Deliver Us From Evil Part 7

Anthony didn't return her humor, his fathomless eyes drawing her inexplicably closer.

"He couldn't sustain the fire and defeat me at the same time. He is not that strong. Yet."

"But what does that have to do with me?"

Anthony touched her cheek. "You don't know what you're up against, Skye. You don't know what evil incarnate can do. That makes you vulnerable."

She scoffed at that remark. Typical male chauvinist. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Not against this."

Skye jumped up and out of the truck, paced even though she still felt unsteady. "Dammit, Zaccardi, you're p.i.s.sing me off. I don't know what's going on. I don't know how you weren't burned in the fire. But there is a logical explanation. And I will find it."

"It's logical, Skye," Anthony said, sinking to the ground. She frowned. Maybe he had been injured in the fire. "But you have to open your mind to see the logic." His eyes closed and he leaned his head against her truck's tire. "I saw your soul," he whispered.

"That's ridiculous." But there was no venom in her voice, only concern. "What's wrong?"

"I'm drained."

"I don't understand."

"I'll be okay. Just-let me be."

"Leave you? Here? At midnight?" She knelt beside him. "Let me help you."

Anthony rose unsteadily, stumbled, and fell against the truck. His body was solid muscle; Skye couldn't carry him if she wanted to. He climbed awkwardly into the pa.s.senger seat.

"Just take me to my car," he said wearily, his eyes already closing.

"Right. And let you drive off a cliff. I'll take you to your hotel. You can get your car in the morning."

Ianax's essence slithered along the ground in the form of black mist, losing power the longer he was without a human body.

Fool. You consumed your energy with the fire. You should never have fought for Zaccardi's soul.

His primal scream rang through the levels of h.e.l.l like nails on a chalkboard, and on earth with the moaning of trees. He rolled over a nocturnal rodent who collapsed dead after breathing his mist; a pair of owls fell from a tree above, landed with a thud.

He was eternal death.

Lifetimes of failed attempts to rise from the deepest pit of h.e.l.l, giving him a taste of freedom that was taken away because of the weakness of the trio left him angry, unsatisfied, hungry. Finally, his minions had perfected the call and he'd come, with a willing body for his use. Payback for the willing was immortality. And even in the dark heat of the netherworld, immortality for as long as the earth breathed was a tempting apple.

And he, Ianax, would be able to stay, walk the earth, experience l.u.s.t in everything-s.e.x, food, death. Power. He would have been able to claim an infinite number of souls for his master.

He fed on souls, and the pure souls of the righteous tasted better than the black souls of the d.a.m.ned.

Zaccardi would have satiated him for a millennia, proven his worth. But the hunter's protective s.h.i.+eld was too strong for one demon to destroy. Even Satan himself wouldn't be able to penetrate the barrier.

A sudden gale-force wind pushed Ianax off course. He was being pulled under, down, back to h.e.l.l.

I'm sorry, Master. My thoughts betray me.

The wind softened.

I am all-powerful, lowly demon. I am your Lord and Master. Zaccardi is not yours to have. When the time is right, I will consume him.

When, Master?

Go, finish what you were summoned to do. Then bring me my due.

Yes, Master.

Ianax's essence was released from the underbelly and flung over the tops of the trees, down the mountain, dead birds raining from their nests as he stole their breath.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

ANTHONY HAD REGAINED some of his strength on the drive back to town, but walking to his hotel room drained him.

He'd fought evil and won, this time. But he needed to rejuvenate. He couldn't protect Skye or save the lost souls at the mission until he regained his strength.

He couldn't let Skye leave.

What he'd seen in the flames would haunt him for the rest of his life. She didn't believe him, and if everything remained the same she would die. Horribly. Painfully. Her soul would be trapped and tortured for eternity.

Losing her was not an option. He would sacrifice himself first.

"Get some rest," she was saying to him. "I'll pick you up at seven and take you to your car."

"No!" He swallowed. "Please." She stared at him, perplexed. How to keep her here? "I need your help."

He sagged heavily onto the sofa, exaggerating his fatigue and pain. She looked skeptical. Oh, my little doubting Thomas. You're a tough one.

"Please-I need you to-" What? She already thought he was a nutcase. Make something up, Zaccardi.

"Pray with me."

Her face clouded.

Good one.

"In Latin," he added.

"You've got to be joking."

"I'll teach it to you. It might come in handy."

He wasn't joking. She didn't have to know what the words meant. If she remembered them, at the right time, they might protect her. At least buy some time.

She sat next to him looking as exhausted as he felt. Maybe he could get her to let down her s.h.i.+eld a bit. Enough to lull her to sleep. If she slept here, in his presence, she would be safe. For tonight.

One night at a time.

He took her hands in his. She tensed, but didn't pull away. You think your gun can save you. You think your smarts will get you out of any difficulty. You've never faced a demon, sweetness.

He'd felt her soul in the courtyard when he'd covered her body with his. She was holding on to a deep regret and bitterness, he didn't know from what, but her innate goodness and honor shone through. A strong core of loyalty. Strength.

Satan would love to claim her as his own.

An overwhelming protective urge washed over Anthony. He swallowed, uncertain what he was supposed to do. What he should do. He'd never allowed himself to grow close to any woman, because in love he would be vul-nerable. In love, he would be risking more than his own life. Already, his soul was inextricably entwined with Skye's. The fire had fused them together, a bond he could not break.

Save her. Save us.

He whispered in Latin.

"What does that mean?"

He repeated the prayer and she frowned at him, but didn't pull her hands from his. Progress.

"Say it. Please, Skye. It-it would comfort me." He exaggerated a sigh.

She hesitated, then repeated the ancient words of protection, her voice quivering.

"Again."

She complied. He touched her hair, murmured a poem.

"That's French."

He hadn't realized he'd spoken in French. "The monks made sure I learned many languages."

"Monks?"

"I was raised in a monastery."

"What happened to your parents?" Skye seemed much more at ease talking about his past than things she couldn't see or touch. While he didn't like to share things about himself, he had no hesitation in telling Skye. He wanted her to know. To build trust, to strengthen their bond. And more.

"I don't know about my parents. I was left on the doorstep of a monastery on a small island off Sicily."

"An orphanage?"

Anthony couldn't tell her the whole truth, but he didn't lie. "In some ways. Women in Europe, particularly in the old country, are frowned upon if they have children out of wedlock. Some are disowned or ostracized. It can be very difficult. Many infants are left at orphanages or with the nuns. Or at a monastery. St. Michael's-we had an unusually high number of abandoned babies."

"Why?"

"The monks are among the most brilliant men in the world. Doctors. Lawyers. Theologians. Scientists. Scholars. They raise boys and send them to live all over the world."

"You never knew your parents." She frowned.

"Don't feel sorry for me. It is hard to miss what you never had."

"Is it?"

Anthony longed to know where he came from, but he'd buried those desires years ago when he tried to find his mother and came up with nothing.

"It is easier, with time," he corrected. "What about you?"

"My parents are dead."

She spoke so flatly, suppressing emotion that bubbled just beneath the surface.

"An accident?" he asked softly.

"My father was a U.S. forest ranger. He was hiking in Los Padres, fell off a cliff and broke his back. His radio got caught on a tree out of reach and he couldn't call for help. He died two days later."

"I'm so sorry." He squeezed her hands.

She shrugged. "So what was it like growing up in a monastery?"

Changing the subject. She didn't want to talk about her mother. He should push, but he didn't want to scare her off. He needed her to be comfortable here, with him, for the night. But he couldn't share everything with Skye, not yet. If he said too much, she would bolt like a rabbit.

"Father Philip, a missionary, often stayed at St. Michael's. I'd always loved history and architecture, even as a young boy. Father Philip works with the church to renovate historic buildings. He became my mentor, my friend." And he taught him to harness his senses, to locate demons in buildings and destroy them. He didn't say that to Skye.

"So you became an historical architect?"

Anthony nodded. "I traveled throughout Europe, as well as Africa and parts of the Middle East working with Father Philip, before I went to college in England."

"You said you were raised with Rafe Cooper."

"Rafe was raised in the monastery as well."

"He doesn't look Italian."

Always questioning, always suspicious. "He isn't. He's probably of Irish descent."