He lifted his free hand and trailed his knuckles along her cheekbone. She couldn’t even breathe.
“Remember me, Katherine.” He dropped his hand, holding her entranced with his intense gaze. “Remember us.”
His phone beeped. So did hers.
“We have to go,” she said, clearing her throat.
“He dies tonight,” he repeated as if she hadn’t heard the first time. “And then we live again.”
* * * * *
The eclipse was full, casting a ruddy light on the heavenly and demonic hosts gathered on snow-covered Dartmoor. Flamma of Light and Dark filled the white fields as far as the eye could see. Archangel Michael’s black-winged army in red tunics and silver armor lined the perimeter near the circle of standing stones, next to a line of Dominus Daemonum. The angels had finally deemed themselves worthy to come down to earth and lend a hand. Of course, the army had been built for this day, for the new world that would begin tonight.
Across from them stood six demon princes along with their minions and servants—red-eyed, fanged, clawed and ready to kill. Genevieve had dispatched one of the princes on a recent errand in Hell, so only six stood arrogantly at the front of the line closest to the ring of stones. From here, George could make out Damas’s perfect profile. He tightened his hold on the hilt of his sword, ready to smash Damas’s face when the battle began.
George smiled at the thought of the strong-willed and powerful, yet young and hopeful Vessel of Light at the center of this ghastly horde within the standing stones. Genevieve reminded him of Katherine when they first met. Katherine stood close by, next to the blue-winged, raven-haired angel warrior Anya, her crossbow in hand, her violet eyes glowing with supernatural luster. Even next to the radiant angel, Katherine stood apart. Having left her long coat somewhere so she could have easy access to her weapons, she looked regal and fine to him—chin up, blonde hair falling down her back in a ponytail, strapped with blades on both hips and thighs and in a double-crossed sheath at her chest. He could hardly take his eyes off her.
He was glad Anya stood with the hunters rather than Michael’s army. He’d fought alongside her before, a deadly soldier devoted to Uriel and his cause to help humanity and defeat the hosts of evil. Now that the Great War was finally here, the human world would be overrun by angels and demons of all kinds. He couldn’t think what tomorrow would bring. He must focus on his one goal tonight: Kill Damas. Or die trying.
He had stayed toward the back with one eye on the ring of standing stones, where Genevieve faced off against Bamal’s Vessel and the other on the rolling, mist-laden moors filled with all manner of demon spawn, including the Titans—dragons. He had a particular fondness for killing the greatest of the demonic beasts. But there were others: hulking creatures with hooved feet and minotaur-like bodies with a single horn atop the head, their many eyes gleaming red in the dark. Other smaller, scaly monsters with razor-sharp claws and serrated teeth in wide mouths scuttled along the border of the demonic horde. Among the throng, closer to the ring, was the black-clad Bellock, a guardian demon with gray skin and a powerful body. Jude’s gaze kept sliding to the one who gloried in hunting and killing angels, their exact counterpart. No doubt Jude would engage with this one as soon as the battle began, as Bellock was one of Jude’s oldest and strongest rivals.
The last of the creatures who circled the ring, gazing out at the masses, were the five rivers of the underworld, the Collectors of Souls, the soul-eaters. They sided with neither the Light nor the Dark. They served only themselves, feeding on the bodies and souls of the dead. Their favorite meal was Flamma, relishing the power they could absorb by eating flesh, bone and spirit. The five peered out, preparing to gorge on the fallen.
Acheron—the River of Despair—a black-boned skeletal creature in regal robes of pitch, stood at the center, long, bony limbs at his sides. Cocytus—the River of Woe—a banshee-like crone, shrieked to the sky in her ghostly raiment. Styx—the white-robed beauty with black eyes and a blacker heart—reeked of hatred. Lethe—the feared River of Forgetfulness—the withered hag with ratty hair and hollow eyes—floated farthest from the others. And Phlegethon, with the body of a minotaur, rippling with massive, bulging muscles and fire licking over his red skin to the tips of his black horns—he was the fiercest of them all. His slitted yellow eyes glowed with a lust for violence. In his gargantuan fist, he held a Thor-size hammer, molten red and ready to crush the skulls of any beast that drew near.
Storm clouds rolled in like waves crashing to shore, swallowing up the blood moon. The tension among the waiting armies stretched taut when a sudden, deafening cry echoed across the vast fields of Dartmoor. A crashing beam of lightning flashed from the sky dead center of the standing stones, striking Genevieve, who cried into the night, awakening her to her full power. A thunderous, roaring wind swept icy snow across the field. Finally, the time had come.
George launched toward the closest demon, a fury with reptilian skin and a snout like a wolf. The demon fought with a scimitar, curving it with precision toward George’s head, but George had been fighting for centuries. He dodged easily and slid under the demon’s swinging arm and sliced his broadsword across the creature’s back, severing its spine with a crunch. It screamed a high-pitched howl.
Dragon fire spewed into the night.
“Kat!” It was Anya.
George leaped into action, seeing the two battled a yellow-scaled behemoth with a deadly spiked tail. Kat rolled to the ground as the tail swung right over her. She popped up as Anya winged her way above the beast to its horned crown. But it knew her aim, leaping with massive wings spread wide and crashing its body onto three angels and two demons in the midst of combat.
“Son of a bitch!” yelled Kat, sprinting toward the beast again.
George was at her side. “I’ll take the left.”
She nodded while in full motion. “Got the right.”
They’d fought dragons before. There was only one way to kill them: penetrate the scaly armor at the skull, preferably at the temples. Fortunately, this ugly beast had giant spikes ringing its skull—the perfect place to sift in and hold on tight.
The dragon growled while puffing up its chest just before it let fly another stream of fire straight up into the sky, trying to kill Anya, who aimed another arrow and hit the beast dead center of the eye. It roared and flounced, swinging its massive head from side to side. Anya had already swooped high in a giant arc, flying upside down, then cutting a line straight back to the beast’s head.
“Now!” yelled Katherine.
At a full sprint, George sifted and landed on the man-size spike spearing outward from under the dragon’s left ear. The stench of the dead wafted from the beast’s mouth, which yawned and snapped, then shook, trying to lose the two intruders now dangling on its head. George sensed, not saw, Katherine on the other side, knowing her presence like he knew his right hand. Without hesitation, he pulled back and drove his sword, Silversong, into the indented temple, the thinner part of the skull. Letting out a war cry, he shoved it through and held on as the howling beast stumbled, then tripped toward the earth. Before they hit, he sifted out to a safe distance.
The dragon crashed to its death. Panting, he glanced right and found Katherine standing among a pile of dead not far from Styx, who was sucking up the remnants of spirits and licking her fingers dipped in the black blood of dead demons.
“Behind you,” he said, pointing.
She was too far away but read his lips and turned. With a shuddering glance, she stalked away back to the dragon. He did the same, needing to retrieve Silversong. The mighty dragon’s head tilted to the right, its forked tongue lolling out of its fanged mouth. He sifted to its head again and wrenched Silversong from its monstrous sheath. It zinged as he freed the blade.
The battle raged on, but most of the combat had pushed toward the ring of standing stones. He glanced around, seeking the on
e he’d been wanting all night. And there he was at the base of the small hill. Damas gloated over an enemy, his foot pressing down his prey. Genevieve.
In a blink, George stood directly behind Damas, the enemy who had thwarted him for centuries, who had stolen his love and broken her—body and soul—with malice, lust, greed and cruelty. Adrenaline shot through his frame as he stepped close, listening to the foul threats he spewed at Genevieve, who lay pinned on the ground beneath his foot. George grabbed Damas’s shoulder and slid the sword home, straight through his upper chest and slightly to the left. The blade, slick with black blood, emerged on the other side.
“You’ll never twist anyone to your will again,” George promised before whispering words only for Damas to hear. “This is the day I will cherish, as I told you I would. Then I will forget you, and it’ll be as if you never existed at all.” George glanced down at the most powerful Flamma of all, still trapped under Damas’s foot, and raised his voice. “Finish him, Genevieve.”
Her expression of shock transformed as she grabbed Damas’s ankle. Without saying a word or mumbling a chant, she petrified the demon lord with a single thought. Genevieve’s entire body lit up from within with white-hot fire. A crackling, splintering sound, then Damas exploded into a cloud of fine ash and bone. A flash of ultrawhite light radiated across the moor, singeing the demons still in combat. Squealing and roaring, they fled the field. In that instant, George knew they had won this battle.
Genevieve popped up too quickly, swiped a femur off her, then wobbled. George grabbed her arm to hold her upright as her knees gave way. Before he could scoop her up, Jude was there, lifting her in his arms. He whispered words in her ear, carrying the woman who’d stolen his own heart away from this field of blood and death.
George stared down and toed his boot into the stack of bones billowing with ash. He tapped loose the demon’s skull. It rolled behind him and down the hill to where Katherine stood. She stopped it with her boot, toe up. After a second’s hesitation, her chest heaving, she crushed the skull beneath her foot.
George waited, wanting her more in that moment—blood-spattered, dirty and pale as a sheet—than he ever had his entire godforsaken life. Terrified, his heart too full of hope, unable to accept any answer but yes, he stood unmoving, gazing down the incline at the woman who held his heart in her hands, and simply waited. She met his gaze, breathing fast with the adrenaline of the moment, angels swooping after the fleeing demons in the distance, fires burning sporadically from dragon flame.
The world was on fire, and he didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was this woman. This magnificent, beautiful, darling woman.
He raised his brow in question, bloody blade at his side—vulnerable and hopeful.
She crunched over the demon’s skull, not giving it another glance, leaving the bones behind her, and stretched out an arm toward him. Then she smiled.
“Let’s go home, George.”
Sheathing Silversong, he barreled down the hill, wrapped her in his arms and spun in a circle. She was laughing when they slipped through the Void, the momentary darkness no discomfort to either as they clung to one another. George righted them on solid ground outside the gates of Thornton.
George set her on her feet, both of them trembling, her laughter slipping away, though her smile remained. Taking her hand, he walked her through his wards, where they would be well protected and where they could relax their guard, if just for a little while.
As they crunched along the gravel drive, there came another, softer sound not far away. A violin and a woman’s beautiful voice floated over the lawn. The light from a bonfire flickered off to the right, near the stables. A small gathering of people circled the fire, a pastoral tradition for New Year’s here.
“Who is that?” she asked.
“You remember Daniel? The stable boy?”
“Yes.”
“I charged him as steward when I left Thornton…to look for you. It’s been a bit of a family tradition to pass that torch down the family line. His family lives in part of the house. They now run the estate, which is more a museum than anything else. And an attraction for those who seek the Lost Lord of Thornton.” He said the last with a doom-and-gloom tone.
She laughed, their hands clasped between them as they walked, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “Lost Lord of Thornton?”
“Yes. Didn’t you know? He vanished one night in the early 1800s and was never seen or heard from again. Though a mysterious donor continues to fund the estate and keep the title in the Thornton name. Some say his ghost haunts these halls on a moonlit night.”
Katherine didn’t seem to enjoy his teasing. Her expression turned somber.
He pulled her to a stop, the violin and song still echoing into the night. “Don’t go tripping down memory lane. Not now. Please.”
“I wasn’t.” She inhaled a deep breath, focusing down on their entwined fingers. “I was just wondering something.”
“And what is that?”
“Is the Lord of Thornton still lost?” She met his gaze. The emotion welling there nearly crippled him.
“No.” He swept a loose lock of golden hair away from her face, before cupping her cheek with extraordinary tenderness. “I believe he has finally been found.”
“Oh, George.” She let out one sob and struggled to hold the rest back, biting her lip.
“Don’t, my love.”
The singer and fiddler burst into a new song with a lively beat, singing about hearth and home and a bonny child at her mum’s feet. George let go of her hand, stepped back and bowed, wanting no sign of sadness anywhere in this moment of their reunion.
“May I have this dance?” He held out his hand.
“You may.”
She stepped onto the lawn where he guided her, holding her as he had that first night when they waltzed at the Weathersby ball. Though the music was quite different, the connection was the same. They swayed together in perfect harmony, holding one another as if nothing else mattered. Because in that moment, nothing else did.
Though George wished neither of them were still strapped with chest harnesses and battle gear, he knew he’d never forget the glossy look in her eyes and the messiness of her hair and how absolutely perfect she was this night.
“You have demon blood on your chin,” she remarked with a smirk.
“So do you.”
“And you look a right mess,” she added, grinning now.
“So do you.” He spun her in a whirl, then drew her back into his arms where she belonged. “You know, I’ve had more modern amenities put into the house.”
“Have you? Like what?”
“Wonderful, large showers.”
“How interesting.”
He stopped their progression in the next circle, gripping her waist tight. “I’d love to get you in that shower and clean you up.”
He wondered if he’d gone too far, too soon, but her hand on his shoulder slipped to his nape, sending a delightful shiver down his spine. “I’d love that too.”
He did as promised and cleaned her from top to toe, never once kissing her, not until he’d gotten her into his bed, warm and dry. He loved her fiercely yet tenderly, tasting every sweet spot on her body. When he pushed inside her, she cried silent tears of joy. He kissed them dry as he thrust slow and deep and long. She whispered such beautiful things in the dark—passionate words, loving words—bringing them both to climax more than once throughout the night. But the most beautiful of all was after their passion was spent, when their bodies were still entwined, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist as if she would never let him go.
“George?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Yes, love.” He combed his fingers through her unbound hair.
“I do forgive you, you know.”
His trailing fingers paused. “Th
ank you.” He rested his hand on her back, two fingers caressing her spine.
“Do you forgive me?” she asked, peering up at him.
“Decades ago, love.” No hesitation.
She smiled, and his heart lifted. “I’m just like that flower. The cinquefoil.” She reared up on her elbow, cupping his jaw. “I was torn apart. But you, my knight, you found all the pieces and put me back together.”
Then there were no more words as she shifted her body over his, kissing him deeply, showing him the depth of her love.
George knew the world was going to Hell, but none of it mattered when he held Heaven in his arms.
Epilogue
Kat poured George’s favorite Nambarrie tea as he scanned his iPad for the latest news. She took her own cup and stretched out on the balcony sofa overlooking Thornton, propping her feet on George’s lap. Following the Blood Moon, they’d spent a solid month in Chelsea, pushing back a demon horde that had taken root and burned half the city. They’d returned here for a respite—the one place that seemed untouched by the ongoing war. For now, Alexander, who preferred the name Xander, was in charge of London by himself.
“Says here Germany is in a blackout. The British ambassador returned to England in a catatonic state.”
“Why is the ambassador even there? Most embassies are no longer functioning.”
“We’re English, my love. We must remain civilized as long as we can.”
“Even in Germany during the apocalypse?”
“Especially in Germany during the apocalypse.”
“Well, it’s being overrun.” She heaved a sigh and sipped her tea. “I imagine we’ll be heading there next.”
“I’ll need to report to Uriel first, see where we’re needed. He may already have the uprising covered.”
The Deepest Well Page 26