The Soulless

By Kate Martin

There's a vacancy in Haven. The One High God has gone missing, sending those in power to cover up the sudden silence. Doubters fall from grace. Insurgents and the despondent rip out their own hearts, turning to Hell for solace in a new, uncertain world. A human drinks from the discarded heart of a seraph and taints mortal blood with witchcraft. After three thousand years, the world stands at a precipice. Falling is inevitable. Brishen, plagued by visions of a dark and painful future, sells his soul at a young age to a demon to escape death. Ushered into the care of Alec, the demon's most trusted and oldest soulless, Brishen finds some semblance of protection from the seraph who hunt him for what he sees. Alec is exhausted after two thousand years of servitude, but finds redemption in Brishen—as well as a reminder of those he failed to save. Brewing in the pits of Hell, the mother of all demons concocts a plan to put a demon god on the throne of Haven. Procuring a powerful witch mad enough to test the limits of body and spellwork, she sets a dangerous plan in motion, making Alec and Brishen realize there are more monsters hunting them than their pasts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outland Entertainment
• Release date: Sep 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781954255050

Kate Martin

Kate Martin has been a high school teacher in Racine, Wisconsin for 27 years working with students with special needs as well as those in general education. She recently retired from teaching to concentrate on training new teachers and parents through her consulting firm, ‘The Purposeful Parent.’ She also has a degree in vocal performance and sings in various jazz and blues clubs in the area. Scott Fricke is a native Chicagoan. He studied at The School of the Art Institute of Chicago, and has worked as a professional tattoo artist and an illustrator since 1993.

Book preview

PART ONE

— CHAPTER ONE —

Occasionally, selling your soul was worth it.

That was perhaps a bit dramatic, but not untrue. Alec had never regretted selling his soul—he had gotten what he wanted from the bargain…well, half of what he wanted—but the rest of it? Forever serving a single-minded demon who could change what she was single-minded about in an instant? That part got a bit taxing as the years passed. Nearly two thousand years in, Alec had wished he had the option of retirement.

Then, his mistress had disappeared.

Two hundred years later, retirement was working out fairly nicely for him.

Now, he walked the city streets, his boots gently clacking against the cobblestones. The gas lamps flickered in the dark, casting long shadows. A drizzle had begun, so he pulled his top hat down slightly to shield his eyes as he checked the time on the newfangled pocket watch he’d recently acquired. Three more turns until midnight. Or so it claimed. It was an odd contraption, and less reliable than sand moving through glass, but he’d learned over the years that one needed to keep up with the newest inventions.

He didn’t want to be gone long, but after three days straight of Dorothea raving and scribing her spells all over the manor, he had to get away. The witch was getting on in years, and it had fallen to him to keep track of her, but he needed a moment. A walk about the city, passing by the men and woman as they came from elaborate dinners or galas and got into their hansom cabs to avoid the rain helped soothe his mind.

Alec liked it here in Dunlan, where the sun burned hot most of the year, and his skin almost matched that of the locals. It let him blend in and overhear the stories of their simple lives. He liked pretending he was one of them, and not a soulless man who spent his days decoding the ravings of a senile old witch.

He took a turn and headed towards the docks. The smell reminded him of home somewhat. Although there was fuel and the unmistakable tang of metal on the air, underneath lay fresh fish, saltwater, and the ever-present music of the ocean sloshing against the sides of the ships. He’d grown up by the ocean, fishing and sailing. His father had taught him, and he in turn had taught his younger brother. Back then, it had been a good life.

Until it had been consumed by fire and death.

He’d done everything he could, or so he told himself, but it had never assuaged his guilt.

Alec stopped walking abruptly. A voice clearly not his own invaded his thoughts. Alec, come to me. Her voice was unmistakable.

The world turned cold and bleak, then blistering hot. Scorching orange light blinded him. One had to pass through the eye of Hell when called by its children, and though he had done it many times, it had been nearly two hundred years since the last. He had never been fond of the sensation. The screams of the damned rang in his ears, haunting him. The sound would remain with him for some time, drawn in by his guilt—the guilt of being equally damned, but not sharing their hellish imprisonment.

Of course, who was to say which was worse?

Tick tick tick. The pocket watch was a second heartbeat, made all the stranger by the fact that his own heart had stilled for the journey.

Alec stumbled out of Hell and back into the Mortal Realm with a blinding flash of light. The ground sloshed beneath his feet, but the air was hot and dry. Lifting one foot, he cautiously inspected the sole of his boot, then the trampled grass beneath him.

Blood. Everywhere.

In the distance, he could just make out the silhouette of Dunlan, the port city he had been a citizen of only a moment ago. At least he hadn’t been ripped clear across the world, a small favor. Once he had been summoned from a warm tropical paradise into a wintery blood bath. A rolling cloud of smog hung above Dunlan, but a darker swatch of smoke clung to the sky where he found himself now.

Bonfires with bases as wide as two grown men, which must have once raged and stretched towards the summer stars, now fizzled and popped, holding onto what little remained of their life. Black lines crept along the ground, most likely composed of charred chalk or salt. The lines twisted and turned, looped and doubled back all on their own—a labrynth, a spell. In some places the lines overlapped, crossed, and broke in two, indicating they had been improperly scribed. A dangerous thing to meddle with. Alec knew that all too well. The screams from his past still haunted his dreams, even two millennia later, and he would often wake feeling the heat of the flames on his skin. He skirted the lines drawn into the ground, careful not to get too close. Just beside his left foot, one combination of loops, lines, and turns looked eerily familiar.

The old scars on his right forearm began to itch.

He ignored it. Ignored it because of the foul stench that rode the air, choking him and turning his stomach. Ignored it because of the source of that stench.

Nine bodies all dead, burned, bled; each at one of the points of the nine-pointed star the labrynth had been scribed around. By their clothes, Alec recognized them as members of a traveling caravan that had been in the area. It appeared they’d wanted to raise a piece of Hell. Wanted to control it.

Judging by their mangled bodies, they’d gotten it half right.

There were others; smaller, more fragile bodies, strewn about the edges of the circle. These Alec couldn’t bear to linger on any longer than was needed to see that they were irreversibly dead, their throats slashed. Memories clawed at him of a similar young body. Cold and lifeless, all in the name of a summoning.

She had been there as well. Only, it had been he who had called her.

She stood there now, at the center of the ill-made labrynth, her skin bronze, hair silver, and body crimson-streaked with blood. More oozed over her clawed hands as she held a still beating heart to her lips. Eyes closed, head tossed back, she seemed to revel in the way the warm blood ran down her throat. She was partially transformed, half human form and half demon. It was a wonder she had managed to call him to her at all.

Carma. Alec said her name carefully, gently, unwilling to provoke or startle her. A demon in this condition was nothing to trifle with.

At the sound of his voice, she dropped the heart and a smile spread over her blood-smeared face. When she turned her gold and sapphire gaze upon him, her eyes lit up in recognition, glowing in the night, and raising Alec’s alarms further.

Alec, there you are, she said.

What have you done, Carma?

She stumbled towards him, one hand reaching for him, the other ready to catch herself should she fall. Alec, it is finally time.

He caught her. She pressed her naked, blood-soaked body against his, ruining his jacquard vest. Her hand caressed his face, but he grabbed it, not in the mood, and not willing to risk her forgetting her claws. Time for what?

I found him.

Found who?

"Him!" She surged forward, pressing her lips to his. Alec allowed the kiss for a moment, then pulled back, getting a firm grip on both her wrists and holding her just out of reach.

Who, Carma?

The boy. She turned to look towards the labrynth.

He followed her gaze. In the dying light of the fires, he saw a child’s body inside the lines of the labrynth, on his back and unmoving.

Was that a slight rise of his chest?

Is he alive? Alec asked.

I would never let him die. He is the last piece. She twisted away from him, dancing to the music of the crackling fires, her eyes closed and her arms outspread.

Alec grabbed her and pulled her back. You’re mad with the blood haze. Let me take you home.

She wrenched away. I am not mad. She stomped her foot and lifted her chin like a stubborn child. Ridiculous behavior for a demon more than two thousand years old.

Drunk, then, he said.

No. I see everything clearly now.

You’ve been missing for nearly two hundred years. You’ve just gorged yourself on human blood. I doubt you see anything clearly at the moment.

And the promise of a soul. I will have a soul, she said.

What? He stepped back, rolling his shoulder away from her grip, hearing his jacket tear.

Take me home now, but we take the boy with us.

Before he could form the words of his next question, she was on him again, kissing him so deeply he could feel the pull of his soul where it lived deep inside her. It was hard not to kiss back, not to press himself against her so tightly that it felt as if his soul dwelled within his own flesh again. But the blood that slipped under his hands on her bare back reminded him of what was important.

She let him pull away, and he noticed her skin was losing some of its metallic hardness, slowly returning to soft flesh. Take the boy, Alec. Turning, she went off to survey the damage.

Alec watched her dance about the broken labrynth, exhaustion already setting in. He’d been tired, tired of existing, even before she had disappeared, and the past two hundred years had only added to that. With her return, he could feel the surge of her power jolting him awake again. He wasn’t ready, wasn’t willing, but his contract with her didn’t care. He went to the boy.

Closer now, he saw the kid’s chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. The unkempt auburn hair, and the face so young caused memories to rise once again. Memories of another boy, hair only a shade darker, and only a year or so older. A boy whose body had felt too light in Alec’s arms, too cold, too—

He shook the painful past from his mind before it could go any farther. He focused instead on the present.

This boy was thin—too thin—but even that thought, and the questions that came with it, disappeared when he saw the boy’s right forearm. He knew the vine-like lines all too well. Knew each criss and cross as they wove their way from wrist to elbow. The same delicate lines crept across his arm, laid above the thicker burn scars that resembled a portion of a labrynth. On him, the vine had faded to a lifeless scar. On the boy, the lines pulsed with life.

A contract with a demon, not yet fulfilled.

— CHAPTER TWO —

Anger had never been Bri’s strong suit. He was always too tired, too sick, too weak to get angry. Besides, anger never accomplished anything. He had seen enough enraged men and women to know that, and he didn’t want to be like them. They were like the storm currently overhead—violent, loud, turning the sky grey, and tearing the world apart.

The driver of the wagon reined in the horse, bringing them to a shuddering stop. Bri looked out over the wide field, shielding his eyes from the rain with one hand. The elders of the caravan had drawn a nine-pointed star in the grass in chalk, with a huge bonfire burning at each point. The flames licked the sky despite the rain, magically enhanced, reaching for the dark clouds and possibly the stars that hid beyond them.

Bri glanced nervously at the silver and blue tendrils that hovered above them all. The myst twisted and writhed in anticipation, knowing no one else could see it. The tendrils hadn’t touched him yet, but they would. He was sure of it. They always did. And then he would see everything, especially the things better left unseen.

The wagon driver, Timotei, coughed around his cigarette. Get down, he commanded, not bothering to look at Bri.

When Bri hesitated, he pulled the smoke from his lips and spit before turning his gaze. Get down now. Unless, that is, you want me to help.

Bri shied away, then hopped off the side of the wagon, avoiding Timotei’s touch when the man reached for him. The driver’s future was filled with nothing but violence and painful illness. Bri would do anything to avoid seeing it again.

He sloshed through the mud, his clothes soaking up the rain water and chilling his legs, the drops running down his face making it hard to see. Please get this over with quickly. The King of the Caravan and the elders were always trying to scribe labrynths and call upon one supernatural force or another. Mostly they failed. Mostly they argued that they never had enough blood. The exposed scars on Bri’s arms itched with each raindrop that fell on them.

They liked to use his blood in their rituals, and Bri had given up trying to stop them. Struggling got him beaten, which made him sick and weak, and when he was weak the visions grew worse.

There you are! The booming voice shattered Bri’s thoughts, and he shuddered. Ciprian Petrescu, the King of the Caravan, came towards him with outstretched arms, his expression a mixture of excitement and greed. Timotei gave Bri a swift kick, propelling him towards the so-called King. The jolt sent Bri’s hair into his face, sticking there with the rain. He brushed it out of his eyes quickly. It wasn’t a good idea to lose sight of the King. I’ve been waiting for you, Petrescu said as the sky thundered. He grabbed Bri by the arms, his long fingers wrinkled and thin, his rings cold in the rain. Tell me my future, boy. What do you see?

The instant Petrescu’s bare hands touched Bri’s skin, the tendrils of the myst attacked. Silver and blue swept into his mind, taking over his senses. The man’s future overpowered everything else, but where Bri had before seen images of the caravan, jewels and business transactions, successful cons and midnight trysts, there was now nothing but darkness. Only darkness, black and heavy and uncertain.

Bri didn’t know why he could see into the myst when no one else could, but he hated it. The tendrils always brought pain. Whatever future they showed him, he felt it all the way into his bones. This darkness squeezed like a hand clamped around his heart.

What do you see? Petrescu demanded, shaking Bri hard.

Nothing! Bri choked, trying to pull away. He couldn’t take much more. He couldn’t breathe.

What did you say?

Nothing! There’s nothing. Just darkness. I see nothing!

Petrescu’s strike across Bri’s face made sparks appear in his vision and made his ears ring. He hit the mud hard, unable to catch himself. But at least the darkness receded. The myst, however, hovered nearby, caressed him briefly and offered more visions before moving on. The King’s boot caught Bri in the ribs.

Nothing? You lie. This is my finest hour! Look again.

He grabbed Bri’s face, and the thick darkness returned. It hurt worse this time, like a burning cold frost inside his head. Nothing! Bri screamed. Nothing, I see nothing!

Petrescu released him, and Bri collapsed, sobbing. The man cursed him and walked away. I’ll show you nothing, the King said over the thundering rain.

We are ready, one of the elders declared. They’d all dressed the part with ceremonial robes, each a different color, beaded and belled.

Excellent, said Petrescu. Let’s begin. He made a sweeping gesture, and the back of a wagon, positioned on the other side of the chalk star, opened up. One of the elders reached in and tossed an adolescent to the waiting hands of another elder. Bri counted as more children appeared from inside the wagon, some of them crying, some trying to comfort the others. Nine. All probably about his own age—thirteen—and all completely unknown to Bri. These were not the children of the caravan. They were strangers, their coloring and clothing wrong for the caravan clan. They were not like the children stolen or taken from the streets to be raised as one of their own. These looked like they had come straight from the manors of one of the great cities, their once perfect curls drenched by the rain, their suits torn, or the ribbons of their fine dresses undone and askew.

Bri ran for them, slipping in the mud. The storm laughed at them as wind whipped the rain sideways. One girl with bright red hair and stunning green eyes gave a little cry, startled when Bri reached for her, but she didn’t move away. He grabbed her hand, willingly doing what the King had forced from him, and let the tendrils inside.

Darkness.

He reached for the next girl. Then the boy beside her, then the next, and the next.

Darkness and more darkness.

It didn’t make sense. He’d never seen so much darkness before. Death, yes, that abounded in the myst, but rarely darkness. The only time he had seen pure darkness was when he had told the fortune of a business man planning to raise a demon.

Bri looked back at the star etched into the ground, the fires burning even in the torrential rain, the lines drawn upon the grass, and the blood from the elders.

They couldn’t. They wouldn’t…

The girl with the red hair crept closer, studying him. She seemed the strongest of them, her eyes dry, her expression schooled. Run, Bri said to her. Run now.

Too late. An arm closed around Bri’s middle, lifting him and dragging him back towards the star. Bri struggled, fought to get free, but each time his hand or arm touched the elder hauling him away, the myst returned with the darkness.

Then the screaming began.

The elder dragged Bri to the center of the star, shoving him to a hard stone slab. He bound Bri’s wrist, stretched out his arms, and staked him to a nearby patch of earth with a tent spike. The stone beneath Bri bruised his knees, and the rope chafed, but no matter how hard he pulled, he could not free himself, even after the elder left him. The children were taken to each of the nine points, held by an elder as they thrashed or cried or both. Petrescu went to stand over Bri, but paid him no mind. He lifted his hands to the sky and spoke in a language Bri did not know. The storm cheered him on, thunder clapping, and lightning flashing. The nine elders mimicked the king, raising their knives to the sky, the orange light of the fires reflecting off the blades. Then the words stopped, and the King dropped his arms in one clear signal.

Bri stared at the redheaded girl directly in front of him, her green gaze less steady than before. The lightning made the knife blaze with color, and Bri heard himself scream, felt the pain in his own throat, as the elders dragged the blades across the throats of their victims in unison. Bri pressed his face into his bound arm, but even over the rain and the blood rushing past his ears, he heard their bodies thump against the ground.

Footsteps approached him, one of the elders no doubt, and Petrescu expressed his approval of their progress. Then he said, Bleed him. Slowly.

The myst crept closer, the tendrils like beckoning hands, offering salvation, or at least a reprieve. Bri refused. He hated the myst, hated that it showed him things he could never prevent.

Then he felt the bite of a knife.

Throughout the agony, the myst continued to call to him. His vision spun, the fires and their smoke taking on nightmarish shapes, the chanting of the elders and the King sounding like ominous growls in the night. Bri strained to breathe, the air too thick to enter his lungs.

The myst tendrils licked his hands, and the darkness blotted away all else. He knew, knew, the myst would be little better, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t think, and in a moment of weakness, he gave in. Death was coming either way. He reached out and accepted the myst’s touch.

And just like that, the Mortal Realm was gone.

The myst swirled around him, silver and blue—the colors of his nightmares. Only he wasn’t asleep, and nothing would be able to dispel the dark premonitions that forced their way into his mind.

Bri braced himself as the tendrils and wisps of the myst swirled by, taunting him, teasing him with their glimpses of the future. He’d seen the ocean once, and it had reminded him of the myst, rising and crashing. One particularly strong wave had knocked him down and he’d gone under for a moment—the myst was like that.

His entire short life had been nothing but dark visions, unheeded prophecies, and blood; it seemed fitting that his death would be no different. The King had gone too far this time. Bri could feel his life slipping away from his open wounds.

The myst’s tendrils pulled at him, sliding their visions through his mind. They loved an audience, and Bri was an easy target. Seeing their visions hurt, an ache that settled somewhere deep within his soul, and then spread outward to his bones. He saw death and bloody rituals, and held perfectly still, afraid to fight lest the myst linger longer.

The rainstorm raged on, even there. Thunder made the myst shudder, and lightning made it shine. In that chaos, a mirror rose from the floor of the myst, ornate and smooth. The myst curved and spun itself into a semblance of carvings, then washed away the mirror’s center in one smooth wave, leaving a perfect surface that reflected Bri’s image.

Or rather, something that was almost his image.

Bri stared at the boy, who stared back at him. The hair was the same auburn as his own, with the front almost too long. Bri envied his reflection’s cropped hair that barely reached his ears. His own hair fell into his eyes, long overdue for a trim and wash. The reflection wore no shirt, only finely made trousers, and his chest was the shape of someone well-fed, with the luxury of living indoors, out of the harsh, burning rays of the sun.

He lifted a hand towards the mirror, and the other familiar-yet-strange boy reached towards him. Was this who he could have been? Should have been? The myst was cruel to reveal such a thing now when he could feel his body, so far away, creeping steadily towards death.

His fingers brushed not cool glass, but warm flesh. Tip to tip, then palm to palm. Their hands matched up perfectly, but his reflection’s hand was stronger than his own. It felt different, full of power. A power that tugged and pulled, the same way it felt to touch another person and get thrown unwillingly into the myst.

Bri drew his hand away.

The face that so mirrored his own suddenly twisted with a cruel smile. The boy grabbed Bri’s wrist and pulled, yanking him past the barrier of the mirror with fierce strength until they were face-to-face.

Found you, the boy said in a dark voice.

The psychic pull from the other boy burned into him. Bri struggled, but the strength of the reflection held firm. Something deep within him stirred, like a piece of his soul trying to get free, to go to the other boy…

The mirror cracked, one single line, then another, like cracks in ice. The boy in the glass tensed, staring at the lines, following them with a panicked gaze. With his free hand he traced the cracks, fingers twitching and working against them, as if he could drive them back, smooth them away. No, he said. No. Who’s doing this? No, no, NO!

The mirror shattered with that last cry, and Bri pulled himself free, tumbling backwards. Shards of glass cascaded through the myst, reflecting the blue and silver wisps and clattering to the ground. The devastated scream of the other boy echoed from some far-off place. Heart pounding, Bri scrambled to his feet and ran recklessly into the myst.

The storm went still and quiet.

The pull from the mirror was gone, but a terrible, dark presence had risen up in its place. He knew that presence all too well. He had seen it in the myst. Felt it over his mother’s bedside all those years ago. Death.

Have you seen your own death, little one? a new voice said, a voice he had never before heard in the myst. It wasn’t Death. Death had no voice, only reapers.

Bri stumbled, the thicker fog licking at his back, threatening to swallow him. All around, the darkness swirled with images and stray emotions, poking, prodding, tearing through him without warning or permission.

An invisible vine caught his legs and sent him tumbling. The cold black fog rolled over him, hovering, pinning him.

Death wants you, little one, the voice said as Death crept closer. Will you answer its call? Or mine?

The fog descended, forcing its way into Bri. With each excruciating movement, the body he had left behind pulled on him. A body that burned, ached, and struggled to breathe.

Death dangled the possibility of freedom, of release, just out of reach.

Will you answer? Or will you bargain with me? the voice came again.

The vine around his leg slithered upwards against his skin, coiling around his waist, chest, and finally over his shoulder and down his arm towards his hand. Glowing green, with the tiniest of leaves, the vine pulsed with intelligence and life, and from it came the voice.

I will protect you, it said. I will stop what you cannot stop on your own. You can have your revenge on whomever you choose. My strength will be yours. You want to help people? I can give you that strength. All you have to do is say yes.

Far off, his body grew weaker. The pain became an echo, and Death crept closer to his heart.

He didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want to be lost within the visions forever with no escape either. He had only wanted to help, to use this horrid power to relieve someone else’s suffering, but any attempts had only ended in beatings and misery. His body had always betrayed him, made him frail and more vulnerable to the power that lived inside him, yet outside his control. But death? He wasn’t ready for that.

All that would be in the past. I can give you a new life, a second chance, but you are running out of time.

The offer had its appeal. But at what cost?

A light laughter filled his thoughts, feminine, and clearly belonging to the voice. Once I have fulfilled my commitment to you, I ask only one thing. Your soul.

Death’s power brushed against his heart, causing it to seize.

Bri responded in the last moment of thought available to him. Yes.

The myst rushed away, dispelled. He had returned to his battered body, with fires burning all around, heating the stone beneath him. He screamed, his vision became cloudy, his lips split and bled as he spoke that single word over and over again. Yes.

He heard the smile in the voice. Deal.

— CHAPTER THREE —

Just outside the city limits, on a piece of land far larger than one person had any business owning, sat the manor that had been Alec’s home for the better part of the last two hundred years. He and his few companions had to leave periodically, allowing a generation to pass before moving back. After all, immortal faces that never aged would raise suspicion, and people weren’t exactly knocking on demonic doors wanting contracts anymore.

It had been a long walk carrying the unconscious boy in his arms, herding his addled mistress to follow, yet Alec didn’t exactly feel a rush of relief when they finally stepped through the front door.

Mary, the housekeeper, came when he called for her. She was a usually pleasant woman, her body as soulless as Alec’s, but her sunny demeanor shifted the moment she laid eyes on the motley crew at her door.

Gods preserve us, Alec, what happened?

Can you take the boy? Alec said, shifting the child into her hold. Carma had wandered off, down the hall and away from the stairs to the second floor, where Alec wanted her.

Of course. Even though it had been centuries, Alec noted the ease with which she held a child. He also saw the panic creeping into her posture. Is that Carma?

I’m afraid so. I’ll handle her, then come to check on the kid. He had already started after her. It was a well-practiced task. Where’s Dorothea? he called back, almost as an afterthought. They might need the witch’s skills.

She left, Mary said, cradling the boy against her chest as if it hadn’t been centuries since she’d held a child. Took nothing with her, just wandered out. I don’t expect to see her for a few days.

Alec cursed. Of course. Well, let me know if you need anything.

I’ve got him, Alec. Don’t worry about us.

It took some doing, but he got Carma tucked away in her rooms. Her suite on the second floor had been kept impeccably clean, always ready should she return. Even still, it was odd to walk through that door after so long. The click of it shutting behind him was still so familiar, as was the sight of the demon standing within.

Barring, of course, her nudity and current drunkenness.

With a calming breath, Alec forged ahead. Come on, he said, taking her by the elbow and drawing her away from her favorite painting—a swirling barrage of color he had never quite understood—and towards the bath. Let’s get you cleaned up.

Carma pulled away and staggered onward, nearly walking straight into one of the gas lamps that had been affixed to the wall. I can take care of myself, thank you. Her toe caught the edge of the newly tiled floor and sent her sprawling.

Of course you can, he said.

Angry now, for Carma never got embarrassed, she sat up, tossing her hair back out of her face. You changed the floor.

How nice of you to notice.

It’s too slippery.

Only for those drunk with the blood haze.

I am not drunk.

Mad then.

She scrunched up her nose a bit. Haven’t we already had this conversation?

Alec leaned against the door frame. Something similar.

Silent for a long moment, Carma looked about, still sitting on one hip, looking much like the mermaid in the painting that hung above her large claw-footed bath. She was all human now; her skin a soft version of the hard bronze it became when she was in demon form, her hair now white silver, with none of the fiery red touching its ends. Fetch Mary, she said.

Mrs. McCallahan is busy at the moment, with your boy. He removed his coat and tossed it onto a nearby chair.

Someone else then.

There is no one else. He rolled up his sleeves.

What have you done with my household?

It’s been two hundred years, Carma. Most of them died.

Then hire a new staff, Alec.

I didn’t see the need. I certainly don’t need a multitude of servants.

What of my other soulless? What have you done with them?

Those who were asleep remained that way, some fell into the sleep with you gone, and those who remained awake I told to go live their lives while we waited for you. Only Mrs. McCallahan, Brannick, and I are here in the house. And Dorothea, when she isn’t wandering off.

Carma looked positively put out. Like a child told her toys had been given away. Who left you to make decisions?

You did.

She snorted. Fine, she said after a long, irritated moment. You help me then.

What a novel idea. He plucked her from the floor and deposited her on the bench beside the tub, removing the cushion first so she would not ruin it with blood. Turning on the water, he fixed the bath the way he remembered she liked it, or at least, his best approximation. After all, they had plumbing now. Carma, for her part, crawled across the floor to place her hand under the flowing faucet.

What is this? Witchcraft? She ran her long fingers along the pipes.

No, Alec said, amusement threatening to dampen his annoyance. Just indoor plumbing. It’s new.

Fascinating.

I admit I thought so myself, he said, ushering her in before the bath was half full.

Carma stretched out in the warm water, closing her eyes and scooping up water to run over her chest. Alec began the scrubbing with her feet.

Come in with me, she said, as he reached her knees.

No.

Why ever not?

Because you are covered in blood, and as appealing as that is to you, I don’t quite enjoy it.

Liar. You’re just angry with me for being gone so long.

Perhaps a part of that was true, but he certainly wasn’t going to admit that to her. Get cleaned up and rest.

She shifted in the water, kneeling up until her face was only a breath away from Alec’s, their lips nearly touching. Who is master here, Alec? You or me?

She was too close again. A single pulse of power unleashed in the room, and Alec recognized it as his own soul. It made his head spin, his heart race. It had an intoxicating effect, and Alec had been sober for two hundred years. He could easily lose his ability to reason. It was much like the effect of a good, bloody kill on a demon. And if both of them ended up intoxicated…

Dropping the soap into the water, Alec stood. "Clean yourself up if that’s the way you want to be." Walking away, he made a point of leaving a clean towel on the floor.

He heard the water slosh behind him. Are you sure you want to say no? How long has it been, Alec?

Arrogant, heartless, daughter of a—He spun on his heel to face her. Not twenty four turns, actually. I do quite well for myself. It’s been rather freeing to have you gone.

Careful, Alec, she said, her tone low, her eyes darkening. Make me angry and I could withhold my affections.

Wouldn’t that just be terrible. Sober up. Before either of them could say anything else, he left the bath, closing the door tightly behind him.

An angry scream preceded something hitting the door on the other side.

Fire and brimstone. She is going to make me regret that.

But he needed her sober, needed her clearheaded enough to tell him what had happened to her, and what had happened in that field.

And why she wanted that boy so badly.

With Mrs. McCallahan busy, and Brannick, the butler, tending to other household matters now that their mistress had returned, Alec went down to the kitchen himself. They had no cook, tending to their own needs instead. Simplicity had ruled in Carma’s absence, and already Alec mourned its loss. He helped himself to some bread, cheese, and fruit, as well as a small bowl of broth from the pot heating over the fire. Once upstairs again, he passed the broth off to Mrs. McCallahan, who assured him the boy was resting peacefully. Trusting her judgment, Alec steeled his courage and went back to Carma’s suite.

All the power and command of an old and