Hidden Worlds

by Kristie Cook

  “You’ve got to do something!” Monroe pleaded.

  The pursuer pulled up alongside us and slammed into the driver’s side.

  We swerved off of the road. Marcas swore before shoving the gas and pulling back onto the blacktop. He rammed into our pursuer.

  “Jesus!” I cried.

  The other car faltered and slowed. Marcas floored the gas, pulled out in front of the other vehicle, hit his brakes and spun the car. It stopped in front of the pursuing vehicle, its screeching halt serenaded by Monroe’s screams.

  A series of noises filled the Shelby’s interior—squealing tires, crunching gravel, and a slamming door.

  The other car halted on the shoulder of the road, the driver stepping free of his damaged vehicle. He was a tall man with dark brown hair and sunglasses. I wondered how he could see.

  Marcas stared at him before reaching for his door handle. “Stay in the car,” he ordered brusquely.

  He turned toward us, and I gasped. His teeth were fangs, all of them pointed, his two canines the longest in length.

  Monroe squeaked. “We’re going to die.”

  Marcas slung open the car door and slid out into the night. The men faced each other.

  “Marcas,” the stranger greeted.

  Marcas nodded. “Samuel.”

  They sized each other up. It was like watching two lions facing off on the Discovery channel. I waited for them to sprout claws. It wasn’t entirely out of the question. The other guy had fangs as well.

  Samuel stepped forward. “Give me the girl, Marcas.”

  My body went numb. Marcas hadn’t been lying. We were in danger. And, for some reason, it was all because of me.

  Marcas shifted, his legs widening, his teeth bared. “I can’t do that, Samuel." His voice held no inflection.

  Samuel watched him. “She means that much to you?”

  “She means nothing.”

  “Then why risk a fight? I’m not the only one who’s come after you.”

  “You know why.”

  “You’re in deep shit, Marcas.”

  “Not by choice.”

  “Give me the girl!”

  “No.”

  Samuel lunged, hitting Marcas squarely in the chest. They flew into a tree on the side of the road with such force, the huge oak bent in two.

  Monroe squealed. Pain engulfed me.

  “We need to get out of here, Dayton!” Monroe begged suddenly.

  She unbuckled and grabbed me by the shoulder. My gaze remained riveted on the fight. Like any girl, I’d always dreamed of two men fighting over me, but not this way. Not when one of the men wanted me dead and the other was bound to me unwillingly.

  Marcas pushed himself off of the tree, his fist slamming into Samuel. There was a growl as the other man shook his head before circling Marcas.

  I glanced away. “We wouldn’t be safer on our own.” My voice trembled.

  Something hit the windshield and we both screamed. The glass cracked, lines moving outward like a spider’s web. Marcas’ back was shoved up against the web-like surface. Blood trickled onto the glass. I unbuckled and crawled carefully into the back seat just as the windshield caved in.

  Marcas growled. The sound was deep and guttural. There was an answering primal response from Samuel, their primitive language no longer discernible.

  Marcas shoved off of the car. Another crash caused the driver’s side door to cave in. There was burning along my back now.

  “We’ve got to move!” Monroe cried.

  I didn’t argue. Marcas was trying, but the other man was determined to get inside the car. The back seat in the Shelby was cramped and Monroe had to work to get to the passenger handle of the two door car.

  “Don’t let him see us,” I whispered urgently.

  Monroe opened the door slowly and squeezed through as small an opening as she could manage. I followed. The men’s growling trailed us.

  Monroe and I inched along the side of the car, and I lost sight of the men. The Shelby shook.

  My eyes searched the dark frantically. “The trees,” I whispered.

  Monroe nodded. There was no other choice.

  Standing cautiously, I looked for the two Demons. Marcas had his opponent pinned against the road, but Samuel was gaining the upper hand. Their backs were to us.

  “Now!” I hissed.

  We made a run for the forest just beyond the road before spreading out to hide behind two trees spaced fairly close together. The trunks were thick. Turning, I placed my stomach against the bark, my gaze searching the road until I caught sight of the Demons.

  The two men were staring hard at each other, their bodies outlined in the harsh gleam of headlights coming from their damaged vehicles. Samuel lashed out at Marcas, and I noticed his hands had morphed into claws. It should surprise me, but it didn’t.

  Samuel ripped into Marcas’ arm, just barely missing his stomach. He grunted but didn’t falter. Both men were bleeding.

  “We can’t stay here,” Monroe argued from behind her tree.

  My arm was burning, and I was afraid to look down at it. “Where else are we supposed to go?”

  “Anywhere but here,” she hissed.

  A loud crash brought our attention back toward the ensuing fight. Marcas had thrown Samuel on top of the car, crushing it. Samuel rebounded and pulled himself up on top of the flattened vehicle. He leaped.

  Marcas moved aside but not before Samuel managed to knock his feet out from under him. He landed on Marcas. I didn’t see what happened next.

  Samuel’s figure loomed suddenly upward. Marcas wasn’t moving. My lungs constricted, the need for air powerful. My chest heaved.

  My teeth pressed against my lips to keep from screaming.

  Samuel glanced up and sniffed. “It would be easier on you if you’d come to me, sweet one,” he called out. He sniffed again and moved toward the trees.

  My heart rate sped up.

  “Jesus, Dayton,” Monroe whimpered as he drew closer.

  His fangs and claws were dripping blood.

  Headlights suddenly swept across the area, blinding us. Covering his eyes, Samuel growled. Tires squealed across the blacktop, crunched on leaves and gravel, and spun to a stop not far from the trees.

  Fear consumed me.

  I peeked around the trunk expecting to find another Demon hell-bent on killing me but was met with Conor Reinhardt’s idling Mercedes instead.

  The back door swung open just as his window rolled down. “Get in!” Conor shouted.

  Monroe didn’t hesitate. I knew she’d contacted him earlier. Conor yelled again, but while Monroe began to run toward the car, I looked toward Marcas. He still lay in the same spot, but he was moving. I felt torn. I wanted to leave but realized I couldn’t. I was too weak, and I couldn’t abandon Marcas knowing he’d refused to turn me over to Samuel. For the first time, I noticed all of the blood. My blood. Faintness overwhelmed me. Marcas hadn’t been the only one to take the blunt of this fight.

  Conor yelled once more, and I glanced up at the car just in time to see Samuel intercept Monroe. Her screams filled the night. He smiled. It was feral, fangs flashing as he dove for her neck. It would be a killing blow.

  The image of Monroe in her vintage dress with her hand tucked into mine at my parent’s funeral flashed through my head, and I leaped toward them. Conor’s door flew open, but it wasn’t as fast as I was. One moment, I was weak and faltering, the next I was next to Monroe grabbing Samuel by the neck and throwing him over Marcas’ crumpled car and onto the blacktop.

  Marcas sat up suddenly a few inches away from him and growled before leaning over and tearing out the other Demon’s throat. Nausea hit me and I doubled over, listening to the sound of Marcas ripping into Samuel’s body. I was going to remember that moment for the rest of my life. I stared at my hand.

  “Dayton?” Monroe asked..

  Conor moved in next to us. The fight was draining out of me, the effects of blood loss crippling.

  “
We need to get you in the car,” Conor insisted.

  “I can’t leave,” I whispered. “I can’t leave him now.”

  I couldn’t leave Marcas. My gaze stayed locked on the hand I’d used to grab Samuel’s throat, and I gagged. There was no way I could leave Marcas now.

  I heard the Demon move toward us, and I looked at him. His claws and fangs had retracted, but the blood was still there. His form blocked the scene behind him.

  My hand shook as I lifted it. “Was that part of the bond?” I asked.

  Marcas stared down at me. “You have my strengths and none of my weaknesses.”

  His eyes raked the scene behind us as I tried wrapping my mind around the fact that I had just thrown a full grown Demon across a car. Super hero much?

  The thought made me pause. “And you … what did you get from me?” I asked.

  Marcas glanced down, his blue eyes meeting my green ones evenly. “All of your weaknesses.”

  Oh.

  I winced. “You sure do know how to make a girl feel important.”

  Chapter 22

  The bond is unnatural. Never before has a Demon been bound to an Angel or a Naphil. This has caused unrest among the ranks of both Angels and Demons. The Demons are steadfast in their solution to this aberration: The girl must die.

  ~Bezaliel~

  “Is she going to be okay?” Monroe asked Marcas anxiously.

  Faintly, I glanced at my blood covered arm. The gashes were already beginning to heal.

  The question broke the tension between the two of us.

  Marcas stiffened. “She’ll live.”

  Pulling the knife he’d used to demonstrate our bond out of his pocket, he made a small gash on his wrist. The same wound opened up on my own wrist.

  “Don’t you think you’ve made her bleed enough?” Conor growled.

  A look of disgust flashed through Marcas’ gaze. There was something familiar about the way Conor and Marcas looked at each other, as if they were acquainted.

  Marcas held his arm out to me. “Drink,” he ordered.

  I stared at his wrist in horror.

  “Hell, no!” Conor yelled.

  Monroe’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God.”

  “Seriously?” I whispered.

  Marcas’ gaze held mine. “It won’t strengthen the bond, and it will restore you."

  I continued to stare at his wrist.

  “You don’t know that!” Conor hissed.

  Marcas glanced at him. “Leave the Demonology to the Demon, Gargoyle. I’m aware of the limits on bonding.”

  My eyes widened. Gargoyle?

  Monroe swore. “What the hell is a gargoyle? Oh, this is wonderful!” She eyed Conor, suspicion clouding her gaze. “Dayton is bonded to a Demon hunted by psychos and I’ve managed to call in a gargoyle.”

  I was too weak to care what anyone was right now. My legs buckled, and my knees met the ground. Spots swam before my eyes.

  Marcas kneeled. “Drink, Blainey, before you’re too weak and before I have to open another wound.”

  I looked up at him. Our eyes met.

  “Drink,” he ordered.

  This time I complied, closing my eyes as my lips closed around the wound on his wrist. Blood filled my mouth, and I fought the urge to gag, forcing myself to swallow. The blood was thick and it burned. Pain engulfed me.

  I tore my mouth away and fell to the ground. Marcas’ hands gripped my shoulders, his firm hold keeping my back to the damp forest floor as I seized. Liquid fire coursed through my veins.

  Screams leapt from my throat. Conor moved in close but Marcas growled and flashed his fangs when he made to touch me.

  "Don’t!" Marcas warned.

  The heat in my body increased, and I screamed again. Hell. It felt like the fire pits of Hell.

  Marcas pushed down harder, his fingers digging into my bucking body as the effects of the Demon blood began to wane. Open wounds on my body sear closed. Liquid fire pooled around the injuries before dimming.

  My eyes found Marcas’. "I think I’d rather have died," I muttered.

  Marcas didn’t reply. Pushing at his hands, I fought to sit up.

  He released my arms, placing a hand behind my back for support. “I didn’t say the healing would come easy.”

  The pain began to pass. Marcas was a little too close for comfort, and my heart rate sped up.

  Conor bent close. “You can move now, Demon.”

  Marcas’ gaze moved between the two of us.

  I braced myself against the ground, the loss of Marcas’ support causing a heavy feeling in my chest. The wounds on my arm were gone. I moved my limbs experimentally.

  “We need to go,” Marcas said from above me.

  I glanced up to find his gaze on the wrecked carnage behind us. He was right. It wouldn’t do for us to be found here.

  Conor and Monroe flanked me quietly, their hands helping to lift me off of the ground. Blood rushed back down into my body. My breathing came easier. No dizziness. The weakness was gone.

  “Not with you she doesn’t,” Conor threatened.

  Marcas turned on him. “The gargoyles failed to protect her. Now she’s stuck with me. Don’t blame me for something I didn’t want.”

  Conor’s eyes narrowed. The contrast between them was startling. Light and dark.

  “I wasn’t aware of your brother’s intentions,” Conor defended.

  Marcas never blinked. “There is where you failed. We both underestimated him. Now we’re stuck with the consequences.”

  I watched them, my eyes moving between Conor’s golden frame and Marcas’ dark forbidden form. My future belonged to everyone but me, and I hated it.

  “I’m voting in Conor’s favor,” Monroe murmured.

  My gaze went from my arm to Marcas’ wrist. There was no sign of injury, but the memory remained. He’d been hurt, I’d been hurt, and he had healed me.

  My eyes fell closed. We were bonded. Marcas’ words haunted me, "You can turn a deaf ear and a blind eye, but when you open yourself back up, it’s still going to be there." He was right.

  “I don’t think I have a choice,” I mumbled.

  Marcas glanced at me, and for the first time, I noticed something akin to compassion in his gaze. The look was gone as fast as it appeared.

  He swept his arm toward the wreckage. “We move now.” His eyes settled on the empty car Samuel had left behind. It was damaged but usable.

  Conor stood defiantly, his arms crossed. “We’ll take my car.”

  My gaze flew to him, startled. Our eyes met, and I saw the challenge there.

  Monroe moved to his side, fear and uncertainty clouding her gaze. “I’m with the gargoyle.”

  I think, at this point, anything familiar was less terrifying than the alternative.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Marcas swore, his eyes Heavenward. “A little break here.”

  There was no reply. Resolve settled over his features. He could have argued, even challenged Conor to a fight, but he didn’t. I found myself respecting him for that. He was stronger than all of us. And what he may lack in strength, I knew he made up for in experience. His eyes were ancient. I’d watched him kill the Demon Samuel with a cold efficiency that only came with time. Or, at least, I hoped it came with time. I’d rather the kill had been a defense mechanism and not because he had no human emotion. My knowledge of Demons was practically nonexistent.

  Marcas sized Conor up. “I drive, Gargoyle, or no go."

  Conor’s lips parted, but I shook my head. I didn’t like the position we were in, but I trusted Marcas to an extent. He knew more about the danger we were in than we did.

  Conor’s jaw tightened, his gaze finding mine, his eyes searching. He swore and looked away quickly, the car keys jangling as he threw them at the Demon.

  "This isn’t over," Conor warned before sliding into the passenger seat.

  Monroe and I climbed into the back as Marcas slid into the driver’s seat.

  The engine roa
red to life as Marcas shifted into drive before easing the car around the wreckage in the road. My gaze met the blacktop. Samuel’s body had disappeared. I did a double take. Where had it gone?

  The image of Marcas leaning over Samuel’s prone figure flashed through my head, and I felt sick to my stomach. I had never seen anyone killed before, and I had been a part of it. I swallowed convulsively.

  My mind sought distraction, and I looked at Conor. “What’s a gargoyle?”

  Conor shifted uncomfortably, his gaze moving to mine before sliding to Monroe’s.

  “They are guardians, protectors,” he said carefully. “It’s an ancient line made up of families assigned by Heaven. We are, in a way, a type of Angel. It’s hereditary. Each family is broken down by crests. We live as mortals live, die as mortals die. We are often assigned as guardians to individuals in need.”

  My eyes searched his, each new sentence working its way past the gut-wrenching feeling of disgust I felt over Samuel’s death.

  Assigned as guardians?

  Conor looked away, but not before I saw the conflict in his gaze.

  I thought of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, and I leaned forward. “I thought gargoyles were gothic statues.”

  “We can be perceived as such. I can turn into stone,” Conor murmured.

  I was too numb from everything that had already happened to be much surprised. I found myself accepting his explanation with much more aplomb than even I expected. I just couldn’t find it in me to be shocked.

  His words and the conflict in his gaze haunted me, a sudden thought settling like a mantle across my shoulders. “How long have you been my guardian?” I asked.

  He looked up, resigned. It hadn’t been hard to deduce. He’d always shown up at my worst moments, watching me, protecting me.

  “A year," he answered.

  I laughed, the sound tinged with hysteria. Marcas glanced at me in the rearview window.

  A year. The next thought came unbidden. "I realized I wanted you to give me your pain. I wanted to take it away from you," Conor had said when I’d had the vision of Marcas and Damon, a vision I now suspected had been caused by Damon himself. Had Conor ever really had feelings for me or had the scene in my bedroom been an act, an attempt to get closer, a job?