CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

If having a leather-clad woman spending nights at Lincoln’s home wasn’t enough to spur gossip among the bored citizens of Northgate, then having a half-naked woman show up on a motorcycle was definitely going to get lips flapping.

Elise and Rylie had escorted Father Night to a friend’s house in Woodbridge, then returned to the church to find that Father Armstrong’s mobile home was still unoccupied. Rylie was going to send one of her pack over to keep watch on the house.

That left Elise with nothing to do but figure out why Lincoln Marshall wasn’t answering his phone.

Blowing through the mountain roads on the pack’s motorcycle was exhilarating. The narrow twists and turns had been too dark for Elise to see what was two feet ahead of her, much less around the corners, and she had to rely on pure reflex to keep herself from flying off the tight corners. She didn’t slow in Northgate, either—she wasn’t exactly worried about speeding tickets, and normal jails wouldn’t hold her. She cut a straight line through town to Lincoln’s complex and killed the engine.

Elise didn’t bother knocking on Lincoln’s door. The sound of the motorcycle’s engine had surely woken up Mrs. Kitteridge, and the less the old bat saw of Elise, the better.

The kitchen screen was unlocked, and the door stood open. She slipped inside.

“Lincoln?” Elise said softly. The clock on the stove filled his kitchen with a faint blue glow. The time blinked midnight. The power must have died again.

The living room emanated a golden haze, like the lamp next to his recliner was on. But Lincoln didn’t reply when she repeated his name.

She found him sitting on the couch wearing nothing but his uniform slacks and standard-issue loafers. Even slouching with his shoulders hunched and legs extended in front of him, the bricks of his abdomen were hard, defined ridges. His hand dangled over the arm of the couch, crucifix pinched between his forefinger and thumb. A brush of gold hair covered his pecs.

The phone on the table beside him was off the hook, and silent. The cord had been yanked out of the wall.

Lincoln lifted his head at Elise’s approach. His eyes were shadowed by the lamp. Unreadable. Whatever he thought of her appearance in the tattered shirt and underwear, he didn’t show it.

“Shitty day,” Elise said. It was a statement, not a question.

Lincoln grunted his agreement.

He looked like a dog that had been kicked one too many times. Empathy wasn’t one of Elise’s talents, but she could tell when life had beaten a man down.

She didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t want to hear why Lincoln looked so miserable, or why he had disconnected his phone rather than take her calls. It could only be bad news. Being exorcised, having James track her down, the fight with Nashriel, and her frustrating inability to track down Father Armstrong was all the bad news she could handle for one night.

“I’m borrowing your shower,” she said.

Lincoln grunted again.

Elise shed her clothes on the way to his bathroom. His home, whether or not he liked it, had become her base for the duration of the investigation, and everything new that she had purchased at the consignment shop was still on the desk in his office. She grabbed a new outfit before ducking into the bathroom.

Before she became a demon, Elise used to like showering in the dark. Standing under the faucet without her eyesight improved the acuity of her other senses, reducing Elise to nothing but the place the water contacted her skin, the rushing in her ears, the heat of the spray. It was a unique way to meditate and relax.

But now her eyesight was too good to enjoy the sensory deprivation. She had to settle for shutting her eyes, tilting her head back, and letting the water course over her.

She had been mere yards away from James that evening. He had been closing in on her, rushing to her side, though the open bond had made it feel as if they stood within one another’s skin. He was the one that had pulled her out of Hell after she was exorcised. He had sounded like he feared losing her—as if he hadn’t lost her years ago.

It had almost been like old times, back when she still believed that James was a good person. Someone who really cared about her.

Elise had once loved James with all of the raw, earnest emotion of a teenage girl—as much as she could feel such a thing, anyway. She had been sixteen when she fell under his lies, and he had been twenty-eight. An adult. Someone that she thought she could trust.

They had been a formidable team, Elise and James. She had been the sword, the weapon that delivered the killing blow to demons, and he had been the witch that wielded her. The mind, the heart, the conscience. They had toppled demonic overlords and belayed apocalypse together. They had been more than partners, more than friends.

For ten years, Elise thought that her feelings were one-sided.

For ten years, James had loved and dated and fucked other women, while spending his nights hunting demons with Elise.

For ten years, he had lied to her.

And then everything had fallen apart.

The bathroom door hushed open, shifting the air in the bathroom. Elise opened her eyes to see the shower curtain stirring. A shape moved on the other side.

Lincoln pushed the curtain aside. He was wearing the slacks belted tightly around his trim waist. The crucifix gleamed at the hollow of his throat now.

Lincoln’s eyes roved over Elise’s wet, naked body. He didn’t look approving. He didn’t even look aroused. It was like he was searching for some truth imprinted on her flesh. “You’re a demon,” he said. “You’re a beast that crawled from Hell.”

So this was some kind of internal conflict for Lincoln? Some kind of clash between his faith and his desire?

Elise had no patience for that bullshit.

She tugged his belt open. Metal jangled. With a single pull, it whipped from the loops of his slacks, then clattered to the floor. Water dripped from her hands, spreading damp circles on his slacks.

He grabbed her wrist, twisted her arm.

“You’re not wearing gloves,” he said, looking at her palm. That one was bare, so she showed him her other hand. There was a tattoo on her palm. She used to have two, but only one remained. It was an elaborate black sigil with swooping lines and curlicues. “A demon mark?”

“No,” Elise said simply. It was God’s brand, an ethereal mark, and she wasn’t going to bother explaining it.

“Have you possessed me?” he asked, hands hot on her upper arms.

Elise unzipped his slacks, pushed them down his thighs. He was already erect. He stepped out of his clothes and got into the shower with her.

The water was cooling slightly. Elise twisted the handle until it could go no hotter, and steam rose from the tub in hazy swirls, making condensation gather on the walls and the broad planes of Lincoln’s chest.

“Do you want me to possess you?” Elise asked, tracing the eddies of fluid flowing down his abs.

He caught her wrists in a painful grip. “I keep dreaming about you. It’s like you’ve taken up space inside my skull. Are you gonna try to steal my soul?” There was his accent again, but this time, it was thick with passion rather than anger.

Elise had no interest in Lincoln’s soul, if such a thing existed. She wanted something far more tangible.

His grasp would have been bruising if she had been human, and it made her heart race, her breath grow choppy. She leaned against Lincoln. Their thighs slipped together. His arousal was trapped between them.

“Are you a killer?” he asked.

That wasn’t a hypothetical question. Lincoln was staring at her, expectant.

“I’m a killer,” Elise said. “I kill when people are in danger, or when someone has earned it. I don’t kill innocents because there’s no motivation for it. Not because it would be morally wrong. Morals mean nothing to me. I’m not a good person, Lincoln, but I am not your murderer, and I want nothing to do with your soul.”

“Hellspawn,” Lincoln hissed, lowering his head toward hers. His breath tasted like alcohol.

And she replied, “Pretty much.”

Then he was shoving her against the wall of the shower, his fingers spreading her thighs. He shoved himself between her knees and pinned her against the tile with his weight. Their wet bodies collided, slipping against each other in an urgent, frictionless grip that placed his body on the verge of penetrating hers.

The kiss was much more violent than the last time. He nipped her lips. His tongue shoved into hers, he fisted one hand in her hair, and he yanked her head back hard enough to make her gasp. There was no grace to it, no affection.

“You like that?” Lincoln asked.

Elise didn’t have to say yes. She arched her back, inviting him to take what he wanted—whatever it might be. Water sluiced down her breasts, dripped from the hard peaks of her nipples.

He shoved himself inside of her. No foreplay, no teasing. But she was hot, she was wet, and she tightened around him like a body jerking against the thrust of a sword. Lincoln got a better grip on her leg, trapping her knee between his arm and ribs, and shoved himself deep.

Lincoln grunted as their bodies slammed together. Elise’s breath was trapped in her throat.

Each thrust was as angry and hard as a punch. Their skin slapped together. She fisted her hands in his hair, sinking her teeth into his throat as he sank himself into her.

He built toward climax quickly. She could taste his arousal, the pounding of his heart, the building adrenaline. His anger was thick inside of her skin. She locked her legs around him and let herself follow him along for the ride.

His motions grew erratic. His muscles stiffened. A roar tore from his throat, and Lincoln spent himself inside of her.

Elise saw it was good, and she smiled.

Elise and Lincoln remained in the shower until it washed away their mingled fluids and the water became cold. Then they climbed into bed, their clean skin easily slipped between the sheets.

He rolled onto his side, facing away from her. Elise remained sitting upright. Her fingertip trailed along the line of his spine, dipping into the furrows between the muscles.

“Did you steal my crucifix?” he asked.

“No,” Elise said. “Why?”

“Father Armstrong brought it to me. Said you stole it so that you could possess me.”

The priest must have realized that Elise was coming after him. If he had thought that he could talk Lincoln into kicking Elise out of Northgate, he was sorely mistaken. “When did you see him?”

Lincoln still didn’t roll over. “At the office. After we talked, I got suspended.”

Elise’s finger stilled. “Suspended? Why?”

“Don’t know. The priests visited the station. Then Sheriff Dickerson dismissed me.” He said it flatly, matter-of-factly, without a hint of emotion. “They didn’t mention you, so I don’t think that it’s because I hired help.”

No, Elise was willing to bet that they had dismissed him because he was the only one at the station that wasn’t in on the murders. Somehow, they were all involved—from the priest to the coroner and the sheriff herself. But if they were trying to take Lincoln out of the picture, then she doubted it would stop at a suspension. Even if he wasn’t on the list, he was definitely in danger.

“You need to go into hiding,” Elise said, rubbing a knuckle gently against the divots at the small of his back.

He didn’t respond. His breathing had grown deep and even as exhaustion sucked him under. She could taste the moment that the electrical signals in his mind changed gears from wracked turmoil to peaceful unconsciousness, and Elise continued to idly stroke his back, even when dreams began dancing underneath his flesh.

Lincoln was a disturbed man. His worries followed him into dark oblivion, writhing in his skull like black serpents, and his muscles remained tense.

He needed to rest. Hiding could wait. Elise pushed the blankets aside and went to check her email in his office.

McIntyre had already responded to the photos of the Bible. Weird hobby for a priest. I’ll see if I can find anything about those symbols. How did you find this Father Armstrong? What does he matter?

That was a good question. Elise typed out a quick response.

The coroner is also named Armstrong. Find the connection. After a moment’s hesitation, she added, See what else you can find about the victims.

She sat back after she sent the email, kicking her feet up on the desk and lacing her fingers over her bare stomach. The warding ring reflected the light from the computer’s monitor. She twisted the gold band with her thumb, watching the way that the twisted furrows seemed to dance as they rolled over her finger.

Elise had never been in a committed relationship with James. The bond between a kopis and aspis was meant to run deeper than marriage. Even after they had sworn their oaths, they had both been in other relationships: Elise with Anthony, for a few months, and James even more seriously with Stephanie Whyte, a witch from his coven.

But even though they had pretended to have a platonic relationship, they hadn’t fooled anyone. Stephanie had always loathed Elise. She had thought that Elise was the younger woman, trying to steal James—or maybe that James had some perverse obsession with adolescent women. Elise had dismissed Stephanie. Unfortunately, the witch hadn’t quite been wrong on either count.

Even so, it had been three years since Elise had seen James. There was no reason to feel guilty about hooking up with Lincoln.

The computer chimed. McIntyre must have been awake—he had responded to her newest email. No record of Armstrong in public employee records. I’ll keep looking. Anything else to report?

Elise drummed one fingernail against the desk, pondering her long and useless day.

All she said in her reply was, No .

When she hit the “send” button, she paused to look down at her hand. The nail that she had been tapping on Lincoln’s desk was clear, not black. A normal fingernail.

Elise spread her fingers. All of the nails looked normal.

It was only then that she realized that the light from the monitor wasn’t making her skin ache, either.

She turned on the lamp. No pain.

Standing, she approached the mirror mounted on Lincoln’s wall and tipped back her chin. The imprint of teeth on her neck was gone. So was the damage on her bicep. Her pale skin looked a little less pale than usual, her hair was glossier, and her lips were redder. It was like she had just recovered from the flu.

She pulled on a tank top and a pair of shorts, then stepped into the kitchen and turned that light on, too. It didn’t burn her skin.

Elise was back to normal. Whatever had caused her healing to slow, it seemed to have fixed itself between her reappearance in the forest and the email with McIntyre. But nothing remarkable had happened in that time period. She had talked with Seth and Rylie, glimpsed the Bible again, driven the motorcycle for a while.

And she’d had sex with Lincoln.

She paced in the kitchen, tapping her very normal fingernail against her chin as she thought. Elise was a demon, but no specific type of demon that she had met before—not a nightmare or megaira or mara, and definitely not a succubus. Sexual energies shouldn’t have healed her. She didn’t seem to feed off of humans at all.

Yet here she was: werewolf injuries healed, skin flawless, and feeling better than she had in days.

Lincoln’s house suddenly felt small and uncomfortable. She stepped onto his back porch, letting the moist, rain-scented air embrace her. The forest whispered as a wind rustled the drying autumn leaves against each other. It was warm and humid, no better than it had been indoors.

But the wind parted the clouds, letting the moon peek through for an instant. It bathed her skin in pale light. Elise lifted her arms to embrace it.

The moon beams didn’t hurt at all. She had definitely healed.

She stared at her hands. “What happened to me?” she whispered.

“I did,” said a man.

Elise turned, and she came face-to-face with James Faulkner.