My Soul to Keep by Sharie Kohler

earth. Her ribs cracked in protest, and she moaned, wondering if she could in fact die. The pain was so intense that she felt as if she were dying … like it could happen. Like it
was
happening.
    She struggled to move. Could only lift her head, gaze in horror at her own sword embedded in her chest, skewering her to the ice-covered ground. She felt the metal blade clink and chafe between her vertebrae. Agony burned through her.
    She tried to speak, but blood gurgled in her mouth and she choked, spraying blood.
    She swam in the stuff. Warm and sweet-smelling, it rushed over her broken body, running in a steady stream to the snow-packed ground. She turned her face, watched the dark red sinking into the pristine white.
    She squeezed her eyes tight, frustrated by her helplessness. She had failed Gervaise. Lost Tresa … maybe even lost herself.
    Her vision grayed, blurred. Blackness rolled in. Then, suddenly, she inhaled as strong hands pulled the sword free.
    Still she could not fight off the darkness. It came for her like a great, thirsting beast. Even a dovenatu could not cheat death. She would endure it, would suffer the full consequences of her injuries before her body could start to mend itself.
    Even as the end claimed her, as color faded from her world, one face loomed over her, filling the sweeping dark.
    Her lips worked as she tried to speak, tried to say his name. The barest whisper fell.
Jonah
.
    Then she lost sight of him. Lost sight of everything but the swallowing black of death.

S IX
    Jonah hovered over her for a long moment, scowling savagely as the sound of her voice sifted through his head like sand between his fingers. The whisper of his name on her lips reminded him of the little girl who had always looked to him, needed him.
    He stared hard at her now, his hot breath puffing out white fog. There wasn’t an inch of her that had been spared blood and gore. Even her dark bangs were matted and stained red on her forehead.
    A quick glance over his shoulder revealed Tresa’s fading figure. Anywhere else but this freezing tundra, and the demon would have overpowered the witch and let Sorcha kill her to gain corporeal form. This bitter cold made the demon weak. Clearly why Tresa chose to live out here.
    Looking back down at Sorcha, he watched her chest sink in a final deep, rattling breath. His own breath arrested inside his chest as he stared,waiting, already knowing he would not see it rise again.
    She was dead. For a few moments, at least. Even though he knew she would wake, the sight twisted through him, made him feel slightly ill.
    Luckily, she was an unnatural creature … like him. They could not be killed through typical measures. Poisoned with silver. Incinerated in fire. Exploded into a million fragments. That did the job. Gutted and impaled with a sword? Not a pleasant experience, but not lethal.
    She would breathe again shortly, this woman he knew and yet didn’t. This woman he’d been sent to kill and yet couldn’t. She’d sip the arctic air and come to life and slowly start regenerating.
    He cringed at what she would endure then. That much hadn’t changed. He still didn’t wish her hurt. Only, unfortunately for her, she would feel the agony of her mangled and shredded body. There was no way to save her from that pain. But he could at least get her out of the subzero temperature and make her as comfortable as possible.
    Slipping his hands beneath her lax body, he lifted her dead weight into his arms. He headed back to the lodge, feet eating up the frozen earth. He covered ground quickly, determined to reach the warmth of the lodge before she regained consciousness.
    Clearing the threshold, he kicked the door shut behind them. He drove a hard line toward the bedroom, tracking the heat to the warmest room. His boots thudded over the hardwood floor.
    With great gentleness, he laid her on a rug before the fireplace, relishing the flames licking heat on his