Soulless (The Heartless Series Book 2) (11 page)

My heart beats faster. I’m terrified that I’ve broken the world. What if it never speeds back up again? I used to hear my mother tell stories about dial-up Internet, which is terrifying in and of itself. They used to have to wait for the computer to dial the telephone company, and it had this ringing tone to it. Brrrrringgggggshosharniaondaneiwand is the sound I think she said it made. Anyway, I can imagine how horrible it must have been to sit there and wait to get on the Internet. Those poor people back then.

I’m worried, now, that I’ve done the exact same thing as the ring tone thing—only to the entire world. I’ve slowed it down. Made it crawl. Bent time.

It’s freakin’ cool!

In a very weird, very wrong sort of way.

If I can bend time and throw overgrown men against walls, what else can I do? I mean, besides destroy the world. There has to be something, right? If I’m so powerful, why do I have to hide like a scared puppy? I have powers. I’m a freakin’ superhero! I mean, when I have the blood and stuff in my veins. I don’t seem to be as strong without it. That’s a very big downside… and an understatement.

It takes a while, but Hart’s eyes slowly meet mine. They are wide and black and dilated. He looks terrified. I feel terrified. We are two of a kind.

The way he’s looking at me—I want him to look away. Do something. Move! I can’t take it! His big black eyes accusing me of doing this… he knows it’s me. Knows it’s me destroying everything. Slowing down the world. Do the people outside feel it? How far does it reach?

Sam, well Hart, but still—Sam said once that I was a freak. I believed it before because of the visions and everything. I most definitely believe it now. I’m not human. Not fully. One would think the angel side of me would be a good thing to have. Angels are good after all—my father is an angel. Not a good one.

An idea is like a whisper—technically more like a worm—that stretches into your mind and imbeds there. Lots of ideas come and go. This one sort of lingers there. I don’t think about it much because I don’t know any other angels besides Seth and Lucien, but the question remains in my mind like a distant thought, something I should probably hang on to except I don’t know the exact reason why.

What would happen if I drank angel blood?

Angel blood.

Demon blood.

Blood.

I’m a supernatural vampire.

Hell, I might even sparkle for all I know.

Time still hasn’t sped up, and I’m beginning to freak out. The slow heartbeat I’ve heard in my ears this entire time speeds up.

Beat………………………………………

Beat……………………………….

Beat………….

Beat…

Beat.

Faster and faster it grows until I can’t take it anymore. I’ve had panic attacks in my life. One can’t go through all those years of being tortured by a demon in one’s sleep not to have them. This one is worse, more powerful. My heart doesn’t just speed up; it goes into galactic mode. My entire body feels like it’s humming with some sort of power shift, and the world around me starts moving like it’s on a conveyer belt. Faster and faster and faster until there is a big bright white light that nearly blinds me. Not thinking, I throw my hand over my eyes to shield them from how bright it really is and kneel down beside the desk for extra protection.

The second thing I know, the little earworm present in my ear, is that this light is bad. And it can hurt me. I’m not light. I’m not made of Heaven—not really. I’m full of evil of darkness. And light trumps darkness. Paranormal 101.

My ears are ringing, filled with the sharpest and highest tone I’ve ever heard, ever want to hear. I cover my ears and pray, actually pray, for it to stop soon. I can’t take it. The sound vibrates through me, making every cell in my body shake. This can’t be the way I die. Killed by a burst of light I created.

I created it.

I’m a monster.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

HART

B
EING IN SLOW MOTION MIGHT BE
the strangest feeling I’ve ever felt in my life, and that’s saying a lot—Hell and all, and being tortured and turned into a demon by my mother! Yeah, can’t say I’ve had it easy. Not that I’m making excuses. I’m just saying…

I don’t know what I’m saying.

I knew Gracen was powerful. A guy couldn’t be near her for long and not know that. Especially now with the blood—the demon and angel blood—in her body. Who knows what else is going on inside her?

Well, I know some of it, but I’m not telling her. It’ll freak her out, and I can’t have that.

I need her calm. As calm as I can get her. As calm as she will allow herself to be. The light came from her.

Shone from the blackness of her eyes and enveloped the room so quickly I barely had time to duck beside the bed, once I got to move again.

I’m not sure what sort of light it was. I’ve heard stories of a light that can kill demons, but it has always been a demon bedtime story. Then again, so was the Abomination. Just a story they told demon kids to get them to sleep at night—not really, same idea.

So, like the big coward I am, I fall behind the bed, shut my eyes, and pray. Yeah, demons pray sometimes. I do sometimes just to see if it goes through. It never has so far. Not that I know of. I don’t exactly pray for myself while I’m crouched down next to the bed knowing that the world will end, wondering how I couldn’t have seen this coming.

It’s too soon.

She hasn’t done everything yet.

Either that or the—

The heat from the light starts to fade, and after several seconds of feeling my face to see if it’s melted off, I decide I’ve survived—for now—and try my best to stand.

It feels weird to stand. After all I’ve been through. Time stood still. Time sped up. The light tried to kill me.

Typical day.

I remember a day when I first joined the Confederates. There was one day that was so hot… it was November, and a person would think it would be cold in November, and it had been—that morning. By that afternoon, it was so hot, my wool coat made me sweat in places I didn’t know a person could sweat. I was a farmer by nature. Everybody in my town was. Hell, it was 1862. You farmed or you died, as my daddy said. As the oldest brother, Lucien got most of the heavy chores. And the chores that I said I didn’t want to do because I was too little. Yes, I played the younger brother card, and yes, my father allowed it.

The heat on that November day was nothing compared to what Gracen did.

Lucien was my mother’s favorite. There’s no denying that. He looked a lot like her. Still does.

I imagine even more so now.

When I first brought Gracen home, in between feeding her blood, I tried to find ways to get Lucien back from Hell. I read and I read… stupid book… and I got nothing. No way. No how.

And now…

Now, we have to get to Prospect ASAP.

The fires of light are dying. The heat is dissipating, and either I’m dead—again—or this abomination outburst is nearly over. I’m all for the abomination outburst being over.

I feel bad for her. I do. It can’t be easy to have these feelings and not know how to handle them. When I first became a demon, I felt the same way. Rage mostly. I felt rage. I felt rage from the moment I died until…

Until my brother took my place in Hell.

It was supposed to be me that closed the gate. I helped open it after all. And what did that big idiot do? He mixed his blood with mine, tainting him so he can never enter Heaven again, and he jumped into the pit.

Allowing me to live.

Allowing me to go on and, for all intents and purposes, babysit the almost abomination.

Allowing me to watch out for her… to take care of her…

I wonder if he thought I’d kill her.

I wonder if he thought he was already dead.

I should have let her die. The world would be safer if I had.

She doesn’t know that.

She doesn’t know a lot of things.

I had a lot of time to read up while she was out, and I know a lot more than I can tell her.

She feels bad enough for what she is without knowing the whole story. Without knowing about Lucien. About herself. About what she is going to inevitably do to the world.

I can’t think about that, though. I have one goal at a time. I’ll figure out the rest when I can. We have to get to Prospect. We have to get there now. I have to find a way to keep Gracen calm, keep her as human as I can while all the demon blood I’m feeding her tries to wrap her mind in its webs. I kept my humanity—for as black as it is—in Hell. I kept it this entire time. If I can do it—a vial, evil thing who only wanted revenge on his older brother—then so can she. I just have to show her how. Like I’m such a role model.

I’m hiding behind a bed.

I’m praying to a God who hates me and my kind.

I’m lying to the girl about what she can do.

Because I don’t know what the light will do to me.

Because I don’t know what else to do besides pray.

Because I can’t tell her the truth. She can never know, because if she knows the real reason I kept her alive, she will hate me forever.

She’ll have every right to.

I hate myself for it enough for both of us.

I never should have let it happen.

Stupid humanity.

Stupid… stupid… stupid.

She can never know what she is capable of. I’ll have it fixed before it becomes a problem. She’ll see. Everything will be all right.

I’ll make sure it’s all right.

Because I have to.

Because I owe her.

Because…

Because.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“
W
HAT THE HECK… WHAT THE HECK!”

That’s one thing I like about Gracen, she’s the most powerful thing in the world—and she rarely cusses. She truly is something different. And definitely not all in a bad way.

“Gracen!” I yell, trying to gauge where she’s at in her little episode. Does she need me to go over there and help her, or am I safer here behind the bed? Do I feel like a jerk for staying here? Yes. But I’m a living jerk, and that’s all that matters.

“It’s okay,” she says.

I can hear how hard she’d breathing, and I take the chance to open my eyes. The bright light of doom has gone, replaced by the cheery rays of sunshine coming from outside. When she’s weak, I can still put images into her mind like I did when she was fully human, not that she was ever fully human… let’s just say that when she doesn’t have as much demon blood in her, she isn’t as strong. When she isn’t as strong, she can’t fight me as well, and I can get inside her mind. Now, she’s full as flip of demon blood, and I don’t think I want to mess with her.

I let her see it as dark outside.

I let her see fake news reports.

I let her see lots of things that weren’t real. All the bodies… only three of them were real. I didn’t kill that many demons to save her. I didn’t need to. I know where to get demon blood if I need it. I have my reasons for lying to her. At the time, I didn’t want her to leave. Now… now we have to go very, very quickly.

This thing keeps changing, the game plan on how to deal with her, with—everything. The rules keep changing. She keeps changing. I keep changing. I don’t know if that’s a good thing.

Before was so simple. Hate. Hate the world. Hate my brother. Hate my mother. Hate my father…

Now… Now, I don’t know. I don’t hate my brother. I feel bad about what happened between us. I slightly feel bad for killing the guy back in 1863… One thing that hasn’t changed: I still hate my mother.

“Is it over?” I ask just to be sure. And because I’m me and just can’t help myself, I say, “Did you get your fit threw?”

Possibly not the best thing in the world to say, but I don’t see the light of death coming after me, so either she doesn’t know how to control it, she doesn’t have enough juice and shot her load on the one time only deal, or she’s drained. I vote for door number four—she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing, and she’s terrified. Her emotions are taking over, which is never good, and I have to be the voice of reason.

I get the irony in that.

“Sweetheart?” I ask, trying to weigh the pros and cons of standing up. I don’t want my head cut off by whatever other tricks she has up her sleeves. Powerful is one thing. Powerful you can’t control is something much worse.

I’m not happy with worse.

“Don’t call me that.”

Her words are almost emotionless, and it, frankly, scares me a little. I’m used to Gracen, well, not being all big and chipper but having at least some sort of emotion in her voice. She sounds dead, like she’s given up. She cannot give up. I won’t let her.

I can’t let her.

“What would you like me to call you? Baby?” I’m trying very hard to walk that thin like between jerk and calming influence. If I act too differently, she will know I know something, and she’ll start questioning things. Questioning would be bad, especially since I’ve been lying to her so much. For her own good, yeah, but still lying. So I have to play the character of the Hart she saw in her head, which was, to be perfectly honest, a big part of herself. I couldn’t do anything her mind wouldn’t allow me to do, so the things she let me do—I can’t imagine that being inside of her.

It makes me sad, and I don’t do sad.

What I can do is a dog and pony show where I’m a dick of a demon and she has to put up with me until which time it all ends, either with a whisper or a boom. Either way, I’m guessing is fine with her.

It’s not with me.

Gracen doesn’t answer me for a few seconds, and it scares me. I decide to be a brave little demon and stand to see what she’s up to. I don’t see the light, and as far as I know the knife is downstairs, unless she can bring it up to her somehow. I’m not entirely sure she can’t.

I poke my head up from behind the bed—I’m sure looking like a wild haired, half-crazed badger—and stare at her. She’s leaning on the desk, her head bowed and her hands folded in her lap. She’s playing with her fingers, staring at them like they hold all the answers to the universe.

This can’t be good.

Not good at all.