Raising Hell by Julie Kenner Page A

step toward her and cupped her face in his hand. “Go,” he said. “Just leave here. Go to your father. Get away while you still can. While there’s still hope.”
    Something flickered in her eyes, something warm and alive. But then it faded, and a cold smile touched her lips. Instead of running, she pressed against him. “No way, Nicky. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” She reached down to cup his crotch. “If you’re the one who helped me along here, then I think that deserves a little thank-you.”
    “Damn it, Delilah,” he yelled, jerking her hand away. “You’re not listening to me!”
    He grabbed her arm and started tugging her down the alley toward the street, ignoring her cries of protest. He hustled her into a cab, keeping a tight hand on her forearm in case she decided to bolt.
    Back at the loft, he shoved her inside, then dragged her toward the painting. She jerked her arm roughly away and stood staring at it. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. “But it’s a lie. It’s a trick. Magic. The big mojo.” He waggled his fingers. “I’m a hack as an artist, and you’re the one suffering for it.”
    “I’m not suffering,” she said, taking a step toward him. “Just calm down, Nick.”
    “I am not going to calm down. And I’m not going to be responsible for destroying you. I’m going to fix this,” he said. “And if you won’t run, I only know one way to do that.”
    And then, before she could protest, he tossed a mason jar rilled with turpentine onto the canvas. Then he lit a match, and tossed that as well.
    Flames erupted instantaneously, and she screamed, leaping toward the picture as if she’d beat them out with her own hands. He held her back, struggling to keep her away as they watched the painting blacken and crumble.
    After a moment, the nature of her struggle changed. She bucked in his arms as her soul—now freed from the canvas—flowed back into her. And then her cries of protest changed to hysterical sobs. She sagged, crumpling to the ground and hugging her knees, rocking back and forth almost as if she was in a trance.
    Nick let her go, taking the fire extinguisher and putting out the fire that had burned the canvas down to so much ash, the lingering scent reminding him of his father.
    He knelt beside her, pressed a hand to her knee. She looked up at him, tears streaking her face. “What did you do to me?”
    “I told you. I stole your soul. I’m sorry, but I did.” The words were inadequate, and he knew it. But they were honest, and he hoped that counted for something.
    He indicated the pile of ash. “You have it back now.”
    “Why? How?”
    “For my father,” he said, and then he told her the whole, sordid story. “I didn’t have your courage,” he said. “I didn’t believe I could make it on my own without that particular skill to make my art stand out. And I couldn’t stand up to my father. That simply wasn’t an option.”
    “And so you used me. Even though you knew it would hurt me—would change me. You used me anyway.”
    “Yes.”
    “So that first night, when we made love. I was … that way with you because you’d worked some freaky magic on me?”
    He shook his head. “No. I didn’t start until later. The first night I was with you. Just like you are now. Pure Delilah.”
    She licked her lips, nodded uncertainly. “And then later you … you …” She twirled her hand. “Did your thing?”
    “That’s right.”
    “And you took my soul.”
    “Bits and pieces at a time, but yes. That’s about it.”
    “But then you changed your mind.”
    He met her eyes, hoping that she could see into his soul. “Yes, I did.”
    “Why?”
    He drew in a breath, hesitating, but in the end he had to speak the truth. “Because I love you.”
    She stayed perfectly still for a moment, and Nick held his breath, almost able to believe that it would be okay. He’d have to face his father’s wrath, of course, but she’d be with him. And with