Drawn into Darkness

  What was this thing?

  He surged to his feet, conjured a fresh shield, and brandished his sword, prepared to fend off another fireball. But nothing came at him. The behemoth demon had turned away, wading through the rubble toward the Fiftieth Street doors. It wasn’t interested in him, couldn’t care less about the angry Soul Gatherer determined to send its ass back to hell.

  And that made Brian’s heart skip a beat. What demon could resist an opportunity to steal a soul? Especially when the odds appeared to be in its favor? It didn’t make any sense.

  Unless it was after something else.

  He peered through the smoke, past the demon’s massive frame, and frowned. The surprisingly intact door to the outside world was swinging shut. Someone had just left the building. Judging by the smear of bright red blood on the glass, an injured someone.

  Not pausing to sort out the whys, Brian dashed around the demon, narrowly dodged a vicious stab of its tail, and pushed through the door into the late-May evening. The sun was just beginning to set, leaving thin ribbons of tawny light falling between buildings. The traffic on the busy street had slowed to a crawl, and heads popped out car windows, wide eyes locked on the wafting smoke several floors above.

  Brian panned the gawking bystanders, looking for his wounded escapee.

  There. A bloodstained T-shirt-clad figure climbing the stairs of St. Pat’s cathedral.

  The door at his back exploded in a thick moil of fire and greasy black smoke, pitching Brian and a million shards of glass and metal halfway across the street. He rolled over the hood of a yellow cab, bounced to his feet, and raced for the church entrance. New screams were abruptly silenced as the demon swept aside a parked car and seared everything in a fifty-foot radius with a mouthful of furnace-hot heat. Brian shoved the ugly thought of fried bodies to the back of his mind and kept going. The demon never varied its pace, but every step gained it fifteen feet. It wouldn’t be far behind him.

  Brian’s eyes adjusted instantly to the dim interior of the church.

  The last afternoon mass was over, but a few map-carrying tourists lingered in the pews and in the gift shop. Spotting his fugitive was easy. A bone-thin blond girl, no more than twenty, limped up the nave toward the altar, one arm hanging by her side, the other clutched to her chest. It was a testament to the awe-inspiring beauty of the cathedral’s arches that no one noticed the blood trail she left behind on the marble floor.

  Brian leapt over two rows of pews and sprinted for her.

  He reached her just as the demon hit the church with a marble-crumbling blast. The girl was on the verge of collapse. Deep cuts laced her arms and neck. The front of her threadbare T-shirt was soaked with blood, and her lips were chalky white.

  Each passing minute was killing her.

  Behind him, the heavy bronze doors exploded inward, sailing twenty feet before landing on pews that buckled under the weight. The tourists ran blindly for the main entrance, far less interested in what had caused the explosion than in escaping the mayhem. Not bothering with introductions, Brian scooped up the girl in one arm and dashed for the Forty-ninth Street door.

  She didn’t make things easy. Despite her weakened state, the girl flailed.

  “No,” she gasped as she pummeled him with her fist. “I can’t leave.”

  “Honey, if we don’t leave, we’re going to die,” he told her grimly, his fingers struggling to keep their hold on her blood-slicked skin.

  “Let me go.”

  A fireball hit him in the lower back—a teeth-rattling jolt that disintegrated his new shield as easily as the last. He stumbled, but kept running. Conjuring another shield, he leapt left over a pew, and dove behind a marble column. Just in time. The wrought-iron chandelier above his last position crashed to the floor, sending a spray of fine glass and chipped tile in all directions.

  Unfortunately the dive allowed the girl to slip free of his hold. She slithered under the nearest bench and peered at him from her dim hideout. Her face was ashen, her eyes dark and wide. “This is a church; this is sanctuary. It can’t hurt me here.”

  He stared at her. Damn. She believed that shit.

  The column protecting them took an indirect hit, cracked, and partially crumbled. There wasn’t enough time to explain how things really worked, so he reached for her again.

  She flinched away.

  “Sweetheart, please,” he begged. The marble floor trembled under the advancing steps of the demon. “This whole place is about to fall down around our ears.”

  But she pulled farther into the shadows and shook her head, refusing to be swayed.

  Which left him with only one option. His original choice. Fight.

  He closed his eyes, finding and focusing on the throb of power that lay deep in his chest. Drawing hard on the cool white energy, he shoved off the floor. His muscular legs flexed with practiced ease and he flipped over ten pews, landing in the nave with his sword ready for action. The demon again ignored him, maintaining its relentless pursuit of the girl. Perfect.

  Brian ducked under the creature’s long whipping tail and went for its Achilles tendons.

  Were they still called that if the creature had cloven hooves?

  The magical enhancements on his blade cut through the demon’s shield, and he sliced deep. Unfortunately the demon’s thick, scaly hide served its purpose and his swing fell short of success, unable to sever the tendons completely.

  The demon issued an angry roar that blew out every stained-glass window in the cathedral. It spun around, splintering a dozen pews into matchsticks with its tail, and released a gust of thousand-degree breath in Brian’s direction. Benches all around him licked into a fiery blaze, then disintegrated into ash. But Brian’s shield survived the attack, and so did he. Dripping with sweat but still vigorously alive, he rushed the demon again, leaping high and scoring two slices—one across the beast’s massive chest and the other across its bicep.

  Before he could regroup and deal another blow, however, the demon’s tail slid around his waist with anaconda strength and flicked him aside, tossing him a hundred feet with incredible ease. Brian smacked into a marble wall, the air in his lungs expelled in a sharp puff. He slid to the floor, dazed, an easy target for the huge chunk of marble the demon tore from a wall and flung atop him. His shield repelled the worst of the blow, but Brian’s sternum took the rest. He scrambled to his feet, sucking in a breath.

  Shunting aside his misery, burying his pain beneath a layer of fierce resolve, he sped back toward the demon. He zigzagged around pillars to make himself a more erratic target, but the demon managed to lock onto him in spite of his defensive maneuvers. Molten lava hit him at the hip, tore through his shield as if it were made of tissue paper, and burrowed into his skin. Brian staggered.

  A dozen hot, hungry worms chewed through his flesh, right to the bone. Every nerve ending howled. Black spots crowded his vision, a vain attempt by his mind to shut out the pain. Nausea clawed at his belly, and his arms and legs turned to rubber. He might well have fallen to his knees were it not for the feeble words that filtered through his agony-induced haze.

  “Hail Mary … full of grace …”

  The girl was praying, using her last breaths to beg forgiveness for her sins.

  Damn it. No. He couldn’t let her die here, not like this. There hadn’t been a mark on her cheek, no sign that she was destined to die today. At least none that he could see. And she was just a kid, barely a woman. She was a lot like … Melanie.

  Brian reached deeper, found a last reserve of strength, and forced his legs to move. This fucking demon had to go down. Now.

  He pumped his legs again and again, each step firmer than the last, each step taking him closer to his quarry. Another fireball hit him, but he kept going, the pain an ever-tightening cinch around his chest and yet, somehow, hollow and distant. As if it were happening to someone else. Adjusting his hold on the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword, he envisioned his attack, right through to a successful conclusion.<
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  Then he leapt.

  Using the creature’s flexed knee for leverage, he launched himself upward, ducking around its massive arm and swinging at the bulging cords of its neck. His blade, the marvelous creation of a very talented mage, had gained new energy from the drips of demon gore sliding down its length. It hummed with supernatural strength, and the glowing blue edge broke through the demon’s shield. Out of the corner of his eye, Brian saw the angry, undulating tail lash in his direction, but his attention remained focused on his target—the base of the neck where a fat jugular vein pulsed with undead life.

  The cutting edge of the sword bit deep into the demon’s flesh, carving through hide, sinew, and nerves alike. Thick crimson blood sprayed everywhere. Success. Sort of. The demon’s tail whipped around his torso, encircling him. It slithered all the way up to his shoulder and then … squeezed. Ribs, collarbone, shoulder blades—a dozen bones snapped under the pressure, a sickening series of crunches. Only when a death-throe shudder racked the demon from head to toe did the pressure ease. Thrashing mindlessly, the tail flung Brian into the air.

  The demon lurched, fell to its knees, and collapsed face-first in the rubble.

  Brian only vaguely noted the fall. Agony had him firmly in its grip. He’d ended his flight thirty pews to the left, atop his mangled shoulder. His immortal body, aware that the battle was over, threatened to shut down for repair, but he fought the siren call of blackout. The job wasn’t done. He had to reach the girl.

  Bile in his mouth, his vision distorted by a red film, he pushed unevenly to his feet.

  His blood pounded at the exertion, filling his ears with an angry rush. Hearing anything else was impossible. But he located her anyway, still huddled beneath a pew near the doors. Pale and bloodless. Her eyes were closed, her prayers silenced. He knew long before he took her slender hand that she was dead; he just didn’t want to believe it.

  Gently, he tugged her out of her cave and into his arms. The movement jarred his arm, but the pain felt right and just. He let his chin sink to his chest. He’d failed her.

  The sudden crackle of electricity didn’t rouse him. Nor did the pop of his ears or the light scent of lemons. His body howled for sleep, and he almost gave in to the demand.

  “I came as soon as I heard her prayer,” a quiet male voice said. “But I see I’m too late.”

  Fueled by a wave of frustration, Brian lifted his head to glare at the angel—a lean, casually dressed young man with a cascade of light brown curls falling to his shoulders. For someone so pretty, he exuded a robust intensity. “You guys are always too late.”

  The angel crouched beside him. “Not true. I’ve battled my share of demons.”

  “Since when? I thought psychopomps only collected souls?”

  A half smile curved the angel’s lips. “I’m no psychopomp. My name is Uriel.”

  Brian frowned. “As in archangel Uriel?”

  The glorious one nodded offhandedly, as if archangels dropped in on Soul Gatherers every day. An attitude that matched his baggy blue jeans and skater-boy sneakers. His gaze wandered to the fallen demon. “Congratulations on your victory. It couldn’t have been easy.”

  Yeah, he was reminded of how not easy it had been every time he took a breath. “What is that thing? Bastard ate through my shield with one blow.”

  Uriel stood. “A martial demon. You’re lucky to still be around. Only a handful of Gatherers have survived an encounter with one.”

  Brian blinked. Rumor had it his buddy MacGregor had once battled and defeated two martial demons single-handedly. His estimation of the guy went up twenty points.

  “I’d best get rid of our large friend,” the archangel said. “He’ll be a little difficult to explain to the authorities. When you’re ready, I’ll collect your souls.”

  Brian’s gaze dropped to the limp girl in his arms. Brushing a blood-crusted lock of hair away from her face, he studied the keen angles and sunken eyes of an unhappy life ended way too soon. “Sometimes I hate this job.”

  Uriel squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll take good care of her. I promise.”

  Then the angel left him to his thoughts.

  Brian gently laid the girl’s body on the broken tiles. Barely weighs anything, poor kid. About to put his hand on her throat and collect her soul, he paused. A martial demon. One of Satan’s most able-bodied warriors, sent to snuff this little slip of a girl, a ninety pound threat. How did that make any sense?

  He explored her face again, taking in the big eyes and sharp cheekbones. Was she someone important? Someone powerful? The cheap clothing hanging off her starved frame said otherwise. His gaze slid to her fisted left hand. Maybe she had an item they wanted? Seemed unlikely a street kid would own a keepsake the devil himself desired, but she’d clutched that hand tight, never once loosening her grip, right up to the moment of her demise.

  He uncurled her fingers.

  In the center of her palm lay a dull silver coin. Uneven edges, stamped with the image of some curly-haired guy, no date that he could see. It looked old.

  A ripple of unease swept through him as he stared at the coin. He had the sense he recognized it, yet he was equally convinced he’d never seen it before. Laughing at himself for being superstitious, he picked it up with the edge of his shirtsleeve. The back was engraved with some kind of weird bird.

  “Uriel?”

  In the midst of working some heavenly magic on the demon’s body, the angel glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

  “This look familiar to you?” Brian held up the coin.

  “It’s a Tyrian shekel, once used to pay temple taxes in Jerusalem.”

  “Think it could be what the demon was after?”

  The archangel turned back to the creature’s corpse. A casual flick of long fingers, a brilliant flash of white light, and all that remained of the beast was a pile of red sand. Releasing a heavy sigh, Uriel faced Brian once more. “Is there a tiny star stamped on the back?”

  Brian looked closer. “Yeah.”

  “Then sadly, yes. Peter marked all thirty coins with a star when he retrieved them from the potter.” He seemed a little disappointed that Brian didn’t immediately understand the reference. “It’s one of the silver pieces Judas received for selling out the Son of God.”

  “Okay.” That made it infamously ancient, not just old. “What do I do with it?”

  “Keep it, for now.” Uriel raked a hand through his long curls, a furrow marring his perfect brow. “I’ll consult with Michael on how to best proceed. But by all that’s holy, do not let Satan get his hands on it. My guess is he’s already acquired some of the others. Seventeen of the coins were under the care of a Protector here in New York.”

  A Protector? “Are you telling me these coins are like the Pontius Pilate Linen? That they’re some kind of dark relic?”

  “Yes.”

  He studied the coin again. “What evil mojo do they stir up?”

  “They fuel betrayal on a grand scale. Touch the coin and you’re sucked into a web of manipulation that will soon have you betraying even those closest to you. The more coins held, the stronger the influence, and if the wrong person secures the complete set, multiply the nightmare by ten.”

  Brian did some quick math. “If seventeen coins were here in New York, where are the other thirteen?”

  “No one knows. They were lost during the fall of the Knights Templar in the fourteenth century. On the positive side, it’s unlikely Satan has them.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Everything is too calm. But if I’m right and he has sixteen of the New York coins, that will quickly change. A wave of corruption and scandal will hit the news within a day or two, generating the first sparks of fear. If he acquires the other thirteen, he’ll topple governments and send major corporations into turmoil. The fear will escalate. There will be riots and possibly wars. And if he gains the last … well, I’m sure you see where I’m headed.”

  An invisible weight settled on Brian’s shoul
ders. “So, let me see if I have this straight. This coin in my hand may be the only thing standing between the devil and a cataclysmic butt-fuck of humankind.”

  Uriel’s brows soared, but a glimmer of amusement shone in his eyes. “Those wouldn’t be the words I’d use, but, yes. That’s the gist of it.”

  “Great, thanks.” He tucked the coin in his pants pocket.

  The minute he got back to San Jose, he’d do the right thing and hand the silver piece over to MacGregor. The last thing the world needed was Brian Webster tasked with saving the day. That would turn out bad. Guaranteed.

  “Let’s move swiftly,” Uriel urged. “We have less than a minute before the New York Fire Department comes charging through the door.”

  Brian nodded.

  His gaze dropped back to the lifeless girl. How wrong was it that he didn’t even know her name? Hell, she was the hero in all this. She might not have understood what she was doing, but she’d given her life to protect the coin. And no one would know but him.

  Damn it.

  If a fragile little girl could make that kind of sacrifice, the least he could do was make sure the rest of the coins stayed safe. The poor kid’s death should mean something. Life had kicked her in the teeth—repeatedly—by the look of her. She’d spent months, possibly years, on the streets, lost, starved, and beaten. And in all that time, no one had come to her rescue. No one had saved her.

  Not even him.

  Putting a hand on her pale throat, he gathered her soul.

  Drawn into Darkness

  © 2009 Annette McCleave

  ISBN: 9780451227805

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

  Ed♥n