Authors: Joy Nash
Gabriel examined his fingernails. “You really have no idea, do you? But of course not. The great Artur Camulus, guardian and chieftain of Clan Samyaza, has, of late, put himself completely beyond reach of his responsibilities. Inaccessible by phone, text, or e-mail.”
Likely true, Artur thought. He’d been drunk as a boiled owl these past three days. His cell was certainly dead. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d checked e-mail.
“Modern technology.” Gabriel sighed. “
So
overrated. I much prefer celestial messaging, don’t you? Old-fashioned, perhaps, but foolproof. Of course,” he added with a self-deprecating chuckle, “I am biased.”
“Brax would never summon you.” Artur’s half brother would never stoop so low. “None of my people would.” At least, Artur was certain neither Morgana nor Niall would. As for the others . . .
Cade Leucetius, the most recent addition to Clan Samyaza, was something of a loose cannon, but as much as Artur loathed the rough Welshman, he couldn’t imagine him summoning an angel. Leucetius’s instinctive Watcher distrust of blessed creatures rivaled Artur’s own.
But then there was Cybele. One never knew what Cybele might do.
“I don’t know why your people mistrust me,” Gabriel complained. “So unfair! What have I ever done to Clan
Samyaza? It’s a case of shoot-the-messenger syndrome, I tell you. And how many times have I had to deal with
that
petty human prejudice over the last few millennia?” He shook his pale head. “Thank heaven Cybele is—”
“Do not,” Artur hissed, “utter that name in my presence.”
Gabriel’s pale eyes lit. “Ah! A sore spot! Still angry, I suppose, that she threw you over for Cade.”
Red rage exploded. With a snarl, Artur lunged. A heartbeat, a white blur of movement, and . . .
pain
, splitting the back of his skull. He opened his eyes to find himself laid out on the floor, blinking up at one very smug angel.
“You know, you really should do something about all that excess testosterone.” Gabriel dusted his palms. “Again and again, it leads to unpleasantness.”
Artur lurched to his feet and stalked into the kitchen. A whiskey bottle, nearly empty, stood on the counter. “Blast it,” he muttered. “That was new.”
“And excellent, I don’t mind telling you.”
He gulped down the dregs and tossed the empty. The alcohol burned an angry path down his throat. “Why even bother? You can’t get drunk.”
“Ah, but I can irritate you.”
Artur grunted.
Gabe huffed. “You know, most people rejoice when angels visit.”
“I’m not most people. As you so kindly pointed out, I’m Nephilim. Half angel, half human. A product of sin and depravity. A cursed atrocity. An archdemon. Dung under your immaculate slippers.”
The angel sniffed. “Your unfortunate ancestry is no excuse for incivility.”
Artur shut his eyes. “All right. I give up. Just tell me: how in the name of Oblivion do I get rid of you?”
“Hmmm. Let me think.” A long finger tapped bloodless lips.
“Ah, yes! I’ve got it. Shut your gob and receive my message. That should do the trick.”
“Fine. Talk. Then leave.”
“Now that’s more like it!” Adjusting his vest, Gabe raised one hand. “Hail, Artur, full of—” He broke off with a chuckle. “Well. Perhaps it’s best I don’t go
there
, eh?”
“Just get on with it.”
“As you wish. Hail, Artur Camulus. I come to you with a message from Cybele Andraste.”
Artur gritted his teeth.
“Demon annihilators have hit Clan Samyaza. Twelve dead, four wounded. Come quickly.”
“
Bloody fucking hell!
”
Gabriel exhaled. “That’s all.”
Artur was already out the door.
London, England
Father Jonas Walker was too beautiful to be a man of God. Graced with the musculature of an athlete and the face of a movie star, the priest shone like an angel. His handsome face all but leaped off the computer screen. His lips moved with perfect grace:
“
Demon Annihilators Mutual Network is an international nonprofit organization dedicated to the eradication of demonkind. I’m Reverend Jonas Walker, international director of DAMN, and this is a public service announcement. Have you, or anyone you know, experienced demonic activity? Been the victim of hellfiend influence? Suffered an attack by a possessed human?
Walker leaned closer.
“
Or have you perhaps encountered the greatest evil—the hybrid atrocity known as a Nephilim? Half human, half spawn of Hell, Nephilim possess all the cunning and skill of human and demon alike. Begotten in sin, steeped in evil, these archdemon overlords live to prey on the weakness of mankind.
”
The priest straightened.
“
My brothers, my sisters, if you encounter any damned being, be it common hellfiend or Nephilim archdemon, know that prompt reporting saves lives—and, more importantly—souls. Call or text your sighting to DAMN’s New York City headquarters at 01-212-555-7734. That’s 01-212-555-7734. Do not falter. Do not delay. Your life—and your
salvation—
depend on YOU.
”
Walker lifted a fist, revealing the letters D-A-M-N in red ink on the backs of his fingers.
“
Death to the Nephilim! Hellfire to hellfiends! Annihilation to demonkind! Thank you, and God bless.
”
The computer video feed froze on the red flames of the DAMN logo. For several long seconds, silence dripped like blood.
Cade Leucetius jumped to his feet, sending his chair clattering to the floor. He paced the room, his fury a living, writhing presence inside his chest. “I say death to them. The whole lot. Every last sodding DAMNer. Beginning”—he pointed at the screen—“with that one.”
Brax Cocidus shook his head. The bandage on his right temple, stark white beneath his nut brown hair, was stained where the blood had seeped through. “Walker didn’t conceive the attack on the Glastonbury compound. The man’s being used, Cade, by—”
“To Oblivion with that. I—”
“Cease.”
Artur Camulus raised a hand. The room fell silent. Garbed in unrelieved black, Clan Samyaza’s chieftain cut an impressive figure. The absence of color accentuated the paleness of his skin. His long black hair, tinged with gray at the temples, was gathered in a severe ponytail, exposing the harsh angles of his face. His eyes, set deep under black brows, resembled nothing so much as glittering chips of black ice.
Artur, guardian and protector. Well, as far as Cade was concerned, the man had done precious little guarding or protecting in the past year. He itched to smash the bastard’s face.
Of course, he didn’t dare.
Artur held a roll of parchment. Ornate script the color of
dirty rust flowed over the gilded paper. The ink carried the metallic scent of blood.
“At dawn today, this scroll appeared at my door. Clan Azazel claims full responsibility for the attack on our people. The missive states that Vaclav Dusek himself created the weapons Jonas Walker’s DAMNers used to murder our kin.”
“But . . . Dusek is a Watcher. A Nephilim.” Cybele Andraste, standing by the window, held herself stiffly, nursing a cracked rib. She looked up from the glass. “Walker is a menace, but the man doesn’t strike me as a hypocrite.”
Brax brought up a photo on his laptop screen, an image of Vaclav Dusek shaking hands with none other than Father Jonas Walker. “This photo was taken yesterday. In front of DAMN’s international headquarters in New York City. Dusek has accepted an appointment as DAMN’s European director.”
“So we have no reason to doubt the truth of Dusek’s claim,” Artur said. “That the weapons used in the Glastonbury attack, primed with Watcher magic, were supplied by Dusek.”
“Clan Samyaza magic,” Cade muttered. “Not Clan Azazel magic.”
“Indeed,” said Artur. “The wardings against Clan Azazel magic were in place. We never thought to ward against our own power.”
A mistake that had cost them dearly. A mistake that Cade would rather have gone to Oblivion than make. And yet here he was, alive. While so many others—his own infant son included—were not.
Gareth, the only Watcher dormant to have survived the massacre, sported a raw gash on his left cheek and a burned leg. His already fair skin was even paler than usual, his freckles and ginger hair providing an almost garish contrast. He spoke now, for the first time, gritting his teeth against the pain. “A Watcher—a
Nephilim
—leading a demon-annihilation
organization? That’s insane. It’s only a matter of time before someone at DAMN figures out what Dusek is.”
Cybele glanced at him. “Maybe someone already knows.”
“Maybe,” Brax allowed. “But it’s a good bet it’s not Walker himself. Cybele is right. The man is a sincerely pious Roman Catholic priest. He’d slit his own throat before he knowingly made a deal with a Nephilim.”
“Well, someone at DAMN isn’t too holy to deal with the damned,” muttered Cade.
“Consider,” Artur said, “that for millennia Azazel’s descendants have sought to destroy our kin. Now, with Samyaza magic in his arsenal and an army of zealot demon annihilators to wield it, Dusek is closer to the goal than his ancestors have ever been.” He released the parchment. The paper fluttered to the floor to lie like a deadly snake in their midst. No one moved to take it.
“So you understand,” Artur continued, “Jonas Walker is only a distraction.”
Cybele, lips compressed, returned her gaze to the oily shine of London rain on the window glass. Her curling blonde hair, usually her most striking feature, hung in a limp rope down her back. A slight stiffening of her spine and the black pepper scent of grief told Cade how close she was to breaking down. As he was. But his anguish took a more active form: anger.
He rounded on Artur. “Distraction?” He slapped his fist into his open palm. The motion caused the gash on his left shoulder to burn. Magical wounds didn’t heal as cleanly as those inflicted by human weapons. Especially when one’s own clan magic caused the injury.
“A dozen dead bodies,” he spat. “Two adepts, three human concubines, seven dormant children. I hope you’re not suggesting, Artur, that we allow their murderers to live.”
The first bomb had detonated in the children’s wing, before
the clan adepts even realized the wards had failed. Six DAMN annihilators, heavily armed, had breached the compound’s protections. The clan had sprung into immediate action; not one DAMNner had made it out alive. The police had shown up shortly after the battle ended, summoned by a suspicious neighbor. Cybele, despite her injury, had woven a glamour of normalcy, and the officers had quickly departed, leaving the survivors to dispose of the bodies of both kin and enemy.
The stink of burned flesh lingered in Cade’s nostrils even now, days later. Clan Samyaza’s future, in ashes. Cade’s own son, dead. The infant’s human mother had abandoned the boy on Cade’s doorsteps just days before.
Cade had not been pleased to see the infant; he had not yet even given the baby a name. He barely remembered its mother; he’d slept with her only to dull the pain of Cybele’s rejection. But Watcher children were few, and every one represented the survival of the race. There had been no question that the baby would be raised in the clan. But now the promise of the child’s life was lost to Oblivion. Cade would never forgive himself for that. Never.
Brax had lost two sons and both their human mothers. Artur had lost a son, a child of ten, also born of a human mother. Three other boys, Niall’s sons, had died. Morgana had been the mother of one of Niall’s lads. She and Niall’s human concubine had died trying to save their children.
The strain of loss clearly showed in Brax’s eyes, but Artur’s countenance showed no trace of grief. Cade could not even catch a scent of emotion, however faint. He wondered if the bastard ever felt anything.
Artur’s Druid powers were, of course, vast. His right to Clan Samyaza’s chieftaincy was unchallenged. If Artur had been present the night of the DAMN attack, he very well might have succeeded in saving what Cade and the others had lost. Instead, Artur had arrived at dawn, as the blood from the
slaughter dried on the walls. And only then because Cybele had sent the archangel Gabriel to fetch him. As far as Cade was concerned, Artur should have stayed in bleeding London.
“Twelve lives under your protection,” Cade hissed through gritted teeth. “Your own sons, your nephews, murdered in their beds. Swatted like flies. While the great Artur Camulus fucked his London whores.”
A muscle twitched in Artur’s jaw. A dark flash in his eyes was the only hint that Cade might be close to crossing a line.
“Sit, Leucetius.”
Cade’s fists flexed. “And if I don’t?”
Brax, eyes flaring crimson, slapped his palms on the table on either side of the computer, half rising from his chair. “Stop this. We’ve all suffered losses. Fighting among ourselves is not going to help anything.”
Artur ignored his brother. “A challenge, Leucetius?” His eyes hardened into obsidian. The odor of barely suppressed violence reached Cade’s nostrils; his pulse spiked.
“Come on, then.” Artur’s voice was deadly soft. “Do it.”
Suicide, to take on Artur. Every Watcher in the room knew it. The ancient words of challenge, once uttered, would seal Cade’s doom. Artur was far stronger than any of them—stronger even than all the other Watchers in the room at once. Cade did not doubt that Artur could—and would—tear him to pieces. But not before Cade inflicted some damage of his own. He shifted onto the balls of his feet, preparing—
A touch on his arm dragged him back to sanity. He jerked his head around. He hadn’t even noticed Cybele moving from the window. Their eyes tangled, and for a moment he was lost in the clear, sad gray of her irises. His heart clenched, and he cursed himself for still wanting her, when she had never wanted anyone but Artur.
“Cade. Stop this. Please. It isn’t helping.”
She was right, of course. Giving Artur the pleasure of
killing him was no solution. A shudder passed through him; he nodded once.
Artur’s gaze fell on Cybele. “Take your hand off him.”
Cybele’s green eyes flashed. Her hand did not move. Her Texas accent dripped contempt into each syllable of her reply.