Chaos Broken (3 page)

‘Roman's upstairs,' Casper said, settling down on the lounge. ‘We're going soon, so don't get too comfortable.'

‘Right.' I left the lounge and took the stairs to the second floor, my cane clicking on the marble. At the end of a corridor, the master bedroom door was closed. I rapped with my knuckles and waited until a muffled voice invited me in.

The room inside was large, with thick carpeting and soft drapes. A king-size bed sat at the far end in shades of walnut and cherry. Roman stood barefoot in front of an open window. He wore only dark jeans, with a black shirt laid out on the rumpled bed. The wings that flowed from his back were a downy white and spread from his shoulders in lines of power and beauty. The sight of them stole my breath and I followed the long end feathers that brushed the floor as he turned to greet me. His once short hair now fell to his shoulders and across his high cheekbones, obscuring the tattoos that marked the side of all nephilim faces: a prayer to the Grigori god, transcribed in angelic text. His eyes were polished obsidian, pinpricked with white pupils, and when they turned my way a shiver snaked up my spine.

‘Lora.' The hard lines of his face gentled.

‘Need help?' I gestured towards the shirt on the bed, noting the back had been carefully cut and sewn into sections, with bindings to secure the pieces together around the base of his wings.

Roman smiled, looking grateful. ‘Thanks.'

I leaned my cane against the bed and took the shirt to him. ‘How have you been?' I asked, helping him into the shirt. His wings shifted against me like a brush of silk, and goosebumps dimpled my skin. We'd made love once, but that had been a long time ago, before his transformation. Roman had never approached me again in that way and I didn't feel it was right to try to make a move on him, not when everything felt so fragile. In the last six months though, his confidence had grown and the nephilim had flocked to him, obeying his instructions without hesitation. It was the kind of power I hoped Roman could keep a handle on.

‘I've been well.' He turned, fingers deftly doing up his buttons. ‘I heard you lost your contract with the Order.'

I retreated a step and my hands snuck into my armpits, an old insecure gesture from childhood I'd never been able to shake. I almost had to sit on my hands when I played poker.

‘I wasn't a good fit,' I said.

‘I heard Grigori Fowler himself kicked you out.'

‘That's ridiculous.'

‘It is?'

I nodded. ‘He was the only priest who didn't treat me like dirt. I was unjustly accused of many things and given my marching orders.'

‘And who started the fire in the sacred library?'

‘I don't know,' I said airily. ‘Could be someone had tried to sneak a quick smoke in the room of the Eight Books of Forbidden Magic.'

Roman arched an eyebrow. ‘And you wouldn't know anything about that?'

I pulled my hands out of my armpits and flapped them about, agitated. ‘I don't know what all the fuss was about. The fire got put out. So some books got scorched. Big deal.'

‘And how are you coping with Gideon away?'

‘Brilliantly,' I said. ‘Living the dream. I don't know what Gideon complains about all the time.'

‘Really.'

Roman's lips twitched again and I decided now was probably a good time to change the subject. ‘What do you think about the meeting tonight?' I asked. ‘How do you think it will go down?'

Roman methodically folded up his sleeves. ‘Gorath has been cautious this last year. Laying low. I think my presence has taken him by surprise.'

He sat down on the bed to put on his boots, wings stretching out behind him with a ruffling sound. I tried not to stare. It wasn't like I'd never met an angel before. One in particular had been infecting my dreams since I was a little girl. He called himself Sariel and had wings the colour of soot. He had claimed to be my father and said I owed him my fealty.

Yeah. Like that was going to happen.

Fortunately, after our last confrontation I'd managed to control my dreams and he hadn't appeared since.

‘What does Gorath want?' I asked.

‘I don't know. Maybe he wants to declare a truce.' He finished tying his boots and stood, dark eyes meeting mine. ‘The fact is, nephilim are born, bound and broken in battle for the Grigori. We will always find ourselves locked in conflict, aligning ourselves in bloodshed, it is our nature. And when there is nothing else to hunt, or fight, we will turn on ourselves. So we can't be free, really free, until we end this and make peace with each other. And after that, perhaps, the Order itself.'

‘You know that's not going to happen,' I said.

‘Have a little faith, Lora.'

I gave a small sigh. ‘I'd rather be realistic. You know Gorath is not only nephilim. He has griorwolf blood in his veins.'

‘I am aware of this fact.'

‘And you realise he believes in the prophecy of the Dreadwitch and the Howling King? I imagine that's because he thinks he's the destined Howling King, which I'm guessing is supposed to be some hairy guy with a God complex who likes to yodel a lot.'

‘Casper did warn me he believed in the prophecy of the Dreadwitch,' Roman said. ‘But I've also heard that Gorath got married six months ago.'

‘What's that got to do with anything?'

‘Let's just say, apparently his marriage has given him a new perspective on life.'

‘I find that hard to believe. People don't change.'

Roman took a step towards me and my blood fired up, mouth going dry. I swallowed, determine not to retreat. If Roman wanted to invade my personal space, he could go right ahead, I'd act like it didn't get me hot and bothered. I just didn't want him to start something he couldn't finish, since I knew Casper would be banging on the door soon, telling us it was time to leave.

‘You know that's not true, Lora,' Roman said quietly. ‘I believe in Gorath's sincerity in wanting to talk of peace. After all, prophecies are the playthings of priests and madmen. Not soldiers like him.'

‘Fine. I'll just ask Captain Crazypants when I see him, shall I?'

‘Promise me you won't call him that to his face, Lora.'

‘I promise, I promise.'

Roman's eyes hooded as he ran a finger down the front of my coat. ‘What are you wearing under this?'

‘Eh? Why do you care?' A jittery sensation spread inside me, and my fingers itched to run through Roman's dark hair.

He pulled my hands out from my armpits and I frowned, not even realising they'd tucked themselves back there. ‘From what I hear, the club where we're going tonight is a…speciality place,' he said.

‘Like, an oyster bar?' I asked, distracted by the way his hands curled around mine, entwining my fingers. The contact was electric, short-circuiting my brain, and I couldn't think. ‘Roman.' His name was a rush on my lips and my anxiety spiked. My home was back at Blackgoat Watch. Starting any kind of relationship again with Roman would be problematic in the extreme. But I didn't want the door between us to shut for good; I wasn't sure I could recover from something like that. The longest relationship I'd ever had was with Seth and I'd gotten used to its sporadic nature. He'd come and gone as he pleased and I tried very hard not to grow too attached. It was what I was good for; seasonal love. But what Roman offered…I worried it was the real deal and that scared me more than I could say.

A knock sounded on the closed door and Roman straightened.

‘Yes?'

‘Time to go.' Casper's voice was muffled. ‘Everyone's ready.'

Roman's dark eyes dropped to mine. ‘Are you ready for this?'

‘I'm ready for anything.' I tried to sound like I meant it.

Gorath's nightclub was located on a street with no name and no street lights, forty minutes outside of Sydney. Roman and I travelled there in the back of a Bentley with white leather seats, Casper driving up front. Roman wore a long coat that had been designed to hide his wings, which folded close against his back. I wasn't game enough to ask if it hurt to sit on them, especially when he didn't look too comfortable. I wondered how he was going to keep them still for the meeting.

A glance over my shoulder showed me we were being tailed by one of Casper's speciality vans, the one with a mini-gun that popped out the top, firing a zillion bullets a minute. I'd never seen it in action but I had to admit it sounded damned impressive. I didn't bother asking if the back-up was necessary. I'd been in enough bad spots to appreciate the handiness of a nice Gatling gun.

When we arrived, Casper got out and opened the door for us. I slid out, Roman close behind. The facade of the nightclub was a gothic red and black, sitting between a tattoo shop and an all-night cafe with a flashing neon sign advertising coffee. Casper murmured something into his sleeve and tailed us as we entered the building. A reception room greeted us, in accents of glossy leather and lush velvet. Candles studded every surface, posing what I thought was a pretty fucking bad fire risk. A woman with nipple clamps and little else greeted us from behind a reception desk.

‘Welcome. Can I take your coats?' Her voice is a throaty purr, like she's promising all sorts of things, if only you'd remove those clamps for her.

‘I'll keep mine,' Roman said, while Casper just ignored her.

I handed over my own coat, my nipples giving a sympathetic ache. When Casper had said the meeting was at a speciality club, I'd thought it would involve a secret handshake. Instead, I guessed it was going to be all PVC and butt plugs.

Glancing down at my outfit – black trousers and a tight top that showed plenty of cleavage – I felt overdressed. And yes, it was a ploy to tease Roman. Never hurt to remind him of what he was missing. My sturdy leather work-belt clashed a little with the outfit, but there was no way I was coming without it. With casting salt tucked in its pouches, the bulky belt was the tool of my trade and I'd even been learning some mean darkcraft spells from Orella. That was before she had become so tired that Gideon decided on an extended holiday away from Harken's drizzly weather. Orella's family name was Warbreeder and she had been a vicious battle elf in her day. While I'd been playing dutiful student this last year, I'd also been listening to her stories about the conflicts she'd been involved in. The rich, full life she had behind her had been as much a revelation as the knowledge that I could actually cast powerful spells, something that hadn't been possible when I'd been wearing the charm that cloaked my true identity as nephilim. Of course, that didn't stop me from bringing extra accessories. Magic sure was useful, but nothing said business like a lead shot to the guts. To this effect, my spring-loaded rig was strapped under one sleeve and my duelling cane hid its sword, edges honed razor sharp.

The woman gestured towards a door and Casper moved forward first, while Roman and I followed close behind.

Thumping music engulfed us as the reception opened to a massive nightclub. The air was cold and my eyes took a moment to adjust. Strobe lights flashed overhead and the metallic scent of industrial smoke clogged my throat. Cages hung from the ceiling encasing writhing women in skimpy clothes, and men with dog collars threaded through the heaving crowd, taking drink orders.

A woman in a shiny red leather dress approached us, her make-up geisha style. Her blonde hair was twisted into knots high on her head and secured with long pins that dripped with delicate gold chains, ending in small bells.

‘My name is Manika.' Her voice cut cleanly through the music. ‘Please follow me.'

Roman's reassuring hand touched my back and I moved forward, hand tight around my cane. We passed a man chained to the wall and he barked at us, pawing the ground. I wondered what his day job was and imagined it would have to be something mind-numbingly boring to want this kind of treatment. Of course, maybe he was staff — and considering my current financial woes, I wasn't in any position to judge how someone made their coin.

We entered a long room with dark drapes and a scuffed concrete floor. A man in a gimp mask and leather shorts lay in one corner, while a woman in stilettos walked over him. A seemingly appreciative audience watched, dressed in black velvet and wearing too much foundation. When we walked in, eyes turned to us, curious. I didn't have the heart to tell them we couldn't top someone getting their liver staked by a stiletto.

A raised platform occupied the end of the room, where a man sat on what looked like a real honest-to-god gold throne. As we approached, I heard the small crowd follow us.

‘He sits on a throne?' I murmured to Roman. ‘Smells like a God complex to me.'

Roman didn't respond. He still looked relaxed, and I wanted to tell him right there and then that agreeing to this meeting was a mistake, but I figured that might send the wrong message to Captain Crazypants and his court of emos.

United front
, I chanted to myself.
United front
.

The man stood and made a sweeping gesture. ‘You are welcome, brothers.' His eyes cut to me. ‘And sister. I am Gorath. I am pleased we can finally meet.'

The woman in red leather stepped up beside him and whispered in his ear, before kissing his cheek. Some of the arrogance slipped from Gorath's face and he stepped down from the platform to approach us. His hair was an unusual shade of gold with streaks of black, and it cascaded past his shoulders, reminding me of a lion's mane. His black nephilim eyes mirrored those of Roman and Casper, and I noticed scarring twisting up his neck. The scars looked old, the skin mottled and scorched, reminding me of an old burn.

Gorath held both his hands out to Casper in a gesture of welcome. ‘You look well, brother. Thank you for your trust tonight.'

Casper grunted, and for a moment I wasn't sure he was going to respond. But then he raised his hands to grasp Gorath's own and they shook once. Gorath turned to Roman, repeating the gesture.