by DB Reynolds
Damian’s answer was a dismissive snort. “We’ll be there,” he said simply.
Nick nodded automatically. It didn’t matter who could see him. “And try not to kill Grace when you get here. I have a bone to pick with her about coordinating an attack.”
Damian laughed out loud at that one.
“Yeah, I know,” Nick conceded. “See you soon.” He hung up and tried Grace’s number again. Still no answer, and by now, there probably wouldn’t be until it was all over. The woman might infuriate the hell out of him, but she knew better than to leave her phone on.
He leapt into the air and down to the desert floor, then took off into the night, using magic to speed his passage and smooth his gait, treading lightly over rocks and potholes that might have tripped him up. Most of his attention was focused outward, searching for Grace, or for any sign of a trap. This seemed all too easy. Sotiris was an evil fuck, but he wasn’t stupid. Why would he drop his guard like this?
Sounds began to reach his ears as he drew closer. He slowed to a stop about fifty yards out to study the tableau around the fire. He could distinguish individuals now. A group of nobodies, minor acolytes whose magic barely registered against his senses, and next to them. . . . What the fuck? A man, but no longer human. The poor bastard was fully possessed by a fairly powerful demon. This had to be Gabler from the museum. Or what was left of him. But what the hell was the demon doing here? It had no power to offer Sotiris for his ritual. Unless the sorcerer planned to offer up his helpers as demon food when this was over. That would motivate the demon to make an appearance and impress the rubes.
He’d no sooner had the thought than power flared and his eye was drawn to the only being at that fire whose power matched his own. Sotiris stood with his back to Nick, his arms raised as if seeking the blessing of the gods, which was a crock of shit. There were no gods to petition, no gifts to bestow. Sorcery was in the DNA. You were born with it or not. Sotiris was playacting for the black-clad acolytes who were chanting in the language of. . . . Nick strained to hear their words. Dark magic.
“Well, shit,” he cursed.
A knife flashed suddenly in Sotiris’s raised hands and Nick’s magic sliced through the air in the same instant that a shot rang out, and a red stain blossomed on Sotiris’s T-shirt-covered back.
The sorcerer jerked when the bullet hit him, but he didn’t fall. He turned slowly, his power a nimbus of feral hatred, eyes glowing as he searched for his assailant, so obsessed with finding the person who’d dared to shoot him that he completely missed Nick’s presence. But then, it wasn’t Nick and his magic who’d taken Sotiris down.
Nick knew who’d fired that bullet and recognized the danger she was in, but figured she did, too. His attention was all for Kato, who lay stretched out on a damn hunk of stone like a sacrifice on the altar of some phony god. Or, in this case, a phony bitch of a mother. Either way, it wasn’t going to happen. Not as long as Nick drew breath.
Using the distraction Grace had provided, he reached out to Kato. His warrior was bloodied, but alive and alert, aware of Nick’s arrival, waiting for his command.
“Now,” Nick whispered aloud, using magic to put the word in Kato’s ear.
Power flared as Kato sat up, slipped his bound arms down his legs and over his feet, and then raised his arms into the air, where a pencil-thin and razor-sharp bolt of power from Nick sliced the rope in two.
The chanting acolytes shrieked, scattering like chickens when Kato jumped to his feet. Sotiris spun to face this new challenge with a spell ready on his lips, but Kato was already behind him, and he wasn’t helpless anymore. Nick’s bolt of power had snapped the hold Sotiris had tightened over Kato, freeing his magic in a cloud of darkness, like a swarm of insects swirling around him in a caress. This was not simply dark magic, it was evil. The blackest black of the Dark Witch’s power gathered around Kato as he prepared to take his revenge, to destroy once and for all this enemy who’d tormented not only Kato but everyone he loved.
Nick couldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t let his warrior, his brother, sully his soul with the pure evil of his dead mother. Wouldn’t let him pay that price.
Nick’s magic roared free with a concussive crack of thunder, crashing into Sotiris’s carefully crafted ritual, knocking the sorcerer aside with its violence. Launching volley after volley of raw power, he advanced, forcing Sotiris to defend himself or die. Finally, Nick thought. Finally he’d cornered the bastard and they would have this out. No more running. . . . Sotiris dropped his blade on the empty altar, snapped out a command, and . . . the fucking coward crafted a warp in reality and ran. Again.
Son of a bitch!
Nick cursed as he raced after him, magic blaring across the dark skies like lightning, thunder crashing over the desert like a storm. He spared a glance behind him, but Kato was already on his feet, wielding the knife that Sotiris had discarded with deadly accuracy. It was a sight that warmed Nick’s heart for a brief moment, until he turned back to his pursuit of Sotiris, and he was filled with nothing but ice-cold purpose.
For his warriors, for his own revenge, Sotiris had to die.
KATO KNEW THE moment Sotiris became aware of Nick’s arrival. Not because of the flashy thunder and lightning show, but because of the fear that transformed him in an instant from hunter to prey. The coward dropped his knife, snapped out a command, and ran, with Nick hard on his heels.
But Kato had no time to enjoy the lightshow. Sotiris’s final command had jolted demon Gabler into action, its inhuman mouth opening wide in a cackling laugh as it attacked, seeming intent on spilling Kato’s death blood and completing the ritual that Sotiris had abandoned. Did it think to inherit the power of the Dark Witch? To escape its hellish home forever? The first was impossible. As for other, this demon would never see its home again. Kato would see to it.
Shedding its human guise, the demon ripped its shirt open with claw-tipped fingers and dug into its own chest, its hand emerging covered with gore and bearing a wicked blade that dripped blood from its serrated edge. Kato wished for his own blade, but he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the sacrificial blade that Sotiris had discarded. Ignoring the demon’s sword and the claws raking bloody furrows into the flesh of his arms, he stepped inside the creature’s defense and stabbed its chest, piercing its still human heart. The demon shrieked, its cries filled with the corrupt magic of its home dimension as it screamed out a command and shredded a gate into existence.
“Not this time, demon,” Kato snarled and stepped into his path, blocking his escape. The creature fought, determined to reach its home and evade death. Wielding its gore-drenched blade with both hands, it attacked Kato’s arms and chest with devastating effect. But Kato ignored the pain, his every thought, every action, focused on death for this demon that had toyed with Grace’s life, and in the end, had threatened her with unspeakable acts. There would be no more resurrections for this one. It would meet its final death in this dimension, in this world, and it would die utterly.
With blood running down his arms and dripping from his chest, he gripped the demon by the throat with one hand and carved his knife into the creature’s chest with the other. Over and over, he stabbed George Gabler’s beating heart, tearing into that powerful muscle as it struggled to stay alive, as it clung to the demon’s magical attempts to reconstruct itself. But Kato would not be denied. He kept stabbing and slashing until there was nothing left for the demon to repair, until the heart was a bloody stew of shredded meat and membrane.
The demon’s final death cry was a horrible thing to hear. It reverberated over the endless desert, startling sleepers in distant campgrounds and houses, sending nightmares clawing into their dreams. As for the human, Gabler . . . what was left of him collapsed bonelessly to the trampled ground, ignored as Kato spun to deal with a new threat. Sotiris’s allies, the half-crazed acolytes of the Dark Witch, had watched with unconcealed glee as Kato battled the demon, thirsting after Kato’s death blood to fuel their ritual. And now they
gaped in frozen disbelief, cringing as the demon’s death cry wafted over them.
Kato would have expected them to run. Sotiris was gone. The demon was gone. But he hadn’t counted on their slavish devotion to the Dark Witch, an almost religious fervor as they confronted him at last. He was the apostate, the one who’d abandoned the Dark Witch in her need, and who’d now destroyed their attempt to return her to glory. They howled, eyes rolling white in their frenzy, their demented cries sending chills up his spine and making him long again for his black blade.
He gripped Sotiris’s ceremonial knife tightly, taking note of his attackers’ number and weapons. Kato was confident in his skills as a warrior, but there was nothing more dangerous than a lunatic mob. Give him ten hardened warriors any day, rather than this bunch of crazed believers.
They attacked all at once, no skill, no coordination. It was a shrieking, bloodthirsty rush intent on only one thing . . . sacrificing Kato to the Dark Witch, rescuing their plan, and bringing her back to life. Kato could have told them it wouldn’t work, but they wouldn’t have heard him. They wanted blood and they were going to get it, even if it meant chopping him to pieces with dull knives.
He didn’t wait, but stepped out to meet them, gripping their leader by the shoulder with one hand, swinging his knife in a low deadly arc with the other, gutting the man and tossing him aside. The man next to him had a short sword and some skill. He thrust his weapon at Kato, aiming for his heart, missing that vital organ, but glancing off a lung hard enough that it took Kato’s breath away for a long few seconds that had him contemplating his own death. He thought of Nick and Damian, of his two other brothers yet to be freed. And he thought of Grace, hoping she was still alive, wishing they could have had a life together.
Then his lungs expanded and he sucked in a painful breath, his vision flashing white even as he raised his forearm to block an incoming blow. Warrior instincts honed and perfected in another life dug into his brain and he fought, slamming his fist into the acolyte’s jaw, slicing the man’s throat open while he was still reeling from the blow, and then using his dead body as a weapon to knock the next attacker from his feet. Then he turned to the next . . . and the next.
There were so many. Where had they come from? He’d seen only a fraction of their number when he’d been laid out on that damn altar.
He ducked a poorly aimed blow and kicked out, breaking a woman’s knee. She went down with a scream and the man behind her attacked, roaring in outrage. But he never reached Kato.
A shot rang out, a small hole appeared in the man’s forehead, and he fell. Dead. Another shot, another man down. The mob was in chaos now, torn between ripping Kato to shreds for their dark mistress, or saving their own miserable lives and making a run for it.
“Kato!”
He lifted his head at the sound of Grace’s voice, roaring his approval as something long and black flew through the flickering light. He caught it, holding the scabbard in one hand while he pulled the sword with the other. The black blade scented blood all around and hummed with hunger. Kato swung the sword once, the weapon settling into his grip as if it was a part of his body. Which it was. Already, his spine ached with remembered and future pain.
But that was for later. Right now, he had a blade in his hand, an enemy before him, and . . . he grinned as Grace appeared out of the darkness, her weapon held in both hands, the very image of a vengeful angel with her pale hair gleaming in the firelight, her face a mask of focused determination. Life was good.
He waded into the diminishing mob, thrusting left and right, not caring who lived or died, as his blade sang joyously.
“Kato!” Grace’s scream jarred him back to reality. He looked up and saw one of the acolytes staring in mingled horror and anticipation at a black scar being carved against the dark night, a jagged doorway that was opening up right in front of him. A pair of bony hands with long, yellowed nails was tearing at the margins, trying to enlarge the opening.
The acolyte fell to his knees, clutching a piece of parchment to his chest and whispering, “The Dark Witch. Our mistress is coming.”
But Kato knew better. That wasn’t his mother. The thing that the foolish acolyte had somehow summoned had never even been human.
He strode over to the mumbling fool and tore the parchment from his trembling hands. It was covered in lines of sorcery, every bit of it dark magic, but none of it capable of summoning the Dark Witch. Whoever had written this knew just enough to create the disaster that was trying to break through into this world. Already there was another pair of hands, ripping at the rough edges.
“Fool,” Kato snarled. His mind was filled with arcane symbols and bits of magic, reaching back to every spell he’d ever learned, beginning as a small child, sitting at the feet of his mother, the whip switch in her hand a fierce teacher when he’d made a mistake. He read the acolyte’s deadly spell again, memorizing every word as his mind worked to replace it with something else, to reconstruct the original casting in a way that would permanently seal the unwelcome opening without creating a huge magical concussion that would kill everyone within miles of the park. Innocent campers and idiotic acolytes alike would die in the backlash. Grace would die.
There was no time to write it down, so he simply closed his eyes, pictured the new spell in his head, and began to read a magical working that only he could have crafted so quickly and thoroughly. If his mother had been here, she could have done it. But not one among his many sisters had ever matched his exhaustive knowledge of dark magic and its curses.
The acolyte screamed when he saw the ragged doorway beginning to close and launched himself bodily against Kato, turning the knife he’d used to sacrifice his own blood into a weapon. Kato felt the man’s intent and braced for the attack, but he couldn’t stop chanting, couldn’t interrupt his own spell work. If he did so now, the cantrip could collapse, and the demons would flood unchecked through the still open doorway.
He heard the acolyte’s cry, felt the heat of his rush as he attacked, but then a gun fired and the threat was gone. He shouted the last few words of his counterspell and opened his eyes, bracing for the possibility of failure, blade raised to repel any creatures who made it through.
But the doorway was no more. Gone, as if it had never existed. Nothing but velvety black night was left, with stars lighting the sky overhead.
He looked around. There were no more enemies to fight, no one left standing before him, only bodies littering the desert. Some of them still moved, their sluggish cries for help going unanswered. Many more were dead, while a very few of the others were scurrying to cars that the pink light of dawn revealed to be parked some distance away.
Soft footsteps sounded behind him, and he sheathed his blade with a single, easy thrust before turning.
“Kato?” Grace addressed him tentatively, as if uncertain of her welcome. Why would she wonder that?
He reached out for her, gripping her hip with one hand and pulling her into his body. “You were magnificent,” he growled, then bent his head to give her a hungry kiss. She responded almost desperately, and he realized she was trembling. “Grace?” He pulled back enough to see her face and saw silent tears streaming down her cheeks. “What’s wrong?”
Her trembling increased until he thought she’d fly apart. He wrapped her in his arms and held on tightly. He didn’t know much of Grace’s history; they hadn’t been together long enough to exchange life stories. But he knew her childhood had been vastly different from his. That she had parents and grandparents, and a brother who loved her. Even the bodyguard who’d taught her to fight and kill had done so out of care and concern for her well-being.
And yet, she’d fought, and she’d killed. For him.
“I’m sorry, amata.”
“Don’t you dare,” she rasped suddenly, punching him in the chest hard enough to hurt. “Those bastards wanted to kill you. They deserved everything they got.”
He smiled against her warm hair. She was his fierce defender. �
��Then why—”
“It’s the adrenaline. And . . . okay, yeah, I’m a little freaked out. But I’d do it again in a heartbeat. You’re important to me.”
“Important?” he repeated.
She pulled back to glare up at him. “Really? You’re going to do this now?”
He fought not to grin at her outrage. Only minutes earlier, he’d been holding her while she trembled. He much preferred her anger. Her cheeks were flushed in the dawn light, her eyes bright with emotion. He pulled her close and spoke softly into her ear. “When I was trapped in that trunk, when I realized it was Sotiris who had me, and I thought it might be my end . . . all I could think about was how cruel fate had been, to let me find you after centuries of waiting to gain my freedom, only to destroy it all in an eye blink. I love you, my fierce and beautiful Grace.”
“Kato.” Her chest heaved in a sob as she wrapped both arms around his waist and hung on. “I love you, too.”
“By the gods, man. Are you still making women cry?”
Kato narrowed his eyes at Damian, thinking his brother had the worst fucking timing. He’d missed the fight completely, only to interrupt now.
“Did you save anyone for me?” Damian asked, sounding ridiculously aggrieved at missing the battle.
Kato stared down at the bloody ruins that were the only thing left of his attackers, and felt nothing. They’d sold their souls to Sotiris and deserved their fate. He shrugged and tightened his hold on Grace. “Grace helped me.”
Damian’s only response was a disgruntled harrumph. “Where’s Nico?” he asked.
“He took off after Sotiris.”
“Ah, he’ll be back when he’s back, I guess.”