The demon scrambled to his feet, backing away down the stairs to reach the lower gallery and find surer footing. Alex pressed the attack. The demon hadn’t been much older than he when turned; he looked twenty at most, with a startling mass of red curls sweeping across a sweaty forehead, and his one demon eye shining bright, glamour dropped in the heat of the chase. The swords met once again in a swirl of color.
The red-haired demon was a skilled fighter. He favored the Italian stances, and Alex automatically fell in with the fluid forms his opponent used, mixing it up with the more brutal German school he preferred.
The swords clashed again and again, but Alex had wrath on his side while the demon had nothing but fear to keep him going. Alex met the demon’s sword in an inverted parry, knocking it out of the way with his cross guard as he reversed his own sword and slammed the hilt into the demon’s face. There was a crack of bone and the demon went down on one knee, soul blade spinning away from his hand and shimmering out.
Alex set Redemption at the demon’s throat. “Who sent you,” he growled.
The demon remained silent. “Who sent you?” Alex repeated, pressing his sword into the demon’s throat and drawing blood.
Instead of answering, the demon began to sing in a clear, haunting voice. He closed his eyes, holding his unresisting throat toward Alex’s sword, and sang. It was a Spanish hymn of sorrow and repentance, and the acceptance of death.
Alex waited for the hymn to finish and the demon’s words to fade, trembling, into the dark, and then he severed his head in one clean sweep. The demon’s lilac aura winked out abruptly. Devoid of the life spark, the silvery stain of demon ichor seeped away, rapidly corroding the demon’s clothing and body. Soon nothing was left but a fragile heap of dust and the soul blade which, as usual in a demon’s death, had materialized on the floor, broken into several pieces.
It didn’t help. It never helped. No matter how many of the enemy he killed, it never filled the void within. Never shed light on the darkness his transformation to bloodborn had marked him with. And Tom was still dead. Killing the demon wouldn’t bring him — or any of them — back. Too many lives lost in years gone by.
Alex scattered the demon’s dust with his toe and then bent to retrieve the broken shards of the soul blade. The demon was gone, and the dull, unmagicked metal served as sole reminder of the human he had once been. Alex headed back to the main wing of the abbey, pausing to hide Redemption on top of a dusty bookcase along with the shattered pieces of soul blade. Lights and voices meant that Tom had been found, and being arrested for the murder he didn’t commit was a complication he could do without.
By the time day had dawned, the Right Reverend Thomas Brown had been whisked off by the police forensics team. With the prior busy dealing with the police, the sub-prior set about chivying the abbey members back into some semblance of their Sunday routine. Alex, as a guest in the abbey, was left in peace to pray for his friend’s soul.
It was almost ten in the morning before the prior was free to join him in the chapel. Alex heard him approaching, and his keen bloodborn senses picked out brandy on the prior’s breath and the lingering smell of stale incense that clung to his robes. He made space on the pew, and the prior sat, face bathed in blues and golds from the stained glass windows.
“Alexander,” said the prior heavily. Father Luke Hanson wasn’t officially a Guild member, but was one of the few humans at the Abbey of Saint Martin of Tours who knew about Alex’s true nature and his mission as founder and leader of the organization.
Alex didn’t reply. Instead, he stared down at his hands, folded in his lap. Luke set a hand upon his arm.
“You did what you could. No one watched over him as well as you.”
“And yet I failed. Again. ”
“You’ve lived a long life. You can’t win them all. Count your successes instead. Rose lives. Tom died knowing she is safe.”
Alex plucked at a loose thread on his robe, worrying it between his fingers. When he spoke, his voice shook. “He was tortured, Luke. He was in pain, and I wasn’t there to stop it.” Finally he raised his head, looking not at Luke but at the multi-colored sunbeams that slid through the stained glass to dance among the dust motes.
“He had just turned twelve when the Guild took him in, have I ever told you that? He was an orphan, living on the streets. One of Shade’s extortion rackets was using him as a runner. I took him away from the demons and named him my squire.” His voice had calmed, but inside the anger still churned, warring with grief. Tom had been more than a squire. He’d been a son.
“I knew he’d been with you a long time. I had no idea it had been that long. I am sorry for your loss.”
“Our loss, Luke.” Alex frowned. “And another demon’s death on my hands. This Crusade weighs heavily upon me. Tell me, when are you formally going to join the Guild? Then your life wouldn’t be in so much danger. You know humans aren’t permitted to know about the preternatural world.”
“So I should hide under the mantle of the Guild instead?”
“It would be safer for you.”
Luke gave a small grunt. “Perhaps. We’ll see.”
Alex could recognize a closed door when he saw one, and he dropped the subject.
“Any word from Dan?” Luke asked.
“None yet. But I’m not expecting any. He had orders to keep Rose off the radar completely.”
“I thought he was heading for Toronto?” There was something almost too casual about the way Luke spoke, and Alex picked up the sour tang of sweat. Fear. Luke was afraid. But of what?
Alex shrugged, feigning indifference. “Eventually. You know the Fox, he does things his own way. He’ll take his time.”
“And have you made any progress on who our traitor is?” the prior probed. The scent of fear sharpened. “Have you found out who may have left the window open for the attack on the girl?”
“No.” The detail of the pantry window and the instructions found on Anton’s body had been kept quiet. Only Daniel, Tom, and himself knew of it. Could it be that Tom had shared this with Luke? Alex’s rage simmered, dangerously close to the surface. He fought it for control, beating it down. Losing his temper would serve nothing. Better for Luke not to know he suspected.
Luke leaned forward, crossing his arms on top of the next pew. “What will you do now?” Again the too-casual tone.
“Head for Toronto myself,” Alex answered. “Consult with the Guild and wait for Daniel.” These were dangerous waters. If Luke was indeed the traitor, it was time to shift the conversation. He clapped a hand to Luke’s shoulder. “Come, assist me. Be my confessor. I have a demon’s blood on my hands.”
When the formalities of confession were over and Luke’s footsteps had disappeared completely, Alex headed to his room by the back stairs and packed lightly. From behind the books on his shelf he pulled out a wallet with an official-looking fake ID and a wad of cash. He switched off his cell phone and placed it behind the books, swapping it for the cheap pre-paid phone he’d used to call Daniel the day before. On his way out, he paused in the hallway to discreetly retrieve Redemption from the bookcase and stow it in his lacrosse duffel. The demon’s broken soul blade he left behind to gather dust.
The duffel itself went into a second bag, a large canvas sack with a bright, distinctive striped pattern. He left a message for Luke with one of the novices and took a taxi to Penn Station. There, he bought an Amtrak ticket to Toronto. He had an hour to wait, so he sauntered into a café, choosing a table with a full view of the door. He was well aware that in his monk’s attire, and with his brightly striped bag, he was an easy target for anyone following.
Fifteen minutes before departure time, he left the café. It was time to miss a train.
Alex made his way onto the platform and boarded the Toronto train, weaving his way among the passengers settling in for the journey. He walked along several cars, finally stopping by the lavatories. There, he quickly removed his black lacrosse duffel from the b
right sack. He whipped off his plain black robe, swapping it for a long-sleeved hoodie that covered his tattoos, and he stuffed the robe into the duffel along with the sack. He jammed a ball cap on his fair head and stepped back out onto the platform at the next open door, lacrosse bag slung casually over his shoulder.
Then he walked out of the station, one more jeans-clad youth among the crowd of New Yorkers that swallowed him up and let him melt into their midst.
Chapter Fifteen
Camille
Camille lay propped up on one elbow, watching Dominique work the tangles from her long, dark curls. The vampire caught her eye in the mirror and smiled. “I missed you,” she said, setting down the comb and turning to the bed.
“I missed you too,” Camille answered, surprising herself. She’d stayed away from romantic entanglements after her last disastrous affair. Maybe it was time to break a few of her own resolutions.
“I expect to hear from you after this,” said Dominique with mock severity. She checked her watch. “Are you ready to meet the Scion?”
“Not really. Tell me about him. Is he really as dangerous as they say?”
“He used to be. After his wife’s death and his stint in prison, I hear the Court’s been keeping him on a short leash. But don’t go and push his buttons, Camille.”
“Yes, but what’s he like?”
Dominique turned away again to start on her makeup. “I only met him once, at a Court debut. He was presenting some sentinel girl, doing the whole swearing-in and all that stuff the angel-bloods love so much. Good looking. Stern. He had a quiet sort of power to him. Of course, this was before the incident. I have no idea what he’s like now. James Deacon. One of the most powerful sentinel Scions in the country. Son of Jim Adam Deacon, better known as ‘Galahad’, and arguably the best-known sentinel in modern history.”
She stopped talking for a moment to apply lipstick. “Now Galahad I did have the dubious pleasure of meeting, several times,” she went on. “A most vocal gentleman. We did not see eye to eye. He was an advocate for the stricter policing of preternatural-related deaths. If it were up to the man, it would’ve been open hunting season. And the target would have been every demon and bloodborn in this country. As it is, he’s credited for quietly doing away with whole families and bloodlines. No proof, of course. And hand-in-glove with the wretched Guild.”
Camille frowned. “Did the Court ever figure out who killed him?”
Dominique shook her head. “They closed the case. Too many suspects. Everyone wanted a piece of him. But to the sentinels and the clerics, the man was a saint. Saint Galahad the Ripped-to-Shreds.”
She gave Camille a shrewd look. “And now you’re here to parley with his son. The son whose wife — correct me if I’m wrong — suffered a ‘mishap’ at the hands of the East Coast pack…”
Camille shrugged. “It was a legally sanctioned Hunt.”
“Well, just be careful. That’s all I’m saying.” Dominique gave her reflection a last appraising look, and turned. She was tidy and professional in a neat dress with matching jacket. The deep burgundy set off her red aura and looked good against her skin. Camille felt her hunger reach out, and Dominique laughed.
“Enough. I have to go. I think it’s best if we arrive separately. I’ll see you there.”
After she left, Camille showered and went through her clothing choices. Her costumes, as she liked to call them. She needed to look competent, but at the same time approachable. She finally settled on a pair of buttery yellow capris that hugged her hips closely, and a white sleeveless top of eyelet lace for a hint of innocence. She added pearl earrings and low sling-back shoes, and twisted her hair back in a neat knot.
There was still almost an hour before the meeting. She forced herself to stop fussing with the buttons of her shirt and switched on the TV, flipping through the channels until she found an old rerun of Charmed. Honestly, she had no idea why she’d agreed to a meeting at noon. It was so melodramatic. Vintage Western.
Trust Diana to dump this on her. She was the one who should be here, as Mistress of the Hunt. She was the one who’d lost Adeline in the first place. Other demons were nothing but trouble. Camille had hoped that transferring to the East Coast pack would give her the greater independence that she’d craved, but it was all the same thing. Nothing ever changed.
Finally the clock on the nightstand ticked around to 11:50. She took the elevator to the convention floor and looked for the meeting space. Something called the Opal Room. Her palms were damp, and she wiped them surreptitiously on her waistband under her shirt where it wouldn’t show. This was ridiculous! She was an immortal Huntress. She wasn’t going to let some watered-down angel blood scare her. But her skittering heartbeat told a different story.
The Scion was already waiting when she arrived, exchanging small talk with Dominique. The tension in the room was a thick and coiling thing. When Camille walked in, he stood up politely, though she noticed his hands were clenched in fists at his sides.
“Miss Darkwing.”
“Mr. Deacon. Miss Girard.” She smiled at them both before taking a seat across from Deacon. He was tall and broad, well-muscled for a man his age. His reddish hair was liberally sprinkled with gray. He reminded her of a tiger she’d seen once, outwardly relaxed but with muscles bunched, ready to spring. “Scion, thank you for receiving me.”
She was trying unsuccessfully to get her nerves settled, and her hunger spiked, momentarily out of control, hooking into the man who faced her. She reeled it in fast and locked it away, but not before he noticed the sudden tug on his emotions.
“A succubus?” He looked surprised, and then the surprise turned to outrage. “Diana sends me a succubus to parley? Is she out of her mind?”
Camille shifted uncomfortably in the plush upholstered seat. “My apologies. That wasn’t supposed to happen. That was rude of me.” He was still glaring at her, and she blurted out, “What did you expect? You made me nervous!”
She’d surprised him again, she could tell. But before he could answer her outburst, Dominique coughed delicately.
“I think we should get this meeting formally started, don’t you?” The vampire was biting back a barely disguised smirk. “Before things get out of hand? Good. Well, then. Let those present attest that Camille Darkwing of the East Coast Hunt has requested a parley with James Deacon, Scion of the New England Chapter. I, Dominique Girard, am here as representative of the Court of the Covenant to act as mediator for said parley. In compliance with the Covenant, no violence may be perpetrated at these proceedings and no insult may be issued.”
She looked from one to the other, meeting each squarely in the eye. “Do you agree to these terms?”
“Aye,” said Camille firmly.
“Aye,” echoed Deacon.
Dominique nodded, satisfied. “You may begin.”
Deacon had regained his composure. He’d relaxed his hands, which now lay on the table, but his shoulders and the set of his jaw gave away his displeasure. “What brings you to Hartford, Miss Darkwing?”
Camille narrowed her eyes. If he was bluffing, he was good. She gave Deacon the photo she’d had printed up, the one Diana had texted her. It showed a smiling teen, short hair ruffled by the wind. “I’m following up on the disappearance of my Liege Lady’s youngest child, a half-demon by the name of Adeline. Sixteen when she was Gifted.”
“Have I met her before?” His face was a carefully arranged blank, but Camille knew exactly what he was alluding to. The night of his wife’s death.
“No, you wouldn’t have. She’s only been one of us for a year. Less than a year, in fact.” Camille noticed that Deacon’s shoulders relaxed just the tiniest bit. “And anyway, she isn’t in the Hunt,” she added. “She hasn’t pledged. She’s still an innocent.”
“An innocent?” His voice took on a sarcastic edge. “Is that even possible? What happened, Diana losing her touch?”
“Keep it polite,” Dominique warned.
But Camille
waved a hand. “It’s fine. And yes, she is indeed an innocent. Unpledged, unblooded.”
There was silence for a moment. Deacon was watching her, and she could almost see him weighing the information in his mind. His scrutiny was a barbed weapon, stripping away her defenses, and to her absolute horror she found herself blushing. He nodded to himself, and for some reason that pissed her off.
“It’s the truth,” she snapped. “So you can stop looking at me like that. I wouldn’t bother to lie to a sentinel. You’d know in a heartbeat, so what would be the point? I’ve met your kind before, you know. And no, before you ask, I wasn’t there either, that night. I’m new to Diana’s pack.”
Dominique interrupted again. “Miss Darkwing, restrain yourself. Keep to the matter in discussion.”
Camille slumped back in her chair, her fear of Deacon temporarily dampened by irritation.
Deacon was still giving her that calculating look. “And how do you know she’s in Hartford?” he asked, the next logical question.
“Four days ago she was put on a bus to Boston,” Camille answered. “She never made it there. Security cameras show she left the bus in Hartford with her luggage.”
“Really?” Deacon looked discomfited. Interesting. Perhaps the man didn’t know everything that went on in his territory, after all.
“Was she with anyone?” he asked next. “Was she coerced in any way?”
“No. She was alone. It seems to have been a matter of personal rebellion.”
Deacon looked mildly amused. “A rebellious demon teen. Well, I don’t have her, if that’s what you’re implying. I haven’t heard a whisper of her presence here, which is odd. Could she have left on a different bus, or a train?”
“No funds. Short leash,” replied Camille, shortly.
“Not much of a leash if she just took off on her own.” Now he was definitely amused, a frank smile on his face. “Miss Darkwing, I take it you expect me to produce the young lady in question?”
Heart Blade: Blade Hunt Chronicles Book One Page 10