The Seer: Chronicles of the Fallen, Book 2

by Brenda Huber

  Transforming back into demonic form would be in his best interest. But that option, too, held peril. For one, should she suddenly wake up to find a massive, Cryptoglyph-covered demon sucking at her throat, there was no doubt she would struggle, attempt to fight him off. Not only could she harm herself further, but she could well trigger his demonic predatory instincts. He could kill her without realizing what he was doing until it was too late.

  Then there was the physical attraction. He had a difficult enough time containing his desire—this unreasonable, nearly irresistible need to claim her—while in human form. In demonic form…

  He shuddered at the thought. He had no idea if he would be able to harness those urges whatsoever. He had a bad feeling the temptation might be too great to resist. Bottom line, he couldn’t trust himself in the demonic form. He had no choice.

  Bracing himself for what he knew was about to be one of the most unpleasant experiences of his life, Niklas drew out the switchblade he habitually carried in his boot. Careful to keep the cut as shallow as possible, he drew the razor-sharp edge across her lethal wound. Blood welled, bubbling abnormally. After wiping the corrosive poisoned blood on the arm of the sofa, Niklas returned the blade to its hiding place. That small spot on the upholstery began to smoke and sizzle.

  With gentle hands, he shifted Carly’s body and slipped his arm beneath her shoulders. He lifted her until her head fell back, exposing her throat. He searched her face, pausing briefly on each lovely feature. He drew a deep breath, locking her image in his mind, telling himself he would remember to control himself. Closing his eyes, he lowered his mouth to the cut.

  Niklas sealed his lips over the wound and sucked deeply. His brows snapped together, and he battled the urge to recoil. The first mouthful of infected blood seared his mouth like acid, triggering his gag reflex. He turned his head to the side and spat the venom on the floor. There it hissed and smoked, black and noxious, eating away at the carpet.

  After sucking in a sharp breath, he returned to his task. And all the while he kept her face in his mind. Her eyes, so trusting, so innocent. Her lips, beckoning his. The sound of her voice. The feel of her soft hands upon his body.

  God, how he wanted those hands all over him. The pure gold underlying all the other emotions that wrapped around her. Quite simply, she was hope. Pure. Innocent. Untarnished hope.

  Carly moaned softly. The vibration against his lips caught his attention. He paused, glancing at her throat as he wiped his burning mouth against the back of his wrist. The black streaks had receded from her flesh. Her lips were once again pink, if still a little chalky. Her eyes no longer appeared sunken and hollow.

  By contrast, his head throbbed like a bass drum. His arms and legs felt shaky now, his hands trembled. His stomach churned.

  Her blood had lost the noxious tang, but the wound was still gray, the venom waiting to take a foothold on her system once more. He sealed his lips over the wound again and continued his ministrations. Over and over. A wave of dizziness assailed him. His vision blurred, the room darkened. And still he kept fighting for her life. He wouldn’t yield. Wouldn’t give her up.

  She moaned again, stronger this time. He peered down at the wound. Woozy, he squinted. His vision swam. His head hurt so badly he could barely hold it upright. Blinking, he wiped his mouth against his wrist again. The skin on his wrist had blistered from the first swipe. The second sweep tore the blisters open, but he paid them no mind. Carly’s wound was now pink. A small trickle of healthy, red blood trailed from the cut. No hint of venom remained.

  Carefully, he lowered her to the sofa. With a trembling hand, he refolded the wet washcloth and sponged at her throat. Niklas squinted at the light fixture overhead. When had the dingy single bulb become so blindingly bright?

  Carly stirred. Her eyes slowly drifted open. Fluttered. Focused.

  “Did I—” She paused, clearing her throat. “Did I faint?”

  “Yeah, you could say that.” Hell’s bells, his throat was sore.

  “Wow,” she murmured. “That takes kissing someone senseless to a whole new level.”

  He was puzzled for a moment. Then, despite the pain wracking his body, Niklas let a slow grin curl the edges of his lips. “Wait, you think you passed out because I kissed you?”

  “Well, I—” She abruptly sat up, her frown deepening. “Didn’t you—”

  “Tá’hiri, when I do kiss you, you’ll know it.”

  Color flooded her cheeks. “Then what happened?”

  Sitting back on his heels, he braced a hand against the sofa beside her knee. The room spun. He frowned. He shook his head, and then winced as his brain ricocheted inside his skull. “When Ronové scratched you, he excreted venom into the cut.”

  Carly’s hand flew to her throat. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. And my headache is gone.”

  “I sucked the venom out.” He glanced to the floor beside him. The blackened edges of multiple burn holes continued to sizzle and smoke.

  She followed his stare. Carly’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open. He offered her a small smile to show her he wasn’t worried, though the way he felt right now, it probably looked more like a grimace.

  She blinked owlishly at him, reached out to steady him.

  Another wave of nausea swept over him. Her features distorted. Slowly, with a great deal of caution, he pushed to his feet. He stood there for a moment, willing the room to stop spinning.

  “Are you all right?” She leaned forward. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, just above his elbow. “You’re white as a sheet.”

  “It’s the venom,” he whispered hoarsely, wishing to high heaven she’d stop yelling. “I’m not feeling so well.” He took one staggering step toward the bed, and then another. Who had filled his apartment with wet cement? He could barely force his legs to move. “Think I…need to…”

  Lie down.

  Had he actually spoken the words aloud? Or had the idea only reverberated off the inside of his battered skull?

  He tried to find her in the kaleidoscope of colors swirling through the room. Shaking his head, he stretched out an arm, needing to hold on to something, anything. Just for a minute. Just to regain his bearings.

  He found her, but the colors swirling around her, gray and purple, red and gold, blue and—

  He couldn’t focus anymore. The colors were too much for him to handle right then. Her lips were moving, but he couldn’t hear her. Scrunching his eyes closed, he pressed the heel of his hand hard against his forehead.

  One foot in front of the other, he told himself. Sleep. He just needed to sleep it off. But something wasn’t right. His body wasn’t cooperating.

  As if from a great distance, he heard her calling his name, like she’d been swept away to the end of a long, long tunnel. Fear, alarm saturated her voice. He needed to reassure her. Needed to tell her not to leave.

  But darkness descended. Her soft body pressed along his side, warm and comforting.

  And then he felt nothing.

  “You have failed me.” Stolas cracked his knuckles in annoyance.

  Ronové went to one knee, crossing his arms, fists pressed to his shoulders. Head bowed, he replied, “Apologies, my lord.” But then he peered up from beneath his lashes.

  Unwise.

  He’d not been granted permission.

  “The Seer came,” Ronové said, groveling. “He interrupted the ritual, my lord.”

  That unexpected bit of information caught Stolas’s attention. Leashing his displeasure, he clarified, “Niklas?”

  “There is but one Seer.”

  “Do you mock me?” Stolas queried softly. His initial reaction was to set Ronové’s body aflame and then sit back to watch him burn. It would make for pleasurable entertainment while he dined. Or he could take Ronové’s head as a centerpiece before dessert.

  But experience stayed his
hand. A dead demon was a useless demon.

  Stolas watched as Ronové ducked his head lower and clenched his eyes closed.

  Ah, the impudent minion had a lot to learn. Stolas smiled at the reaction as he reached for a jewel-encrusted, golden goblet on the table. He swirled the still warm blood gently around and around, careful not to slosh any over the rim. Swift retribution was over too quickly, the lesson not properly absorbed. Stolas had discovered through the ages that punishment was best served when least expected.

  Dragging the anticipation out had more impact.

  Leaning back in his seat, he set the goblet aside. The ruby liquid swirling inside the chalice captured the soft glow from the candelabra in the center of the long table. He watched the play of light and savored the smell of fear in the air. Ronové cowered for a few moments more before Stolas calmly speculated. “So the Seer has finally come forth.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Ronové pushed his luck further by lifting his head.

  Stolas reminded himself that this ignorant boldness was exactly why he’d enlisted Ronové in the first place. Ronové had his uses. He was the muscle in this plot. At least until the summoning was successful. Then he would be nothing more than collateral damage. Unfortunately, the reminder didn’t make his presence any more tolerable.

  “The Seer attacked without warning, decimating the earthbound legion I’d gathered. I barely escaped. And Dimiezlo has located the scrolls. He is, even now, gaining entrance into the Guardian’s lair. As soon as he procures the scrolls, he will bring them directly to me.”

  Ah, yes. The other integral part of his plan. The Scrolls of Prévnar. One of the four Sacred Relics necessary for his revolution to succeed. He already possessed the Sword of Kathnesh, rumored to be the one weapon destined to take Lucifer’s head.

  Of course, the Fallen had thwarted his plans thus far by stealing the Arc Stone away. But he wouldn’t be denied. He would get the stone back, and he would sire the Chosen One.

  As long as Lucifer didn’t find out first.

  “And if he is captured?”

  “Not even Lucifer himself would be able to torture the truth from Dimiezlo,” Ronové assured him.

  “Overblown boasting does not reassure me, grïzschreck’ta,” he hissed.

  The insult struck its target. Ronové’s nostrils flared, and the next breath he took was interminably deep. His body tensed, his knuckles bleached white. But he uttered not a sound.

  At last, a shadow of wisdom.

  “I make no false claim,” Ronové vehemently denied. “Dimiezlo will take his own life before he’ll allow himself to be captured.”

  “I don’t need to tell you what will happen if you are discovered. If word of the conspiracy were to reach Lucifer…” Stolas dropped his napkin onto the table beside his plate. He rose from his seat, clasped his hands behind his back and slowly began to pace from one end of his hall to the other. Flickering firelight from torches mounted on the walls danced along the black marble beneath his feet. His hall—filled with riches, gleaming with proof of his prosperity—was little more than a gilded cage. A cage with no windows.

  No point really, considering the view.

  How long he had waited to feel sunshine on his flesh.

  Niklas. Hmm.

  The Seer was a complication he hadn’t anticipated. He didn’t like surprises.

  Stolas flexed his fingers, clenched his fists. As royalty, his power in Hell was nearly absolute. Unfortunately, he had to rely on the likes of Ronové and his cohorts when it came to earthbound matters. Still, this latest development posed interesting possibilities. He must take his time, weigh his options. All of them.

  But what was that saying humans were so fond of?

  Oh, yes. Don’t put all of your eggs in one basket. He was rather fond of that phrase himself.

  He’d already been working on that exact concept.

  Folding his hands before him, he calmly returned to his seat. His cold stare came to rest on Ronové, and the demon quickly ducked his head, lowering his own gaze to the floor.

  “I can track him, my lord,” Ronové offered, his head bowed in meek submission. No doubt hoping to prolong his worthless life.

  Stolas tapped his fingertips together, calmly considering Ronové from beneath one arched brow. No one had ever accused him of not playing with his food. “How?”

  Licking his thick lips, Ronové glanced up again. “There was a woman.”

  “A witness?” He slapped the tabletop hard enough to make his silverware dance. “You left a witness alive?”

  Fury bubbled anew. Ronové’s idiocy knew no bounds.

  No one could know of his preparations. No one. Not even a lowly human. If Lucifer so much as suspected—

  He kept the urge to shudder firmly in check. His narrowed eyes must have eloquently expressed his growing anger, because Ronové rushed to explain.

  “The Seer may have taken her, but I tasted her blood. I can track her. And through her, I can track the Seer.”

  Turning in any one of the five rebels would virtually guarantee unlimited power, but the loss of Niklas and Xander had been especially humiliating for Lucifer. As a result, he’d placed bounties on both of their heads so staggering even the highest echelon of demon royalty would gladly cut their own firstborn’s throat to claim it.

  Giving the Seer over to Lucifer would buy him time, lulling the Dark Prince into a false sense of security.

  Yes, very good.

  “I want him brought before me. Alive.”

  Ronové’s head shot up, his eyes wide and distinctly alarmed. His mouth gaped open. Niklas’s reputation preceded him. He was a fierce fighter. Not as determined and methodical as Xander perhaps, nor as merciless and cruel as Mikhail. Neither was he as ruthless and cold-blooded as Sebastian, but formidable and deadly all the same. He’d more than earned his reputation.

  Wisely, Ronové snapped his mouth closed and lowered his head in submission. Nodding briskly, he pounded his fists to his shoulders.

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  “You will return to Earth, and you will gather a new earthbound legion. I trust you’ve already disposed of the cowards.” At Ronové’s curt nod, Stolas went on, “At the next waxing crescent moon, you will summon me.”

  Stolas raised one hand, eyes narrowed in concentration. Power coursed through his body, erupting through the palm of his hand with a tingling burn. A terrible smile knifed across his face. Ronové’s eyes rolled back in his head. He fell to his side on the black marble. Twitching, jolting spasms wracked Ronové’s body. He gasped aloud, suffering too much agony to scream aloud.

  Ronové’s life force surged and ebbed, crawling up Stolas’s arm and into his chest.

  Oh, that feels good.

  Almost too good to stop.

  No, no, he had use for Ronové still.

  Must stop.

  Clenching a fist, he broke the connection and lowered his trembling hand to his lap. Taking a moment to steady himself after the rush of power, he drew in several deep breaths.

  “Do you understand me, Ronové?” He kept his voice soft, threatening. “I will not tolerate failure a second time.”

  Ronové struggled to his knees and braced the palms of his hands on the floor in a subservient position. Blood dripped from his nostrils, leaked from his ears. “Yes, my lord,” Ronové gasped. “I understand.”

  “Leave me.”

  Ronové pushed himself back until he sat on his heels. His shaking arms crossed over his chest, and though his body was still visibly tormented with pain, he pounded his fists to his shoulders in the proper show of fealty as he bowed his head. Stolas flicked his wrist in dismissal, and Ronové vanished.

  “Admit Gusion now,” he said to the Charocté Demon lurking in the shadows.

  A moment later, the air near the end of the table distorted.
A tall, handsome demon with long, blond hair and a lean physique appeared in human form. Crossing his forearms over his chest, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head, his greeting circumspect. Gusion’s gaze remained judiciously on the floor.

  “You may rise.”

  Gusion rose, lowering his hands to his sides. His focus still on the floor.

  This one knows his place.

  “You may look upon me, Gusion.”

  Gusion glanced up at last. His eyes were blue. Plain. Average.

  Perfect.

  “It has come to my attention that you regularly pass among humankind undetected.”

  Gusion shifted his weight to one foot, nodding. His demeanor bespoke caution, and a certain amount of well-earned arrogance. “Yes, my lord.”

  Leaning back, propping his elbows on the armrests of his chair, Stolas steepled his fingers. “You are familiar with the United States?”

  No emotion flickered over the demon’s visage. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Tell me of this place they call Iowa.”

  “Small villages hardly worth razing. Cornfields and cows, sire,” he said disdainfully. But then his lips slowly twisted on a wicked grin. “Ah, but the women…” Gusion drew a deep shuddering breath, his eyes glinting with unmistakable heat. He swallowed and licked his lips. “Delicious.” As if recalling himself, he cleared his throat and schooled his features. “It has been many human decades since last I visited there. But I’m sure I could find my way around, my lord.”

  “Good, very good.” Stolas lowered his hands to his lap and he assessed the demon before him. “I have a job for you.”

  Chapter Six

  Panting, Carly plopped on the edge of the bed and stared at Niklas, wondering what to do next. It had taken all her strength to break his fall and he’d still gone down like a ton of bricks, nearly toppling her with him. She’d managed to rouse him long enough to help him up and onto the bed. At which point he’d grasped her wrist with surprising strength.

  He’d blinked woozily, then peered hard at her, demanding, “Don’t…leave,” before passing out once more.