Blood Curse (DarkWorld: A Soul Tracker Novel Book 3) Page 23

  He was no match for her.

  Baltazar slipped through an opening in the tree line up ahead and disappeared down the hillside without a sound. Evie followed, avoiding branches and shrubbery as adeptly as her quarry. She tailed him until he arrived at a cliff-top clearing that gave a glittering, magical view of the city.

  Tiny pinpricks of lights flickered and blinked in the valley below, like multi-colored diamonds thrown carelessly on the dark surface of the land.

  While the view held his attention, Evie bent and drew her silver dagger from her boot, releasing her Damascus blade from its leather sheath. She held her breath, weighing both blades in her hands, gaining comfort and strength from their familiar weight.

  She was ready.

  Evie, coming up behind him, closed the distance between herself and the demon Baltazar, silent as a leopard stalking its oblivious prey. Her feet whispered over the dew-kissed grass. So light was her step she may as well have floated across the small field.

  Trees sighed behind her in a deceivingly gentle breeze. Evie drew closer—just close enough that an obliging gust would carry her scent to him.

  She counted the seconds under her breath.

  His back stiffened, his neck muscles rigid as he turned so slowly she could almost see the hair on his skin undulate as he moved.

  Her scent evoked similar reactions with all her marks. The perfume of death, their very own Reaper come to call. And she never tarried with them. Social niceties somehow seemed out of place where knives and blood and imminent death were intertwined. Besides, these creatures wallowed so far beneath her on the moral and genetic ladder as to be untouchable, unworthy.

  Baltazar swallowed.

  The tendons in his neck remained taut as bowstrings. Then he drew a ragged breath and opened his mouth. He may have intended to ask her a question. Something typically innocuous. A ridiculous gesture as none of their questions received an answer. If they ever got the chance to ask one.

  The demon didn't.

  In a swift and viciously smooth swipe of her left hand, Evie plunged the silver dagger deep into his chest. So deep only the carved hilt prevented farther penetration. The slim blade embedded itself securely within his heart, flaying open arterial walls, penetrating the center of his demonic soul. Creatures of the Underworld had a seething dislike for anything silver. Perhaps it was the metal's innate ability to end their miserable lives. The accuracy of her aim was helped by the conveniently human location of his heart.

  She followed quickly with her right hand, sweeping the curved blade of the Damascus dagger clean across his throat. The deadly edge slid smoothly through glamor, demon hide, and bone.

  Quick. Clean.

  Landing in a crouch, Evie held her breath and watched him through the strands of her hair, which had escaped its bindings at the back of her head. It had happened so fast. Too quickly for the demon to defend himself. His body fell slowly, crumpling awkwardly onto his back until he landed beside her. Evie met his eyes. And sucked in a breath, an unconscious pause as she waited to see the last emotions fly across the demon's face.

  Always, she watched the last light in the eyes of her mark flicker and fade. She'd made herself do that whenever it was possible to be sure she never lost sight of the significance of her job. Evie had witnessed final moments of pure rage and comical disbelief. As a warrior of the Irin, she'd been doing Marcellus' bidding for six months now, and she'd begun to notice a pattern to the behaviors of her targets. They were always pissed when they got caught and always a little more than upset to find their existence about to be permanently terminated.

  This last one was different, though. This time, what she saw planted a tiny seed of doubt within the darkest recesses of her mind. His eyes were the palest of blues. It held anger and annoyance. But she also saw confusion and disbelief that faded as his life dissipated.

  Soon, wracking her mind, trying get a bead on the strange feeling that was so elusive, she stood over dancing amber embers flickering over the grass in the night breeze. The rising ashes and slivers of dust caught the next swift breeze and rode the night wind in silence. If she had learned anything in her long lifetime, she knew better than to ignore her instincts.

  She scowled.

  Something was wrong.

  Baltazar had been too easy to track. And she had taken his ignorance of her presence for arrogance. A nonchalance that spoke of a self-assured killer, but killers often got sloppy in their arrogance. They get careless, cocky. She had paused a few times to wonder if she had mixed up the scents. No. He had been the right mark.

  Now she stared down at the last of the fading embers.

  Soon, there was nothing but the glistening, almost-black blood that marred the slim, deadly beauty of her Damascus blade and the silver face of the dagger that had pierced his heart. As she bent to wipe her blade off on a nearby patch of grass, she neither mourned nor regretted her actions.

  This was just a job.

  The very act of wiping the blood off the blades was purely habit. She knew, as well as any other hunter of her ilk, that the essence of a demon's life force was destroyed when they were killed. For some unknown, and on her part unquestioned, reason, the Creator of these creatures did not wish the world tainted by their lifeless remains. Few people knew where these creatures went in their afterlife.

  These demons she killed, they were nothing. Murderers. Evil.

  Evie just seemed to be in the garbage business lately.

  So why was it bothering her more and more each day. Why did she feel a sense of wrong each time she killed a mark? Was it that their human glamors that had gotten to her? That they lived a pretense of normal human lives to hide their true nature? Was it that before Marcellus she'd never belonged to a demon death squad? Or was it that she just missed doing good?

  She stood over the grassy spot where the blades were still bent at unnatural angles, having been crushed beneath Baltazar's weight. Of all the possessions left of him, it was a metal disk which had caught and held her attention. Only moments ago it had hung on a fat bronze chain around the demon's neck. Thick, heavy and ornately carved with tiny swirls and patterns, its surface gleamed in the moonlight.

  Evie picked up the disc, feeling the solid weight of it in her palm. She frowned, trying to concentrate, but she quickly gritted her teeth, admitting she was unable to identify the language. But even as she did, she knew the script was beyond her knowledge. She'd have to wait to take it home.

  Frustrated, she glanced around the deserted clearing. Nobody would have seen her. She'd cast a glamor around herself and threw angel-light around her—standard protocol on a mission. Hidden within the blanket of her glamor, Evie wasted precious time studying the strange piece.

  Octagonal in shape, the disk bore a small carving on each of the eight corners. A hole bored through the center and inscriptions covered the back. The tiny carvings resembled Greek or Roman, possibly Persian, figures. An impressive relic.

  A sudden sound interrupted her thoughts. She breathed again. Just a car backfiring. But it was enough to remind Evie of her duties.

  Whether demon or human, the dead didn't take anything with them.

  Evie gathered the other solid items from the grass and threw them into a small envelope, which she hurriedly stuffed into her bag. Jewelry, belt buckles, and the odd spur or two needed to be rounded up from the scene. In the past she would have dumped the remaining trinkets she'd found. Not in the last six months though. Marcellus had given them all strict instructions to ensure every piece of metal be brought to him. No questions. Marcellus certainly had a different method of running the Irin than Patrick. None of the teams enjoyed the feeling of being under his control.

  Most of all Evie.

  She clenched her fist. It was time to leave. Not that she feared being tracked, nor did she waste time worrying over being observed making a kill. She was too good at her job. It just annoyed her that she couldn't put a finger on what bugged her about this whole kill.

&nb
sp; Something feels off.

  Everything in order, she swept her eyes over the scene. One last check didn't hurt. Satisfied, she was about to take off when a ray of light bounced off something in the taller grass at the edge of the clearing. Her night vision was superb, so she admonished herself for not finding it on her first scan of the area.

  But when she looked closer, she saw it had been half hidden by a fallen branch. She strode over to the grass, bent to retrieve the trinket, and felt its weight immediately. The ring that lay in the palm of her hand looked ancient. Possibly Minoan from the carving and the color of the gold. What would a low-life, albeit high-level, demon be doing with an ancient artifact like this? Another little piece to add to the puzzle slowly growing around Baltazar's untimely end.

  Evie sighed and unfolded her wings. They stood a head taller than her, beautiful, pearly white and iridescent under the moonlight. Her angelic heritage had failed to bestow upon her all its glorious abilities, and so she could not disapparate to the Irin HQ, but she needed to calm herself anyway. Flying always gave her a sense of peace she could not find in anything else she did. She strengthened the glamor over herself, making her invisible to any eye that may be cast heavenward.

  Flexing and spreading wide, her wings lifted her up into the night sky. Toward the twinkling stars. Toward peace, silence, and calm.

  "It is done!" Daniel Feinstein stared at the list of names inked onto the ancient parchment. The relic lay dry and brittle beneath his sweaty fingers, waiting for the slightest change heralding Evangeline's latest successful termination.

  "She has terminated Baltazar... This is good. Is it confirmed?" Seated calmly behind the heavy oak desk, Master Marcellus waited for Daniel's confirmation. The Master's black garb, as nondescript as the next Brother, did nothing to mark him as one apart from the group. Above the rest in any way. Yet a dark air remained around him, shadowing him. Marking him as different.

  In addition, the previous Master, Patrick had conveniently fallen victim to a long and untimely illness. Despite his immortality, he had been unable to overcome the strangely inexplicable affliction. As Patrick's successor, it made perfect sense for the right hand of the old Master to take his place. Master Marcellus Bactor smiled to himself, taking comfort in his position of power. The Brotherhood still answered to him with the same reverence bestowed upon their previous leader.

  Daniel stared at the name "Baltazar" etched in ageless ink in an ancient and forgotten language. Progress dragged slowly and it would be a while yet before the rest of the Seals were gathered. Daniel gripped the fragile parchment a little too firmly. The crackle of the paper brought him back and he loosened his grip.

  "Yes, his name has just disappeared from the list." Daniel glanced at Marcellus.

  He considered Marcellus and his position within the Irin. With the power of the Nephilim at their fingertips, they were fast becoming invincible. Half-breed angels from the four corners of the globe. This kind of reach was unimaginable until the Irin Warriors proved their prowess. They were the best tools to obtain the Seals. Even better—they were dispensable.

  Evangeline was on her way back. His eyes flicked toward the curtains framing the balcony. He could almost picture her there, blue eyes flashing, lustrous black hair framing a beautiful face. Yes, she had been blessed with angelic genes, so understandably she would have the face to prove it.

  She always entered through those doors when she returned from a termination. He assumed it was a display of some kind. Power perhaps? To remind the simple humans of what she was. What she was capable of. Ignorant whelp. If she only knew who she was dealing with...

  Daniel longed to teach her exactly where she belonged in the order of things. Sadly, she was the example by which many of the other Warriors marked themselves. She spelled trouble.

  He returned to his desk, a smaller, messier version of the Master's antique.

  A little restraint would go a long way. Alerting the Nephilim would be dangerous. Her vow was to serve the Brotherhood, to aid in wiping away the scourge of Hell seeping through the portals and worming its way into the human world. An unbreakable bond between Nephilim and Brotherhood. The Brotherhood of the Irin—they were Nephilim scouts or human agents who believed they served a higher purpose.

  As did Evangeline.

  Retribution Ch 2

  Evie approached the Irin Estate as darkness slipped from the sky and crimson fingers of sunlight scarred the farthest horizon, so red it reminded her of great splotches of blood.

  She shuddered.

  This job must be getting to her. Such morbid thoughts contradicted the exquisite beauty of the nights' star-speckled heavens.

  She dove, wings tucked close, glancing toward a balcony that skirted the roof of the East Wing. She came in for the landing spreading her pure-white, silver-tipped wings spread wide, slowing herself down as she approached the roof. She flipped her body upright and prepared to land nimbly on the balls of her feet. At the very last minute, she tucked in her wings, allowing her body to free-fall the last few feet. Evie dropped to the edge of the roof, landing in a crouch, ready to defend herself, prepared to fight. She stayed low, resting her elbow on one knee and scanned the rooftop.

  Her feet crunched against gravel. The rooftop was empty. Evie rose and walked to a parapet guarded by a pair of small concrete gargoyles sitting short and squat. They grimaced over the front gardens of the estate, their hooded eyes staring out into the dark, silent night. The estate lights threw little patches of glowing yellow patches outside a multitude of open doors and windows. The gardens beyond lay dark as pitch, though Evie was certain the Irin Night Guard lurked among the trees and shrubs. Yet no sound or movement indicated their presence. They were good.

  A breeze rode the silent air, strong fingers that cooled the heat of her face. To her left, the pint-sized stone gargoyle still stared out across the gardens, indifferent to her presence. Concrete and plaster. A fake. Made to resemble the real thing in a time when people had long forgotten that gargoyles were living, breathing, feeling, and thinking creatures. She knew the gargoyle night watch was serious about security, patrolling the estate religiously. They were around, somewhere.

  Another gust of wind. Awareness rippled along her skin and she turned slowly to her right, staring straight into the dark and watchful eyes of the real thing. The gargoyle guard was silent, his obsidian eyes dark and clear in his ebony face. He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her, but still watchful, still on guard.

  She was disappointed.

  But she should have expected no more than the courteous greeting she received. She was Nephilim. Warrior of the Irin Brotherhood. Even Evie's friends frowned upon fraternizing with non-angelic beings.

  Do your job. Kill the mark. Go straight home. Don't make friends. Irin monopoly at its very best.

  Life was getting tedious these days. With Patrick ousted and Marcellus playing top dog, the changes wreaked havoc with their lives. The other Warriors became restless too. The new topic of conversation between the morning's lessons or the afternoon's practice sessions in the armory was Marcellus.

  Marcellus was a volatile leader. He either instilled mortal fear in his followers or just plain rubbed them the wrong way. In a few short months since he'd taken over, he'd sent them chasing Earth-side demons and scrounging for random pieces of demon metal like a pack of scavenging hellhounds. He'd used genial smiles and subtle manipulation to ensure the Irin, masters and warriors alike believed nothing but good about him. And the worst of it was many of the Irin masters had fallen for his charm.

  Evie ground her teeth. What a waste of time. But she meant to make her report and get on with her day. She still had to rest and prepare for her morning classes. The Brotherhood ensured each Nephilim of similar age, along with various new recruits, attended the relevant classes. It was Patrick's idea to start the training center. He, more than any of the other Brothers, knew what the Nephilim went through. Because he had raised Evie and because he'd seen too mu
ch over his extended lifetime. He was convinced educating the Warriors would help them complete their assignments successfully. Their education covered everything from languages to history to politics. Patrick was nurturing a new breed of Irin Warriors. That was until Marcellus took charge. One of Evie's greatest fears was that the new Master would decide training was unnecessary.

  A long, long lifetime did not necessarily mean a Nephilim received a proper education. In addition, their longevity did not mean they were endowed with adulthood automatically. Most of the Nephilim here at the center experienced tumultuous childhoods. A Nephilim aged in years like a human being from birth to puberty. Once the hormones kicked in, angel and human blood warred within body and mind. Until one won. Many Nephilim reverted to humanity, allowing their angelic natures to wilt like a plant deprived of water, never knowing what they'd missed out on. Never knowing they'd come so dangerously close to immortality.

  For some, like Evie and the Warriors of the Irin, the angelic half won out. From then onward, aging was a wholly different process. Nephilim lived a few hundred years before they aged one human year. For a Nephilim, the teenage years lasted close to a thousand years before full maturity was achieved. For now, Evie was the human equivalent of nineteen, and she would stay nineteen for a good few years more. As long as she retained the company of her fellow Warriors, she could handle it.

  A gust of wind buffeted her as she leapt over the parapet and floated slowly to the stone-tiled surface of the balcony. It ruffled her feathers, lifted and moved them with invisible fingers. She welcomed the touch, the warmth of Mother Nature against her body. Evie chose the balcony entrance for its proximity to the rooftop.

  And because it affected Daniel.

  Evie delighted in the definite wobble of his stiff upper lip whenever she made a balcony entrance. She suspected he didn't like her much. The feeling was certainly mutual.