The Last Unforgiven - Freed (Demons, #5)

by Simcoe, Marina

  “The soros stone urn, however, will kill them all with ease.” Pressing his hands into the carved armrests, the Elder rose from his chair. “One touch, and all with Incubi blood in them would perish, stopping the spread of the demon plague on Earth in seconds. A human bred by a demon gives birth to a cambion—an abomination that does not belong to any world and therefore must die.”

  “If the Incubi offspring really existed and have bred for centuries, wouldn’t their descendants be more human than demon by now?”

  “Even a smidge of demon blood in them makes them no longer human,” the Elder replied firmly. “They are not like us.”

  Raim considered for a moment what death would mean for the Incubi. Nearly all of them had been Forgiven by now. Their curse had ended. Their punishment had been completed. As mortals, they would die and meet with the Divine again. Then, they would be given the peace they had earned.

  Not he, though.

  “Why are you telling me all of this?” he asked the Elder, who stood in front of him, leaning on his walking stick for support. “Why go through the trouble of showing up here in person?”

  “It was not that much of a trouble.” The man waved him off. “I’d heard that you were back in Switzerland. It was a short enough drive.”

  “Why?” Raim insisted.

  The Elder’s pale eyes narrowed, he let his hatred slither through them.

  “Because I wanted to see your face, Raim. I could not miss the moment you realize that your days in this world are numbered, that your centuries-long work of protecting your kind will be undone by a frail, dying man in seconds. But most of all, I wanted to give you a taste of mortality. So you’ll know what it’s like to spend whatever little time you have left in fear, dreading what’s to come and unable to do anything to stop it—the closest a demon will come to feeling the agony of death.”

  “I can simply kill you right now, and none of it will happen.”

  “If you do,” the Elder smirked, “the cleansing will happen tomorrow morning at sunrise. If I don’t return to The Priory by then, another Brother will complete my mission by touching the soros urn himself. Go ahead, kill me. The choice is yours, but I know you care about your kind much more than you want me to believe. All of your Incubi have now paired up. In two months’ time, all of them would most certainly earn their Forgiveness and will die as humans do. If you kill me now and bring their end before this happens, they will suffer in whatever Hell you all came from, with you. In two months, you will most certainly be the last Unforgiven left.”

  Holding his gaze in challenge, the Elder waited. Not getting a response, he moved to the door, a new bounce in his step, despite the cane. “I’ll leave you now, Raim. So you can spend your last two months in the hell on earth I’ve just created for you.”

  “For a human, you have been rather perceptive and even wise at times, Father.” Raim’s words made the Elder pause on his way out of the room. “But you are still merely a man. One thing you are terribly wrong about is that I do not fear leaving this world. The true agony of death falls not on those who go, but on those who stay. My own end does not scare me.”

  Raim pushed away from the wall he had been leaning on.

  “Why would I cling to this world the way you do?” He advanced on the Elder, who flinched and shuffled back. “I have spent over a millennium here, with but a handful of moments worth remembering. I have watched generations of you come and go, civilizations rise and fall.

  “Most of what I’ve learned about your kind disgusts me. You are a bunch of pathetic, self-aware, bloodthirsty animals, deriving pleasure in destroying each other. I’m sick of this world, repulsed by its inhabitants. None of you deserve even the short lives that you get. Nothing and no one holds me here. So go, Father, do what you have set out to do.” Raim led the way to the exit. “I will not stop you, but not because I’m afraid or because I care, but simply because you’re finally offering me a way out of this filthy place you call Earth.”

  He yanked the front door open, ignoring the startled stares of the Elder’s escort on the other side.

  “Now, get the fuck out of my house.”

  HE LET THE ELDER GO, unharmed. As fed up as he was with this world, he chose to take the two months he was offered and give the others enough time to be Forgiven. He had lied when he said he didn’t care. It was unnatural and difficult for Incubi to create a lie, but not impossible. After a millennium of practice, Raim had learned how to do it as convincingly as humans did.

  Two months.

  Should he warn the others? He decided not to, granting them the gift of blissful ignorance instead. Thinking about all of the Incubi soon being free from this world and back in the arms of the Divine filled him with lightness of relief. It was the best outcome for his race, one he hadn’t even dared to dream of. All he could hope for now was that their human partners’ loyalty would last for two months longer, sparing the Incubi the agony of heartache before the end. Surely, even the treacherous hearts of human women could remain steady for that long. One could only hope.

  Suddenly the eternity, he always thought he had, shrank to just two miserly months. Was there really nothing he would miss from this world?

  Absolutely nothing came to mind that would resonate with any hint of sadness or regret when he thought about leaving it behind. A myriad of faces of those whose paths he had crossed over the centuries rushed through his brain. Most were dead, the rest didn’t matter.

  Nothing and no one he would miss.

  Except that something buzzed at the back of his mind. Not a person or an object, but a question—annoying with the persistency of unfinished business.

  He gave his teardrop amulet of soros stone to Olyena in the eleventh century. Four hundred years later, he’d seen she was still wearing it. Yet it was not around the neck of her corpse on the execution pyre, two hundred years ago. Neither could he find it in the ashes afterwards.

  The last time he saw his amulet, it was on the chest of a human woman still living, just over two years ago, on a windy road in the Rocky Mountains.

  Doctor Neri.

  A fierce woman with ink-black hair she wore gathered into a tight knot on the back of her head. Without having ever touched her, Raim somehow knew exactly how her hair would feel running free between his fingers.

  Suddenly, Raim realized what he wanted to do during his last months on Earth—getting this one question answered.

  How did Delilah Neri come to possess his amulet?

  Chapter 2

  TWISTING MY HAIR INTO a tight bun, I meticulously stabbed it with black hairpins. Quite a few were needed to make the long, thick tresses I inherited from my mother stay in place. Methodically inserting the pins, I focused on my breathing—counting four seconds for an inhale, then four seconds for an exhale.

  I could do it—tame the anxiety and gain control over my emotions, at least for as long as was needed to make it through the dinner with my colleagues tonight.

  The last three weeks had been a constant struggle to regain any modicum of control over my life.

  My entire world was shattered the day I came home to find my husband gone and our townhouse gutted. He took almost everything we owned and left to start a new life with another woman.

  Brad, the only man I ever loved.

  The one who promised to love and cherish me, too, until death do us part.

  My hand shook, nearly dropping the next hairpin.

  Don’t think about him. Breathe . . .

  One, two, three, four . . . In.

  I had made it through the entire weekend of the International Conference on Family Therapy in Zurich—socializing and networking, talking and smiling. This was the last planned evening out with my colleagues, then I would return to the townhouse back in Seattle which stood ransacked and painfully empty . . .

  One, two, three, four . . . Out.

  Finally, having tamed my hair into submission, I smoothed my hands over my temples and gave a last once-over to my reflec
tion in the mirror in my hotel room.

  Elegant, little black dress. Stylish, high-heeled pumps. My mother’s tear-shaped pendant on the golden chain. Smooth up-do. Just the right shade of lipstick.

  Classy and put-together.

  So far, I believed I had managed to convince everyone at the conference that I didn’t just look put-together, I really had my shit together.

  Inside, the thoughts churned constantly, stirring memories and breeding pain.

  I had met Brad during my second year of university, where he worked as an assistant professor.

  More than a decade older than me, he was tall and handsome, mature and independent—confident in what he did. I loved everything about him. The flair of the taboo in our professor-student romance only made it that much more exciting.

  Sure, some of that early puppy love I had for him was no longer there, after well over a decade of us being together, but I thought it had evolved into something stable and reliable. Until the day he left me without a word of warning, I believed our marriage was solid and indestructible.

  I never thought it would end in such a cliché, including the red convertible and a blonde nearly a decade younger than me.

  One, two, three . . .

  The breathing technique didn’t seem to work anymore, I gasped for air, pacing the hotel room.

  After Brad left, everything came to a halt. I called my practice, cancelled most of my appointments and moved some of my patients to my partner. For two weeks, I just sat there—alone in the dark, empty townhouse, with bare rooms and wires hanging from the walls where the electronics used to be—and wondered what went wrong.

  As a marriage counsellor, one would think I’d be equipped to handle this better. I had the tools, I knew what to do. The fact that I did nothing made me feel even more of a failure.

  I should have spotted the signs. Like when Brad never complained about my long work hours or lengthy trips on The Priory business. I thought he was being supportive of my life choices, but he simply was living his own life, planning his future with someone else . . .

  Breathe . . .

  Count . . .

  Pace . . .

  Do something, anything to make this searing pain in my chest stop.

  Alcohol didn’t help—I tried it all, back in Seattle. The only reason I didn’t cancel this trip to Switzerland was the hope that flying across the ocean from the man who betrayed me would ease the pain he had caused.

  Apparently, the distance didn’t help either.

  I could do this.

  One last dinner. I could pretend. It was possible.

  Grabbing my tiny evening purse, I searched for my cell phone. It pinged with an incoming message on the dresser by the TV—an email from a friend of Brad and I.

  Except, that there was no longer ‘Brad and I.’ And I probably shouldn’t be thinking of this woman as a ' friend.’ I hardly knew her before, and now as I skimmed through her words of pity and condolences, nothing about her message rang sincere. Still, I clicked on the link at the end of her email, right under her comment ‘How dare he!’

  The photos of a blue ocean, white sand, and a happy couple in their bathing suits flooded the screen of my cell phone in a slideshow I knew I shouldn’t be watching, yet couldn’t bring myself to look away from.

  The man was Brad, smiling and freshly tanned. The woman was his newly graduated student, with a body to kill for strapped into a barely-there, hot-pink bikini.

  They were hugging in the pool.

  Kissing on the beach.

  Driving in the damn red convertible—wind in her hair.

  He was carrying her into the surf as she was laughing and kicking her long legs into the air.

  His hands on her bare, golden skin.

  And worst of all—that look of utter adoration on his face . . .

  The screen cracked, the phone shattered to pieces, crushed in my trembling hand. I must have squeezed it too hard. Losing control over my emotions apparently left me unable to restrain my physical strength, too.

  My barely mustered composure crumbled into whole-body shakes. My knees gave out, and I sank to the edge of the bed, my hands fisting into the material of the two dresses I’d tried on while getting ready that evening.

  The pictures in the email changed absolutely nothing—Brad was gone, enjoying life with another woman, who was not me. However, the pain was let loose once again, hurting just the same, despite the thousands of miles I had put between us in the attempt to outrun it.

  Propping my elbows on my knees, I allowed my head to droop for a moment, then resolutely shoved off the bed and stood up. The tsunami of darkness swallowed me all over again, and I was suffocating, spinning out of control.

  I kicked off my heels, pacing the floor again.

  One thing became clear, there was no way I could pull this off tonight. I couldn’t possibly go down there, to the quiet restaurant of this quaint hotel, and continue to talk, smile, and socialize as if nothing had happened, as if I had my life in perfect order.

  Staying in this room also wasn’t possible. Breaking my phone did not get rid of the pictures of my barely ex-husband, honeymooning with his new love. The images of their smiles and intertwined half-naked bodies had been burned into my brain, and I had no desire to spend the night alone, thinking about them.

  Finding my shoes, I put them back on my feet, determined to get out of here, but having no clear idea where to go or what to do. My gaze fell on one of the dresses I had discarded as too ‘vampy’ when getting dressed for dinner.

  It was a long, red silk gown, with thin straps criss-crossing the open back. I brought it with me hoping I might regain enough confidence to wear it during this trip. Now, it appeared I needed the dress to give me the assurance I didn’t feel.

  I tugged the zipper of the black dress I was wearing down, then quickly changed into the red one.

  What a difference it made.

  Still elegant and even classy, the woman in the mirror seemed to have all the confidence I had lost in the past weeks. The heels added another four inches on top of my already slightly above-average height. The skirt draped from my hips and skimmed over my legs, with the hem sweeping below my ankles.

  The red colour added a glow to my otherwise pale skin, brightening my complexion and softening the shadows left after my voluntary confinement indoors back in Seattle.

  Grabbing my purse, I lifted my chin and headed for the door, leaving what was left of my cell phone on the floor.

  Spending the first two weeks drinking at home alone didn’t help. Self-pity had not been healing or satisfying, either. Surely, there must be other, more exciting ways to self-destruct.

  I MANAGED TO SNEAK by the entrance to the hotel restaurant unnoticed by anyone I knew inside.

  “Where to?” the taxi driver asked me in English when I got into his cab.

  “A bar.” I straightened my spine, meeting his questioning stare in the rear-view mirror. “Or a club?” I added, a little less confidently.

  “Which one? Do you have a name?”

  “No, but it really doesn’t matter. Any place will do.”

  He examined me for a moment longer.

  “Surprise me.” I shrugged under his stare in the mirror.

  “Okay.” He started the engine then merged his vehicle with the traffic on the street.

  “Club Essence,” the taxi driver announced a few minutes later, pulling over in front of a four-story, stone building of neo-classical style. Its tall, dark-wood doors were open, though there were no bouncers or the lineup I was expecting to see. “The best club in town that doesn’t require a membership to enter. There is a charge to get in, but I don’t think they’d make you pay,” he added as I handed him the money for the ride.

  “Why not?”

  He gave me another quick once-over and shrugged. “You’ll fit the décor.”

  “What exactly does that mean?”

  “Relax,” he laughed, jumping out of the car to open my door. “I
t was a compliment. Essence is a classy place, like yourself. It’s also a place where a beautiful woman dressed like you can reasonably expect to be safe in every way.”

  Safe?

  Getting out of the vehicle, I remained standing on the sidewalk in front of the open doors as the taxi moved away.

  I strolled to the entrance then walked right in.

  Playing it safe wasn’t really my intention tonight.

  Chapter 3

  I NEARLY FINISHED MY martini in one gulp. The haze from alcohol shrouded my brain, and I decided to pace myself, keeping the glass on the counter and caressing its smooth stem with my fingers. The buzz of alcohol had softened the stabbing jitters in my chest, but it would not banish the images from my head or soothe the hurt from having seen them.

  What was Brad up to this very moment as I was sitting here, alone by the bar, willing my fingers to stop trembling?

  I hurriedly took another gulp of my martini, lest my mind provide me with all the possible answers to this question I shouldn’t have asked myself in the first place.

  “Another martini?”

  I lifted my gaze, bracing for the curious gaze of the bartender, but met the hazel eyes of a stranger instead.

  “You’re almost finished,” he said in a slightly accented English, tipping his chin at the glass in my hand. The liquid remaining in it was barely enough for the lone olive to float in.

  “I was about to get one . . .” I mumbled, sliding a quick glance along his respectable suit-and-tie figure.

  With a short nod, he gave a sign to the bartender then placed his hand on the back of the leather barstool next to mine. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

  “Please,” I invited. The loneliness had been weighing especially heavy on me tonight.

  “I’m Kristoffel,” he introduced himself, taking the seat, “like the Belgian beer.” He smiled. “But you can call me Kris.”

  “The beer?”

  He roamed his gaze over my face as the bartender brought us our drinks—another martini for me and a tall glass of beer for my new friend. “This beer.” He pointed at the name Kristoffel printed on his glass. “You’re not from Europe, are you?”