Urban Mythic: Thirteen Novels of Adventure and Romance, featuring Norse and Greek Gods, Demons and Djinn, Angels, Fairies, Vampires, and Werewolves in the Modern World

by C. Gockel

  “Just stop the car.”

  “Michaela, I really—”

  “Stop the damn car!” Her hands clenched into fists around the car seats. Clark cringed.

  He obeyed and drew the car to a stop on the side of the vacant highway. Michaela opened the car door, smelling the trees that lined both side of the road. Their shadows reached across the road, dancing and swaying beneath Michaela’s feet.

  Clark stumbled onto the road and rushed to catch up. Michaela sighed heavily. He smacked into her when she whirled around.

  “No. Stay in the car.” Michaela shook her head, pointing back to the Chevelle. “You need to leave. Now. Drive as fast and far away as possible.”

  “Oh, no way. I’m staying here.” Standing so close, Michaela could see every centimeter of fear in Clark’s wide blue eyes. This was yet another time tonight he chose to stay with her when any sane human would have run.

  “Leave. I’m serious, Clark,” she said.

  “I’m not leaving.” Clark crossed his arms. “So you just need to get over that idea.”

  Michaela gritted her teeth. There wasn’t much time. She needed to get a move on. “Leave.”

  “You need me.”

  Michaela laughed rudely and loudly. Clark glanced around and shushed her. “I haven’t needed you once.” She lied. He had saved her in many ways. “You’ve been more of a pain than help.”

  “Clearly lying is the one sin you can’t commit. That should make you feel better,” he said. She crossed her arms to match his stance.

  “Seriously, you’re a fool boy with no real experience,” she said with a sneer. “You’re a waste of a Descendant. Your own father didn’t even think you were good enough.” The words should have felt awful in her mouth, but they came easy.

  “That won’t work either.”

  They stared each other down for a quick moment. Each one wanted to wait the other out to prove a point, but there was no time. The air didn’t stir; the woods didn’t speak. Something was coming. Michaela broke first.

  “Please. Please, leave,” she begged.

  Clark reached out and took her hand. A jolt went from his palm to hers and straight to her heart. His eyes were clear denim blue when she met them. He rubbed his thumb across the bones of her wrist.

  “So what’s the plan?” Clark asked.

  Michaela thought for a moment. She reviewed their supplies in the car. Letting go of Clark’s hand, she walked back to the car and dug around in the weapon bag Isaac had given until she found a set of daggers. They were too pretty to be useful, but she still handed one to Clark and stuck the other in her boot.

  When she closed the door, Clark asked, “Don’t we need more weapons?”

  “Weapons won’t matter against the Watchers. Our only hope is to make it to water.” She walked to the nearest side of the road and crouched on the dirt and pressed her palm to the ground. Michaela rose and repeated the process on the other side.

  “This way,” she said. She pointed into the woods ahead.

  “Are you sure we should leave the car?” Clark’s eyes darted from the car to the woods and back to Michaela. He was chewing on his fingernails again.

  She held out her hand. “We have to run. They’re close.”

  Together, they stepped from the road and into the woods, their footsteps cracking twigs like gunshots in the still night air. They ran swiftly through the trees, hand in hand, listening closely for the sound of wings.

  Chapter Forty

  They didn’t make it to the water.

  Michaela pulled Clark to a stop in a clearing. He turned his face to the sky as he struggled to catch his breath. Michaela breathed deeply, not because she was winded, but to force her body to be still, to wait. She pulled the dagger from her boot, flexing her fingers around the small handle.

  The trees stood tall and slender around them with the moon hanging directly overhead. Beneath their feet, the leaves crunched with every anxious shift, making the only sound in the woods. Nothing else talked or walked or rustled, and everyone and everything held its breath.

  It felt like hours, but it was likely only seconds, before they arrived.

  Michaela sensed them first. The air moved differently as it tickled past her skin, the cool updraft twisting her hair and sprouting chill bumps along her arms. She heard the strong, nearly silent wing beats above her head. The leaves rustled in a breeze that carried their scent of rot and decay. And anger.

  The night was quiet enough that Michaela heard the whispers as the Watchers started spinning their magic. The words came from all directions, humming like a breeze, coming and going, undulating with the tone of the spell. Clark clutched Michaela’s hand.

  The air grew hot, hotter, unbearably hot. Michaela rotated her fist, adjusting her sweat slickened grip on the knife. The heat boiled the acid in her stomach up the back of her throat, twisting and cramping her gut.

  With the heat came flashing bursts of lightning across the sky, a bright white against the black. The lightning burst like a strobe light.

  Their words lifted. With their vigor came a groaning beneath Michaela’s and Clark’s feet. A growing vibration rose from deep in the earth. It reached the surface and shook the soil underfoot. Clark grabbed Michaela’s arm as the ground broiled.

  The time had come.

  The trees danced in time to the ground. The limbs swayed, and the trunks bowed even though there was little wind. As Michaela watched, the trees’ bark came to life, biting and snarling at them. Clark pressed against Michaela as the trees, straining against their roots, reached for them.

  But there wasn’t enough room in the little clearing, and there was nowhere to go. The limbs slashed through the air like knives, cutting Michaela’s cheek and slicing Clark’s palm. Their blood, rolling to the ground in small droplets, seemed to fuel the churning beneath their feet.

  All around them, the leaves alighted with fire but never burned. They were blinding pinpricks of searing light, but they only made the night darker by ruining Michaela’s night vision. She shielded her eyes with her dirty, bloody hands.

  The whispering grew louder and louder.

  Clark lurched forward as the ground reared. As he struggled to stand, a limb clasped his forearm and drug him deeper into the woods. Michaela leapt after him, grabbing his shirt with one hand and slamming her dagger into the limb with the other. The tree let out a horrible scream.

  They managed to get away before the tree bent in half and slammed into the ground where they stood only a second before.

  Blood ran down Clark’s leg. A deep cut ran the length of his shin, revealing a glint of bone. As he watched the blood drip to the ground, his face became pale, drawn tight with fear. He stared at Michaela with wide eyes that made him look too young.

  He turned and threw up.

  Like hands of the dead reaching from their graves, the roots pried from the ground and twined toward their ankles. Michaela kicked at the roots and batted at the limbs that tried to wrap around Clark’s neck.

  They could not stand for being swatted down or ripped back. They were like marionettes, possessed dolls, dancing and twisting in the darkness.

  Ominous clouds churned and swirled, covering the moon and promising ill will. The air began to spin into a vortex around them, twisting the trees in even crazier directions. The wind grew so forceful, Michaela reached for Clark and hung on as they sank to their knees.

  Michaela tasted the electricity. She looked up. Lightning hit the ground in front of them. Behind them. Beside them. It hit the trees, sending bark flying and making the leaves fall like rain, burning their skin like brutal drops of acid.

  The ground gave a mighty roar before splitting between Michaela and Clark. They jerked to their feet before they fell into the splitting void. Clark’s eyes were glued to the ground, but Michaela watched the sky.

  Move! She yelled. But she made no noise.

  She shoved Clark away and dove after him to avoid a bolt. It sizzled in her bones. Th
e shock of it made her teeth hurt way back in her head, giving her a pulsing headache that blurred her vision.

  We have to go, she thought, rising from the ground. Just beyond their ring of hell was quiet and still, and if they could reach it, Michaela thought they might make it to water. This was only the beginning. The Watchers were just toying with their prey before they ate it.

  They wouldn’t last much longer.

  Go! She screamed, but she still couldn’t make a sound.

  She jumped across the widening gap, grabbing Clark by the shirt. He pivoted, expecting a Watcher. She grabbed Clark’s hand before he fell into a nearby tree with its mouth open, ready to devour him.

  Yanking him along, they ran, but they didn’t make it far.

  A Watcher fell from the sky before them.

  The angel’s skin was wrinkled, but his body was young. The wings at his back were thin, black webs. His eyes were empty, hollow sockets. He flashed his grimy, crumbling teeth.

  Michaela started backing up, towing a frozen Clark with her. But the limbs arched above their heads and twined behind their backs, sealing them in. The Watcher stepped forward, making a cackling, rattling sound that might have been laughter.

  The Watcher raised his sword in the air, its ancient metal glinting in the moonlight as it slashed toward her. Michaela braced for the bite of the blade when a force like a wrecking ball hit her from the side, knocking her to the ground.

  Stunned, she felt her chest. The cut was merely a graze with only a small amount of blood. Clark had shoved her out of the way. She searched for him, straining to see through the smoke from the lightning.

  The decrepit angel held Clark close, his horrible mouth twisted into a vulgar smile as he pulled his sword from Clark’s belly. In a flash of lightning, Michaela watched her friend’s body fall. His pink hair caught the light as his head banged limply into the ground. His electric blue eyes were closed, his mouth gaping open.

  She screamed.

  The almighty sound erupted from her mouth. It was a wild sound ripping from her lips, holding every ounce of pain and anger in its fibers. It echoed in the air, like a thousand Michaela’s screaming back to her. It was the first sound she’d made, and it was deafening.

  Michaela scrambled over to him. The roots twined around her ankles. Limbs brushed over her shoulders and into her hair as she bent over Clark. Her hands cradled his head, pulling his body into her lap. She brushed her fingers across his face, but they were shaking so bad she couldn’t feel for a pulse.

  “Clark!” Her voice cracked in the air scorched by the Watchers’ magic.

  He blinked at her. He was alive. But through his fingers, poured a rich, bright blood that ebbed and flowed with the beat of his heart. His lips trembled, and Michaela smelled death on his skin. He tried to smile at her, but it was the slightest, weakest version of his cocky smirk. And it never reached his eyes, which were wide, unblinking, and so very afraid. In that moment, Clark looked much too young.

  Michaela realized she was crying. Of all the things she had been through, she didn’t think she could survive Clark dying in her arms. Her best friend’s death would crack her apart.

  “Clark. Clark. Clark. Clark.”

  To Clark, the pain was just a surprise. The kind that made your heart stutter and clench for a beat then gasp a clutched release. Clark stared down at his chest and saw the gaping hole of red beneath his numb fingers. Now that it was finally time, he wondered why dying felt so easy.

  Michaela yanked his hands away and pressed hers to the wound.

  Clark must have blacked out because when he awoke, Michaela had transformed above him. For a second he forgot about dying as he marveled at her. Limbs twisted through her hair; roots wrapped farther up her legs. She swiped a hand across her paleface, smearing blood from cheek to cheek. With rabid eyes, she spat it from her mouth.

  She hissed. Clark felt her press her body over his.

  Someone was coming. Michaela snaked her head around. She looked like a wild thing grown straight from the ground.

  Clark peered over her shoulder to see the Watcher who would kill them both.

  But it wasn’t a Watcher at all. He surprised both of them when he spoke.

  “Mom?”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Clark passed out.

  Michaela’s eyes locked on the Nephilim standing behind her, and she searched for a resemblance to Clark. She didn’t need to search far. The fierce, vibrant blue was all Michaela needed to know that Clark was a half-breed. A half-breed of a half-breed.

  Michaela rose. All the limbs retreated, and the trees stilled. The ground gave one last tremble before it eased at her feet.

  “You’re here to kill me too,” Michaela stated. There could be no other. She could not imagine a situation where a Nephil would not want to seek their revenge on her for all she had done to kill them off.

  Iris St. James, Clark’s mother and Isaac’s dead wife, smiled kindly at Michaela. Iris motioned for the handful of Nephilim standing close behind her to attend to her son. Michaela recognized the Nephil from Lucifer’s building among the group. They swooped forth and gathered his limp limbs from Michaela’s feet. Michaela numbly watched them disappear into the now quiet and still woods.

  “Don’t worry about him. When Isaac called to tell me Clark had found you, I was so happy. I’ve waited a long time for my son to come home,” Iris said. She stepped closer. Michaela smelled lavender. “I’ve also waited a long time for you, Michaela.”

  “You’ve waited for me?” Michaela asked but spoke in the direction of the woods, waiting for another attack. But it seemed, for now, the presence of the Nephilim had quieted the Watchers.

  “I have. I need you. We all do, so you won’t be dying tonight.” Iris reached across the tense space between them and pulled the dagger from Michaela’s loose grip. Michaela didn’t fight to keep it. She watched as Iris put the dagger into her thick, leather belt. “The Nephilim will take care of them.”

  “Why?” Michaela asked. The adrenaline that had coursed through her veins only minutes before, now slogged, thick and viscous, slowing her thoughts and exhausting her body until she was on the verge of tears. She couldn’t take much more, and processing Iris’ words was a feat beyond her current capabilities. She certainly didn’t understand why a Nephil would need her, especially if it wasn’t to put her bone through her heart.

  Iris stared at Michaela for a long moment. All around them, Iris’ Nephilim soldiers waged against the Watchers in a quiet battle of whispered words. They were children who fought their fathers, using the same magic of shadows and stars.

  “Michaela, we want what you want.” Iris smiled kindly. Her long skirt shifted slightly in the easy wind. “We just want to go home.”

  Michaela took a moment to consider the words. They should have sounded like madness, but instead they seemed almost reasonable. “I can’t help you,” she whispered.

  “You can,” Iris answered. Her blues eyes winked. Michaela recognized the white blond locks that were braided down her back. Clark had pink, and Iris had some gray, but it was the same hair.

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “Yet I already know you will.”

  Michaela had no doubt the woman could see the future. Iris had clearly passed the gift on to her son. But seeing Iris now made Michaela want to fall to her knees and beg the ground to swallow her whole. If there ever was an end to this battle Michaela fought, it wasn’t tonight.

  “I’ve had visions about tonight, Michaela. I know how this battle with the Watchers could end. You must kill Azazel or else you will die tonight.” Iris nodded over Michaela’s shoulder. “The water is just behind you, straight forward. You need to go now. Don’t stop for anything. Never stop running.”

  The breeze brought a new chill that bit into Michaela’s skin. The Watchers and the Nephilim closed back in around them. Their magic snapped in the air, causing Michaela’s fingertips to twitch and a tremor to run through her heart. The tr
ees and shadows had jagged edges that glinted in the night.

  “Go,” Iris said again. “Don’t stop.”

  The ground shook and the trees moaned. Michaela glanced behind her.

  Run or die. Run or die. Run or die, they seemed to say.

  “Go,” Iris whispered. Michaela turned back, but Iris was gone.

  Michaela turned the way Iris had indicated and ran as fast as she could.

  After a minute, the burning leaves fell behind her, and the air started to cool as she ran beyond the magic. But she didn’t run beyond the Watchers. Their footsteps echoed hers. She caught glimpses of their forms darting through the trees beside her. From within the depths of the shadows beside her came the sounds of breathing, hot and heavy. She wasn’t escaping.

  First, they came as whispers. Michaela thought it was the Watchers forming magic again. A beat later, Michaela recognized the voices.

  Simiel. Raphael. Uriel. Ophaniel. She heard them all. They called her name over and over. Their voices grew louder.

  They called to her from the edges of the woods just beyond the dark edge of the shadows. Trembling uncontrollably, she drew to a slow walk as she scanned the woods. Her chest heaved from the sprint, but she kept her breath quiet, listening.

  “Michaela, come!”

  “Please, Michaela.”

  “Come here. Help us, Michaela.”

  “Help me, please.”

  They repeated the words many times over, many different ways. The sound reverberated across the woods. Michaela turned in a circle, following the sounds that seemed to spiral toward her from every direction.

  Her mouth opened, ready to call back on instinct. But she shook her head. It was only the magic. She remembered Iris’s words, and she took off again in an unsteady jog. She ducked under limbs and stumbled across the uneven ground.

  “Michaela, no!”

  She froze. No.

  “Don’t let them do it! Please, Michaela! Save me!”

  Zarachiel.

  “Michaela, they are going to kill me!”