by Joy Nash
She was fiercely glad.
Glad, because pain meant she was alive. Not dead and gone, lost forever in the gaping black abyss of Oblivion.
A chill invaded her body. She’d looked into the heart of that endless void. The velvet nothingness had wanted her. And she had wanted it. Only the thought of Arthur—still alive, still fighting—had given her the strength to resist. Every ounce of her life force, every spark of her magic, had gone into the battle for survival. And since she was now lying on hard ground, her body hurting like a sonofabitch, she must’ve won.
She was awake, but she hadn’t quite gotten up the courage to open her eyes. What was she going to see when she did? She’d survived the collapse of Tŷ’r Cythraul. She’d resisted the uncanny lure of Oblivion. But had Arthur won his battle with Mab?
How much time had passed? Her mouth felt like cotton. She tried to swallow and almost gagged. She moved her hands over the surface under her. Damp grass. She couldn’t bend her left knee. Her leg was in a splint. Broken? That would explain why it hurt so damn much.
She wasn’t alone. Someone nearby was breathing roughly but steadily. Asleep, maybe. Who?
Steeling herself for the worst, she opened her eyes.
The ruins of Tŷ’r Cythraul rose before her. The top half of the front facade had fallen, leaving the interior of the upper floors exposed. The floors, having lost support on the front end, sloped sharply downward. A jumble of furnishings lay broken atop a pile of stone rubble.
Arthur was sprawled beside her, lost in fitful slumber, his back half-supported by the garden wall. Cybele’s gaze flew to his neck.
Bare.
Her breath vacated her lungs in one long swoosh. The rush of relief was so intense, so exuberant, she couldn’t immediately catch her next inhale. When she finally did, she sucked in a lungful of musty air and dissolved into a fit of coughing. And shit, how that hurt her head and ribs. She stifled a moan.
Arthur jerked upright, his head turning sharply in her direction. Their eyes met. For several long moments, they just stared at each other.
“You’re awake,” he said finally. The relief in his voice was palpable.
“Yes.”
“How do you feel?”
How did he feel? She looked him over. He sported an assortment of scrapes and bruises, but it didn’t look like anything was seriously wrong with him. Except his eyes...they were red-rimmed, as if he’d been crying. For her? She struggled to sit upright, only to freeze when fresh pain stabbed her ribs.
“How do I feel?” she said through gritted teeth. “Like shit.”
He moved to help her sit up. “Here. Lean against me.”
She did, gratefully. “Dang it. I think I might I’d hurt less if a truck ran me over.”
“Can’t be that bad if you’re bitching about it.” The lightness of his words belied the seriousness of his tone. He ran a hand down her arm, as if trying to convince himself she was whole.
“I guess I’ll live.”
A beat of silence ensued. Then he said, “I didn’t think you would.”
She twisted to look at him, ignoring the pain the movement brought. “What happened after the house fell on me?”
Arthur grimaced. “I’m not exactly sure. Luc said—”
“He’s okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Zephyr? Auster? The other dormants?”
“They’re fine,” he said. “Clay, Draven, and Blade are okay, and helping out. They’re on the moor building a temporary shelter.”
“What about Rand and Hunter?”
“Gone. They took off when Mab fell.”
Every muscle in Cybele’s body unknotted. “She’s really dead, then. You defeated her.”
“Yes. Merlin’s staff—it woke up. I called and it came flying at me. I caught it and then...” He shrugged. “Apparently, I blasted Mab into a pile of ash. The thrall collars disintegrated. I don’t remember any of it. Luc filled me in when I came to.”
“Evander?” Cybele asked.
He avoided her gaze. “Your father didn’t survive Mab’s hellfire. That’s my fault. I used him—”
Cybele caught his hand and pressed her palm against his. “Don’t regret it, Arthur. You did what you had to do.” Evander might have fathered her, but he’d not spent a subsequent minute of his life caring about her. He’d stood by Mab, enforcing every one of her vicious rules, even though he hadn’t been bound by a thrall collar. It was only fitting that he’d died at her side.
She laced their fingers together. “So. My leg—I guess it’s broken?”
“Just fractured. You’ve got a couple cracked ribs, too.”
“I figured,” she said wryly.
“You came so close to dying. Did you...” He turned their joined hands over and ran his free hand up her arm to her shoulder. “Did you see Oblivion?”
“Yes. I did. It was—” She shivered, remembering.
“I know,” he said quietly.
“I feel—different now, somehow. It’s hard to describe. I’m in transition, aren’t I?”
He nodded.
“Two months, maybe three, before my Ordeal comes.” A knot of apprehension tied itself into her stomach. “Oh, Arthur,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m ready for it.”
His fingers tightened on her shoulder. “No one is ever ready for it. But you won’t be alone. I’ll be there, every minute. Trust me to guide you through it. To keep you safe.”
“I do trust you. With my life. And my heart.”
His touch glided along her jaw. His finger lifted her chin. When she tilted her head up, his mouth came down on hers. Hard and urgent, and yet tender, too. The combination opened an ache in her heart.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss. The discomfort of her injuries dropped from her awareness, pushed aside in favor of a more pleasurable agony. Their tongues tangled; she gently bit his lower lip. When they finally broke apart, both of them were gasping.
Cybele closed her eyes against a searing wave of lust. Their eyes met and joy bubbled up inside her. They were alive, free, and together. She slid her arms up around his neck.
“I might be battered, and I might have more cracked bones than I care to count, but dang it, Arthur.” She pressed her lips close to his ear. “Just say the word and I’ll go down on you so hard you won’t know what hit you.”
He chuckled, and then laughed outright. Cybele pulled back and drank in the sight. The world might be an uncertain place, but as long as Arthur was in it with her, she was content to take the bad with the good.
His gray eyes danced. “I love how you’re always full of such brilliant ideas.”
She smiled back at him. “I know.”
“And I love you,” he said. “Only you, Cybele. Always.”
“I know that, too,” she said, and kissed him again.
Coming in 2017
DEMONS AND ANGELS
The Nephilim: Book Two
The war for humanity’s future begins...
Arthur guides Cybele through a harrowing Ordeal as his Druids battle to protect the human race from a massive invasion of hellfiend demons. Alchemist Vaclav Dusek harvests scattered fragments of Nephil magic from his captive thralls. A fledgling network of human vigilante demon annihilators falls prey to Dusek’s lies and joins the Alchemist in his quest to wipe the Druid Nephilim off the face of the Earth.
Turn the page for an exclusive short story
The Nephilim: Summoning
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excerpts, extras,
and behind-the-book secrets
SUMMONING
A short story in the World of The Nephilim
Cameron Redmond woke with a start, heart pounding, his body soaked with sweat. He kicked off the clammy sheet and lay staring up at the ceiling. Beside him, Piers slept like the dead. Like he always did after sex.
Cam turned his head and studied his lover. Piers was decades older, but the difference in years seemed slight. His features were unlined excep
t for a few attractive crinkles at the corners of his eyes. According to Piers, this wasn’t unusual. Nephilim didn't generally show their age. His hair was an anomaly, though, mingling dark and white. His ruby earring—a single, half-carat stud set in yew wood—was a garish contrast to the salt-and-pepper curls.
The older man’s expression was serene, his breath barely audible. Cam envied him. His own orgasm hadn’t given way to relaxation. On the contrary, sex only seemed to exacerbate his habitual restlessness. To Cam, slumber was something to be feared, much as he’d feared walking through Liverpool’s rougher quarters in what he’d taken to thinking of as the time before. The time when he’d believed he was human. Before he’d discovered, amid terror, pain, and immense, frightening power, what he truly was.
A Nephil.
Images and memories leaped from the dark corners of his brain—emboldened, perhaps, by the events of the past few days. The so-called volcano in Wales. Masses of hellfiends streaming overhead, like an endless plume of ash. The unnatural sky and Piers’s troubled reaction to it had unearthed memories Cam would have preferred to keep buried. His life in the time before—a blur of homelessness, hunger, and heroin. His life in between, when an overdose had pitched him toward death. His unexpected survival had sent him careening into his Ordeal. If Piers hadn’t found him, huddled and shivering, lying in his own stink...
A rush of gratitude and love for his savior unfurled in his chest. The warmth and hope of it chased the trauma of his past—most of it—back into the dark. Cam rolled onto his side facing Piers, his arm tucked under his head. A breeze played with the open curtains. Moonlight filtered through, falling in a slant across the floor. Abruptly, Cam sat up, realizing the light meant the sky was clear at last. But what, exactly, did that mean?
It was barely past midnight, but he was certain he wasn’t falling back asleep any time soon. He might as well get up. The antique pocket watch was almost done. A massive Bavarian cuckoo clock was his next project. It was in pitiful shape; it would absorb his attention for days. He was quite looking forward to it. The precision and concentration needed in repairing clockworks soothed him.
He eased out of bed, careful not to disturb Piers, who liked to sleep late. There was no reason for him to rise, even when the sun came up. The shop had seen only two intrepid customers in the last few days. Cam moved to the window and peered up at the sky. The hellfiends were indeed gone, leaving a full moon and collection of washed-out stars. But even if the clear sky encouraged more foot traffic, the shop didn’t need to open before eleven.
Piers muttered in his sleep and rolled to one side. A glint of red light caught the corner of Cam’s eye. Reflexively, he looked closer. And sucked in a breath. Cam hadn’t been mistaken. The ruby earring was glowing.
Unease gathered in his chest and sank into a knot in his stomach. Piers had warned him this day might come. He glanced down at the ring he wore on the middle finger of his left hand. The diamond touchstone Piers had given him after he’d emerged from his Ordeal was clear. Of course it was. Piers had made damn sure Cam’s magic wasn’t tied to his own.
Too soon. He wasn’t ready. He’d barely come to terms with what he was. What Piers was. Nephilim. He wasn’t ready to confront others of their kind, much less face the clan alpha that Piers hated and feared so ferociously.
Cam clasped Piers’s shoulder. It was very hot. Either that, or Cam’s hands had gone very, very cold.
“Piers? Wake up.” He gave him a shake.
“What—?” Piers blinked blearily. He looked into Cam’s eyes. The last remnants of sleep evaporated. He shoved into a sitting position, the sheet whispering down over his naked torso.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Cam gestured toward the earring. Piers glanced into the mirror above the dressing table. His eyes widened. Deftly, he removed the earring and stared at the glowing gem.
“A summons.”
“Do we have to answer it?” Cam asked.
“I must, if I wish to stay alive. You, however... ”
Cam sank down on the edge of the bed. “This has to have something to do with the hellfiends.”
“That’s a fair guess, yes.” Piers flung back the bedcovers and rose. He strode to the wardrobe and opened it, surveying a line of crisply ironed garments. He chose a pair of black trousers and pulled them on. “But it’s by no means certain. A summons from the alpha can come for any number of reasons.”
“None of them good, I take it.”
Piers shot him a glance. “No. None of them good.”
“I’m going with you,” Cam said quietly.
“No.” Piers pinned him with a look. “You will not. Mab doesn’t know anything about you. I want to keep it that way.”
Cam twisted his ring. “You may not come back.”
Piers said nothing.
“I couldn’t stand that,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t stand not knowing. I couldn’t stand waiting. I’m going with you.”
“Cam—”
“You gave me my freedom at the end of my Ordeal. You can’t take it away now.” He stood. “I’m going with you. I’ll stand at your side.”
“If you do,” Piers warned, “you may very well die there.”
“So be it,” Cam said.
Braxton Camulus wore a signet on the last finger of his right hand. It was a finely wrought wood mosaic, set with a chip of raw ruby. When the stone began to glow, he stared at it for a long moment, then swore softly.
What the hell time was it? He closed his laptop and glanced at his phone. Past midnight. He’d been running the pattern of the hellfiend invasion through an advanced epidemic model he’d hacked from the US Centers for Disease Control. The CDC, however, were accustomed to illnesses caused by viruses and bacteria. They had no experience with—or, presumably, any belief in—demons. Brax had been obliged to modify the algorithm to account for a number of metaphysical variables. The revised output carried a significant margin of error, but the gist of the threat was clear.
Earth was in deep shit. The human race wasn’t exactly doomed—not yet, at any rate. But absent an immediate, intelligent, coordinated global effort, the world would soon be consumed by evil and chaos.
The slim ray of hope wasn’t much comfort. When, in all of human history, had mankind ever launched an immediate, intelligent, coordinated global effort? Against anything? Add the fact that ninety-nine percent of humanity believed the invasion was a volcanic ash plume, and the probability of human survival plummeted.
Brax revised his assessment. Humanity was fucked.
He drummed his fingers on the table, eyeing his ring. It’d been years—seven years, precisely—since he’d been forced to trade his onyx touchstone for Mab’s ruby. In all that time, the ruby had remained dark. Now, just a few days after a horde of hellfiends exploded from the deep, a summons arrived. Even if he believed in coincidences—which he didn’t—this one would be a stretch.
Was Mab behind the invasion? He had no trouble believing she had the power to imagine, and bring into reality, such a calamity. He did have trouble believing she’d actually do it. The Druid alpha was vicious, but it didn’t fit her style. Mab’s legal and illegal business activities relied on a relatively intact and healthy human realm. Her focus was narrow and completely self-absorbed. Powerful as she was, he couldn’t imagine her taking an interest in terrorizing all of humanity just for the hell of it.
He’d have to wake Raine, he supposed, and try to explain. As a witch, she wouldn’t be required to accompany him. He only hoped he could convince her to stay here in London. Avalyn and Ronan, and Harry, of course, would have received their own summons.
But the lads...
He slipped his computer into its sleeve and stood. The bedroom door was slightly ajar. Light and the electronic sounds of video games spilled through. He opened the door the rest of the way. Gawain’s eyes remained on the screen. Gareth, who was much more perceptive than his cousin, looked up.
“Uncle?” He fr
owned. “Is something wrong?”
Gawain glanced his way. He must’ve seen something disturbing in his father’s expression, because his fingers froze on the game controller. His avatar took a hit and died, and he didn’t even notice.
“Dad? What is it?”
Brax studied the lads. Gareth was Avalyn’s and Ronan’s son. He was sixteen, two years older than Brax’s own son, Gawain. Gareth looked younger than Gawain, though. He’d inherited his mother’s red hair, fair skin, and freckles. Brax had always been grateful that he and Avalyn, though twins, didn’t look much alike.
“Dad?” Gawain said again.
Brax shook his head slightly. No logic in delaying. They had to be told. He held up his hand. At the sight of his ring, both boys’ eyes widened.
“A summons,” he said. “From the alpha.”
“We’re going to Texas?” Gareth asked, swallowing hard.
No. Texas didn’t feel right. “Not Texas,” he said slowly. He closed his eyes briefly, touching the stone with his mind. He felt a jolt of disbelief.
He opened his eyes. “We’re to assemble at Tŷ’r Cythraul, in Devon.” He nodded toward the screen. “Turn it off. We leave within the hour.”
Morgana MacKerran sent the icy deluge squarely into Collum’s face. Her useless cousin bolted upright, sputtering. He shook his head and inhaled, she guessed, more water than air. Collum roared his displeasure, then ruined the effect with a fit of wheezy coughing.
His bedmates had gotten a good dose of ice water as well. The lasses floundered about, flashing naked limbs and breasts. By all the ancestors in Oblivion! Their shrieks were like icepicks in Morgana’s ears. She waited by side of the bed, empty bucket in hand, for the stramash to subside. Eventually, Collum caught his breath and blinked up at her, resentment plain on his handsome face.
“I might’a known.” His blue eyes regarded her balefully. “You perishing besom. Only you would assault a man in his own bed, and wi’ a bucket of ice, no less! Damn it, woman, isn’t Scotland cold enough for ye?”