The Unforgiven

by Joy Nash

  “And you think I’m one of them. A half-human descendant of one of the fallen angels. A Nephilim.”

  “We call ourselves Watchers, after our forefathers. We consider Nephilim to be an unbelievably foul term. The worst insult you can hurl.”

  “But you called yourself Nephilim,” she pointed out.

  “Yes,” he said. “I did.”

  She was silent a moment, a vertical line etched between her eyebrows. “It hardly seems fair,” she ventured after a moment, “for children to be cursed for their fathers’ sin.”

  “Fairness doesn’t enter into it,” he replied. “We Nephilim are crossbred atrocities. Our very nature is tainted. And on some level, Maddie, you’ve known that all your life.”

  A hit. No Watcher—no Nephilim—not even an unaware, escaped the race’s instinctual self-loathing. Maddie turned abruptly to look out the passenger window.

  Cade eased up on the accelerator and the jeep lurched to a halt. Half turning, he draped one arm over the back of the seat. “We call ourselves Watchers. Angels. But we know what we are. Even our young know. We’re demons.”

  Maddie didn’t look at him. “I’m not sure I want to hear any more of this.”

  He wasn’t willing to allow the retreat. “Watcher children—dormants, we call them—are indistinguishable from human children. If a dormant belongs to a clan, is aware, he learns his heritage from birth. He prepares twenty years or more for the crisis that awakens his full power. But aware dormants, children of Watcher adepts, are a minority. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of unawares scattered over the world. Like you, they grew up believing they were human. Most of them never learn any differently. They live out a human life and die young.”

  “How young?”

  “Before age thirty, always. Usually earlier. Sometimes from accidents or violence, more often from disease. But thirty years is plenty of time to produce the next generation of unaware offspring. Like you and me. Just over a year ago, I was dormant and unaware. My mother was a prostitute. She birthed me when she was sixteen and died of cancer when I was twelve. I spent the following twelve years on the streets of Cardiff, Wales. Then Cyb—” He cut himself off and swallowed. “Then my clan found me.” He paused. “Your father died young, I understand.”

  “Yes.” She didn’t express outrage at his intrusive knowledge of her family history. Not anymore. “Of cancer, when I was a baby. My mother died in a car accident when I was fourteen. She was thirty-seven.” Her voice wavered, and for a moment, Cade thought she would succumb to tears. “I bounced around in foster care afterward.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  “It was. It was miserable. But I wasn’t the rebellious type. I worked even harder at school once she was gone. She made me promise her that before she died. I told her I would go to college and live a good life for both of us. And that I wouldn’t waste a minute, and I’d never give up. So I worked hard and landed a university scholarship. Then the cancer came.”

  “And you fought it just as hard,” he said.

  “But it didn’t do any good.”

  “It’s gone now,” Cade said.

  “So you say.”

  He shifted in his seat. “Since your mother lived into her thirties, it must have been your father who carried the Watcher gene. He died young and never came into his full power. And you got brain cancer. You might have followed the same pattern if you hadn’t survived the operating table. You nearly died there.”

  Her eyes touched his and slid away. “You know about my NDE?”

  “Of course. My clan never would have located you otherwise.” Cade leaned forward, willing her to accept what he was saying. “Your near-death experience triggered what we call transition. Once a Watcher enters that state, he or she becomes immune to human diseases. That’s why your cancer’s gone. Because you looked death in the face and survived.”

  She scoffed. “An interesting premise.”

  “It’s the truth, Maddie. A truth I lived through.”

  “You had a near-death experience?”

  “I had a knife in the ribs during a botched robbery. I was the thief. I didn’t dare show my face at the local surgery, so I hid out in a scummy cellar. The wound festered, my fever shot sky-high . . . I threw off the infection. Barely. But that was only the beginning. The real nightmare began three months later.”

  She stared down at her clasped hands for a long time. When she spoke at last, it was to ask a question Cade hadn’t anticipated.

  “Your NDE. What was it like? Did you feel weightless? Did you float down a tunnel? Did you see that loving white light people always talk about?”

  He snorted. “None of the above. I felt as though I was choking on pitch-black sludge.”

  She fixed her gaze on a distant point beyond the windshield. “I saw the tunnel. Just like in all the NDE testimonials. I even . . . I even saw the light and sensed the loving presence. But when I arrived at the end of the passage, the light went dark. It was like . . . it was like a door slammed in my face. There was no loving presence. No God. No dead relatives waiting to welcome me to the afterlife. Just . . . nothing.”

  Her voice caught. “You always hear about people coming out of an NDE with renewed faith. Not me. I came out convinced the atheists have it right. There’s no Heaven. No Hell. This life on earth is all there is.”

  A tear rolled down her face. Cade caught it with his thumb. Threading his fingers through her hair, he turned her head and forced her to meet his gaze.

  “There is a Heaven and a Hell. Both places are for humans, though. And for angels and hellfiends. Not for us. For Nephilim, for you and me, there’s no final judgment, no afterlife, whether it’s endless bliss or eternal torment. We live, we die. If our true nature remains dormant, we die young. If we’re strong enough, lucky enough, to endure the crisis, that brings us into our full power. Afterward, if we can avoid getting killed by our enemies, we have a chance to live out a life span of one hundred twenty years. But in the grand scheme of the universe, any earthly interval is no more than a blink of the eye. That’s the curse we carry, the punishment for our fathers’ sin. Oblivion.”

  Maddie didn’t answer. Neither did she throw off Cade’s hand. He slid it to her shoulder and squeezed gently. She was trembling.

  “Tell me the truth. Is this . . . is this some kind of mind game you’re playing with me?”

  “I wish it were,” he said. “I wish I could tell you that you’re a beloved child of God, and that when you die, your afterlife will go on forever. But it won’t. This is no game. You’re a Watcher, and your transition from dormant to adept has begun. The first wave of your crisis has already hit. There will be no stopping the next one.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “You’re talking about . . . about . . . what happened back there when you stopped the jeep. How I begged for it.”

  Cade repressed a wave of sympathy. Maddie thought that short roll in the sand was embarrassing? She’d better toughen up. She had no idea how truly desperate things were going to get.

  “I thought you’d drugged me,” she murmured.

  “No. Your hypothalamus is flooding your body with Watcher hormones. Your body’s responding. You think last night was bad? It was nothing. Your sexual cravings are just beginning. Soon they’ll consume you. When that happens, I’ll be your only hope. A Nephilim can’t become adept alone. He or she needs an anchor.” His fingers tightened on her shoulder and she opened her eyes. “A sexual anchor, Maddie.”

  “So what you’re saying is, if I weren’t . . . a Nephilim, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t have given me a second look.”

  He wasn’t sure how to answer that. No, he would never have been sent to find her if she weren’t a Nephilim. And if she’d been born aware, to become a full adept of a rival clan, their paths never would have crossed except in battle.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said quietly when he didn’t answer.

  “You mean you don’t think you’re attractiv
e,” he said. “That’s not true. Yes, I was sent to you, but if I had somehow encountered you elsewhere, I’m sure I would have been drawn to you.” Despite the curse. How to explain? He didn’t understand it himself. But it wasn’t just the pheromones that had captured his attention when he first saw her.

  “Please,” she scoffed. “Save it.”

  “Maddie—”

  “What if I don’t want you?” she asked abruptly. “What if I want to handle this transition thing on my own?”

  Cade held her gaze. “Does this mean you’re beginning to believe me?”

  There was a touch of hysteria in her laugh. “What I’m doing is hoping this is all just an elaborate pickup line. But, really, dinner and a movie is just fine. You don’t have to resort to fallen angels and eternal curses, and you don’t have to excuse as biological my sudden craving for the closest available hard on.” She turned away. “Tell me, Cade. What happens, exactly, if I reject your gallant offer to act as my sexual anchor?”

  “You go insane,” he said. “And then you die.”

  Chapter Eleven

  He was lying. Conning her. He had to be. Have sex with me . . . or go crazy and die? Just what every girl wanted to hear from a hot guy. She tried not to notice how troubled his eyes were. How utterly sincere.

  Probably, he was sincere. Crazy people tended to believe the nonsense they spouted, right? She clung to that thought. The sun was rising. The red orb hovered on the horizon for one eternal moment before continuing its ascent into a lightening sky.

  Cade faced forward and put the jeep in gear.

  “Where are we going?” Maddie asked. Again. This time he gave her an answer.

  “London.”

  “And just how do you expect to get me out of Israel and into England? My passport is back at the dig.”

  They reached a crossroad. Cade turned left, heading southwest. “It won’t be a problem. Now get some sleep.”

  “So I can dream of you molesting me? No thanks.”

  “You need the rest, Maddie, for what’s coming. And you will sleep.”

  He spoke a few words in a lilting language she didn’t understand. Welsh? Or something older? The syllables flowed like water. Oddly, it seemed almost as though he spoke the words inside her skull.

  “Sleep,” he said again.

  She opened her mouth to protest, but the words never emerged. She slept.

  “What the hell?”

  At first Cade thought the figure in white, standing with arms spread in the center of the road, was a mirage or a lost desert hiker. Then recognition struck. “Blast it all to Oblivion!”

  He gunned the accelerator. The jeep flew toward Gabriel at one hundred thirty-three kph. Cade hoped the archangel would take the hint.

  No such luck. Fifty feet out, the brake engaged and the jeep began to decelerate. The vehicle rolled to a stop precisely five centimeters from Gabriel’s motionless body. The angel’s snow-white robes didn’t even flutter. In fact, the halt was so gentle that Maddie, sleeping with her head slumped on her chest, didn’t even stir.

  The archangel inclined his head and extended his wings with a flourish. The fluttering tips were purely for show, Cade thought sourly. As was the rose-garden scent and the stentorian greeting.

  “Hail, Cade Leucetius.”

  Cade slapped the dash. “Damn it, Gabe. Get out of my way.”

  Gabriel stepped off the road. Cade stomped on the gas. Nothing.

  Blast it. He sighed as the angel approached. “Do me a favor. Dial down that robe. The glare is giving me a headache.”

  “What is it with you Nephilim? Honestly. Would it kill you to be civil?”

  “You want civility, stay in Heaven. Why are you bothering me?”

  “Certainly not for the pleasure of your company. Why else? I’ve a message to deliver.”

  “Deliver it, then,” Cade said, “and get the bloody hell out of my way.”

  Gabriel sniffed. Sweeping his robe aside so as to avoid contact with the dusty jeep, he leaned forward and looked past Cade to Maddie. “So that’s the slave.” He sighed. “Poor girl. You know, this crack-brained plot of Artur’s—enslaving unawares—is bound to fail. I don’t care how well you anchor her. The ones who spend the first part of their lives believing themselves to be human are never quite sane after transition.”

  “I managed,” Cade said evenly.

  Gabriel showed a glint of white teeth. “Ah, but you were a street thug. Already a monster. This woman . . . she’s an innocent. Or as innocent as a Nephilim can be, anyway. Mark my words. She is not going to thank you for forcing her to face what she is. She’ll go mad. Then you’ll have to kill her.”

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “Your proud chieftain will be angry when you lose her. He’ll blame you, of course. Artur would never admit his orders were flawed. But don’t despair,” Gabriel soothed. “It won’t matter anyway. Magic harvested from slaves is not going to win the war against Clan Azazel.”

  Cade tensed. “What will?”

  Gabriel’s laugh was a trill. “As if I’d tell you! Oh, no. It’s far more amusing to watch the lot of you fumble about.” Maddie stirred, sighing, and the angel’s pale gaze moved over her. “I suggest you kill this one now, Leucetius. Quickly and painlessly. In the long run it will be a kindness.”

  “No one has ever accused me of being kind,” Cade replied through gritted teeth. “Least of all you. You’ve held me up long enough. Deliver your sodding message and let me get on with my life.”

  “Ah, yes. You’re anxious to surf Maddie’s next wave, aren’t you?” Gabriel waggled his white brows. “You know, maybe I’ll tag along. Become the proverbial fly on the wall . . .”

  Cade itched to punch the immaculate bastard. To rub his perfect, lily-white presence in black, oily muck. “And beat your useless wanker while you watch?” he taunted.

  A flash of pink showed on Gabriel’s pallid cheeks. The angel’s odor of celestial roses, Cade was satisfied to note, turned sour. “Perhaps I’ll take a pass,” the angel muttered.

  “Lovely,” Cade said. “Now. Your message?”

  “It’s from Raphael. A warning.”

  “Oh, that’s tidy. Is the boss too busy to consort with Nephilim himself? Sent his lackey in his place, did he?”

  Gabriel’s wings stiffened. “Raphael is . . . preoccupied at the moment.”

  Cade narrowed his eyes. “With what?”

  “I’m sure it’s none of your business. Or mine. Now. About that message.” The angel sent a significant glance toward Cade’s sleeping passenger.

  “Your message has to do with Maddie?”

  “Not precisely. It’s about the Watcher relic she’s unearthed.”

  Cade fought annoyance that Raphael and Gabriel already knew about the artifact. Sodding archangels knew everything, it seemed.

  “Raphael wants it destroyed,” Gabriel said.

  Cade’s brows rose. “Is that so?”

  “I trust you’ll see to it.”

  “Tell you what,” Cade countered. “Why don’t I give it to you and let you get rid of it?”

  Gabriel’s white hair bristled. “Me? I wouldn’t touch the horrid thing.”

  “Because it scares the shit out of you.” Cade grinned. “Or it would, if you had any shit in you.”

  “Very funny. Look, Cade . . .” Gabriel’s expression turned uncharacteristically sober. “Just do what you’re told this time. It’s vital that you obey.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then Raphael will be forced to, as you say, consort with Nephilim. He’ll destroy the amulet and you and your slave along with it.”

  Cade snorted. “Right, then. You’ve delivered your message. Now take one back to your boss.”

  The angel bridled. “Raphael is not my boss.”

  “Whatever. Just tell Mr. Badass Avenger that the Watcher amulet is none of his fucking business.”

  Gabriel hesitated, then nodded once. Rising into the air, he paused wi
th his white slippers dangling an inch from Cade’s nose.

  “I’ll relay your message, Cade Leucetius. But I’m warning you, Raphael is not going to be pleased.”

  “Raphael,” Cade said, “can go to Hell.”

  New York City

  At that very moment—if it had been possible—Raphael would have been angry. Very angry. But he was an archangel and not a human. Archangels didn’t feel anger. Truth be told, they didn’t feel much of anything. Joy, love, lust—those were human emotions. Raphael was created to praise. To obey. To punish the wicked.

  Plenty of wickedness was presently at hand. Humans, it seemed, considered cigars and alcohol to be necessary accompaniments to gambling and a prelude—or postscript—to illicit sexual congress. A sticky tile floor grabbed at the soles of his shoes. The air in his nostrils was thick. Raphael wondered, idly, how the humans hunched over the bar and the gambling tables could draw the rancid stuff into their lungs. Even he could almost smell it.

  He straightened his tie and adjusted his suit jacket. He felt very odd dressed in this human costume; he much preferred his celestial robes. Judging from the looks of the establishment’s patrons, he’d overdressed. Not that he cared.

  He peered through the haze. The room was small, the tables set close together. A narrow stair hugged one wall; laughing couples climbed up and down. Raphael searched for his quarry amid drunken men and shameless women. Nothing.

  A man of uncertain race stood by the bar watching him. An angry scar slashed from the top of his bald head down his cheek and along the length of his jaw. Sporting a pinstriped suit, a bloodred shirt, and heavy gold chains about his neck, the creature might have been the devil himself. But no. He was only a pale human imitation.

  Raphael watched with dispassionate interest as the man set aside his drink and strode in his direction.

  “Game?” the bald man asked, nodding to an empty chair at one of the tables.

  “No,” Raphael replied. “I’m looking for someone.”

  The man flashed a grin. “I have all kinds. Thin, fat, bigtitted, fat-assed, you name it. And they’ll do anything.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Any-fucking-thing. For the right price, of course.”