The Awakening (Immortals)

by Joy Nash

  “Why have you summoned me, half-breed?”

  Leanna swallowed the surge of anger the offensive label provoked. “There is a man…”

  The demon threw back her head and laughed. “Of course. Man is the root of all woman’s problems. Human?”

  “Not precisely.”

  The entity’s expression sharpened. “Go on. What is this man if not precisely human?”

  Leanna drew a breath. “Immortal.”

  “One of the Five?”

  “Yes.”

  The demon’s eyes glowed red. “Which?”

  “You know him,” Leanna said softly. “You’ve battled him before. That’s why I’ve called you, and not another.”

  “Kalen.”

  “Yes.”

  There was a moment of silence. When the demon spoke at last, her question had the tone of a threat. “What do you want of me?”

  “Kalen has agreed to give me his child. I want you to ensure that the child has an immortal soul. And show me how to take that soul for myself. Afterward, Kalen is yours.”

  “And in return for this service? What will you give of yourself?”

  “Anything,” Leanna whispered.

  The demon’s gaze raked over Leanna’s body. “Disrobe, so I may see if you are worth my trouble.”

  A tingling sensation sprang up between Leanna’s thighs. She’d known what the demon would ask…and she was prepared to give it. She wore nothing but a thin white silk robe. With a shrug, she let it slip from her shoulders and puddle at her feet, veiling the splatters of blood on the floor.

  Culsu’s red gaze traveled a hungry path over Leanna’s body. Her lips curved. “Your form pleases me, half-breed. And your magic is strong. It will be done as you wish. Set the death rune before the joining and I will be there.”

  Smoke swirled around her feet. The portal to hell glowed red. When the demon stepped through it, it closed with a wrenching squeal.

  Leanna stared at the place where the portal had been, heart pounding. She’d done it! She’d summoned an Old One. Kalen’s ancient enemy. Gained the demon’s promise.

  Surging triumph brought an exultant laugh to her lips. She would be immortal. Soon. Very soon.

  With a glance at the clock on the vanity, she stowed the bottle and blade in the drawer. It was past three o’clock. She’d told Galen Munro to present himself at her hotel suite at noon. She had no doubt he was waiting in the hallway, too scared to leave even to take a piss. The death metal guitarist was on the verge of his first recording contract and was desperate for inspiration. Filled with dark energy from her interview with Culsu, Leanna was looking forward to giving it to him.

  Luckily, she was already naked. It was tedious, sometimes, stripping off her clothing. Turning, she padded through the bedroom and sitting room and into the small foyer. She opened the door. Munro leaped to his feet, his face flushing scarlet.

  “I…I…”

  She took in his ripped leather pants and vest with one glance. “Strip,” she told him, already turning away. “And go to the bedroom.”

  He followed her like a dog, ripping off his shirt and hopping on one leg, then the other, as he tore off his pants. He stumbled into the bedroom, white, hairy, and naked.

  “Mistress,” he choked. “What is your pleasure?”

  His face paled as Leanna opened a tall polished cabinet and surveyed the implements inside. She ran her fingers over the handle of her favorite whip.

  “My pleasure?” Her tongue swiped her upper lip. “Why, bring me your handcuffs and I’ll show you.”

  As exhausted as Christine was when she boarded the train to Inverness, she found it impossible to sleep. Transferring in Edinburgh without a hitch, she chose an empty compartment at the farthest end of the train. She sank onto the ratty upholstery, her backpack wedged between her knees, her nerves humming with fatigue. But even after the train groaned out of the station, she still couldn’t close her eyes.

  Her encounter at King’s Cross Station had set her on edge. Was Mac a demon spy? She prayed not. She’d been looking over her shoulder ever since London. He’d blocked her witch senses and that had truly scared her. There’d been only one other time in her life she’d been wrong about magic, and that mistake had ended with Shaun dead.

  Don’t go there. And she wouldn’t. In the past two years she’d elevated not thinking of Shaun to an art form. If she dredged up those memories now, she’d go insane.

  The train cleared the city and passed into a soggy countryside. Christine had just decided she was going to have the compartment to herself when the sliding door jerked. A small, elderly woman in a fuzzy pink sweater and plaid wool skirt was trying to wrestle it open, with little success. So much for privacy. Christine sighed and went to help.

  “Oh, thank you, dearie,” the old woman said in a pleasant Irish brogue. She ventured into the compartment. “Are all these seats taken, I ask ye?”

  “No, it’s just me.”

  “Well, then.” She tugged a paisley carpetbag over the threshold. Christine backed up to give her some room.

  The train lurched and the woman stumbled.

  “Watch out!” Christine put out a hand to steady her.

  “Oh! So clumsy of me. Thank you so much.”

  “No prob—”

  Christine’s throat went dry as her fingers tingled and her witch senses flashed. Sudden, fierce revulsion flooded her. But, strong as her disgust was, it didn’t completely blot out an accompanying jolt of raw pleasure.

  A demon.

  For one long, sickening moment, Christine couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe. Her chest was numb, her hands ice cold. Her field of vision started to go a blotchy red. She sent a wild look past the demon to the door. No. She couldn’t flee—if she made a dash for it, the entity would know she’d recognized it.

  Somehow, she managed a polite nod. She backed up, sank into her seat, and tore open the zipper on her backpack. She yanked out her water bottle. A small measure of calm returned as her fingers tightened on the plastic. The bottle contained the last of her Beltane rainwater.

  The pucker of a frown appeared above the demon’s silver wire-rimmed glasses. “Is something wrong, my dear? Goodness, but you’re pale! You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

  Not a ghost. A demon. “No,” Christine said tightly. “Just a little motion sickness. I’ll be fine.”

  “Well, then. It’s a good thing I’m here to look after you.”

  Christine might have laughed if she hadn’t been so freaked out. She slid a trembling hand onto the seat cushion and traced a surreptitious rune.

  Algiz. Protection.

  The demon froze in the motion of settling her suitcase. Stiffly, she turned and peered at Christine. Christine slumped into her seat and pretended to stare out the window. The demon cast her a sharp glance before taking a seat on the bench opposite. Extracting knitting needles and yarn from the carpetbag, she started to knit.

  Wonderful. A knitting demon. Christine forced herself to keep her body relaxed. She was overreacting, as she always did when a demon was in sight. This demon wasn’t Shaun’s demon. She sensed it was just a minor entity, a Young One, despite its choice of human guise. As long as she kept a modest distance, she’d be fine.

  But her head felt too light to hold on to that thought. Panic rushed back. Her breathing ran shallow. Sweat chilled her temples. Red blotches crowded the edge of her vision, and her hands were so cold she couldn’t feel her fingertips. A faint odor of sulfur made her stomach roil.

  The demon looked up from her knitting. She glanced at Christine. Then, deliberately, she extended her knobby, stockinged legs, ankles crossed, across the narrow space between the seats. The toes of her orthopedic shoes touched the opposite bench. The message was clear: I know you know what I am. I dare you to try and get past me.

  The red blotches multiplied. Breathe, damn it. She had to breathe.

  Feigning nonchalance, Christine turned back to the window, keeping
the demon in her peripheral vision. Green countryside slid past as she concentrated on inhaling and exhaling. Knitting needles clicked. Miles of track clattered away, the train swaying from side to side. The scarf or sweater or whatever it was the demon was making grew longer. Where was the conductor? If he popped in to check tickets, Christine could use the opportunity to duck out of the compartment. But the conductor didn’t show.

  The train stopped briefly to discharge a lone passenger into the rain. It had just started down the track again when the demon folded her knitting and slid it neatly into her suitcase. At that exact moment, Christine’s rune protection dissolved.

  She jerked to attention, adrenaline careening through her body.

  The demon smoothed the wrinkles on her plaid skirt. “Yes, dear, that’s right. I burst your pathetic little spell.”

  Christine rose so abruptly she nearly lost her balance. She grabbed the edge of the overhead rack, clutching her water bottle like the weapon it was. “Get out of here. Now.”

  The demon uncrossed its ankles. “Perhaps I might move, given the right incentive. One kiss. That’s all. You know you’ll like it. All humans do.”

  Christine sent a desperate glance toward the sliding door. Only a few feet away, but it might as well have been a mile. The demon wanted a kiss. All it would get from Christine was a fight.

  It was at times like this she felt the limitations of her magic most keenly. Another witch would be able to conjure a magical shield, or shoot witchfire from her fingertips. Not Christine. Her magic only worked with water, or if she had physical contact with a foe whose body contained water. Which demon bodies did not. They were entities of brimstone, fire, sulfur, and illusion.

  She clutched her water bottle. “Get out.”

  The demon began to change. Grandmotherly wrinkles faded, white hair darkened. Shoulders widened, legs lengthened. Its chin roughened with masculine stubble. Pink sweater and wool skirt transformed into black turtleneck and charcoal pleated trousers. The demon was male now: tall, dark, and sinfully handsome. He rose, his form filling the compartment.

  His voice was a rough, erotic caress on Christine’s ears. All trace of the Irish lilt was gone. “Such a pretty little human. I’ll make it good for you.”

  The train lurched. Christine locked her knees to compensate.

  The demon held out his hand, palm upward. Black sparks, accompanied by a curl of oily smoke, seeped from its fingers. Power gathered, intensifying the odor of sulfur. “Come, my sweet. It’s just a kiss.” His smile broadened. “Nothing you haven’t known before.”

  Goddess help her, he knew. Knew how close she’d once come to turning demonwhore. But at least she’d survived Shaun’s betrayal. Shaun hadn’t.

  “No,” she said. “No.”

  “You refuse?” Far from being disappointed, the demon looked amused. He shrugged. “Then we will duel. That will be nearly as satisfying.”

  A snap of red demonfire flickered along the outline of his body. Christine popped the nozzle on her water bottle. The demon’s gaze tracked the movement, its infinite black pupils ringed with red.

  The only warning of his attack came with a sudden white flash of his teeth. The creature lunged, arm outstretched, demonfire crackling. Christine leaped back and slammed against the window. The train went into a curve, sending her sliding across the glass. She landed heavily on the bench as demonfire shattered against the window in a shower of sparks.

  She gathered her magic and muttered a quick defensive spell. Leveling her bottle, she sent a sharp stream of water at the demon, striking him squarely between the eyes. He recoiled, shrieking, clawing at his face. Blue sparks sizzled on his skin; long gashes of flesh ripped away. A thick black substance, like molten tar, oozed from the gashes and dripped to the floor, sizzling.

  A mangled mass of boiling muscle and bone occupied the place where the demon’s face had been. Christine’s stomach turned. The entity’s eyes alone remained recognizable. They’d gone completely crimson.

  “Fucking bitch.” The snarling words spat from the gaping hole that was now the demon’s mouth. A scream fought its way up Christine’s throat. The sulfur odor thickened. The train compartment filled with a thick black haze.

  Choking, eyes streaming, she could barely see her foe through the smoke. The demon seemed to move to the right, so she sprayed water in that direction. The next instant he lunged from the left. She dodged and leaped back, banging her head hard on the overhead rack. She saw stars as she fell to one side, avoiding the entity’s grasp by scant inches. She managed to land a spurt of water on his black, curling skin.

  The demon snarled. “Human whore.”

  “I told you to get out.” She trained the nozzle on the demon, praying the entity couldn’t tell how badly her hands were shaking. Or that her bottle was nearly empty. “Had enough?” she taunted with a confidence she in no way felt. “I can make it hurt worse.”

  Smoke swirled, stinging Christine’s eyes. She couldn’t help but inhale; acid seared the back of her throat.

  The demon’s mangled lips drew back in a hideous snarl. “Who are you? You’re far too powerful to be an ordinary witch.” His red eyes flared with sudden revelation. “You’re one of them. The troublemakers. The Coven of Light.”

  “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do.”

  She squeezed her bottle. The last of her precious Beltane water spurted, hitting the demon square in the chest. An explosion of blue burned a hole straight through its torso.

  The entity let out a foul curse. He looked down at the wound, then back up at Christine, eyes dripping rage.

  His voice was like a screech of fingernails on a blackboard. “If you and your witch friends imagine the Immortals will save you, you’re sadly mistaken. My master will crush all of you.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Christine said tightly.

  The demon gave a harsh laugh. The lines of his body grew indistinct, its limbs folding back on themselves. “Oh, I assure you, I can count on it. The Immortals will die, one by one. Tain will see to it. And when they are gone, my master will rule.”

  The entire train shuddered; a moment later the air ripped in two, opening a slice of black void. The demonfire and sulfur in the compartment poured into the rift. The demon dissolved in a curl of black smoke and disappeared.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hatred froze Gerold’s eyes.

  Kalen advanced slowly, not daring to take his eyes from the knife in the monk’s hand. The child. He had to save the child. The tiny female meant everything.

  He was too late.

  Gerold’s arm slashed. Sharp iron connected with pure, innocent flesh. Blood spurted. The infant’s wail abruptly ceased.

  Absolute horror paralyzed Kalen’s limbs. A low roar sounded in his ears, growing louder and louder until the buzzing filled his brain. It expanded until the pressure could not be contained by mere flesh and bone. White-hot rage exploded. The crystal tip of Uni’s magical spear went deadly cold.

  He thrust the weapon into Gerold’s chest. It pierced his coarse brown robe just above his plain wooden cross. Kalen had been given to believe the cross was a symbol of love. How had its message been twisted so utterly?

  Kalen jerked his spear from the dead man’s body. Gerold toppled forward. A harsh shout of triumph sounded. Kalen spun. Father Iacopo was laughing.

  Kalen stared as the old abbot’s robes turned to smoke. As his body melted and reformed as a female. Red demon eyes glowed in a beautiful, pale face. Glossy black hair sifted around her head like writhing snakes.

  Culsu.

  Kalen should have known this hell was her creation.

  He should have known.

  The nightmare, the memory—whatever he wished to call it—woke Kalen with a start and left a hollow feeling in his chest. Seven hundred years could not begin to erase the horror of that cursed night. He lay in his bed for a long time after the sun rose, wondering why in Hades he should get up. An
d yet, eventually, he did.

  He dressed in a kilt and a white linen shirt. The garments were the closest the modern world came to the tunics he’d worn during the time of Etruria and Rome. Loose, comfortable, no restriction on his bare legs. Why mankind had felt the need to invent hose, breeches, pantaloons, and then trousers was a complete mystery to Kalen.

  A glance out the window told him it was well past noon. It was hard to believe dawn had once been his favorite hour. He would have been content to remain unconscious until evening. His heart should have been lighter today, contemplating the changes a child would bring to his life. Instead, his nightmare had cast a pall over his senses.

  He strode down the passageway outside his bedchamber and ascended the twisted stair to the tower room. The windows of his sanctuary faced north, so as to cast a diffuse light on his collection. He entered the space, skirting his older acquisitions until he came to a halt before the most recent addition to his treasures. A truly great work of art. Genius frozen in marble.

  The subject was simple enough: a man and woman, nude. The figures were seated, the woman’s arms entwined around the man’s neck. The man’s hand rested on the outside of her hip. Their lips were scant inches apart, poised in that breathless eternity that existed only in the instant before a kiss.

  The statue was the work of the nineteenth-century sculptor Auguste Rodin. Kalen had wanted The Kiss for some time, but had only just secured it from the Musee Rodin in Paris. The museum trustees should have kicked him into the Rue de Varenne when he put the proposal before them. Fifty years ago—no, even ten years ago—they would have done just that. This time they’d taken his money and offered him his pick of the rest of the museum’s collection. Kalen shook his head in disgust. Humans had always been greedy, but in the last year the race had sunk to a new low.

  He walked a slow circle around the sculpture. Though the man and woman were on the verge of consummating their love, there was nothing at all lewd about the piece. The woman glowed with virginal innocence. She offered her body in complete trust.