Breaking Fate

by Georgia Lyn Hunter

  Echo was seated at the oak dining table, hunched over an open book. She cast him a quick, wary look. Aethan leaned against the counter opposite the table and watched Echo with a grim set to his jaw.

  No, Aethan couldn’t have fucked up worse than he had.

  The warrior sighed roughly. “Echo, you're fretting over nothing.”

  “How can you say that?” She jerked to her feet and started to pace, rubbing her arms as if she were cold. “It’s not nothing, it’s really not. This thing — this awareness inside me has been growing in the last few days… Something’s wrong. I sense it.”

  A pin drop would have shattered the sudden silence. Blaéz wanted to leave, except he had a bad feeling about this.

  Aethan appeared beside her in a flash. He grasped her arms and stopped her erratic pacing. “Echo, look at me. Tell me.”

  At his soft demand, she inhaled a shuddering breath. Her mismatched eyes took on an eerie glow. “Something’s pulling at me, I can't shake off this sense of urgency — I need to go.”

  “Go where?”

  Her hands flew out to encompass everything. “Same sensation like that first time when I was at Gran’s, then ended in the alley near Times Square—” Her gaze widened as if in realization. “There is another rift. And no one told me—”

  Aethan tensed, said nothing. She turned accusing eyes at Blaéz.

  He kept his mouth shut. What could he say? So far, he’d been handling his relationship with all the finesse of a charging bull. He couldn’t see himself dealing with Echo’s anger any better than he had with Darci’s.

  She glared back at Aethan. “How could you not tell me?”

  “You’re not strong enough—”

  “Not strong?” Her voice rose. “I'm immortal, Aethan. You made me so and for a reason. This is my job — what I've been born to do. Would you rather this place be overrun by those monsters?”

  Aethan looked ready to put his fist through something. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  “You're the Healer’s protector.” Her jaw firmed, tone cooled. “This decision is mine.”

  His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Not when your health — your very life could be at stake. Then it damn well is mine to make.”

  Blaéz rubbed the tattoo on his biceps as the tension thickened. He stilled and could do little to prevent the images flashing through his mind…

  Darkness… guttural noise… screaming humans disappearing into a flickering hole—

  The vision faded. There was only one place he knew where this could happen. No use hiding it now. “Trouble downtown, where the rift is. It’s going to be bad if we don’t get moving.”

  Echo spun for the door. Aethan stepped in her way. “No. You will remain here until the threat’s dealt with. I’ll bring you after — I won't have you near an open portal with those fuckers pouring out.”

  “Dammit, Aethan—” She stepped back. “Suddenly, I'm helpless and can't fight? You forget I killed two demoniis recently.”

  “And you seem to forget you won't be fighting but healing and unaware of your damn surroundings! It’s been barely a few weeks since I got you back. You fucking died, Echo, in my arms. Until I get that shit out of my head, yeah, what I say goes.”

  Her mouth opened again then closed without a sound. Blaéz could see her struggle to contain her anger.

  “Fine.” Lips compressing, she picked up her book and walked out.

  Aethan didn't follow but scowled at the empty doorway. “Let’s go deal with this shit.”

  Guess he and Aethan were both wrong. Echo should have known and made up her own mind about this. With Echo about to walk into danger, Blaéz was just grateful Darci would never be put in harm’s way and had no psychic powers to draw these demon fuckers’ attention.

  ***

  Blaéz took form in the alley downtown, and Aethan followed a few moments later, his anger contained beneath a mask of coldness. He didn't speak but paced near the rift.

  Týr leaped down from the rooftop of the building he kept watch on, shutting off the game he’d been playing on his iPhone. He shoved the device back into his pocket. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re about to have company,” Blaéz said.

  Týr’s eyes became brown diamonds. His virulent hatred for the species barely concealed. “Do these fuckers think we’d leave this rift unattended because it’s early evening?”

  Blaéz didn't answer. He leaned against the grimy wall. With the rifts open, the strains of his binding slithered around his psyche, tugging at him to move. He clamped harder on his mental shields, and still he felt the inexorable pull. He needed a fight — a brutal one, the only thing that would render him useless to move, unable to give in to the compulsion. But Darci hated when he got injured. After this morning, he didn't want to be the reason for the pain, the disillusionment he saw in her eyes anymore.

  As dusk rolled in bringing, the rift shimmered. At the insidious change in the air, his tattoo hummed against his skin, demanding release. Several figures from the Dark Realm poured through the fractured veil. Spotting the Guardians, guttural growls erupted from them. Weapons appeared in their hands, they attacked.

  Sword summoned, Blaéz flew into the horde, his blade plunging into a body, turning it to ash. Grunts and screeches, along with clashing swords filled the alley with a cacophony of sounds. Then the sweet smell of freshly cut grass filled Blaéz’s nose. He stopped dead, chest heaving, his sword suspended midair. Maloch’s minions. What were they up to?

  A demon circled Blaéz, a red bolt forming in his hand. He sneered at the black sword, “Pretty toy.”

  Blaéz spun around, and in a deadly arch, brought his “pretty toy” down, severing the demon’s fat, smirking head in a clean strike. The body fell and disintegrated into ash.

  A thin scream yanked Blaéz’s attention. A demon hauled a struggling human wearing a red t-shirt and shoved the male toward the rift. Blaéz flashed, landed a vicious kick to the demon’s belly and sent him flying to the asphalt. The shrieking human stumbled into the dark rupture. Blaéz dove for the male, but the flickering darkness swallowed him into its greedy maw.

  I have this.

  At Aethan’s telepathic warning, he flashed some distance away, leaving Aethan amidst the horde. Týr had already dematerialized.

  Blaéz pulled his protective shields tightly around him just as a white light emerged from within the Empyrean, turning him into a pulsing silhouette of whitefire. A power so dangerous, it could flatten the city and surrounding areas in seconds if the warrior lost control, leaving only ash in its wake. No, not good at all. Centuries ago, stationed in Europe during the so-called Dark Ages, Blaéz had seen how Aethan had razed demonii-infested villages to nothing but ash.

  For a second, the demons stood still, caught in the light’s deadly beauty, then the truth struck. They scrambled in a dissonance of screeches to get away.

  Aethan flung his arms out. Light exploded. In a wave, it spread through the alley, glazing the grime off walls and consuming all in its path… After a few minutes, the light dimmed and petered out. Aethan lowered his hands. Head bent. Spent.

  It would take the warrior a few minutes to recover. He was at his weakest right then.

  Blaéz kept watch, glancing around the quiet alley where not even a vermin scuttled. The threat was annihilated for now. A slight vibration in the air and Týr re-appeared with Echo. Her gaze darted around, then settled on her mate. Her anger gone, she sprinted over and skidded to a halt. “Aethan?”

  He didn't speak, just yanked her close and buried his face in her hair. Despite the couple’s earlier friction, their need for each other hammered home to Blaéz what mattered most. They let nothing stand in the way of their love. While he had nothing to fall back on with his present built on lies. So far he’d been making a damn mess of everything with Darci.

  I have feelings that need to be fed and nurtured, her words rolled in his head like scattering marbles. Indeed, he couldn’t have fu
cked up more.

  A pained expulsion of breath slashed the unnerving silence, pulling Blaéz out of his thoughts and back to the alley. Echo shoved away from Aethan. He reached for her, but she shook her head. “No.”

  Aethan’s features tightened into grim lines. “Echo—”

  “You can't touch me right now.” She held him off with one hand, steadying herself with the other on the grimy wall. “It hurts worse when you do…”

  Aethan’s fists clenched, he stared helplessly at her.

  Blaéz had never seen Echo heal the veils before. Her eyes closed, she stood so still, but the agony on her face conveyed a helluva lot of pain. One he couldn’t tap into and draw into him because it wasn’t physical.

  He glanced at his friend. “What’s happening?”

  Anger and worry edged Aethan’s words. “All her energy — everything she is, is directed toward healing the tears.”

  “How?” Blaéz asked. It made him realize how little he knew of Echo’s ability.

  Aethan’s gaze never left Echo as he spoke, “The rift’s drawing on the magical properties of her bloodline. Its wound becomes hers, and it’s fucking hurting her. And I have to stand by and watch this torture—”

  Another agonized gasp. Echo swayed. Her knees gave way. Aethan grabbed her before she hit the sludge-coated asphalt. “I have you, me’morae.” He swept her into his arms and dematerialized with his unconscious mate.

  Blaéz scanned the veils. The shimmering weave, like a million sparkling raindrops, flowed smoothly once more. The tear had knitted. Healed. Echo had done her job. But at what cost?

  He had to go back to the castle, see Darci and mend the rifts he’d unintentionally caused.

  About to leave, Týr loped over to him, just as both their cells buzzed. He pulled out his and snorted at the text. “The Arc wants a quick meet.”

  Blaéz dematerialized.

  ***

  Blaéz entered the kitchen. He scanned for Darci and found her in the shower. Instantly, his mind went back to last night when he’d made love to her. Images flowed through him, but that breathtaking moment had all the intensity of a Polaroid shot. He felt nothing.

  He pulled down a glass from the cupboard and poured a shot of whiskey as Týr walked in.

  He circled the long oak table, dropped into a chair and faced him. “Does the Arc seem a little distracted to you lately?”

  Blaéz leaned against the counter near the window and sipped his liquor, the burn a transient sensation, diminishing all too fast. He shrugged. Michael was the last person on his mind. “I imagine we’ll know soon enough.”

  “Suppose so.” Týr drummed a restless tune on the wooden table as they waited. “We still have to keep an eye out for the Watchers’ descendants awakening. Why the hell don’t they have a name or something? Do we call them angel babes, nephilim — what?”

  “Psionic,” Michael said, striding inside. Black Aviators concealed his eyes as usual. His hair had slipped the ponytail he’d taken to wearing. His face gleamed with sweat as if he’d come from a battle or a heavy bout of lovemaking — it couldn’t be the latter since he was of the divine angels, celibate and in service to their God.

  “That’s the name the seraphim gave The Watchers’ offspring because of their impossible power,” Michael said, swiping a coke from the fridge. He tore off the tab and guzzled it like he’d been in the desert without water for decades. “Dagan summoned me. Seems we have a problem.”

  “Demoniis?” Týr asked, titling his chair to balance on two legs. “Eliminated a horde of them just now at the rift.”

  “Not sure.” Michael headed back to the table and set his soda down. “The rift’s dealt with?”

  “Echo’s done her job if that’s what you mean,” Aethan said, stalking into the kitchen. He appeared ragged, his fury barely leashed as he dropped into a chair. “She’s unconscious — will remain so for who the hell knows how long this time. Just what the fuck is Lore doing? Wasn’t he supposed to help her handle this?”

  “Lore is her tutor,” Michael stated coolly. “He’ll help her with learning and understanding her power and what she can expect to face in other realms. We’ll concentrate on honing her fighting skills. But she has to build up her body’s resistance on her own. It’s about willpower. She has to fight this part herself. And you need to start her training.”

  Aethan turned to glare out the kitchen window. Blaéz couldn’t blame the warrior for his anger. Had it been Darci in that kind of situation, Blaéz knew he’d probably be as bad… maybe worse.

  His aggression surrounding him like a cloud, Aethan said, “I'm taking Echo away for a short while.”

  After a moment, Michael nodded. “Where?”

  Aethan shrugged. “New Orleans—”

  “—is crowded,” Michael reminded him. “Hardly a place to recuperate with it also being a supernatural hotspot. Our place in Scotland or the cabin in the Drakensberg would be better. Quieter.”

  Aethan said nothing, probably considering Michael’s suggestion.

  Dagan strode into the kitchen. Long warrior braids flowed like ebony whips down his back, his yellow eyes sparking in irritation. “Another body. Killer’s gone off radar again. No psychic vibe. Nothing.”

  That surprised Blaéz considering the Sumerian had an uncanny knack of sensing hidden abilities without having to touch a person.

  “That makes it two dead bodies,” Michael said. “Usually not our problem, except for the way the deaths occurred.”

  “How?” Týr asked. “Hacked to pieces? Blown to smithereens and turned to ash, like the Celt here does?”

  “No.” Michael glanced at Dagan. “You want to take this?”

  The warrior’s citrine gaze hardened. A tic worked his jaw at the direct order. Guess his days of long silences were at an end.

  “No guns or human method of killing,” Dagan said, hands tucked in his back pockets. Tone flat, he dealt out the details. “Death toll is actually three. Humans. The first two had their brains imploded, but skull remained intact. Tonight’s had the same style death, except his bones had been turned to liquid, too. No bruises, or drinking of some corrosive liquid, nothing touched the male on the outside. Tried tracking for the killer’s psychic vibration but it vanished midtown.”

  That would be why Dagan had been a no-show at the rift battle earlier.

  “We have a supernatural killer on the loose, then?” Blaéz asked.

  “If only it were that simple.” Michael pulled off his shades, tossed them on the table and rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. Wherever he’d been, the archangel sure looked like he could use some serious crib time.

  “Humans leave behind a sliver of their energy, rage, resentment — whatever motivated them to kill, but at this death scene — nothing. We have to double our efforts in tracking whoever or whatever’s responsible.”

  A stirring started low in Blaéz’s belly. The door opened and Darci walked inside. He straightened from the counter he’d been leaning against as everything inside him flowed awake, like the lands soaking up the rain after a long drought. He wanted to walk across and just hold her.

  “Oh…” She faltered a step when she saw them. Her gaze met his. Hurt and betrayal flickered briefly in those sunflower depths before she looked away. He felt like shit for being the one responsible for putting it there.

  Warily, she swiped back her hair from her face. “I'm sorry, I didn't realize—”

  “It’s okay.” Michael waved her inside. “We’re almost done.”

  She gave Michael a little smile, one that Blaéz utterly disliked, especially when she walked right past him and around the island counter into the kitchen. The short, gray jean-style skirt she wore revealed miles of sexy, tanned legs. Her light-pink sleeveless top stretched over full breasts he was dying to taste — hell, he wanted to lick every inch of her again.

  Blaéz couldn’t stop staring as she pulled out apple juice from the fridge, poured some into a glass then took a sip. Hedori entered from the
side door near the pantry that led to his quarters. He said something. She smiled.

  She looked so pretty. And too damn chummy with the butler.

  “How’s the new job going, Dars?” At Týr’s easy use of her shortened name, Blaéz’s blood went into a slow boil, possessiveness crushing his chest.

  “It’s wonderful, beats stacking shelves most of the time.”

  Týr laughed.

  Her smile faded. “There are a few things I’d like for the library. I made a list, but I'm not sure who to give it to…”

  “Hedori,” Blaéz said. He had enough of her ignoring him. She glanced his way, expression cool. He added, “And for anything else you might need in the future.”

  She nodded, then set her glass down on the counter and headed for the door.

  Blaéz narrowed his eyes. Fine, he deserved her anger. But did she really imagine he’d put up with her ignoring him? He went after her.

  “Right, then,” Michael said. “Whoever this is, needs to be found and contained — especially if he’s psionic, can't have demons going after him.” Then he drawled, “Since the Celt’s terminated this meeting, that’s it for now.”

  Týr’s amused chuckle rang out.

  Arsehole. Blaéz slammed the word into his mind with a whole lot of power.

  A satisfying grunt followed. Message received.

  Darci glanced back at their rumbles and laughter. Her cell rang. She pulled it out of her pocket and answered. And went dead still, her face paling as if all the blood drained from her.

  Blaéz was at her side in a heartbeat. He grasped her gently by the arms. “What is it?”

  Her mouth trembling, she looked up, her gorgeous eyes stark with dread. “My brother — Grace — she’s in hospital. I have to go.”

  “I’ll take you.” Finally… maybe he could be the person she could lean on, instead of hurting her at every turn.

  Chapter 18

  As the hospital elevator doors slid closed, Darci wrapped her arms around her waist and tried to pull her shaky emotions back under control. No use upsetting her brother and letting him see her own misery.

  The awful fight with Blaéz earlier that afternoon weighed heavily on her mind. And being in his arms when he’d dematerialized them to the hospital downtown made it too hard to bear.