Dark Angel
Page 23
Not knowing which apartment door the demon had slipped through, I ran to the first door on the first floor and checked the knob. Locked. I hissed in frustration. It would take me hours to check all the doors in this place. Julia didn’t have that long.
I made my way forward again and then hesitated for a moment at the corner of the hall. The soft click of a metal door opening and then closing reached me.
Bingo.
I was running. As I rounded the corner, I saw a door with a faded sticker denoting 6A. Soft, yellow light shone from the gap between the floor and the door. I went to the door and tried the knob. It rolled freely.
“Gotcha,” I whispered.
My pulse pounded, and I opened the door as quietly as I could to step inside. The air was filled with the stench of blood. The apartment was of moderate size by New York City standards, lit with nothing more than a few candles on the wood floor. The burning candles lit the walls with dark, vague, and creepy shadows. Great.
The ceilings were at least ten feet high, and the walls were covered with wallpaper straight out of the eighties. Chairs, tables, and a desk were strewn against the walls, as though to make a larger space in the middle of the apartment. And then I saw why.
A large stone circle lay in the middle of the room. The stones were small, the size of my thumb, and bone white. Six black chicken heads were spread evenly around the circle, and in the middle was a black lamb’s head above a blood-drawn triangle. Strange runes I’d never seen before were written in fresh blood inside the circle, suggesting more of a pagan ritual than your modern demon summoning. Creepy.
I took another step forward for a better look.
A girl stepped into my line of sight. Gone was the healthy, happy girl I’d seen in the photo. Her hair hung limp and greasy over her dirty face. Her body was thin, almost gaunt, and her limbs, what I could see of them through her clothes, were stained and dirty. Her jeans and T-shirt were speckled in blood, but I couldn’t tell if it was her own or someone else’s. The flesh on her face was sunken and the bones sharp, leaving her black eyes feral and unsettling. They watched me with unrelenting rage. She was pissed.
That made two of us.
I knew if I didn’t move I was dead. I didn’t have time for small talk. Moving on instinct, I dropped to my knees, pulled out my chalk and began to draw a circle with a seven-point star in the middle—the exorcism sigil.
Exorcisms were the highest level of hard magic. Deadly, if you didn’t do it right. With an inexperienced priest or witch, more times than not, the human died in a rivulet mess of blood and guts.
But I’d been doing this for more than a decade now, and I knew my craft. And I was going to kick this demon’s ass back to the Netherworld where it belonged.
There was power in words, magic words, just like there was power in sigils and seals. If you knew how to use them. Not many witches did, though. You needed to be precise in your drawing of them. One little squiggle out of place could send you to the Netherworld or cause you to end up with your head on backwards. Yeah, that happened to a witch down the block before I was born. Since then, witches had grown frightened of the power of sigils. They didn’t trust them, but I trusted them more than I trusted blood magic. Sigils were like math and art. You did your calculations, and then you did your drawing.
I’d screwed up a few times in the beginning, but I wasn’t stupid enough to try complicated sigils at first. No, I started with the typical easy sigil, like a hovering teacup sigil or paint-your-toenails-blue sigil. My toenails had disappeared completely the first time I’d tried. Oops. Thank God it had been winter so no one had to know or see me, Sam the toenail-less idiot.
I was now so good at my sigils that I’d scanned them into the computer and printed out copies. Yes. They worked just as well and saved me the time to draw them up when I was in a hurry.
But I had an advantage over the other witches. My grandpa always said I had a knack for them. I was an artist. I loved to draw and paint, so images came naturally to me just like breathing. My sigils were each a piece of art, and I’d put my energy and time into creating them. They were beautiful. And powerful.
But I was also lazy.
When I realized that one sigil was the equivalent in power to hours and hours of spell reciting and reading and then some more conjuring, I opted for the sigils. Why spend hours on a transmutation spell when I could draw the transmutation sigil in thirty seconds flat.
Hence came my passion for Goetia. I’d already mastered the sigils—the drawing and the energy that came from them—so it was time to turn things up a notch.
Sweat beaded on my forehead as I drew as quickly as I could without making a mistake. I couldn’t screw up now because a mistake could cost me my life, and Julia’s.
I brought the chalk up and around, adding three smaller stars inside the circle and making the connections. My pulse quickened, and I strained with effort to keep my hand from shaking from the shots of adrenaline.
Next, I spelled out the word exilium, the Latin word for banishment in each of the three stars. Where I should have put the demon’s name, I left it blank. It would have been easier with its name, but I’d done countless exorcisms before, successfully, without a name. I knew it would work.
The air cracked with electricity. The hairs on my arms rose.
I looked up. Demon-Julia’s lips were moving.
Ah. Hell.
A blast of energy hit me in the chest and I shot backwards, hitting the wall at thirty miles an hour. I heard something crack, possibly my skull, as I slid to the floor.
“Ow.”
I’d yet to meet a slobbering demon polite enough to wait for me to finish setting my banishment sigils.
The girl giggled. No. Not the girl, but the demon that was riding in her body.
“You need to be quicker with your scribbles, you half-breed bitch,” said the demon, its voice harsh and guttural. It sounded disturbingly like a serpentine whisper and had the hairs on the back on my neck rising. That was not a teenage girl’s voice, but I was glad it was using English. My Enochian—the angel and demon language—was a little rusty.
“Thanks for the tip.” I pitched forward on my stomach, sliding to my circle. With my chalk, I wrote exilium in the last triangle, finishing the sigil.
With my heart pounding in my ears, I glanced back at demon-Julia. She stood in the same spot, grinning at me like I’d just finished doing her laundry. The demon hadn’t tried to stop me a second time. That wasn’t a good sign.
I shook my head. “You could at least pretend I’m scary. You know, for the overall dramatical effect that I’m about to kick your ass back to the Netherworld. A little shaking would be nice. Tears are best.”
The demon-Julia crossed her arms over her chest and showed me her teeth. “I’m going to take my time with you,” she sneered. “I’m in a good mood, see. I’m going to start with your arms and rip them off one at a time.” She showed me more teeth. “I’ll let you watch while I eat your arms and your legs. Then I’m going to suck your brain out through your eyes, witch bitch.”
Nice. Okay, then.
I scrambled to my feet and drew upon the energy gathered in the sigil. It grew along with a buzzing in my ears and a prickling along the back of my neck. I was going to fry that demon.
“In the name of our Lord Creator,” I chanted, bringing forth the energy and molding it. I shaped it into the effect I was looking for with my thoughts, fiercely picturing the exorcism sigil. “I exorcise you, Demon,” I added fiercely, my stance strong. “Every impure spirit, every demonic power, every incursion of the infernal adversary. I command you.” I raised my right palm and said firmly, “Flee this place! Flee this body! May your power issue forth from her. Be not and be gone!”
At the words, the energy poured out of me in a rush. There were no lights, no glowing energy or anything else that would cost a special effects company a crap load of money, just a tingling in the air like tiny electrical currents and a burst of wind.
I staggered as the sigil’s energy roared out of me and almost lost my balance.
It hit demon-Julia.
She stumbled back, shock replacing her smile and her features growing distant. She thrashed, her head shaking as she kept muttering the same word, over and over again— no . She froze with a frightening suddenness, and her body eased into relaxation. Then her shoulders shook as she began to laugh.
“Told you so,” said demon-Julia, a smile in her voice. “Your witch tricks won’t work on me.”
Damn. This was really not my night. I flicked my gaze back at my sigil. It was fine. Perfect, even drawn under duress. So why hadn’t it worked?
Breathing hard, I sagged with a bit of tiredness. Channeling so much energy through me was like running a marathon, and a sudden weakness in my limbs made me sway.
But I wasn’t giving up. Not today. Not ever. And not when a young girl’s life was at stake.
Jaw clenched, I took a step toward the demon until we were but ten feet apart, focusing on the energy I was still channeling through the sigil.
I took a shaking breath and said, “In the name of our Lord—”
A hard burst of energy hit me, sending me across the room. I landed sprawled on my butt with my legs in the air. Not pretty. My head smashed against the ground a moment later, complete with a burst of black spots in my vision and very real pain. My palms curled into claws as I panted through the pain and tasted blood in my mouth. My concentration vanished, and with it, some of my nerve.
Did I mention this was seriously not my night?
“You have no power over me, half-breed,” laughed the demon, a sneer to her voice.
My magic didn’t work. The exorcism that should have released the girl did absolutely nothing. Head pounding like I’d hit it with a sledgehammer, I blinked and rolled over to my side.
Demon-Julia walked over to me and snarled, “I’m going to feast on your flesh, little witch.”
Oh. Shit.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KIM RICHARDSON is the award-winning author of the bestselling SOUL GUARDIANS series. She lives in the eastern part of Canada with her husband, two dogs and a very old cat. She is the author of the SOUL GUARDIANS series, the MYSTICS series, and the DIVIDED REALMS series. Kim’s books are available in print editions, and translations are available in over seven languages.
To learn more about the author, please visit:
www.kimrichardsonbooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dark Angel, Shadow and Light, Book Six
Copyright © 2019 by Kim Richardson
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction
in whole or in any form.
Cover by Kim Richardson
Text in this book was set in Garamond.
Printed in the United States of America
Summary: As Rowyn continues trying to make sense of the changing events and relationships in her life, she discovers the truth behind Lucian’s plans, plans that could tear the world apart.
[1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Demonology—Fiction.
Magic—Fiction].
CONTENTS
BOOKS BY KIM RICHARDSON
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 1 6
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
DARK STRIKE
SPELLS & ASHES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY KIM RICHARDSON
SHADOW AND LIGHT
Dark Hunt
Dark Bo und
Dar k Rise
Dark Gift
Dark Curse
Dark Angel
THE DARK FILES
Spells & Ashes (Coming soon)
TEEN AND YOUNG ADULT
SOUL GUARDIANS
Marked
Elemental
Horizon
Netherworld
Seirs
Mortal
Reapers
Seals
THE HORIZON CHRONICLES
The Soul Thief
The Helm of Darkness
The City of Flame and Shadow
The Lord of Darkness
MYSTICS SERIES
The Seventh Sense
The Alpha Nation
The Nexus
DIVIDED REALMS
Steel Maiden
Witch Queen
Blood Magic
1
Trying to get in touch with an angel wasn’t as easy as I’d first thought it would be.
No, I’m not talking about summoning one in a circle because I would have if I had a name. But without the name of an angel, I couldn’t just summon up a random name on a whim, hoping I’d land an angel. I might conjure up a dead thing, or worse, a demon. Gabriel, Raphael, Luriel, Raguel were all archangel names known to me, but after what happened with the archangel Vedriel, I decided I was going to go down the corporate celestial ladder and summon just a regular angel.
And to do that, I had to go through the proper channels—the angel-born ones. It was a painstakingly long and torturous method of asking and then waiting. I’m not the most patient person in the world, but I could do with the waiting, for a little while.
However, the asking had me mulling it over in my head for about three weeks.
I hated asking for anything. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I just didn’t have it in me. I wasn’t wired that way. Even when I was broke, I always managed to find ways to get work and find some money. Maybe I was too proud, but the idea of asking the angel-borns for anything at all had my skin crawling and bile rising up in the back of my throat.
It was one of the reasons I’d never asked the angel-borns for soul blades or other weapons. I just couldn’t bring myself to ask. Asking made me look inferior, weak. I wasn’t.
There was also the nauseating factor that I would owe them. If they did me a favor, I would be indebted to them, probably for the rest of my life. I would owe them big. Fantastic.
I had promised Tyrius I would give the angel-borns a shot before I reverted to my own ways of getting things done—by force, lots of pain, and a few deaths—which would probably end up being disastrous. The usual in my life.
Granted, even though asking the angel-borns for help had me feeling sick, I was running out of options and time. Lucian would be back. And if he got word of Layla, I had even less time.
I sat next to Father Thomas in matching wooden chairs carved with intricate designs and archangel sigils before a long table, decorated in winding silver and gold patterns. The massive table could seat at least twenty people comfortably, but just the two of us sat here now. We were in the great hall where the angel-borns convened for council meetings. It was just one of the many chambers and rooms belonging to Hallow Hall—the angel-born safe house in Westchester County, thirty miles north of New York City.
Hallow Hall was mass
ive. Everywhere I looked, I was met with lustrous marble floors, polished wooden doors, gleaming windows, and sweeping oak staircases that led to the upper floors. Even more remarkable was that each tile in the floor had its own brilliant sigil of an archangel house painted in the colors of precious jewels. As I looked, the sigils were everywhere—on the drapery, chairs, and sofas, even carved into the handrail of the grand staircase.
It was glorious and majestic, like a grand hotel somewhere in Europe. But even its magnanimous presence couldn’t make me shake the cold and relentless feeling of dread crawling up my spine. I didn’t want to be here. It was all I could do to sit and not bolt through those doors. I was restless, like an animal trapped in a pretty cage with lots of toys and food. I had to get out of here soon.
I let out a sigh and slumped in my chair. “How much longer are we going to sit here like idiots before he comes back?”
Father Thomas looked up from his phone, his posture shifting to one of irritation. His dark hair glistened in the light of the room, making me want to run my fingers through it. Yes, he was a priest, but perfection deserved a little attention. “Patience, Rowyn,” he answered, looking calm and collected in his chair, the white square of his collar stark against his black shirt. “These things take time. You can’t rush it.”
“You can when lives are at stake.” I drummed my fingers on the table. “We’ve been sitting here for over an hour.”
“I know.” Father Thomas shifted his weight in his chair and flicked a finger across the screen of his smart phone. “I’m right next to you.”
I let my arms fall on the table with a loud thump. “I can’t believe I skipped dinner for this.” I checked my phone. It was ten past five. I didn’t know why they chose to see us so late in the day, but I bit my tongue and said nothing on the drive here. I was trying to be a good girl.
“I could be doing something else,” I said. “Something important. Something a lot more useful than breathing in their expensive decor and sitting on their fancy seats.” Like figuring out a way to summon an angel myself. What the hell am I doing here?
“How’s Layla doing,” asked the priest, and I knew he was just trying to change the subject. “Are she and Danto still a thing?”