Torn(71)

I swallowed, then I started at the beginning, my whole story, including the parts he already knew. Rose. Lucas Johnson. Deacon. The Oris Clef.

And, most important, the vessel that could house Rose’s soul. “We’ll come back here once we have Rose inside the vessel,” I said. “Then I’ll find a demon I can kill, only not with an owned blade.” Kill a demon with a blade that hadn’t drawn its owner’s blood, and the demon’s body remained. Only an owned kill reduced the demon to goo. “Deacon knows how to get the soul from the vessel into the body.” I licked my lips. “Someone like that goth demon you had me kill,” I said, referring to the demon I’d killed my very first day of training. She’d had Rose’s eyes, and I’d shown her mercy. And I’d almost died because of it.

“And to do this,” Zane said. “To save your sister, you must obtain the vessel. The Vessel of the Keeper.”

“That’s pretty much the score.”

“And to do that,” he said, “you must die.”

I nodded. “If I die—if I step up to the plate to save my sister—then any chance of locking the gates to hell dies with me.”

He took my arm, lifted it, and gently traced his fingers over my marked skin. “You do not seek the Oris Clef.”

“Only to the extent it helps me get Rose,” I said. “I’m interested in a different key. One that locks. One that seals.”

“You are correct, ma chérie. You are the only one with the power to find such a key.”

He stood, then walked across the room. He stood in the doorway, his back to me, the training room spread out in front of him.

He said nothing, and I waited, wishing he would nod. Would whisper. Would do something so that I didn’t have to actually make the request. He wasn’t, however, making it easy for me.

I closed my eyes and breathed in deep. Then I stood and went to him, and pressed my hands to his shoulders. “Zane,” I said. “I need you.”

He turned, his mouth curved in a wry grin. He traced a finger over my lips, making me shiver. “And yet it is another man that you truly need.” He leaned forward, then gently brushed his lips over mine. The kiss was sweet and sad, and when he pulled away, I realized I was crying.

“What you ask, chérie, I long for it. And yet I dread it.”

“I know,” I whispered, remembering when he’d told me he was immortal. Remembering how he’d described the terror that now warred with longing, a desperate craving for the end juxtaposed against a horrible fear of the unknown. “I understand.”

He cupped my cheek. “I will do this. And I thank you, ma chérie, for setting me free.”

My heart squeezed, and I forced myself to stop crying. Instead, I drew him close and rested my head upon his shoulder. “Thank you,” I whispered.

Deacon found us that way, arm in arm in the doorway. I felt him before I saw him, and I pulled away from Zane to look at Deacon over his shoulder. He stalked forward and took my arm. It burned under his touch, a reaction that confused me, especially when I looked down and saw nothing new happening with the tats on my arm.

He pulled me toward him as Rose stood in the background, and when I saw her—when I saw Johnson—I forgot about my arm.

“Why the fuck are we here?” Rose said, only it wasn’t Rose, of course.

“The third relic,” I said. “We need Zane to get it.”

“That a fact?” Johnson said, jutting out Rose’s hip and giving me all sorts of attitude.

“Yeah,” I said, forcing myself to remember that this was not my sister. “It is.”

I realized that without the mouthless Johnson body joining our party, our plan wouldn’t actually destroy Lucas Johnson. Considering we hadn’t seen the creature, though, we didn’t have much choice in the matter. And right then, I honestly didn’t care. So long as Rose was free of him, I’d be happy. At least for a moment. And the prospect of hunting him down and killing him at least gave me something to look forward to.

Right then, though, I needed to just concentrate on making this plan work.

Behind us, the elevator doors slid open, and Kiera stepped out, her crossbow aimed straight at me. “Talk,” she said. “Now.”

“Ma petite,” Zane said, stepping forward and slightly in front of me. “What is the trouble?”

“She is,” Kiera said, talking to me rather than Zane. “I get what you did,” she said. “I saw it. I understand it.” Her forehead creased. “And when Clarence changed, I smelled the demon on him.” She worked her jaw, and I knew she was battling back the anger and the betrayal. “I didn’t smell it before—the bastard hid it somehow—but I caught the whiff at the end.”