Minutes later, he exited through a second door in the back that took him down a steep set of stairs, fifty feet into the Earth. He jogged through an underground tunnel a couple of miles long, heading from his estate to the ancient oak.
At the subterranean entrance to the sanctuary, he stopped to listen. A sense of urgency prompted him to bypass the anointing ritual. He climbed the staircase two steps at a time as it led into the heart of the grand oak. Entering the watch room and looking out through the tree’s magic walls, every muscle in his body tightened, on alert.
This time was the real deal.
Io opened and closed his fingers around his knife, then thrust it into branch and sliced away a hunk of bark. Next, the spiteful hand reached for a sprig of budding leaves. Cut it free.
What the hell was he up to?
Usually, Io slunk around with the change of seasons, checking on Venn, probably hoping that he no longer breathed. But this attack was definitely out of character, even for him, more brazen.
Knowing it would do Venn little good to face Io man-to-man—they each had pronounced limitations in that form—Venn summoned his hawk. His ability to manipulate time and space in that form would serve as a powerful weapon in a time like this. With ease, the molecules of his body and clothes came alight with energy, like electricity flickering inside a plasma ball. The flow settled as he adopted a new sleek body, all bird and feathers.
He exited the tree through an invisible porthole and perched on a branch.
Io spotted him. “Guardian, you know she has returned.”
Tapping into an evil mind was draining. “What’s your point?”
“Don’t get attached. She will die once again.”
Venn gripped the branch harder with his talons and felt the veins in his neck swell.
Wouldn’t you know Io couldn’t resist hurling that threat? Not an ounce of humility within those ugly bones. It was damned difficult to reconcile that the demon was Seth’s brother.
One of these days, though, that wouldn’t matter.
If there was a way for Venn to kill him on the spot, he would. But the Alter Realms didn’t work like that. Fuck it, neither of them could do away with the other unless by doing so through an intermediary. Part of the immortal plan of checks and balances.
Which totally annihilated the enjoyment of seeing Io fry.
Well, perhaps not totally.
If it were up to him, Io would die, nonetheless. But there would be hefty consequences for such a death. The universe always demanded consequences. Venn had realized long ago that dealing with Io was like playing chess. He must actively work to keep his enemy off-balance and create counterplay to distract him from his offense.
Emma’s life might depend on it.
He could at least slow Io down, send him a warning.
Venn swooped into a steep dive aimed at Io’s head. He unfurled a talon and slashed a gash in his enemy’s neck. Io hissed and clamped a hand to his jugular to stop the spurts of blood. Immediately, the wound began healing.
An aggressive hawk’s shriek split the air as Venn fired a warning into the demon’s mind. She’s mine, Io. I’m ready. My hands are not tied this time.
Io seethed with anger, and the demon changed into his long-fanged barghest once more, then burst into flames and vanished.
* * *
Spurred on by his enemy’s foul stench, Venn navigated the contours of the land as a hawk, heading directly for the Grant property. Io would soon find his way to Emma’s doorstep, and when he did, Venn would be waiting.
With wings sheathed in silence, he flew over strip malls and restaurants, a chain of small farms and a state-protected forest, until he arrived at the Grant orchard of moon-glistening, frost-covered pecan trees. He descended to a stately maple several yards from the house, then perched on the highest sturdy bough. On the horizon, the sky radiated a soft glow of lavender. With his hawk’s increased visual acuity, he assessed the area and waited out the remainder of the night.
Shortly before dawn, a light flicked on the ground level of the house. Minutes later, in an upstairs window, curtains were thrown wide. Emma stood in a fuzzy white robe, a cup clutched between her hands as she peered out.
The window faced east. She was waiting for sunrise.
A morning person, like Amelia. Foolishly, that pleased him. He’d love to guard her through the night, be there when she awoke, and enjoy those quiet moments with her.
With an ache as wide as a valley in his chest, Venn longed to return to his human form and go to her.
* * *
The sun was peaking above the trees when Emma finished eating breakfast, and she took a few scraps of bread onto the front porch for the birds.
“Don’t leave,” she said to the regal hawk she’d been watching all morning. She slipped inside the house to fetch her camera. With a quick stop at the dishwasher, she disposed of the plate that she’d left on the table. She ducked her head into the connected laundry room where water gushed into the washing machine while Grams sorted clothes. Izzy trotted around her feet, sat, and waved both paws in front of him, begging to be picked up. Grams lifted him and placed him inside a basket on the dryer.
Emma smiled, tipping her head farther past the threshold. “It’s a beautiful day, Grams. Come sit outside and see this hawk I’ve been watching.”
“After a while, dear. You go on.”
Emma nodded and turned to leave.
“Umm, wait.”
Emma paused, halfway in the doorway, halfway out, and looked back.
Grams turned a red shirt inside out. Emma wondered why her father’s old college sweatshirt was in the laundry. She shrugged it off, but Gram’s keen gaze must have caught her questioning glimpse for she explained, “I thought you might like to wear it if you didn’t bring enough warm cloths.” She paused, then asked, “How long has it been since you’ve spoken to your dad?”
As anxious as she was to click pics of the hawk, and as much as she disliked the subject, she wouldn’t dodge her grandmother’s question. She leaned a shoulder against the doorframe for support. Would it hurt Grams less if she lied?
“More than six months,” she said truthfully. “All men want to do is control you, my father especially.”
“He’s a proud man, just like your grandfather.” Grams closed the lid on the washer.
“Yeah. I know.” Emma lifted a hand loosely, palm up in a “Who cares?” gesture. “But it doesn’t excuse him.”
“You just have to keep trying to get past his stubbornness.”
“And you, when did you talk to him?” Emma straightened.
“Last week. I told him you were coming.”
Emma sighed. At least they were speaking. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Better than she was doing, anyway. She and her dad hadn’t gotten along since her early teens when she’d refused to hide her metal bending abilities any longer. Not in public, of course, but at home, she didn’t sneak off to work on her sculpting any longer. And her coming out, so to speak, created a huge riff between them. He wanted her to be like all the other girls…she wanted him to accept her for who she was.
“Maybe he’ll come to the statue unveiling,” Grams said, the age lines around her eyes turning up.
A lump formed in Emma’s throat. “Sure.” She straightened. “Meet me out front when you’re done.”
Knowing her grandmother wouldn’t stop working until she was good and ready, Emma traipsed up the stairs to her room. She snatched her camera bag from where she’d deposited it on a floral damask chair, and dashed back to the porch, fearing the bird would be gone.
The hawk remained perched on an old fat tree stump. The bird tracked her as she took her Nikon D40 from its case, attached a zoom lens, and adjusted the settings. With breathtaking maneuverability and speed, the bird took flight. She held her breath as it flew, and she snapped a few action shots. Then the hawk dipped closer, landing on the porch rail.
His eyes, the color of blood, glowed like burning
embers as he considered her.
“Now you’re too close,” she said, lifting the camera to remove the zoom she’d just put on.
He was exquisite, gun-smoke gray with a sloped head and gripping talons tipped with daggers. Suddenly, he launched into the air, giving a cry—a brittle high-pitched lament, like the screech of metal on metal.
Then the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires caught her ear. She squinted and looked down the drive. “That’s why you took off. Hmm?”
She checked her watch. Ten o’clock, already? She sighed. That’d be the guy about the sculpture mounting, here to show her the final park plans. Time to get to work.
She wondered what the man was like who’d engineered the project. He was paying her a visit as a courtesy since he didn’t have an actual office, acting as the volunteer he was. Evidently, the polite Southern gentleman still existed.
She slung the camera strap around her neck, traveled down the walk, and stopped a few yards from a Suburban. A tall man with messy spiked blond hair exited the SUV and approached. He wore a light blue business shirt and expensive navy twill pants.
“Hello. You must be Emma Grant. I’m Jacob Price. We spoke over the phone.” He moved forward, hand extended.
“Glad to meet you,” she said, reaching out to shake it. Then she paused, narrowing her eyes, puzzled. “Have we met before? You seem familiar.”
“When you were young you went to First Baptist Church with your grandmother, didn’t you? Perhaps we met there.” He extended his hand a bit further. But before their fingers touched, the hawk swooped from above, executing a sleek dive, streaking forward like an arrow. Then something fell to the ground, landing between her and Jacob.
A snake. Scaly. Lethal. Squirming.
She leaped back, her heart slamming in her chest. The thing slithered away.
Jacob tracked the hawk, his lips pressed in a thin line. “You bugger,” he mumbled.
“Pardon?” Emma said, breathless, as she tried to calm her shaking nerves. Of all the creatures in the world, she hated snakes with a passion.
She glanced at the beautiful hawk circling overhead, her unease slowly melting away.
Jacob’s cheeks puffed out as if he were ready to blow. But maybe she was misreading him and he was covering up a similar fear. Macho-man stuff.
She followed his gaze. “I’ve been watching him all morning. He seems to like me, friendly even. When animals present you what they consider food, it’s a sort of gift.” She turned to smile at him. “Even if a disgusting one,” she added with a forced laugh.
“Huh. Until he sinks his talons into you,” Jacob Price said with such hatred in his eyes. She was shocked at how his almost handsome features turned hard, the creases framing his mouth cutting lines into his face.
Clearing her throat, she indicated the roll in his left hand. “So, are those the mounting drawings?”
“Yes. Shall we?” He directed her toward the house with a palm up, lead-the-way gesture.
The hawk gave another raspy cry as she guided the odd man inside and closed the door.
* * *
Jacob Price, my ass. Her contact for the park was none other than Io using a fictitious name.
Venn circled the house. He needed to get inside, and he tried, but every damned door and window was closed tight. Not a crack big enough for a mouse, let alone a hawk.
Immensely frustrated, he settled on the porch rail where he had an imperfect view of the dining room. He could see the table and part of the hutch. That was it.
TNT with a short fuse. That was what he felt like.
Io, Emma, and Mrs. Grant were chatting inside as if at an after-church social—all smiles and handshakes. The smug bastard even pulled out a chair for Emma to sit down. Venn’s foraged breakfast threatened to come up.
“Would you like a glass of sweet tea or lemonade, Mr. Price?” Emma’s grandmother asked.
“Why, yes, that would be refreshing. Tea, with extra sugar. And, please, call me Jacob.”
The elderly woman nodded, then asked, “Emma, would you care for anything?”
“No, thank you.”
Venn’s blood boiled as Mrs. Grant left the room. Emma was now alone with a beast. He dug his talons deeply into the rail, gouging the wood. Instinct demanded he march in and remove his mate from danger, to handle the situation like the warrior he was born to be. By God, it had been far too long since he’d wielded his sword. Since he’d burned Io’s evil blood from the blade almost nine hundred years ago. Since this all began and he’d accepted the responsibility of Guardian.
Was he truly expected to let this monster live this time? He could not. And he would tell Seth as much when next they met.
Expelling a harsh breath, he plastered his wings against his body. Io and Emma were sitting at the end and side of the table, respectively. She rolled out the plans, and Io reached over to help her. His hand brushed hers.
About to explode, Venn winged brutally in a circle and landed on the sill, drawing Io’s attention. He looked over his shoulder to sneer at Venn, seeming to gloat, to taunt.
And there lay Venn’s saving grace, the one thread of sanity he held on to—he could bank on the fact that it was early in the game for Io. His enemy would want to drag out the suffering. At least that gave Venn time to stop the monster before he hurt Emma. But Venn’s options to do so at this point were few, and they both knew it. Sure, if he changed into human form, he could counter Io face-to-face, but it would gain him nothing. They were both immortal and couldn’t kill each other by normal means.
Except there was pleasure to be had in fighting Io. Ah, wouldn’t that feel good.
Venn tried to focus on the task at hand, pushing his violent urges away. The first obstacle he had to overcome was Emma’s memory. How could he protect her if she was clueless about her past life and didn’t realize the danger Io posed? She’d just as likely kick Venn to the curb as admit she had feelings for him.
Mrs. Grant came buzzing back into the room, the perfect hostess with a tray full of goodies. The little lapdog yipped at her heels but immediately started to backpedal when it caught sight of Io. The animal sensed the evil in the room in a way the women could not.
The dog bared its small sharp teeth and growled. Nice going, pup.
“Izzy, hush.” Mrs. Grant looked apologetically at Io. “I’m sorry. He’s unusually vocal today.”
Io’s face pulled into a strained smile. He stretched his neck, then he took a long drink of tea. The next thing Venn knew, Io and Emma were bent over the drawings again. Too close. Io pointed to a few locations, spoke of a commemorative plate that would label the statue.
“Excellent,” Emma said, her eyes alight with excitement. “The granite base will set off the sculpture magnificently. You’ve done a terrific job.”
“It all sounds perfect. Just perfect,” Mrs. Grant agreed, beaming, and then Izzy unleashed a mean bark in Io’s direction.
Bite his ass.
The older woman flipped her hand by her leg and shushed the animal. “Will you excuse me? I’m going to let him outside.”
It was the opening Venn had been waiting for.
He beat his wings and headed for the side entrance. By the door, the elder Grant scolded the dog for its bad behavior and walked away from the house, leaving the door open wide.
Venn flew into the mudroom and cloaked himself in invisibility. The shadow would hide him for a short while. Ready to rip apart whatever got in his way, he executed several short elegant glides, first to the washing machine, then to the refrigerator, and finally into the dining room to a rich, old mahogany hutch. Statue still, he perched, observing. Holding on to his invisibility took every ounce of control he had as Io and Emma continued to lean over the drawings. Again, far too close.
He couldn’t tolerate Io’s game a second longer. Couldn’t stand the beast within touching distance of Emma. Emotion after emotion fired through him—possessive devotion, feverish hatred, wretched regret. He was to blame;
he was the connection to Io.
Io rested his hand on her arm, and this time the touch ignited the fuse.
With his mind, Venn quickly willed Emma into sleep. She didn’t need to witness what could be a gory fight. Venn felt, rather than saw, when she went limp and slumped onto the table because his focus was trained on Io. He shed his cloak and shrieked a cry into Io’s mind, vaguely aware that Mrs. Grant could return at any moment.
Shocked, Io jerked up his head, and Venn descended, flying between them. Wings spread, flapping ever so slightly, he nipped and ripped at Io’s face with the sharp hook of his beak, then readied for another pass.
The man pulled lips back from teeth as he froze with his hands fisted. “You fool. It isn’t time. From nothing it’s formed, light-shadow catching ridges or hollow, surfaces, texture, proportion, depth, shape, mass, space, three dimensional, all intentional, enduring.”
Riddles. Not a surprise. Anger raged through Venn, and he grew in size, his wings beat the walls, his crown struck the ceiling and he angled forward over Io.
Wide-eyed, Io jumped backward. He continued to retreat, knocking over a chair.
Change, Venn mentally ordered Io. “Change into the monster you are, so that—” A door creaked open. The grandmother…
Io laughed in a way only Venn could hear. He moved to intercept Mrs. Grant. “Excuse me. I believe something is wrong with Emma. I think she fainted,” he said sounding concerned.
Venn flew to the far side of the room and hid behind a chair.
“Oh my,” Grams exclaimed. She patted Emma’s cheeks. “Let me get a cool cloth.”
“I’ll just leave and let you tend to her. Obviously she’s ill. We can go over this another time.” Io traveled to the door and let himself out. He half stumbled down the steps, then stomped full speed to the car as Venn watched through the window.
If it weren’t for Emma, unconscious with her head down on the table, Venn would have given chase. But he was worried. As he turned, he gathered as much quiet energy as he could and surrounded himself with it until his blood began to settle. Not an easy task to accomplish, given the circumstances. He drew his shadow-cloak around him once again.
Awakening Fire: The Divine Tree Guardians (The Divine Tree Guardians Series Book 1) Page 4
