“I won’t tell you not to go,” Aamon said. “Just please promise to call if you need me.” He sighed. “I lost one of my kids today; I couldn’t bear to lose another.” Pulling her and Ivy into a group hug, he murmured, “I love you girls.”
“Love you, too, Dad. Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.” Ivy kissed his cheek.
Jordan didn’t know what to say. It had been a long time since a parent had shown affection toward her. Uncle Case wasn’t the touchy-feely type. His hugs were few and far between.
Did she love Aamon? Jordan honestly didn’t know. Part of her felt if she allowed him into her heart, showed more than cursory respect for this demon who was her real father, it would diminish Richard Bailey’s memory; cheapen the risks he took to protect her. What happened so long ago was tragic. One bad decision had led to another and, in the end, no one could claim victory. Now, it was up to Jordan to decide when or if she could move on.
Standing there with Aamon, not knowing if she’d ever see him again, Jordan felt she owed him more than a casual nod.
“Dad?” she asked, hating how small she sounded. The word floated on the air, rootless, but maybe, just maybe, one day that would change.
Ivy’s head snapped to attention. Aamon sucked in a quick breath and covered his mouth with his hand, suppressing any emotion lest he ruin the moment by scaring her away.
Amused, Jordan watched her father mentally pick his way through the aftermath of the bombshell she’d dropped. His face, like some sort of fantastical creature, morphed from one visage to another – most accompanied by a grin he couldn’t subdue.
Moments later, rocking on his heels, Aamon said, “Yes, hon? What is it?”
“I just wanted to say that I understand now.” She licked her lips, uncomfortable with an audience. “And I’m trying – I really am.”
It wasn’t much, but it was more than she could have managed three months before.
Aamon touched her cheek and she placed her hand over his. “One step at a time, sweet girl, one step at a time.”
Xander watched their exchange with a pained expression. Jordan wondered if he’d ever been hugged, if he’d ever had a parental figure to lean on. She doubted it.
Aamon must have been thinking along those same lines. He faced the young man who had so recently come into their lives, and then pulled him into an embrace fathers reserve for their sons.
“Forgive me for not welcoming you into our family sooner.”
Xander looked about as lost as Donald Trump in a corn field. He gave Aamon an awkward pat on the back. “It’s okay, you don’t have to,” he mumbled. “I mean, I’m not family, not really.”
Aamon clapped him on the shoulder. “You have a home here if you want it, and I’ve always got room for another child. You don’t have to be blood to be family.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Quinn
Suffocating.
Quinn’s lungs, constricted and burning from constant exertion, screamed for air. Legs as weak as matchsticks, he stumbled around another piece of machinery he couldn’t name. His fingers trailed along the corrugated surface. Toxic snowflakes of burnt-orange rust peeled away and drifted to the floor.
The vacant factory had seen better days. It was a labyrinth of dark passages, tipped catwalks, and fetid air. The cloying scents of diesel fuel, damp concrete, and urine clung to him. It seeped into his clothes and the pores of his exposed skin. Quinn imagined how horrible the smell would be if it were August instead of October. He swallowed hard against the bile that crept up his throat.
Rounding a corner, he tripped over a nest of moldy blankets and something squeaked. A rat the size of a Chihuahua scampered from the pile. Quinn halted his labored progress until the rodent’s fat, leathery tail disappeared beneath a scarred desk. He shivered. Rats were the least of his problems but he still hated them. He nudged the makeshift den with the toe of his boot and prayed no more critters were home. Quinn speculated on the number of derelicts who took refuge in the dreary, crippled building, and hoped none of them squatted there right now. To be anywhere in his general vicinity meant death.
Death.
It was coming for him.
The sun climbed higher in the sky to burn away the fog that lingered around the scattered buildings of this abandoned industrial park. As the wet foundations dried, their lighter color hinted at subtle purity.
Illyria was also searching for someone to purify. Quinn wondered if he’d feel clean after she scorched him from the inside out with the touch of her hand or ran him through with her sword. Maybe, once his ashes mingled with her maniacal laughter and the wind carried them ever upward toward Heaven, he would be whole again.
Vengeance and guilt, with their voracious appetites, had gnawed at his soul for years: the victims he couldn’t save, the family he left behind, the sister he tormented...nothing suppressed their cravings for long.
Once Illyria took his life, perhaps their hunger would be sated.
Unable to go any farther, Quinn’s legs buckled. He crawled to a nearby wall and leaned against it. Moisture from the floor seeped into his torn jeans, adding to his misery. His lungs whistled as they sucked in air. Legs, splayed like a broken marionette, seized, and then cramped. Too tired to massage them, he clenched his jaws to keep from crying out.
In the silent, drafty room, the sound of a door shattering was akin to ringside seats at a car crash.
The angel had arrived.
It was a shame he never made it to the school. He’d tried, but no matter what direction he took, the light was there, herding him like some sort of celestial border collie.
He was only a sheep.
Quinn wondered if Gabe was still nearby. If Illyria was able to track him surely his Guardian could, too. It was a long shot but that’s all he had left.
Somewhere in the dark recesses of the factory, a piece of heavy machinery scraped across the cement floor and he winced. She was getting closer, and Quinn had no strength left to run. Hell, he was too tired to crawl.
Footsteps echoed, reverberating through his mind. The angel made no effort to disguise her whereabouts and why should she? Illyria was immortal. There was nothing a simple human could do to deter her. His only saving grace was that he was the only one who knew where The Oraculum was. Unless she could read minds (please God, no!) Michael would never get his hands on the book he coveted. Its whereabouts would die with Quinn.
As if on cue, black boots turned the corner. His eyes travelled up shapely legs in skin-tight material, taut stomach, round breasts, long, almost delicate neck, and the face of a centerfold model. If not for the leering eyes and the wicked-sharp sword in her hand, Illyria would be the perfect picture of every guy’s wet dream.
When her tongue snaked out, leaving her full, pink lips glistening, Quinn groaned and closed his eyes. “You’re killing me,” he mumbled.
“Not yet.”
Damn, even her voice was sexy – deep and husky, like the rumble of a finely tuned engine.
When he opened his eyes again, she was kneeling in front of him. Quinn never heard her move. She was better at hunting than he was. He could appreciate that, even if he was the prey.
“I want the book,” she purred, and his heart thumped a little faster. “Tell me where it is and we can both get on with our morning.” She moved closer, leaning so far on her hands and knees that her nose skimmed his neck and moved up to his ear. Her warm breath mingled with the currents of chilly air, pushing against his skin. Quinn shivered even as he broke out in goose flesh.
“Tell me,” she whispered.
“I can’t remember,” he said, breathing hard.
And for a moment there, he couldn’t. It was all he could do to form a coherent sentence. Her nearness screwed with his mind, like static on a radio station. He would form a thought only to have it whisked away on a tide of gentle dissonance.
“Perhaps I can help with your memory loss.”
His witty comeback was lost in translation. Her m
outh inched sideways, trailing heat as she worked her way across his jaw. When they were face to face, her perfect lips hovered above his. Eyes half closed, Illyria gently pulled air into her mouth and smiled, as if tasting something sweet.
By the time her mouth met his, Quinn was groaning with need. Her lips fit perfectly with his. They moved in a synchronized dance against each other. She tasted like clover honey.
Tell me where The Oraculum is.
He could hear her in his head, gently prodding, urging. He went to break away but she climbed on his lap and dredged farther with her tongue, sliding it over his own. Suddenly, he couldn’t get enough.
Tell me, she beckoned again.
Oh, God, she was everywhere. His mind was full of her. Illyria commanded his thoughts and actions. As this kiss deepened and she ran her hands through his hair, pulling him closer, he began to question his reason for hiding the book.
Why shouldn’t he tell Illyria? It didn’t belong to him. The book was a holy relic and Michael needed it far worse than they did. He could use it to save the world. No more demons to battle! No more nightmare monsters to take innocent lives. Just…peace.
No!
He shouted the word in his head and pushed with all his might. Unprepared for resistance, Illyria rolled off his lap but quickly sprang to her feet.
Shaking, hands balled into fists, she snarled, “You just made a big mistake. It would have been much more pleasant to do it my way.”
Quinn felt more exhausted now than before she’d kissed him. Limbs heavy, every movement he made was clumsy, damn near impossible.
“Yeah, well,” he said, head rolling back to rest against the wall, “I’ve never been one for taking the pleasant route. Frankly, I wouldn’t know how.”
“Pity, I was actually enjoying myself.” Illyria paced, one perfectly manicured nail tapping against her chin. She stopped and studied him. “You aren’t going to tell me where the book is, are you?”
Looking her in the eyes with all the concentration he could marshal, he replied with a definite, “No.”
She sighed.
If Illyria was trying to emulate the loving seraph portrayed in picture books, she was failing miserably. All she managed was a bad photoshopped copy, a cheap imitation that didn’t fool him in the slightest. Long face and drooping shoulders aside, there was a glint in her eyes she couldn’t extinguish. Quinn knew that spark – had seen it many times in his own eyes reflected in dirty windows and spotted mirrors.
Illyria was closing in on her quarry and wet work was just around the corner.
The high of the hunt used to be the only reason he worked in the Circle. Unlike Nathan, Quinn didn’t kill monsters because it was the right thing to do. He’d seen enough incidents in his time to know that humans could be just as evil, if not more, than the creatures he slaughtered. No, he did it for the rush, to feel something, to nourish the hate.
He looked at Illyria and saw the person he used to be – the person he tried so hard to forget.
Cracking her knuckles, she said, “In that case, you leave me no choice.”
As smooth as a serial killer, Illyria shrugged off the façade of a benevolent angel like a cloak. What he saw underneath made Quinn rethink his decision. Maybe he should beg to resume the kiss. It would be painless and wouldn’t involve blood loss.
When she bent over and touched a fingertip to his head, setting his veins on fire, Quinn knew he was right.
Chapter Thirty
Jordan
Jordan was drawn to Illyria like water. Her fear of not being able to locate Quinn was unfounded. Turns out, she was more in tune with angels than she realized. Being a Paladin had its advantages.
She had a moment of déjà vu when she entered the old factory. Jordan followed the dark passages, trailing her hands along the cold cement walls, knowing she’d find a monster doing God only knew what to her brother at the end.
But this time, she wasn’t alone.
Ivy and Xander were a few steps behind, ready to stand at her side, prepared to die with her – for her, if necessary. It wouldn’t come to that, of course; Jordan planned to keep them far away from Illyria. Still, her odds of succeeding in the factory where she’d failed in the mine back in Tennessee went up considerably with them there.
Jordan turned a corner and gracefully tripped over a piece of rebar. Her teeth were set on edge by ear-piercing echoes of metal clanging against concrete in a discordant refrain as it bounced across the floor. So much for the element of surprise.
She stopped the procession, face burning brighter than Rudolph’s nose while Ivy snickered from behind. For someone who was supposed to be an experienced hunter, Jordan made more noise than a house demolition. She took a deep breath, intending to regroup and start again, when a scream split the rimy air. She recognized the voice, but had never heard it under such duress.
Jordan’s heart plunged, and then she was running.
Footsteps slapping, the wind in her ears, Jordan didn’t realize how close they were to Quinn and Illyria. She turned another corner in the maze of metal contraptions and found herself on a collision course with the angel. She only had a second to take in her brother’s prone form, then dropped to her knees and rolled.
Sweeping with her left leg, Jordan’s boot caught Illyria’s ankle, tripping her. A blast of Ivy’s power sent the Aeon careening into some shelves. Jordan placed herself between Illyria and Quinn.
He looked worse than she’d ever seen him, and that was saying a lot. Severe burns covered his head, face, and arms. The smell of charred flesh coated the back of her throat and her stomach flip-flopped. One dark blue eye was open, filled with misery but surprisingly alert. The other was fused shut.
Oh, Quinn…
Jordan never pictured their reunion like this.
Across from her, Illyria stood as puffed up as a peacock. She smoothed her body suit and then reclined against the wall, surveying her handiwork.
Blood boiling, Jordan was torn between ripping Illyria’s throat out and healing her brother. She knew not to turn her back on the angel. The sword strapped to her back was more than a little convenient, and Jordan knew the damage it could do.
She thought about Mazie and her insides quivered. Jordan had failed her sister. How could she possibly protect Quinn from Michael’s best soldier?
Sensing her distress, Ivy and Xander took their places by her side. Leaning close, Ivy gestured to Quinn. “I’ve got him,” she whispered. “You watch the angel.”
Her sister kneeled by Quinn, speaking softly while preparing to heal his wounds. A little weight lifted from Jordan’s shoulders.
Xander placed a hand on her back, flooding Jordan with feelings of peace and security. “Don’t let her intimidate you,” he said. “Remember, you’re a Paladin. Illyria has no idea how powerful you are. Use that advantage. Don’t hold anything back. Understand?”
Jordan nodded, her eyes glued to the Aeon who faked a dramatic yawn.
Soft, glowing light from Ivy’s capable hands reflected off the machinery around them. She was healing Quinn’s wounds.
Illyria scowled, her hair rippling in a sudden breeze. She went from Casual Friday to Manic Monday in the span of a heartbeat.
“You there, Cambion! I didn’t give you permission to heal anyone.”
“You there, Douchebag! Fuck off.”
Ivy’s tone was cool. She refused to give the angel her undivided attention.
The seraph took a step forward but Jordan blocked her way. Her sister’s brazen disregard for Illyria’s status instilled confidence where, a minute before, Jordan had none. Ivy had faith in her – trusted her to keep them safe. It was time Jordan believed that she could.
Once again, Illyria moved to intercede. Jordan grabbed her by the arm. The angel didn’t appear too keen to address her directly. Was Illyria afraid or simply unconcerned?
Pinching the bridge of her nose, the Aeon said, “I’ll deal with you in a moment, Ms. Bailey. Your brother and I have u
nfinished business. You will wait your turn.”
“Your business with my brother is done.”
With a thought, Jordan tapped into her power. Instinct told her to hold back, knowing how easy it was to lose control. But Xander was right. Now wasn’t the time to give conscience a voice.
Pushing her inhibitions aside, Jordan opened the floodgates that harnessed her power and released every drop. Bracing for impact, she rocked on her feet as intensity tantamount to a bolt of lightning brought her to her knees. Fire licked at her veins, burning, consuming, leaving something – someone – else in its place.
She screamed.
“Jordan!”
The concern in Quinn’s voice gave her the strength to raise her head. Through sweaty bangs, Jordan watched, helpless, as Illyria slipped around her, taking advantage of the fact that she was momentarily incapacitated. Though she struggled, Jordan couldn’t move an inch until the power balanced out.
Muscles straining, she cursed herself for not invoking the full extent of her power sooner. Then again, she hadn’t received an instruction manual. Knowing the side effects beforehand would have been convenient.
Illyria wiggled her finger and Ivy sailed across the room. Xander placed himself in front of Quinn and, for a second, Jordan thought she saw a hint of blue light in his eyes but then he was moving…fast.
Teleporting in and out of existence, Xander kept the angel on her toes. Using his combined powers and Cambion strength, he slammed a fist into the back of her neck and disappeared, only to return and catch her off-guard again.
The place between her shoulder blades began to itch and burn, but the upside was that Jordan could move again. Slowly, she got to her feet. Across the room, Ivy did the same. Her sister hobbled like a geriatric patient but appeared to be okay.
Ten feet away, Xander and Illyria moved in a deadly dance. Illyria swung her sword like a metronome, keeping time. Beside them, Quinn, healed by Ivy’s hands, bobbed and weaved like a third wheel, searching for a way to cut in and take a turn with the angel. If he got within the reach of her blade…
Refracted (The Celadon Circle Book 2) Page 27