Nephilim War: Book 2 Page 25

  “Come on!” Alaric yelled at Nuno, after giving him the extra weapon. “We have to head up.”

  “Azriel isn’t alone, is he?” Nuno asked as he ran.

  “No.”

  The sound was louder, more insistent. They were close.

  “The imps?”

  But even as Nuno said this, Alaric rejected the idea. Why would Azriel waste time coming here when it was Ikarius he was after? He said as much to Nuno.

  Nuno paused on the threshold of the stairs. “Then who, or what?”

  “I don’t know,” Alaric said.

  Alaric turned to motion toward the floor and tell Nuno to move, but at that precise moment, the floor erupted in a confetti-like explosion that sent large bits of cement flying into the air. The table where they’d been sitting minutes earlier flew into the air and landed hard on the opposite side of the room. A thick amalgam of smoke and fog drifted up from the jagged crater where the floor had been, and a bright red glow shone up from the depths.

  Alaric spun toward the stairs and ran. “Move!” he yelled at Nuno’s retreating form.

  Nuno spun, saw something that made his eyes bulge, turned back toward the stairs, then seemed to disappear. Alaric knew he hadn’t actually disappeared, he’d simply used his preternatural speed to propel himself forward. But the effect was much like disappearing.

  A chorus of phlegmy bellows screeched over the wail of the siren, but Alaric didn’t bother looking back. He leapt onto the first set of stairs and bounded up, cursing under his breath. He dashed up the stairs, bounced off the landing, and onto another stairway. “Faster,” he prodded himself.

  Above, he heard Nuno yelling, “Get back! Get to the main floor.”

  When Alaric reached a short corridor, he picked up speed. He spun briefly to see how close the enemy was, but the corridor behind him was empty. The fact only provided small comfort because he could still hear the phlegmy howls echoing up from the stairwell he’d just come from.

  Ten feet ahead, the last stairwell loomed. He sprinted the distance, then leapt onto the fifth step and bounded onto the landing and up the next level.

  The sound of raised voices was more audible as he moved forward.

  “Let’s fight,” someone was saying.

  A few others said, “Give me a weapon.” And, “Where is Alaric? Did you leave him down there to fend for himself?”

  The lights of the main level came into view a second before Alaric rounded the last set of stairs. He took them in threes. A group of nearly fifty immortals stood poised at the mouth of the stairs, most of them with weapons in hand and held at the ready. Alaric reached the top of the stairs and moved forward. Then, he spun on his heels and held his own weapon aloft.

  “What is it?” Someone asked.

  “Bet it’s just ghouls,” another called.

  “Ghouls can’t fight us. They’re nothing but scouts,” someone else was saying. “Imps are the fighters, and they’re trapped in…” The sentence trailed off as the first of the intruders came into view, a squall of rage coming from its fanged mouth.

  Three more appeared in quick succession behind the first, and Alaric knew more would follow. But that wasn’t what disturbed him.

  “Not ghouls,” someone sputtered as if reading Alaric’s thoughts.

  Nuno was right.

  “The gateway!” Alaric said. “Azriel opened the gateway to The Void. Fucking son of a bitch, they’re not ghouls!”

  A brief shudder ran through their ranks and older, more experienced immortals pushed to the front while the young ones hovered in the back. But Alaric stood side by side with Nuno and Jules, poised for a fight.

  The creatures hovered on the landing one staircase down, surveying the opposition. Alaric could see them weighing their options, and a sudden rage surged through him. Already, he could feel his nails growing to fine points, felt the tips of his teeth sharpen, and felt the beast inside him take over as pure hatred coursed through his veins. He glared down at the imps and made a show of expertly twirling his blade before him.

  “Come on,” he said. “Come and get me if you want me.”

  Alaric felt Nuno beside him. He was suddenly so close, Alaric could feel Nuno’s muscles pulse with the start of transformation. A low growl issued from him. The sound was so menacing, Alaric found himself giving Nuno a brief glance. Nuno’s fangs had extended, but not only his fangs, every tooth had sharpened to a point. Fine hairs sprouted on his chin and cheeks as the hair on his head thickened and grew coarse. Growling like the beast he was, his eyes had darkened until even his irises were black as night.

  Beastmen growled their fury as, hair standing on end, their eyes darkened to midnight black. Their muscles constricted and contracted as animal and demon fought for supremacy. Noses and mouths melted as nose became snout and mouth widened until dozens of tiny, razor sharp teeth flashed. Long black hair appeared beneath the shirtsleeves and under the cuffs of pants. The sound of material being rent kept Azriel alert. He knew from that sound that the beastmen’s muscle mass was doubling. Shoes burst as feet that looked a hybrid of animal and man tore through the simple confines of leather.

  It felt good to hold a weapon again, Alaric thought. His body positively purred with the need to use it. He twirled it in his hand, getting accustomed to the weight of it.

  The first imp moved forward slowly, scaly wings flapping in the air. It stared at Alaric, evil intent clear in its grotesquely misshapen features. Alaric briefly surveyed the immortals behind him. Then, giving a war cry any goth would have been proud of, he ran forward.

  “Alaric!” he heard someone call, but his voice sounded far away, unimportant. “Alaric, Al-Kenna has escaped!”

  The sound of fighting filled the room, drowning out Damon’s words.

  * * * *

  Al-Kenna ran out the front door and down the flagstone path toward the car. She’d be damned if she’d allow Alaric to think he could shove her to the sidelines the way her father did. She was a warrior, and as such her place was in the battle.

  She’d been stupid to leave her weapons in the car last night. She attributed her lack of forethought to her lust-hazed mind. As it was, she’d only managed to make it down the stairs and out the front door moments before Damon had appeared on the main level, calling her name.

  She reached the car and yanked the passenger door open, silently thanking God that neither she nor Alaric had thought to lock the car. Keys had been the last thing on her mind when she’d heard the siren go off. She’d known immediately what the siren meant. Someone or something had breached the coven house walls.

  She eased into the backseat and spotted her duffle on the floor. In seconds, she’d reached into it and come up with her Beretta. Once she found her gun, she fit it into the waistband of her pants. Her sword was lying across the backseat of the car. With her gun secure, she grabbed her blade and was stepping out of the car when she heard the distinct sound of gravel crunching.

  She whirled, gun in hand, in time to see two imps standing at the rear of the car. They were grotesque, with unnaturally hairy bodies, skin whose surface was pocked and marred, and one great horn sticking out of the center of their heads. Where ghouls could pass for gargoyles, imps seemed like oversized apes on steroids.

  The gray-furred creatures seemed to take in the scene in seconds. They eyed her, pleasure clearly etched on their faces. In stereo, they growled. Behind them, a set of wings unfolded and began to flap.

  She took a step back, closed her left hand over her gun, and got a tighter grip of her sword with her right hand. Though she didn’t want to turn her back on the creatures, she needed an accurate accounting of precisely how many of them there were and if any of them were behind her. Even now, she saw three more horned figures appear further down the driveway.

  “Damn,” she muttered to herself. Suddenly, coming out to the car to retrieve her weapons didn’t seem like such a bright idea.

  As she swiveled her head to the left and scanned the ground arou
nd her, a boom of thunder cracked. A second later, a streak of lightning lit the sky. Al-Kenna stumbled backward. The crash of thunder had been such a surprise, she’d thought for a second one of the imps had gotten hold of a gun and was shooting at her. When she eyed the two closest to her, she saw they were still hovering near the rear of the car. No guns, but they could spring at her any second, and would.

  As she was deciding what to do next, a swirl of wind set the trees lining the drive to rustling. The naked limbs crashed into one another as the rising wind whipped around them. Al-Kenna couldn’t say why, but the sight of this made gooseflesh rise along her body.

  The two imps at the rear of the car didn’t move. Though it was a crazy thought, they seemed to be taking strength from the weather disturbance. They crouched low; their black wings spread behind them, then loped forward.

  She didn’t retreat. She leveled her gun, sighted it on the figure closest to her, and pulled the trigger. The explosion echoed in the the night and the fiend howled in pain. Yellow fluid erupted from the fresh hole in its head as it staggered forward and collapsed on the ground. She aimed her gun a second time and caught the next imp between the eyes. Even as it fell to its knees, she noted the set of three she’d seen on the driveway were making their way toward her. She sprang forward and brought her blade down on the necks of the fallen imps.

  Yellow muck dripped from her blade and a sickly-sweet odor rose from the viscous sludge. Her stomach lurched and she had to force herself to block out the odor.

  She gave the headless bodies a hard shove with the toe of her boot. Though unlikely, if the head were allowed to rejoin with the body, the imp would be reanimated.

  Even as she was stepping back, she raised her gun in preparation to shoot down the next three. She didn’t press the trigger, though. She didn’t have any extra bullets on her, so she’d have to use what she had sparingly.

  She turned quickly where she stood, desperate to make sure nothing was behind her. Nothing was. But the wind had picked up speed and was steadily getting worse. Another boom of thunder sounded. She turned to face the three, aimed, shot. Yellow fluid spurted from the figure closest her. But already three more had appeared on the driveway further down, and they were running toward her. She shot again and caught another creature. When eight more appeared on the driveway, she froze.

  This was too much. There were too many of them. She had to run, take a chance that she could put distance between them. She was an able fighter, but fourteen imps would be too many for any Ikari.

  She turned then and ran for her life. Still, she could hear them behind her, chortling in their low, phlegmy voices as they pursued her.

  “Smenkhare,” they called to her. “Smenkhare!”

  And, “Smenkhare, we’ve come for you.”

  She suddenly realized this was real. This wasn’t a SIM or a field exercise. Those things behind her weren’t simulation imps, but the real thing; and Azriel was a very real threat.

  The door to the house was only a few feet ahead of her. Behind her, the voices of the imps had been swallowed in the gusts of wind. She wanted to take comfort in the fact that she couldn’t hear them anymore, but short of turning around and looking behind her, she had no way of knowing if she’d really put distance between them.

  She stepped onto the flagstone path and ran faster, but even as she closed the distance between her and the door, a whirlwind of air whipped into the space between her and safety. The force of the wind knocked her legs out from under her. She hit the ground hard and an explosion of pain shot through her chest as she landed face down in the grass. She tried to get her arms under her, tried to get to all fours, but her limbs wouldn’t obey.

  She felt herself roughly flipped onto her back.

  Then, she was staring into the face of one of the most beautiful men she’d ever seen. Long white hair whipped around his face and bare chest. Clad only in white pants and white boots, with lush white wings spread behind him, she thought for a moment God had sent an angel to her rescue.

  Then, she saw his smile and knew how wrong she was.

  “Azriel,” she gasped.

  “Smenkhare. You should have stayed dead.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Alaric dragged the beast he was fighting to the ground, slammed his elbow into its face so it lay stunned on the floor long enough for him to rise and decapitate it. He kicked its body and head across the floor and moved forward and into the fray.

  It was apparent Azriel had only sent a small number of imps to this fight, and they’d those he had sent had thought they could waltz in and ambush them. Another stupid move was that they had come alone. Azriel hadn’t been with them after all. That was what Alaric had really been afraid of.

  Alaric brought his blade down on the throat of an imp. He reveled in the satisfying sound of metal meeting flesh. By now, his sword dripped with the sludge that was an imp’s lifeblood. Something told him that before the night was over, he’d spill more blood than this.

  Before him the ape-like creature cackled, flapped its wings, then fell over in two heaps, hoofed feet kicking spasmodically at the air. The thick bands of muscle that made up its body quivered as death slowly took reign over the beast.

  Alaric stood in the center of the floor, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Every imp had been taken down. There’d been about four-dozen of them, and now their severed heads lay scattered over what had once been an expensive Persian carpet. The one at Alaric’s feet still writhed. Its legs kicked out as if denying the fact that death was near. But soon enough, it would be still.

  Alaric made a slow turn in the center of the room, searching for Damon and Al-Kenna. Bloodlust sated, the immortals were returning to their human selves even as Alaric’s own fangs receded. As he scanned the remaining faces, he was pleased to see most of the immortals remained.

  He finally spotted Damon bending over the body of an imp, machete in hand and dark hair saturated in imp blood. Damon glanced up and met Alaric’s gaze. His look was grim.

  Alaric felt his skin prickle with fear as he realized Damon was alone. “Where is Al-Kenna?”

  Damon got to his feet. “Gone.”

  “You didn’t go after her?”

  “I couldn’t.” Damon motioned to the floor around him.

  Alaric’s blood ran cold and fear, sharp as a blade, pierced his heart.

  He would not lose Smenkhare again.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “I see my reputation precedes me,” Azriel said, grinning.

  Al-Kenna raised her gun, but he closed his hand around her wrist and squeezed. Spikes of pain speared her arm. She tried to grit her teeth against the force of it, but even as she set her mind against releasing her hold on the gun, she found her hand was opening. A moment later, the gun landed on the ground beside her.

  Still gripping her wrist, Azriel jerked her to her feet.

  She lifted her sword arm to strike him, but felt the sword slip free of her grasp before she could bring the blade down on him. The deadly weapon flew uselessly across the yard as if on an invisible string. It landed in a thatch of bushes.

  Al-Kenna let loose a roar of primal fury and lifted her leg. The first kick caught him in the temple. His look of surprise would have been comical if she wasn’t so terrified. By her second kick, he was ready for her. He caught her leg under the knee and held it firm. Though he still grasped her wrist, still maintained enough pressure to hurt her, she used the balance gained from his hold of arm and leg to balance herself enough so she could bring her knee up and into his groin.

  Azriel didn’t lurch, didn’t show any sign the blow had hurt him. Instead, he released her captured leg and raised a brow in challenge. “You have spirit,” he said, still grinning. “I could have fun with you.”

  Al-Kenna swallowed down an urge to launch herself at him. She realized she couldn’t hurt this creature. He was too strong to defeat with physical force. “What do you want?” she finally asked.


  He loosened his hold on her wrist but didn’t let go.

  On the edge of the driveway, just beyond the tree line, the imps receded into the forest.

  “Just you, Smenkhare. All I want is you. See, I’ve even made the monsters disappear.”

  “Stop calling me Smenkhare.”

  “What would you prefer I call you? Al-Kenna?” he shrugged. “But that’s not your name.”

  She tried to jerk free of him, but he held her firm.

  “I do love that Ikari spirit,” he said with a chuckle, giving her a little jerk forward. “But then, that doesn’t really apply to you, does it? Ikari spirit, that is. I’m not sure what I’d call what you have.”

  “Let me go!”

  He chuckled. “Good old vampire spirit, that’s what I’d call it.”

  Al-Kenna froze and stared into the creature’s face. His pink lips curved into a smile and he met her glare with kind eyes.

  “Oh, you didn’t know? How delicious. I get to be the bearer of good news. I get so few pleasures.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “I’m an angel. You know what that means. I can’t lie, though I’ve been called a liar before. I’m not made that way. Lying is a human trait, Smenkhare. Free will and all that.”

  “Stop calling me that!”

  “You have vampire blood flowing through those veins, Smenkhare. Your mother wasn’t some human your father slept with, then cast off. That’s what you thought? What you always suspected. But you’re wrong.” His grin broadened to a smile, and he threw back his head and laughed. “You really don’t know, do you? The Warlord has kept you in the dark all these years…and I’m the monster.”

  Al-Kenna felt like her world was careening out of control. She didn’t want to believe Azriel, couldn’t believe him. But even as she rejected his words, her mind kept returning to one thing. Fallen or not, he was an angel; and just as he’d said, angels couldn’t lie.