Forged of Shadows: A Novel of the Marked Souls (7 page)

The protective cup of her hand slid around to settle on her hip again. “I’m saying I don’t need a mace.”

He wanted to argue in favor of the mace, full Kevlar—never mind that body armor interfered with the draining of demonic emanations, which was the sole reason for their immortal existence—hell, throw in a popemobile too. After all, the ferales had sniffed her out for some nefarious reason. And she was the one who’d asked for a weapon.

Ah, of course. He’d dealt with some angry, violent men in his time with the league, but nary a one as prickly as Jilly. She needed a weapon—she might even want one—but she wouldn’t want to need his. Or
him
.

Understanding didn’t blunt the poke of annoyance at her rejection. Just what he needed: yet another fiercely temperamental, insubordinate diva to go with the others—female and male—he already had. The teshuva seemed inexplicably drawn to the type, himself excluded, which often made him wonder how he had ever become their leader. Despite her rebellious independence, she’d come back to him. He would make her see she needed his protection.

And yet, he couldn’t quite curtail a pang of reluctant respect. Like all incoming talyan, she had to be confused and scared, but unlike some tyros he’d dealt with, she hadn’t collapsed in a catatonic trance, overwhelmed by the teshuva’s energies. Instead, he suspected her teshuva was going to have its hands full reining her in. Much as he himself would.

Refusing to indulge the image of his hands full of her, he gave a deliberately casual shrug. “When you change your mind about the weapon . . .”

“I’ll be sure to let you know.”

He withheld a snort. She’d voluntarily admit to anything that smacked of weakness only after a snowball survived August in Chicago. Which was even less promising than its chances in hell.

She marched out of the weapons room but paused as he closed the door. “Sera said I’d meet the rest of the crew.”

He hesitated, picturing the predatory interest of his wayward, womanless fighters. “Later. They’re recovering from last night’s battles.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he added sharply, “You’ll be one of them soon enough.”

From the defiant flicker of violet in her eyes—obvious in the basement gloom—he thought soon might come even sooner. Instead of stopping at the main floor, he continued up, their steps clanging on the steel treads, until they reached the roof. He shoved open the access door to a swirl of frigid March air.

Thin clouds blanked the sun into a matte white disk that leached the dimensions from the surrounding industrial district. The gray-walled buildings looked flat as cardboard cutouts. Even the graffiti, unreadable at this distance, assuming it was ever readable, had dulled.

The wind rattled Jilly’s blue-spiked hair but couldn’t bend it. “King of all you survey, hmm?”

“Not even a knight,” he demurred. “I want you to see what we’re fighting for.”

“We’ll be hailed as conquering heroes, no doubt.”

He shook his head. This part of the test was always hard for the tyros to swallow. “No one besides us will ever know. Demons stalk the Magnificent Mile as often as the South Side, but the battleground doesn’t matter.”

“Not so different from my day job. I did three-quarters of my work on the street anyway. And just like those horde-tenebrae, the kids are half invisible to most people. Hell, most people didn’t even see
me
.”

Did she truly understand, or was this more of her bravado? Against the bleak landscape, her bright hair and warm skin tones gleamed. “They’d see plenty more hell if not for us.” He curled his fingers into fists to stop himself from reaching out to her and tilted his face to the sky. “Unfortunately, this is as close as you’ll get to heaven.”

She pivoted to face him. The wind bit through his shirt and he knew she must be equally chilled, but she stood without shivering. Though the top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulder, she sized herself against him with a long, slow look even more deliberate than the one he’d given her. Was it his imagination, or did she linger over places a good repentant demon should make him forget?

She breathed out a soft noise that left him no indication which way she had judged him. “This close, huh? And I haven’t even been properly damned yet.”

She took a step forward, tilting her head as if to get another perspective.

He tightened his hands into fists at his side, not against the cold, but against a rising heat that seemed to spark off those spiced eyes. “You will be. Soon.” Obviously some demon was at work that she would tease him so.

“We have hours before nightfall,” she said. “Hours before I can meet your fighters. Or my demon. So let’s go. Show me something to make me believe I have a better chance if I join you.”

And that latent demon in her apparently still had power to call to him, because he—who of all the talyan should know better than to give in to temptation—followed her.

Jilly tried not to feel him like a shadow at her back, dark and silent, down the stairs. She wasn’t ready for whatever he had to show her, even if, as Sera implied, she now had supernatural fighting skills to rival her old superfriends’, but she’d be damned—again, apparently—if she let him know that. They retrieved their coats from his office and headed out to the street.

Despite her purposeful stride, in one long step he moved up to pace her. “I told you we’d look into Andre’s disappearance. We discovered his last general whereabouts.” Liam steered her down the sidewalk. His big hand cradled her elbow, the old- fashioned gesture so instinctive she wondered if the women he favored had trouble walking on their own. “He had a favorite corner. You already knew he was dealing solvo.”

She lifted her arm out of his reach. “He was kicked out of the halfway house because of it. You said solvo has been connected to some bad shit.”

“Soullessness,” he reminded her. “Yeah, that’s about the worst.” He ran his fingers through his hair, then drew one lock forward around the tattoo that spread from his temple, not quite hiding it, but enough that a passerby wouldn’t notice anything strange. Just a tall, lean man with eyes that had seen too much.

She recognized that look. She stuffed her hands in her pockets, although it was harder to bury the unwelcome rush of sympathy. “How can a drug steal your soul? I mean, other than the metaphorical soul stealing.”

“Not steal, in this case. Dissolve. Gone forever.” When they crossed the street, he passed behind her, edging her with the bulk of his body to the inner part of the sidewalk. “It’s a djinni weapon.”

“Djinni?”

“In the hierarchy of malevolent forces, the djinn rank among the most treacherous. The malice are clever but weak; the ferales strong but dim. Djinn are smart, strong, and unstoppable. And they possess humans just like the repentant teshuva. Only the djinn aren’t sorry for any of it.”

“Humans possessed by evil incarnate?” She shook her head. “That’s no more shocking than repentance incarnate, I suppose.”

His gaze weighed on her, heavier than his hand. “You don’t have to pretend this is easy.”

What were her other choices again? “Would ignoring what’s right before my eyes be easier?”

The faintest dimple appeared in one cheek as he gave her a lopsided smile. “That’s what most people believe. Of course, if you were most people, you wouldn’t be here with me now.”

She couldn’t decipher from his tone if he was pleased or pained at her presence.

Once clear of the sparsely traveled warehouses, they caught a cab across town. The backseat of a sedan had never seemed so confining. As he maneuvered the long length of his thighs, he took up his legroom and half of hers. Pressed against her door, she avoided the open flap of his duster, but she couldn’t escape her awareness of him. Even in stillness, big hands resting on his knees, he radiated a compelling force. More than the heat of his rangy body that seemed to lull the tension in her muscles, beyond the unique male scent of him that teased her with a hint of woodsmoke and heather, his aura of effortless dominion captured her focus despite her very best intentions not to be awed. The demon, or the man? She hoped it was the demon, as unwise as that sounded, because entrapment by a demon seemed more forgivable than being drawn to a man who broke all her private rules: too big to throw out, too tough to care, or too hard to forget.

Determinedly, she turned her gaze out the window to the mounting evidence of gang tags, broken windows, and junker cars. “What are we doing this far out? None of the kids come here.”

“You wanted to know what happened to Andre. Well, he wasn’t dealing in that alley anymore. He lost it a while ago.”

The news stabbed her, deeper than Rico’s knife had ever gone. “Lost it?”

Liam lowered his voice. “His soul. A lot of them from this side of town end up here. There are a half dozen places around the city where they congregate.”

She tried to picture herself turning to steel, hard as a knife. Hard as Liam seemed to her. “Have you actually found Andre?”

“No, but we’ve been keeping track of these soulless clusters. We’ve had some trouble with them recently.” He snorted softly to himself. “The kind of trouble where they almost destroyed the world.”

Probably too much to hope that he was exaggerating.

He directed the cabdriver down a street of brick bungalows with identical short walkways leading up to identical small stoops. Decades ago, Jilly knew, the homes had been respectably working-class. Maybe in another decade, gentrification would creep in. For now, the black security bars over the picture-frame windows dulled the daylight like half-shuttered eyes.

“Stop here.” Liam handed money over the seat. “I don’t suppose you’d wait.” When the driver merely looked at him, Liam shrugged.

Jilly stepped out onto the sidewalk and glanced both ways as the cab pulled away. With the trees bare and the grass dormant—as if the first hints of spring had zero luck making the faintest inroads here—even the fretful wind made no impression on the empty street. “It’s dead.”

“The soulless don’t die, as far as we can tell. It’s quite the spiritual quandary. Not to mention a logistical nightmare for the league.”

“I can tell you’re really broken up about it.” She crossed her arms against her chest. Pissed, she told herself, not nervous.

He lifted his head to stare past her, and the lock of hair pulled toward his temple shifted to reveal the stark swirls of the tattoo. “I don’t have the luxury to feel bad, Jilly.”

“Then you might as well be sucking down solvo yourself.”

“Sometimes I feel like I am.”

He squared his shoulders. The duster around his lean body hung as motionless as the rest of the dead street, as if the wind itself couldn’t touch him, he was so alone. A twinge of regret at her sharpness had her reaching out to touch his arm, to distract him from his introspection. Sure, she made it a point to flout authority figures, but she had to admit, as far as overbearing petty dictators went, he had a hell of an excuse. Literally.

Which reminded her abruptly that his long coat remained unmoved by the wind because of the weight of the hammer in his freaking pocket. The hammer he used to bash off the heads of monsters. Without flinching. Monsters of the same sort as himself—and her.

She should probably keep her weak, pointless—oh, and not to mention
false
—reassurances to herself.

So she let her hand drop.

He moved on, unaware of her almost blunder. “This way.”

Around the corner was another short stretch of bungalows. As they walked, he said, “Here’s the short, boring version. For millennia, the tenebrae have been satisfied with wreaking their petty, and sometimes not so petty, havoc on the world. But four months ago, a djinni broke ranks and decided to tear open the barrier that divides the human realm from the demon realm. It would have been hell on earth.

“But the djinni’s machinations freed a powerful demon that then possessed Sera. With its unusual powers, she and Archer were able to kill the djinn- man and close the rift in the Veil. But we paid a high price.”

He gestured for her to walk ahead to a line of stubby concrete pillars that marked the entrance to a park.

Jilly paused between the pillars. “I don’t see what—Oh.”

A small crowd of people had gathered in the park, but they stood so motionless, they almost vanished against the background of barren trees.

Liam’s hands flexed at his sides, though he didn’t reach for the hammer. “The surviving remnants of a djinni army. Archer calls them haints, says they remind him of stories from his Southern childhood.”

An army of young and old, male and female, all in a variety of skin tones and clothing styles. For the most part they stood, although a few sat at the picnic tables and benches and one perched on a swing, all of them facing in different directions.

“They’re waiting,” Jilly blurted out. “I can almost . . . hear it—no, feel it—on my skin.”

Liam slanted a glance at her. “Yes. The question is, waiting for what?”

“Whatever will make them whole again.” She shuddered at the waves of pining that flooded the park like an inaudible rock power ballad for zombies. “God, it’s worse than the kids at
their
worst.”

“Then there’s that whole destroying-the-world thing I mentioned.” Liam propped his hip against the concrete blocks. Despite the casual stance, his taut wariness prickled at her nerves. “They’ve lost their focus along with their djinni controller, but we haven’t found the source of the solvo, so more and more of these are forming. It’s only been a few months, and in their passivity they tend not to accumulate too much damage. I dread the day one of them takes a fatal wound, ends up in an ER . . . and continues to live, bloodless and rotting.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “Can’t you do anything for them?”

He lifted one eyebrow. “Because in your line of work you know how easy it is to get help for the dispossessed.” When she scowled, he rubbed his temple and sighed. “I’m
possessed
, Jilly, not a miracle worker. The league destroys. We have no doctors or priests, and we can’t go outside our ranks. The world can’t help us. It never could, even before we were possessed.”