But she wasn’t overreaching. She’d healed tougher injuries than these burns. Such a menial task shouldn’t tax her Magic.
Unless she was losing her gift to heal.
No. Impossible. Trina and Lilith were both vampire and witch. Of course, they were also the Original—they shared the reincarnated soul of the first woman and they were meant to be both vampire and witch. It was what made them special and gave them the power necessary to maintain lawfulness among the daemons and the Watchers.
Oh, dearest Gaia, she was so stupid. A numb, eerie calm overtook her and she sank to the floor, cradling her aching arms to her torso.
She was losing her Magic.
Once the souls were safe, the goddess chose two and gave them bodies. She created the bodies from the mud of the Earth so they would be grounded to their planet and called them humans. She gave the humans the Earth and told them everything on it was theirs. Everything but the fruit from one tree. She named the first two humans Adam and Lilith.
And they were good. Really, really good.
Chapter 7
Harrison Sinclair scratched George under the chin as he walked down 4th Avenue South alongside Duncan toward the courthouse. They still had half a block to go, but could already hear the shouts of the protestors who lined the street out front of the old Superior Court building.
The old man hadn’t said much. Yet. He seemed to be warming up to his topic, which meant whatever he had to say was bound to be long-winded.
Harrison wasn’t much in the mood.
Street lamps, emitting a colicky yellow light, lit their way and made the wet streets gleam. A steady Seattle mist floated down to bead on his clothing and hair, not quite heavy enough to seep in.
“I need you to be careful, pup.”
Here it came. “All right.”
Duncan heaved a sigh and stopped walking. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Scrubbed his hand over his jaw. He wasn’t the handsomest of males. He kept his hair shorn tight to his scalp, maybe to hide his high hairline. His nose had been broken and sat crooked on his face. His neck was damned near as thick as his head. He was huge and he looked mean as hell.
He had a lot of memories of Duncan. The one thing he never remembered seeing was the big male at a loss for words. “What? You’re freaking me out.” Duncan stared down the street one way. Then the other.
“D. Come on, man. This is no big deal. It’s a job. With humans, for Christ’s sake. Everyone’s going to be toeing the line . . . at least for a while.”
“Maybe.” He sighed again. “Look, you need to keep your eyes and ears open. I don’t trust this. There’s a lot of unhappy people protesting this alliance. Considering that, this has been far too easy.”
Harrison tipped his head to the side. “Yeah.” Humans had known about daemon kind all of a week before they’d abandoned the old Seattle Supreme Court building with a mind to establish the DDC.
“I’ve got a bad feeling I’m sending you into a hornet’s nest.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
The last thing he wanted was for Duncan to change his mind. He had plans for the DDC. Now that most all the Guardians were dead, someone needed to take their place.
The Guardians had maintained the balance between humans and daemon kind since the beginning of time. Julius Crowley and the Watcher had destroyed all but two. The DDC would have to take their place, fighting off the Nephilim and keeping rogue daemons in line. He had one particular rogue daemon he wanted put down permanently. Adia. She’d threatened everyone he loved and he had to find and destroy her before that happened. He had some time. She’d gone to ground for now but eventually she’d reemerge.
The DDC would have the resources he needed to find her and ash her.
They walked in silence for a while, slowing as they approached the protestors. George sat up on his hind legs, placing one of his front paws on Harrison’s head as he stretched up to get a better look.
“I’m thinking the government is doing what they have to do to appear competent.” Duncan shook his head. “But if they can turn things pear-shaped and make it look like we fucked up . . . .”
Harrison snorted. “They wouldn’t risk a war with daemon kind.” He pulled George from his head and placed him on his shoulder again.
“Wouldn’t they?” Duncan arched his brow. “You think humans are a peace-loving race? You think they will bow easily, just because there’s something else out there stronger and more powerful?”
The portals between Machon—the daemon realm—and Earth had been closed for three centuries. In those three hundred years, the U.S. alone had been involved in almost a hundred wars. Daemon kind? None.
“Yeah, I guess I see your point.”
Duncan pulled out a set of sheathed Guardian blades from one of the deep pockets in his Mackintosh and held them out.
Harrison took them.
“They’re thigh sheathes.” He shrugged. “I can get something else made.”
Harrison shook his head. “Nah, these are great.”
“Whatever other equipment they give you, insist that these are necessary.”
“Yeah. All right.”
“No blades.” Duncan pointed. “You walk.”
He nodded. Smiled. “I promise.”
Duncan yanked him forward and hugged him, overwhelming him with conflicting emotion. Embarrassment—the old man was acting like a dad sending his kid off to school. Claustrophobia—he hated being touched. And warmth—the old fart was the closest thing he had to a father. He hugged him back for the barest of moments, but as soon as that old, familiar choking sensation came over him, he pushed away. “All right. Come on. I gotta get to work.”
Duncan patted him on the shoulder. A week ago, that pat would’ve damn near taken him off his feet. Tonight, his body didn’t budge. A lot had changed.
“Mason’s waiting for you.” Duncan jerked his chin up toward the courthouse doors. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair stood just outside, his hard features bearing the weariness of a man who’d seen too much. His quick, assessing brown eyes gave the impression he didn’t miss anything. He nodded to Duncan.
“James sent a guy named Will Wear, a lycan. Keep an eye out for him, he’s an ally.”
“What about him?”
“Mason? Trina said he has good ‘vibes,’ whatever the hell that means. He’s kept his promises so far, but I don’t know how much say he has in any of this. It’s all political.” Duncan grinned. “You’ll do good. Wouldn’t’ve picked you if I had any worries on that count.”
Harrison’s face warmed.
“If he asks about Crowley, tell him he’ll have him by the end of the week.”
“Right.” Harrison snorted. “We don’t even know where he is.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Trina doesn’t seem worried about it, so neither am I.”
If you asked him, Trina had been acting strange for the last couple of nights. Everyone in the coven had. Hell, he hadn’t even seen Kat since the night they exorcized Crowley.
“See ya, D.”
He headed toward the courthouse . . . the DDC, and the new boss he may or may not be able to trust. He pulled George off his shoulder and tucked him into his jacket as he crossed through the protestors. No reason to let them see George. The lot of them would freak out.
“Tell Mason we’re coming by tomorrow to check in.”
“All right.” He waved a hand over his head.
“Ten o’clock.”
“Yep.” Harrison grinned.
“You say my name if you need me.”
Harrison laughed. “Go home to Trina before she thinks you’re cheating on her.”
He pushed open one of the heavy gold-trimmed glass doors and walked inside.
“You Harrison Sinclair?”
Harrison nodded. “Mason?” He offered his hand.
“Scott, when we’re alone.” He shook his hand. “The way your people have this set up, you and I are pretty much on a level playing field.�
� Scott was the director of the DDC, but the daemons would only take orders okayed by Harrison.
“Except no one but us knows it.”
Scott nodded, his gaze jerking down as George crawled out from his jacket. The minion walked across his chest and back up onto his shoulder. One paw landed on Harrison’s head as George stood on his hind legs to look around.
Scott’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “No pets.”
“He’s not a pet. I don’t feed him.”
“No? What does something like that eat?”
“The tears of my enemies.” Harrison grinned. “Think of him as an extension of me and we’ll get along fine.”
“I guess I can mark him down as a daemon equivalent of a K-9 unit. What about Crowley?”
“You’ll have him at the end of the week.” Hopefully.
“What are you getting out of this deal?”
“James and Duncan are the only Guardians left and they’ll never be able to keep up with daemon crime. It’d be like the humans trying to curb criminal tendencies with two cops. We need the DDC just as much as you do.”
“So it’s not personal.”
He could lie, but something told him Scott would see right through him. “There’s one rogue daemon in particular I want to see brought to justice.”
“Well, we have to get the DDC up and running first.”
“I know.”
“And get the Nephilim under control.”
He blew out an impatient breath. “I know.”
“But we’ll go after your rogue.” Scott nodded. “Come on. I cleaned my office.” He lifted his hand palm up, revealing three tiny metal devices. Bugs? “We can talk there.”
Well, shit. Duncan had been right, he was walking into a hornet’s nest.
The humans had a beautiful garden, Eden, where they could know the goddess but they soon grew bored. She caught the woman, Lilith, lingering near her tree several times. So the goddess created animals to populate the world and let the humans name them. They lived happily for a time, until one day, Lilith and Adam had a fight.
The goddess sighed. The angels never fought.
Chapter 8
Wednesday
It was stifling hot. He couldn’t see. The air he dragged in tasted stale and thin. The hood muffled and distorted the sounds around him.
He hated the hood. It wasn’t the first time he’d been forced into one and he doubted it’d be the last.
Sensing someone nearby, he strained to hear over his breathing. The low whine of a bone saw whirred and his stomach rolled.
Laughter bloomed inside his head.
All his muscles seized under a sudden attack of acute agony. It was too much effort to even drag in a stale breath of air around the blinding fire in his hand. His thoughts shattered.
Julius jerked awake with a gasp, grasping his left hand. His pinky was still there . . . most of it. His little finger felt shorter than the one on his right, the nail malformed.
That had been a memory, not a dream. He lifted a shaky hand to his face and wiped away the moisture from his cheeks.
If he wasn’t already crazy, he would be soon. He couldn’t take much more. He couldn’t even find escape in the oblivion of sleep.
Hell, he didn’t even remember climbing into bed. He remembered meeting Kat. Trying to convince her to let him leave. Touching her. Kissing her.
He recalled the voice. That woman—Mary Jane Kelly, reaching for him, her insides—
A shudder coursed through him. He pushed the grim memory away.
He focused on his breathing. Slowing it. Deepening it. Trying without success to block out memories of the hood. Of being pursued by those long dead. He wouldn’t get anymore sleep today.
He should try. His body and mind needed rest to heal, and then maybe he’d remember. That’s what he needed. To remember. How had he known Mary Jane? How had he come upon her in such a condition? Had he done that to her? Why?
In truth, he wasn’t sure he wanted to refill the black hole of his past. What he did remember didn’t paint a pretty picture. Thus far his memories had done nothing but torment.
His eyes didn’t hurt so he opened them, finding yet more proof of insanity: He could see though the blindfold still wrapped around his skull. He stared up at a textured ceiling. The fan was still, the lights were off but a colorful illumination—similar to an aurora borealis—danced around the peripheral of his vision. That’s how he saw the ceiling and the fan—there was no color to the ceiling or the fan—they were in grayscale, but the way those dancing lights reflected off the objects’ surfaces gave them depth and definition.
Something was wrong, he shouldn’t see anything through the bandages.
He got out of bed, taking the sheet with him, wrapping it around his naked hips. The lights dimmed. When he turned back to the bed, light filled his vision once again.
The lights came from her.
Kat snuggled under the comforter facing away from him. Brilliant colors surrounded her—orange, yellow, purple, green, pink—they surged in the various bubbles encasing her. Two of the bubbles angled away along the line of her shoulders like wings instead of cocooning her from head to foot. Lying there, she looked like a luminous butterfly.
He almost shook her awake to tell her he was stark, fucking crazy. Except he sort of . . . liked her and he didn’t want her to know he was asylum material.
So he left, pausing in the hallway. There were three doors upstairs. To his right flexing ribbons of light reached out from under the door, reminding him of how the sun’s rays rippled into fragmented lines on the bottom of a pool.
He let himself into the room with the caged animals. Kat’s patients. Their little hearts thrummed anxious rhythms. They didn’t recognize his look, his scent, and he made them nervous. Each of the animals glowed with faint auras that swirled and throbbed around them. The hawk flexed its wings in agitation and the others scurried for cover in their pens.
Leaving the small menagerie, he headed downstairs. This wasn’t a trick of his mind. Somehow, he could see, though nothing looked as it should. He slowed his pace as he neared the landing. Some items—the robe on the sewing mannequin—glowed with bright colors, while others—the dining table and chairs—appeared more like negatives from a photograph, reflecting the light from the robe.
Kat’s place was a disaster. As tidy as the kitchen and upstairs rooms were, the living room and dining room looked like a tornado had hit. A full laundry basket sat on the table. Stacks of books littered the floor. The bookshelves were full to bursting with disorganized tomes, jars of stones and herbs, and a full zoo of crystalline animals.
It almost seemed purposeful—the mess. Some of the books on the shelves had even been put in backward, with the pages facing out instead of the spines.
She had nice furniture—the kind he’d seen in those all natural eco-friendly places. Clean, straight wooden frames that housed large cushions. Oscar was curled up on the corner of the couch in a patch of sunlight that bled through the blinds.
There was no TV. No stereo or computer. Was she a Luddite?
Making his way back upstairs, he passed Kat’s bedroom and tried the last remaining upstairs door. Beyond, a narrow staircase led to a large room on the third floor. Nothing here moved or breathed. There were no tiny heartbeats thrumming a rapid rhythm. Nothing he could mesmerize if his mind snapped again.
He pulled off the bandage.
Everything blurred.
“Fuck’s sake.” He covered his right eye which left him with blurry vision from his healing eye, but everything looked as it should. The items in the room had normal everyday colors and textures.
He switched, covering his left eye and now that strange light illuminated some of the things in the room and while the light only emanated from certain objects, it reflected off others, allowing him to see their outlines as if they were a negative of a photograph.
Maybe the lights were some odd side-effect of his injury. Maybe he would
ask Kat about it later. For now, he wanted to check out what he’d found.
The room brimmed with art supplies. She had an easel set up in the corner, several canvases stacked against one wall, and finished paintings on another next to a large cabinet. Inside, he discovered a plethora of brushes and pencils, oils and pastels. Everything was organized by color, size, and purpose. The opposite of the rooms downstairs.
He eyed the stack of finished paintings. They glowed with the same colors that had surrounded Kat; they must be her work. He shouldn’t look, it was an invasion of privacy, but he had a compulsive need to understand her.
His mate.
He snorted. What if she was? Mates could be harsh as hell to each other if introduced before both were ready for their bonding. Him and Katherine . . . . He shook his head. They’d been oil and water everywhere but in bed.
The first of the paintings was of Oscar. She’d rendered the cub in charcoal, but had still managed to capture the life of the feline. He looked ready to pounce right off the canvas, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
He leaned the canvas forward and found an oil painting of a beautiful blonde. Her face symmetrical, with flowing hair and the most startling blue eyes he’d ever seen. Kat had talent.
He’d never figured out face structure or the aspects of three-dimensional rendering that Kat had mastered. He loved to paint, though. Not that he was an artist like Kat; his paintings always came out in swirls of color and strange shapes—infantile, his brother used to tease—but it calmed him and Jesus, did he need that right now.
He froze. He remembered his brother. Julian. He used the heel of his hand to rub the spot in his chest that started to ache. How long had it been since he’d thought of him?
“Brother, I wish you were here.”
He’d love to trade playful barbs with him again. Funny how much he missed him when he was the reason Julian couldn’t be here in the first place.
The Knight: The Original's Trilogy - Book 3 Page 7