Deacon’s truck coasted into the business park. “It’s bigger than I remembered,” he said. “Where do we even start? If I drive around, they might hear us.” He grimaced. “Can’t you, you know, sense them? With that thing you do?”
“With my amazing succubus powers?” she answered, sarcastic. “No. It doesn’t work that way. I’m a demon, not a siren. You need one of those deep-water girls or boys for that. Look, let’s drive around the perimeter and see if anything is off. We’ll keep to the edge, near the trees.”
The truck rumbled slowly past the thick woodlands. Camille opened her window, letting in the sounds of night. “There. Back up. Stop.”
Deacon put the truck in park but kept the motor running. Camille got out and drew her soul blade. It shone faintly. She advanced into the woods, holding her sword ready. She was sure she’d seen the headlights gleam on metal. Sure enough, just a few feet ahead she found the old truck. It was speckled with rust, forlorn and abandoned up a shallow trail. There was no one around. She let her blade shimmer out and tried the door handle. It opened easily, but there was nothing inside. No evidence of a struggle, or of Ash and Adeline.
She returned to Deacon, standing by his own truck. The open-door warning bell chimed over and over, loud in the quiet parking lot.
“It’s theirs,” she said. “No sign of them, though.”
“Do you think they’ve left? The witches, I mean.”
She started to nod and then stopped. “Probably. I don’t know. It depends on what they want from our two. We should search, anyway. Just to rule this place out.”
“Woods or building?”
“I’m thinking building. You said it’s empty, right? Easier to muffle any sounds inside.”
She got back in and they continued their slow tour of the building. Around the next corner, they found what they were looking for: the witches’ car, parked by a side entrance. Camille looked at Deacon. “How do you want to play this?”
He tapped the steering wheel, thinking. “I say we play the Court Police card. Go in all official-like, claiming we have a warrant for Adeline’s arrest and anyone who hinders…” He waved a hand. “You know, words to that effect. I can wing it. I’ve done it before.”
“Fine. I’ll stay quiet and play backup.”
Deacon reached behind his seat and pulled out a heavy-duty Kevlar vest and a helmet. He got out of the truck and put on his gear. There was a logo on his chest, a stylized pair of wings in pale gray. He unlocked the glove compartment and drew out a handgun. He loaded and holstered it, stashing spare ammo in a pocket. Then he drew out a wickedly sharp army knife.
“I’m ready.”
“Loaded for bear?” she asked.
“Better safe than sorry,” he answered.
They tried the side door. It was locked. Deacon smashed a gloved hand through the thin window beside it, quick and efficient. In less than a minute he had the door open. Camille let him go first. All that Kevlar had to be worth something, right?
Deacon took a flashlight from his vest pocket. “Look. Footprints.” In the dusty floor, there was a clear tread mark. There was also a thick trail, as if something had been dragged. Something, or someone. Camille’s money was on two someones, Ash and Adeline. The trail led through a door and down another hallway. It ended at a door marked “maintenance”. Under that was another sign, depicting a flight of stairs.
“Spooky basement,” she whispered. “Classic horror movie. Bad idea.”
Deacon gave her a look, like, really?
But they never got to check out the basement. There was a noise at their back. A man’s voice, loud and startled. “What the bloody hell?”
Camille whirled around, drawing her soul blade. Deacon shouted, “Sentinel on duty! Identify yourself!” But the man had already released a glowing ball of green fire, aimed straight at Camille’s head. She sliced it neatly in half and her sword drank the magic, glowing green for a second before returning to normal.
The man stared at her. His aura was as green as his spell fire. They’d found the witches.
“Sentinel on duty!” Deacon shouted again, aiming his gun at the witch. “Put your hands behind your head.”
“Fuck that,” said the witch. He let loose a stream of fire, a whole wall of it, forcing them to retreat down the hallway. Deacon took a blind shot in the witch’s direction, loud in the enclosed space.
The fire died down. The witch was gone, leaving a faint sprinkling of blood drops. Deacon followed his trail, Camille a step behind with her soul blade raised. A door banged.
“Blast!” said Deacon. “He went outside. Heading for his car, I bet.”
But there was no one at the car. Camille spotted a shadow crossing the parking lot. “He’s heading for the woods! Come on.” She ran after the witch, her demon speed soon opening a gap between her and Deacon.
“Camille, wait!” she heard. But she was already in the woods.
A fireball came out of nowhere, thudding into the tree beside her. She ducked around the back of the tree, casting out her hunger despite her pounding headache. It met a wall.
“Nice trick, demon,” the witch taunted. “Won’t work. I’m warded.”
Camille didn’t answer. Now she knew where he was. She let her sword shimmer out, extinguishing its telltale gleam. She crept around the tree, stepping slowly and carefully so she wouldn’t make noise.
She wasn’t quiet enough. Three fireballs zoomed out of the dark in quick succession. With no time to summon her blade, she spun away, escaping the first two. The third caught her in the shoulder, burning through her clothes to her skin. She had her sword by then, and as she sank to her knees she threw it at the witch. It must have hit him, because there was a yell of pain. Her sword shimmered out again.
It took a while to summon her soul blade back. It always did when you called for it too many times in a row. Before she could draw it, she saw the witch’s green glow start up. She dove to the ground, expecting another wash of fire. She felt a spike of agony from her ruined shoulder as she covered her head from the incoming spell.
Instead, a gunshot rang out. The witch cried out once and went silent. A strong flashlight beam lit up the trees and Camille, and then danced over to pick out the witch just as his green aura winked out.
There was a grunt of pain, and Deacon crashed to his knees beside her, his flashlight spinning out of his grip and landing on the ground.
“What is it?” she asked, getting carefully to her feet. Her shoulder still burned. She ignored it, focusing on the sentinel. “Did he hit you?”
“No.” Deacon groaned again. “Covenant. Oath. Can’t break… Harm. Kill.” The words came out as gasps, forced through his teeth. “Didn’t mean to… Wanted to question… Too late now.”
“Shit.” Camille picked up the flashlight. “Can you walk?” She helped him up, draped his arm around her neck. His fingers hung loosely and rubbed against her burned shoulder, but she couldn’t help that. She gritted her teeth against the pain. Together they made their way to the edge of the woods.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Del
Del plucked uselessly at her handcuffs as the lady witch worked on Ash. He lay on his side, his breathing a faint rasp. He’d stopped sobbing, but tears still ran down Del’s own cheeks.
“Come on,” the witch muttered at Ash, sliding her hands over him. There was a trace of worry in her voice. “Fight it, boy. Don’t go into shock. Not yet. I’m not done with you.”
Del glared at her through the tears, hatred in her eyes. “You’re killing him,” she told the witch, tugging yet again at the handcuffs. Her wrist was a mass of red welts where she’d pulled against the metal.
The witch gave an exasperated sigh. “Look, girl. One way or another, he’s going to die. We can’t release him. If you tell me what I want to know, we’ll make it fast and painless. And this will all be over. He won’t have to suffer any more.”
Del closed her eyes. A fat tear trickled off the end of her chin
and splashed on her knee, soaking through her jeans. She was so close to giving up and letting the witches end this. “Stay strong,” Ash had whispered the last time they were alone. “If you give in, I’m done for. As long as you hold out, we might still escape.”
The handcuff dug into her wrist. Ash was wrong. There was no escape. No one was going to save them. Three times now the man with fire at his fingertips had set to work on Ash, and three times the healer had brought him back from the edge.
The witch got up and fetched a bottle of water with a straw. “If he wakes up, give him this. I’ll be right back. I’m going to find my colleague.”
Del shuddered. My colleague. The witch with the green fire. The man who laughed as he worked, who had to be forcefully dragged away by his partner before he burned Ash to the bone, and told to take a walk and cool his head.
Ash moaned, caught in some fever dream. He was talking. Del bent over as far as she could, trying to hear his words. But all he said was, “…pleaseMichaelpleaseMichaelpleaseMichael…” over, and over, and over.
“Shit!” She thumped the floor, hard, grazing her hand on the rough concrete. She wiped her face, the salt tears stinging the scratches on her palm. “Ash! Wake up, Ash. Please?”
“…MichaelpleaseMichaelpleaseMichaelplease…”
Ash was dying. His aura was already weaker, almost platinum instead of the bright gold it had been before. A great ugly sob burst from Del’s throat.
On the floor, Ash still muttered, “…pleaseMichaelplease…”
She thought that Michael might be the Archangel. Wasn’t he the one who was supposed to have made the sentinels mortal? She closed her eyes and whispered her own prayer, the words shuddering their way out past the sobs that wracked her body. “Michael, if you exist, if you can hear us, protect him, please! Take me instead. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve any of this.”
Ash grew quiet. He looked so peaceful, as if he were just sleeping. But the shadow of pain under his eyes, and the darkening bruise on his cheekbone where the green fire witch had lost his temper and struck him, gave away his suffering. Del realized his breathing had faded away to almost nothing.
“No! Please!” she begged, without even knowing who she was begging.
Ash gasped. His aura suddenly deepened, moving from the palest platinum to a gold so rich it was almost bronze in tone. He was shimmering all over. Del hardly dared to hope. Would he live? Or was this death?
He drew another breath and opened his eyes. Only they weren’t his usual honey-brown color, but a deep gold. He sat up, tugging at his arm as though puzzled. His face cleared. “Handcuffs.” He wrenched his arm forward, and the chain on the cuffs parted like butter. He got to his feet, steady, no sign of weakness, shrugging off the tatters of his t-shirt. He held a hand out to Del. “Come.”
She rattled her own handcuffs. “I can’t!”
He bent down and snapped the chain with no effort. Then he helped her up. His grip was so strong she cried out. “You’re hurting me.”
He stared at his own hand, the puzzled look back on his face. “Sorry.” He let her go and looked up at the windows. “Can we get through these?”
“I think so. Do we break the glass?”
In answer, he stalked off to grab the chair the lady witch had sat on to watch his torture. He swung it at the window, shattering the glass. Then he stood on the chair and cleared all the shards out of the frame. He hoisted Del up and out into a deserted parking lot. There was no one around. She twisted around to face him through the window, but he was already following her out. The strange gold shimmer was still on him, resting heavily on his shoulders like a cloak.
“Michael’s Blessing,” he said, staring at his hands. “I’m not supposed to be able to summon it. Not until I’ve sworn my oaths.”
His voice was different, too. Deeper, wilder, more like a growl. It scared her. She took his hand. “We have to go. The witches will be back.”
He half-turned back to the window, and she could see his thirst for a fight. She pulled his hand harder. “No, Ash. We need to go!” Finally he relented and followed her across the parking lot and into the trees. The glow was fading slowly, and as they were swallowed by the shadows it shimmered out completely and he sank to the ground.
“Del? I can’t go any further. Just let me rest.”
She stood there for a moment, worrying at her lip. Then she made a decision. “You stay here. I’m going to find our truck.” She whirled around and ran for the parking lot. Keeping to the trees that skirted it, she worked her way around the empty lot. They had to have stashed the truck somewhere, and her bet was that it was in the woods.
When she found it, she almost started crying again, in relief this time. The witches hadn’t even bothered removing the keys from the ignition. She didn’t dare drive it over to Ash. She had no idea if she’d known how to drive as a human, and she wasn’t about to wreck their only hope of getting away.
She ran back to Ash and helped him up. “I found the truck.”
They made their way to it, too slowly for Del but faster than she expected. Whatever that Blessing thing had done to Ash, it had evidently given him new strength. When they got to the truck, Del helped him into the driver’s seat, fastening his seatbelt across his bare chest as if he were a little kid. He stared at his mangled wrist.
“I don’t think I can drive.”
Del got into the passenger seat. “You have to,” she told him firmly. “I don’t know how, so you have to, or we’re dead. You can do this. You’ve done so much already, you can do this too. I believe in you.”
He half-tilted his head to look at her, giving her a tired smile. “You do?”
“I do.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek, like she’d done before. But he turned to meet her and she kissed his lips instead, and he was kissing her back, the kisses hot and golden as the fire in his eyes. He was burning, and so was she; her whole body was on fire. Her mouth parted and the kisses turned hard, desperate. He drew her closer, one hand on her back, the other cupping her cheek. Her own hand was trapped between them, and she felt his heartbeat, strong and steady and hers.
There was a loud bang and they both jumped, drawing apart.
“Gunshot,” he said. “We need to leave.” His voice was full of regret. He started the truck and they drove through the lot, looking for an exit.
“Over there.” She pointed at a long driveway. At the end, there was a glimmer of streetlights. No one followed them. Ash pulled out onto a main road and soon they’d left the nightmare basement far behind.
Whatever strength the Blessing had conferred upon Ash was long spent by the time they made it back to the cabin. He kept dozing off on the last part of the drive, exhaustion finally catching up. Del kept a firm hand on the wheel, just in case. She babbled a steady stream of nothing to keep him awake.
“That’s right, nice work, easy does it, almost home…”
They bumped up the cart track and stopped the truck right where it was, not bothering to try and park it in the lean-to. Del was sure they’d crash if they tried. She unlocked the kitchen door and got Ash out. He leaned heavily on her, and she almost fell under his weight. Why couldn’t demons be super-strong instead of super-fast?
She managed to get him as far as the sofa he’d been using as a bed. She lowered him carefully. “Water?” he croaked. “So dry.”
Del fetched him a glass and helped him raise his head to drink. He gulped the whole thing down and then relaxed back onto the pillow. He was asleep a moment later. She stood there, watching him. The gas lantern was off, and she didn’t bother lighting it. Instead, she took one of the powerful flashlights they’d found in a closet and shined it at Ash. She let the light play over him, looking for injuries.
Outwardly, the only sign of his ordeal was the bruise on his face and the ruined skin on his wrist. The burn marks… Well, it was just like she’d told him in the basement. Whatever the healer had done, she was good. His face looked mildly sunburne
d and so did his body, apart from a faint ripple of blisters across his lower abdomen where the fire witch had lost control. It was the unseen damage within she was worried about. But his breathing was even, and his heartbeat when she laid a gentle hand on his chest sounded good and strong.
“Don’t die on me,” she whispered at the sleeping angel. She wished she had a phone. No, she wished she had his phone. She would have called his father immediately. This was too big and too much for her to handle alone. She was terrified of losing him.
Her legs were shaking with exhaustion. She covered him with a blanket and went to wash her face and change. Then she climbed up to the sleeping loft she’d been using and threw down her pillow and bedding. There was no way she was leaving him alone.
She made up a bed on the floor beside him but, tired as she was, she couldn’t relax. She ended up propped on one elbow, watching his chest rise and fall until her eyes grew heavy and she finally lay down her head.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Camille
Camille pulled in to a cheap-looking motel, the type with a row of ground-floor rooms. She didn’t want to use her corporate card, and she didn’t have enough cash for a hotel. More importantly, she didn’t want to answer questions about Deacon.
He’d collapsed once they’d reached the truck, and it had taken all her strength to get him into the passenger seat.
She stopped near the office, careful to park in a shadowed spot. She dug around in Deacon’s truck and found a sweatshirt. It would have to do. She peeled off her ruined shirt, wincing as it unstuck from her burned shoulder. Her body was already trying to heal itself, and she plucked cloth fibers out of the shiny pink skin that was forming beneath the burns.
Deacon’s sweatshirt came down to her knees. She rolled up the sleeves and went to ask for a room. She told them she wanted privacy and wound up with keys to the very last door in the row.
Heart Blade: Blade Hunt Chronicles Book One Page 17