The Wanderer's Children

by L. G. O'Connor

  High on the list of things she loved about Simon was his sense of confidence and security. His giving spirit, tenderness, and ability to occasionally relinquish his power in bed made him a true partner while his advanced skills in Sensual Pleasures made him a masterful lover. A winning combination in her book.

  Staring down at him, she wondered how she’d gotten so lucky. With his open robe gathered down at his sides, he was spread out like a delectable smorgasbord of sculpted muscle and male desire in front of her. And she was more than ready to have her fill.

  She reached for him, eagerly taking him into her mouth. His head arched back and he moaned the moment her tongue rolled back the smooth foreskin covering his finely shaped head. His size didn’t give her the option of swallowing him whole. Instead, it required a coordinated dance between her mouth, tongue, and hands. Over the last couple of months, she’d perfected her game.

  Her hands traveled over his shaft and down to cup and massage his smooth, hairless sack as her mouth worked its magic on his tip. The sweet taste of his skin mixed with the pleasant muskiness, shattering her senses and touching something instinctive within her. Her body flushed and the heat between her legs intensified.

  Under her touch, his groin throbbed, and a loud groan vibrated from deep in his throat as his fingers gripped the covers on the bed. The sound of his pleasure sent another rush of heat to her core.

  She released him from her grasp before taking him over the brink and crawled up to kneel over his midsection. Slipping the oversized T-shirt up and over her head, she tossed it to the floor revealing her own sculpted, naked body, flushed and ready.

  “You’re magnificent,” he whispered. His lips parted as he watched her. Recapturing him, warm and hard against her palm, she positioned him at her opening and guided him in. Releasing a sigh, she enveloped him in a luscious, wet welcome, taking him in up to the hilt.

  His hands clasped her hips, and he moaned, his eyes rolling back and then closing. Filling her with his length and girth, the velvet friction of his thrusts touched her in all the right places. When she’d first seen Simon naked the night of their engagement, she’d been intimidated by his size. But he’d turned out to be custom made for her, giving her pleasure she’d never imagined.

  He rose to face her, drawing her into a kiss with a passion and intensity that shot right through her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, twisting her fingers in his long hair. Setting the pace, deliberate and sensuously slow, his movements activated every nerve ending she had, sucking them into the spiral of ecstasy building inside of her.

  “I love you,” he whispered between kisses, his eyelids half-closed and his arms securely encircling her waist as he rocked her in his lap.

  “Right back at you,” she said softly and picked up the pace. He rotated his hips, pulling her rapidly past the point of no return. Her breathing came in fits as the first wave of her orgasm swept over her. Throwing her head back, she let out a near quiet cry of pleasure and went boneless in his arms, her limbs no longer able to support her.

  As she pulsed around him, he took over. Pushing her backward, he positioned himself on top, her legs wrapped around his waist. His lips covered hers in an urgent kiss as he pumped fast and hard. His body tensed, and in one large, seismic release, Simon tucked his head next to hers and roared into the bed covers.

  As he throbbed inside of her, the aftershocks set off a second, sharper wave that carried her away once again. Balling her hand into a fist, she covered her mouth to suppress the sounds of her next release. The floral muskiness of their combined scent was unmistakable now, surrounding them in a cloud of fulfillment. She felt his ragged breath next to her ear as her body milked him in the aftermath.

  “Mmm. I hope I didn’t wake your friends,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  Running her fingers through his hair, she said through panting breaths, “That goes for both of us. Good effort, though.”

  Still joined, he positioned her so they lay on their sides face-to-face.

  “I can’t move.” He chuckled deeply. Their heads were at the foot of the bed. He struggled out of his robe to bare his back while holding her firm. Releasing his wings from behind his shoulder blades, they rapidly unfurled to their full glory. Gently, he rolled onto his back with her on top of him, maneuvering a wing to either side. He stretched and curled them overhead until they touched, creating a snow-white cocoon of velvet softness against their skin.

  She sighed, contentment engulfing her. Eventually, she would slip down to sleep next to him. But for now, she would cover him with her body and be his blanket. The feel of him tucked up inside her made her tingle. She enjoyed the fullness and warmth. It was like a satisfying dessert after a hearty meal.

  “Good night, my love,” he breathed as he hugged her to his body inside their feathered sanctuary.

  Cara yawned. Her body spent, she mumbled something unintelligible and dropped off to sleep.

  Chapter 25

  IRENE

  New York City. Fifth Avenue Penthouse. Saturday, May 25, 3:30 AM ET

  IRENE’S EYES FLEW OPEN in the darkness at the sound of an old-fashioned telephone ringtone emanating from inside her purse. The red LCD digits on the alarm clock glowed 3:30 AM.

  Are they frigging kidding me? Irene recognized the ring. It pulsed in time with the pinpoints of pain echoing through her skull from all the wine.

  Grasping for the strap of her purse, she tumbled out of bed and onto the carpet slamming her head into the chair. Fully awake and angry as a rhino with a hemorrhoid, she answered the phone. “What?” she barked. “This better be good.”

  “Did you turn on your tracking device? We’re not getting a signal,” Ellerton said.

  “Yes! Hours ago. Wait a second.” She turned on the light and rummaged through her purse until she found it. Inspecting the little bastard, she determined it had been activated. “It’s on. I’ll turn on another one, if it’ll make you happy.” She depressed the near-microscopic button on another dime-sized device. “Done. Can I go back to sleep now?”

  “Miss Hickey, we checked out your report on your friend’s fiancé. Simon Young isn’t his real identity.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Irene asked, her mouth going dry.

  “The paper trail for Simon Young starts and ends with a New York Driver’s License. The address belongs to some uptown law firm in Manhattan with branches all over the world. We’ve checked every system at our disposal and come up with nothing. There’s no one listed under his name around his age or with his description in any of the fifty states.”

  “How was he able to get a license without any other identification?” Irene asked with a frown. “In DC, short of handing over your firstborn at the DMV, you have to prove your identity six ways from Sunday with at least two other government-issued documents.”

  “It means he has friends in high places… somewhere. Le Feu has ties overseas, so he could even be a foreign operative for all we know,” suggested Ellerton.

  “He said he went to school in France and he has an accent,” she offered two more interesting, yet nonincriminating tidbits. As much as Irene tried to picture Simon engaged in terrorism, she just couldn’t make it feel right.

  “Okay, we’ll check out that angle. Keep digging. We need more.”

  She narrowed her eyes at the phone. “Your wish is my command.” Douchbag.

  “In the meantime, Miss Hickey, congratulations. You’ll be taking an all-expenses-paid trip to Paris next week courtesy of the NSA. Your tickets are waiting at your apartment in Capitol Hill. Make sure all those bugs and trackers are planted before you leave on Sunday.”

  Irene’s jaw dropped. “You’re sending me where?” Granted, it wasn’t like he’d said Afghanistan, but really?

  “It’s the City of Love, Miss Hickey. How could you even remotely be disappointed?” he said flatly.

  “But—”

  Ellerton cut her off. “We’ll be in touch if we don’t hear from you firs
t.” The line went dead.

  Irene stewed while her head nearly throbbed off her shoulders. Sleep was no longer an option. Taking a deep breath, she put on her robe and gathered two of the miniature state-of-the-art gadgets they’d given her. Wrapping them in a tissue, she stuffed the small bundle in the pocket of her robe.

  Damn them! she thought, running a hand through her short hair.

  On her mini-tour earlier, she’d found a library with a desk at the end of the hall. It seemed like a good place to start. If anyone caught her poking around, she could always say she couldn’t sleep and was looking for a book to read.

  Padding quietly in the darkness down the carpeted hallway, she reached the door of the library. She turned the knob slowly and eased the door open without a sound. Reaching inside, she swept her hand awkwardly along the wall, fumbling for the lights. As soon as she found a rectangular protrusion, she closed the door behind her and hit the switch.

  The room lit up to reveal a massive collection of books lining the cherry bookcases on the surrounding walls. A large keyhole desk sat at the far end behind a seating arrangement in the center of the room—a brown leather Chesterfield sofa faced two wingback chairs with a low table in between. The room oozed English Manor House, reminding her of Downton Abbey.

  Irene started with the desk. A slender laptop and a cell phone sat on top. When she touched the keyboard, the screen sprang to life—waiting for a password. Even in the CIA, her hacking skills had been nonexistent. Luckily, she’d had a tracker made specifically for snugging up next to the battery. Flipping the unit over, she removed the battery cover and placed the near-flat, half-inch square from the tissue in her pocket inside the casing.

  Placing the computer back as it was, she moved on to the desk drawers, but not before she’d removed another small electronic bug and stuck it on the inside wall of the desk.

  Perfect to catch any conversation…

  Next, she tried the drawers. All were locked except for one. It slid open easily. She didn’t have a clue what she was looking for, but maybe she’d get lucky and find a lexicon of the proto-language stolen from the Vatican. Not.

  Irene sat down in front of the computer, sliding the chair underneath the heavy mahogany desk as she prepared to riffle through the contents. The drawer was jammed full of files. She thumbed through the hanging folders, finding nothing more than old household receipts from Cara’s apartment downtown and work files from her former job at Cabot.

  Disappointed, Irene closed the drawer and surveyed the rest of the room. She rolled the chair back, catching a stray power cord and jerking to a stop at the precise moment she rose. Her knee slammed into a low-hanging metal drawer on the underside of the desk.

  “Shit,” she said through gritted teeth, rubbing her stinging skin. Weird. The front of the desk was solid wood. A hidden drawer? Placing her palms up under the desk, she felt the cold metal against her hands. She pushed up and then slid the drawer forward. A five-inch unseen lip appeared and separated from its seams.

  Inside the drawer, a manila file folder lay inside among some pens and pencils. No lettering, only a red triangular insignia surrounded by a pair of wings and crossed swords was visible on the folder. The center of the insignia held an inverted triangle with some unidentified markings and the shape of a jewel at the center.

  Irene opened the file. A printed report lay inside.

  CONFIDENTIAL

  Guardianship Trinity Report

  Subject: Collins Trinity

  March 22nd: Rogue Nephil first detected during initial surveillance of Cara Collins. Rogue assisted Sentinel escape. No engagement. No energy footprint detected by the Guardianship. Verified worldwide.

  March 23rd: Rogue Nephil detected post—demon attack on Cara Collins at Perry Street, West Village, NYC location. Suspected of arranging demon attack. No engagement.

  March 30th: Rogue Nephil detected outside The Standard Grill. Meatpacking District, NYC. Lured by Chamuel, Son of Eae, to Pier 54. Engagement. Fight ensued while cloaked. Rogue escaped.

  April 15th: Rogue Nephil detected in lower Manhattan. No engagement.

  May 1st: Nephil detected at Collins’s Connecticut farmhouse. No engagement.

  May 20th: Rogue Nephil detected outside of Rising Sun Dojo in Brooklyn. This is the sixth encounter. Engagement has not occurred unless initiated. Guardianship hasn’t been able to detect the identity or explain the presence of the rogue. Unlikely this Nephil is associated with the Angelorum, although alternative explanation unavailable. Potential association may exist with Nephilim genetics project. Rogue suspected of working for Le Feu. Cara Collins remains unaware of the rogue and doesn’t seem to be in any immediate danger.

  Irene stared at the report wavering in her trembling hands, her heart slamming underneath her breast. Cara’s name in the association with the words demon, Nephil, rogue, and danger shook her to her core.

  What the heck was a Trinity? And what the heck was the Guardianship? She wondered. Somehow this didn’t sound like a communication from a normal company, or even a government agency, unless your name was Mulder and your job was investigating the X-Files. But Irene was certain of three things: Le Feu owned the warehouse that blew up in the surveillance footage. Simon Young didn’t exist. And Le Feu and Simon were both French.

  Placing the file back as she found it, Irene shut the drawer slowly. Her eyes scanned the bookshelves, impressed by the age and the titles of the books she found. Rather than returning to her room to retrieve her phone, she methodically inspected all four walls before she found a shelf containing what she was looking for: a full set of encyclopedias. Hard to believe this is what they used before Google.

  She raced over. Taking out the volume containing the letter N, she flipped the pages until she found Nephil/Nephilim. Pacing with the heavy volume rested on her forearm, she rapidly scanned the section. As she’d suspected: Nephilim appeared in Genesis as the children produced between the Watchers— the “Sons of God,”—led by the angel Semyaza, and human women, the “Daughters of Men.” She read through all the biblical references. But she didn’t need an encyclopedia to tell her that Angelorum was the Latin word for angels.

  Bleary-eyed, Irene sat and stared at the heavy volume in her hands. The proto-language Simon spoke earlier reminded her of the divine languages. What if that’s exactly what it was? A divine language.

  Holy Cannoli. She swept her hand over her face.

  Simon Young doesn’t exist not because he’s a terrorist, but because Simon Young is a Nephil.

  Could Simon Young be the Nephilim rogue? Could Cara be in danger from something other than the NSA?

  Oh my God… Irene’s heart went into free fall. What if Cara is sleeping with the enemy?

  Chapter 26

  ACHANELECH

  France. Château du Feu. Saturday, May 25, 11:30 AM GMT +1

  “I CAN’T POSSIBLY BE READY to host the Convocation next week!” Emanelech said, waving her tablet as she paced a rut across the antique Aubusson in her high heels. A tight black dress covered her scarred arms and clung to her curves, restricting her gait without slowing her down. Her long, black ponytail swished from side-to-side, reminding Achanelech of a fine horse.

  She was so very pleasing to the eyes. Now, if he could only get her to shut up…

  Achanelech passed a hand down his face, half-listening as she droned on. The sigil on the back of his neck throbbed, adding to his displeasure. His demon children wanted to come out and feed. “Not now,” he snapped in Hellspeak.

  Emanelech ground to a halt and glared at him, the nasty scar over her right ice-blue eye blazing a jagged red. “What? Are you listening to me?”

  “Mais oui, Chérie.” Achanelech snapped. “Of course I’m listening. I’ve been listening to you rant for the last hour, but I’m no closer to understanding what it is you want from me,” he said, throwing his hands up.

  “Some help!”

  “Can you be more specific?” he growled.

  She cli
cked her tongue and passed her finger over her tablet. “First, a check. We need an entertainment planner. I’m thinking of Heinrich. He’s prepared to fly in tomorrow, as soon as he gets a deposit—”

  “How much?” Achanelech spat, anything for some quiet. He braced himself for the figure. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d written a deposit for that overpriced party planner.

  “Five hundred thousand.”

  His eyes shot wide and he grabbed the edge of the desk in a death grip. “Five hun… are you insane? He wants a million dollars for the event?”

  She blinked. “The deposit is only for a third. A million and a half.”

  “Chérie , we can’t afford it,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “He’s expensive for a reason, Acchie,” she purred, sidling up to his desk and pushing out her breasts.

  No amount of her eyelash batting would seduce him into that sum of money.

  He sighed. “Em, you’ll need to find someone less expensive. Tithes to Luc have left our coffers low. We can’t borrow for this. It will be seen as a sign of weakness.”

  Her mouth dropped into a pout. “But Acchie, if we screw this up, Luc will lock us in Hell and throw away the key. Look at this list.” She shook her tablet at him. “The food and entertainment capture and disposal alone will require a small army. Then there’s the upgrade to the playrooms and holding areas in the dungeon, redecorating the convocation meeting room, the sleeping quarters, the wine cellar, the servants—”

  Achanelech rolled his eyes and pulled his checkbook from the drawer hidden under his desk. “Five hundred for the whole affair. If Heinrich can’t do it for that, find someone else.”

  “But he’s the only one with a fully bonded Dark One staff,” she whined and stamped her high-heeled foot.

  Infernal woman.

  “Six hundred,” he said, grabbing a pen. “Use your vast powers of compulsion and persuasion to have him see our point of view.” He wrote it in Emanelech’s name so that she could parse it out as necessary and handed her the check.