by JL Madore
Zander whistled for Tanek to follow and pistoned forward.
The building stood an inspired tribute to post-war ramshackle and as he back-flatted against the red brick, clay detritus crumbled onto the walkway. He sidestepped toward the metal door and sucked in a lungful—
Fuck. The stench of death and ode-to-campfire tunneled into his sinuses—the all too familiar mix of rotting human flesh, terror, and brimstone. A daemon kill-zone.
Now, the trip into industrial-landia made sense. Isolated after dark. No nosy neighbors to hear baleful screams from within. And no way for him and Tanek to guess how many of Hell Realm’s army lurked inside.
While his lungs sucked in more incentive to decapitate, Zander retrieved the Moonstone from his vest pocket. In the heartbeat it took Tanek to join the party, Zander brushed a thumb across the feldspar and uttered the words to fire the ancient runes to life. Heaven’s light erupted from the stone and sliced the darkness.
Good to go. Well, aside from having no idea what species of daemon they faced aaaand the fact that this whole snatch-and-chase scenario made his skin tingle. On that thought, he retrieved his phone and messaged Kyrian their location.
Ironically, the bigger the army inside, the better it was for the kidnapped female—cocky daemons were stupid daemons. No matter what flesh-eater species they chased, if that asshole had his entire nest inside, he’d be less likely to open a portal back to Hell and take his victim to go. And no way was he making off with his catch of the night.
Tanek grabbed the steel door handle and raised a three-finger count.
Three. Two. One.
The penetration was textbook. The incursion precise. Zander panned side-to-side and pressed forward in a rush. The Moonstone lit a twisted world unlike any he’d seen in two millennia. Human corpses littered the concrete floor and clogged the corners, slumped nine and ten deep. Throats torn out. Blood dried black and caked thick with flies.
His eyes burned from the stench.
Everywhere light panned, it illuminated snapped ribs, chest cavities cracked wide, and gaps where vital organs were missing. He cursed the suction as he walked through the half-clotted aftermath. Gore squished and squelched under the tread of his boots.
Tanek fired up his Moonstone and banked left. He disappeared behind a metal wall that divided the warehouse down the center. Zander took the right—
The attack came fast and low.
Zander’s boots found no purchase as two hundred and fifty pounds of daemon hit like a diesel train. Flying sideways, they landed hard. The tackle’s momentum slid them, as one, over the gory concrete floor and the Moonstone jarred from his hand.
Despite the face full of coagulated human and the sudden plummet into darkness, Zander wasn’t down. Once the plasma slip-and-slide ended, he sliced through the elbow clamped around his chest. The hellspawn’s wail made him smile as the limb detached and he clubbed his attacker in the head. To beat the bastard with his own arm amused him to no end.
“You’ve been dis-armed, flesh-muncher,” he said, clocking him again. Movement had him spinning for the incoming attack. Third man in. He couldn’t see much but lunged with all his weight. His hands and hilt were slick with blood, but he’d experienced it all a thousand times before.
A blade sliced hot into his torso.
The steel penetrated the muscle just below his ribs. The burn of his flesh ramped his incentive to kill. Grace erupted through his bloodstream. The tidal wave of sweet-fire lava refueled his flagging energy and initiated his healing. The only perk to being an Archangel’s bastard offspring was the all-consuming high Nephilim got when they embraced the violent duty they’d been bred for.
Grace was fortitude. It was strength. It was power.
With lethal force honed to precision, Zander leveraged his weight. He punched, kicked, and tore at his enemy until two severed heads fell with meaty thunks to rest amongst their human victims. Life for life, eye for eye.
He cleaned his blade on a headless corpse and tested the gash on his side with his fingers. Punctured just above the hip, it stung, but no vitals hit. Angel mojo ran hot in his blood. He’d heal within the hour.
He swept his boot against the floor and frowned. His Moonstone was a lost cause. He’d have to scan the warehouse without it. The only break in the darkness came courtesy of a few enterprising rays of moonlight that managed to squeeze through three milky skylights and a couple grime-covered windows on the far wall.
Where was the daemon runner? And where was the female?
Zander hadn’t gotten anywhere with either question when his Watcher’s mark burned ice-hot, and the two daemon lives etched their way into his flesh. The filigree history of his kills expanded down his thigh and across his quad. The branding was the easy part, the transfer of power was what sucked. He clenched his teeth as vaporous streams of dark energy rose from the bodies and wormed into his eyes, ears, and nostrils.
The violation was horrid. Every. Damn. Time.
He locked himself down and waited for the malevolent souls to feed the darkness within him. The two were weak. Not much of an addition to his strength, but not much taint to his soul either. Not that he possessed much left to corrupt. As the sting clawed across his skin, Zander adjusted to the burden and tightened the tether on his most violent impulses.
Something shifted behind him. A blast exploded.
Electrical energy overloaded his cells. His vision fritzed, and his tracking shut down. Daemons closed in. A blow snapped his head back and a strike to his ribs forced the air from his lungs. Falling to his knees, a brutal bombardment rained down on him. He cursed his weakness.
The blonde would suffer. He’d failed her.
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