The Slayer

by Brenda Huber

  Dimiezlo scrabbled across the floor. Blood dripped from his nose and mouth. Chest heaving, he climbed to his cloven feet. Crossing his arms, he pressed his fists to his shoulders once more.

  Rounding on the minion, he gnashed his teeth. “Which one?”

  “The Slayer.”

  Stolas’s fury knew no bounds. Chairs flew through the air, smashing against the walls. Dimiezlo ducked as golden chalices and platters hurled around the room. Stolas’s ire turned toward the long table at the end of his hall, covered with the earthly offerings his minions brought to earn his favor. Somehow he managed to pull back.

  He was the mastermind behind what would be the greatest coup in history. Soon, with the success of his plans, he would be ruler of all Hell, and Earth as well. He must remain in control.

  Calm, calm.

  Clenching his fists, he struggled to contain his wrath. But it wasn’t easy. The Fallen had been a thorn in his side. A constant plague upon his ambitions. Xander, the Slayer, and Niklas, the Seer, formerly the right and the left hands of Lucifer, had been heads of the Dark Prince’s elite royal guard. They’d turned on the Dark Prince and broken their vows of loyalty, the ultimate betrayal by Lucifer’s closest, most trusted generals. And to make matters worse, they’d managed to convince the Demons of Temptation, Vengeance, and War to revolt as well.

  As a result, a jaded Lucifer now watched each and every one of his subjects suspiciously. In short, The Fallen had made Stolas’s life and his plot to overthrow his own grandfather that much more difficult.

  Garnoch feces.

  But had they stopped there? Oh no. Escaping Hell and Lucifer’s despotic rule hadn’t been good enough. They’d banded together and ruthlessly hunted down and destroyed colonies of other earthbound demons. Foiling possessions, hindering rampant demonic invasions. Preventing summonings—his own in particular—had become their favorite pastime.

  They’d more than earned the nickname, the Fallen. Shunned by Heaven, hunted by Hell. No longer beloved, righteous Archangels. No longer fearsome, revered princes of Hell. Now they were nothing more than mercenaries. The stuff of legends that gave grown demons nightmares.

  But not him. He’d bring each and every last one of them to their knees. Right before he cut off their heads.

  Drawing a deep breath, he worked to control his temper. “Why have you not yet taken the relic?”

  “The Guardian has employed enchantments to safeguard herself and the relic.”

  That caught his attention. “Angelic enchantments?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Powerful angelic enchantments?”

  “Yes, my lord. Very powerful.” At last, as if sensing his master’s impatience, Dimiezlo hurried to explain. “So far we’ve been unable to enter the dwelling. None can breach the perimeter, my lord.”

  “Have you tried Reapers?”

  “No, my lord. If she is of angelic descent, as I believe, then I thought you would want her taken alive, my master. It was my understanding that none of the other Halflings had…ah, survived captivity.”

  Another reminder that this wily, intelligent creature was worth keeping around. And worth keeping an eye on. He always seemed to know far more than he should.

  “That doesn’t concern you.” Energy crackled and hissed in the palm of his hand. This time, he opened his fingers and let the ball of plasma hover threateningly. Just because Dimiezlo was a valued minion didn’t mean he should forget his place.

  Dimiezlo immediately ducked his head. “Apologies for overstepping, my liege.”

  Closing his fist and extinguishing the plasma ball, he brought his hand up and tapped a sharp claw against his chin. The female had to leave the dwelling at some point.

  “Perhaps Sïnsobar would be of use?”

  Dimiezlo looked as if he were searching for some nonexistent hole in the floor to crawl through. “The Carpathï was unsuccessful, master.”

  “So you mean to tell me that not only did the Slayer find her,” Stolas snarled through pointed, gritted teeth, his breath sawing in and out, “but that the legendary Sïnsobar failed?”

  Dimiezlo gulped as he stared at the floor. He nodded, remaining wisely silent and otherwise immobile.

  Don’t kill the resource. Don’t kill the resource. Don’t kill the resource!

  Just now, the reminder wasn’t helping much. The fury vibrating through him was too fresh and too powerful. Inflamed anew at each disappointing revelation. He could feel the scrolls slipping from his grasp. Unable to contain his energy, he began pacing the confines of his great hall, kicking aside the rubble that had once been ornate furniture. Obsidian. Gold. Wealth as befitting his royal station.

  Stifling. Restricting. Frustrating.

  This great hall was a prison. Hell was his prison. One he couldn’t breach without those scrolls.

  Raking a hand through his hair, he rounded on Dimiezlo. The minion cringed but remained steadfast.

  “Bring Sïnsobar to me now.”

  “He was summoned by the Dark Prince, my lord.”

  Cold fear poured—like rivers of the ice he’d heard about—down his back as he skidded to a halt. Had Lucifer caught a hint of his plans? A merciless fist squeezed his chest.

  “He will not speak, master,” Dimiezlo rushed to reassure him. “Or I would have sent him to Oblivion myself.”

  Little good that assurance did to ease his worry. Desperation clawed at him. His very survival was on the line now. He fought to steady his breathing, still his hands. He could show no weakness.

  “He has sworn a blood oath of silence. He will not break it. Of this I am certain. He hates the Dark Prince as much as you, my master.”

  No one hated Lucifer as much as Stolas did. But he didn’t bother pointing that out. There was nothing he could do now. Sïnsobar had already been summoned. He could be, even now, in Lucifer’s hall, kneeling before the Dark Prince. Would Lucifer delve into his mind, peer into his thoughts, his memories? Could Lucifer, even now, have a legion of Scathé—Lucifer’s own elite guard—on the way to dispatch him, the favored grandson, to the unforgiving shores of Oblivion?

  No. No, he could not panic. A mind full of fear was a weak mind. A mind full of fear made mistakes. He was better than that. Better than good old grandfather himself.

  Squaring his shoulders, lifting his chin, he drew a deep breath. He clasped his trembling hands behind his back and paced for several moments, working to school his features. “The female took the Slayer inside the dwelling? Inside the enchantments? Willingly?”

  “Yes, my liege.”

  He approached a raised dais at the end of the room. Claw-tipped fingers skimmed the offerings cluttering the top of the long table there. Seeking to calm his nerves, he picked up a small object. A gun, he’d been told it was called. A weapon used to fire deadly projectiles. It fit comfortably in his palm, but it was oddly light. Flimsy. In fact, he feared squeezing it too tightly, that it might shatter in his hand. Turning it this way and that, he examined it closely. The weapon was purple and yellow. Such an odd color for something supposedly lethal. Curious, he aimed the gun away from him and gently pulled the trigger.

  Clear fluid erupted from the barrel of the gun. Blinking, frowning, he squeezed again. More fluid.

  What manner of weapon is this?

  If filled with holy water, he supposed, it might prove a valuable weapon. That thought had him gingerly replacing the gun on the table. Perhaps it was already filled with holy water. The only thing worse than Ralsha venom at leaving scars was holy water. Something he was not willing to risk.

  Combing through the pile with more care, he encountered an odd shaped object. Lifting it, he held the piece up to the light. Organic. A long, green stalk. Slim, with broad, flat appendages. And at the tip, a cluster of roundish, flat velvety curls. Fragile. Soft. Of the deepest crimson. Though the longer he’d bee
n in possession the strange object, the more limp it became. Shriveling in the dry heat.

  Lifting the tip to his nostrils, he inhaled the delicate scent. Very pleasant. Heady. Alluring. Rolling the stalk in his fingers, he drew the scent deeper, then let out a sharp hiss of pain. Opening his hand, he peered at the droplet of blood welling on the pad of his thumb. Sharp, pointed projections protruded from the stalk at sporadic spaces.

  Clever.

  Pleased, grinning approval over the lure and the unexpected viciousness of his new find, he set the piece aside for later examination and turned back to Dimiezlo, his temper under control now.

  “We’re just going to have to get her to lower the enchantments again.” But how was the question. “Where is the woman located?”

  “In a town called Isle. It is in Minnesota.”

  “And the Minnesota is near the Iowa?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He growled, low and deep. Something very important was about to happen in the Iowa, something he wanted nothing to interfere with. Dare he risk a push of power so near there, at this crucial time? Would it tip his hand?

  What was so damned appealing about this region of the North American continent anyway? He made a mental note that once he’d been liberated, he would have to visit this place, see it for himself.

  Focus on the female.

  One obstacle at a time. He couldn’t lure her out. His minions had attempted that as well, it seemed. They couldn’t get inside. The enchantments repelled his subjects like an invisible force field. He couldn’t hold one of her loved ones as bait. She was an only child, and an orphan to boot.

  Eliminating her was likely the best option. But, from the sounds of the situation, she could potentially be the Halfling he needed to obtain the fourth relic, the Chosen One.

  Clenching his fists until he felt his claws sink into the flesh of his palm, he growled. Keeping her alive was becoming less and less appealing. Halfling or no, he’d already begun to visualize wrapping his hands around her throat and shaking the life from her—

  That’s it! Shake her.

  He’d shake her from the dwelling. Shake her dwelling until it collapsed around her ears.

  Rounding on Dimiezlo, he let a lethal smile unfurl.

  “Bring Agares to me. Now.”

  Chapter Five

  Groaning, Xander blinked himself awake in an unfamiliar place. A strange, completely baffling energy hummed through his veins, leaving him jittery. Timber beams crossed over his head. His vision blurred, then clarified. The walls were a muted tan. The room was small. He felt like Alice when she’d fallen down the rabbit hole, right after she’d drunk from the mysterious bottle labeled “drink me”.

  Or was it after she’d nibbled the cake?

  Oh, who gave a damn? The fact that he was laying here, contemplating imaginary characters from one of Sebastian’s precious books attested to the fact that he was in some seriously deep trouble.

  Sweet heaven, speaking of books.

  Shelves lined the wall at his feet, filled with oodles of books. No…no, not books. Binders. Ledgers. Tax Manuals. Magazines. Thick catalogues. Blinking, he turned his head and scanned the sturdy, matching, roll-top desk not five feet away. The cubbyholes were brimming with papers. Stacks of invoices, clusters of pens and pencils, small receipt booklets, staplers, and office doodads filled every nook and cranny. A thick binder lay open on the surface. A closed laptop rested on the far edge of the desk. Lifting his head, he caught a glimpse of the words “accounts receivable” scrawled across the top of the page in neat, feminine script.

  Lucifer’s balls, where am I?

  Then it slowly began to come back to him. The God-awful day he’d had. The ambush in the alley.

  The woman!

  Xander sat up too fast and the room swam like a bad mirage. Scrunching his eyes closed, he pressed his palm to his temple and shook his head, fighting through the pain and dizziness. And still his body felt energized. Electrified. So strange. He patted his chest. At least that didn’t hurt anymore. The deepest lacerations were little more than scratches now, and those were healing quickly.

  Gingerly probing his forehead and cheek, he was relieved to find his burns completely gone. Not that he worried much about his pretty face, but Ralsha venom was known to leave behind some nasty scars. Mikhail could attest to that. That his face felt normal, not a bit of scar tissue evident, was a minor miracle.

  No, not a miracle, he amended with a great deal of self-deprecation. More like sheer, dumb luck. God wouldn’t waste miracles on the likes of him.

  When he felt steady once more, he turned his head and carefully opened his eyes. And he started swearing all over again. There she lay, crumpled on the hardwood floor. Deathly pale. Unnaturally still. He shoved himself off the sofa and landed on his hands and knees beside her.

  Sweet Saint Peter, what have I done?

  His fingertips immediately went to her throat, probed, hesitated, probed harder. He held his breath as he scoured her face for some infinitesimal sign of life. Her skin was so pale, milk white against the deep brown of the wood beneath her. Her lips held a faint bluish tinge. Giving up on finding so much as a thready pulse at her throat, he lowered his head and pressed his ear to her chest, holding his breath once more.

  He hadn’t taken the life of an innocent in too long to remember. That he may have taken the life of this particular woman—however unintentionally—sat like a lead weight in the middle of his throat.

  She could be their only connection to the scrolls. She’d given him a measure of her trust by bringing him inside. Never mind that she had the most gorgeous legs. Or the biggest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen this side of—

  There! The faintest of heartbeats. But a heartbeat, nonetheless.

  If he were the overzealous type, he would have jumped for joy, punched at the sky while shouting jubilant huzzahs. Instead, he began chafing warmth back into her hands and arms. Her skin was baby soft. She smelled like an armful of wild flowers. Fresh. Innocent. And so alive.

  The muscles in her arms were toned. Her hands were delicate. He took a second to study her face, even as his fingers continued to move over her. Her features were rather plain. Except for those gorgeous eyes.

  Involuntarily, he took in her ripe curves and the immodest expanse of creamy flesh that her snug, layered tank top and cutoff blue jean shorts revealed. And her hair. Lengths of spun gold swept up in a careless ponytail.

  This looked like no businesswoman he’d ever seen. Perhaps this was the owner’s daughter. Could he, in all fairness, consider using her as leverage? The Guardian must be made to see that the relics would be far safer with Xander and his lot than stashed away in a secret hiding place that wasn’t a secret any longer.

  Had he taken too much from her? He’d never taken only a partial essence before. Never stopped before he’d absorbed the entire soul. He had no clue if she could even survive something like this. Would she wake up at all?

  And if she survived, what kind of repercussions had his actions wrought? Would she still be herself? Or some corrupted version?

  And what of him? What was this violent energy bursting through his system? Was this some unexpected side effect of his feeding from her? He’d never fed from an angel before, or a Halfling, as rumor had it that she was. Was this strange energy coursing through him further proof of her angelic lineage?

  He glowered at her, willing her to wake up. But she didn’t stir.

  This just proved the validity of his assessment that the scrolls would be far safer with him. Humans were a frail lot. Easily overcome. Easily broken. Unpredictable with their all-important free will.

  His hands paused as guilt settled around him like a shroud. He’d done this to her. Not some other demon. He had. He’d been careless. And this little human/Halfling—whatever she was—was paying for his mistake.

 
Grim determination pushed aside the sudden and unexpected realization that he’d never worried over another human’s condition, physical or emotional, before. There was nothing special about this one. He was only suffering guilt over endangering an innocent and possibly creating a huge obstacle to his mission. That was all. Nothing more.

  The Slayer forms no attachments.

  Grinding his teeth, he renewed his efforts to revive her. His hands chafed her flesh, perhaps a bit more vigorously than necessary, but he couldn’t get her to wake, damn it.

  Should he call Mikhail? Mikhail could heal her with just a touch.

  No, Mikhail won’t be able to get past the enchantments.

  And, without lowering the enchantments, Xander wouldn’t be able to get out either.

  Lucifer’s balls! Talk about a royal f-u-b-a-r!

  She’d lowered the enchantments briefly to let him inside. He’d been awake enough for that, sort of. But his ears had been ringing, and he hadn’t quite been able to catch all the words.

  His memory had a few black spots, and, by the time he’d caught lucidity again, she’d already recited the enchantments back in place. He could feel them. Surrounding him like a warm cocoon, dampening the world outside. No, Mikhail wouldn’t be able to step past the threshold. And, provided he managed to lower the enchantments himself, if Xander took her outside, there was no guarantee she’d let him back in the door. Not after what he’d done to her. His hands moved along her torso, massaging, working to increase her circulation.

  Some of the color had returned to her cheeks. A good sign. He hadn’t meant to take so much of her essence from her. Hadn’t wanted to take any at all, in fact. But he’d had no other choice—not really. He’d needed to feed. Desperately. And she’d been the only one around.

  The problem was, he’d been so severely wounded that he’d had little control over his baser instincts. From the moment he’d broken with Lucy, he’d always fed from the criminal element, steering well clear of any and all innocent. Immoral lawbreakers that would otherwise escape punishment for their crimes had become his staple. Murders. Rapists. Drug dealers. Such offenders had not deserved leniency, and so he’d never attempted to stop himself before his victim’s essence had been drained completely.