Death's Hand, A Dark Urban Fantasy (The Descent Series)

by SM Reine

  “I know,” she said. “I know.”

  They sat together in silence, watching the cars empty out of the parking lot. It would be at least an hour until the belly dance class, which was taught by an instructor named Kendall. They didn’t need to wait. But Elise didn’t feel like moving, and she doubted James did, either.

  “I’m glad you came back, but you didn’t need to avoid me. You can tell me everything when you’re ready.”

  “I wouldn’t stay away for long.” She took a deep breath. “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “Do we…” Elise picked at her thumbnail, avoiding James’s gaze. She swallowed. “Are we going to have to run again? Should we go into hiding?”

  She could feel him watching her. He gave a heavy sigh. “Do you want to run?”

  It was a question that had been prying at her all week, no matter how hard she fought to distract herself.

  Running would be the smart thing to do. Performing a huge exorcism—and having a city filled with the walking dead—ruined any chances they might have had of hiding.

  But Elise had her job, and so did James. More importantly, it surprised her to find that avoiding Betty and Anthony all week made her a little lonely. Elise didn’t want to leave them. For the first time in her life, she had friends. Real friends. People willing to go to battle with her. People she would die for, if she needed to.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t want to go.”

  The corner of James’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Good, because neither do I.”

  She thought that response would make her feel better. Instead, Elise felt they had just agreed to do something very unpleasant—something potentially deadly.

  “Then we’ll stay,” she said with a tone of finality.

  They sat together in silence, hands clasped, until the next class came in and life resumed its normal routine.

  Somewhere very far away—somewhere very dark—someone else listened to that conversation.

  It had been a long time since He had seen Elise, or heard her speak. He had dwelled in darkness for some years, and although he could not tell if it had been ten or ten thousand, he longed for the succor of light—however momentary.

  And then it came in a single burning, brilliant moment. He felt her power and saw her eyes blazing with fury. He saw her fist clutching the sword as she plunged it into the heart of a demon. From another time, another place, He saw her anguish.

  He had found her.

  He saw it was very good, and He smiled.

  Coming Spring 2012:

  The Darkest Gate

  by SM Reine

  Turn the page for an excerpt from

  the next book in The Descent Series

  May 1999

  History will not remember one of the most important meetings to ever occur. It was organized over the course of many weeks by third parties on secure phone lines, with a time and safe public location selected at random. Each of the attendants was given only hours to travel there—little enough time to ensure they could not prepare any surprises in advance.

  Nevertheless, James Faulkner was seated at the White Iris ten minutes prior to the arrival of his dining companions, declining the offer of wine so the waiter wouldn't disturb him.

  The man who approached the table at seven o'clock had the slim, dangerous appearance of a concealed pistol. His rust-colored curls were gathered at the nape of his neck by a leather band. He ignored the empty chairs at the table and studied James from just beyond arm’s reach. "My name is Alain Daladier, and I am here to meet the greatest kopis."

  James inclined his head in response. "A pleasure to meet you. I'm James Faulkner." He was dressed to expose his scars, from the white star on his shoulder to the fresh pink skin at his wrist where it looked like he had been bitten. When he shifted in his chair, he flashed a leather sheath at his hip, and the hilt of a long knife.

  Alain scanned these details without changing his expression. "Show it to me. The other one."

  James arched an eyebrow. "Would I have brought it with me?"

  "Yes."

  He flicked back the collar of his loose white dress shirt, and Alain leaned forward enough to glimpse the leather-wrapped handle of a falchion strapped to his back. James concealed it again.

  "Satisfied?"

  "I'm told you have two."

  "Not today," said James. "Will you sit?"

  Alain's response was to step out of the restaurant. A grizzled man whose thick neck was offset by white hair and a designer watch replaced him. "Call me Mr. Black," he greeted, taking the seat adjacent to James. They shook hands. His grip was surprisingly light for someone resembling an aged body builder. "Alain says you're the greatest kopis."

  "And I've heard you're not far from the greatest yourself. You went to quite a bit of effort to arrange our meeting today."

  "James Faulkner," Mr. Black mused aloud. He smiled a small smile. "James Faulkner... hmm."

  The waiter brought menus to them and laid napkins in their laps. "Yes, that's my name," James said once they were alone again.

  “What do you know about ethereal artifacts, Mr. James Faulkner?”

  “I know as much as anyone else. Nobody has much information on the subject because angels have always had a minimal presence on Earth, even before the Treaty of Dis was forged.”

  “Go on. What else do you know?”

  James’s eyes narrowed. He sat back in his chair. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “Mr. Faulkner, I wouldn’t have spent this much time and money tracking you down for a private chat if what we talked about wasn’t important. Humor me. What else do you know?”

  “Very well. Ethereal artifacts have three primary properties: They are unbreakable, they are inviolable, and neither humans nor demons can use their power—which is immense.” The scar on James’s shoulder ached, and he massaged it with two fingers as he spoke. “They say that such artifacts were crafted by angels under the guidance of a greater power, but they are no longer made.”

  “Good, good. I’d bet a lot of cash that you know more about the subject than the average person. Do you think you would recognize one if you saw it?”

  “Most likely,” he said.

  Mr. Black studied his menu. He was still smiling, like he found James’s answer amusing. “I bet you could. I’ve been looking for one particular ethereal artifact for some years now. It’s in the shape of a bowl with these kind of notches around the edge, and it looks like it’s made of ivory, but it’s not carved from the bone of any animal I’ve ever killed.”

  “I’ve never seen it.”

  “Didn’t say you had, did I?”

  “Then what do you want from me?” James said. “If you wanted a lecture on the properties of ethereal craftsmanship, you could have spoken to someone easier to reach than I am.” The waiter returned to their table. Mr. Black ordered the duck. “Nothing for me, thank you.” James couldn’t help but let out a little longing sigh when he said it. His stomach was a gnawing hole between his ribs.

  “Come on, now, you practically look like a mummy. I’ll pay for your dinner. You’re my guest, aren’t you?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “He’ll have the fish,” Mr. Black said. The waiter left. “I know you’re hurting for money, Mr. Faulkner. It’s hard making ends meet sometimes, isn’t it? But you don’t need to starve.” He took a piece of bread from the basket and smeared garlic butter across its surface. “What were we talking about?”

  “The bowl.”

  “Right. I’ve discovered this bowl’s location.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I want it.”

  “Then why don’t you get it?” James asked.

  “Not many kopes survive to my age. I’m past my prime. I’ve left the pursuit of justice and saving humanity to young men and bought a nice piece of land down South. I’ve got a house of my own. I run a few businesses and employ a lot of folks. I’m doing good for myself.”
<
br />   James realized he was still rubbing his scar and forced himself to stop. Retired? Kopes and aspes never retired. The best anyone could hope for was dying in the service of mankind. The idea of being able to settle down and have a home and family was an alluring thought—equally tempting and disappointing, since he knew it was something he couldn’t have. He couldn’t even afford to eat on many days.

  “What’s your interest in this bowl if you’ve retired?”

  “Call it sentimentality. The bowl is difficult to reach, as you would expect. I need a young kopis—a great kopis—to retrieve it.” Mr. Black’s teeth were very white when he grinned. “I said I’m doing well, didn’t I? I’ll pay a good chunk of cash to have this piece added to my private collection.”

  “I am not a mercenary. My services aren’t for sale.”

  “I don’t want your services,” he said.

  “No? Then why did you call this meeting?”

  "You are powerful, Mr. Faulkner, I won’t argue that. Alain felt you coming miles off. But you are not the greatest kopis."

  James went rigid. "What--?"

  "You're wasting my time. I hate having my time wasted." That smile had grown fixed on his face. Mr. Black hadn’t moved, but he suddenly looked much more dangerous. "Where is he?"

  Trying not to glance over Mr. Black's shoulder was pointless. By the time James ducked his head, he had already given away his thoughts with some small motion, and Mr. Black turned to point Alain to the cafe across the street.

  The witch let a tram pass before crossing the street. As soon as he went through the door, a young woman sitting outside the cafe abandoned her espresso and entered the restaurant, invisible to Alain's searching gaze.

  The waiter moved to intercept her, but she pushed past him and dragged a chair from an empty table to sit across from them. Mr. Black's confusion as he took in her girlish face and brutally short curls almost made James laugh. She was hard-muscled, too young to be out of school, and wouldn't have blended in at a supermarket, much less a fancy restaurant.

  "Mr. Black," James said, "this is Elise Kavanagh. Elise, this is the man who has gone to so much trouble to find us."

  He wasn't smiling anymore. "You can't be serious."

  "I tried to stop her, but—” began the waiter, hurrying over with a red face. Elise leaned back and kicked her feet up on another chair. Her hiking boots were well-worn leather and covered in chunks of dried mud. If James looked like a mummy, then Elise was barely more than a living skeleton.

  He waved the waiter away. “She’s with me.”

  “With all due respect, sir, we do have a dress code, and she’s—”

  “We won’t be long.”

  “It’s all right,” Mr. Black said, snapping out of his reverie. He waited to speak until they were alone again. “Miss—Kavanagh, was it? This has got to be a joke.”

  “I’m afraid not,” James said.

  “But this is a girl.”

  “Female kopes are uncommon, not nonexistent. I believe there are only three alive at the moment. She is the strongest of them.” James couldn’t help but smile. “In fact, she is the strongest of all of you. You wanted to meet the greatest kopis, so here we are.”

  "How does a teenage girl become known as the greatest demon hunter above hundreds of men? No offense.” Which meant, of course, he was absolutely trying to be offensive.

  Elise arched an eyebrow split by a white scar. When she didn't reply, Mr. Black looked askance at James, like they were old friends and she had just intruded on their dinner.

  In fact, two things had elevated Elise to that status the previous year: Defeating the previous title holder in a formal sparring match, and then outliving him. These were publicly available facts. The Council of Dis, however, also credited her with the deaths of twelve angels, which no other human had done in recorded history, and ended up ranking her above every other living kopis. Nobody else knew this. James thought it was better that way.

  "Her father used to serve on the Council," James said with a shrug. "He must have recommended her."

  Mr. Black gave no sign of hearing him. He stared at Elise, and she stared back, locked in silent communication. “All right. If the Council thinks you’re great, you’ve got to be pretty good. Are you mute? Dumb?”

  James cleared his throat loudly. “Mr. Black asked us to come here because he wants to hire you to retrieve an ethereal artifact. I’ve already explained that we’re not mercenaries and that we’re not interested, especially given the uniquely dangerous nature of the object in question.”

  “We’re not?” Elise asked.

  “Lord in Heaven, it speaks.” Mr. Black rubbed his hands together. “But let’s be fair. I wouldn’t describe this bowl as ‘dangerous,’ strictly speaking.”

  James was sick of playing dumb. His voice hardened. “Anything made by angels is dangerous by virtue of its very nature. Men aren’t meant to possess these things, and if you’re stupid enough to think you can casually obtain one for your personal collection, then you must be an idiot—or think I am. If you want to be fair, then let’s be fair. You have something planned. We won’t have any part of it.”

  Elise wasn’t listening to him. She stared intently at Mr. Black, and even though she looked like she was lounging between her two chairs, there was tension coiled in her muscles like a guitar string on the verge of snapping. “How much?” she asked.

  And in that moment, it was as though James vanished. Mr. Black turned his gaze on her and flashed a brilliant smile.

  “You can walk away from this restaurant with ten thousand American dollars. When you bring the bowl to me, I’ll round out that amount to—say, fifty thousand? I want this bowl, and I’m willing to pay fairly for its safe deliverance.”

  “One hundred thousand,” she said. “Cash.”

  James almost reached out for her, but thought better of it when she sliced her eyes over to him. He liked having both of his hands. “Elise—”

  Mr. Black laughed. “You trying to negotiate with me, girl?”

  She told him something in French. James didn’t understand French, and he wasn’t sure that Mr. Black would, either, but when the older man replied, it was in the same language—but he spoke with a heavy Cajun accent. His fake smile had vanished. James was certain he had just missed something important.

  Elise stood up, gave him a sharp nod, and strode out of the restaurant.

  Both men were left gaping.

  “We won’t do it,” James said weakly.

  Mr. Black finished his slice of bread and washed it down with wine. He patted his mouth with a white napkin, and James noticed that his fingers were trembling. “Can I give you some advice, Mr. Faulkner? As a friend.”

  “No.”

  “You better get the hell away from that girl,” Mr. Black said. “I think she might be your death.”

  And that was how one of the most important meetings in history concluded. James was never quite sure why that was true, but then again, he also never spoke French.

  THE DARKEST GATE

  Coming Spring 2012

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  About the Author

  SM Reine is a writer and graphic designer obsessed with werewolves, the occult, and collecting swords. Sara spins tales of dark fantasy to escape the drudgery of the desert, where she lives with her husband and the Helpful Baby.

  Table of Contents

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter VIX

  Chap
ter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Part 3

  Part 4

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Excerpt from The Darkest Gate

  About the Author