Retribution (Redemption Series) (18 page)

Marcas
' eyes rolled
up, his gaze moving to the landscape beyond my shoulder, and he froze.

"Dayton,"
he said softly.

"Yeah?"

"Don't
move."

Chapter 19

The human heart
is a strange thing. Loved, it expands. Broken, it endures. Tested, it perseveres.

~
Bezaliel
~

"Don't
Move."

In the middle of
a Demonic trial, those words are enough to scare a snake out of its skin. I
froze.

"
Marcas
?"
I whispered.

His eyes found
mine and there was a desperation I had never seen in them before, a fear I'd never
be able to define. He reached out, his hand gripping my chin firmly.

"Dayton,
listen to me. No matter what happens, no matter what you hear or feel, don't
move. Do not look behind you. Do you understand?"

I started to nod
but paused when I heard rustling in the meadow beyond. The colors here were
still vivid, bright and cheerful. There was nothing foreboding about the
moment, nothing dangerous,
nothing
until . . . .

"Dayton?"

The female voice
was soft, and I jerked.
Marcas
' hand still gripped my
chin, and he forced me to look into his eyes. They were blue. I kept expecting
them to turn red, but they didn't. For now, he was human.

"Dayton?"

The
voice again.
It was so real, and I heard myself sob.
Marcas
shook
his head.

"It's not
her, Dayton. Understand? It's not her," he said firmly, his eyes glued to
mine. "Do you know the story of Sodom and Gomorrah in the Bible?

I nodded, my
head jerking as the woman whispered my name again.
Mom.
She was looking for me. Mom was looking for me.

Marcas
pulled on my
chin. He was leaving bruises on my face, but he didn't relax his grip.

"Sodom and
Gomorrah were sinful cities destroyed by fire and brimstone. Lot was there with
his wife. She wasn't supposed to look back, remember? If she did, she'd be
turned into a pillar of salt. It's not your mother, Day. It's fire.
Nothing more.
Don't look back."

Tears slid down my cheeks, gliding over
Marcas
' hand as he held me, the contact steadfast and sure,
and I clung fast to his touch. His fingers were a lifeline. Each time my name
was called using my mother's voice, I felt my heart break. Never before had I
considered curiosity a human weakness, but now . . . now it was more than a
weakness. It was a battle for control. I wanted more than anything to turn
around.

"Dayton . . . I need you," my
mother pleaded.

There were tears in her voice. It was my
undoing.
Marcas
took my face in both of his hands,
and I held fast to his wrists as he looked at me, his eyes shining.

"It's not her."

He repeated it over and over again, his
eyes on mine.

"Dayton," my mother called.

And then she screamed. It was an
agonizing scream, the stark, raving mad kind that only came from fear, the kind
that took my world and reversed it because the only thing I wanted to do was
save her.

I fought
Marcas
then, pulling desperately at his wrists as my mother screamed over and over
again, her panic seeping into every pore of my body. It tore me apart, and I
fought.

Distantly, I knew I was hurting
Marcas
. His body had not been healed the same way mine had,
but my mother's screams were all consuming. There was something about hearing
this woman I loved unconditionally being wounded. It destroyed a part of me. It
didn't matter that she wasn't real. She
sounded
real. She sounded so damn real.

Marcas
' grip was firm,
and he forced my eyes to his.

"Be still," he said, repeating
the same words I'd uttered to him earlier. "Be still. I'm here. "

I quit thrashing and sobbed. I still
hurt from the injuries I'd received in the white hot wasteland, but the
devastation in my heart was so much more painful than the wounds could ever be.
The screaming would not cease. She screamed and she screamed, this woman who
was not my mother but who sounded so much like her.

"It's not her,"
Marcas
whispered.

His face was close now, his nose just
touching mine, his hands still clutching my face.

"It's not her."

Her screams were louder, more
persistent, and she sobbed my name.

"Dayton . . . Dayton."

Fear and shame gripped me. My mother had
died because Damon believed I held the key to his redemption. She had died. I
had not been able to save her then, and I would not be able to save her now.

"It's not her,"
Marcas
repeated as the screams grew so loud my ears began
to ring.

There was no escaping the sound, no escaping
the way my heart rate picked up as the screams grew nearer. She was coming, and
she needed me.
Marcas
' hands became a vice on my
face.

"Don't move, Dayton! Do you
understand me? It's not her."

And then there was a strange sensation
on my skin. It was a soft sensation, familiar, comforting, like fingers being
run methodically through my hair and down my back.

"Dayton," my mother
whispered,
her voice near my ears.

I screamed and thrashed,
Marcas
' hands the only thing keeping me from bolting upright.

"Oh, my
God,
Marcas
!
She's touching me!"

His grip was firm, sure.

"It's not her, Dayton. Look at me.
It's not her."

She was touching me! I couldn't see her,
but she was touching me! She was rubbing my hair lovingly, and I fought not to
reach back and search for her hand.

"Look at me, Dayton."

Marcas
was saying my
name more than he had ever said it, and I knew he was hoping repeating it would
keep me with him. I closed my eyes and concentrated on his touch, on his hands
and only his hands. It should have been an awkward moment. I was laying on a
patch of grass in Hell in nothing more than a pair of blue jeans and a pink bra
while covered in cuts and abrasions with
Marcas
nose
to nose with me, his hands on my face and his words working to drown out the
lulling tones of my mother's voice.

"It's not her," he said again,
his thumbs massaging my cheeks.

My grip on his wrists tightened, and I
focused on his voice, letting the deep sound move through me, calming me,
anchoring me. My eyes opened, and I stared into his eyes, my gaze searching
his.

"It's not her," he breathed.

I nodded against his palms just as a
shadow fell over his shoulder. My gaze followed it, and I tensed.

"
Marcas
,"
I
murmured,
my voice small.

He turned, his gaze landing on the
Demons behind him. There were three Demons to be exact, each a minion of
Lilith's and Lucifer, small troll-like creatures we had fought once in Petra.
They were lesser demons, but without our powers, that didn't mean much.

"Shit,"
Marcas
spat, his hands still on my face.

I could feel my mother's phantom fingers
roaming my hair, my back, her voice more persistent now as the Demons behind
Marcas
grinned. A sword appeared in the grass between
Marcas
and I, and he looked down at it warily. I had seen
Marcas
handle weapons before. Because of his powers, he
didn't need them, but I knew he knew how to use them.

Marcas
' eyes found
mine, and I knew by his expression what Lucifer was doing. He had found a way
to take
Marcas
away from me. He wanted me vulnerable,
wanted me to make the fatal mistake of looking for my mother.

Out of nowhere, a troll-like claw flew
at us, embedding itself in my leg, and I screamed as it dug itself into my
flesh.
Marcas
roared, grabbing the sword before
rolling away from me just long enough to lash out at the Demon. He managed to
nick the troll, and the creature retreated before advancing once more.

I was in pain, my leg aching, and I bit
down on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. There was a soothing
hum then, a crooning, low sound as my mother's voice moved over me.

"Let me fix that," she said,
and I let the tears fall, every memory I'd ever had of my mother's healing
hands smoothing over injuries, her lips kissing hurts that no doctor could fix,
washing over me.

"Dayton," she breathed, and I
closed my eyes.

Marcas
' hands were
suddenly on my face again.

"Don't look. No matter what
happens, don't look."

The Demon-trolls attacked us again,
their claw-like nails flying from their hands to embed themselves around us. I
felt one nick my foot, but I managed not to cry out.
Marcas
had no choice. He had to fight, and I couldn't help him. I couldn't face
whatever it was behind me. A pillar of salt,
Marcas
had said. Lucifer wanted me destroyed. Maybe he believed he could control
Marcas
if something happened to me and maybe he could, but
I needed to be strong.

I opened my eyes to find
Marcas
gripping the sword as the three Demon-trolls
advanced on us, and I pushed him away.

"Fight," I whispered.

He looked down at me.

"Dayton . . . ."

"I won't look back," I
promised.

And with that,
Marcas
threw himself into the fight, deflecting sharp claws as he placed himself
between me and the Demon-trolls attacking us.

"Dayton?" my mother asked.

My heart hurt.

"It's not her," I whispered to
myself, curling myself into a ball on the ground, my eyes squeezed shut against
her whispers and her phantom hands.

"Dayton," she
breathed,
her voice more insistent, her words clear.

I whimpered, but I didn't move. I used
my fingers to dig little crescents into the palm of my opposite hand as my name
was repeated over and over again, and I let the pain distract me. There were
"whooshing" noises along with the sound of metal clashing against
metal, and I prayed that
Marcas
was okay.

"Dayton," my mother whispered
in my ear.

I jumped.

"No," I told myself firmly.
"No."

Marcas
grunted, and I
tensed, preparing myself to move in the direction of his voice.

"I'm okay,"
Marcas
called out. "Don't move!"

I curled in on myself. I felt useless.
Scared, heartbroken, and useless.

"Look at me, Dayton. I need to see
your face," my mother pleaded beside me. I swallowed hard and covered my
ears with my hands. It didn't help. I could still hear her.

"It's not her," I told myself,
my attention on the battle beyond.

There was a loud squeal followed by a
shrill, high-pitched scream, and I knew
Marcas
had
disposed of two of the Demons. Still, I didn't move. The presence at my back
was unfailing, whispering words no one should know about my past.

"Remember
. . . my little warrior. Remember when you broke your collar bone when you were
five because you believed you could fly from the kitchen island to the table.
Remember what I told you . . ."

I started to hum to myself, drowning out
her words. But I remembered. "
One
day, you will fly. One day, you will soar over the world. One day, you will be
a superhero. But for now, let's not attempt destroying the kitchen."

I was laughing and crying now, my eyes
squeezed shut so tight I was afraid they'd start to spasm. And then there was a
different noise, another squeal, and then silence. I started to move and
thought better of it.

"
Marcas
?"
I whispered.

He was suddenly there, his hands helping
me to sit up before his palms were on my face, cradling me confidently.

"You can open your eyes now,"
he said gently.

I looked at him slowly, my eyes sore as
the swollen lids opened, and there he was.
Marcas
,
his strong face still pink from the white hot wasteland, his eyes searching
mine. He was kneeling in front of me, a cut along his blistered forearm
indicating that the fight had not been an easy one. He was breathing hard from
the exertion, his brows furrowed with pain he'd never admit he felt. And when
he saw me staring he leaned forward, his face near mine, and breathed,