“Y-yes. Yes. They’re on the other side of the glass, below us in the infirmary.”
Azazel smiled. “It’s simple. Use your mesmerist abilities to subdue them.”
“My abilities . . .?” Moss stammered. “You think this is funny?”
“Oh, right. I guess that would be my job.”
“Hurry, Mr. Cro—”
“Don’t call me that.” His voice echoed in the room.
“G-Great One. Please, hurry, Great One.”
“Take off the hood.”
Julius perked up. Finally, Azazel would get them out of this house of horrors. But then what? The Nephilim had been created. The few seconds Julius could gain control wouldn’t be enough to stop them. He’d have to bide his time and pray the Original had a plan.
Moss shook his head. “No. You can do things with your eyes.”
“I guess we’re at an impasse.” Azazel sighed.
“You have to help them.”
“You have to take off the hood. Why don’t you turn me toward the window? If you stand behind me . . . .” Said the fox to the mole.
“Oh, yes, that would work.”
For such an intelligent man, Moss could be a complete moron. The gurney jerked when he kicked off the break and rolled Julius over to the window. The bed tipped until he hung in a semi up-right position. Moss lifted the hood. Fresh, cool air flooded over his face for the first time in days. The strap securing his eyes shut came off next.
Julius squinted against the emergency strobe. He felt Azazel’s impatience as strong as his own. Though for different reasons, they both needed to see what was happening below. Bit by bit Julius’ eyes adjusted to the harsh illumination. When his vision cleared, his gut churned.
Seventeen Nephilim were feeding in the room below. They were abominations—humanoid in form, but larger, stronger. Their abnormal muscle-mass made them appear twisted and misshapen and their jagged teeth and yellow eyes as evil as they were.
“What’s taking so long?” Moss shifted his weight.
His lips spread into another grin. Azazel’s pride welled up, filling him near to bursting. Azazel took full control, flicking Julius’ gaze to the reflective surface of the window. As a vampire, he had no reflection but Azazel did.
Fixated on the destruction beyond the window’s surface, Moss was slow to notice the reflection of the burnt, twisted skeleton. Slowly, by degrees, his attention shifted.
Moss stopped babbling. He froze, as if that would make him less of a target. His breathing grew shallower, faster. His gaze turned from the scene beyond the window, to its surface.
Moss met his eyes. Azazel took over Moss’ mind with Julius’ talent.
While he pitied Moss, he refused to stop Azazel. Moss was the pale horseman, the proof of his part in Armageddon visible through the window. He had to die before he caused more trouble.
“You will suffer, Moss. Like an enclosed fly desperate for fresh air.” Azazel laughed. “Release me.” Sadistic bastard. He could’ve freed them himself, but always he had to display his control over others.
The doc complied with naught but a soft whimper of protest as he triggered the mechanism. The manacles opened.
His muscles, anemic from his incarceration, didn’t want to work and he dropped to the floor. He’d pay for slowing Azazel down. The Watcher forced him to stand, to stretch, rotating his wrists and ankles, each in turn while he observed the scene below, paying no heed to the agony of pins and needles that Julius experienced.
Seventeen Nephilim. Already, they had killed twice that many RI staff. They bathed in the blood as they fed. Some of the bodies were starting to transform.
“So smart, aren’t you?” They turned to Moss. “You’re nothing. An insignificant pest. A fly. Do what the flies do. Find your freedom from this room if you can.”
They walked over to a desk, picked up the phone and dialed Leopold, while watching Moss.
Moss turned to the observation window. Launched himself at the glass much the way a trapped fly slammed itself against glass panes when trying to escape a house. The window rattled.
Leopold came onto the line. “Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Juli . . . ” He cut himself off with a curse. “Great One? Where the hell have you been?”
Across the room, Moss backed up several feet.
“I’ve been a bit tied up.” Julius would’ve rolled his eyes if he could. “I’m ready now. The Nephilim are here.”
“It’s about damned time. So now you’ll bring me the Original and destroy the Guardian.”
“No.” Azazel waited while Leopold cursed a blue streak.
Moss ran at the window, arms hanging at his sides. His nose broke with a sickening crack. Blood splattered across the window.
The scent of fresh blood rode in on his next inhalation. Christ, he was thirsty.
Azazel chuckled. The sick bastard loved playing with his damned food.
Moss started back to the middle of the room. Reflexive tears streamed down his cheeks, thinning the blood from his ruined face.
“It seems while I’ve been . . . otherwise engaged, you’ve been busy.”
“I didn’t know where you went.” Leopold’s voice shook. “You could’ve been killed for all I knew. I had to proceed.”
When Moss reached the center of the room he turned around, prepared to rush the window in his soundless, mindless escape.
“So you sent Duncan Sinclair, of all people? I wonder why.”
“He’s a mindless twit. He’ll do what he’s told. The Watchers vouched for him.”
“Ah, but which Watchers? Those who may be on my side, or those who oppose me?”
Leopold remained silent.
Moss impacted the glass again. The plexiglass shook. He flopped against the glass a few times before turning around again.
“I think I’ll pay you a visit.”
“Wha—? I’m here in the Council Chambers as always.”
Christ, what an idiot. Just because Azazel had never before called him on his shit, didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of Leopold’s tricks. “Even my host is disgusted with you.” Leopold was a projector. He projected his targets deepest desires—even his own. The epitome of a narcissist, the sick fuck desired nothing as much as himself. “I’ll see you soon.”
“At the Council Chambers.”
“Fine. But it had better be you at the Council Chambers.”
Julius’ hand lifted, halting Moss as they hung up the phone. “Come here, human, my host needs to feed, else he’ll be useless.”
Moss offered the tender artery in his neck with no protest. Julius tried to turn away. He had no desire to aide Azazel, but the Watcher had full control of his body and, God help him, he was thirsty.
The sick bastard took pleasure in tearing Moss apart. In making the feeding so much more painful than needed. When finished, he turned them to the viewing windows as if nothing happened.
Chapter 18
Carnation, WA
When they got home, Trina plopped down on the couch, flipping on the television. He understood her need for distraction, but she had some decisions to make. He leaned against the wall. “Look, I know this is a lot to—”
She waved her hand impatiently. Turned the volume up.
He came around to see the telly. Still set to CNN, the graphic in the background showed the same logo as those two lads at Rowena’s house had on their shirts.
“RI director, Dr. Edwin Moss, is injecting the infected with a new experimental treatment. We should know in the next few hours if it has worked. In other news, air traffic is still grounded while authorities try to pinpoint the cause of the mass-disappearances . . . .”
“Fuck.” Trina stood. Sat back down.
New experimental treatment?
“Rowena sent Crowley there. Fuck. Edwin Moss is the guy she did the dream spell on. We’re out of time. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Yeah. This was bad, but there wasn’t a damned thing they could
do. The sun would rise soon. He tried to instill a little levity in the situation. “You’re inner sailor is showing, Duchess.”
“We have to stop them. If they have Crowley . . . . What do you want to bet that experimental treatment has something to do with him?”
That wasn’t a bet he cared to take, but they couldn’t take off half-cocked with dawn approaching. “No.” He folded his arms over his chest. “It’ll be dawn soon. You’re not going alone.”
Her chin jerked up. “I know where it is. I looked it up. The facility is out in Oceania on an island called Smyrna.”
“How the hell are we going to get there?”
She glanced at the clock. “With the time zone lag, we’ve probably got about three hours of darkness. I can’t promise it’ll be a fun ride, but I know a spell that will get us there.”
Spell-travel? “Well, never thought I’d be able to mark ‘traveling by spell’ off my bucket list.”
She wet her lips. “It’ll be a risk, I don’t want to lie to you. With my Magic acting up, I can’t guarantee we’ll get there safely.”
What the hell did she expect him to do with that information? Run, screaming, in the other direction? They had to get Crowley away from the humans. “I trust you.”
She held out her hand.
He entwined their fingers.
“I’m not sure what we’ll be walking into. Last time I was at Smyrna, there was nothing there. It used to be a nature preserve.”
“Get us there. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Trina closed her eyes. Her lips moved as she silently spoke a spell.
Strange sensations assailed Duncan’s skin like thousands of raindrops pelting him as his body separated into billions of tiny molecules. The infinitesimal atoms split apart, making him appear similar to the figures in Georges Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. Trina had the same rough, dotted texture.
“Bloody hell.” Even his voice had taken on a fragmented quality as though coming through a poor connection on an old phone line.
Like a click of a slide, one moment they were there, standing in the house, in the next he stood ankle-deep in water. All around, screaming, snarling, shouts, and gunfire drowned out the waves lapping at his boots.
Aside from a couple of too-bright floodlights aimed their way, it was dark. With his eyes still dazzled by the bright lights at Haven House, he could hear the danger, but not see it.
Trina’s grip tightened on his hand. They both froze, the red-tinged waves lapping at their feet. As his eyes started to adjust, he glanced around. Behind them, the two sides of the u-shaped island curved around, almost enclosing the small bay. The island was narrow enough to see a Navy ship docked on the other side of the island, the lights of the ship highlighting the bland, slate gray of the towering vessel. To their right, about a hundred yards out, stairs rose to a red-brick building. Floodlights sitting on the roof lit the area, highlighting where the beach rose about ten feet to a mesa, which was why he couldn’t see the threat—they were up there, over the rise. Palm trees stood in clusters around the sandy beach. Bodies littered the ground. Some wore Navy uniforms, some lab coats. A few of the dead wore civvies, name tags still hanging around their necks.
“Look.” Trina pointed to their left where one of the bodies—a woman in a red dress suit—started to thrash.
Trina started toward her.
He gripped her arm, stopping her. “Wait.”
The woman’s skin rippled and stretched as she twisted in the sand. Her nails elongated, and her muscles bulked, ripping her clothes at the seams.
Jesus, she was transforming. He just wasn’t sure what the hell she was transforming into. What had they been doing here? He strode over to the woman, pulling his Guardian blade. The etchings down the center of the knife revealed a slat of wood caught between the two halves of the blade—the perfect daemon-killer. He didn’t hesitate. He brought his knife down, sinking it into her chest as he went to one knee next to her.
As soon as the wood in the blade hit her flesh, the woman’s body crumpled, dissolving into ash, leaving nothing but her jewelry and name tag: Ruby Braith, IRB. He glanced back at Trina. “Kill anyone who’s been bit.”
She took a step back. “Maybe there’s a cure . . . maybe—”
Some beach wood lay nearby in the sand. “They’re transforming but I don’t know into what. Must be some kind of vampire-hybrid because they react the same to wood.” He pulled off a smaller branch—thick, smooth, maybe a foot long, with one pointy, jagged end, and tossed it to her. “Use this. Your gun won’t work.”
He pulled his second blade out of his leg sheath and climbed the rise to see if there was anyone left to save. “Stay back.”
*****
They shouldn’t have come.
She’d thought they’d arrive, break into the facility, and kill Crowley. She hadn’t expected this. Wasn’t ready for this. Gripping the branch Duncan gave her tighter, she followed him up the steep incline. At the top, she stopped.
Duncan didn’t.
He walked right into the fray. Humans in lab coats and military uniforms were fighting for their lives, trying to fend off the creatures. She didn’t know what they were—not vampires. They were mis-formed, bulging with muscle mass. They had little resemblance to the humans they must have been.
A scream lodged in her throat as Duncan walked head-on into the first of the creatures, spinning when he was at arm’s length and sinking his blade into the creature’s throat. He was ruthless, brutal, destroying one after another.
There were too many. He’d be overwhelmed in minutes if the humans didn’t shoot him first. The guns didn’t have much effect on the creatures, slowed them down a bit, but nothing more.
She started to rip off her choker but hesitated. In the distance a lone figure stood still, watching. Nothing more than a silhouette against the lights from the ship. The captain? Someone from RI? He stood with calm authority. He might be able to direct her to Crowley. She ran toward him, skirting around the melee, staying low to avoid getting hit by stray bullets. Her gaze kept wanting to return to the fight to see how Duncan fared. She caught one last glimpse of him before more creatures swarmed the area, blocking her view.
Her attention returned to the lone figure. “Hey!” She waved her arms as she climbed the small hill. “Hey!”
He turned toward her, but didn’t speak.
“I’m looking for someone named Julius Crowley. They brought him here a couple of”—she sucked in a deep breath, trying to regulate her breathing as she climbed the last few steps to the top—“days ago.”
“You’ve found him.” He walked into the light.
Trina looked up into his face—a young, handsome trustworthy face covered in blood. His sand-colored blond hair was longish with a bit of curl; blood stiffened it in places, too. She met his brown doe-eyes . . . shit! Shifted her gaze away. Damn it, she knew better!
“Too late, little witch. I’ve already got you.”
No. She didn’t feel any different. It must take him longer than that to get into her mind.
Trust us, little witch. I can help you. I can make you powerful.
No. She turned. “Stop it.” Began walking. Thank the goddess she hadn’t taken her necklace off. He’d gotten in her head. He could make her do things.
“Stop.”
Her whole body froze, refusing to take another step. He hadn’t even raised his voice. She’d barely heard him over the noise of the creatures and the gunfire below.
Stay with us, little witch. We’ll keep you safe. “They’re beautiful, don’t you think?” He stood next to her. “Look at them.”
She made no effort to obey.
“Look!”
Her whole body jerked, forcing her to stare into the fight below. She couldn’t even blink her eyes. Duncan had positioned himself with his back toward the remaining humans, deep furrows slashed across his cheek and nose where one of the creatures had clawed him. Goddess, please
keep him safe.
“They’re not fettered by conscience nor morality. They will always focus on their purpose in life: to feed and repopulate.” He stepped into her line of vision, waving one arm wide. “Meet my children, the Nephilim.” He smiled. Stepped closer. “Now, I have one little spell for you to cast . . . and you can be on your way.” Relax, little witch. Speak the words we want to hear. Cast the spell.
She tried to shake her head, to shout a denial, but her body wouldn’t respond. What was he after? Did he think she’d transport his hideous children to the mainland?
“I want you to perform an exorcism.” Exorcize us. Everything will be better once we’re free.
Shock rolled through her. He was possessed? She didn’t even have time to process that before the words rose in her mind, the bible verse needed, the ritual—everything she’d need to say and do to perform the spell.
“One little spell.” Exorcize us. Free us and we’ll leave you be.
She almost believed him. Almost. After all, he had the full force of her chaos Magic at his disposal. All he wanted was freedom. Her mouth started to open.
No. She drew on her Magic, clamping her jaw shut.
“You do know how to perform an exorcism, don’t you? Lilith did. I’ve seen her perform one.” Exorcize us. Psalm 91. Speak the words. “But not you. No, I never see you.”
She could’ve been their secret weapon. She could’ve snuck up on him. Instead, she’d bungled this whole mission. Announced herself. Looked him in the eyes. Shit.
Speak the words. Do it. Free us.
Her jaw ached. Throbbed with the need to speak. Even her tongue strained against the inside of her mouth, desperate to follow his will.
“Quit fighting me, little witch. You are no match for my power. Not on your own.” Speak the words. We’ll let you go if you say the words.
A tear ran down her cheek as she struggled. Her throat hummed as the words tried to spill out of her. Through the pain, the absolute betrayal of her body, she started to formulate a plan because when she couldn’t resist any longer, she had a feeling the words would shoot out of her like cannon fire. What if she could twist the words and say a different spell?
The Shadow: The Original's Trilogy Page 14