Chapter 14
“This isn’t like him,” Jack insisted to St. Anthony, the only one of the Guard who would ‘lower himself’ to speak to Jack directly, and manage to do it without obvious malice or disgust. “When Dante gives his word, it is as good as a blood oath.” They had been waiting on Dante’s arrival for hours and it had Jack on edge. At Jack’s bequest, the Kings were meeting early on the morrow and should they miss capitalizing on the rare opportunity to have all of the seven deadly sins in one room, it would likely never present itself again.
Tony rubbed a hand down his haggard, unshaven face. “I am aware how honorable Dante is, Jack, but what are we to do? The Kings meet at sunrise. We have no choice but to proceed with or without Dante.”
Jack snarled and from the alarmed and appalled reactions of those in the room, he knew his host’s eyes had bled to the solid black of his wraith.
“We cannot abandon Dante,” Jack said, his voice pitched low as an ominous growl rose from his chest. Furious, he turned to Michael, struggling to keep his claws and fangs at bay. “It is only because of Dante you even have this opportunity to banish the Daemon Kings. I know full well how desperately you want them off this plane.” Jack narrowed his gaze at the Archangel Michael, counting on the disconcerting effect his inky-black stare had on immortals. Unfortunately, the arrogant prick was unmoved by the sight of Jack’s wraith.
Instead, Michael nodded and to Jack’s surprise, genuine concern shone in the Archangel’s eyes. “I do not wish to proceed without Dante any more than you, wraith. But if he does not show by the time we must take our leave, there is naught to be done.” Jack opened his mouth to argue, but Michael held up a hand. “I will have Dion locate a divinator. One who can search for the Son of Lust. I would task Dion himself, but the Master of Practitioners is much too busy preparing for the largest banishment to ever be attempted. He cannot take the time to locate Dante himself.”
Jack sneered. He trusted no one, especially not practitioners. They were the ones who helped banish his kind after Michael and the Guard caught them. “Divinator? Their powers are unreliable at best.” Jack could hardly hold back his rising fury. Only the thought of failing Dante prevented him from going on a vicious tirade.
“Worry not,” a new voice interrupted. “I have heard of one who is a Scry. If Dion knows of her, and I’m guessing he does, she should be able to locate your daemon.”
Jack’s head whipped around, brows arched in disbelief. This was the first time in the hours since he materialized at the meeting hall of the Guard that someone other than Michael or Tony spoke to him directly, everyone content to shun the wraith. Jack’s gaze landed on the warrior, the tiny, blonde female called Joan. For the most part, Jack kept to himself, preferring to remain uninvolved in immortal politicking, but wraiths love gossip. So much so, Jack even knew the background of the infamous St. Joan of Arc. Her military prowess was well-documented and though it didn’t happen often, Jack was suitably impressed.
Taken aback by Joan’s offer to help locate Dante, Jack blinked and gathered his thoughts, his eyes clearing. “That… that would be quite acceptable. Many thanks.” Jack never debased himself by engaging in immortal customs or platitudes, but appreciative of the female’s offer, he made an exception and dipped his chin in respect.
Joan gave Jack a crooked smirk. “You realize this doesn’t mean I like you. I merely tolerate you.”
Jack grinned. He liked the female’s spirit. “Noted.”
“Dion is to arrive soon,” Michael said to the gathered immortals. “Joan shall request the Scry, then we are to go over each and every aspect of our plan until we have it committed to memory. This includes multiple alternative strategies in the event something goes wrong, which is highly likely. I suggest you grab something to eat or drink now as this is going to be a long night.”
Guard members scattered, some finding seats at the long, makeshift table, others heading out to grab a quick supper. The Daemon Princes dematerialized to somewhere. Wraiths never went long without eating, stashing food on their person at all times, yet Jack found himself unable to indulge. A hollow pit formed in his stomach and his nerves thrummed with anxiety. Something went wrong with regards to Dante, and that Jack could do nothing to locate his amicus drove him to the edge of madness. Trapped inside the King of Wrath’s body, Jack couldn’t very well knock on village doors and ask if anyone had seen a tall, dark, and handsome Daemon Prince.
Bloody fires of infernum!
Nor could Jack turn up at the King of Lust’s mansion with a demand to see the Prince. Asmodeus would be suspicious and from the information Dante provided, the Kings did not meet or speak with their brethren. Ever. Jack calling a convening of the seven brothers was an oddity in its own right and he couldn’t jeopardize it by acting rash.
Michael approached Jack where the wraith stood tucked in a corner of the room, bringing with him a male Jack recognized as the Prince of Pride. Pride screwed his breathtakingly perfect face into a deep grimace, yet the dour expression failed to detract from Pride’s glorious physical flawlessness.
“Donovan has gone to consult with Dion,” Michael said. “With any luck, he will know of a Scry who mayhap can locate Dante.”
“We have yet to meet, though Dante has told me much about you,” Pride said to Jack. As the male hadn’t asked a question, Jack didn’t bother to respond, though it surprised Jack that Pride would sink so low as to address a lowly wraith. “Fates, it’s so strange speaking to you when you have the body of my bastard of an uncle.” Pride forced out a pinched smile and stuck out his hand. “Davin Cassavettes, Prince of—”
“Pride,” Jack finished for the male. “Aye, I know who you are.”
Davin paused, and when Jack said nothing, the male pouted adorably. Jack chuckled to himself. No doubt Davin so used to others fawning over his beauty, the male didn’t know what to do with Jack, who wasn’t one to waste words on flattery unless he was angling to receive something in return. While the Prince of Pride was quite a tasty morsel, and Jack wouldn’t refuse the male a quick romp or stolen moment of mutual pleasure, now was not the time to indulge in gratification of the flesh.
Besides, teasing Pride was a fun distraction instead of worrying about Dante.
Pasting a smile on his face, Jack hid a chuckle. He knew Davin found his silence insulting, but Jack also knew that Davin’s inflated pride would prevent the daemon from appearing upset in public. True to the image Jack built in his head, Davin spoke once more, unable to leave the awkward silence hanging. “I am leaving to speak with my father. I shall ask him to contact Lust and inquire as to Dante’s whereabouts. The King of Lust doesn’t allow Dante to stray far for too long, so it is likely Dante is at Lust’s estate.”
Once again, Jack was shocked. This time because Pride would think to include Jack in his efforts to find Dante. “That would be most helpful,” Jack said. Suddenly uncomfortable with all of this unexpected… acceptance, Jack gave Davin a sharp nod and spun on his heel. He walked until he exited the old mill. With Davin actually doing something to locate Dante, Jack found his hunger returning. Anxious, he paced the worn dirt in front of the crumbling wood and stone edifice.
What shall I do if Dante fails to show? Can I trust the Archangel to keep his end of the bargain? The one he struck with Dante to keep me out of harm’s way? Or will Michael turn on me the minute the opportunity presents itself?
“Son of a motherfucking djinn,” Jack cursed. He dug in his pocket for a small, sugarcoated yeast roll and nibbled around the edge. After swallowing the first dry, tasteless bite, Jack frowned and shoved the roll in the folds of his tunic. For the first time in his extraordinarily long existence, food turned his stomach.
Jack paid no mind to how long he fidgeted and worried as he wandered aimlessly through the forest that surrounded the hall. Glancing up, he noted the deep midnight blue of the sky, the stars providing the only light, as this eve the cycle presented a new moon. The enhanced eyesight gifted to all immortals worked perfectly of the presence or lack of light, so Jack saw well enough to avoid smacking face first into a tree. If anything, this huge, clumsy body proved a much bigger issue than eyesight with regards to movement.
Jack paused. Standing still, he sensed the energy in the air change. Whilst he contemplated the reasons for the shift, the space in front of him shimmered. Seconds later, the ginger-haired Angel of Protection, Donovan, materialized among the dense foliage. Donovan held his bearded jaw rigid and Jack noted the muscles in the angel’s cheek twitching. Clear signs that Donovan resented having to speak to a wraith.
Racist bastard.
“I have news of your Dante,” Donovan said—his Irish brogue making each syllable harsh and guttural—right as Pride joined them, materializing halfway between Jack and Donovan. Next to the frowning angel, the Prince’s face appeared peaked, his gorgeous features pulled tight, luminous eyes holding a large amount of stress.
Something is wrong.
Jack’s insides twisted in alarm. Davin wouldn’t return to camp so quickly unless he failed to locate Dante, or worse, succeeded and couldn’t bring Dante back for some reason.
For his part, Donovan didn’t spare a glance for Pride, his intense stare fixed on Jack.
Bigotry forgotten, desperate for information regarding Dante’s whereabouts, Jack’s borrowed heart stuttered. “And…? What about Dante?”
Donovan’s lips pressed tight and the tendons of his neck protruded in thick cords. Jack recognized the expression of an immortal that wished they were anywhere else. If Donovan were upset, then… Jack stumbled as Satan’s faltering heart pumped a deluge of dread through his veins. The sheer strength of his concern for Dante knocked Jack for a loop. Immortals from the Underworld do not possess souls and wraiths are no exception. Emotions such as empathy and distress are foreign to most daemons, wraiths in particular. Emotions other than self-serving narcissism, that is. Personally, Jack had no problem admitting he was in truth, an uncaring prick, devoid of feelings or concerns for anyone but himself. Dante, it appeared, was the rare exception to the rule, and by the expression on Donovan’s face, whatever news the angel brought was unpleasant.
“Using the piece of Dante’s clothing provided by the Prince of Pride here…” Donovan rudely shoved his thick thumb in Davin’s direction, to which Davin shot the angel an haughty glare. “The Scry easily located your daemon.” Donovan’s tone was a mixture of disgust and distrust as if waiting for Jack to betray him, because, naturally, that’s what wraiths do. Attack those attempting to help them. Jack internally rolled his eyes at Donovan.
Exhausted and more than a little confused by the unwelcome sensations of anxiousness, fear, and worry lodged deep in his psyche, Jack couldn’t deal with the stress of not knowing what happened to Dante. Emotionally overwhelmed, Jack brought out his wraith to intimidate Donovan. His eyes slid to inky black, claws protruded from Satan’s thick fingers, and fangs dropped from his gums.
“Spit it out, angel. I have neither the time nor patience for your games and wordplay and certainly no tolerance for your shitty attitude. Tell me what happened to Dante. Now!” The ear-splitting shout brought other immortals, various figures materializing around them, but Jack didn’t care. His gaze was fixed on Donovan.
Donovan’s own emerald eyes hardened, but using his wraith did the trick, because the angel complied and began to speak. “It appears the King of Lust has locked his son in the dungeon of his domicile.”
Furious, Jack pulled back his wraith form so he could speak without fangs impeding his words. “That motherfucking piece of troll shit.” Jack growled. “Is Dante injured?”
Donovan shook his head. “Not gravely. As it was related to me, the Prince is bound to a rack, stripped of his clothing. The Scry described wounds that indicate the Prince has been whipped, but from what the Scry could see, and it wasn’t much mind you, due to the extensive wards around that filthy place, the lashes bled profusely when inflicted, but have since healed. Currently, they are merely superficial in nature.”
His emotions slipping again, Jack’s claws extended and sharp fangs scraped his bottom lip. When he lashed out at Donovan, Jack purposely brought forth his wraith to intimidate the angel. This time, Jack did not possess complete control of his true nature. Donovan and Davin both took several steps back and Donovan’s right hand hovered over the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his side. The others exchanged worried murmurs.
They were justified in their fear. Jack’s self-control was balanced on a knife’s edge. A single misspoken comment or unexpected movement could send him into a bout of death and destruction.
“Stand down, wraith,” Donovan warned. “In truth we need you to banish the Kings, but make no mistake, I have no problem adding a few more scars to that stolen body of yours.”
Jack snarled and flashed his long canines at the angel. “Fuck you, you ungrateful asshole! You have no idea what that bastard father of his has done to Dante over the decades, nor do you appreciate how valuable a gift he has offered by all but handing the Kings to you on a golden platter.” Davin nodded in agreement.
“I understand what the Prince of Lust has done to assist the Guard—”
“No! No you don’t,” Jack roared. “Dante has given you everything, risked everything, yet here you stand, unconcerned for his welfare whilst treating me like a rank pile of Hellhound dung, when if not for Dante and me, you would have nothing. Without my help, you will never banish the Horsemen,” Jack took a step closer, impressed that Donovan stood his ground in the face of an angry wraith. “You and the rest of your kind had better start showing a little fucking appreciation for the sacrifices Dante made. If you don’t, or won’t, believe me when I say this body,” he gestured down at Satan’s immense form, “won’t be the last immortal I possess.” Jack’s extra-wide chest heaved and his vision had all but turned red with fury. He was so sick to fucking death of these pompous angel pricks looking down upon him and Dante, and had more than enough of their prejudices.
“You dare to threaten me, wraith?” Donovan growled. Eyes blazing, the angelus unsheathed a long, gleaming dagger and widened his stance. “I’m not afraid of you. You think you can take me down, I’d like to see you try.” Donovan held up his left hand and curled his fingers in a come-hither gesture, beckoning Jack to make his move. Davin stepped back, the put together, well-coiffed, and handsome daemon clearly not the fighting type.
“Gladly,” Jack said through a mouthful of sharp teeth. He was ready to pounce when Michael’s commanding voice shook the very air around them.
“Enough!”
The full power of the Archangel rippled out like a shockwave, and both Jack and Donovan were stunned long enough for Michael to step between them. Jack gaped at the sight of the Archangel’s enormous white wings, having never seen them before. Fates, even he had to admit they were glorious. In truth, the largest Jack had laid eyes upon, yet despite their size the wings gracefully unfolded to protrude from either side of Michael’s spine up near his shoulder blades, to span a length at least three times the male’s height. Michael glared at both Jack and Donovan and the Archangel’s face flushed a deep crimson. His massive hands balled into fists. Jack glanced over Michael’s shoulder and swallowed. Just as he thought. The Sword of Light was indeed strapped to Michael’s back, and the lethal Maledictus Arma shone royal blue with the power gifted by the Fates, the color matching the Archangel’s furious, glowing eyes.
It didn’t escape Jack’s notice that, at the sight of the sword, Davin dematerialized. Cowardly shit.
Jack was stubborn and impulsive, but he wasn’t stupid. That sword was deadly to all immortals, and unless he was in his smoke form, it could even kill a wraith, and wraiths were damn near indestructible.
“Fighting amongst ourselves gains us nothing,” Michael said, his tone stern and authoritative, brokering no argument from Jack or Donovan. “If you want this mission to succeed,” Michael swung his gaze to Jack. “And have your friend back, misplaced violence is not the answer.” Another push of the Archangel’s power smacked Jack dead center in his chest. Jack staggered back a step and suppressed a shudder.
Unlike the angelen and sancten, Jack knew he need not follow the Archangel’s commands, nor could Michael force him to do so, but Jack also knew that Michael spoke the truth. To free Dante, they needed to banish the Kings, otherwise, they would never set a single foot inside Lust’s Domus Desiderii. The King surrounded himself with many layers of powerful wards. Too many to simply storm the front door. The King of Lust must needs either be banished, killed, or Jack had to possess Lust’s Earthly form for them to get anywhere near Dante.
“Now,” Michael said and turned to Donovan. “What have you learned about Dante?”
Donovan repeated what he told Jack and Michael’s already severe frown pulled lower and his wrinkled brow furrowed deeper, if that were even possible, which in Jack’s opinion, wasn’t. Fates, the red-faced Archangel looked furious enough to be on the verge of snapping.
“There was something else,” Donovan said just as Michael turned to speak to the others. Jack watched the Archangel’s back tense as he paused mid-stride. Michael huffed and turned on his heel, face still contorted, anger and stress evident as he stalked back toward Donovan.
“What? Tell me all of it and be done,” Michael barked at his angel, his expression darker than a thundercloud.
If Jack weren’t so concerned for Dante, he would have chuckled at Michael’s frustration with Donovan’s inability to simply say everything that needed to be said in one go without all the dramatic pauses. The brawny, ginger dumbass brought the exact same reaction out of Jack.
As Donovan looked at Michael his eyes softened in sympathy, and if Jack had any sort of a conscious, he’d have been concerned. But he didn’t, and for that he was grateful. Jack couldn’t deal with any more of these irritating emotions.
“There is another immortal locked in Lust’s dungeon with the Prince.”
In one sentence, Michael’s annoyance disappeared and his thick blond brows arched up.
“Another? Who?”
Jack listened as Donovan continued, wondering why the angel didn’t include this tidbit when he told Jack about Dante.
Probably because I’m a wraith and he deemed it none of my business. What a bastard.
“A female. I do not know her, but according to the Scry she is unquestionably immortal and not only that, but from the Hereafter.” Donovan’s gaze shifted, the angel avoiding eye contact with Michael. Jack swore the fearless warrior actually blushed before he added, “Like Dante, the Scry said she was naked and racked.”
The veins in Michael’s forehead bulged and his face turned an even deeper shade of crimson. More on the purple end of the spectrum, actually. If Jack didn’t know better, he’d conclude the Archangel’s head was about to implode.
Hmmm, mayhap it shall. What do I know about Archangels? It would be entertaining, at least.
“Did the Scry get anything else? Her name? Classification?” Jack could tell Michael struggled to speak in a calm manner. Jack sympathized, as this was how he felt when learning about Dante’s capture and torture, though he couldn’t imagine feeling so strongly about some random unknown female.
“The female has auburn hair and brown eyes. The Scry was unable to determine the female’s classification, which led the Scry to believe her to be a Watcher, as they are difficult to pick out.”
“No,” Michael whispered. “That’s… that’s why I haven’t felt her…” Wide-eyed, Jack watched as the almighty Archangel Michael, one of the strongest immortals in existence, staggered for a moment then collapsed to his knees. Eyes squeezed shut, Michael clutched at the sides of his head and shouted, “No, no, nooooo!” Jack flinched when Michael let out the most heart-rending wail he ever heard.
Well, Jack thought it would be heart-rending if he possessed even a smidgen of empathy for Michael, which he didn’t.
Too bad, that.
“Michael?” Tony rushed from the hall of the Guard, where everyone reconvened whilst Michael dressed down Donovan and Jack, to drop at Michael’s side. “Michael!” Tony attempted to rouse Michael, but the Archangel refused to respond to the pleas, choosing to keep his eyes closed whilst his entire body violently shook. By the time Michael returned from wherever his pain took him, the entire Guard, along with the Daemon Princes—except for Maximus and Davin—formed a wide circle around Michael and Tony.
With a jolt, Michael tipped forward and fell on all fours, head hanging, his hands splayed wide over the forest floor. “It’s her. He has her.”
“Who?” Tony asked. “What are you talking about?” Tony looked to Donovan for answers. Donovan shook his head and led Tony away from the crowd, presumably to repeat what he knew of the captive female. A female who was, in hindsight, obviously important to the devastated Michael.
Jack… well, in truth he didn’t care about the female or Michael’s issues. What Jack wanted was to rip out the throats of anyone who dared to harm his best friend. But this unknown female? Jack didn’t give an elf’s shit if she remained racked for an eternity. Jack’s stomach growled.
I wonder if there’s time to grab a bite?
The rest of the Guard murmured to each other, as did the daemons, everyone concerned with the Archangel’s odd behavior. Jack, belonging to neither faction, stood alone. He vowed that the very second that Hellhound’s filthy asshole, the King of Lust, was banished, Jack would storm the estate and free his amicus. After the arrangement Dante worked out with Michael on Jack’s behalf, he owed it to his friend. Empathy or not, Jack would forever be grateful for Dante’s friendship. Dante’s ability to trust Jack and look past his wraith nature when others could not, or would not, was harder to find than a trustworthy troll.
Lost in thought, Jack hadn’t paid attention to his surroundings. At some point, Michael gathered his dignity and rejoined the group. Surprisingly, the Archangel no longer appeared furious. Or distressed. Or anything, for that matter. In fact, Michael’s handsome features were set in a blank, stone-like façade. But when Jack looked closer, past the detached exterior, he saw the truth. Michael was merely concealing his emotions, and by the looks of it, quite skilled at deception. There were very few signs of the angel’s devastation. The lines around Michael’s eyes furrowed a fraction deeper and his lips pinched at the corners. Beads of sweat shone along Michael’s blond hairline, mostly hidden from sight. All in all, in Jack’s opinion, Michael did a bang up job keeping his shit together.
Not as good as Jack, but that was to be expected as other immortals were beneath him and there were few things Jack felt the need to hide since he rarely experienced any emotions other than anger, annoyance, and lust—the latter of which he indulged in quite often.
“We shall continue as planned, minus the Prince of Lust,” Michael growled as his cold blue eyes scanned the gathered immortals. “With one exception.” Jack felt another invisible blast of power radiate from the Archangel, and this time, it was so intense, the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stood on end. Shit, Michael is even more powerful than I thought. “The King of Lust is to be captured… alive. And no one is to touch him but me.”
After throwing down the gauntlet, Michael stormed off, presumably to either prepare for the upcoming battle or beat the Fates out of something with his fists.
Jack rubbed his forehead and cracked his neck. It was going to be a long night. With a the knowledge that Michael would assist in freeing Dante, Jack finally relaxed.
Hmm, mayhap I can find a snack or a nibble before we leave. Possibly get laid…
* * *
Try as she might, Honor couldn’t stifle the screams that ripped from her throat one after another.
After being knocked unconscious during the failed escape with Dante, she woke with a blinding headache to find herself once more stripped of her clothing, prone on a rough plank of wood, and laid out spread-eagled and bound by cursed chains. Failing to loosen the chains, and tearing up her own flesh all over again in the process, Honor gave up on getting free and as time passed, she went through every possible emotion; shame, grief, the ache of loss, failure, and eventually, fury. She hid her humiliation when a filthy male who introduced himself as Balon entered her cell. Fueled by anger and determined to hold her head high, Honor decided no matter what this Balon did, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking her. Lust didn’t break her. Neither would this pile of dung.
Then the first lash of the whip landed across her abdomen, and all bets were off.
Oh Fates. Lust liked to hit and bruise, but this? This is true torture.
Red-hot flames licked across her skin, following the trail left by the thick braid of leather with each and every blow. Though too weak to raise her head, Honor knew the lashes drew blood as she felt warmth trickle along her ribs and thighs to pool beneath her body. After a while—she knew not how long, as Balon took great pleasure in whipping her unconscious—the wounds were given enough time to partially heal. The moment the worst of the pain receded, Balon would return to her cell and begin the process all over again.
He was a nasty piece of filth to look at and smelled worse. Honor knew Balon to be a daemon of some sort, possibly a Nosferatu, a type of lesser daemon that fed upon the suffering of others, especially when blood is involved. Balon was certainly the first unattractive Honor had met. Short, possibly only five and a half feet, he had a rounded abdomen, and squat, bowed legs. The male’s torso and back were covered in the same dark pelt as his head. Honor gagged whenever he came near, as he smelt of decomposing flesh and unwashed waste.
The lashes stopped and Honor cringed as hot, foul breath coasted over her face. Fates, why didn’t he whip me until I passed out? She turned her head away, but Balon squeezed her cheeks and forced it back until she looked into rheumy, bloodshot eyes.
“That should hold me for now. This time I want you awake and aware,” he said, the lewd creature almost giddy with excitement. “But don’t worry my dear, I shall return soon. First to do your friend, then you.” Balon could hardly speak he was so keyed up. His wide grin showed decaying, black teeth. Honor held her breath so she wouldn’t retch, lest she choke on her own sick. Balon released her jaw and skipped out of her cell. The familiar clang of the door and click of the lock no longer caused her stomach to turn inside out, but the sound was depressing nonetheless.
“Honor?”
Dante.
Though she couldn’t see him, Honor knew the daemon to be in the same predicament as she, bound and naked, and whipped equally as often. The only difference was Dante’s torture went longer, and by the male’s screams, he was hit harder as well.
“Yes?” she croaked.
They had taken to speaking to each other and at first, Honor welcomed the comfort offered. Now, however many hours and whippings later, all she wanted to do was retreat into her own mind. Create that perfect vision of Michael and curl up in his arms, leaving reality and this infernal place behind. Her imagination grew so vivid, painted such detailed pictures, Honor could at times, smell Michael’s skin, that heavenly sandalwood scent infused within every dip and curve of bone and muscle.
Still, when Dante spoke, Honor answered. She didn’t have it in her to ignore the daemon who only suffered because he chose to save her instead of violate her upon his father’s orders.
“I…”
She could hear the way Dante struggled to express how he felt. Heck, she had no idea how to voice her own splintered emotions and Honor didn’t carry the burden of being related to her captor.
“I understand,” Honor said, saving Dante from putting this nightmare into words.
“I’m sorry.”
“As am I. Mayhap…” Honor closed her eyes and imagined Michael’s handsome face. “Mayhap you should have just sullied me.”
“No,” Dante snarled. “That bastard has taken everything from me. I wasn’t about to let him take everything from you as well.”
How can a daemon be so kind? So… human?
“You are truly a male of honor, Dante.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Some time ago, in the Guard’s chambers, your life force… It reached for Michael’s, and his seemed to reach for yours…” Honor felt her heart breaking as she recalled that day. How glorious their connection and how painful it became when she fought against it. Mayhap she should have simply let whatever the strange reaction was, progress as the Fates intended.
“Aye.”
“What was that?” Dante asked.
Honor was grateful she couldn’t see Dante from where she was bound. The plank Balon bound her to faced the back wall of her cell. She didn’t think she could have such an honest conversation with the daemon if she were forced to look into his eyes.
“I don’t know. It felt as if… as if my life force, my soul, was somehow incomplete. It… it needed part of Michael’s to become whole.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, but shackled as she was, Honor couldn’t swipe them away. “I think… I think mayhap Michael is important. To my soul.” Her brittle voice cracked and Honor swallowed, wincing when her throat burned as if she drank a cup of broken glass. “I don’t know. Only that I physically ache when he’s not around. My actual soul hurts.” She paused. “I must sound as if I’ve gone mad.”
“No,” Dante said. “You don’t. I have no understanding of what you went through. I’ve just never seen anything like it before. I was curious. Apologies if my asking caused you pain.”
Honor’s bottom lip trembled. “It didn’t.”
And that was not a lie. In truth, it wasn’t the thought of Michael that made her insides feel hollow and caused her life force to shrivel. It was the knowledge that Michael would never be hers. She would never know the satisfaction of laying in the safety of his embrace. Never enjoy the pleasure of his lips skimming along the sensitive skin of her throat. Never see Michael smile, a smile reserved for her alone, the sight so breathtaking it made her weak at the knees.
What broke Honor wasn’t the whipping or the shackles or the humiliation. It was the loss of something she never had.
True love.
* * *
Michael stood strung taut as an archer’s bow. Every muscle tense, every tendon contracted, his body prepared to leap into action at the wraith’s signal. A bloody wraith! Michael’s entire strategy, the only way to both capture the Kings and rescue his beloved Honor, hinged on the trusting the word of a wraith.
I must needs be going mad.
Jack, disguised as the King of Wrath, entered the designated gathering site of the Daemon Kings some time ago, and as of yet, no word came from within the structure. An old barn that stood in a barren field directly west from the Guard’s hall, through miles of dense forest. Michael could only hope that, according to the wraith, because the Kings weren’t expecting a fight, they forwent bringing their Impuratus Arma. If the daemons did indeed have their weapons, the risk of every one of his Guard surviving the upcoming battle dropped substantially.
Fates, waiting is pure torture.
Adding to Michael’s Hereafter-high stress level, Dion refused to arrive until the very last moment, seconds before the signal to attack. The Master of Practitioners insisted the Kings were strong enough to sense his presence. As far as Michael was concerned, the excuse was naught more than a steaming pile of Hellhound dung. Any practitioner with half a brain would either cast a spell upon him or herself to mask their presence, or if they lacked the power, would enlist a qualified practitioner to do it for them. And Dion? Well, Dion went so far beyond gifted, Michael presumed it to be simple for the youth to hide his nature from any immortal Daemon King or otherwise. Therefore, his only excuse was cowardice, a quality Michael frowned upon.
Unfortunately, Dion was almost as stubborn as Michael. Which left Michael in the unenviable position to step back from always being in charge to put his faith, his happiness, and his soulmate’s existence, in a teenage practitioner.
Aye, I’ve definitely descended into madness if a wraith and a pubescent sorcerer have complete control over my future.
“Tony, Donovan, Joan,” Michael hissed, keeping his voice low while waving them over. They were well out of earshot of the shoddy, crumbling barn. On Michael’s suggestion, Jack chose the isolated building for the gathering of the Kings. The Guard’s base camp stood a fair distance from the barn, tucked inside the tree line, but Michael whispered anyway, unwilling to take the chance one of the powerful bastards overhear them and ruin the advantage of surprise.
The three Guard members arranged themselves in a semi-circle before Michael.
“You get the signal from the wraith?” Donovan asked, his eyes bright and enthusiastic and a lot restless. The warrior was as tense as Michael and Donovan didn’t have his heart at stake. Donovan happened to love a good fight and his lack of patience was an attribute Michael shared with the eager and loyal Angel of Protection.
“Not yet. But I am unable to wait any longer. I…” Michael exhaled and went to shove a hand through his hair, dropping it uselessly at his side when he remembered he tied the shoulder-length locks back with a leather thong. “It’s just… I must needs know what transpires in the barn.” He struggled to stop from pacing. A true leader did not show weakness in front of his legion. Michael steadied his voice and continued. “It’s been too long since the wraith went in, and if I have to stand here any longer….” His agitation rose and his fists trembled at his sides. Calm down. Michael hid his hands behind his back. “I have an ominous feeling that something has gone wrong. What if the wraith has been found out?”
They discussed this possibility in their extensive planning sessions. If the Kings were suspicious prior to the meeting—which was within reason because according to Dante, the Kings never gathered as a group—and such, they mayhap took precautions and tested one another for spells or enchantments before entering the barn. If so, the wraith would be discovered.
“One of us must needs get close enough to listen,” Joan said.
“That’s insane.” Tony turned to stare at Joan as if she had grown the head of a djinn next to her own. “These aren’t lesser daemons you’re talking about. These are Daemon Kings. They’ll hear any one of us if we come within a stone’s throw of the barn.”
Joan straightened her spine and set her jaw, chin tilted up. Michael closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Fates ugly stepsister. He did not need the posturing of stubborn saints to muck up his already shitty day.
“Are you saying I can’t get close enough to eavesdrop over a bunch of daemons?” Joan huffed. “Think about it, Tony. The Kings will be too concerned they aren’t being double-crossed by Greed and Envy to pay attention to their surroundings. I’m the best choice as I am small and light on my feet.” Joan turned to Michael, who wasn’t sure what to think. “I can do it.”
“No,” Tony interjected, shaking his head. “It’s too dangerous.”
Joan gave Tony a look that would make a lesser male drop to the ground and curl into a whimpering ball. “It’s not up to you, Tony, and I don’t need you to protect me.”
By the bloody Fates and beyond.
Michael wanted to scream. He wanted to leave this wretched forest and storm the King of Lust’s house of horrors to tear apart with his bare hands any and all that stood in his way. To stomp over their remains and free his Honor, who they dared to injure and violate. Fuck, when the King of Lust materialized outside the barn a short while ago, Michael nearly flew across the field and ripped the bastard’s head clear from his body. It took every bit of his centuries of—admittedly inconsistent—control over his temper to keep from descending on the Daemon King and thrusting the Sword of Light right into the prick’s blackened lump of a heart.
In truth… Michael’s own blood pounded at his temples and he heard the rhythmic whoosh of his pulse behind his ears. His breaths quickened and the pressure in his head grew until the edges of Michael’s vision went white. I cannot do this, but Fates, I must. Honor is counting upon me. Waging an internal war, Michael closed his eyes and concentrated on burying the overwhelming rage that pushed its way out of his chest, only it wasn’t lessening. If anything, the anger, the fury, the impulse to get to his other half, swelled to such proportions it became the only thing Michael could see or hear or feel or think about.
I must needs get to Honor. Now!
Michael opened his eyes, half a second from dematerializing to Lust’s estate, when the air shimmered and a small male materialized before him. Donovan and Joan immediately fell into defensive postures, whilst Tony stepped back in shock. Michael—bloody infernum, I can’t take another complication—didn’t flinch, not a single twitch of his lip, blink of his eyes, or shift in his stance. He was drained of emotion, every last one already occupied, twisted and knotted around thoughts of his Watcher. His love, who was currently bound and tortured whilst he stood in a forest with his thumb up his own ass.
“And who might you be?” Michael growled, low and menacing. He crossed his thick arms over his chest, biceps the size of large cantaloupes, in a blatant intimidation technique. Michael couldn’t determine the slender male’s immortal type, only that he appeared to be naught but a youth. Big or small, old or young, Michael shan’t be so careless as to let his guard down. At this point, Michael didn’t give a fairy’s shit if the kid was one of the five Fates, come directly from the Hereafter to strike Michael down for his insolence. So long as his Honor was rescued and safe, he cared not for his own welfare.
Go on. Attack me, whelp.
Michael was all but begging for an outlet for his frustration.
The kid’s eyes darted to and fro as he took in the three other immortals that surrounded him. Donovan and Joan appeared ready to pound him with their fists first and ask questions later. Tony worked on collecting his wits after getting caught unawares.
“Might there be somewhere we can converse alone?” the newcomer asked Michael.
Michael’s lips tightened. “No.” As if he would go anywhere with this child. Especially since his patience was nil and it was the male’s very presence that kept Michael from having his soul mate in his arms.
“Umm…” The kid stared at Donovan’s huge muscles a beat longer before returning his gaze to Michael. For whatever reason, he then dropped his gray-green stare and muttered under his breath, “Fates, I’m going to get in so much trouble.”
“Speak or leave,” Michael snapped. “Unless you desire finding yourself at the receiving end of my very, very short fuse.” Michael leaned way down until his nose nearly touched that of the much smaller immortal.
The kid’s cheeks flushed and he blinked rapidly. “N-no… no, sir. I don’t want that. Okay. Uh, shit. Fates above, you’re fucking scary.” Michael glared and raised an impatient brow. The youth winced. “So, umm, I’m not supposed to tell you this, ahh, and I’ll probably, definitely get in heaps of trouble, but mayhap after, you can talk to Gabriel for me and—”
For the love of…
Michael grabbed the blathering immortal by the shoulders and shook him roughly, the kid’s head snapping back and forth on his skinny neck. “Get. To. The. Bloody. Point. I haven’t the time, nor inclination for your babbling stream of elf-shit.” Michael turned to Tony and Joan. “Be sure someone is listening for the wraith’s signal whilst I’m busy beating this whelp unconscious.” The kid paled and on any other day mayhap Michael would have felt the slightest twinge of guilt.
Today is not that day.
“Okay.” The kid gulped, took a deep breath, and the words tumbled out in such a rush, Michael could hardly keep up. “My name is Bastien Wentworth and I’m a Watcher from the Hereafter.” Michael tore his hands from the kid’s shoulders as if they were pieces of forged steel, red-hot from the blacksmith’s forge.
“A what?” Michael asked. A Watcher? Is it possible he knows of Honor?
“A Watcher, and I’ve been tasked with, umm, watching Donovan here.” Bastien bit his lip and squirmed. Michael sensed Bastien bending the truth, but let it go. There were more pressing matters at hand.
“You what?” Donovan all but shouted.
“Be quiet!” Michael hissed. Donovan snapped his jaw shut so hard Michael heard the warrior’s teeth clack. He returned his stare to Bastien. Michael’s pulse raced and hope took hold in his chest. “What do you know? Do you know of a Watcher by the name of Honor Ward?”
“Okay, umm, what I just said isn’t exactly the entire truth. I was…” Bastien blinked up at Michael with worry in his eyes. “I was, ahh, instructed to say my task was to Watch Donovan. That is, if my true assignment detected me.”
Michael’s brows pinched. “But we cannot detect Watchers. Only another Watcher can…”
Bastien must have caught the moment Michael put the pieces together, because his expression looked relieved. Then he took a deep breath and rambled on, “Yeah. My true assignment is to Watch Honor Ward.”
It was rare indeed for Michael to be rendered speechless. But this? Michael’s mouth hung open, his heart stuttered, and his poor, aching and hollow life force shrank further into itself.
“From what I gathered,” Bastien continued, “You know where Honor is.” Bastien snuck a cautious glance at Michael, as if waiting for him to strike out at his reminder of Honor’s current state. “Because the King of Lust’s residence is warded against any immortal materializing in or out, I cannot check on her well-being. So I, umm, decided to follow that bastard,” Bastien peeked up at Michael to make sure he wasn’t angry at the cursing. Michael grunted impatiently. “Uh, I mean, Lust. I followed Lust here. My intention was to just, you know, pop into the meeting, umm, since the Kings won’t know I’m there. Only, when I materialized inside, someone… no, make that someones, were able to see me. Fuck, I had to bolt, because if I get caught by one of the Horsemen, I’d be so screwed—”
“Horsemen?” Michael and Donovan blurted simultaneously.
“The Horsemen are here? Inside with the Kings?” Michael asked.
And I thought my heart couldn’t take anymore. That nothing could be worse than it already is. Fates, I was wrong.
“How many of them?”
How much could one immortal take? At last count, Michael must needs deal with seven Daemon Kings, a narcissistic wraith, a fourteen year-old practitioner, a secret Watcher who was Watching another Watcher, a missing Daemon Prince, and on top of that, the knowledge that his soulmate was trapped and being tortured… Bloody hell. In truth, Michael was one more problem from going completely mad. His notorious temper was already primed to blow sky high and there was nothing he could do to stop it. In truth, Michael welcomed it, if only to decrease the unbearable pressure inside his head.
“Aye, they are here. All four of them,” Bastien said. “Somehow, they heard about the meeting of the Kings and just, I don’t know, showed up. All I know is the Kings weren’t expecting them.” He chuckled. “Surprised the shit out of ‘em when four massive specters of devastation on horses as big as mountains appeared inside the barn.”
“But how did the Horsemen know of this?” Donovan asked.
Bastien shrugged. “How should I know? I’m just a Watcher and not privy to the Horsemen’s conversations since, you know, they can see me. Mayhap someone on the inside sent a message to the Horsemen. Or mayhap they were working with an insider all along.”
“Son of a djinn’s filthy spawn,” Michael spat. He pointed at Bastien. “We’re not done here. I expect you to tell me why you’re Watching my Honor.” He turned to Donovan. “And you, get Dion here. Now! I shan’t let this opportunity go to waste. Every single one of our most dangerous enemies is gathered in a single place. We shall banish all of them at once, Kings and Horsemen.”
“But—”
Michael cut Donovan off with a spine-chilling snarl. “Except Lust.” Michael’s fury rose, the throbbing energy of his Archangel power quickly spreading throughout his body, immersing every vein, every limb, every cell. He felt the tingling charge all the way to his fingers and toes. “Lust is mine.”