Her Soul to Take (Souls Trilogy #1)(71)

I stalked away up the beach toward the road, where the truck was parked beneath a flickering streetlamp. Just before I reached it, I turned and yelled, “Hey! I’ll be fucking pissed if you die!”

He laughed. “Well, I’m not trying to piss you off, Leon. I’ve seen what happens to the poor bastards who do.”

I love you too, asshole.





The coordinates Zane gave me sent me deep into the northwestern forests. Perpetually wet and vibrant green, the air thick with the smells of the dirt and natural rot, I soon picked up the scent I’d been searching for: softly sweet and sharp, like berries crushed in pine needles. Witch’s magic permeated the air as surely as the rain. Inescapable and unmistakable.

The grimoire was her inheritance by any human right: but my name, my sigil, and my freedom that hinged on it, was mine. And I’d have it back one way or another.

I found the coven house in the early morning hours. The light permeated the trees in pale, wet shafts and illuminated a manor covered in creeping vines and tiny, budding white flowers. It looked like a cathedral overtaken by the woodland: its three spire-like towers rose up among the trees, their boughs grown lovingly around it, their roots curled close around the foundations, as if to guard it in a nest of hemlock and spruce, moss and ferns.

I kept my distance at first, stalking in a wide berth through the trees, surveilling the windows, the doors, trying to get any hint of what lay beyond those walls. I had limited experience with Hell’s terrifying royals, but for nearly an hour I was certain that Zane must have been wrong: there couldn’t be an Archdemon in that house.

I couldn’t smell one, feel one, I saw no hint of one. It was only the witch’s power that drenched this place.

So I got bolder.

Excessively, recklessly bolder.

I couldn’t simply walk through the front doors — especially considering the house’s large red double-doors were wrapped in lengths of black thread, intricately braided and knotted, forming powerful wards of protection around the entry. I found the windows similarly protected. But at the very back of the house, almost entirely hidden beneath a mound of dirt, leaves, and moss, I found a small wooden door set into the foundation of the house.

A cellar.

The rusting hinges were impossible to open without noise, but I took my time to ease them open and slipped down into the dank space. Bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling alongside shelves of canned goods and old, locked crates. I found wooden stairs at the far end of the room, and climbed up to find myself in a large, disconcertingly old-fashioned kitchen that smelt strongly of cinnamon, cloves, and oranges.

I was feeling pretty damn confident. I’d happened upon the place when the little witch’s Archdemon wasn’t even at home. A piano was playing softly from above as I crept out into the entry hall and, strangely, I could hear birdsong. Despite the dreary light outside, the house was as well-lit as a spring day.

I was making my way toward the large staircase to the upper floor when something seized my throat, squeezed with a vice grip, and hurled me backwards to fly through the air until I hit the far wall so hard, I swear my being slipped back into Hell for a moment.

But only a moment.

Then I was on my feet, muscles tensed, claws distended, ready to —

Seized again, my arm was jolted from its socket as I was flung in the opposite direction and landed hard on the stone floor, skidding across its smooth surface. The movement was so fast I saw nothing more than a dark blur, nothing more than —

Grabbed again, thrown, and this time my skull hit the banister and I tumbled down the stairs to lie limply at the foot of them. I could take a beating, but fucking hell, all the air had been forced out of my lungs, my arm was dislocated, and my body was heating drastically as it attempted to repair what was almost certainly several fractures in my skull. I didn’t even make an attempt to move as footsteps pounded slowly across the floor toward me, and the sole of a boot pressed down on the top of my head.

Pressing — crushing me against the stone — harder — my vision flashed —

“Fucking fuck, stop…stop!” My voice broke, but what did it matter when my skull was about to be cracked like an egg? I scrambled on the floor, but that foot resting on me may as well have been the weight of an elephant.

“Going to beg for mercy already? You’re no fun.” The voice that spoke was all gravel, deep as night, dark as the furthest depths of Hell. The piano had stopped, as had the birdsong. I shuddered from head to foot and stopped struggling, and instead licked my bleeding lips and focused all my energy on healing as rapidly as possible.

“Callum,” I said quickly. “It’s Callum, isn’t it?”

There was a pause, then the boot left my head, and fingers knotted in my hair, hauling me up until I dangled on the tips of my toes — and faced the Archdemon I’d been so certain wasn’t here.

“Do I know you, hellion?” It was impossible to tell where his solidly black eyes were looking, but I tried to keep a stoic face; showing pain was exactly what he’d want, exactly what would spur him on. He was taller than me, but slimmer. Dark-haired, with a slim mouth and rigid jaw. How the hell I hadn’t smelled him, I couldn’t fathom; he reeked of blood and wood smoke, and the energy within his presence was palpable. My closeness to him was almost unbearable, like having my head pounded with soundless bass.