The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)

by Joy Nash

  Dusek stood. As he did so, his gaze fell on the mirror. His eyes seemed to meet Maweth’s. Though Maweth knew the Nephil couldn’t precisely see him through the quicksilver, he couldn’t stop himself from shrinking back.

  “Maweth.” Dusek snapped his fingers. “Come.”

  Holy crapoly. He directed a glare toward Lucky. “I’ve got to answer,” he whispered. “Or he’ll—” He paused. “Well, never mind that. Just stay here, and stay quiet. Quiet like the grave. Not a word,” he added, in case the cherub had somehow misunderstood. “Not. A. Sound.”

  Lucky, his blue eyes enormous, nodded.

  “Maweth! Now!”

  “I’m here, I’m here.” With a sigh and a popping sound, Maweth materialized atop his master’s desk. He bowed, adding an ironic flourish. One took one’s little pleasures where one could. “What is it this time?”

  Dusek’s gaze narrowed. “Insolent creature.”

  “Let me go,” Maweth said. “And problem solved.”

  Dusek ignored the suggestion. “Arthur Camulus,” he said, “isn’t in his right mind.”

  Maweth blinked at the unexpected conversational gambit. “Um...and you’re telling me this, why? If you recall, oh Master, I’m the one who informed you of Arthur’s mental state. Not...” He checked an imaginary wrist watch. “...thirty hours ago, in fact.”

  “A mentally unstable Nephil is dangerous,” Dusek said.

  Maweth had to agree with him there. He had the living proof right in front of him.

  “But one who’s completely lost his mind?” Dusek mused. “Why, that Nephil might be easily enthralled. He could be a formidable tool.”

  Maweth eyed him uncertainly. “Well, then. I guess you’ll have to wait and see if Arthur goes completely bonkers.”

  “No. I can’t risk Arthur recovering his wits enough to control his magic. I need to drive him over the edge. Or rather, you do.”

  “Me?” Maweth couldn’t hide his astonishment. “How could I possibly do that?”

  “How indeed?” Dusek gave a thin smile. “You are Death itself. It could not have escaped your notice that when humans think about you too closely, they often lose their minds.”

  “Um, well maybe, but—”

  “Arthur does not even have the possibility of an afterlife to console him. He knows his death will bring Oblivion.”

  “Well, sure. But even so, that doesn’t mean I can—”

  “You will go to him,” Dusek said. “Cause him to stare you in the face.”

  “What good will that do? He’s already seen me.”

  “His near-death experience came before his Ordeal, when he was brashly confident. Now, he’s filled with doubt, torn by forces he doesn’t understand, teetering on the brink of despair. You should have little trouble sending him over the edge into madness.”

  Maweth threw up his hands. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. It won’t work, I tell you. Not with Arthur. That one’s not afraid to die. Not before, and not now. Getting another look at me isn’t gonna—”

  “Silence!”

  Dusek lifted his hand. The face on his ring snapped its eyes open. Twin golden beams shot out. They knocked Maweth on his butt even before he realized they’d hit him.

  Fire ignited on Maweth’s skin. The ring’s unblinking eyes fed it. Golden flames leaped across Maweth’s body, clinging and burning in patches of utter agony. He dropped to the desktop, writhing. Dusek leaned over him, an odd smile twitching his thin lips.

  Maweth swatted at the flames. It only made them jump higher, burn hotter. “Ahhhhhhhhh! St-stoooooop! Make it—stop—”

  “Perhaps I will,” Dusek said. “When you’ve learned proper subservience.”

  “Please.” Maweth rolled and, even though he knew it was hopeless, swatted desperately at his robe, his skin, his wings. “I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.” He hissed as the ring blinked and bits of golden fire combusted anew.

  “Stop,” he sobbed. “Just make it—”

  “Stooooooooop!” The cry arrived with a popping sound. “Stop it noooooow!”

  A sweet wave broke over Maweth’s body. The fires sizzled and died, leaving nothing but cool bliss. Heavenly bliss.

  Oh, crap.

  He jumped to his feet and threw himself between Lucky and Dusek. For all the good that was gonna do. The cat was out of the bag now, and nothing was going to shove the spitting feline back in. Dusek stared at Lucky, his expression one of pure astonishment. It was rapidly replaced by a light of pure, evil calculation.

  “You idiot.” Maweth grabbed Lucky by the wings and shook. “I told you to lay low.”

  “I couldn’t!” Lucky exclaimed. “He was hurting you.”

  “It was just pain. He can’t hurt me permanently.”

  “Well, well, well.” Dusek moved a step to the left, affording himself a better view of the cherub. “What have we here?”

  “Oh, come on,” Maweth muttered. Surely Dusek could manage something a little more creative than that.

  “How long have you been hiding this creature?” his master demanded.

  “Not long,” Maweth said quickly. “Not long at all. And besides...” Surreptitiously, he extended one foot behind him. “He was just leaving.” With a sudden jerk of his leg, he kicked Lucky off the desk.

  “Oof.” Lucky tumbled halo-over-heels then righted himself in mid-air, wings buzzing. “What the heck was that for?”

  Maweth picked up a stapler and heaved it at him. “Holy crapshoot, Lucky. Fly! To the door. Get outta here!”

  Lucky looked to the door, and back at him. “Leave you?”

  “Yes. Go. Now!”

  Thud.

  Dusek was across the room, his hand on the door. The shut door.

  Maweth’s shoulders sagged. “Jumping Jehoshaphat, Lucky. You’re an idiot. Do you know that? A dolt. A lunkhead. A moron, a clodpole—”

  Lucky fluttered down beside him.

  “—a numbskull,” he continued furiously. “A bubblehead, a saphead, a nimrod—”

  The angel sniffed. “For not abandoning you?”

  “—a pinhead, a doofus, a lamebrain, an imbecile, a meathead, a—”

  Dusek approached the desk. “Are you quite done?”

  Maweth looked up and abruptly shut his mouth. His master smiled broadly. Showed his teeth, even. His eyes gleamed. It was an awful, awful sight. Maweth inched closer to Lucky. Snaking his left arm around the angel’s shoulders, he pulled him tight to his side. Lucky clutched at his waist.

  Several moments ticked silently by.

  “An angel,” Dusek said at last. “Well. One could hardly have predicted this turn of events.”

  No, Maweth thought sourly. One could not have, even if one had guessed at it for half of eternity.

  The gleam in Dusek’s eyes sharpened. He moved close. Too close, as far as Maweth was concerned. Lucky turned and buried his face in Maweth’s robes.

  “I see a new path,” Dusek murmured. The face on his ring smiled.

  That ring really, really creeped Maweth out. He averted his eyes from it. “Um...and what path would that be?”

  With a smooth motion, Dusek reached out and plucked two feathers from Lucky’s wings.

  “Ouch!” Lucky cried, jerking around. “Hey! Give those back.”

  Dusek tucked the feathers in his breast pocket. His chin jerked toward the mirror. “Into the quicksilver. Both of you.”

  “But—” Lucky said.

  “Now.”

  “But—”

  “Forget it, Lucky. There’s no arguing with him.” With a swirl and a pop, Maweth dove into the quicksilver, pulling Lucky after him.

  Once inside, Lucky collapsed. “That was scary.”

  Maweth slumped on the floor beside him. “You’re crazy, Lucky. You had a chance to get away. You shoulda bailed.”

  Lucky’s blue eyes snapped with indignation. “Without you? I would never!”

  Maweth didn’t quite know how to reply to that. No one had ever really w
anted to stay with him before. His boney chest ached strangely, and his vision went all blurry.

  “Um...Maweth?” Lucky ventured.

  “Huh?”

  “What’d’ya think Dusek wanted my feathers for?”

  “I have no idea,” Maweth said wearily. “But I guarantee you, Lucky—whatever it is, we are not going to like it.”

  SEVEN

  The stair creaked under Arthur’s weight. When he gained the uppermost landing, he paused. The door was slightly ajar. The light he’d seen from the garden flickered behind it. The rhythm of deep, even breathing reached his ears.

  Cybele was asleep in his childhood bed. The thought was unbearably arousing. And unsettling. This collision of his past and present lives threatened to knock him even farther off balance than he already was.

  He pushed the door open. She lay curled on her side, in a tangle of white sheets, one hand tucked under her chin. Her braid, unwound from her head, lay across the mattress like a thick yellow rope. His old blanket lay in a dusty heap on the floor. No doubt she’d kicked it there. Cybele wasn’t a restful sleeper. She wasn’t particularly restful when awake, either.

  The room, set under steeply sloping rafters, was very warm. Heat radiated from a small wood-burning stove in one corner. A battered copper stock pot sat atop it. Dormer windows, five on either side, threw daylight into the space. Other than the woman in his bed and an extra layer of dust, the attic looked much as it had the day he’d left it.

  Low shelves lined the north wall. Arthur’s father had built them to hold the books his son never seemed to be able to leave in the library. A desk and chair stood nearby, his old algebra textbook open atop it. A calculator, along with a lined sheet of paper bearing scribbled calculations, lay beside it. Arthur hadn’t attended the village school; his father had been his tutor. While Arthur had loved history and poetry, and hadn’t minded writing, he’d hated math. He could almost see his younger self seated at the desk, scowling at his miscalculations and wishing his father to Oblivion.

  He winced at the memory. His boyhood innocence seemed criminal now. If only he’d known how idyllic his life was and how bitterly he’d mourn his father. A new wave of grief rose. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow it to break. The past, and all its associated grief, was as much a part of him as the blood in his veins. Like blood, spilling it would only make him weak.

  He prowled to the edge of the bed, his eyes and his heart seeking Cybele. If not for her, his life in Demon’s Hollow would’ve been unendurable. When he sank into black despair, she refused to allow it. She’d dragged him back into the sun.

  He wondered what she’d thought when she explored the room, sifting through the detritus of his past. He had no doubt that she had. He smiled faintly, picturing her opening drawers and cupboards, and peering under the bed, before curling up atop it and falling asleep.

  Dressed in her dark jeans and gauzy, flowery blouse, one cheek smeared with dirt, she looked the picture of innocence. She wasn’t. No Nephil dormant, growing up in Mab’s world, could possibly stay innocent. And Cybele was no child. She had, in fact, recently passed her twentieth birthday. She was a full adult by Nephil custom, ready to face her Ordeal. Arthur was younger. At nineteen, he wasn’t even of age.

  At this moment, though, the distance between them wasn’t best measured in time.

  She stirred. Inhaling deeply, she rolled over and sank more firmly into slumber. The loose neckline of her blouse slipped, revealing a pale shoulder. Arthur was no stranger to Cybele’s body. Right now, though, it felt like a new wonder. Like something he was seeing for the very first time.

  His gaze traveled over her body, taking in the swell of her generous breasts, the curve of her buttocks, the grace of her long legs. Whatever blood that was left in his brain drained south. It felt as though the top of his skull were floating several inches above the rest of his head.

  He was hard, his erection straining against the zipper of his jeans. Flashes of what he wanted to do to Cybele careened through his brain. This was nothing new. Before they’d become lovers, Arthur had spent a full three years dreaming of Cybele. His nights had been plagued with images and sensations: silky hair brushing pink-tipped breasts, a smooth, rounded bottom in his hands, his fingers delving into the slick wetness between her thighs.

  All his youthful turmoil, as fierce as it had seemed at the time, struck him as obscenely naïve. Dark lusts tore at him now—desires that in no way resembled the musings of his innocent youth. Demon urges, unholy yearnings sprung from his Nephil nature, infested his brain. Sweat and strength; ecstasy and violence. The things his demon mind envisioned for Cybele—and for himself—broke a cold sweat on his brow.

  He gripped the bedpost, his fingernails pressing into the wood. He closed his eyes against a wave of raw lust. His body shook. He wanted to fall on her, claim her, use her.

  It was a close thing, but in the end, his better nature—his human nature—gained the upper hand. His fingers unclenched, and he drew a deep breath. The small victory over his baser self steadied him. He was a Nephil, there was no denying that. But perhaps he wasn’t a monster. Or at least, not completely.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, silent, not touching her. She sensed his presence, though, as she so often did when he was near. With a sleepy groan, she rolled onto her back.

  Green eyes fluttered open. “You’re back.”

  “Yes.”

  She came up slightly, supporting herself on her elbows. His eyes followed the sway of her breasts. When they returned to her face, he saw she was frowning.

  “You’re all wet. Is it raining?”

  “No. I washed again. At the well.” He hesitated, then added, “There was more blood.”

  “You...found something to kill, then?”

  He tensed. “I...yes.”

  “That’s good.” She bit her lip. “What was it?”

  “A bull.” It was a cowardly partial truth, but he couldn’t bring himself to say more.

  Her eyes returned to his. He read relief there. “This was your second kill?”

  He nodded.

  “It should be easier to resist from now on.”

  Arthur wasn’t so sure about that, but for her sake, he nodded again. Then compounded the lie by saying, “Yes. The deathlust is fading.”

  His gaze slid from her face, to stare at a gouge in the floor. His hunger for killing was far from fading. Despite the lives he’d so recently taken, he felt restless and empty, ready to kill again. Was this driving need for death normal? Or was it the product of his unguided Ordeal? He didn’t know. There was no adept to ask, and his ancestors’ memories, swirling chaotically in his skull, were no help at all.

  “Hey.”

  His head swung back to her. She smiled, tentatively, and held out a hand. He studied it, but didn’t take it.

  Her smile faded. She let her hand drop to the mattress. “What’s wrong?”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I told you, I knew you’d be coming here, and—”

  “Not why did you come here,” he said. “How? How did you get to from Texas to England? You don’t have a passport.”

  “Oh, that.” She made a dismissive gesture. “I didn’t need one. I hitchhiked to Houston, slipped through airport security, and boarded the first plane to London.”

  His brows rose at this. “No one stopped you?”

  “Of course not.” She slipped her hand in her pocket and pulled out the tight bundle of alder shoots Arthur had helped her weave years ago. Nestled inside was Cybele’s touchstone, a green peridot. “I had this, didn’t I? And anyway, humans are amazingly unaware. Not one of them even blinked at my illusions, let alone saw past them. I landed at Heathrow, caught a train to Exeter, then a bus to that cute village on the edge of the moor. I walked the rest of the way.”

  He was impressed. Cybele’s magic far surpassed that of any human witch. Arthur hadn’t known many female Nephil dormants—the larger majority, more than eighty percent, of N
ephil births were male. But he couldn’t imagine that many female dormants held a candle to Cybele.

  “You didn’t have trouble seeing Tŷ’r Cythraul from the lane?” he asked. “Mab’s wardings are strong.”

  She slipped her touchstone back into her pocket. “It was a little tricky,” she admitted. “But you described the house to me once—do you remember? That first night we snuck down to the beach?”

  That had been two summers ago. The first time they’d been alone together away from Demon’s Hollow. They’d sat on the sand and kissed for the first time. “I don’t even know what we talked about that night,” he admitted. “I mostly just remember kissing you. And how cheesed off Luc was the next morning when he found out we’d gone to the beach without him.”

  A shadow passed through Cybele’s eyes. He saw her deliberately blink it away. Damn, but he was a sodding idiot. He never should’ve mentioned Luc.

  She shook her head slightly. “I remember every minute of that night. Including what we talked about. But even though I knew what the house looked like, I almost missed seeing it. I walked up and down the road a half-dozen times, wondering if I was in the wrong place entirely. Then I noticed a clump of trees that didn’t look quite right. You know? Like when you paste a picture onto another one and don’t quite match up the edges. After that, the house practically jumped out at me.”

  “That’s remarkable. I would’ve thought only an adept could see through Mab’s illusions. And not easily, at that.”

  “I didn’t have much choice, did I? I wasn’t about to turn around and go home. I was so scared, worrying about you. Why didn’t you come back to Demon’s Hollow, like we planned?”

  He ran his hand over his head. Because I didn’t remember Demon’s Hollow. Or you, or Luc, or anyone else. Only Mab.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “When I came out of the Ordeal, my brain was rubbish.” Still is.

  “I was so afraid you were dead.”

  “I’m not. As you see.”

  “Yes.” She reached out and touched him.

  Just that tiny point of contact—the tip of her finger against his forearm—reignited his lust. His body tensed. His cock jumped. The attic walls seemed to spin. He closed his eyes, but the lack of sight only made things worse. The sound of her breath made him want to haul her into his arms. His lungs expanded with the scent of her. She smelled of the sky: vibrant and endless, with a hint of storm on the horizon.