All those fresh supplies proved to be too much temptation. He wandered over to the easel and set up a fresh canvas. He’d do anything to escape his thoughts.
On the Astral.
* * *
The coven was dying.
Kat stood on a darkened dirt path between neat little rows of cabins, her hands fisted at her sides. A Magical battle raged around her on a new moon night. The only light came from the orbs of destructive energy the coven hurled toward the Nephilim.
The Nephilim were once human, but were larger, stronger. Their abnormal muscle mass made them appear twisted and misshapen and their jagged teeth and yellow eyes as evil as they were.
She wasn’t participating in the battle. Instead, she walked toward her mate. Julius’ handsome features twisted into a sneer of disgust as he let Lilith’s limp body fall away from his bloody hands. His jerkin and hose were covered in a combination of dirt and blood. She didn’t want to know how he’d come to look that way.
The Original was dead and her mate was still possessed. In the distance, Trina screamed.
She passed Claire’s body lying under a tree, her throat opened from one of the Nephilim. Fiona was wounded, bleeding but focused with otherworldly intent on carving something into a tree. Fiona’s whole body shook with the effort it took to press her knife into the wood—she would transform soon.
Kat didn’t stop. She did little more than spare a glance for Fiona and the three letters she’d managed to carve: C-R-O. Instead, her gaze traveled back to Julius.
He’d noticed her. Was headed her way.
She should run. All around them what was left of the coven fought and destroyed the Nephilim but Julius sauntered toward her as if he were strolling through Hyde Park. His lips quirked into a smile. “Now what, little witch? Your plan failed.”
The coven was dying, but so too were the Nephilim.
“Julius, please.” He had to be in there still. “Fight it,” she said. “For me.”
The dark energy around him shifted, receded, and his expression changed from rage into one of intense concentration.
He was trying to fight.
She stepped closer.
He backed away with a jerk, the foul aura returned with renewed vigor, churning in agitation. The hateful mask returned, his spine straightened and he took a menacing step forward. The light from the battle reflected in his eyes, heightening the unholy promise in his gaze.
“We’re losing everything we ever believed in, damn it. You’ve got to fight.”
The energy receded again; his body shuddered with effort. The evil glint left his eyes.
“Praise be.” She threw herself into his arms.
“No time.” He panted. A shudder ran through him. “Have to hurry. I can’t hold him long.” Another tremor rocked through his body. “We have to make sure the Nephilim are gone.”
She pulled away and nodded. The night had grown so dark she could barely make out his features. So quiet. The coven was no longer fighting. Kat glanced over her shoulder to where the battle no longer raged. Were any of them still alive?
“They’re gone.”
Julius drew her behind him but he didn’t let go of Kat’s hand. Together they walked through the huts, his thumb rubbing against her wrist in a comforting gesture. “I don’t see any of the coven, either.”
She swallowed. He was right. “They’re all dead. The coven and the Nephilim both.”
His body fought another wracking tremor. Still, she dared to walk closer. “Please, forgive me. I didn’t intend for this to happen.”
She pressed her mouth against his, putting all her heart into the act. “I thought we’d have time. I thought I could be here for the coven in this lifetime and you’d wait for me to reincarnate.” Now none of that would be. She’d have to destroy him to kill the being within him.
He trembled against her and his hands brushed against her arms as he raised them to cup her face.
Another shudder wracked his frame. His hands caressed lower, settling around her neck and before she could so much as gather a scream his fingers constricted.
Kat moaned as she woke, gripping her throat. It was just a dream. She’d been having that same dream about the Clearances—the rest of the world knew that event as the disappearing colony of Roanoke—since she was a little girl.
Now that she was awake, her neck didn’t hurt, but her arms did. The discoloration had gone from her skin, but her muscles had cramped while she slept. She rubbed the tightness away, flexing and rotating her wrists. For a disoriented moment, she didn’t remember what happened. Then she did—she was losing her Magic.
Suddenly, everything was too much.
She rolled back on her side, covering her eyes to hide her tears, and staying as still as possible so as not to disturb her mate.
What was she doing? The last two weeks had been hell.
Everything had changed.
Two weeks ago, on Samhain Eve, she’d caught her first glimpse of Julius. It wasn’t the most auspicious of meetings, he happened to be colluding with Mother to kidnap Lilith. At the time, no one had known the wayward Watcher possessed him, but even thinking the worst of him, she couldn’t get him out of her thoughts. That night was the first time in hundreds of years that the coven had worked with daemons for a common goal. It was the night Mother had died. The night Julius had been captured and taken to Revelations Industries. The night that started Armageddon.
A week later, while fighting the Vampiric Council after they’d kidnapped Trina, she ran into Julius again. Or so she’d thought. It wasn’t him, but a doppelgänger—a projection of her deepest desire—created by Leopold, the head of the Vampiric Council. As soon as she let the doppelgänger close, he’d bitten her. Transformed her. If she hadn’t been so intent on saving Julius, she wouldn’t have fallen for Leopold’s doppelgänger. She would still be human and a witch and her Magic would be strong as ever.
But no, now she wouldn’t be able to help and heal anymore and why? Because of the possibility of love with a daemon she didn’t know? One who had hurt her in the past. One that had killed her in a previous life.
Everything that had happened in the last two weeks—Mother’s death, her transformation, the start of Armageddon, the Nephilim—it was all linked to Julius.
Was trying to save him even worth the trouble?
She rolled over to check on her mate. “Shit!” She smacked her hand over her mouth which was ridiculous because no one was there to hear her slip.
He was gone.
She leapt out of bed and bounded down the stairs. She called his name and got no answer. Heard no sound at all. She flung open the front door and scanned the empty porch. Her shield was still up—he hadn’t left the house.
Something in her calmed. He hadn’t left. He was here. Safe.
A package sat on the doormat. She reached out and sunlight hit her skin. Her skin reddened and began to smoke. She gasped and snatched her hand back. One finger and part of another had been burnt—not any worse than that time the potholder had slipped and she ended up grabbing a hot pan.
Vampirism officially sucked.
She stared at the package sitting there within a bright streak of sunlight. Had the delivery person thrown it a little to the left, she could grab it. She marched into the kitchen, bandaged her fingers, grabbed her broom, and used it to pull the box into the shadowy part of the porch. She picked it up, closed the door, and continued her search.
She walked through the lower rooms one by one—kitchen, dining room, living room. Upstairs, she checked on her animals and found her patients alone and well.
In her bedroom, she set the package on the dresser, and peeked into the bathroom. Empty.
That left her art room.
The door was ajar. She pushed it open, crept up the stairs and paused in the doorway.
There he was.
All of her doubts shrank. He was the one for her. She couldn’t explain her certainty, maybe it was the crazy flock of butter
flies that came alive in her stomach or just the sense of rightness.
His eyes had healed well enough to see. He’d removed the bandage, leaving it on his lap where Oscar chewed away at it.
He was painting, using the canvas she’d set up before everything had gotten crazy. Absorbed in his work—almost fanatical in his task—he sat hunched over, a pallet in one hand, a paint brush clenched between his teeth and another in his hand. Paint coated the edge of his right palm, from where he’d smudged and blended the colors on the canvas.
He hadn’t had any clothes after his brush with the sunlight, so he’d wrapped the bed sheet around his waist and, Gaia, was he a beautiful man. Underneath the scars, he had the lengthy muscle of an athlete. As he worked, her gaze followed the play of muscle across his back, shoulders, and arms.
She’d never seen him quite like this. So focused. So calm. Art was good for him, would help him heal.
Reluctantly, she shifted her attention to the painting and shivered. He’d chosen to use oils and the dominant color was black. He’d painted on to the canvas in great swirling, textured strokes that made her feel as though she was falling into an abyss. She dared a step closer, looking over his shoulder. Those whirling brush strokes narrowed to a pin-point of light. To the left of the pristine white dot was a tiny abstract figure with wings. The brilliant colors—red, yellow, orange, and pink—he’d used gave a sense of hope, a small savior from the overwhelming darkness.
He was quite gifted. Her own talent was limited to what she saw. She could create almost a photographic copy of anything, but lacked the imagination and depth of feeling to create something like this. The painting was disturbing. Dark. Hopeless. Yet the small, winged creature gave the impression of ultimate redemption and light.
He cleaned his brush and dipped it in white. She took a step closer, drawn to what he created, needing to see the finished product, but her skirt brushed against the canvases stacked against the wall and his shoulders tensed.
The paintbrush clattered to the floor. He eased the bandage away from Oscar and yanked it over his head. His movements were jerky, almost angry—except for when he touched the cub. He picked up the oil-stained rag off his other knee, snatched up the fallen brush and wiped the splotch of white off the floor.
“I’ll find a way to replace them.”
She looked around, seeing nothing amiss. “Replace what?”
“The supplies,” he spoke in clipped tones. “I shouldn’t have come in here without permission.”
He made it sound like she’d caught him stealing. “Don’t worry about the supplies. A friend of mine ran an art shop. When she retired she gave me more paints than I’ll use before they expire. I don’t mind that you’re in here and I never said you couldn’t.”
He finished cleaning off the brush and set it aside. He paused. Tipped his head to the side. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t remember how I got to bed.”
That was probably good. “I put you there.”
He nodded. “I don’t suppose I fell asleep in the recliner?”
“What happened wasn’t your fault. It was a felo-de-se curse.”
His head snapped up. “A suicide curse? What happened? What did I do?” All his muscles strained against his skin. The tremor in his hands increased. This wasn’t good for him.
“Jules, it’s nothing to worry about. You didn’t do anything wrong. I think I can help you purge the curse from your system.”
He shrugged. Nodded.
Though she wasn’t an empath like Trina, she couldn’t miss the waves of shame and regret radiating off him.
He cocked his head toward the easel. “You sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. I’m glad you found it.” She twisted her hands in her skirt, unsure of herself. “I love the piece you’re working on.”
Adam wanted to be in charge of all things. Lilith refused to submit. When Adam tried to force the issue, Lilith ran away. She left Eden. Left her mate. Left the goddess. She ran right out into the wilderness and never looked back.
She left and Adam grew lonely and sad. But the goddess had a plan.
Chapter 9
It’s you.
The words were there, in his mind, but he couldn’t get them out. “My brother used to say I could rival any youth in leading strings.”
“Leading strings?”
“Ah, guess that’s kind of old school. Mums used to tie their little ones to their skirts so they could go about their chores while the little one toddled around.”
“He compared your art to a toddler’s?”
He shrugged. “I still feel like I should pay you back, for everything.” He shook his head. He had funds, a bolt hole . . . somewhere. “Once I remember where I put my stuff.”
She laughed and the warm peals rolled over him in a heady wave. “Don’t worry about any of that for now. When you remember, then you can bring it up again.”
“Deal.”
“You didn’t sleep long.” She took a step closer and the light surrounding her flared brighter, making him wince.
“No.”
“What woke you?”
He shrugged. “A dream.”
The reds surrounding her flared brighter. “What was it about? I’ve had some luck interpreting dreams.”
He looked away. “I was wearing a hood and . . . .”
“And?”
They cut off my finger. They tortured me. He shook his head. “That’s all. I was wearing a hood.”
She stayed silent for so long he was about to remind her of her offer when she spoke. “That’s easy enough, you’re feeling imprisoned here.”
Interesting. His little butterfly was lying. The dream had been a memory. For fuck’s sake, part of his finger was missing. “So you don’t think it was a memory?”
“No.” She came closer, her skirt brushing his bare knee.
Shit. He forgot he wasn’t wearing anything but a sheet. He lifted Oscar out of the way and tugged it tighter round his hips, pooling the extra material in his lap.
“How about you let me look at those eyes.”
He stood and backed away. “No need. I can see. They’re fine.”
“You’ll either let me take a peek now, or I’ll wait until you’re asleep and look then. Your choice.” Steel backed her words.
“I don’t know anything about you and you expect me to let you that close? You want me to talk about myself? Tell you about my dreams? Sorry, lady, not happening.”
The colors around her flared bright before settling once again in their usual pattern. “Okay, what do you want to know?”
Slack-jawed, he stared at her through the bandage. All the bright colors surrounding her held steady now, calm. Of course she was calm, she was a fucking angel. Hence the reason he’d never tell her any of the sick shit he was beginning to remember.
He wet his lips, deciding to make quick work of this line of questioning. “Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done.”
“When I was eight—”
Julius scoffed and sat. “The worst thing you’ve ever done happened when you were eight?”
Her colors darkened. “No. It started when I was eight.”
Jesus, it was like kicking a kitten. “Come here.” He swiveled in his chair and patted his thigh. When she accepted his invitation, shock zinged through him. She sat on his lap and put an arm over his shoulder. Her hands went straight to his bandage.
“No.” He grabbed her wrists. “Story first.”
Her sigh ruffled his hair. “This one day, Mother was in a temper. I’ll never forget it.”
A shiver wracked through her. She never used the possessive when speaking about her mom. When he referred to the woman who gave birth to him, he always said, ‘my mother’ or ‘my mom.’ Kat said Mother as if it were a name and not a familial endearment. He held her closer, waiting for her to continue.
“She was a beautiful woman, thin, flame-haired with flawles
s skin, but she always scowled. That day, when she came out of . . . the . . . uh, orphanage, not only was she scowling, she was stomping.”
Was she censoring herself or emphasizing? “Orphanage?”
“My . . . friends were raised there. They were all orphaned except for me.”
“All of them?” What were the chances of that?
“I always tried to remember to be thankful I had Mother—none of my friends did. Nor did they have a room all their own. They had to share the basement with eleven other girls. Best of all, I didn’t have to put up with Nan. Nan was their foster mother and she terrified me. She had wrinkles and she was mean.”
“Sounds like your Mother was no picnic either.”
She shook her head. “That day, Mother said one of the orphans had gotten in trouble and Nan was going to punish her. The whole ride home, I cowered in the corner of the passenger’s seat grateful Mother wasn’t angry with me.”
Fury blazed under his skin. Children didn’t cower without cause. “Did she get angry with you often?”
Kat ignored his question. “I sat there, staring at Mother’s hand on the steering wheel, her fingers tap-tap-tapping.” Kat’s fingers tapped against his skin in time to her words. “That was always a bad sign—Mother always tapped while she thought up her most devious deeds. She’d spent a lot of time tapping the year before. Late at night, when I should’ve been in bed, I’d hear her.”
A tremor wracked through her and this time it seemed to transfer into him. Gooseflesh lifted on his arms.
“It started around the time my friends’ mothers began to die—the tapping into the wee hours of the morning. Maybe I should’ve assumed Mother worried she’d be next—maybe knocking on wood to prevent her worst fears from coming true. But while Mother was tapping, a small smile flirted with the corners of her mouth. That smile scared me.”
This sounded familiar. With all the details of a true memory, he pictured a thin, red-haired woman sitting at a table that looked right out of a diner—a white linoleum surface with silver starbursts, aluminum siding around the edges—her nails clicking with each tap.
The Knight: The Original's Trilogy - Book 3 Page 8