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Bound By Darkness, May 2010 Soul Gatherer #2 by Annette McCleave Signet Featuring: Lena Sharpe; Brian Webster 352 pages ISBN: 0451229762 EAN: 9780451229762 Paperback Add to Wish List Purchase Amazon Barnes & Noble Powell's Books Books-A-Million Indie BookShop

"Trading Love for the Judas Coins"

Bound By Darkness
Annette McCleave

Reviewed by Diana Troldahl
Posted May 31, 2010

Romance Paranormal

Second in the Soul Gatherer Series, McCleave continues in the world she built, focusing on a rare female soul gatherer, Lena Sharpe, and her relationship with Brian Webster, introduced in book one of the series Drawn into Darkness.

If Satan and his minions succeed in collecting tainted relics, they gain control over more and more of the middle plane (Earth) and the people who dwell there. The more items they hold, the stronger and deeper their power becomes, the more demons can travel through the rifts, the closer the middle plane comes to damnation.

Working their way toward heaven by gathering souls of the newly dead, soul gatherers have no hope for a normal human life, only the goal of repentance and the hope of redemption. Why then do long-forgotten needs catch fire when Brian and Lena meet? He feels in his gut that she's a bad risk, but he can't seem to keep from trusting her, even when her true goal is revealed.

Soul Gather Brian Webster wears his urbane polished persona as a shield concealing his feelings of failure. Yet another young girl dies before he can save her, Judas coin clenched in her hand. He was too late to save the priest, too late to save the innocent, almost too late to save the coin. How can Lena Sharpe keep her fellow soul-gatherers from learning her true goal? Like them, she seeks the coins, not to keep them from Satan's grasp, but to hand them over. She needs the coins to ransom Heather from the clutches of demon possession. She has already lost several of those dear to her by refusing to give up the coins and it has broken her spirit. Now nothing else matters but preserving the life of a young girl, not even the destruction of the world

BOUND BY DARKNESS is a little darker in tone than book one of the series, although perhaps that is due to the focal characters rather than plot. I don't recommend reading these out of order, more enjoyment will be gained by learning about the world and it's people in the first book.

Learn more about Bound By Darkness

SUMMARY

Death's warriors guard against demon soul thieves for one chance at redemption...Desire be damned.

Bound together by burning desire and a similar darkness in their hearts, Soul Gatherers Brian Webster and Lena Sharpe race against time to take back from a demon ancient coins that could destroy civilization. But as the truth behind a deadly bargain Lena made surfaces, Brian is faced with a desperate choice-save the one, or save the many.

Excerpt

Yet, as Brian Webster weighed the pros of a blue-on-blue-striped Gucci versus a classic white Zegna dress shirt, the famous store did exactly that. With absolutely no warning, a low boom rose up through the carpeted floor, vibrating his shoes and rattling the windows. Before he could leap, the chilling shriek of bending metal accompanied a four-inch drop in the floor.

Only his Soul Gatherer reflexes kept him upright.

Instantly, panicked screams, warbling alarms, and heavy crashes of crumbling infrastructure replaced the moneyed hush of the posh emporium. An etched-glass chandelier crashed to the ground, strafing two fallen customers with shattered remnants. Several brass-and-wood displays toppled, knocking a suit- clad salesman to the ground.

A thin tendril of smoke and the smell of burned matches curled up from gaping hole in the floor, but it was the oily aftertaste of charcoal that connected all the dots. Pulse surging, Brian tossed the shirts onto a mahogany table now littered with glass and raced for the elevators. That blend of odors was all too familiar.

Brimstone.

Somewhere below him, a demon had popped in from hell.

At the elevator lobby, the scene was a mess. The marble flooring had shifted like tectonic plates. Dust and fragmented glass coated every surface. People hugged the walls, dazed or crying, a few of them praying. Brian paused. The creature wreaking havoc on the floors below needed to be stopped—no doubt about that. But one of the elevator cars, jarred by the explosion, had slid several feet with the doors still open. Three women and a toddler screamed for help from its depths, terrified they would plummet to the ground floor.

And there was no way to be sure they wouldn’t.

A very large man in a yellow golf shirt bravely lay on his stomach, reaching his plump arm into the gap between the floor and the top of the car. Choosing lives he could see over those he could not, Brian dove to the uneven floor beside him.

“Come on, ladies,” he coaxed urgently. “Let’s get you out of there.”

Even as he spoke, another explosion shuddered through the building, heaving the floor beneath their bellies and bringing ceiling tiles down on their heads. The elevator gave up a deep metallic sigh and scraped a few inches lower, sparks flying. The women’s screams rose another octave, and the man beside him jerked. To give the guy credit, though, he didn’t pull away.

Two of the trapped women, spurred by the realization that they were about to die, latched onto their arms. Brian easily tugged his elderly victim clear of the car, then helped his co-rescuer free the other. Only the woman with the child remained inside. Between the terror wringing their faces and the constant stream of tears, he doubted they could see straight.

“Give him the baby,” Brian told the frantic woman, holding her watery gaze. “You take my hand.”

She responded well to his firm voice. Crossing the car with hesitant steps, she handed off her young son. Once the boy was safe, however, everything seemed to overwhelm her. Shock took hold. Her arms and legs trembled violently and her breathing became labored. She grabbed at his hand several times, but fell back into the car.

The elevator car shuddered with every attempt.

Brian hooked a foot around a heavy potted palm. Leaning in farther, he wrapped an arm around the frightened woman’s waist. Her shirt was damp with cold sweat, and the shudders racking her body echoed through his own. As another grind of metal presaged disaster, he clenched his stomach muscles, pulled up sharply, and hauled her out. Trading her tearful words of gratitude for a quick hug, he gently guided the woman toward her son, who clutched his savior’s shirt with balled fists.

“Head for the opposite side of the building,” he advised his fellow rescuer. “Get everyone out, quick as you can.”

Taking a deep breath to prepare for what lay ahead, he ran for the red EXIT light.

In the dim stairwell, he pulled his sword out from under his suit jacket. Freed of its mystical scabbard, the fifteenth-century Oakeshott replica became visible, but witnesses were the least of his worries. A solitary explosion would have meant he was dealing with a havoc demon. But a havoc demon only broke through the barrier into this realm to cause random accidents, and it had only moments to execute its sorry-assed deed before it snuffed out like a spark of hellfire. It didn’t have the juice to hit a joint twice.

This was something else.

He murmured a quick shield spell and then slowly descended to the fifth-floor landing. His feet crunched on the debris littering the stairs—chunks of concrete, crumbled mortar, a fallen sign, and a thick layer of gray dust. Every step echoed eerily against the walls and eliminated all hope of a stealthy approach. Not that silence mattered to the victim sprawled on the landing. He was beyond help.

Brian scanned the man’s lifeless figure, taking in the scorched black suit and the rose quartz rosary entwined in his burned fingers. A cold sense of dread settled in his belly. He knew without turning the body over who it was. Father O’Shaunessy. The man he’d arranged to meet here in the store in less than an hour.

This was no random demon attack.

His gaze traveled outward, over the numerous scuffle marks in the dust to the gray- painted cinder-block walls, where a series of large scorches marked the pitted concrete. A brutal battle had been waged here with bolts of supernatural energy pitched by both sides, every returned blast a valiant attempt by the priest to defend himself and . . .

Brian frowned. Not all the dark stains were soot. There was blood, too. A lot of it.

Yet O’Shaunessy’s body showed no sign of an open injury, only the searing wounds consistent with fending off firebombs. Had someone else been here? Was someone left alive?

Brian quickly put a hand to the priest’s throat. Soothing warmth flowed into his fingertips, fluttered up his arm, and wrapped around his heart—the telltale transition of a soul destined for heaven.

Another explosion hit the building. The walls of the stairwell vibrated, and mortar dust and a piece of concrete the size of bread loaf dislodged from somewhere above, smashing to the ground a half inch from his toes. Screams floated up from the floors below and curled in his gut. Whether or not the priest had been alone was irrelevant. Whatever was down there needed to be destroyed.

Leaping over the metal handrail, he dropped four floors in blur. He landed at the bottom in an easy crouch, then sprang to his feet.

Sword in hand, he strode through the smoke and into the shattered ruin that had once been Ladies Cosmetics. His stomach knotted. The first floor tended to be one of the busiest spots in the store, filled with gawking tourists and trend- worshiping teens. Tonight was no exception. At least two dozen bodies lay strewn about like crumpled garbage, dampened by a barely functioning sprinkler system. Men, women, and . . . at least one child. Several alive, some not.

Brian tore his gaze away from the human devastation, searching the hazy interior for the demon. Dealing with the painful toll would have to wait. Right now, stopping the carnage took priority.

A thin wail of sirens rose and fell in the distance, growing steadily closer. Reassuring, but not his focus. Filtering out emergency vehicles, electric crackles, and low moans of the injured, he homed in on the sounds that haunted a Soul Gatherer’s nightmares: the raspy murmur of hellish incantations and the whoosh of firebombs in the air.

And he found the bastard.

Left. About a hundred yards through the haze.

Most of Satan’s henchies wore a glamour to disguise their presence among humans. But not this one. It was a mottled red-and-gray colossus, twice Brian’s height and probably three times his weight, horns and talons everywhere. A long, ooze-dripping tail whipped back and forth, writhing with a life of its own. As demons went, it was easily the most imposing creature Brian had ever run across. But he dared not think about that.

Giving the flexible appendage a wide berth, he advanced through the rubble, visualizing his attack. The monstrosity conveniently had its back to him, so he leapt atop the remnants of a display counter and dove at the hulking figure from behind. His target was the heavily muscled neck. The Oakeshott was a very fast blade and the element of surprise would work in his favor.

Unfortunately, the remaining glass in the display chose that moment to fall to the floor, smashing on the tiles with a wince-worthy crescendo.

The demon pivoted just as the arc of Brian’s swing gained full momentum. Red eyes glaring, it raised a platter-sized palm, muttered a single word, and blasted Brian in the chest with a fat glob of red-hot lava. The missile sent him flying, and he landed on a display case in a splash of splintered wood and shattered glass. Worse, the lava bomb ate right through his shield, gnawed through his Jay Kos jacket, and drilled deep into muscle. Breathing became a serious chore.

What was this thing?

He surged to his feet, conjured a fresh shield, and brandished his sword, prepared to fend off another fireball. But nothing came at him. The behemoth demon had turned away, wading through the rubble toward the Fiftieth Street doors. It wasn’t interested in him, couldn’t care less about the angry Soul Gatherer determined to send its ass back to hell.

And that made Brian’s heart skip a beat. What demon could resist an opportunity to steal a soul now that it was collected and available for the taking? Especially when the odds appeared to be in its favor? If it wasn’t interested in snatching the priest’s soul, what was it interested in?

He peered through the smoke, past the demon’s massive frame, and frowned. The surprisingly intact door to the outside world was swinging shut. Someone had just left the building. Judging by the smear of bright red blood on the glass, an injured someone. Perhaps the someone from the stairwell.

Not pausing to sort out the whys, Brian put on a burst of speed. He dashed around the demon, narrowly dodged a vicious stab of its tail, and pushed through the door into the late May evening. The sun was setting, leaving thin ribbons of tawny light falling between buildings. The traffic on the busy street had slowed to a crawl—heads popped out of car windows; wide eyes locked on the wafting smoke several floors above.

Brian scanned the gawking bystanders, looking for his wounded escapee.

There. Across the street, a bloodstained T-shirt on a figure limping up the stairs of St. Pat’s Cathedral.

The door at his back exploded in a thick moil of fire and greasy black smoke, pitching Brian and a million shards of glass and metal halfway across the street. He rolled over the hood of a Yellow Cab, bounced to his feet, and raced for the church entrance. New screams rose into the air and then were abruptly silenced as the demon swept aside a parked car and seared everything within a fifty-foot radius with a mouthful of furnace-hot heat. Brian shoved the ugly thought of fried bodies to the back of his mind and kept running. The demon never varied its pace, but every step gained it fifteen feet. It wouldn’t be far behind him.

Brian’s eyes adjusted instantly to the dim interior of the church.

The last afternoon Mass was over, but a few map-carrying tourists lingered in the pews and in the gift shop. Spotting his fugitive was easy. A bone-thin blond girl, no more than twenty, dragged a stiff leg up the nave toward the altar, one arm hanging by her side, the other clutched to her chest. It was a testament to the awe-inspiring beauty of the cathedral’s arches that no one noticed the blood trail she left behind on the marble floor.

Brian leapt over two rows of pews and sprinted.

He reached his target just as the demon hit the church with a masonry-crushing blast. The girl was on the verge of collapse. Deep cuts laced her arms and neck. The front of her threadbare Old Navy T-shirt was soaked with blood, and her lips were chalky white.

Each passing minute was killing her.

Behind him, the heavy bronze doors exploded inward, sailing twenty feet before landing on pews that buckled under the weight. The tourists ran blindly for the main entrance, far less interested in what had caused the explosion than in escaping the mayhem. Not bothering with introductions, Brian scooped the girl up in one arm and dashed for the Forty-ninth Street door.

She didn’t make things easy. Despite her weakened state, the girl flailed.

“No,” she said as she pummeled him with her fist. “I can’t leave.”

“Honey, if we don’t leave, we’re going to die,” he told her grimly, his fingers struggling to keep their hold on her blood-slicked skin.

“Let me go.”

A fireball hit him in the lower back—a teeth-rattling jolt of energy that disintegrated his new shield as easily as the last. He stumbled, but kept running. Conjuring up another shield, he leapt left, over a pew and behind a fluted column. Just in time. The wrought-iron chandelier above his last position crashed to the floor, sending a spray of fine glass and chipped tile in all directions.

But the dive allowed the girl to slip free of his hold. She slithered under the nearest bench and peered out at him from her dim hideout. Her face was ashen, her eyes dark and wide. And it stirred memories. Memories of another time and another desperate girl. Brian shook his head. Now was not the time.

“This is a church,” she whispered. “This is sanctuary. It can’t hurt me here.”

He stared at her. Damn. She believed that shit. She had no idea that hallowed ground did little more than inflict a slow burn on a demon’s flesh.

The column protecting them took an indirect hit, cracked, and partially crumbled. There wasn’t enough time to explain how things really worked, so he reached for her again.

She flinched away.

“Sweetheart, please,” he begged. The marble floor trembled under the advancing steps of the demon. “This whole place is about to fall around our ears.”

But she withdrew into the shadows and shook her head, refusing to be swayed.

Which left him with only one option: his original choice—fight.

He closed his eyes, finding and focusing on the throb of power that lay deep in his chest. Drawing hard on the cool white energy, he shoved off the floor. His muscular legs flexed with practiced ease and he flipped over ten pews, landing in the nave with his sword ready for action. The demon again ignored him, maintaining its relentless pursuit of the girl.

Perfect.

Brian ducked under the creature’s long, whipping tail and went for its Achilles’ tendons.

Were they still called that if the creature had cloven hooves?

The mystical enhancements on his blade cut through the demon’s shield, and he sliced deep. Unfortunately, the demon’s thick, scaly hide served its purpose and his swing fell short of success, unable to sever the tendons completely.

The demon issued an angry roar that blew out every stained-glass window in the cathedral. It spun around, splintering a dozen pews into matchsticks with its tail, and released a gust of thousand-degree breath in Brian’s direction. Benches all around him licked into a fiery blaze, then disintegrated into ash. But Brian’s shield survived the attack, and so did he. Dripping with sweat but still vigorously alive, he rushed the demon again, leaping high and scoring two slices—one across the beast’s massive chest and the other across its biceps.

Before he could regroup and deal another blow, however, the demon’s tail slipped around his waist. With anaconda strength, it flicked him aside, tossing him a hundred feet with incredible ease. Brian smacked into a wall, the air in his lungs expelling in a sharp huff. He slid to the floor, dazed, an easy target for the huge chunk of masonry the demon tore from a wall and flung atop him. His shield repelled the worst of the blow, but Brian’s sternum took the rest, cracking and bruising. He heaved to his feet, sucking in a pinched breath.

Shunting his misery aside, burying his pain beneath a layer of fierce resolve, he sped back toward the demon. He zigzagged around several pillars to present a more erratic target, but the demon managed to lock onto him in spite of his defensive maneuvers. Molten lava hit him at the hip, tore through his shield as if it were made of tissue paper, and burrowed into his skin. Brian staggered.

A dozen hot, hungry worms chewed through his flesh, right to the bone. Every nerve ending howled. Black spots crowded his vision—a vain attempt by his mind to shut out the pain. Nausea clawed at his belly, and his arms and legs turned to rubber. He might well have fallen to his knees were it not for the feeble words that filtered through his agony-induced haze.

“Hail Mary . . . full of grace . . .”

The girl was praying, using her last breaths to beg forgiveness for her sins.

Damn it. No. He couldn’t let her die here, not like this. There hadn’t been a mark on her cheek, no sign that she was destined to die today. And she was just a kid, barely a woman. She was a lot like—too much like—Melanie. He’d screwed up with his sister, but this girl he could help. All he had to do was keep his shit together.

Brian reached deeper, found a last reserve of strength, and forced his legs to move. This fucking demon had to go down. Now.

He pumped his legs again and again, each step firmer than the last, each step taking him closer to his quarry. Another fireball hit him, but he kept going, the pain an ever-tightening cinch around his chest and yet, somehow, hollow and distant. As if it tore through the guts of someone else. Adjusting his hold on the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword, he envisioned his attack, right through to a successful conclusion.

Then he leapt.

Using the creature’s flexed knee for leverage, he launched himself upward, ducking around its massive arm, swinging at the bulging cords of its neck. His Oakeshott-style blade, forged by a very talented mage, had gained new energy from the drips of demon gore sliding down its length. It hummed with supernatural strength, and the glowing blue edge broke through the demon’s shield with reassuring ease. Out of the corner of his eye, Brian saw the angry, undulating tail lash in his direction, but his attention remained locked on his target—the base of the neck, where a fat jugular vein pulsed with undead life.

The cutting edge of the sword bit deep into the demon’s flesh, carving through hide and sinew and nerves alike. Thick, crimson blood sprayed everywhere. Success. Sort of. The demon’s tail whipped around his torso, circling. It slithered all the way up to his shoulder and then . . . squeezed. Ribs, collarbone, shoulder blade—a dozen bones snapped under the relentless choking, the sound a sickening series of crunches. Only when a death- throes shudder racked the demon from head to toe did the pressure ease. Thrashing wildly, the tail flung Brian into the air.

The demon lurched, fell to its knees, and collapsed face-first in the rubble.

Brian only vaguely noted the fall. Agony had him firmly it its grip. He’d ended his flight thirty pews to the left, atop his mangled shoulder. His immortal body, aware that the battle was over, was threatening to shut down for repair, but he fought the siren call of blackout. The job wasn’t done. He had to reach the girl.

Bile in his mouth, vision distorted by a red film, he pushed brokenly to his feet.

Every part of his pulverized body howled. His blood pounded in protest, filling his ears with an angry rush. Forcing the pain to recede, he dragged himself across the floor, where he found her still huddled beneath a pew near the doors. Pale and bloodless. Her eyes were closed, her prayers silenced. He knew long before he grasped her slender hand that she was dead; he just didn’t want to believe.

Gently, he tugged her out of her cave and into his arms. The movement jarred his ravaged shoulder, sending an agonizing stab in the direction of his lungs, but the pain felt right and just. He let his chin sink to his chest. He’d failed her.

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