The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)

by Joy Nash

  On the morning of that last day, his parents had argued. His father had left the house angry. His mother, agitated, had shut herself in the parlor. She still hadn’t emerged when night fell. His father remained absent as well. Arthur climbed the steps to the attic, where he lay awake in his bed and wondered what was going on. The window above the front door was open. The sound of the knocker startled him out of his brooding. His father would hardly request entry to his own house. Had another of Arthur’s kin arrived, unannounced?

  He sat up, listening to low voices drifting up the stairway. A man’s voice, his accent placing his origin someplace in Eastern Europe, blended with Alwen’s proper English inflections. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but a moment later his mother appeared on the stair. “Pack a bag,” she’d told him. “Quickly.”

  He’d ask where they were going, but she vanished without answering. It was clear something wasn’t right. Arthur went to the window and, after a moment’s hesitation, opened the sash. It took only a few minutes to climb onto the roof and swing himself onto a sturdy oak branch.

  As he jumped to the ground, a black shape, wings spread, descended from the sky. He let out a sigh of relief. Father. He had already started forward, ready to call out as Tristan landed in the garden. But when Arthur caught sight of his father’s face, the greeting died in his throat. He’d never seen such rage.

  Tristan disappeared into the house. Shouts erupted inside. Arthur could make out only a few words. “Traitor,” his father growled. “Ingrate.” That had been his mother’s voice, high-pitched and barely recognizable. “Fool.” That pronouncement had been uttered in the mocking voice of the stranger.

  Arthur crept to the kitchen window and peered in. His mother stood by the hallway door, her valise clutched in one hand. The stranger stood beside her. He was very tall, as all Nephilim were, but almost unnaturally slender. A black cape, the edge of its lining a slash of crimson, hung from his shoulders.

  Tristan stood across the room, facing them. “Alwen.” His voice was calm. “Step away from that bastard.”

  “No. I’m leaving with him.”

  “With a rival? Are you mad?”

  She might be, Arthur realized suddenly. Her eyes certainly didn’t appear quite sane.

  “You are a Druid,” his father continued. “You cannot take your magic away from your line, and use it for the benefit of a rival clan. The very thought is repugnant. I will not allow it.”

  “I am not your thrall,” his mother spat. “We are not bondmates. And yet you think you own me. Why, you’ve even stolen my ancestral stone. I’ll never forgive you for that.”

  All this time, the stranger remained silent, a small, mocking smile playing on his lips. Arthur’s eye was drawn to the ring he wore on the middle finger of his left hand—the dominant hand of all Nephilim. The ring was gold, lit from within by a glow of magic. Where a stone might have been, there was a face instead. It was, Arthur realized, the stranger’s exact likeness. Even from across the room, there was no mistaking it.

  “I took your touchstone for safekeeping.” His father moved a step closer. “You know why I did it. Precisely because of this. Because of him.” Tristan held out his hand to Alwen. “All you need do is send him on his way, and I will put it into your hand.”

  “You expect me to trust you? After what you’ve done? You’re a bigger fool than I thought.” She picked up her valise with one hand and grasped the stranger’s arm with the other. “Let’s go,” she said to the man.

  “Of course, my dear.” The rival Nephil placed his hand on the small of her back.

  His father’s strike was so sudden, Arthur hadn’t even known it was coming. Blue hellfire erupted. At the same moment, Alwen threw herself—or was she shoved?—between Tristan and the stranger. The blast hit her neck, right under her jaw. For one frozen moment, her body seemed to hang in mid-air, head tipped back, arms flung out. Then a fountain of blood spurted from her throat. Her body crumpled to the ground.

  “No!” Tristan’s hellfire vanished. He flung himself down beside Alwen. Blood pulsed in waves from the wound on her neck. He slapped both hands over it. Life seeped through his fingers, turning his hands crimson.

  Arthur, frozen outside the window, clapped his own hands over his mouth, trying to contain the bile surging up his throat.

  The stranger laughed. “Are you trying to get all that blood back into her body? You’ll not do it. You’ve killed her, you fool.”

  Tristan’s head jerked up. Slowly, his hands left Alwen’s body. The pupils of his eyes glowed red. Opal lights skated under his skin. Hellfire spat from his fingers. “I’ll kill you for this.”

  “I think not.”

  The stranger’s hellfire erupted. It was dark gold, slender as a blade, and just as deadly. A thin red line appeared on Tristan’s throat. His expression hardly had time to register its shock before his head tumbled from his shoulders. Blood sprayed from his neck, splattering walls, ceilings, furniture.

  Arthur recoiled as his father’s blood struck the glass of the window above the sink. He lost his balance; his tailbone smacked hard on the dirt. With a yelp of pain, he flung himself onto his hands and knees. His stomach heaved. He lost his dinner in the dirt.

  He was on his feet almost immediately, dragging his sleeve across his mouth as he dashed across the garden, through the gate, and onto the moor. His only thought was to get away. Where he was going, he had no idea. About fifty yards out, a hand collared him from behind. He jerked to a halt. Twisting, he kicked out at a shadowy foe.

  “Arthur.” His opponent gave him a savage shake. “Get hold of yourself, boy.”

  He gulped air. It wasn’t the rival Nephil. It was the American adept. Mab. Outspread black wings framed her beautiful, scowling face. He didn’t trust her—was, in fact, afraid of her. But just then she looked like salvation.

  “Wha—” He choked. “What are you doing here?”

  “I sensed something wasn’t right.”

  “It’s—not.” A sob forced its way up his throat. He swallowed it back. “Father—mother— Dead. A Nephil—a rival—killed them.”

  “Yes, I know. He’s left the house now. He’s searching for you.”

  “Who...is he?” He dragged in a breath. The air, though cool, burned his lungs. “Why—”

  “Stay down,” she said sharply, shoving him to the ground. “Don’t move. Wait for me.” With a pass of her spread fingers, an illusion of nothingness descended around his body. Anyone looking in his direction would see unbroken moorland.

  He waited, trembling. After what seemed like an eternity, Mab returned. Without a word, she lifted him from the ground, spread her wings, and took off into the sky. He clung to her, dizzy and confused, all the way to Texas.

  They arrived many interminable hours later. Dusk was falling as Mab landed. Arthur looked up at the rambling wooden house and the alien landscape of moss-draped trees surrounding it. He hardly had a chance to take it all in before Mab grabbed him by the upper arm and yanked him up onto a wide porch.

  A glint on her finger caused Arthur to dig in his heels. “You’re wearing Father’s touchstone.” He stared at the diamond, embedded in a ring carved of yew wood.

  “Yes.” She gave him a shove across the porch. “What of it?”

  “It’s mine.”

  She chuckled. “I think not, sugar. Tristan is dead. Soon I’ll be alpha in his place. His touchstone belongs to me.”

  Your father is dead... Arthur had seen the murder with his own eyes, yet it still felt unreal, as if the end of his father’s existence was something that couldn’t possibly have happened.

  They stopped before the house’s door, painted blood red. Arthur dug in his heels. “Who killed my father? Give me his name. His clan.”

  Mab’s smile widened. “Come, sugar. Do you seriously imagine you can avenge Tristan? Against a rival Nephil adept?”

  “Perhaps not now,” Arthur replied seriously. “But someday I will. It is my duty.”

>   Mab turned the knob and escorted him into a narrow entry hall. “Your duty is to wipe last night from your mind.”

  He heard voices. Mab steered him through the foyer, down a short hall, and into a kitchen. There, fifteen or more people surrounded a large table, sharing a noisy meal. As Mab swept through the doorway, pushing Arthur before her, an abrupt silence descended.

  Arthur looked slowly about the room. Piles of dirty pots and dishes were stacked in the sink and on a long countertop. Crushed beer cans and empty bottles of whiskey littered the floor. A mirror, topped by a few lines of white dust and a razor blade, lay on a sideboard, amid a forest of liquor bottles.

  The people sitting at the table were no less unsettling. A number of rough-looking males and scantily dressed females. There were children, too. The youngest was only a toddler, sitting in a high chair. The rest were a blur of curious faces. He saw only one of them clearly—a girl, perhaps a year or two older than Arthur. For some reason, in his mind’s eye, she shone like a rare beacon.

  Maybe it was her blond hair. Arthur had never seen anything quite like it. It was long and curly, a wild, unbound mane that was just one shade darker than white. Her green eyes, wide and framed by nearly colorless lashes, reminded him of a jade stone his father had once shown him. Her expression was curious and thoughtful at the same time. Almost, Arthur thought in a daze, like she recognized him. But that couldn’t be. If he’d ever seen her before, he was sure the memory of such a momentous occurrence would be seared in his brain.

  Who is she? he thought.

  Mab prodded him in the back. “Are you hungry, sugar?”

  Arthur, startled, looked up into Mab’s glittering blue eyes. His stomach turned. Hungry? Was she mad? Just the thought of food made him want to throw up.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Good.”

  She gripped his arm firmly, just above the elbow, and propelled him across the kitchen. The audience at the table, still silent, tracked his progress. Before he quite knew what was happening, Mab had opened a door and shoved him down a flight of wooden stairs.

  “Stay here,” she said. “Until someone comes for you.” The door shut. A key scraped in the lock.

  The cellar was dark and, as far as he could tell, largely empty. The floor was concrete. Given the expanse of swamp Arthur had glimpsed as Mab landed, he could only assume some kind of magic kept the subterranean room dry. Or relatively dry, anyway. The air smelled strongly of mold.

  When dawn broke, he found that one small window provided the only illumination in the space. He almost wished it dark again. Water pooled at the edges of the room, but in the center, the concrete bore rusty stains. Blood.

  Three days passed, by Arthur’s best estimation, before Mab reappeared. In the meantime, food and drink were delivered at regular intervals, set at the top of the stair by a woman with red hair. A witch, he thought, judging from her pentagram pendant and the spiraling tattoo on her left forearm. She also might have been deaf and dumb for all the attention she paid Arthur’s questions. With nothing to occupy him, he paced the damp space, consumed by grief and fear, and wondering what was to become of him.

  Eventually, the door opened, admitting an older Nephil male. He introduced himself as Evander, and took Arthur up the stairs. Mab was the new Druid clan alpha, Evander told him. When Arthur asked to speak with Mab, he was told she was tending her business concerns in Houston. Arthur was to live here, in Demon’s Hollow, with his American kin. Perhaps the alpha would speak to him when she returned. Or perhaps not.

  Arthur emerged from the cellar to find that the American Nephilim were as far outside his experience as it was possible to be. The adept males were a crude, rough set. Their witches were blatantly sensual creatures, who talked quite a lot, in an ear-piercing Southern accent Arthur could barely follow. There were several dormants as well, including two girls. One was only a small child. The other was the wild blond with the jade eyes.

  Her name was Cybele. She was tall, taller than he was, and a year older. Her white-blond hair, most often seen flowing down her back in a riot of curls, mesmerized him. She usually went barefoot, haphazardly dressed in ripped jeans. She owned any number of delicate, flowery blouses.

  She seemed not quite real, more like an elemental force than a person. An elemental force that was somehow already part of himself. Arthur didn’t quite know what to make of his jumbled feelings toward her, so he did his best to hide them. He was wary around her. Initially, he discouraged her repeated attempts to make friends.

  Even so, he thought she sensed the connection between them, too. It was there in the air between them, invisible, but as real as the electricity that heralded a lightning storm. Cybele, it turned out, wasn’t easily dissuaded once she’d set her mind on something. She just wasn’t willing to let Arthur go his own way. She insisted on being his friend, whether he wanted one or not. Truth to tell, he was grateful for her persistence. She was the one good thing in his bewilderingly strange new life at Demon’s Hollow.

  He had nightmares of that last night at Tŷ’r Cythraul. When he woke, Cybele was always beside him. Gradually, let her in. She listened gravely as he described, in halting tones, about the night his parents died.

  She told him what had happened during the three days he’d been locked in the cellar.

  He’d been stunned. Sick to the core. He hadn’t wanted to believe it. Magnus, Arthur’s Scots cousin, dead. The rest of his father’s family had offered fealty and surrendered their touchstones to Mab. They’d accepted her rubies in return.

  Mab had told Arthur’s kin that he’d died with his parents, Cybele whispered. They’d believed her, because Mab had given them his body. Had they never considered the possibility the body wasn’t his, that they’d been fooled by Mab’s magic?

  After learning the truth, he’d wanted to die rather than stay in Texas. If not for Cybele, he might have done himself harm. She was the one bright light in the darkness his life had become. She was his touchstone, his hope. And once again, she was here, with him, when he needed her most. Believing in him. Waiting for him.

  He went to her.

  ***

  “What’s he doing?” Lucky asked in a stage whisper.

  Holy shit on a biscuit! If Maweth weren’t immortal, the cherub could’ve taken a decade off his life.

  He darted a glance at Dusek. Shimon Ben-Meir had left the room at least an hour ago. Since that time, Maweth’s master had remained standing motionless at his desk, gazing down at the fractured stone stele. Thankfully, he gave no sign of having heard Lucky’s outburst.

  Maweth breathed a sigh of relief. “I don’t know what he’s doing,” he hissed. “And for the thousandth time, keep your voice down.”

  “O-kaay.” Deflated, the cherub fluttered to the floor.

  A slight scratching sounded at the office door. Maweth came alert. Two visitors in one morning? Jeez-o-man, it was a regular circus in here today.

  Dusek looked up, frowning. “Come.”

  A somber, skeletal youth stepped into the room. Maweth had seen him a few times before. Lazlo, a Nephil dormant, resembled Dusek to a disturbing degree. Not in the way of a son and his father, though. More in the way of identical twins. If the second of those twins had been born fifty years after the first.

  Lazlo hadn’t been born, however. At least, not in the usual sense. He’d sprung to life on one of the Institute’s shadowy lower levels. It was there, in utter secrecy, that Dusek practiced his most powerful alchemy.

  Maweth wondered if Lazlo—or any of his half-dozen “brothers” currently alive—realized the ultimate purpose of their existence. How could they not suspect the grisly truth each time one of them disappeared? And yet, as far as Maweth could tell by looking into their blank, golden eyes, they didn’t suspect a thing.

  Dusek regarded his visitor with an air of irritation. “Lazlo. To what do I owe this unwelcome disturbance?”

  The clone approached the desk, bowing low. “Beg pa
rdon, Professor. I bring news of the new thrall. The Haitian.”

  Maweth let out a long, guilty breath. He’d helped Dusek locate the Haitian woman in her dormant state, shortly after she’d emerged from a near-death experience. Now she was an adept, enthralled to Dusek and imprisoned in the lower levels of the Institute. But what choice had Maweth had in the matter? None. He was as much a thrall as she was.

  “What of her?” Dusek asked.

  “She is...distraught.”

  Dusek waved a hand. “Only to be expected. Her rebellion will subside, eventually.”

  “With respect, sir, I fear she may do herself harm before she reaches that point.”

  Dusek’s brows rose. “Impossible. She is restrained. Physically and magically.”

  “Yes, sir. But within the restraints, her Vodou magic runs amok. I believe she’s trying to kill herself. Her magic blazes like a torch. Her head twists and jerks most violently.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dusek steepled his fingers, tapping them against his chin. The face on his golden ring opened its eyes. “Interesting,” he said.

  Several beats of silence ensued. Lazlo shifted on his feet and cleared his throat. “What do you wish me to do about her, sir?”

  “What?” Dusek looked at him, as if he’d quite forgotten his presence.

  “The thrall,” Lazlo said. “The Haitian. What do you wish me to do with her?”

  “Do? Why, nothing.”

  “But sir—”

  Dusek waved a hand. “Her little rebellion will run its course. Rest assured, she will not harm herself. At least, not permanently.”

  Lazlo accepted this pronouncement with a nod of his head. “Very good, sir.”

  Dusek nodded toward the door. “Back to your duties.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lazlo backed respectfully out the door. He neglected, however, to close it completely. A slice of light shone between the heavy mahogany slab and its frame.