Black Fallen

by Elle Jasper

  I find Eli, walk over to him. I peel out of my long overcoat, unstrap my sword, and set them both aside, then plop down on the floor in front of him. Grabbing one of the containers from Bene’s, I open it and dig in to a slab of haddock. Bene had already drowned them and the chips with vinegar and brown stuff. I can barely shovel it in fast enough. I glance over at Tristan. He’s doing the same thing. Gawan and Lucian both have a container in their laps, too. Jake stands near the hearth with Darius, and he turns to address the team.

  “Riley, I’ve updated everyone on what happened at St. Giles’,” Jake says. “Conwyk has a theory.”

  I glance at Gawan, and he nods. “Aye,” he says. “Riley, tell me exactly what happened.”

  I finish chewing. “This kid, he was screaming, acting freaking crazy on the street, kicking over trash bins, and scaring people. He was holding his head as if it seriously hurt him. I . . . guess I sensed something was up. I grabbed his hands and we were suddenly in an alternate Edinburgh.” I took a long pull on my Coke. “I guess I thought to drag the kid into the cathedral because he reeked of death. His eyes”—I recall it in my memory—“they weren’t his. His voice, either. And I figured the cathedral was sanctuary. When we got inside, though, the church was all dilapidated and run-down. Abandoned.” I shake my head. “Weird.”

  Gawan glances first at Tristan, then at Gabriel. “Sounds like the Fallen have initiated a few henchmen from the other side.”

  “Rather, henchsouls,” says Darius. He runs his hand through his dark auburn hair, now hanging loose about his shoulders. He glances at me with his piercing gaze. “You killed it.”

  “I killed it,” I repeat. “Don’t know how, or what made me think to drown it out in that puddle, but something lured me there. The moment that . . . thing inside Ian saw itself in the puddle, in it went. Trapped.” I make the sound effect of an explosion. “But for a second, before it popped and turned into some oil-like substance, it looked at me. And it seemed, I don’t know, regretful. Or something.” I shrug and continue eating.

  “You didna kill a demon,” Gawan said, and in his soft brown eyes I see pain. “You killed an Earthbound.”

  I swallow, glance at Jake, Darius, and then back to Gawan. “An Earthbound what?”

  Gawan’s jaw muscles flex. “Angel.”

  My heart stops.

  “That thing inside of Ian? It was no angel, Gawan. It was evil. Evil as Hell. All except for that one split second.”

  Gawan nods. The firelight from the hearth flickers shadows over his face. “The Fallen use a curse to change them, which the Earthbounds can’t stop. The spells of the Seiagh are too powerful, and the Fallen have saved several to memory. The Fallen trap unsuspecting Earthbounds and use them for their own devices. But you didna kill it. You just sent it to a horrible place.”

  A lump forms in my chest. “Is there any way to retrieve the Earthbound from wherever I sent them?”

  “Yes,” Sydney interrupts from her place at the desk. She turns and looks at me. “You have to go in after them.”

  I immediately feel Eli tense up behind me.

  “Can beings other than Earthbounds be sent to that place?” I ask.

  Gawan nods. “Aye.”

  “So Ian’s behavior wasn’t a demon being evil,” I say, finally catching on. “It was an Earthbound rebelling. Trying to get out.”

  Gawan nods again. “Exactly.”

  I eye him, and even though I already know the answer after seeing into his memories, I want to hear him say it. “You know all that because you are an Earthbound?”

  “Was,” Gawan corrects. “For centuries. I’m a mere mortal now, like Dreadmoor.”

  I’m finally catching on to this twelfth and thirteenth century jive. Not only do both warriors have their given names, but they’re also referred to by their home. Dreadmoor. Grimm. Confusing as hell, but I get it.

  “I was dead, though,” Tristan adds. “A bloody spirit, as were my men, for centuries on and on. Only did my fate change when a young Colonist happened upon my land.”

  I blink. “You were a ghost for centuries, yes?”

  Tristan nods. “Aye.”

  “Like see-through, mists and orbs, or something different?” I ask.

  Tristan laughs. “I appeared just as you see me now, with the exception of my garb. I looked very much alive.” He rubs his chin. “I do miss walking straight through walls, and just thinking of a spot I wished to occupy and then just . . . occupying it.”

  “Do you miss it?” Ginger asks. She’s sitting next to Lucian on a long, brown leather sofa.

  “Nay,” Tristan clarifies. “I wouldn’t trade my Andrea for any of it.”

  Gawan looks at me. “His wife.”

  I look at Gawan.

  I decide my powers are all too useful all of a sudden.

  And take a lot less time than verbal explanations.

  Slowly, I reach over and brush Gawan’s hand with mine.

  Now I’m Gawan of Conwyk . . .

  Gawan walked close beside her, his arm not too tightly around her, and guided her across the glowing, glittery winter wonderland of Castle Grimm. With the tall, gray Grimm towers, and that giant mouth of a portcullis, it truly did look like something out of a fairy tale. On they walked to the courtyard, where in the spring dozens of flowers bloomed, Gawan said, and the border bumped straight up to the edge of the cliff. The moon hung over the choppy North Sea, and a light sprinkling of snow fell steadily. Gawan had told her how uncanny it was to get snow—and this much of it—at this time of year. Uncanny, he’d said.

  For Gawan of Conwyk to find anything uncanny was, well, uncanny.

  “Are you sure you want to see this?” he asked.

  Ellie stopped and cocked her head. “Are you kidding? Of course I want to.”

  Gawan guided her to a stone bench set amidst the rose bushes overlooking the sea. “You sit here. I’ll need to stand back a ways.” He unbuttoned his coat. “Promise me you won’t scream. ’Tis overwhelming, the sight of them.”

  “I won’t scream.”

  He gave a nod, dropped his coat and shirt, and looked at her, just before he walked off. Standing there, the moonlight painting his broad, muscular, tattooed chest in a pale glow, his shoulder-length curls tossing about him in the wind, Ellie appeared taken.

  Only she hadn’t yet seen Gawan’s magnificent yet useless reminders that he’d done something worthy once, several lifetimes ago.

  And there, with the tumultuous North Sea roaring behind him and snowflakes falling about, stood Gawan of Conwyk. Born in “a.d.” 1115 A.D., died in A.D. “A.D.” 1145. Honor bound by his knightly vows; awarded in death a pair of guardian’s wings to symbolize his selfless deeds. And as he closed his eyes and said the strange words that carried to Ellie’s ears only because of the fierce midwinter’s wind blowing directly at her, his wings unfolded from their hiding place within his shoulder blades and spanned nearly twelve feet, tip to tip. They—he—was the most astounding and glorious sight she’d ever beheld.

  Not for the first time since meeting the man, Ellie was speechless.

  And within the blink of an eye, he’d retracted those wings and was striding closer to her, silently, and when he got to her, she helped him into his shirt and coat, and he embraced her, his mouth buried into her neck.

  “I didn’t frighten you, did I?” he asked against her skin.

  Ellie held on tight. “I’m never scared with you.” And wished she could stay there, enclosed within his arms, forever.

  “Even that wouldn’t be long enough for me,” Gawan whispered in her ear.

  “Stay out of my head, Conwyk,” she said, and he chuckled.

  And she cried.

  When I focus on Gawan of Conwyk’s eyes, they soften. And, he smiles. “Did you find what you seek?” he asks softly.

  I nod. “For now.” I do know there’s a helluva lot more to Gawan and Tristan than what meets the curious eye.

  It was a lot to think about. Angels. Earthbo
unds. Demons. Jodís. Fallen. Vampires. Werewolves. Immortal druids.

  And me. Whatever I am.

  Weariness is starting to hit me. I’m one of the only souls in the room who require sleep, except for the lupines. Not too sure about the druids. Even I require just a small amount these days.

  “Ri, you need to rest for a bit,” Eli says. He rubs my head, then explains. “One of the several side effects of her mortal DNA mixing with that of four vampires. She just falls out sometimes. Like a bad case of narcolepsy.”

  “Go rest,” Jake says. “We’ll be here when you wake up. We’ve a lot to go over before Tristan and Gawan leave.”

  “Why are they leaving?” I ask. “Wouldn’t their skills with the sword be helpful?”

  “That’s what I keep telling him,” Tristan says, grumbling.

  “Whilst they are the verra best swordsman alive, in my opinion, they are mere mortals. They can be killed. And we’re obviously dealing with a lot more than we at first assumed. Not just simply lopping off the heads of a Fallen or a Jodís. I’ll not make their families suffer. The both of them have done enough of that in their lifetimes,” Jake says.

  “Aye,” Gawan says. “Dreadmoor already has six children.”

  “Soon to be seven,” Jake corrects. “And you’re one to talk, Conwyk. Your bride has been pregnant more oft than not. Five babes now?”

  “There is that,” Gawan replies, and he nods. “Aye, there is that, indeed.”

  “I want them out of here before the Fallen rejuvenate. We’ve one more day left, at best,” Jakes says, then inclines his head toward the desk. “Sydney is pouring through the Celtae’s old tomes. Only she can read them. Clues are hidden amongst the pages regarding the relics. Then we’ll be hitting the streets.”

  I nod. “I’ll only rest for a bit.” I push off the floor, grab my empty container and Coke bottle, and start toward the kitchen. Eli rises and follows me.

  I catch the light switch with my elbow as I walk in, Eli behind me. The kitchen is a decent size, with a long wooden block top in the center, a pair of deep white porcelain sinks at the back, and a huge mahogany dining table. It looks old. Modern appliances fill the spaces, a double-sized stainless-steel, side-by-side fridge with a freezer drawer on the bottom, a dishwasher, and a stove. Above it, a mega microwave. In the far corner, the “red” fridge for the vamps. Some smart-ass has placed a magnet of a pair of long, white fangs on the front of the door. Funny.

  “Immortals eat a lot,” Eli offers. He takes my trash, finds the receptacle, and dumps it. “Almost as much as humans with tendencies.”

  “Ha ha,” I remark, and slide my arms around his waist. His strong arms embrace me, and I feel drowsy just resting against his chest.

  “Go upstairs and get some sleep,” he says against my hair, then kisses my temple. His lips move to my ear. “You’re gonna need it, chère.”

  My heart leaps.

  Eli laughs against my hair. “I heard that.”

  Something hard presses against my abdomen. “I feel that.”

  He laughs again. “Go,” he says, and turns me around and swats my ass. “Go get some rest. You don’t want to pass out onto the floor like you did at my parent’s house.”

  “Yeah, that I could’ve done without,” I answer. “Especially with your idiotic brothers watching. Throwing things at me and laughing. So freaking juvenile.”

  “Don’t forget my idiotic sister,” he adds. “She laughed just as hard.”

  “Yeah and your mama scolded you all for it,” I remind him.

  “Tough woman, Elise Dupré,” he says.

  To that I fully agree. And I miss her.

  I wave good night to the team as I pass back through the common room and head for the stairs. In the foyer, it’s dark with only a single lamp burning on a tall, small table. Shadows play on the wall as I go by, and I briefly wonder if it’s me causing it or something else.

  I climb to the second floor, and only when I hit the landing does a strange sensation come over me. I glance around, but see nothing except dim lights and shadows. I continue on. Stopping by the bathroom, I take care of girly business, wash up, and brush my teeth. I pull my jet-black hair into a floppy bun at the top of my head, and head out into the corridor. I take no more than a few steps before the sensation comes back full force. A whisper brushes my neck, close to my ear, and I whip around. My breath hitches.

  At the end of the hall, back at the platform leading downstairs, is that creepy little girl from before. I blink. She’s gone.

  I half expect her to still be standing there, saying Come play with me. Forever.

  I stare at the empty space for several seconds. I guess if Tristan can be a ghost for centuries, and I know that to be true, then the ghost of a little girl could be lingering here. Not optimal, since I don’t have time for tricks and games and scares, but what the Hell. I turn and head to my room. I pull up short.

  She’s standing by my door.

  I decide to play it cool.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  The little girl, with her severely pulled-back hair and white skin, simply stares. She says nothing.

  Awkward.

  With a sigh, I continue on. My narcolepsy is about to come on full strength. I need to find my bed. Uninterrupted by ghosts.

  I stop a few feet from her. “I’m Riley. If you ever decide to talk—”

  Again, the little girl’s mouth drops down into a crooked, exaggerated O, her eyes black and fathomless. But this time the scream pierces straight through my brain.

  Then she lunges through me. My insides immediately feel icy.

  I jerk around. She’s not behind me.

  Gone. Unless she’s inside of me.

  “Okay, well, if you change your mind, I’m not bad to talk to. For an adult. And, for the record, you don’t scare me. I kill vampires for a living.”

  I decide I’ll talk to Jake and Gabriel about her after I rest. Sydney and Gabriel both have lived here for a while. Have they had encounters with the little girl before? If not, why me? Why freaking me? I seem to be asking that a lot lately. Right now I feel like I’m about to drop onto the floor. Seriously. I’ve battled newlings and vamps. My poor neck has been latched on to by Julian Arcos, for Christ’s sake. I still shudder at that memory. Saving my skin or not, he’s just flat-out creepy. He even asked me to become his wife if things didn’t work out with Eli. Really?

  Considering all that, I can handle the screaming ghost of a little girl. And, for the record, I did look into her eyes. Nothing happened.

  Inside my room, I bend down to kick off my boots.

  Only then do I realize I’m too late.

  In the next second, I tip over. My body is flush with the floor. My eyes close.

  It’s as good a bed as any. . . .

  I’m walking outside on the Mile, and I’m alone. Although I can’t say where I’m headed, I know exactly where I’m going. It’s dark. It’s raining. And after I pass St. Giles’, I turn down a narrow close. Suddenly I’m at a lone door. It’s slightly opened, and I enter.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” a voice says from inside. “Come. You’re just in time.”

  “In time for what?” I ask. “Who are you?”

  I see a figure ahead of me, crouching by a long, threadbare sofa of blue-and-black plaid cloth. The figure keeps his back to me. He’s large. Wearing a dark cloak with a hood.

  “Turn around and face me,” I say, and he chuckles.

  “I cannot. Not now. You won’t understand if I do.”

  I move in closer and notice a middle-aged man asleep on the sofa. On the table beside him, a half-finished pint of beer. The TV is silent, but the screen depicts a UK cop show. I look at the figure. “What are you doing?”

  “Watch.”

  The figure waves his hand over the man’s sleeping body, then rises. Although he moves toward me, he keeps his back to me. I slide my gaze back to the sleeping man, and his middle begins to smoke. Smolder. He awakens and
yells out and begins to beat his stomach with his hands.

  “Help me!” he screams. “Christ, help me!”

  I lunge toward him, but the figure grabs me, holds me back.

  “Nay, girl,” he says. “You cannot stop it.”

  “The fuck I can’t!” I scream. I elbow him in the vicinity of his jaw. I make contact with something. “Let me go!”

  The figure laughs softly. “Your valor is impressive. But you cannot stop this.” He turns and looks me in the eye, and I blink, staring. His face is . . . perfectly normal. Handsome. Older. With fathomless blue eyes that sear straight through me. Reaching with his cloaked arm, he sinks his fingers into the screaming man’s chest and removes his heart. It’s still beating. The man’s screams intensify, then begin to die down. The smell of acrid smoke and charred flesh fills my nostrils. “And you can’t stop me.”

  I stare into those eyes. “Watch me—”

  Strong fingers wrap around my floppy-bun hairdo, and a firm hand grasps my shoulder and shakes me. I jump, gasp, and sit straight up. I take a swing at the man, and he ducks and barely misses my punch.

  “Shh, chère,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  I’m awake now. It’s Eli. I’ve had enough sleep. I don’t know how much time has passed, but it’s more than enough. “You never have frightened me, Dupré,” I say. “But someone is trying to.”

  Eli frowns. “What do you mean?”

  Rubbing my eyes with my knuckles, I pretend I don’t still smell the burning flesh of a human. “I saw an innocent burn.”

  Eli sighs and pulls me to him. “How? Who?”

  I shake my head. “A middle-aged man. Just . . . asleep on his couch. The one there, the one who lured me there . . .” I look at Eli. “I think he was one of the Fallen. I saw him take the man’s heart.”