The Unforgiven (The Watchers)

by Joy Nash

  “I’ll survive,” Gareth said.

  “I don’t want you to even try! And anyway, this whole discussion is pointless. Artur would never allow you a death seeking. Not with me as your anchor.”

  Was that pity that sprang into Gareth’s eyes? Cybele felt suddenly ill. She closed her eyes against the rush of hurt she knew was coming.

  “I already spoke with Artur,” Gareth said, “before I came to you. In fact, that’s why I’m here. He sent me to you.”

  He’d drank his fill of the water she had offered. He had called her Daughter. She had called him Father. He had not dismissed her.

  Lilith stood, uncertain, as he turned back to his workbench. He lifted his new sword and ran one long finger down the edge of the blade. She could not look away.

  He resumed his work, polishing the weapon. He drew a supple leather rag down the length of the blade, over and over, inspecting the shine after each pass. His touch was gentle, loving. How she yearned for just a fraction of that care!

  How long she stood beside him, watching, her errand of water drawing forgotten, she could not say. Her father was well aware of her continued presence. And yet, he did not command her out of his sight.

  She would never grow tired of watching him. His Watcher aura was so strong. So beautiful. It framed his head and shoulders in pure crimson light. His hands were large and graceful. He stroked the cloth from the sword’s hilt to its tip. The bronze gleamed as if lit from within.

  Lilith found that if she stood very still, she could sense his celestial magic—powerful, glorious!—flowing into the earthly metal. When she blurred her vision, unfocused her mind, she could even see it. Feel it. A tingle of red. A sparkle on the blade. A sensation like a feather brushing her bare skin.

  Her father raised his head. His dark eyes narrowed. She stared at him with wide eyes and open heart.

  He put the cloth aside. Rising, he sheathed the polished sword in a newly made scabbard. He hung it on the rack with the others, then turned to face her. His gaze traveled the length of her body, from her headscarf to her sandals.

  Spine straight, chin raised, she stood very still under his scrutiny. Excitement and fear beat inside her ribs with the wings of a trapped swallow.

  “You wish to tell me, Daughter, of your magic.”

  Her throat closed. Her reply was nearly lost. “Yes.”

  He held out a hand. “Come.”

  This was crazy. For the second night in a row, Maddie found herself slipping out of the hut alone.

  Hadara was asleep. A similar peacefulness eluded Maddie. She wanted to sit up and scream. How in the hell could she sleep with Cade’s kiss playing over and over in her mind? All she could think of was him catching her as she fell, him cradling her in his arms. The lingering sensation of his erection—as huge as the rest of him—throbbed in the cleft of her buttocks. And so, for the second night running, she found herself alone under a star-studded desert sky.

  This time she didn’t wander away from the camp. Driven by an obsession she hardly understood, armed with flashlight, trowel, and bucket pilfered from the storage trailer, she headed to the dig.

  Heart pounding, she climbed down the ladder into the pit where she’d fainted. Her torch cast an arching glow on the earthen walls. Strange ruby shadows lurched in the spaces between the shoring.

  The red, pulsing light pouring from the ancient well was utterly undeniable. Blinking didn’t erase it. Neither did rubbing her eyes. She moved her head from side to side. The light didn’t waver. It was definitely there. Not in her head.

  The illumination was so strong, she switched off her flashlight and laid it on the ground. An eerie feeling of being separate from the mortal world overtook her. The earthen walls of the pit muted the sounds from the desert above. The only noise she could discern was a rhythmic, leaden thumping. Her heart.

  She placed her palm over her chest, as if the gesture could calm the organ. It did not. She approached the well slowly. The light shone from the bottom, too far to jump. Not daring to stop and think about what she was about to do, she grabbed the ladder she’d just descended, dragged it over to the hole, and lowered it over the edge.

  Bucket and tools looped over one arm, she eased herself over the ledge and down the ladder. Quickly she descended. And as she stepped off the bottom rung, she saw that a hazy red fog seeped up from between the grains of dust and grit under her feet.

  Something was buried here. It had to be. Crouching, she began to trowel dirt into her bucket. Light filled the hole like a red puddle. She shoved away thoughts of blood and kept digging.

  The excavated dirt was warmer than the earth that surrounded it. That was exceedingly odd, but Maddie didn’t stop to consider. Sweat beaded on her forehead and dribbled between her breasts as she dug deeper.

  The tip of her trowel glanced off a rock. Her hand slipped.

  “Ow!”

  She’d torn a fingernail on the edge of the digging blade. A drop of blood welled from the jagged rip. The broken chunk of nail hung from a sliver of cuticle. She brought her finger to her teeth and bit it off.

  As she sucked at the wound, she scrutinized the hole about eight inches in diameter and probably twice as deep. Warm red light filled it, pulsing like a beating heart. A bead of blood formed on her ripped cuticle and trickled down the side of her finger. It dripped from her flesh into the hole.

  “My God.” Was it her imagination, or had there been a flash of gold?

  On her hands and knees, she bent low to peer into the hole. Something was there. A golden circle. The source of the light?

  Heart pounding, she reached into the void.

  Chapter Eight

  The blighter throwing darts was host to a hellfiend.

  His mates didn’t know it, of course. A bearded man threw opposite the possessed man, unaware his friend’s body was no longer his own. Two other blokes stood to one side, swilling ale and offering advice and jeers. To an untrained human eye, they were four working men spending a friendly evening at the pub.

  Not a single DAMNer in sight to set things straight. Just Artur, his magic shielded behind a Druid glamour too complex for a hellfiend to comprehend.

  Artur drained his whiskey. Poor human bastards. They’d be dead by dawn, the lot of them. Unless he interfered. Which would be messy.

  But it might also be entertaining. Truth be told, he was tempted. A bit of action might keep his mind off . . . the other thing.

  Under cover of the scarred tabletop, he eased out his modified Glock, which shot both mundane and magical projectiles. Annihilating a hellfiend was always a challenge. Sometimes, depending on how deeply the fiend’s possession had taken hold, the human life was already doomed and the host died once the demon inside was gone. Other times, the host’s soul was still alive and fighting its possession. In that case, if the demon could be driven out, the human life could be preserved.

  Then there were times like these. When one had to put aside one’s scruples in order to serve the greater good.

  Artur slid his left index finger into place on the trigger. This was when the real fun began.

  “So here you are.”

  Every muscle in his body went rigid—along with something else between his legs. Bloody hell. He hadn’t seen her enter the pub, hadn’t so much as caught a whiff of her perfume. He peered into his empty glass. He must be rat-arsed indeed.

  Quickly, with a glance at the hellfiend across the room, he expanded his glamour to include Cybele. She skirted the table and came into his vision, all lush breasts, round hips, and long, long legs. Her loose hair streamed down her back in a riot of unruly blonde curls. She might have been poured into that tee and those denims.

  He stared broodingly at the glimpse of tattoo—a single rose on a thorned stem—peeping from the edge of her scooped neckline. His mood, already dark, blackened. The woman was a carnal invitation to the entire male gender. A glance about the pub showed any number of human males glancing her way, primed to accept.


  He itched to kill every last one of the rotters, just for daring to look at her. It was a wonder his pint glass didn’t crack, his grip was so tight. Emotions seethed in his gut like a swarm of vipers.

  When at last he looked up at her, his expression showed nothing but disdain. Her lips thinned. He willed her to turn and leave, which would keep things simple, he told himself. He liked things simple. Right.

  She slipped into the empty seat across the table.

  “Blast it, Artur. What are you doing in this dive?”

  His cock twitched at the sound of her husky Texas drawl, and he raised an eyebrow. “I could ask the same of you. I’d have thought you’d be spending the night quietly at home, watching Gareth kill himself.”

  Anger hissed through her teeth. “You bastard. Why did you put him up to this?”

  She was so beautiful, he ached. “Why shouldn’t I? So you won’t have to deal with it?”

  She flushed scarlet. “He’s too young. He’ll suffer. Horribly.”

  “Gareth’s of age and perfectly capable. As an adept, he’ll be a valuable asset to the clan. We need him.”

  “You could have put him off until we see what magic Cade brings back. There’s no need for Gareth to risk a death-seeking so soon.”

  He regarded her steadily, not really hearing her words. His gaze was focused on the movement of her mouth. There was only one place he wanted those plump red lips, and it wasn’t across a table, bitching at him.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “It’s Gareth’s right to choose. It’s your right to refuse.” Under the table, the rough grip of the Glock was a comfort to his palm.

  “Damn you, Artur. Just . . . damn you.”

  “A bit redundant, that, wouldn’t you say? Come on, Cybele. Gareth’s a fine male—but if he’s not up to your standards, simply tell him no.”

  “It would serve you right if I told him yes.”

  Artur leaned back in his chair and forced a laugh. In truth, he wanted to punch something.

  “If I refuse Gareth,” Cybele continued through gritted teeth, “I challenge your approval and shame you before the clan. You’d be forced to kill me or lose the chieftaincy. If I anchor him, you’ve got an excuse to hate me even more than you already do. As usual, you’ve manipulated the situation to punish me. There’s no honorable way I can escape your trap.”

  Artur tilted his glass and looked down into the dying froth. “Sometimes dishonor is the only choice.”

  She shoved to her feet. “Forget it, Artur. Forget I even came here to try to reason with you.” Her loose hair swung forward as she rounded the chair. An emotion very near to panic squeezed Artur’s chest as she turned and began to walk away.

  “Cybele,” he said. “Wait.”

  She stopped in her tracks, her hands fisted at her sides. Several seconds passed before she turned.

  “I suppose you want my decision. Well, I—”

  “No. Not that.” Artur’s eyes cut to the dart game. “Over there. Bloke in blue. Next up to throw. What do you make of him?”

  Cybele’s confused gaze followed his. An instant later, she sucked in a breath. “Possessed.”

  “Help me kill him,” he said.

  She huffed out a laugh. “As if you need my help! And anyway, that poor human host’s eyes are still his natural color. Not a trace of demon red. What he needs is an exorcist, not a hole in his chest.”

  “And his three friends? What do they need? Look closely before you answer.”

  She turned back to the dart game, brows furrowed. He saw the exact moment the truth hit her. It amazed him, sometimes, how no one else seemed to see these things as clearly as he could.

  “Shit,” she said. “They’re already marked. Three of them!” She bit her lip. “That fiend must be very ancient to have managed that.”

  Artur smiled. It was unusual to find a fiend old enough to mark two humans simultaneously, let alone four. This one would be a pleasure to annihilate.

  “Exactly,” he replied. “It would be impossible to destroy such an ancient without killing its host. Not when it’s got three potential hosts ready and waiting.”

  He could shoot with magic only, preserving the human host’s life, but the fiend inside, with three backup host souls already marked, would have plenty of time to dive into one of them. And the mark on the first host couldn’t be erased without the assistance of a trained exorcist. As long as the four humans remained alive and marked, the fiend could pop back and forth between them indefinitely.

  “Have you got a weapon on you?” he asked.

  “No,” Cybele replied.

  “I thought not. So. With only one weapon between the two of us, any fight we undertake that tried to preserve the host’s life would be a messy proposition. Not at all healthy for bystanders, I’d say. And ultimately a failed effort.” He paused. “But if I shot to kill the human . . .”

  Cybele sighed. “The fiend would be trapped in the dying body long enough for you to annihilate it as well.”

  He grinned. “High marks for that conclusion. So . . . a decision. Kill one human? One who’s probably on his way to Hell anyway? I’ve been watching him. Or should we allow an ancient hellfiend to go on its merry way, strewing the blood of innocents in its wake?”

  Cybele’s white teeth caught her plump bottom lip. Artur felt the bite straight down to his groin.

  Finally, she shook her head. “Blast it, Artur. I hate this.”

  “You think I enjoy it?”

  Her green eyes flashed. “Frankly? Yes.”

  His jaw clenched. “You didn’t used to think the worst of me.”

  “You didn’t used to try so hard to make me hate you. And why? Because I saved Cade’s life.”

  He hissed. “You broke our bond, Cybele. I didn’t.”

  “What I destroyed was your pride. I exchanged it for Cade’s life. I thought it a fair trade at the time. I still do.”

  “You might have summoned Morgana. It was her duty, her right to act as anchor. Not yours.”

  “I didn’t think there was time! Cade was already half-mad when I found him. I . . . I was sure he’d die.”

  “He wouldn’t have. Not if you’d gone straight to Morgana.”

  “I didn’t know that. I didn’t think. I—” She shoved a hand through her hair and abruptly laughed. “Oh, no. I’m not doing this again. We’ve had this argument more times than I can bear. There’s no apology I can make that will satisfy you.”

  “I don’t remember you making any apology.”

  “And I won’t.” The heat of her anger had raised the color in her cheeks. “I’m not sorry. I did what I believed was necessary. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

  Everything she’d said was true. Artur, when beset by a rare objective moment, recognized himself as the villain of the piece. There was no way he could be absolutely certain Morgana would have reached Cade in time. Cybele hadn’t wanted to betray him.

  But, she had. And there was nothing he could do to change that fact. Cybele, his bonded mate, had fucked another Watcher. She might speak of apologies, but Watchers—Nephilim—were not known for their loving, forgiving natures.

  Avoiding Cybele’s eyes, Artur studied the possessed man. The dart game was over. The hellfiend and its host’s mates had sat down at a table, fresh drinks in hand.

  “Looks like their night’s just getting started,” he commented. Draping his arm over the back of his chair, he nodded to the seat opposite. After a brief hesitation, Cybele sat.

  Artur signaled for a couple pints. The plump and pretty barmaid—Janey, he thought her name was—brought them quickly. She brushed Artur’s arm with her breast as she set the glass before him.

  “Thanks, love.” He cupped her round arse and squeezed. She giggled and ran a lascivious hand along his shoulder.

  “For you, Artur? Anytime.”

  The contemptuous flash in Cybele’s eyes was supremely gratifying. “One of your human sluts?” she asked when the woman was gone
.

  He grinned. “Jealous?”

  “Hardly. It’s beneath you, is all. Crawling from pub to pub. Pickling your brain. Screwing whatever catches your eye.”

  “I have a duty to beget children for the clan,” he said.

  She snorted. “Give me a break. You didn’t give human women a second look when we were bonded.”

  “Ah, so that’s it, eh? You’d prefer I drag along after you, like Cade does.”

  “You’re an ass, Artur. You know very well that Cade and I didn’t continue our . . . physical relationship after his transition.”

  “He wanted to. Still does. Perhaps you should have him. Sex might improve your mood. Celibacy is hell for a Watcher.”

  A muscle jumped in her cheek. “I doubt you would know. When was the last time you went a night without?”

  “Humans,” he said dismissively.

  “That’s not the point! You’re our chieftain. You’re better than this.”

  But he wasn’t better. Didn’t she know that by now? The thought brought a wave of something perilously close to despair. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to have this war with her stop.

  Closing his eyes, he passed a hand over his face. “I assure you, Cybele, I’m not better than this. In fact, I’m far worse. What do you want me to do? Change the past? Forget our broken bond?”

  She stared at her untouched ale. “I . . . I don’t know. I just want . . .”

  Long seconds ticked by.

  “What?” he prompted, hating himself.

  She seemed to deflate. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Her hand lay on the table. He wanted to cover it with his. He didn’t.

  She sighed. “I loved you, Artur. I truly did.”

  Loved. Past tense. He laughed without humor. “Now you hate me. As you should.”

  She closed her eyes. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do hate you. Even so, I doubt I hate you half so much as you hate yourself.”

  True enough, he supposed. He was Nephilim, and a nasty bastard besides. Of course he hated himself.

  He shrugged, letting his gaze wander toward the possessed man and his mates. All four were now on their feet. He watched them and his bloodlust simmered.