by Avery Duncan
The closing of a car door alerted her, and she watched as her Raffaele walked passed her, his dark scent clouding her senses. Her heart clenched, thinking of how distant he had been when he had asked about the date for the ceremony. Had he really meant to be so cold, or was it just her own actions that had caused it? She wondered, hating that this was what had happened to a relationship that could have been amazing.
As people gathered out side of the house, items being brought through the door, and a body bag appearing, she realized that she couldn’t stand by. Already it felt as if this wasn’t happening, and even though she knew that watching them wouldn’t alleviate her paranoia, she still had the urge to watch.
Opening the glove compartment, she checked for gloves, something to cover her hands. When they had left, Ulrich had brought down a baggy shirt for her to wear. While she was thin, it didn’t do anything to hide her arms, or the condition she was in.
There wasn’t any gloves. Mary twisted around in the car, unbuckling the seatbelt. What she saw made her bite her lip. It was okay that her brother was at the seen, out of uniform. He had perks, and as long as his badge and gun were on him, he was still on duty. But there, on the back seat, sat his police jacket. The specially designed leather gleamed needfully, as if calling for her to wear it.
Reaching back, she ignored what her brother would do and slipped it on, ignoring that she had no shoes on and hoping that her pajama pants would be long enough to cover the fact that her feat were bare. Zipping up the jacket, she climbed out of the car and closed the door softly, the murmurs and sounds around her sounding fake, unreal, as if she were in a dream.
The first pair of eyes to land on her was, of course, Raffaele’s. The blue orbs met hers, shocked and then protective, as if he didn’t want her to be out of the car. Mary ignored the small feeling of pleasure that brought her, remembering his harsh words and the betrayal he had dealt her.
“You should be in the car—and where are your shoes?” he demanded, looking pointedly at her feet.
Not letting his light accent that he got when he was angry affect her, she shrugged and had to force herself not to reply. Turning, she looked around for her brother, guessing that he was in the house. Eyes trained on the doorway, she started to walk pass all of the bodies gathering around the house, but a grip on her arm stopped her.
She yanked her arm away from Raffaele’s burning touch, hissing at him. Any other person would have run the other way, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, holding onto her elbow, looking down at her with an inscribable look.
“Get in the car,” he told her. The only emotion that showed came from his eyes—and not even the distance that she was placing between them was enough to hide the hurt that she felt at the coldness in his eyes.
“I’m a part of this too,” she said quietly, tongue in check.
His eyes narrowed.
“Let go of me. There are police officers here, all of whom care about a woman’s health. I don’t think they would take too kindly to harassment being made to the leader,” she said, the threat veiled.
His eyes hardened, mouth tightening. “I wonder why you are so close, to so many men.”
At that moment, the very last word, Mary lost the last of her gusto. Staring up at him, she felt her eyes well up and turned sharply into the house. Holding in the tears as best she could, she searched for her brother through blurry eyes, pushing people aside when she stumbled into them.
“Mary?” Romero.
A hand latched onto her arm, once again. “Why are you crying? Ulrich!” he shouted, watching her as her shoulders curled.
“How old was the vic?” she asked, voice cracking, trying to fight the urge to sob.
“Around forty, blood samples are getting taken…” he supplied hesitantly, wary that she might cry again. Not that she blamed him, she thought, wiping her wet cheeks on her brother’s jacket.
“What the hell!” an outraged voice said, the voice of her brother. Looking down at her brother’s now snot-covered jacket, she smiled a little, knowing why he was so angry.
“This was custom made, Mary! You shouldn’t even be wearing this!”
She started to blush, meeting the eyes of her furious brother. “I…”
“What happened to your eyes?” he asked suspiciously, eyes narrowing. “It was the stress again, wasn’t it?” Ulrich nodded to himself. “Well, the killer has been found, so you don’t need to worry anymore.”
Beside him, Romero grunted, hand landing on the holster of his gun.
Mary shoved Raffaele out of her mind, her last thought being that maybe she could find a way to break the bonding.
“Take me to him,” she demanded, wrapping her arms tight around herself, forgetting about her brothers anger at her wearing his “custom made” jacket.
The men shared looks before leading her through the house, up the stairs of a dark, paint-peeling hallway, and to the entrance of a bed room, candles still lit, and the bed covers pulled back neatly. She stared around, then down at the body of a balding man that was lying just on the inside of the door.
Her stomach heaved, the smell of blood clogging her nose. Hand flying to her mouth at the site of the dead man, she turned into the comforting chest of her brother, eyes once again had tears stinging her eyes. Not because of the lost life—the man deserved to die after killing all of the women—but because seeing the body, smelling his life’s blood, meant that finally, people would stop dying.
Strong arms wrapped around her. “It’s done, finally?” she asked, voice cracking.
“After we get him processed, autopsied, and the trial goes through…I think so,” Ulrich said, hand running through her hair as he had used to when she was a child, crying in pain from a hurt knee after she fell off a bike.
“What about the murderer?” she asked, keeping Armoria out of it. Ulrich always knew best, as much as he might be immature about things.
“I’ll take care of it,” he murmured, arms tightening.
“You like her?” she asked, pulling back, ignoring the urge to kick the dead bitch in the head.
Ulrich’s cheeks flushed darkly, arms dropping from around her. “Why would I? I’ve known her for all of a month. I could care less, I just don’t want an innocent woman prosecuted,” he said, defensively.
Mary frowned. “You heard her say it, though. She’s obviously ki—“ A hand was slapped over her mouth.
She started to grin.
“Take traces from around the room. He’s still holding an erection, and either it’s fear or from sexual…excitement. By the look on his face, I’m guessing the latter. He looks shocked, but barely there,” Romero said from the doorway, instructing the crime analysis, who was dark-haired, Acutos, and holding a small case.
He nodded, shooing them out of the room. Mary was the first to get out, shoved into the chest of the man who was, right now, her worst enemy.
Big hands wrapped around her arms, holding in her place. “Go, little children,” Romero said from behind them, almost mockingly.
She looked up, trying to pull herself back. Raffaele was staring down at her with a cold expression, and suddenly, he started to pull her through the house.
“Hey!” she squeaked when her foot landed on something sharp, probably a nail.
Raff continued to drag her through the house, until they were outside.
She yanked, trying to pull her arm back. “Let me go, you jackass!” she exclaimed, wincing when her foot hit the ground. The cut’s probably opening up worse, she thought, chest tightening.
Bam.
An explosion rattled the earth under her feet.
She screamed.
Chapter 39
“Fuck!” he cursed, using his body to take the brunt of the fall when Mary and him landed on the ground, black embers flying into the drive way as the house was set aflame with…black fire.
Staring at the fire, he felt his eyes widen, even through the pain and the panicking woman on his chest. The tendri
ls of smoke were like that of any other, but the smell of charred skin alerted him that something more dangerous was at hand.
Pushing Mary off of him gently, he jumped up and ran, fighting the urge to keep her safe, to take her away from here. The earth beneath his feet was still rumbling, seeming to shift and change, maybe wishing to suck them in and eat them. Grabbing the door knob and wrenching the burning steel of the door open, what he saw inside the house made his blood chill.
Everyone was on the floor, struggling to stand. Ulrich was at the bottom of the stairs, arm bent at an awkward and painful position, and Romero wasn’t too far from him. The police men, once on their feet, forgot about their job and ran for the door, pissing and screaming like pansies. He watched them run, barely registering anything, and then turned to Ulrich.
Grabbing his good arm and helping him up, he asked, “Are you okay?” Right as the question slipped through his vocals, a burnt chunk of wood flew down—right in front of Raffaele and almost on top of his future brother-in-law.
“Romero!” Ulrich shouted, not answering Raff’s question. Pushing himself away from the helping man, he stumbled his way over to his friend.
The wood that had almost killed Ulrich had landed on Romero.
A roar resounded through the house, a sound that made the very hair on his arm stand up straight, the utter pain and rage causing him to flinch. He turned away from the site of Ulrich bending over Romero’s still body, the site of losing someone that had been with you their whole life.
Everyone had exited the house by then, except for the bloody, crushed body of the ex-police man, Ulrich, and himself. As much as he wanted to let Ulrich grieve, to get it out, they were surrounded in danger and one of them had already died in the horror house. He wasn’t about to let his future wife’s brother die.
Grabbing Ulrich up by his shoulders, he ignored the tears streaming down the man’s face and attempted to drag him out. Plaster, sheet rock, and anything else that you could have thought of, fell from the roof of the house, the whole place shaking. Embers danced around them, horrid, ashy smoke clogging any attempt at breathing.
He would have got on his knees to crawl, would have gotten them to safety, but before that could happen, a screech from above brought his head open. “The hell…” he started, coughing into his sleeve. He looked to see Ulrich with the hem of his shirt pressed to his nose, cheeks covered with soot and ash.
“I’ll kill her!” a gurtle voice rang throughout the house, sounding as if the person who was speaking had had his throat dragged over gravel.
Raffaele froze, as did Ulrich.
He would have turned around fully, would have looked upon the face of a man that should have been dead. The scent of the bastard was similar to that of the man that had been upstairs, dead and unmoving. Now, though, it was tainted with blood and dirt, as if it had risen from the earth.
Fire ran along the walls, even more so than it had before. He Panicked, thinking of Mary and if she were in danger. He was almost brought to his knees in pain at the very thought, and Ulrich must have been having the same thought. He was looking at the door, not as an escape, but with a warning that proposed he was willing Mary to stay back.
“Tell me where she is,” the voice screamed, or maybe groaned. Raffaele was drawn to turn around, to look upon the monster that had risen from the dead. His hands started to shake with the effort not to pass out from all the smoke he had inhaled.
It was so clogged up in the room, that all he could see was smoke, clouds and balls of it, everywhere. But the figure that lit the space inside the fog…He blinked trying to see clearly, praying that he wasn’t.
All of Raffaele’s training, all of his past experience in staying calm, almost fled him as he thought about Mary. She most definitely hadn’t left the house—her brother was in here. He wouldn’t have left either. What he was scared of, though, was that she would try to come in.
Horror ran through him as he pictured her, running into the house, finding them and this…devil. That’s what came to mind when he looked at the firy, blurry creature. The flames of blackness were there, as it had been on the outside of the house, and he could only watch in acute horror as the thing walked—more like slid—towards them.
Ulrich grabbed his shoulder, pushing him to the door. “Go!” he shouted, turning around, holding his arm—as if he planned to face the demon on his own.
“I’m not—“
The sound of the door splitting made both of their heads turn. What came through the door, he could barely make out. A feline screech rang through the room, and in seconds, the smoking black figure was thrown back, to the ground.
A top the thing was a white feline, splattered with black spots, eyes a glowing red. It looked like an albino animal, but Raffaele knew it to be what it was.
Mary.
In Archaeos form.
On the devil.
Raffaele stared as red liquid dripped from her pointed tips, the cat-like eyes blazing with pure fire as the –supposed-to-be-dead bastard struggled under her. When the black hand came up, blue fire sprang forth under the blackness.
His breath stopped.
His heart stopped.
And then started pounding with a force so strong, it amazed him that he held back the shift to feline in the time that he had. He was across the room in seconds, shoving his bonded woman to the side, and tearing into the creature.
Unearthly sounds came from the man—abomination—that had murdered countless woman, had tormented his woman, and had almost touched her with the cursed flames that made Raffaele’s fur covered.
Raffaele dug his claws into the creature's chest, tried to get to its heart as his instincts screamed at him to. The feel of skin and bone was a sensation short lived, when the bitch brought his legs up and kicked. In the same clothing as he had been when Raffaele had seen him, he was exactly as a human was—except for being covered in flames and a gaping slash at his throat.
He growled, launching himself at it, losing his ability to tell what was real, what wasn’t, and what he shouldn’t hurt. The fury was running high inside of his blood, clouding his brain and eyes, making him see only the object that he was meant to kill.
The object that had touched tried to touch his bonded woman.
Had tried to hurt her.
Claws dug into his shoulders, claws exactly like Raffaele’s. He gripped the things neck, tried to tear his artery out. He wanted to smell his blood, feel it in his mouth with the knowledge that he had been the one to kill it.
He was pulled off sharply as the creature under him kicked him off, but clawed hands reached for his face, a murderous growl entering his conscious right before he felt the pain of a slash at his face. Raff shoved his claws deep into the smoking leg, making to inflict pain, to maim.
White flashed in front of him, before he had a chance to react. A feline scream echoed, the sound of flesh tearing from the bone telling him that Mary had taken over the spot, more feral than anything Raffaele had ever seen in his life.
A paw of a hand grabbed onto his flank, yanking him back. "Don't interfere," came a rough, gravelly voice. He looked to see Jackson, almost as tall as the ceiling, high enough that his head brushed the top. Raffaele growled, realizing that the bear was telling him to leave his bonded mate to the hands of pure evil.
"I'm serious, Raffaele. Do not touch her," Jackson warned, slowly finishing the transformation into his animal form. By the time he was done, Jackson was in full form, his grizzly shoulders hunching, brown eyes trained on Mary as if waiting for his chance to enter the fight.
Mary screeched, and Raffaele turned in enough time to see her body fly into the wall, crashing through the brown boards that had peeling-paint from all of the fire. Raffaele snarled, a black claw slicing through the ground as he tried to stay back, as Jackson had instructed.
The only reason he did so was because Jackson looked like he knew what he was doing—and although Raffaele was skeptical, he also knew he couldn't interfer
e with Mary being so close to feral rage it was almost terrifying. Actually—it was terrifying.
Her eyes were a deep red, blood was dripping from her mouth, and parts of the creature were covering her in the most gruesome site he had ever seen. For a moment, he feared that she wouldn't get up, heart almost stopping as he stared at the blood on her and wondering who's it was.
But, the more he looked, the more tense Jackson became, and the more she started to glow. He looked at Jackson, wishing that he could demand an answer as to what was happening to her. A low growl filled the air—and it wasn't his.
Slowly, oh so slowly, she rose to her feet, her haunches tense and her body looking tightly enough strung to spring across the room in a second flat. Ulrich, who had gone to try and get Romero out of the debris that had crushed him, was watching his sister with a knowing look in his eye.
He barely held himself back, knowing that something was completely right with her, or something horribly wrong with her. Her graceful, white and spotted black body swayed, yet the glow, the illuminating light that came from her, grew deeper yet.
The whole room was silent. No one was breathing, no one was moving, and no one was looking away from her. The metal stench of blood seeped into them slowly, aware that death had happened, and by the look of Mary--more was to come.
One second.
That was all it took.
Raffaele stopped breathing.
Mary lunged forward, the movement so furious, so quick and sleek, it was as if watching a blur cross the room. At that moment, Jackson threw something. The creature screamed, fell back a step, clutched his chest.
The feline ripped into him with the darkest passion, with the most cold blooded intent he had ever seen.
No longer bloody, but ashy, spewing black, oil-looking smoke that appeared to be liquid even as it bled into the room with a sickening stench.
The demon disappeared.
The silence was deafening.
And Mary...collapsed.