkness smothering us from above. “
In supremae nocte luna in sanguine…
”
On the night of the blood moon
, his voice crackled. “
Volo princeps…
”
I want the prince.
“
Aut leporem citus uenator.
”
Or the hunter.

His chilling gaze found Jude.

I choked back the fear welling inside, a tidal wave threatening to swallow me and pull me to muddy depths. Of course, the only substitute he would take was one equal to a demon prince, the first Dominus Daemonum to walk the earth. I couldn’t allow doubt to take root and fester into a monster that controlled my will. I had no choice. I knew my course. And I would not fail.

“Yes,” I said with a tight nod. “On the night of the Blood Moon.”

Unable to wrap my arms around Jude for fear of hurting his torn and battered skin, I gripped him by the shoulders. His head rested in my lap, his body unmoving.

Please, please, please
, I begged in my mind. I dreaded that the collector would reject my bargain on a whim and send us to some other horrific corner of the underworld, perhaps his own domain, which must be close by.

As I glared at the soul eater’s bloody gaze, the silvery light of the veil at his back silhouetted him in stark black. Acheron dropped his dark head, the sable hood sliding forward. The distinct pull at my core shot a bolt of adrenaline through my body. I almost cried, knowing the sensation before a sift all too well. I hooked my arms underneath Jude’s arms, bracketing his body as close as I could.

Then we were gone, sliding through the Void, gray shapes ghosting past us. Mira clawed her way up my sleeve to my shoulder as we flew, Jude’s heavy weight tugging us toward oblivion.

There was no way on earth I’d let him go. My arm would have to break and fall off before I’d let that happen. The sift was long and rough, foul winds twisting around us before we were finally dumped onto solid ground. Jude and I fell into a heap in some unknown forest. Not the Black Forest. The grass beneath our feet, the cold air in my lungs, the leafy trees waving in the breeze, but mostly the clear, starry night hanging above us told me we were back home, back in our world.

I sobbed with relief and pulled Jude back into my lap. “Mira,” I snapped, “go to George. Bring him to Arran. We’ll meet you back home.”

Home. Yes, I was finally bringing Jude home.

Chapter Eleven

I sifted onto the hillside where Jude always did before walking through the wards. I had to drag his body across, then was able to sift him into the cottage and lay him on our bed. A painful ache gripped me as I placed his cut-up feet at the end of the bed and finally got a good look at his naked, bleeding form—bruised and lean from lack of food. Vulnerable. Broken. Alone.

My poor love.

He still hadn’t wakened or shown any signs that he would. Refusing to give in to despair, I fetched a bowl from the kitchen and filled it with warm water. With a washcloth in hand, I started a methodical cleansing of his entire body, beginning from the feet up.

I stopped at his knees and sobbed. The blood and gore hid the depth of his wounds. He’d been thrown onto his knees many times for the skin to be scraped to the cartilage cap. I could hardly stand to imagine the amount of pain he’d suffered at the hands of sadistic Danté.

“Jude,” I cried, tears rolling down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

Rinsing the towel, I wiped the grime from his forehead, his square jaw and cheekbones, more angular than usual, then from his cleft chin. I remembered how I’d kiss my forefinger and press a kiss there sometimes and how he’d smile.

“Jude, please wake up.”

By now I’d cleaned his face thoroughly and pushed his dirty hair off his cut cheeks and bruised forehead. I had him home, and yet I wasn’t sure if he could ever recover from this. Even if his body healed, would his soul? I didn’t know what they’d done to him in the underworld for nearly a month, but the evidence was staggering and heartbreaking.

The front door opened and slammed. A second later, George stood, breathing hard at my side, bringing with him the cold night air.

“Christ almighty,” he said as he came up beside me.

George checked for his pulse.

“He’s alive. But barely…I think.”

“Go, get another bowl of hot water. We’ll do this together.” He jerked his jacket from his body, unbuttoning and rolling up his expensive white shirt. “Go,” he said more firmly when I didn’t move swiftly enough.

After I’d dumped the bloody water, refilled a fresh bowl and returned, George was whispering to Jude as he slowly examined each bone down one arm, then the other. When I came up on him, he was mumbling nonsense to Jude as if Jude could hear him.

“You really did it this time, didn’t you? Always wanting to prove how tough you are.” He couldn’t check his rib cage, for his skin was so lacerated with whip marks. “Ever the mighty hunter, determined to prove yourself the bravest of us all. Well, now you’ve gone and done it.”

He continued to mumble accusations at Jude as if they were having one of their little skirmishes over breakfast, while he continued down one leg, feeling for fractures. When he gripped Jude’s left ankle, the foot twitched at the slightest touch. Jude’s brow pinched together in pain, though he never opened his eyes.

“Is it broken?” I asked.

“Possibly. Maybe a sprain, but we won’t know right now.”

He pointed to the smeared blood on the mattress by his torso. “Does that mean his back is as bad as his chest?”

“Yes,” I managed to say on a fast breath.

“What happened to him?”

George’s sharp aquamarine gaze narrowed on me, his anger seething for whomever had done this to Jude.

“It was Danté.”

“Danté?”

“But I finished him. For good.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, pulling the sheet up to Jude’s waist. I think George was uncomfortable, not with Jude’s nudity but with the sheer vulnerability of the strongest man he’d probably ever known. To be exposed in such a way—frail, weak, lifeless…

“I mean I killed him. Like I did that demon back at Glastonbury.”

Shaking his head in disbelief and giving me a crooked smile, he said, “It’s about bloody time. That’s one less wanker we’ll have to deal with come doomsday.”

“George, if this is your idea of levity in a time of mourning, I don’t think—”

“No more thinking, darling. Time for action. Give me the rag.” He took it from me and began to wipe Jude’s chest clean with a rougher hand that I ever would have.

“Be careful! You’ll hurt him.”

“Darling, he’s hurt quite enough already. We need to get him clean and sterilized and sewn up so he can heal. He’s a Dominus Daemonum, made by Uriel himself, which means he carries healing power in his blood. But he won’t mend with open gashes all over his body. So snap to, girl.”

I stopped staring all weepy-eyed and snapped into action. George was right. I was overthinking to the point of becoming useless. I ran to the bathroom and rummaged around till I found Jude’s first aid kit. I suppose his job warranted being prepared. And he always was.

I brought it back and opened it on the bed next to Jude. George stood on the other side, having cleaned nearly all the excess dried blood. While George searched for antiseptic, I twisted my hands together, unsure what to do next.

“How can I help?”

“You’re doing fine right there.”

“No, George. Tell me how I can help. Give me something to do. Please.”

He paused and lifted his stern gaze to mine. “He’ll need some sustenance of some kind, preferably broth, something we can get down his throat, if that’s even possible.”

“Right.”

I dashed to the kitchen and found the cabinet of canned vegetables and soups. I’d seen a few cans of beef broth. Mira perched on a chair, cleaning under her wing as if we hadn’t just traveled to hell and back.

I opened the can and poured the broth into a saucer, then set the pan on the old wood stove, taking several minutes to get the stove lit and burning hot. As soon as the beefy aroma warmed and the smell wafted up, my stomach growled. Dizzying nausea swept over me all at once, buckling my knees, though I caught myself.

I needed to eat before I took one more step. I hoped, with tears stinging my eyes and a shaky smile on my face, that the child in my womb would eventually meet the man I’d fallen in love with. I unwrapped a loaf of French bread, tore off a piece, then dipped a few bites in the bowl, soaking up the broth. What if Jude never returned? What if his mind was gone for good even if his body did heal?