Chapter 4

Ivy

One of the several giants reaches down and grabs hold of my arms, then lifts me from the concrete, up and up so my feet dangle above the ground. It's huge, a hulking beast with mottled skin that's a strange pink but bubbled with extra bits that look like clotted cream. "What the fuck!" I yell, then scream, kicking out and connecting with its groin. The creature grunts, releasing its hold, and drops me.

As I catch my breath, there's a new sound added to the horrible grunting and low buzzing of the giants; a little like an ax hitting wood, only softer. As I look up, one of the giant man-beasts with one eye falls to the ground near my feet, the shaft of an arrow with shiny black fletching protruding from its head. But its body doesn't remain, and instead bursts into black dust. The arrow drops onto the concrete with a clank. Chaos erupts, the giants moving in slow motion as actual men—four of them—infiltrate their ranks, slashing with a variety of weapons. Then, suddenly, the drug-addled man from inside the bar appears as if he's risen from the black concrete, only there's an army of him.

"Fuck!" one of the men yells, his back pressed against the back of another of the men. "A mani-horde!"

On my hands, I shuffle backwards. "Oh fuck. Oh fuck! Fuckity fuck," I chant, my pulse pounding a frightened rhythm inside my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut. "Go away. It isn't real," I mutter.

"Atlas! Grab her!" a voice behind me shouts. "Hurry. We can't hold them for long."

Then suddenly, a strong arm bands around my ribs—that hot, addictive sensation from inside the bar pulsing through me once more—and I'm yanked to my feet. "I've got you." My eyes fly open, but I know who it is—the buttery richness of his timbre in my ear confirms it. "Now run!" He grabs my hand and pulls me after him.

I follow willingly, darting from the alleyway out into the street. He doesn't stop for the cars, just holds one of his hands out. The cars screech to a stop as if he's willed it, though he can't keep them from blaring their horns at us as we cross in front of them. When he pulls up on the opposite side of the street, we stop at a motorcycle—and it's gorgeous, sleek, and built for speed.

"On," he orders, shoving his helmet into my hands, then climbs on the motorcycle, and with one deft move, starts it. The machine rumbles to life. "Quick!" He's standing, waiting for me to climb on. I don't hesitate, shoving the helmet on my head and swinging my leg over the seat behind him. (Don't judge—it's him or the monsters.) I wrap my arms tightly around his middle as he maneuvers the bike out into the road, and with a loud roar, we tear off down the road toward the sunset.

At first, I don't think about the fact I've got my arms wrapped around a stranger. I don't think about the fact that I was attacked by… I don't know what the fuck just happened. I try not to think about anything at all. Then suddenly, that pulsing sensation rips through my body, and I can't stop thinking—a hot, insistence that I need to tear off all my clothes and mount this man. I tug away from him, releasing my hold, but Hottie grabs my arm and yanks me back into place, pressing one of his hands against my skin to communicate I need to stay. His touch is hot, so hot, shooting straight to my clit, which throbs, and I suppress a moan.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He tries yelling something over his shoulder, but the words are lost in the wind. He faces forward once more, leans forward, and we zip across the road even faster.

I squeeze my eyes shut and picture my sister before she got on that bus to Onyx City.

She'd smiled. "Promise you'll come visit," she'd said.

I didn't want to make that promise. I didn't want her to go—had one of those bad feelings that I got sometimes—but despite my misgivings, she reminded me once more that it was her life. She gave me one more hug, then disappeared into the bus. I watched it drive away down the road until I couldn't see it anymore.

Six months later, I got the weird calls.

I heave a deep breath, attempting to clear my adrenalin-addled body that"s beginning to tremble. I'm not cold even as the motorcycle races down the road, but I'm shivering, nonetheless. We're speeding through woods, giant trees blurring in my periphery. There's a stretch of green river in the distance. Suddenly Hottie is slowing the bike and turns from the highway on which I'd ridden the bus into Carran Hollow, onto a side road toward the river, deeper into the woods, moving a bit slower on the rougher road.

Suddenly, my brain reboots. I've willingly put myself on a motorcycle with a stranger who's driving me deeper into the woods beyond civilization, where no one will hear me if I cry for help. Shit.

I tense, eyeing our speed and wondering if I can jump and run. As if reading the direction of my thoughts, he speeds up, the bike shifting and lurching forward. We race past the river, climbing up a mountain switchback as we go, the river always on our right, though now it"s in a ravine below the road we're climbing. A waterfall comes into view.

I gasp at the breathtaking beauty.

Hottie shifts as we climb higher, and suddenly, though the road appears to continue past the waterfall, the bike veers toward it.

"Wait. Stop!" I scream, squeezing my eyes shut, sure he's taking us over the edge even if it makes absolutely no sense, only we don't plummet to our deaths. When I open my eyes once more, we're still on a road, behind the waterfall. Shocked, I swing my gaze over my shoulder as we emerge on the other side, the waterfall now behind us. Still, the bike climbs and climbs, until we level out onto a plateau that dips down a gentle slope into a valley situated between the snowy peaks in the mountains.

Hottie follows the road into the valley, where a house nestled amidst the green comes into view. When we reach it, Hottie steers the motorcycle, stops, and engages the bike's stand at the bottom of a walkway leading into a wide, double-door entrance. The house is incredible, shaped like a mountain itself, angular roof peaks climbing from one level to the next. Windows line its face, along with wooden plank siding and river rock stone accents.

"Here we are," he says as he gets off the bike. He shakes his dark hair, then runs a hand through it, putting it back into place—not that it didn't already have that effortless, windblown look.

"What the fuck?" I scramble from the bike, yanking the helmet from my head and shoving it at him. "Where's here?"

"Safety," he says, making sure the bike isn't going to fall and hanging the helmet on the handlebars before looking at me.

I'm struck again at how gorgeous he is when his dark brown gaze meets mine, the way my body responds to him. "What the fuck was that?" I point in the direction we've just come from.

He sighs and turns, climbing the wide rock stairway toward the wooden double doors.

"Hey!" I call after him, and when he doesn't stop or answer me, I follow.

He keys in a code near the door, and a lock disengages. Pushing the door open, he stops and holds it for me.

"I'm not going in there." I cross my arms over my chest. "As far as I know you're a fucking serial killer."

"Who saved your life?" He arches an eyebrow and frowns. "Look?—"

"Don't you dare fucking patronize me," I yell. "I don't fucking know you. And there was a fucking monster with one eye. And things that popped up from the ground. Now I'm in the middle of fucking nowhere with a stranger! This is fucking serial killer shit."

"I'm Atlas. Atlas Black. I brought you here because it's safe from… those monsters, of which I'm not. And I'll fucking answer any question you have, but I need a fucking drink." He turns and disappears through the doorway, leaving me standing on the walkway several steps from the door.

I turn away from the door and consider stealing his bike—but I don't know how to operate it. I think about walking. I have no idea where to go. The descending sun washes everything around me in a gentle golden light, and it's beautiful, but the temperature is dropping now that the sun slips below the horizon. Along with waning adrenalin I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself. There's nowhere else to go. Warm, yellow lights come on inside the house, beaconing me. I turn once more and study the entryway–an innocuous entryway with a mirror and a table and a closet.

He didn't try to kill me. That's true. He did save me from monsters, and I would like a fucking explanation about that. I can't really sleep outside under the stars because it's going to get cold. He's got my duffle. Inside. There isn't much of a choice, so I cross the threshold, willing to fight my way out if necessary, and close the door behind me.

"In the kitchen," Hottie—Atlas's—voice echoes through the very modern home. "Do you drink scotch?"

"Yes," I say and walk from the entry through a wide cased opening into the kitchen.

The clink of ice against glass draws my attention just before my gaze seeks Atlas. He's removed his leather jacket, so he's standing there in those jeans I noticed earlier and a black t-shirt. Tattoos cover both of his arms, though I can't see what they are, and he's even hotter now than he was in the bar. I can't factor how that's possible, except that the light's better. But isn't it supposed to be the other way around? He returns the bottle to its place in a cupboard, slides a tumbler toward me across the gray countertop, then leans against the marble counter as he takes a sip of his drink.

"This isn't how I thought today would go," he says, his gaze on the inside of his glass.

"And how was that?"

His dark gaze meets mine. "Ending here. At Hallowed."

I know I must look confused.

He tips his head and scans the space. "This house. That's what it's named. Hallowed."

"Hallowed," I repeat, then take a healthy gulp of the scotch. I scrunch my nose and blow out the fumes.

He chuckles then takes another sip before saying, "It's holy ground."

Visions of those monsters flash through my memory, and I reach out for the counter's support.

"Whoa," Atlas says, straightening.

I take another deep sip, chasing away the image of those… things. "What were they?"

"You can see them." He pushes away from the counter and walks to the metal and wood dining table where he sits. "What did they look like?"

"Huge giants with one eye?—"

"Cyclopia. And?"

"A shifty-looking guy who was cloned, I think."

He sets his tumbler on the tabletop. "A manifold."

"Am I supposed to know what the fuck that means?"

He gives me a short smile, sort of patient, but more exhausted. He runs a hand over his face then sighs. "Demons." His dark eyes connect to mine, then he lifts the drink to his lips and sips.

"Demons," I scoff.

He nods, a hand wrapped around his glass on the table, and studies the tumbler for an extra beat before looking at me again. "So you haven't been around… magic?"

I brave the steps from the counter to the table and join him, several seats away on the opposite side. "Demons and magic? Am I supposed to have been around it?"

"Since you can see it, this would be so much easier if you had."

"Well sorry. I'm just a regular person from the Griphin Province."

He offers an incredulous snort. "You aren't just a person." He sips, and I can't seem to stop myself from looking at his lips as he does.

I force my gaze back to his eyes. "What the fuck are you talking about. I'm just… I just need a ride to Onyx City. I'm stuck in Carran because the bus broke down?—"

"Convenient."

"Not for me, because there's no fucking way out unless I get a ride to a neighboring town."

He sits forward, elbows on the table. I notice the way the t-shirt stretches around his arms, the markings changing shape as he does. "I can't take you away from Hallowed."

"Why the fuck not?"

"It isn't safe. Not until after the joining."

Joining? I don't even know where to begin with that one, so I say, "Look. Atlas right? I don't know what the fuck that's supposed to mean, but I have to get to Onyx City." I'm freaking out.

Atlas looks at me like he understands, and the efficiency about him, a calm presence, offers me something to lean on, and damn me I do, almost as if I've still got my arms around his waist from behind, leaning against his broad back.

"What's your name?" he asks, twirling that glass.

He's got beautiful hands. Wide, strong hands with long tapered fingers.

I tear my gaze from his hands and pluck my drink from the table. "Ivy." I take a sip. After I've swallowed, I say, "There's something I have to do there—in the city."

"You won't make it fifteen miles to any of the nearest towns, let alone on a bus or a train or a car before something comes for you. It might be a cyclopia or a manifold. It might be something worse."

"Come for me?" I ask, and there's a shift inside me, like the opening of a door. I don't understand it, but I feel it. I glance at him as he nods, quiet for the moment, then he takes a deep breath and slings back the rest of his drink, emptying the tumbler.

"You've kidnapped me."

He stands, and I watch him walk back into the kitchen for the bottle. "I'm keeping you alive."

"Why would something want to kill me?"

I track him as he returns to his seat. "Because you're—" he stops and hesitates, censoring himself, just like I did about the city. He refills his glass then smacks the bottle in the middle of the table. Then he flops back into the seat and swipes both of his hands over his face again, but this time with frustration.

When he looks at me, his gaze implores me with bright hope. "You're sure you've never experienced magic before?"

I ponder his question, for some reason wanting to please him with the answer, then stifle the ridiculous notion. He's a fucking stranger.

Who saved my life.

I consider my mother, the ways she could sense things, and how that's been passed to me. "I know things sometimes, but that isn't magic."

He looks at me again, his gaze unnerving and intense. "It can be."

I feel his words, or the vibration of the sound of them between my legs, and stand, attempting to put distance between the logic of him being a stranger and the absurd sexual attraction I have to him. I don't fucking know him. Of course, that hasn't usually been a prerequisite to my hookups. One-night stands are my specialty.

I distract myself by looking at items in the room. A metal bookcase with various things on it, books with titles I recognize, a sculpture, several plants, and succulents.

"You're feeling it," he says.

I glance at him over my shoulder, and his dark eyes track me.

Unnerved, I look away from him and take another sip, lean toward the shelf, and say nothing. But he moves and I turn back toward him, watching him skirt the table and walk toward me.

"You felt something at the bar," he says.

I face him but back up. "What?" I pretend not to know what he's referring to. I'm feeling that same heavy awareness of him as at the bar, the hot slice of desire shooting through my body, except this is different somehow than just attraction, something more consequential than just chemistry and lust. Those I'm familiar with. This feels like something wholly different.

"I felt it too." He takes another step toward me, and I retreat even though every cell in my body is rioting, insisting that I walk toward him. "It's called the incitare."

"What? What the hell is that?" I can't retreat any further due to the wall at my back and Atlas between me and an escape. But even as he takes another step forward, and even as my heart is a haphazard mess inside my chest, and even as I'm struggling to draw breath into my lungs, I'm not afraid of him. I'm afraid of this strange feeling, of being this out of control. I'm afraid of knowing I should be trying to run away but have lost the will to do it.

He's close, so close that the moment I take a breath, my chest will meet his. "It's serephish."

With my back against the wall, my drink between us, I pretend nonchalance. "Never heard of it."

His fingers wrap around my glass, his skin grazing mine, and fire races from where he's touched me, climbs my spine like it's kindling, claims my insides as its sacrifice, then explodes inside my mind as I imagine clawing at his clothes and claiming him with my mouth.

Claiming?

Who the hell am I?

He sets the tumbler down on the cabinet to my right. "Well," he says, interrupting my embarrassing fantasy, "if you don't know what you are, you wouldn't have."

"What?" My mouth opens at the coincidence of his statement, as if he's read my mind. "What I am?" I can't breathe. Oh fuck, I can't breathe. That sensation I've realized I've been feeling in his presence is like a creature, alive and writhing between us, and it's suddenly taking all my oxygen.

"Feel that?" he asks and cages me in, his arms on either side of my head.

"What are you doing?" The words are breathy as they leave me. "To me?"

"You feel the heat? It's traveling up your spine and filling your head with… thoughts." He leans forward and nestles his head into the space of my neck but doesn't touch me. The hint of him there, the heat, is enough to keep me from catching a full breath. "And you're thinking of me."

My mouth opens, wanting to deny it, but I can't. He's spot on. "How?"

"Because my head is filled with you," he says, his warmth causing pleasurable chills to race across my skin, bolting through my spine but then spiraling lower, spreading through my belly to the apex between my thighs.

I can't reign in the gasp, wishing I could.

"I'm imagining stripping you, pushing you up against this wall, wrapping your legs around my hips, then burying my cock inside you."

"Oh fuck." My eyes widen, but my breath returns, fast and furious.

He pulls back a touch, still never having touched me. "Feel the flesh tingling in and around your pussy?"

I don't respond. Why would I need to when he knows? He reaches between us and grabs hold of his cock, which is clearly hard, the outline straining against his jeans. "It's different than just desire," he continues, his eyes hungrily consuming me, "because you know what that feels like. That's a flood of warmth and sensation. This is edgy and needy. It pulses and prods like it has its own life. You feel it."

He says it like a fact rather than a question, and I can't do anything but nod, my eyes greedily watching him caress his length and wanting to reach out and take over for him.

"This," he says, "is incitare."