by Brenda Huber
The darker side of his nature just can’t let her go.
Chronicles of the Fallen, Book 1
Born of heaven, forged in hellfire and damnation, Xander roams the Earth as an unlikely protector of the innocent. Grudgingly embroiled in a demon uprising, Xander must help his brothers-in-arms recover four Sacred Relics rumored to be Lucifer’s downfall.
The stakes are simple. If he fails, a new regime will assume control of the underworld and the boundaries between hell and earth will crumble. If he succeeds, long-awaited salvation could be his. But when a beautiful innocent is caught in the crossfire, the price of redemption could be too steep.
Kyanna Hughes is a hereditary Guardian, sworn to protect a sacred Relic at all costs. From the cradle, she was taught to hate all things demon, but her unwanted attraction to Xander turns everything she’s been taught upside down.
The danger she faces involves more than her heart. For Kyanna is not only a Guardian, but a Keeper of Secrets so dangerous, that to keep them out of demon hands even the angels in heaven would see her dead…
Warning: Contains a demon with a notoriously single-minded determination to save the world, and a sworn enemy for whom he will risk eternal damnation. And so begins the journey of six fallen demons and the women who capture their hearts…
The Slayer
Brenda Huber
Dedication
This book is for my husband, Lee. Thank you for believing in me, and for believing in us. I couldn’t have gotten this far without you. You are the one I laugh with, live for, dream with and love.
And for my children, Luke and Faith. You are my heart and my soul, my pride and my joy. You are my treasure. May you always follow your dreams and never let anyone tell you that you can’t. I will always love you, no matter what.
For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. - Luke 12:34.
Acknowledgments
Writing and publishing a book, much less an entire series, is a collaborative effort that couldn’t be accomplished without the hard work and dedication of special people. I am so fortunate to have a fantastic team supporting my humble efforts. I would like to give heartfelt thanks to my agent, Jessica Alvarez, who saw something special in this series and never gave up on it or on me. I cannot tell you enough how much I truly appreciate you. I would also like to offer sincerest gratitude to my editor, Holly Atkinson, who offered priceless advice and supportive encouragement throughout the process of shaping and shining my world of the Fallen. Thank you for falling in love with my guys. I want to thank my talented and patient cover artist, Gabrielle Prendergast, for putting up with my picky requests and gifting us with fabulous covers for my stories. And last, but certainly never least, I would also like to thank my mentor, Joelle Walker, who gave me my first break and stuck with me, offering a guiding hand and a steady smile.
Then war broke out in the heavens. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, who fought back with his angels; but the dragon was defeated and he and his angels were not allowed to stay in heaven any longer. The huge dragon was thrown out, that ancient serpent, named the Devil, or Satan, that deceived the whole world. He was cast down to earth, and all his angels with him.
- Revelation 12.7-12.9
Chapter One
Pain ripped through his chest. Breath-stealing, mind-numbing, can-barely-function-through-the-agony pain. Fiery acid sizzled and smoked, eating through his leather jacket, stripping flesh from bone. Xander gritted his teeth and fell back, ducking behind the smoldering remains of a rusted Honda Civic. He tore off the jacket, dropped it on the crumbling, weed-choked asphalt and clawed at what was left of his shirt. Xander mopped grimy sweat and splatters of venom from his brow with the back of his forearm, inadvertently smearing the vile toxin across his brow and down one cheek. He hissed as the acidic venom burned away more skin.
Plasma balls crackled and hissed in the stillness, showering down around him, exploding in the night like grounded fireworks. With blackened sweat dripping down his face, he glared at the mangled bomber jacket that was rapidly disintegrating in a ball of noxious smoke, and swore. Profusely.
He could damn Lucifer to Hell and back for his dogged tenacity, but that was pointless. He’d expected nothing less, had known what he was getting into when he’d joined forces with Niklas and the others in rebellion. That still didn’t mean he had to meekly accept his slot at the top of Lucifer’s ten most wanted list.
A bad bit of intel had wasted the better part of his day, sending him shimmering from one country to the next. He’d zigzagged back and forth across the globe—this trip ’round the bend had taken him to Panama, Nicaragua, Algeria and a dozen other hole-in-the-wall, rebel-seething countries that had come out the wrong end of one revolution or another—only to end up back in Minnesota, less than fifty miles from where he’d started.
Would this search never end?
Xander ducked as another plasma ball whizzed past his head and exploded in the darkness in a wild spray of sparks. Peeking his head around the fender, he spied six more demons spilling from the building. Where were they all coming from? Settling on his haunches, forearms braced on his knees, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes, expelling a weary breath.
Unfortunately, the others weren’t having any better luck than he was. Nearly a year of following one useless lead after another had begun to stretch their collective patience to the limit. And there wasn’t much of that precious commodity to begin with.
But they all knew what hung in the balance, and that threat was the only thing keeping them focused. Who would have ever thought, after all these centuries of rebellion against Lucifer, they’d be indirectly working to keep him in power down under—so to speak. But the bottom line was, if Lucifer fell, so too would fall the boundaries between Earth and Hell. Demons would overrun the Earth. Armageddon would ensue. Blah. Blah. Blah.
Strange how the choices you make come back to kick you in the teeth.
He canted his head as a shoe scuffed over gravel behind him, ten o’clock. Without glancing over his shoulder, he lobbed a plasma ball, grinning maliciously at the startled screech and the telltale whoosh of a demon igniting. But a spasm of pain ripped through his chest at the sudden movement, stealing his breath and some of his thunder.
And where did all this searching get me?
Answer? No-freakin’-where. Again.
Well, to be precise, it had gotten him right here, lured into this cliché ambush in the back of a dark alley. One of the Sacred Relics had already been stolen right from under their noses.
And his favorite jacket was trashed.
Another plasma ball exploded against the Honda’s fender, raining sparks onto his bare back. Where the hell had all these demons come from? This was supposed to be a small nest. Ten, fifteen tops. Ten or fifteen he could handle without breaking a sweat. Twenty demons? No problem.
He’d picked his teeth with the bones of twenty, belched, and then bellied up for more.
At last count, he’d already smoked twenty-seven, and more continued to pour from the back of the building like cockroaches. Maybe he should have brought Gideon with him after all. Heaven knew the Demon of Temptation could have used the distraction. Kicking demon ass would have taken his mind off whatever funk it was that he’d slid into. Lately, the normally good-natured Gideon had been as irritable and surly as…well, as Mikhail.
And that was saying something. Mikhail, the Demon of War, was the proud owner of a prime piece of real estate at the corner of irritable and surly, with development rights to the intersection of terrifying and lethal. Mikhail walked a path Reapers feared to tread.
Weary, Xander swiped his palm ov
er his face, dashed sweat from his eyes, and offered up a prayer for endurance. A prayer that this journey for redemption would be over. Soon. So long had he fought. So long had he been denied forgiveness. How many more trials must he overcome before he redeemed himself? How many innocents must he save before he was released from exile and allowed to return to his heavenly home? At this rate, even Oblivion—the soulless death of the damned—was beginning to look like a viable option. Anything to break this monotonous stalemate.
Xander scooted along the length of the car, twisted, and peered around a shattered taillight. Twelve more. Really? Had they somehow, after all these centuries, managed to jury-rig some kind of portal directly to Hell? Flexing his shoulder, he grimaced as pain ripped through his side.
Aw, screw this.
No one ever claimed he was a patient demon. He centered his focus and splayed his hands, palms up. Rivers of heat flowed through his arms, erupting like balls of molten energy above his hands as muscles stretched and bulged and his form grew in size.
Oh, that feels good.
Drawing a deep breath, he ruthlessly beat back the dark urges seething inside him, struggled to keep some measure of control. But these horrible instincts triggered by combat—magnified whenever he changed from human form to demonic—were nearly more than he could shackle. He’d been trying his damnedest to avoid unleashing the darkness. Lately, the deck had been stacked against him. It was getting harder and harder to put the voracious darkness back in its cage.
Part of him wondered if there would come a day when the darkness would win, and he just wouldn’t come back at all.
He stared at the twin plasma balls pulsing and humming just inches above his palms. Concentrating, he forced more heat, more energy down his arms and took great satisfaction as the balls grew, burning brighter, hotter. Sizzling. Crackling. Standing, wounded and furious, Xander faced the oncoming horde. He raised his hands and gave a mighty roar. He was a nightmare come to life. He was a methodical, cold-blooded assassin. A killer who took no prisoners. An executioner who showed no mercy.
He was the Slayer.
It was time to remind them of that.
“How long has it been since you had sex?”
“What?” Kyanna squeaked and ducked her head, glancing around the small café. Fortunately for her pride, none of the other patrons seemed to have overheard Summer’s tactless question. But that was Summer for you. Blunt, bawdy and filter-free.
A deep, masculine chuckle came from nearby.
Oops. Not so lucky after all.
Kyanna dropped her forehead to her palm and groaned, wishing she’d left her hair down, or thought to grab a newspaper. Anything to hide her face. But no. That would have been too easy.
There, one table over. The guy with the wedding ring. The one grinning into his coffee cup, gaze carefully downcast. His wife glared holes through him. Oh, and there, with one elbow propped negligently on the service counter, Mr. GQ. Angled just so, all the better to rate her with his lascivious stare, clicking her up to a solid eight on his Easy Lay scale.
Score? Kyanna’s pride, zero. Summer’s filterless mouth, a million and one.
“Shh,” she hissed. “Jeez, Summer. I don’t think the busboy in the back heard you.” She loved Summer dearly. They’d been two peas in a pod since the minute she’d walked into her dorm room at MSU as a wet-behind-the-ears freshman and met her new, slightly eccentric, hippie-come-lately roommate for the first time. Regardless of the uncomfortable position Summer’s thoughtless—albeit well-intended—comments often left Kyanna in, Summer’s heart was in the right place. Always had been. Always would be.
Summer crinkled her nose at the greasy crumbs left behind from Kyanna’s patty melt. “You know, I can actually hear your arteries clogging.”
“Really? Well then, that will give me something else to die from.” She licked a daub of ketchup from her thumb with relish, adding, “Other than embarrassment, that is.”
“You know, if you lowered your standards a smidge, and actually got a little some-some going on, your mood might improve.” Summer sat back in the booth and crossed her arms over her tie-dyed peasant blouse.
Kyanna wiped her fingers on a napkin and stacked her empty plate atop her friend’s dish. “I’m sorry.” Ice rattled in Kyanna’s glass as she sucked down the last dregs of cold, slightly bitter tea. “It’s been a long week.”
“Which is exactly why you need to get out more. I swear, Ky. Sometimes you act like you’ve got one foot in the nursing home. Ever since you opened Treasure Box, you’ve tied yourself to that store. You need to let your hair down. Have a little fun. You remember what that is, don’t you? Fun? A little woohoo? A slap and tickle? A game of hide the—”
“Yeah, yeah,” she hurried to interrupt before Summer warmed to her subject. The poor married guy at the next table had to set his cup down and grab for a napkin as he choked on his coffee—or maybe it was laughter?—while his bearded face turned beet red. His wife kicked him beneath the table, sending a severe, disapproving frown in Summer’s direction. Kyanna wanted nothing more than to crawl in a hole somewhere. “I get the picture,” she mumbled.
As far as Summer—or anyone else for that matter—would be concerned, that would be the normal thing for a single, healthy woman her age to do. The logical thing. Go out. Date. Find an attractive, single man and enjoy a healthy, “normal” relationship.
If only it were that easy.
In her world—in the real world that other humans rarely ever found out about firsthand—dating was a complication. Relationships were temporary. Angels were real, not-so-beneficent beings. And demons were more than one-dimensional creatures itemized in the Bible, more than cautionary tales told to frighten children into good behavior.
Angels were a potential threat. Demons were real.
And boyfriends were collateral damage.
“So why aren’t you, then?”
Kyanna studied the crown moldings as she nibbled her lower lip. She hated this. Hated keeping secrets. She’d always shared everything—well, everything else—with Summer. But this was more, a legacy her family had honored for generation upon generation. This secret was something she couldn’t tell anyone. Not even her best friend.
“I recognize that look, Ky.” Summer leaned forward, a frown forming between her brows as she dropped her hands to the table. “What’s bothering you? You can talk to me, you know. Was it Jack? Did he—” She went silent for a moment, visibly struggling with her conscience, then blurted, “Did he do something?” Summer reached out, clasped Kyanna’s hands. Her voice dipped, whisper soft as she peered at Kyanna with concern. “You never really told me why you cut him loose. That’s not like you. You tell me everything.”
Another stab and twist of that guilt-crafted knife.
“Jack didn’t do anything. He just wasn’t for me, Summer. It was me, not him. So get that look off your face right now. Make-up sex is not on my radar either.”
Leaning back again, a petulant Summer crossed her arms once more and shook her head. Her gaze slanted out the window, and Kyanna could all but see the wheels turning. At length, Summer turned back to pin her with a probing stare.
“He asks about you,” Summer prompted quietly.
“Drop it. I told you, Jack and I are through. It’s not happening.”
“Don’t think for a minute that this discussion is over.” Summer softened her admonishment with an affectionate smile before glancing at the big clock hanging above the café’s service window. She scrambled to gather her enormous, multi-colored gypsy bag. “Oh, shoot. I’m supposed to meet the big guy over at the garage in ten minutes, so I better get a leg up.”
Kyanna snatched the green diner ticket, held it out of Summer’s reach with a smile. “Uh-huh. This one’s on me. To celebrate your big news.” She shook her head as Summer opened her mouth to object. They stood and embraced. “I�
��ll get this, you go on. Don’t keep Duff waiting.”
After paying for supper, Kyanna stepped outside and drew a soul-deep breath of lake scented air, letting it sooth her raw nerves. Kyanna skirted a couple pushing a side-by-side stroller. The woman cooed at their drowsy young twins while the man, wearing a Nikon around his neck, carried a partially folded map. Kyanna edged around a large barrel planter filled with bright blossoms and climbed inside her battered gray Taurus.
Mentally crossing her fingers, she prayed the ten block drive back to Treasure Box would be uneventful. Summer’s impromptu invitation to supper had come as Kyanna had been on her way home from Minneapolis. She’d made it this far with no incidents. She’d been observant, as her mother had trained her. She’d paid attention to her surroundings, to those people walking along the sidewalk, to those driving by, and to those looking out windows of stores she passed. So far so good. A slow, steady breath seeped out. Nearly home.
Thank goodness Isle wasn’t overrun with demons, not like some of the other cities she’d lived in. This was a relatively small resort community, located on the southeast end of Mille Lacs Lake, only two hours north of Minneapolis. She’d lived in Isle for several years now, knew a good share of the town’s 707 year-round residents in one way or another.
But Isle was also a tourist hot spot, swelling to nearly double its population in the summer, not to mention ice fishing season. Aside from flourishing shopping and business districts, thriving resorts, and gorgeous Isle Lakeview Park, Isle Bay possessed some of the best swimming beaches Mille Lacs had to offer, which meant a sea of unfamiliar faces many months of the year.
Her hand crept up to clasp the pendant hanging from the chain around her neck. She’d taken precautions. She always took precautions. Still, when it came to demons, one could never be too careful.
Slowing for a stoplight, Kyanna scanned the street. An elderly couple approached a nearby storefront, stopped a moment to stare through the shop window at furniture. They stood side-by-side, holding hands, silver heads bent close together as they considered the accent-lit dining room set before tottering on. Mr. Bradley, owner of The Green Thumb next door to her own shop, ducked into the hardware store across the way, a skinny length of steel pipe with an on/off valve clutched in his hand.
