“You ready to roll?” Clarisse asked.
Bran was more than ready, but suddenly they heard the sound of breaking furniture, shattering glass, and shouting.
“Wait in the car,” Rick ordered, tossing her the keys. His car was still parked in the Anderson’s driveway, where he’d left it.
“All right,” she said with a pretty little pout. “But I’m not waiting all night.”
Rick went back to the window and pulled himself up to look in. As scared as Bran was, he was curious, too, so he followed—and he thought he must still be dreaming. What they saw inside Maggie Anderson’s house defied all logic. The huge scorpion was standing at the top of the stairs and Maggie’s mom was facing off with it—and she was glowing. Bran couldn’t believe it. Her whole body looked like it was filled with light.
As they watched, the beast slapped Mrs. Anderson with one of its long, slender legs and then struck at her with its deadly tail. Dodging the attack, she held one arm out and pointed at the scorpion, and a beam of light blasted out of her outstretched hand and sliced off two of the scorpion’s front legs. They fell to the hardwood floor in a splat of brownish blood, still twitching.
The beast made another lunge at Mrs. Anderson, but she yelled and pointed at it with her other hand, sending another bolt of energy into the monster, knocking it back into the basement and down the stairs. And then she slammed the door and locked it.
Rick dropped from the window, and Bran dropped beside him. “Don’t tell anyone about this,” Rick said. “This stays between us—you got it?”
“I got it,” Bran said, and together they ran to the car. Rick didn’t have to tell him to keep his mouth shut about Maggie’s basement or her superhero mom. If he tried to describe it to his parents, they’d be shipping him off to a military school version of Mountain High Academy.
Chapter 17
After watching the basketball game at Bran’s, D’von and Cle’von returned home to a dark and empty house. The Tar Heels had won the game, much to the disgust of everyone at the party except D’von. When North Carolina made that last three-pointer, the outcome of the bet he’d made with his brother was clear: Cle’von would have to make D’von a roast-beef sandwich when they got home.
They had made their first sandwich bet on the first day of football tryouts freshman year, when Cle’von had bragged that he was going to beat D’von in the 40-yard dash. Cle’von had gotten the better time, and D’von had reluctantly made the sandwich. At that moment, a tradition was born. So far, Cle’von had won a turkey on rye, three pastrami and swisses, and a deluxe P, B and J. D’von had won two sloppy joes, five Italian subs, and a Thanksgiving Day leftover special with all the fixings—and now, a roast beef, cheddar, and horseradish on Texas toast.
But it wasn’t just the sandwich that was important; it was the tradition, with the winner taunting the loser as he made the sandwich. That was part of the fun.
The result was always a lot of laughter, some good-natured cursing, and one amazing sandwich that the winner would eat in front of the loser, consuming it with a series of appreciative groans designed to make the loser feel really bad.
Cle’von was gathering the necessary ingredients from the fridge and setting them out on the kitchen counter while D’von ramped up his smack talk. “Come on now, make it snappy. I expect some service up in here.”
Cle’von chuckled and shook his head. “I’ll give you service . . .” he said, as he dug around the fridge looking for the Dijon mustard. That’s when they heard the sound of breaking glass from upstairs. They exchanged a glance. Their parents had gone out to a movie so whoever was upstairs had to be an intruder.
The brothers moved toward the stairs as quickly and as quietly as they could, with Cle’von pausing at the hall closet long enough to grab a wooden baseball bat. They stopped together at the foot of the steps, exchanging a silent question—sneak attack or charge? Silently, in the intuitive language of twins, they decided to charge, and a moment later they were stomping up the steps, shouting threats at whoever had invaded their home. In the upstairs hallway, however, they each found themselves with a dagger at their throats. The Asian men in the derby hats had been waiting for them. The Cunninghams recognized them from the battle on the tracks—these were the men Zhai had called Obies.
Cle’von hesitated for a second and then, deciding that he was probably dead anyway, swung his bat at the nearest intruder. The man struck the speeding weapon, using the edge of his hand like a blade, and the bat shattered like an icicle on a concrete driveway, the end of it skittering away down the hall.
Cle’von dropped the stump of the shattered bat and raised his hands meekly in surrender; D’von did the same.
“Hey, man. Take whatever you want,” said D’von. “My wallet’s in my back pocket. I got eighty bucks in there—”
“The ring shards,” the taller Obie interrupted. “We searched your rooms. They are not there.”
The brothers exchanged a glance once again, and once again came to a wordless agreement. If they fought these guys they would get themselves killed. What did they need those broken pieces of glass for anyway? Neither of them understood why they were so attached to mementos of a night full of fear and pain, a night that had defied their understanding of all they knew as reality. They saw no reason to risk their lives for them.
“No,” D’von said. “We been keepin’ them with us. Here.”
He took his shard out of his pocket and handed it to the nearest Obie, and Cle’von did the same. The men disappeared into the shadows then, so fast that if it weren’t for the broken window in Cle’von’s room and the shattered baseball bat in the hallway it would have been hard to believe they were ever really there.
* * *
Orias opened the door to find Rick and Bran standing on the steps, looking exhausted, disheveled, and scared, and they both stank of fear. Under other circumstances, he would have slammed the door in their bedraggled faces, but he needed to know how their errand had gone. Even now, he could feel his father’s power growing stronger from behind the tower door.
“Tell me what happened,” Orias said quickly, ushering them inside and leading them into the parlor. “Well?” he asked Rick. “Did you find Uphir? Is he coming?”
“Um . . .” Rick stalled, and in that moment of hesitation, Orias felt despair rip through him like a gunshot.
“He isn’t coming?” Orias demanded. “Why not? What did he say?”
Rick couldn’t suppress a low chuckle. “He said, ‘please don’t throw me in the Pit!’”
Orias glared at him. “Just tell me what happened,” he repeated.
“Azaziel,” Rick said, and it seemed that any moment he would lose all self-control and burst into hysterical laughter. “He grabbed Uphir and tossed him right in.”
“How did you get mixed up with Azaziel?” Orias was having trouble with his own self-control. He wanted to release the full force of his rage on these two ineffectual boys—but then Bran stepped in, and he was a better communicator than Rick.
“See, here’s what happened,” Bran said. And he told Orias how he and Rick had been captured by a trio of cutthroats who took them to Azaziel, and how Azaziel had summoned Uphir and then banished him to the Pit. “And he gave us a scroll to bring to you,” Bran finished.
Orias held out his hand. “Give it to me and get out.”
Bran looked at Rick, who took the scroll out of his back pocket.
Orias grabbed it, broke the seal, and hurriedly unrolled it. He took it over to the fireplace and as he stared down at the words, his human side took over. His heart was pounding and his hands trembling.
Orias,
It has come to my attention that you, with a bold impertinence that defies precedent, have imprisoned your father Oberon, who is also my finest soldier. Worse, you have sought the help of that miserabl
e wretch Doctor Uphir to murder him. Do you think that the law of the Prefects and the rule of the Tribunal do not extend to you? You will find that they do, and that your impudent machinations will not go unpunished. Therefore, I issue you this command and warning with the full authority of my office as the head of the Council of the Seven Prefects:
Release Oberon at once.
If you comply I will consider forgiving your offense. If you fail to comply, however, I shall have you arrested and dragged down to the Dark Territory for trial. You have twenty-four human hours in which to decide.
Azaziel
He crushed the scroll and threw it into the fireplace as hard as he could, and then he turned to face Rick and Bran who started backing away. “What are you still doing here?” he asked harshly.
“Waiting to collect my fee,” said Rick.
Taking a roll of money out of his pocket Orias hurriedly peeled off a few bills. “Get out,” he said, thrusting them at Rick. When they hesitated too long to do his bidding, he roared, “NOW!”
As the door slammed shut behind them, Orias sank into an easy chair and stared into the fireplace. The scroll was now burning, and a cloud of thick, sparkling purple smoke that looked like a swirling, twilit sky was rising from it. As Orias watched, the smoke then sank to the floor.
“No . . .” Orias said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
The smoke was now slipping down through the cracks in the wood floor, as if a massive vacuum in the basement were sucking it downward.
“NO!” Orias said, falling to his knees as if he would scoop the smoke up in his hands. But it was no use. It slipped downward and disappeared. The message was clear. Azaziel knew he had burned the scroll.
He knows my answer, Orias thought. And his minions will be coming for me.
* * *
Clarisse and Rick were in the backseat of Rick’s Audi SUV, making out. It had taken some convincing from her to get him out here. First, after they’d escaped Maggie Anderson’s house, Rick had insisted on leaving her in the car while he delivered some message to Orias. Then they’d had to drop Bran off at home. After that, Rick said he was exhausted and just wanted to go home and sleep. It took only a few heated kisses for Clarisse to convince him otherwise.
They took off in his car and the closer they got to Macomb Lake, the more energized Rick became. When he’d found a good, secluded spot and parked, he leaned close and grabbed her by the hair, and the pain sent a scattering of goose bumps over her skin. Suddenly, his lips were just an inch from hers. His eyelids lowered with desire, and the intoxicated, lust-filled grin she loved spread across his face. He started to pull her close but her phone chimed, alerting her that she had a text.
“Don’t answer,” he said huskily.
“I should,” she said, teasing him.
“Who is it?”
“Why—you jealous?” she asked and then added nonchalantly, “It’s just this guy I knew back in L.A.”
“Who? What guy?”
“My ex-boyfriend,” she said, pouring it on. “He says he’s coming to Middleburg.”
“Why?”
“To find me and take me back to California—after he kills you.”
“The hell he is,” Rick said. Fury flared in his eyes.
“He says he’s bringing friends, and they’re going to kick your ass.”
“Let him try it,” Rick said, his face going a little red and his knuckles white as he squeezed the steering wheel.
Clarisse smiled and tapped out a text to Oscar S. “That’s what I just told him,” she said as she hit the SEND button.
Rick pulled her into his arms and she reveled in his big, powerful body as he moved against her, his hands tearing at her clothes.
“Yes,” she whispered as his fingers, now turning to claws, raked against her bare skin.
Already halfway to being a demon, he pressed her back against the folded-down seat of the SUV, a low growl in his throat as if he would devour her—really devour her—and she had never felt so turned on. It was amazing, she thought, how his arousal unleashed a sort of primal, animal lust in him. Part of the thrill was not knowing if he would be able to stop before he really did some damage.
* * *
Maggie prowled her house like a restless lion, making a circuit. She checked the basement door, then the other doors and windows on the ground floor of the house to make sure everything was locked, and then she climbed the stairs and checked on her mother, who was in her own bed now, dozing fitfully.
Maggie had watched in awe as her mother had battled the giant scorpion, aware for the first time how truly powerful she was. But it had left her drained, and Maggie had insisted she lie down and get some rest.
She’d dozed off immediately. That was when Maggie began her frenetic circuit: down to the basement door, around the perimeter of the house, and back up the stairs to check on her mother, over and over again.
Logically, she knew that she shouldn’t worry so much. Her mother had dealt with the monster that had come out of the basement. But what if there were others? And that wasn’t the only thing bothering Maggie. What had Rick been doing down there? Why had Orias wanted to see her mom’s tapestries?
In the middle of her fourth circuit around the house, she stopped dead. The uncanny realization that she was acting eerily like her mother hit her with a hurricane-force blast of fear and revulsion.
“No,” she said aloud. “That’s not my destiny. I reject it. I will not give my life to guarding that stupid basement door!”
Chapter 18
The clock tower on the top of Middleburg’s city hall bonged out the hour, and its sonorous clangor seemed to rattle every brick of the large historical structure. But Savana Kain hardly noticed. She was sitting on a toilet in the first floor of the building, wearing a white dress, weeping endlessly, and blowing her nose until it was so red and disgusting she couldn’t fix it with makeup, which made her cry harder.
Her dress made her cry harder, too. It was white. Whoever heard of a pregnant ex-stripper with a sixteen-year-old kid wearing, to her second wedding, a color that was supposed to denote purity and innocence? It was like a sick joke—but Jack had insisted on it, so here she was.
“And that’s not even the worst part, is it?” she said aloud, cradling her stomach. The child inside her kicked, it seemed, in agreement. Over the last few months, she’d taken to talking to the baby. He—she already knew it was he—had become her silent sounding board, her confidant, her understanding best friend. Normally, she would have shared her thoughts with Raphael. He was often harsh with her, but that was probably because he held her to a higher standard than she was able to hold herself. For a moment, she was almost glad he wasn’t here to see what she was about to do.
“He wouldn’t understand,” she crooned to her belly. “I’m doing this for him, for both of you. How else are we going to get out of the Flats? How else am I going to support a baby and a teenage son, never mind coming up with the money for college? And Jack is good to me. He really is . . .”
There was a rap at the door that echoed wildly in the cramped, tiled bathroom.
“Coming!” Savana said brightly, then sniffed violently, yanking a huge wad from the oversized toilet-paper roll, and scrubbing her face with it. She stood and stepped out of the stall, smoothing her absurd white dress as she went. At least, she consoled herself, it was a simple silk sheath with a roomy jacket that almost hid her condition—not some puffy princess gown with a ten-foot train.
She stared at herself in the mirror, her face a miserable wreck of smeared mascara, her eyes swollen from crying.
“You okay?” She could hear the tension in Jack’s voice, a seesaw balance with sweet concern on one side and impatience on the other. “Orias just got here—he’s with Aimee—and we’ve decided not to wait for Maggie.”
“Make it snappy, okay? It looks like rain out there.”
“Okay, baby. Sure.” She was digging into her bag for a makeup removal wipe, when the bag slipped off the edge of the sink. Its contents exploded across the floor like shrapnel from a grenade.
“Dammit . . .” she muttered, stooping with great effort to pick up the items. She could hear Jack outside the bathroom door as he gave a frustrated sigh. Then, his footsteps receded, and she knew he was walking away, across the lobby.
* * *
Orias waited until Aimee was distracted in her conversation with Dalton before he went to talk to Jack. Fighting resentment that he had to waste time with this wedding when he needed to be putting an escape plan into action, he reached out to shake Jack’s hand. “Congratulations,” he said.
“Thanks,” Jack said. “How’d your trip go? Rick didn’t have much to say about it.”
“It was fine,” Orias said. “Better than expected, in fact. I may be looking to liquidate some of my holdings in the next couple of days.”
“Really? Why?”
“I’m relocating—a business deal. An offer I can’t refuse.”
“Well, I’ll be sorry to see you go. I’m sure Aimee will, too.”
Jack’s phony smile didn’t convince Orias of his sincerity. “The herbal drops I gave you,” he said. “Did you remember to put them in Aimee’s tea?”
“Actually—no,” Jack said. “She hasn’t needed them. She’s been happy and cooperative—more like her old self. Even asked permission to go hang out with her friends the other night instead of just disappearing like she does.”
Orias should have known better than to trust him. The stupid man had not given her the Lethe water. At any moment she could remember Raphael Kain—and then Orias would lose her. The realization had a profound effect on him.
He had never loved another creature—not angel or demon, human or Nephilim—as much as he loved Aimee, and he fully intended to take her with him when he fled from Middleburg. More important than anything, even more important than escaping from Azaziel, was that he did not lose Aimee.
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