The Slayer

by Brenda Huber

  She scanned his face, his body. Soot smeared the golden patches of skin that weren’t covered by blood and burns. One of his pant legs had been scorched from his ankle to his knee. And strapped to the other calf was the most vicious-looking, medieval dagger she’d ever seen. The blade alone was nearly as long as her forearm. Who was this guy?

  A low groan gurgled in the back of his throat, dragging her from her musings. How could she help him? Did she dare? Or would she only be signing her own death warrant? She’d been raised to fear demons. Raised to avoid them at all cost. She’d also been raised to protect the innocent.

  And to do no harm to those who did no harm to her.

  Nowhere in the book had anyone ever written about a demon like this one. One who’d willingly put himself in harm’s way to protect a human.

  Dear Lord, she didn’t even know where to touch him. His body had been so ravaged. Glancing up and down the alley, she chewed on the inside of her lower lip. Should she bring him inside? Could she trust him enough to breach the ward stones? Or the outer enchantments? She had a First Aid kit in the store. Not that the meager training she’d received back in Girl Scouts was gonna cover something like this. But she had the book. Surely there must be something therein that would pertain to whatever he was.

  Peering uncertainly at the wreckage of the Civic, she cringed. If she left him here, vulnerable like this, she’d be no better than the evil Sheila Hughes had taught her to fight. But her mother wasn’t here anymore to guide her. What was she to do? He was wounded, obviously in desperate need of help. Maybe that was what was confusing her. He confused her. He’d looked like a demon. For a little while there, at least. But he certainly hadn’t acted like one.

  And now here he was, completely at her mercy. Defenseless. And he looked so human now.

  Kindness, Mom had always preached. Kindness had felled many a great foe. Though, somehow, she didn’t think Mom might have had exactly this situation in mind.

  Moaning softly, the man/demon turned his head. His brow puckered. Ever so carefully, she eased her hand along his cheek. The scrape of dark stubble against the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist sent delicious shivers up her arm. Gently touching the unmarred side of his forehead, she worried her lower lip with her teeth. He was burning up. Had he been poisoned somehow? Was infection setting in? Could his kind get an infection? Gnawing on her lip again, she glanced around the alley.

  A streetlight at the end of the alley popped, going out in a shower of sparks, startling her. Enough waffling. She had to decide. Now. What if more of those vile creatures came back?

  What if he turns out to be just as evil as the rest?

  No! She couldn’t think like that. He’d stood before her, used his own body to shield her. She’d take him inside. Clean him up as payback for saving her. Once she’d seen to his injuries, healing him as best as she could, then she could decide what to do with him.

  She could always surround him with ward stones for her own safety. And when he woke up, if his eyes were still glowing red and he went all Village of the Damned on her, then she’d douse him with holy water and use enough of the incantations in the book to bring down the wrath of Heaven on his head and make him wish he’d never stepped one of those Godzilla-sized combat boots outside the gates of Hell.

  Kicking the box containing the now-shattered Tiffany lamp aside—the lamp she’d spent far too long searching for—she scrabbled to reach beneath him. Kyanna hooked her hands under his arm pits and prayed his back wasn’t in as rough shape as his chest was. Dear lord, he was a mess. And hot! And not in a sexy-hot way…well, okay, in all fairness, he was hot that way too. But he was hot in a burning fever-hot way. That couldn’t be good.

  “Buddy,” she grunted, “you weigh a ton. Be a good fella and wake up. Help me get you inside, would ya?”

  A groan. A muscle twitch.

  “Hey,” she panted, pushing him into a sitting position. His head lolled forward, his arms flopped onto the pavement at his hips. He was nearly twice her size and it took every ounce of her strength to get him up this far, let alone balance him against toppling over. She’d never get him on his feet and inside without help. “Hey, sexy demon-guy. Hey. Wake up.”

  His head lolled to the side and his eyes, rimmed by thick curly black lashes, slid open. Groggy. Unfocused. Turbulent gray. Compelling. Stealing her breath.

  Woosa! Definitely not red.

  Those were the most impressive bedroom eyes she’d ever seen.

  “That’s it,” she croaked, clearing what she prayed was not a lump of lust from her throat. “Wake up, buddy. Can you stand?”

  “Help…you,” he croaked. It was all she could do not to cry in sympathy. His voice sounded as shredded as his chest looked.

  “That’s right. Help me out here. Help me get you on your feet,” she coaxed. “That’s my shop over there. I can help you, but I have to get you inside first. Can you get up?”

  With a tortured groan, he began to move. All she could do was hang on, brace him so he didn’t fall flat on his face, and push him in the right direction. The fact that he was still on his feet and moving under his own steam was beyond her comprehension, reminding her again that human he most definitely was not. Taking a deep breath, she offered up a little prayer.

  Please, God, don’t let this be the biggest—or the last—mistake I ever make.

  Kyanna wedged his tall frame between the brick wall and her shoulder as she fumbled the keys from her pocket. She fitted the proper key into the lock, and shoved the door open. Kyanna tucked herself beneath his arm. Obligingly, he shifted his weight, leaning heavily upon her. Kyanna staggered to the side before righting the both of them.

  “Buddy,” she grunted. “You weigh a ton.”

  Against her better judgment, Kyanna guided him up to the doorway, only to have his frame violently jerk back, as if flung from the entrance by invisible hands.

  Having her suspicions confirmed so undeniably didn’t ease her mind. Regardless of how he’d behaved, he was a demon. For sure. No question about it. The enchantments wouldn’t let him pass.

  With one last bit of reluctant hesitation—and plenty of second thoughts—she whispered the phrases needed to lower the enchantments, and swiftly tugged him inside. Just that quickly, she crossed herself and whispered the sacred words in a furious rush, restoring the enchantments.

  Once the charms were back in place, she craned her neck and peered at her foundling. She’d broken the cardinal rule. She’d allowed the enemy inside her safe haven. Hard of head and soft of heart, that had always been Kyanna’s problem, or so her mother had forever complained.

  Mom must be rolling over in her grave right now.

  With a wince of poorly stifled guilt, Kyanna maneuvered her semi-conscious companion through the storage room and into the small office. She’d like to believe she’d helped lower him gently to the plump sofa opposite her desk, but really, it had been more like a great oak crashing to the forest floor. She did her best to aim him in the right direction, and then just got the hell out of the way.

  It was little wonder the sofa didn’t simply collapse in a pile of stuffing and splintered wood. As it was, the antique claw-foot sofa had scraped a good six inches across the floor, only stopping once the back of the sofa slammed against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed business degrees she’d worked so hard for.

  Struggling to lift his huge, booted feet, Kyanna huffed and puffed until she finally had his legs draped, more or less, over the arm of the sofa. Good Samaritan or not, she was no fool. Holding her breath, she performed a harried pat down. Her hands momentarily stilled, her eyes rounding as she searched his groin area. Forcibly tearing her mind away from the unbelievable size of the man, she made short work of removing the wicked looking dagger strapped to his ankle. Kyanna scurried out into the hallway and opened the door to her apartment.

  With a swi
ft glance over her shoulder, she tossed the heavy weapon—the only weapon she could find on his person—onto the steps. Centering her focus, calming her heart, she furtively whispered additional enchantments, reinforcing those secondary charms protecting her apartment. She grabbed a small stack of hand towels from the cleaning closet and stopped by the restroom long enough to wet them down. She then hurried back to her office, and lifted his head to ease a small throw pillow under him.

  He looked utterly ridiculous like this. Propped like a ragdoll—albeit an enormous, war-like, testosterone-injected ragdoll—on a pile of overstuffed chintz and filmy lace. As carefully as she could, Kyanna pressed a cloth to the wounds on his chest with one hand and began cleansing his face and neck with a damp cloth in the other. For a breath-stealing minute, her fingertips lingered on the lines of his face. High cheekbones, aristocratic nose. Soft, sculpted lips. And there, hidden in the shadows of stubble covering his jaw, a tiny cleft in his chin.

  Dimple on the chin, devil within.

  She’d always scoffed at antiquated, narrow minded sayings like that. Old wives tales. But something about this guy screamed danger. Maybe he was the one that had spawned the phrase.

  Even with the livid burns on one side of his forehead and the upper edge of one cheek, he was a handsome specimen. As she moved the wet cloth over his arms, she caught her breath at what she’d unwittingly revealed. Tattoos wound themselves around both his arms, from his shoulders to his wrists.

  Such odd writing…hmm.

  She tilted her head, studying the graphic designs.

  No, not all of it was writing. Strange runes she couldn’t identify peppered his chest and ran down the length of his left arm. Graphic scenes of death and destruction. A likeness of the dagger she’d just, ah, relieved him of had been replicated along the inside of his forearm, the blade dripping with God only knew what. Strange wisps of curling, slithering smoke. Piles of bones—mountains of them—littered his flesh. Battle scenes from Hell, she imagined. All the more horrific for the real blood and soot she’d been wiping from him.

  And on his right arm? Vine work and elaborately decorated crosses. High on one bicep, the Virgin Mother kneeling in prayer. On his forearm? The Crucifixion of Christ. Her hand stilled, washcloth dangling from her fingertips. All Christian religious symbols, she realized with a start. And what looked like Latin writing to her untrained eye.

  On a demon?

  How peculiar.

  Shaking her head at her own curiosity, she dumped the stained towels in a pile near the doorway. She went to retrieve the First Aid kit and more towels. Kyanna dropped to her knees beside the sofa and popped the white, metal lid open. After pulling out fistfuls of gauze pads, she tore paper from cotton and pressed the unwieldy mass to what appeared to be the deepest of his wounds.

  Dear Lord, even the shallow ones continued to trickle his lifeblood away. She picked at bits and pieces of what looked to be charred cotton stuck in his gashes. Should she try to cleanse the wounds? Could demons bleed out? He needed stitches.

  She was in way over her head here. No question about that.

  All she knew for certain was that this man—this demon—had saved her, despite all her mother’s most dire predictions to the contrary. She had to do something. She couldn’t just let him die. If she brought the book down to the office, she might be able to find something in there that could help him.

  Possibly.

  Yes. There had to be an answer somewhere in there. Besides, she needed to gather more ward stones to form a protective circle around him like a mystical cage until she could figure out what to do with him. Bracing a hand on the sofa near his shoulder, she made to rise.

  A harsh groan tore from deep in his throat, and he mumbled something.

  Leaning closer, hoping for some bit of direction as far as his medical needs were concerned, Kyanna held her breath and searched his rugged face. Would he speak? Could he tell her what he needed? Those entrancing eyes opened slowly, blinked. Struggled to focus.

  “Woman,” the demon whispered. He squinted, blinked, and sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Yes? I’m here.” She smoothed a comforting hand over the short, silky hair at his temple. A buzz cut. A ripped body. Camo pants and combat boots. He looked military. Her own personal GI Joe. Appalled by her own sudden lack of mental control, she petted his hair with renewed vigor. “What can I do?”

  “Forgive me,” he panted.

  He lifted a large, shaking hand and laid it flat upon her chest.

  Before the fog of confusion fully had a chance to settle upon her, a searing burn ripped through her body. She was being torn in two, splintered from the inside out. Helpless to resist, she hung loose-limbed and limp, suspended with her knees inches from the ground by nothing more than the contact of his bare palm where it touched her chest.

  Oh Lord, it burns!

  She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t scream for help, not that there was anyone else nearby at this hour. She couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear, but for the loud thwap-thwap of her heartbeat in her ears. How long the agony lasted, she couldn’t say. But darkness eventually crowded around her. Cold. Lonely. A relief after the fierce burn, but yet so unfair.

  How can you kill me? All I tried to do was save you?

  Kyanna was losing her grip on her body. At first, she pushed through the pain. She couldn’t let go. She had too much to live for. Too much to do.

  The burn intensified, became unbearable.

  Too much.

  With a shuddering sigh, she let go and floated away.

  Chapter Four

  “We’ve found a Guardian, master.” Dimiezlo’s forked tongue slithered from his mouth. His furry arms crossed over his chest, fists pressed to his shoulders as he bowed his bald, horned head.

  His goat-like legs prevented him from kneeling. Normally that alone would have been enough to earn him a long, slow, excruciating death. But, fortunately for this minion, he’d proven himself ingenious, as well as loyal.

  Far too valuable a resource to waste frivolously.

  Drumming his black claws on the obsidian table before him, Stolas considered his subject. The pungent scent of brimstone and Hellfire filled his nostrils, as always. In the distance, through the open door, tortured screams echoed from the valley below. How he loved that sound.

  How he hated that smell.

  Hmm. Found a Guardian, had they? Interesting.

  With a subtle motion of one finger, he signaled the Charocté Demon hovering in the corner. The servant scurried to do as he was bid, head bowed, and gently closed the door behind him.

  Assured of their privacy, Stolas examined this minion. He’d been searching the Earth over for centuries, or rather his minions had, in hopes of finding the Guardians. Holy warriors—or unholy, depending on your point of view—entrusted with the duty of hiding and protecting the four Sacred Relics. Relics that, according to the ancient Prophesy, would bring about Lucifer’s fall.

  The Arc Stone, said to make its bearer impervious to physical harm. The Scrolls of Prévnar, believed to contain incantations to make the speaker resistant to Lucifer’s control. The Sword of Kathnesh, rumored to be the one sword capable of taking Lucifer’s head.

  And last, but certainly not least, the Chosen One. A child of human, angelic, and demonic bloodlines combined. The one and only being capable of harnessing the power of the other three relics simultaneously. The only being prophesied to defeat Lucifer and bring all of Hell under his complete control.

  Thanks to the minion before him, Stolas was already in possession of one of those objects, the Sword of Kathnesh. Soon, it would seem, he would be in possession of another. He almost rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Almost. He wasn’t the kind to count his ducks before they hatched.

  Once he obtained the Arc Stone and the Scrolls of Prévnar, Stolas would have everything he needed to o
verthrow Lucifer. He’d have all his chickens in a row. Well, nearly all of them. He’d yet to find a Halfling, a female of both human and angelic descent, strong enough to conceive and give birth to the Chosen One. He would personally supply—and therefore control—the demonic seed. So far, the few Halflings that had been found and brought to him had been unsuitable, their angelic bloodlines diluted over time by generations of mating with humans. Only three had conceived. None had been strong enough to carry demon spawn to term. All had failed him.

  In short, he needed a first generation Halfling.

  And those were about as easy to come by as a snowstorm in his own backyard.

  “Rise,” Stolas commanded. The minion dropped his arms to his side and lifted his head. His gaze, however, remained downcast. Commendable, Stolas thought with approval. So many minions nowadays overstepped their boundaries. Here, then, was one who knew his station. “Tell me about this Guardian.”

  “The Guardian is female, my lord,” Dimiezlo replied.

  He ground his teeth. Honestly, was it necessary to have to lead the minion through every step of this interview? Displeased power hummed and crackled through his veins. He fisted his hand, smothering the forming plasma ball.

  “Does she exhibit any weaknesses? Any familial attachments?”

  “No, my lord. From what we’ve learned, she is an only child of a single parent. The mother recently deceased.” Dimiezlo continued, prattling on about some antique shop. Worthless information, all of it.

  Do not waste the resource. Do not waste the resource.

  “Do we know exactly which relic she has?”

  “We believe she is in possession of the scrolls, my master.”

  “Have any of the Fallen found her yet?”

  Stolas stilled. Had the minion just eased back?

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “What?” With a twitch of Stolas’s wrist, Dimiezlo flew backward and crashed into the wall. The fires in the sconces flared and crackled. Roaring his displeasure, Stolas slammed both fists onto the black, marble tabletop. The huge slab of granite broke in two and collapsed.