The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)

by Joy Nash

  Michael didn’t care. If he cared, he’d have to stop, and he wasn’t remotely ready to do that. Inappropriate as his peeping might be, it was also interesting. Internet sex, he was discovering, didn’t hold a candle to the real thing.

  Besides. Raphael was probably overreacting about Arthur. His big brother did tend to create storm clouds out of the slightest wisps of fog. Michael had discussed the whole thing with Gabriel after Raphael had flown off.

  It was true that Arthur’s direct ancestor, the Nephil Merlin, had possessed far too much magic. The magnitude of Merlin’s power had been a direct result of his unguided Ordeal. The situation had allowed the sorcerer to manipulate human events to a disturbing degree. For example, Merlin’s powers of illusion had been so strong, he’d been able to substitute a fierce stranger into the bed of a loyal wife. The deceit had been so skillfully wrought that Lady Igraine hadn’t so much as suspected she was fornicating with young, brash Uther Pendragon, rather than her own husband. At least, not until it was all over, and her lover’s true face was revealed.

  Merlin hadn’t stopped with that little bit of mischief. He’d followed it up with stealing the offspring of Igraine and Uther’s sinful union. He schooled the boy in all manner of war skills and forbidden magic. Eventually, via some improbable trickery regarding a sword and a stone, Merlin had arranged for Arthur Pendragon to become King of the Britons.

  True, King Arthur had been a fine warrior on his own merit. But no mere human, no matter how brilliant his warcraft, could’ve won battle after battle the way Arthur had. Not without the demonic assistance. This, Merlin had provided in spades. If King Arthur was a legend—and he was—he owed it all to Nephil magic.

  Yes, Merlin had been very dangerous. In the end, though, he’d done himself in. Not much surprise there. Nephilim were, as a rule, their own worst enemies. Give them a little rope, and they’d hang themselves every time. Arthur, Michael suspected, would prove no different. In fact, he probably couldn’t help it, even if he wanted to. As a Nephil, Arthur was, by definition, a cursed abomination. The soulless son of a fallen angel, to whom even Hell was denied. What could one expect of such a creature but sin? With no afterlife to look forward to, he was bound to create havoc on Earth.

  Chilled by the thought of such mortal finality, Michael returned his attention to the window. Though every Nephil was bound for Oblivion, the two on the other side of the window didn’t at present seem troubled by an existential crisis. On the contrary. To all appearances, they were having a very, very good time.

  It only made sense, he supposed. If one was doomed to a fleeting, insignificant existence, one could be expected to seize life’s every pleasure before the final curtain fell.

  “Arthur! Oh, Arthur!”

  His gaze narrowed. Nephil sex certainly appeared pleasurable. More so, even, than human copulation. No wonder. Nephil males were large, in all aspects of their anatomy. According to the Internet, size mattered.

  Adjusting his grip, Michael eased farther along the tree branch. His wings fluttered, assisting his balance. Arthur’s sex partner was unlike any female—human, demon, angel, or Nephil—Michael had ever laid eyes on. She was tall and lushly formed, graceful and long-limbed. Her breasts were glorious when clothed. Nude, with rose-brown nipples on full display, they were mesmerizing. Her skin was like fresh cream. Her hair—long, blond, and curling—rivaled the sun.

  Cybele. Arthur had called her Cybele.

  He was rutting atop her, buttocks flexing with fierce purpose. Michael wasn’t sure why Arthur had let things get this far—hadn’t he stated, just moments ago, he was afraid of hurting her? Given the wild frenzy going on behind the window, that outcome seemed entirely possible. Arthur’s control over his newly acquired adept power was sorely lacking.

  Michael considered an intervention. He was certainly able to put a halt to the proceedings. He could even manage it in a way that wouldn’t reveal his presence. He might have done it, too, if it seemed like Cybele was in distress.

  She didn’t appear to be. She looked, in fact, like she was enjoying herself immensely. Her hips met Arthur’s thrust for thrust. She clawed at his back, leaving long red scratch marks on either side of his spine. Her head tossed back and forth on the pillow. Dear Heaven. The expression on her face was... Dear Heaven.

  He moved another inch farther out onto the limb, angling for a more direct view. In that instant, her eyelids fluttered open. Their gazes locked. For one eternal moment, Michael lost himself in a moss-green sea. Then Arthur’s head dipped. His mouth opened and sucked in one taut nipple. Cybele’s body arched. Her lips parted. She turned her head away and let out a long, sweet moan.

  Michael’s breathing became decidedly unsteady.

  “Fuck me, Arthur. Harder.” Blessed be. Her voice. It was like amber honey.

  Arthur obliged, driving deep into Cybele’s body. Michael swallowed audibly.

  His hand snaked downward. With trembling fingers, he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. He eased his penis out of his briefs. Eyes riveted on the scene before him, he wrapped his hand around his shaft and pulled. Once. Twice. Again. And again.

  Nothing happened.

  Arthur’s sex organ was a rigid log. Michael’s was a limp noodle. Yet another grievance to lay at the feet of the Watchers. After the fallen angels had run amok on Earth, impregnating the daughters of men, the Almighty put down his holy foot. With all the righteousness of a farmer slamming the barn door after the cows had run off, He’d proceeded to remove certain functionalities from every un-fallen angel left in Heaven.

  Michael could assume a fleshy body. No problem at all with that. It was just that an important bit of that flesh refused to work.

  All he could do was watch. And yearn.

  EIGHT

  “Arthur?”

  He half-grunted a reply.

  “Arthur.” Cybele poked her fingernail into his back. “Can’t...breathe. Get...off me.”

  With a second grunt, he obligingly rolled to one side on the tilted mattress. The movement caused the bed’s frame, which was already half-broken, to come apart completely. The headboard pitched backward, hitting the wall. The side rails and footboard, with no such support nearby, simply crashed to the floor. Cybele grabbed the edge of the mattress as it bounced. It settled with a thud.

  Arthur slept through it all.

  She drew a deep, much-needed breath. Oxygen rushed into her lungs. By all the stars in all the universe. By all the freaking ancestors in Oblivion. She’d wanted sex, and she’d damn well gotten it.

  She’d just never known it could be like that.

  Arthur’s breathing slowed and deepened. He’d probably be out for a while still. She just hoped that by the time he woke up, she’d be able to wrap her head around what had happened between them. She pushed herself up on her elbows and winced. Dang it all, her shoulder hurt. It’d slammed into the headboard when Arthur had...

  Her heartbeat accelerated, just thinking about all the things he’d done to her. And all the things she’d done back. There were bite marks on her neck and breast. Bruises on her shoulder and hip. A deep, satisfying throb between her legs.

  She tried to sit up. Ouch. She collapsed back onto the mattress. Her back ached, and the rest of her body felt like one big bruise. Getting to her feet was going to hurt. She’d made out better than the bed had, she thought with a spurt of amusement. At least she was in one piece.

  They’d never actually done it in a bed before.

  She laughed out loud. That caused a sharp, shooting pain through her ribs. She couldn’t regret it, though. It’d been worth it.

  She and Arthur had been lovers for almost a year. It would’ve happened a couple years sooner, if not for Mab. As a rule, the Druid alpha didn’t much care what her dormants got up to, whether it was skipping school, smoking pot, setting fire to local homes, or screwing their brains out. Luc had certainly taken advantage of his freedom, pursuing witches and non-magical girls at every opportunity. There were never any
consequences from local law enforcement or truancy officers. Mab’s magic kept them away.

  Mab had a separate set of rules for Arthur. He wasn’t allowed to leave Demon’s Hollow, not even to attend school. Evander and the other adepts left him alone, and the witches were told to steer clear of him. If he’d tried, Arthur might have made friends with the other male dormants. He ignored them instead, which only pissed them off. After a few fistfights—and worse—in which Arthur managed to give as well as he got, they grudgingly left him alone.

  Through it all, the spark Cybele had felt when she first laid eyes on him never faded. Arthur was wholly outside her experience. He fascinated her. And he must be special, or else why would Mab treat him so differently than the other dormants? Why had she told his British kin that he was dead?

  He was quiet and withdrawn, with a haunted look in his eyes that made her want to cry. He didn’t eat much, but somehow still maintained a taut, wiry strength. She began following him everywhere, trying to talk to him. He ignored her at first. Then he’d told her to leave him alone. Of course she hadn’t.

  It’d taken real persistence to draw him out of his hard shell. When she finally broke through, finally got him talking about his life in England, she’d been stunned. He’d never been afraid of his parents, or any of his Nephil kin? He’d studied literature, philosophy, science, and math? He actually liked books, and wished there were more than paperback novels at Demon’s Hollow? He wished he could go to school?

  It was incredible. Cybele could read just fine when she needed to, and she knew how to add two plus two. She sometimes even showed up at school. Otherwise, her education came mainly from television and the Internet. She knew only the barest details of Nephil history. Arthur, it seemed, knew everything. And why shouldn’t he? He was the direct descendant of Merlin, the most powerful Nephil of the Druid clan—perhaps the most powerful Nephil of any clan.

  He hated Mab. He was certain his British kin would come to take him back to England. When Cybele told him they’d already come and had been told he was dead, the color drained from his face. When she’d told him one of them had challenged Mab and been sent to Oblivion, and that the rest had given up their touchstones and pledged fealty to their new alpha, his gray eyes had turned so cold she’d felt an icy shiver pass through her.

  Arthur did everything he could to avoid Mab. Luckily for him, it wasn’t hard. Mab spent most of her time at Club Tartarus, her exclusive and very expensive BDSM club in Houston. Demon’s Hollow day-to-day drug smuggling operation was left to Draven. The oversight of the Druid dormants and the various witches who came and went at the compound was Evander’s concern.

  Mab was never absent, however, for a dormant’s twentieth birthday. Soon after coming of age, a young Nephil was forced to ingest a near-fatal dose of cocaine. If the dormant lived, Mab guided the transitioning Nephil through the Ordeal. If the candidate lived, the new adept became Mab’s newest thrall.

  It was no secret Mab intended to guide Arthur’s Ordeal. This was why, Arthur believed, she’d told his British relations he was dead. As Mab’s thrall, Arthur’s magic—the magic of the line of Merlin—would be in her control. Arthur believed that if his relatives knew he was alive, they’d fight to get him back.

  Cybele wasn’t so sure about that. She’d seen them, after all. After Magnus dueled and lost, none of the others had been willing to stand against Mab.

  Through the months and years after Arthur came to Texas, Cybele’s magic continued to grow. Whether Arthur himself had somehow triggered her awakening, she didn’t know. She’d been the right age for it, but had felt nothing until she’d looked into Arthur’s eyes. Luc, when he realized what was happening, had been jealous of her new power. Arthur, when she finally told him about it, had been thrilled.

  At Arthur’s urging, Cybele had kept the extent of her talent hidden. She’d shown Mab just enough minor magic to seem plausible, while practicing the more difficult tasks in secret. Magic wasn’t easy. Self-taught progress was excruciatingly slow. Every time Cybele hit a snag, she wondered if she should go to one of the adepts for guidance. Every time, Arthur talked her out of it.

  Arthur urged her to find a touchstone. She’d bought a pretty green peridot at a shop in town. He’d helped her gather alder shoots and braid them into a tight ball around the gem. When she’d started to experiment, using the touchstone to focus her magic, he helped her by telling her every last thing he could remember about his parents’ practice of Druidry.

  On her own, she probably would have given up. Because of Arthur, she’d persisted through every frustration. Bit by bit, her first, simple illusions became more complex. Her talent at deflecting attention grew. Arthur was beside her every step of the way, encouraging every risk, praising every success.

  By the time she’d turned sixteen, and Arthur fifteen, she’d been irrevocably in love with him. It wasn’t until three long years later, when they were absolutely sure Cybele could deflect the attention of every adept, dormant, and witch at Demon’s Hollow, that they finally dared to make love.

  It’d been the first time for both of them. They snuck out of the compound and ran down to the beach a mile away. The full moon, glittering on the still water, had been their backdrop. The sex had been memorable, even if it’d been cold, gritty, and over way too quick. But with practice—as often as they could manage it—things got better. A lot better.

  Now, lying in Arthur’s broken bed, Cybele took a deep breath and tried to relax. It was useless. The sheets smelled of sex, and the memory of what they’d done wouldn’t let her go. Those memories were a jumble of excitement, fear, and blinding pleasure. Her back ached like crazy. Her skin was damp and sticky. She examined her arms and torso. More bruises were beginning to show.

  A day ago, she’d thought she knew what good sex was. She hadn’t known a thing. But she did now. Dang it all, if sex got any better than last night, it would kill her. As it was, she felt like she’d been hit by a truck, after which she’d jumped up to run a marathon. She was especially sore between her legs. Not surprising. Arthur had pounded her practically to bits.

  Her orgasm had probably wiped out half her brain cells. She’d blacked out—actually blacked out. Even now, several hours later, her body wasn’t quite finished coming. Rhythmic aftershocks contracted her insides. Every nerve hummed.

  Arthur stirred. She turned her head to look at him. The motion caused a twinge of pain in her neck. His eyes were closed, but darting back and forth under his eyelids, as if he were dreaming. His brow furrowed in a frown.

  With a sudden motion, he rolled toward her. His chin, dusted with dark stubble, grazed her shoulder. His arm fell heavily across her torso. The contact stirred her senses into painful acuteness. Each square inch of her skin in contact with his sizzled. He was hot, as if a furnace burned inside him. His cock, still hard, prodded her hip. She inhaled, and the scent of him made her head spin. She wanted to do it again. She wanted more.

  She gave a soft snort. More? The thought was ludicrous. Arthur had stretched her, shattered her, and flung the pieces to the seven stars. There couldn’t possibly be more.

  Except...Cybele was, after all, only a dormant. Her human body was too fragile to take everything Arthur’s demon nature could dish out. Once she’d completed her own Ordeal—once she was an adept with a demon body of her own—then they would both find out exactly how much more there was.

  The thought left her lightheaded.

  Her gaze drifted to the window, where a brilliant blue sky shone through a lacy pattern of branches. The scene caused a snatch of memory to surface. She’d looked out the window earlier, during sex. The branches had been different. There’d been a shadow. She sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. No. Not a shadow. Just the opposite. There had been a soft glow. And a flutter of—she frowned—wings?

  A sudden chill swept through her. Wings. Wings too big to belong to any bird. Nephil wings? Mab? No, it couldn’t have been. Mab would never lurk outside a window. She’d
stride through the front door, whip in hand.

  And anyway, she realized now, the wings hadn’t been black like Mab’s. They’d been bronze. And Cybele had seen eyes—velvet brown, fathomless eyes. Mab’s eyes were a piercing blue. It hadn’t been Mab. She was pretty sure it hadn’t been any of the other adepts from Demon’s Hollow. Who, then? She was at a loss to explain.

  Maybe a closer look would reveal a clue. Easing her body out from under Arthur’s arm, she rolled off the mattress and came up in a crouch. When she tried to stand, pain stabbed her lower back.

  “Aah!” She turned and dropped back onto the mattress.

  Arthur’s body jerked. He bolted upright, his head swinging toward Cybele. His eyes were open and dilated, irises nothing but narrow gray rings around the pupils. A sound came from deep in his throat: a terrifying half-snarl, half-hiss.

  Cybele shrank back, her heart racing. Being frightened of Arthur was a new experience, one she didn’t like at all. He was her best friend, her lover. She knew him. She trusted him. Or she had. Right now, naked and powerful, his body rigid and his eyes blank, she wasn’t so sure.

  His gaze passed over her. Did he see her? Probably not. Whatever he saw, she’d bet the farm it wasn’t in this room. Something from his Ordeal? Some long-ago ancestral memory?

  He looked right and left. His eyes glowed red, his skin darkened. He lifted his hands. Sparks of white hellfire zipped across his fingers. It gathered in his palms. Cybele ducked. The bolt sizzled past, just inches above her head.

  “Arthur.” She kept her head low, and her eyes fixed on his face. “Arthur. Can you hear me?”

  If he did, he gave no indication of it. His glowing eyes darted about the room, looking for...what? Cybele faltered. What the hell should she do?

  He’s still Arthur, she told herself. And yet...he wasn’t. Or, at least, he wasn’t the Arthur she knew. His human body no longer encompassed everything he was. He was a demon now. A fearsome creature, filled with darkness and magic.