Days of New: The Complete Collection (Serials 1-5) (23 page)

That’s not fair
, Clark told himself. They’ve lived through a war. But so had he. And here he sat.

A swell of desperation surged up through his chest at the thought, but just then the crowd of Descendants in the back shifted, and Camille walked through. Seeing her distracted him completely, and he focused only on drinking her in.

Her wings, which sent wild beams of dazzling light blazing into the heights of the room, were slightly lifted off her back, forcing people to step a little farther away as she passed. Clark’s heart contracted.
Heavens, she looks beautiful
, he thought, with her sharp chin jutting out, her eyes daring anyone to question her. Without a wayward glance, she headed straight for her seat at the table and sat down, drawing her sword and settling it on the table in front of her. She laid her hand close beside the handle, the gesture enough to make any man’s balls shrivel up. Clark was just turned on.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Dylan asked. He glared across the table at Camille, his lips pressing into an angry line.

“Taking my seat.”

“And wh—”

Camille jerked forward, her hands slapping onto the table and cracking the wood on either side of her blade. Heat radiated around her body, flared by the fury coursing through her veins. “Choose your words carefully, Descendant. Because I may repeat them back to you as I clench your beating heart in my fist.”

Dylan shut his mouth and sat back in his chair, crossing his meaty arms over his chest. The others at the table did the same. Even Bailey said nothing from where he stood off to the side of the table.

“Good choice,” Camille said, shifting in her chair to get comfortable. She never put her wings against her back, letting them fan out from her seat instead.

Clark hadn’t looked away from Camille since she’d entered the room. She was fierce and angry; her eyes lined with the darkest kohl, hair tied into a brutally tight ponytail; her nostrils flared with each breath. Only he seemed to notice she looked a little paler than normal and that she clenched her hands until her knuckles turned white. After he’d stared at her for a long moment, she finally looked up, her feline eyes flickering to his for only a second.

His shoulders unwound just a little bit. He hated to admit it, but he was glad she was here. Not for the moral support—that wasn’t really Camille’s style. He was relieved because at least she could kill everyone in the room if this didn’t go as planned. And in her tight black shirt, thick fighting pants, and shitkicker boots, she looked every bit the killer she was.

Clark didn’t see Maya, but he knew she was here too. Bailey had brought Ezekiel and another Nephil to the cells last night, and Clark had learned that Maya had been attacked. If the Nephilim knew about Ezekiel’s arrest, they didn’t let it show. The ones he spotted in the crowd, far fewer than the number of Descendants, kept their expressions carefully neutral. They were on a hair-touch trigger, Clark knew. One bad thing, and his people would disappear back into the woods, forgotten for another hundred years.

“Sorry I’m late,” Zarachiel said as he came forward, drawing Clark’s attention back to the front of the crowd. The people parted for the Archangel a little more willingly than they had for Camille; their eyes held more kindness for Z too.

Zarachiel looked at Clark longer than Camille had, but the Archangel’s back was ramrod straight. Clark knew the rigidity had to be killing Z’s spine and muscles where the shards of bone from his ripped out wings grinded. His limp was barely noticeable, and he must have had to think about every step to walk so straight. He crossed the room to Camille and whispered something in her ear.

She gave nothing away, save for the very slight parting of her lips, as if she was sucking in a deeper breath. No one else seemed to notice. The crowd shifted anxiously, their chatter like a forest of trees hissing in a stiff breeze. The seated council members were very still, their eyes cautiously off the angels. Camille nodded tightly and Zarachiel stepped back, moving to the edge of the crowd.

He met Clark’s eyes again and pressed his lips into a grim line. Clark knew then that the news was bad.

Dylan smacked a gavel against the table. The hollow bang echoed through the vast space and everyone hushed. The gavel was a new trick, and Clark had to force himself not to roll his eyes. Dylan cleared his throat and subtly wiped his palms against his legs. Clark imagined they were clammy with nerves.

“We are gathered here today to witness…”

Now Clark couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. What was this? A wedding? His headache spread down his neck and corded deep into the muscles of his shoulders. His stomach felt hollow and achy.

“…will be brought to justice for the crimes he’s committed against this order and mankind,” Dylan said.

“Dramatic much?” Clark mumbled under his breath. The guard on his left cut him an icy glance.

“Evidence will be presented and witnesses will be called forth to testify to Mr. St. James’s mental state during the period before the murders in question.”

Clark wanted nothing more than to rake his hands across his face in frustration, but they were shackled to his chair. His heart still sank though. This wasn’t really a trial, just as he suspected. No one would be talking on his behalf; no one would be presenting evidence for him. He understood the hurry: the government officials were coming soon, and they required a criminal for the crime. Also, the Descendants needed a show of force to rein in the refugees. They needed to remind everyone what happened when people crossed the line.

Clark’s eyes flickered over to Bailey. The cop’s jaw was clenched tight, a steady pulse beating against the dark skin along his neck. His hands rested close to his weapons.

All the while, the demon flitted inside Clark, fueling his anger.

They’re going to kill you
, it whispered.
They’re going to hang you
.
What will happen then? To Maya? To your precious Cami?

Though the demon knew exactly what he was thinking, Clark kept his guard up and didn’t let it gain any control over him. A sheen of sweat broke out across his forehead. Holding the little bastard back was going to be harder than he thought.

One of the compound’s physicians was the first to come forward from the crowd, standing before the table and addressing the seated members like Clark wasn’t even there. The doctor talked about Jenna and the details of her murder. He discussed the state of her body, and how only Clark could have wielded such power to burn a human from the inside.

As the doctor talked, pictures of Jenna’s body were projected onto the large stone wall next to the windows. There were horrified gasps and cries of shock and disgust from the crowd. The doctor had to wait nearly five minutes before everyone had calmed down enough for him to go on. He used a hand-held laser to pinpoint areas on Jenna’s body, which was nearly twenty feet tall and just as wide. She seemed to stare down at Clark, pleading to him with her terrified singed eyes.

It was a cheap trick to scare people, and Clark hated the Descendants for it, more than he’d ever hated anything in his life. Even Lucifer. They were supposed to be the good guys. Yet they were cheapening this poor girl’s memory just to keep some humans in line.

Clark couldn’t listen any more, and he certainly couldn’t look any more. His heart ached for Jenna, not because he loved her, but because she was a good girl. She’d deserved better than all this, and Clark blamed himself for her death and for this horrible display of her demise.

He stared down at the floor and counted the cracks in the stone, willing himself to stay calm.

It’s sad, don’t you think, that she isn’t even in Heaven now?
The demon cackled, writhing inside Clark with its glee.
Her soul is just as shriveled as her body. Singed into nothing but ashes. That’s just so sad.
The demon snorted with mirth.

Clark used his anger to push the demon back down until its hideous voice was a quiet buzz in the back of Clark’s mind. He turned his attention back to the trial.

The fact that his jacket was at the scene came up, as well as numerous witnesses who talked about his relationship with Jenna. They all grossly exaggerated and added in their own salacious details. Clark knew it was unlikely that everyone in the crowd hated him, but, as a whole, the Descendants had turned on him. Turned on their cause, the very mission statement of their order. If things turned around and he was, by some miracle, deemed innocent, he had no clue how he would return to these people as a leader and protector.

He didn’t know if he could.

A piece of grimy hair flopped into his eyes. The strands were a faded, pastel pink through which he viewed the room. At the end of the witnesses’ testimonies, Camille stiffened, her legs flexing beneath her. She wanted to stand, to tell everyone about Clark’s alibi for the night of Jenna’s murder. He had been with her, and she was willing to lay it all out there in the hopes it would help. Clark flicked the hair out of his eyes and willed her to meet his glance. Instead, she looked over at Zarachiel, who shook his head. Camille gritted her teeth and settled back into her chair.

Clark’s shoulders slumped with relief. The nature of their relationship was already out of the bag, but her speaking out on his behalf would rile the people up more. It was too late for an alibi anyway.

They moved on to Wyatt’s murder. Another senseless act. Another graphic image splattered across the wall to illicit fear and control. The crowd’s reaction was just as raucous this time.

“Bailey,” Dylan called once everyone had quieted back down, “I believe you have new evidence in this case to present today?”

Bailey stepped forward, his motion rigid, as if he’d been standing for too long. He glanced at Clark before looking down at the note he pulled out of his pocket. The cop seemed almost unwilling to read what was written down. He cleared his throat.

“DNA evidence finally came back on the sword that killed Wyatt. The results took a while because it had to be manually processed through our internal database when resources allowed it,” Bailey said. His eyes skimmed over the note before he folded it carefully and tucked it back in his shirt’s pocket. His skin had a gleam of sweat over it. “Of course, Wyatt’s blood was on it, but we found another source. We confirmed that it was a match to Clark St. James, the accused.”

“To his blood?” Dylan clarified.

“Yes,” Bailey said quietly.

There was a collective gasp through the crowd. Clark groaned, which made the guards on either side of him grin in delight. Camille’s eyes darted to Zarachiel, who took a long, slow breath. He shifted on his feet, his eyes clouded with pain. Whether Z’s discomfort was because of his back or the new evidence, Clark didn’t know. But he could guess.

If he survived an angel war only to be hanged by these assholes, he was going to be seriously pissed.

“Of course it has my blood on it, you morons,” he called out. “I was stabbed with that same sword!”

“You admit you had the weapon?” Dylan asked, leaning forward against the table. His ugly eyes glinted triumphantly, his hand fisting around the gavel.

“No, dipshit. Is that what I said? I never had that weapon. I was stabbed with it by a Watcher, and I nearly died. Clearly, my blood is going to be on it.”

“Then how did the weapon come to be lodged in Wyatt’s chest if you never possessed it?”

“I imagine Lucifer took it that night the Nephilim fought off the Watchers. He killed Wyatt with it because he knew it would implicate me.”

As Clark said the words, things started to make a little more sense to him. Lucifer wanted Clark in captivity so the demon could work at stealing his magic. He’d framed Clark not for revenge, but to create an environment where the demon could work better. Clark rattled his shackles in frustration.

“Lucifer…
right
.” Dylan said the words like he didn’t believe them for even one second. “Guards, keep the prisoner silent for the rest of the proceedings, please. Now, let’s move on to Liam’s murder.”

As a new picture flashed up on the wall; a guard stepped in front of Clark. He saw the fist coming before he felt a crack of pain across his jaw. His head slumped to his chest, pain radiating throughout it until he thought his skull might explode. His control slipped, and the demon crept forth.

He must have passed out for a bit, because when he came to again, his head was being pulled back. He blinked to clear his vision and saw the Descendants’ council members gathered in a loose semi-circle around him. In the middle of the circle, the bent priest, who normally blessed the meetings, stepped forward. In his hand was a vial of holy water. A hiss threatened to escape Clark’s mouth, but he kept his jaw clamped tightly shut. The demon writhed inside him, and a fevered sweat broke out across Clark’s skin.

“See how he reacts when it’s near?” the priest whispered. His droopy eyes sparkled beneath the heavy folds of his lids. He wore his best moth-eaten robes. A weird hat sat crookedly on his peach fuzz-covered head. He uncorked the vial and stepped forward.

Clark recoiled. He could see Camille and Zarachiel standing at the back of the group, keeping themselves slightly apart. Zarachiel nodded at him, relaying that it was okay. Technically, they wanted to confirm the fact that Clark was possessed. But it didn’t help the fact that the demon and thus Clark couldn’t stand the sight of the holy water.