Concrete, not dirt. The floor was slanting up.
Still no light. But of course there wouldn’t be. Unless someone were waiting for them. The dark was better, since—considering their luck so far—she could guess what’d be on the other side.
Never mind the salambes; her lungs burned, legs burned, throat burned. Water crept into her nostrils, but she did not breathe. Very good demon.
Had to be just a little farther; then she could gasp all she liked.
Her good intentions jolted out of her when something grabbed her from behind.
CHAPTER 10
She flailed and cracked her head on . . . on the ceiling? The floor? Every direction seemed like down.
She wanted to scream this time. Scream Jonah’s name. He would be forging on ahead without her, oblivious to her capture. It would drag her away. . . .
Whatever it was didn’t drag her, though, just held her, which was death enough, of course.
She reached behind her, half expecting fangs. The hook that would have held the power line for the tracks somewhere below her kicking feet had snagged between her backpack and spine. She slipped out of one strap of the backpack, but the other wrapped like a tentacle around her arm. She wrenched at it, tearing cloth and skin like she was a fish on a hook.
She couldn’t help it. She let out the last of her breath.
But as the bubbles left her open mouth, a strong arm wrapped around her chest.
His hook dug under her breast, but she didn’t care. Water flooded her throat, and the utter blackness sparked with stars. Odd. Or maybe not, if she were dying.
The cold touch of open air poured over her face as the water fell away, and Jonah roared her name.
He slogged through the chest-deep pool. Was he swearing? Impossible. Maybe that was just her inner voice.
Then he was running. She jounced in his arms, and suddenly all the water in her spewed out in a silty gush.
How embarrassing. Thank God it was dark except for the deep-sea-fishes gleam of the reven between her thighs. She didn’t want him to see the blush on her cheeks, except she felt so cold, maybe blushing would be nice.
Before his boots cleared the edge of the water, he laid her out on the concrete floor.
And then his mouth covered hers.
Maybe that stupid, drowning gasp hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.
His lips were as cold as hers, his first breath as desperate as her last one, but it filled her with fire.
Her heart slam-danced to the demon’s pulse. She reached for Jonah, but he rolled her to her side and another lungful of water drained from her. She choked and snorted, wishing her reven would dim enough to not add the party lighting to her after-hours-style purge.
He touched her shoulder. “Just lie back.”
There was something she’d never expected to hear from him. She coughed a few more times and then pushed against his hand. “I’m all right now.” She gathered her legs under her and sat up, her palm flattened against her chest.
He peered at her. “Still water in there?”
“No. I ripped up the back of my shirt on that fucking hook. Not much left.”
He sat back abruptly.
She started to snicker at his prudish recoil. Then he peeled out of his T-shirt, and she choked again instead.
How did a missionary man get abs like that? The concrete where she had bashed her head had nothing on the hardness of his obliques. Apparently, machete swinging needed its own workout video. Or maybe almost a century of demon swatting had some advantages. The soaked cotton clung to his broad shoulders for a moment, then released with a sound like a wet kiss.
She took the shirt when he handed it to her, too stunned to do otherwise.
“Wouldn’t want you catching a chill.” His gave her that lopsided grin she was beginning to recognize.
Despite his teasing, the reven that half spiraled around him from the back of his neck to the bottom of his rib cage flared with the presence of his demon. He wasn’t nearly as cool inside as his skin temperature indicated.
She let her shredded T-shirt fall and tugged his over her head. Her back twinged where the hook had caught her as the shirt settled around her, several sizes too big, but damp enough to cling. Too bad the muddy stink of the water had washed away whatever scent he left on his clothes.
While she wrestled with the wet cotton, he’d risen to his feet and was staring down the corridor.
“I had the flashlight in the backpack,” she said. “It’s probably not too far down.”
He shook his head. “What are the chances it will still work? Between us, we make enough light to see any places the tunnels diverge.”
“I’ll have to change my stage name. Phoebe the Phosphorescing Floozie, maybe.” She dug her fingers into her thigh as she remembered—how had she forgotten?—that she wouldn’t need a stage name anymore. She had more important sins to indulge.
Jonah held his hand down to her, the crooked set of his mouth more wry than amused at her antics. Apparently, he didn’t need any light to know what she was thinking. “If you’re strong enough to feel guilty, let’s go.”
“You mean we can outrun guilt?”
“At least we can keep it in shape.” He kept her hand for a moment, testing her balance, she thought. When he released her, his fingers were slow to slide free.
She understood his reluctance. If there was anything worse than running from monsters in the dark and getting nowhere, it was desperate kisses in the dark that didn’t go anywhere either.
Chilled droplets crept down her spine, as if to rejoin the black water behind them. “We did outdive the tenebrae, though.”
“Yes.”
“So we’re in the clear.”
“No. We’re very much still in the dark.”
“Maybe your friends—the other talyan—were able to stop them.”
“Maybe. We’ll find out. If we find a way out of here.”
More guilt prickled. “The map was in the backpack too.”
“Like it was doing us any good.”
She wasn’t liking how much he sounded like her drowning voice. Maybe she hadn’t been the only one to hit a low point at the tunnel’s low point.
“Jonah,” she said softly. “Thank you for saving me.”
“The teshuva would’ve gotten to it. Eventually.”
“Sooner was better, really.”
He inclined his head. “I got a good look at the map, so don’t worry—” The words must have struck him wrong, because he gave a harsh laugh. “I should stop saying that.”
Man, she’d flashed her tits at him and that still hadn’t brought him back from his dark place. This was why dating a missionary man would be bad for her ego. “I bet having a knack for maps was useful in the jungle.”
He shrugged. “About as useful as down here. Jungles are so wild and ever changing. . . .”
She wondered at the note of pleasure that crept into his voice. “You liked it?”
“I loved it. From the first dime novel I read about the dark continent, I wanted to go.”
“To convert heathens?” She couldn’t resist needling him.
He laughed, more honestly this time. “To find treasure. Or a lost tribe. Or monstrous dinosaur bones. The dime novels were very explicit about what I’d find.”
“Bare-breasted native girls?” She gave him a wicked smirk.
He returned a good-boy grin. “Not that explicit. Not in those days.”
“Mobi could’ve been your sidekick. Well, in the end, you did find monsters. And a lost tribe. Of a sort.”
His smile slipped. “True. A demon’s finger tightened on my penance trigger, and the teshuva gave me exactly what I asked for.”
She cursed herself—silently—for ruining the moment. She was so good at that. “Oh, you know the demon is a big, honking liar, taking advantage of us to make itself look better. It’s no better than one of those old, fat, balding farts who shows up at the club, waving his pinky ring and a roll of twenties, but spends more time watching himself in the mirror than drooling over the dancers.”