My Soul to Keep (14 page)

“No worry. I'm alive, and I don't think she'll kill me—or try to. Turns out we've got history.”

Darby shook her head, clearly uncertain. “My visions are never wrong … I saw her pull a sword from your back.”

“A sword wouldn't kill me.”

“Well, maybe it wasn't a typical sword. Maybe it's dipped in silver nitrate … or enchanted or
something.” She shook her head, her expression helpless. “You looked dead to me.”

“Look, she was kind of a sister to me. I don't see that happening.”

Did he actually just say that? Equate Sorcha to a
sister
? Maybe once. Long ago. Only the woman he'd kissed and touched and held in his arms in that cabin was in no way a sister to him.

“So she understood everything when you explained that she couldn't kill Tresa?”

“Let's just say she accepted it.” His lips pressed in a hard line as he thought of her escape into the tundra.

“Hmm.” Darby plucked a shrimp from her carton and chewed thoughtfully. “That's a weight off my mind. I couldn't return home and tell the coven that—”

“Now, I can't promise the witch won't be killed,” he said, thinking of the lycan Darius.

“What?” Darby lurched up on the couch.

“It appears Tresa has more than one enemy in the field.”

“Who?”

“Some lycan is hunting her.”

“A lycan?” Her face reddened. “What is it with you dovenatus and lycans wanting her dead?”

“Tresa is the origin of the curse. She's the key.” Even he could see there was sense
in that—that maybe there was some way to break the curse that the covens didn't know about.

Darby flung both hands up in the air. “Great. I can't go back and tell them she's alive for now, but who knows about tomorrow.”

“Whoever knows about tomorrow, Darby?” He dropped down on the chair across from her. “There are no guarantees. Why don't you head back and take care of your aunts the best you can? What will be, will be.”

“Spare me the fatalistic bullshit.” She leaned forward on the couch, resting her arms on her knees. “You're supposed to be our slayer. It's your job to help determine what
will be.
Why do you think you found me that day? It was destiny—”

“Do I have to hear this again?” He groaned.

“Yes—”

A brisk knock on the door silenced her before she could say anything more. He glanced at the table littered with takeout. “Did you order more food?”

“No.”

He moved toward the door, his steps cautious, his skin snapping into hyperalert. He never had visitors. One would need friends for that.

Before he could look through the peephole, a familiar voice called out, “Jonah, it's me. Open the door.”

Sorcha. Here?
His heart hammered furiously in his chest.

“Who's that?” Darby hissed.

Without answering, he pulled the door open, schooling his face into impassivity. “What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too.” Her dark hair gleamed with healthy shine, falling sleekly past her shoulders. She looked so good his mouth watered.

“How did you know where I lived?”

“It wasn't that hard. You mentioned Seattle and it seems you leave an impression everywhere you go.” Had he mentioned where he lived? He couldn't seem to recall much of their conversations—much of anything but her. “The female staff at the airport definitely remembered you. Once I was close enough, I just followed my nose.” Tapping a finger to her nose, she strode past him, into his condo. She pulled up at the sight of Darby on the couch.

“Oh, I didn't know …” For a moment, she looked uncomfortable, her features tight. Her fingers clutched the strap of her bag. “I thought I would find you alone.”

He crossed his arms and glared at her, not bothering to explain Darby's presence. Sorcha's being there was too dangerous to him, far too enticing. “I'm still trying to figure out why you're here at all.”

She tore her gaze from Darby to him again.

He sighed. “It's all right. Darby knows about us.”

“Does she?” Her perfectly tightened lips barely moved as she spoke. Her eyes narrowed beneath her arching eyebrows. “How nice.” She circled the room, the heels of her boots clicking over the wood floor, her gaze trained on the other woman.

Darby eyed her with something akin to awe. Sorcha's black leather jacket hung open above her snug-fitting jeans and silk blouse. She looked sexy as hell.

“I thought you'd be on a plane home,” Jonah said. She'd sure been in a hurry to leave him the last time he'd seen her.

“I thought I'd pop in on you. Learn a bit more about what it is you do.”

“And what is it I
do
?” He frowned, not sure he even knew.

She swung around, leaning her back against the tall marble counter, hands buried deep in the pockets of her leather jacket.

“Yeah. I'd like to know that, too,” Darby piped up.

Jonah cut her a glowering look.

“Demon slaying,” Sorcha explained. “I might be interested in learning about how that works. How all this demon and witch stuff works.”

“Why? Still looking to take Tresa's head?” Darby asked, a touch of anxiety in her voice.

Sorcha merely shrugged.

“No,” he bit out. “Forget it. You're not a slayer. I'm not even going to pretend I can train you to be one.”

Her eyes drew to slits, the brown almost black.

“No,” he repeated, his voice hard. “You're either chosen to be a demon slayer or you're not. It's cut and dry. Black and white. Supposedly I've been chosen.”

“No supposedly about it,” Darby objected. “You have been.”

Sorcha crossed her arms. “Who
chose
you?” Her dark arched eyebrows seemed to say that choosing him had been a mistake. He couldn't disagree with that. He wasn't a particularly religious man. Not because he doubted God's existence or anything. He believed God existed. Kind of hard not to. Whenever he stepped on consecrated ground he felt slightly ill. That was no coincidence.

He simply believed God wanted nothing to do with him. He was a cursed dovenatu. According to the covens, God was involved in choosing slayers. It had to have been some mistake selecting Jonah as one of his holy assassins. Only humans had been chosen as slayers before. Why him?

“God,” Darby readily supplied, butting her
nose in as usual. “God chooses slayers. Or more specifically, the angel Gabriel.”

“God,” Sorcha said, the skepticism rich in her voice, “chose Jonah?”

He pressed his lips in a thin line, trying not to take offense. She only echoed his thoughts. Still, it rankled that she thought him of so little worth.

“Yes. Jonah is God's instrument. He and all other slayers are charged with fighting Satan's minions who would have influence here on earth.”

“Jonah?” Sorcha repeated—again. “You do know he's led a fairly wretched existence? Ten years ago, he was the right-hand man to my father.” Her lips twisted and she joked dryly, “My father, who may or may not have been Satan.”

Jonah smiled despite himself. Her assessment of his life at that time was accurate. He had led a wretched existence in service to her father. The sad thing about it all was that he would
still
call his life wretched. Ever since he'd lost her …

He cut off the thought with a swift shake of his head. Sorcha had never been his. And you can't lose something you never possessed in the first place.

“It's not our place to question God's decisions,” Darby pointed out, somehow managing not to sound sanctimonious.

Sorcha gazed unflinchingly at the witch, assessing
her from the tip of her fuzzy socks to the top of her wild red head. “Who are you, anyway? How do you come to know so much?”

“I'm a witch. Jonah's a member of my coven. Not that he'll have much to do with me or my aunts. I keep chasing him down, hoping he'll answer his calling and move in with us.”

“I don't need to live with you and sign my life away to act as your slayer,” he ground out.

He glared at Darby, tired of this conversation and even more bothered that he was having it in front of Sorcha. He felt bare, stripped and exposed beneath her intense gaze.

“I'll do it,” Sorcha announced.

“What?”

Darby cocked her head. “Do what?”

“I want in. He doesn't want to move in with your coven and protect you all? Fine. I'll do it. You can teach me everything I need to know—”

“There's nothing to get
in.
” Jonah stalked closer, reached for her arm. “It's not the army. You don't simply join.”

She eased her arm out of his reach and strolled to the stretch of glass that faced the night. The skyline winked up at her, a thousand white and blue lights.

“Sorcha,” he growled, trying to keep his voice controlled and even. His patience was running
thin. “You heard Darby. Slayers are chosen … you haven't been chosen.”

“I can be useful—”

“You don't get it,” he growled. “I can see them. They're shadows that only I can detect. You can't. And you can't fight what you can't see.”

“It's not an unreasonable offer. Something to consider. I can train her.” Darby rose and approached the window. “You're a dovenatu, right?”

Sorcha gave a single nod.

“We could use your talents.”

“No.” Jonah shook his head. “She won't even be able to see what she's fighting. She can't see demons. She won't know where to strike to kill them.”

“We can train her. I can work with her … help coach her.”

“This is insane. You're not taking her home with—”

“I'll go,” Sorcha announced.

“Great.” Darby looked at him. “If you don't like it, Jonah,” she added with an evenness that set his teeth on edge, “then why don't you help train her? Make sure it's done right.”

“Yeah, Jonah,” Sorcha said, her voice faintly mocking. She crossed her arms. “Train me. If I can do your job, then maybe they'll quit harassing you to move in with them.”

Muttering, he glared out the window. “You can't see them.” It was the one point he couldn't get around. She'd be helpless against them.

“Teach me to see them,” she whispered, stepping close, her voice so soft he doubted Darby could hear her. “You owe me, Jonah. Give me this.”

He inhaled, the heady scent of her filling his nose. He winced, closing his eyes. This was Sorcha. Little Sorcha. She was right. He did owe her. He'd always felt protective toward her. The thought of taking her to mate at the tender age of fifteen and using her for the purpose of procreation had sickened him. Protecting her had been one of his life's overriding ambitions. And he had failed. He'd failed her.

“All right,” he agreed even as he wondered if he wasn't making a mistake. Training her to fight demons, to fight what she couldn't see … did she even stand a chance?

But he couldn't say no. Not when she looked at him with such desperate hope in her eyes, even if she tried to hide it. Thrusting out her chin, she almost passed for a hard-ass. Except for the eyes. Her eyes pleaded with him, and he was reminded of the last night he'd seen her in Istanbul, eavesdropping on him and her father discussing when he was going to take her to mate. She'd waited for
him in the corridor, and put the question to him directly. She'd bared her heart to him in that moment, offered herself to him body and soul, and he rejected the offer. Rejected her.

That look in her eyes was his last memory of her. Standing here now, she looked at him with the same hunger in her gaze. Only the hunger wasn't for
him.
It was for what he could do for her. He couldn't say no. Not twice. He'd do this for her, and then call it quits with Sorcha. Any obligation or responsibility he felt for her would be relieved then.

“Thank you,” Sorcha said, her voice louder. With a wobbly smile, she sent Darby a nod.

“Just don't get yourself killed,” he growled. “I don't want that on my head.”

Her glossy lips curved. “I'll do my best.”

“Well,” Darby said as she settled back down with her box of lo mein. “Not an official slayer, but you have to be better than nothing. Hard to kill, that's for sure. I think my aunts will be pleased.”

“Heartening,” Sorcha murmured dryly, all the while looking at him, peering intently, as if she could read his mind. He didn't look away either, kept staring at her face, her lips … imagining that mouth tasting its way down his body.

He jerked his head from such thoughts. This
was Sorcha. He couldn't think of her like that. What'd he'd done to her in that cabin could be forgotten as long as he didn't repeat the mistake.

What he did with women was never sweet or gentle. The idea of doing those things with Sorcha stabbed him with guilt … and lust. Except the guilt was more powerful. At least he told himself that. He told himself guilt would keep him in check.

“So, where do we begin, Jonah?” Darby asked. “I've never tried to find a demon. Actually, I spend most of my time hiding from them. How does one go about hunting one?”

Jonah tore his gaze from Sorcha and smiled at the witch he'd come to know so well. “With bait, of course.”

Darby's smile slipped as she looked uncertainly between him and Sorcha. Stabbing her chopsticks into her box, she leaned back on the couch, her gaze sliding uneasily to Sorcha. “I'm not going to enjoy this, am I?”

So,” Darby began mildly as Sorcha selected things from her luggage that she would need for her shower. Sorcha glanced at the younger woman where she lounged on the bed with a familiarity reserved for old friends. Jonah had given up his room for Sorcha. Darby already occupied his one guest room, so that left the couch for him. At least it answered her question regarding his relationship with the redhead. “Jonah's like your brother?” Darby finished.