A trail of blood led from the car, across the road, and into the grass. Two feet more and it disappeared into the trees. An injured, bleeding female would only choose this tactic if she was chased and had no other option.
Braile freed his sword. Instead of flight, he employed his incredible speed to weave through the trees. He kept his wings tucked tight to his body, and followed the blood, the trail widening. At some point, the human must have fallen and dragged her body deeper into the woods.
He came across the body in a shallow ravine a quarter mile in—and a trio of Darklings fighting over the corpse. Their inky, vaporous forms writhed against each other. Instead of fleeing, they charged as if they had a chance of defeating an archangel.
Two swipes of his empyreal blade and two of the Darklings dissolved. The other crashed into Braile, claws sprouting from the now solid body. The momentum carried them into a tree. Braile brought his blade between them and cut the Darkling in half. Black ash exploded all over him and everything else. It sprinkled the ground and coated the nearest trees. The morning sun would burn all evidence of their existence away.
His grace thrummed beneath his skin, exhilarated by the encounter. Long had it been since he engaged in battle. Too long, by the slice across his forearm. Grace welled in the inch-long opening. He flexed his will to close the wound when a faint heartbeat captured his attention. Braile spun, his attention focused on the body. Partially covered by leaves and dirt, he couldn’t see all of her.
A strong breeze whistled through the trees. Autumn leaves kicked up and fluttered away like birds taking flight, revealing a blonde Caucasian female. Her back flayed, her arms covered her abdomen, while the rest of her was exposed, vulnerable. There was only one reason a female did that.
Without another thought, he used his power to rotate her body. Flat on her back, her round belly proclaimed her condition. Her dress was bunched up around her waist, her legs splayed and bloody.
So much blood.
She had taken a brutal beating. Aggressive slashes crisscrossed the length of her side and face. Along with bite marks. Chances were his presence interrupted their feeding, nevertheless, the Darklings had achieved their objective. The female was dead.
But again came the flutter of a heartbeat and a whispered plea.
Everything happens for a reason. The motto originated in Heaven. A motto angels lived by. It was the only way to tolerate their immortality. They didn’t question why they existed. There was good. There was evil. Right versus wrong. Demoni versus angels. There was a reason he heard those prayers, those cries for help. They were not from the female, the mother.
They were from the babe.
Braile rushed to the woman’s side. His touch reverent as he stroked her belly and focused on the soul trapped within her body. A slight movement, another flutter of a heartbeat…then silence.
Absolute silence.
With a twist of his wrist, his sword shortened to the length of a knife. He ripped her dress in half and brought the metal to her pale blood-spattered skin. Braile sliced through her skin, tissue, muscles, and gestational sac. Amniotic fluid rushed out and he rushed in. He stuck his hand through the cut and closed his fingers around a tiny body.
So small. Little arms and legs, a round little belly, and a pinched, wrinkled face, the perfectly formed baby girl fit in the palm of his hand. Her life had ended long before it was due to begin. Yet, he heard her prayers, prayers to save her mother, and by extent, herself.
And he failed her.
He saved humanity an infinite amount of times, not because anyone had prayed to him, but because duty demanded it. The one time someone had prayed to him, and he’d failed.
The cut on his arm throbbed in answer to the unspoken fix it storming his brain. He could revive her. It was within his power as an archangel. He’d never done it before. He had not the inclination. Now…
He laid the premature infant on the ground. He focused his power and split the center of her chest open. Next, he placed his cut forearm over her acorn-sized heart and willed his grace to leave his body. One drop. Two drops. Three drops, until it flowed out of him and bathed her organs. Her tiny heart sputtered. Her minuscule lungs fluttered. Then her heart took off at a gallop and her lungs expanded and contracted. Exultation filled him. Never had he been more grateful for what Father had made him to be.
“What have you done!”
Blade in hand, Braile whipped around and faced Michael, First Seraphim to Father. Consumed with his actions, Braile had left himself completely vulnerable to attack. If Michael had been a Darkling, Braile, Chancellor of the Celestial Army, would have perished.
“Braile!” Michael shouted as if Braile had lost the ability to hear.
Still crouched, he shifted his body to shield the infant from Michael as her chest knit together. “Why are you here, when you should be guarding Father?”
“It was Father who sent me,” Michael hissed. A stiff breeze ruffled his white and gold tri-level wings.
Michael’s statement shocked Braile. Father had withdrawn from all of them since Metatron’s betrayal. He kept the infant behind his back and faced Michael. “Why?”
Michael snorted, then snarled, “Do you suppose I stopped and questioned Him? He commanded and I obeyed, though I did wonder what possible aid the staid Braile could need. Now I understand.” He moved closer. “Have I come in time to stop your insanity?”
A hesitant half cry and a half grunt came from behind Braile in answer to Michael’s question. Michael stormed forward as Braile brought the squirming infant to his chest. “Hush, female.”
Her movement ceased and her eyes opened at his touch to her now rosy cheeks. Forbidden intelligence swirled in their leafy green depths.
No. Not just green. Gold zigzagged through the irises and pupils, much like the gold encircling his pupils, proof of his connection to the divine. He should be horrified, instead, Braile was pleased. She lived, her skin a soft tan, the fuzz on her head straddled the line between brown and blond.
“Infants that young do not survive outside of the womb.” Michael peered at the premature female, his blade in his hand, but lowered.
Braile took a measured breath. The tremendous weight of his actions settled on his shoulders. “You are correct…and she did not survive.”
Michael jerked as if slapped. “Damnation! Which makes your actions exponentially worse. Do you realize what you have done?” he asked again.
Brailed nodded. “I saved a life. I seem to recall that is our purpose. To save human lives.”
Michael grabbed his arm. “From the Darklings and Demoni Lords, not from death. This infant was not supposed to be born.”
“Then why did I hear her prayers? Why did she call my name?”
“Blasphemy!” Michael hissed in a low whisper. The tip of his sword tilted upward.
Braile’s free hand tightened on his blade. Yes, it was most blasphemous. He jerked away from Michael, creating distance to engage, if necessary. Except… “Why did Father send you? What were His exact words? Did he order you to stop me, or be a witness?”
Michael paused, frustration twisting his harsh features. A breeze generated by his anger kicked up and circled them. “His exact words were ‘Assist Braile’.”
Braile grinned, triumphant. “He placed you, Seraph, at my disposal.”
“You find humor in your impending death?” Michael folded his arms over his chest.
Braile sobered. There was the truth he’d avoided dwelling on. “Hold her for me.” He passed the babe to the seraphim. Michael jumped back as if the infant was a Darkling. Then with the utmost care, he gathered the babe in his palm.
Braile cut a swath from his crimson cloak and a bloody piece from the mother’s daisy print dress. He sheathed his sword and swaddled the infant with his cloak. The bloody print, he tucked into the side. Michael stared at the mesmerizing infant, transfixed. His hold tightened briefly before he relinquished her to Braile’s care. “What now?” Michael said
, his voice gruff.
“We cannot leave her here to be found.” Braile snapped his wings open and took to the skies. He headed for the nearest city, forty miles away.
He landed a few moments later, invisible to all the humans walking in and out of the hospital. Michael was beside him, somber and silent. Together, they moved to an unoccupied bench. This was the perfect place to leave the infant. She would be found within seconds of their departure. The blood on her mother’s dress would lead the authorities to discover her parents’ identities. So why couldn’t he let her go and walk away? He had to. The sharp edge of Michael’s blade awaited. He wasn’t afraid for his life to end. All things must end.
Yet he held her closer. Inhaled, pulling her unique scent inside of him.
Michael whispered, “Name her. It is your right, even though the humans will give her another.”
A fine rain began to fall and the name came to him. “Amaya.”
“How appropriate. It means night rain. It is a good name.”
Braile laid her on the bench, his touch lingering until he forced himself to take that first step away. A couple walked past the bench and kept going. Michael touched Braile’s arm. “Release her.”
He complied because he had no choice. All this time, she never cried. Now, she screamed, as if tortured. Her little arms and legs flaying, fighting an imaginary foe. The couple stopped and wheeled around. The female ran back to the bench. She snatched Amaya up and took a quick glance around, then ran into the hospital.
Braile kneeled and bowed his head, his gaze focused on the withered grass beneath his knees. His mind focused on Amaya. What would happen to her? What would she become? The power he’d gifted her was enormous. She had to be protected, guided lest she go astray and become more than the abomination she already was. Even so, in these final moments, he had no regrets.
He had created something. Something special. Pride filled him. This had to be what humans felt when they gazed upon their offspring, an all-consuming love for someone other than themselves. And now he would leave her.
“Give me your oath you will see to her welfare,” he said to Michael.
Silence.
Braile looked over his shoulder. Michael had his blade raised, poised to strike. Duty was duty and had to come first. His countenance wasn’t one of resignation or fury. After all, Braile had thrown his life away for something Michael and all of Heaven deemed unpardonable. He’d broken a tenet. His death was the price for her life. The die was cast the instant she took her first grace-aided breath. Except, for once, in all the time Braile had known Michael, his normally harsh features were hopeful.
Michael lowered his sword and his mouth twisted into a mockery of a grin. “Your death will not be a punishment, but a service to all. With your grace, you saved what wasn’t meant to be born. With the rest of your grace—at the appointed time—you will save all of humanity
Chapter One
Present Day
Bane kicked the trash out of his way. Another night of hunting. He wasn’t an all-powerful fallen archangel. He was on the lowest rung of the UnHallowed ladder, an ordinary fallen angel of the warrior class. Ten thousand years as a fucking grunt.
He pushed aside his ire, there would be plenty of time during the daylight hours to bitch and plan, and continued his patrol through the silent streets. The absence of humans wasn’t an anomaly; large sections of the city were abandoned. Gothic structures, small homes, factories, houses of worship, many had succumbed to the ravages of time and misuse. The decay of a once great city. The absence of Darklings, that gave him pause. The recent closure of the Cruor–the portal to Hell—hadn’t eliminated the Darkling threat, it just made them more desperate, piggybacked with aggression. Not that Darklings were timid. They were effective weapons of destruction. Practically brainless, they were simpleminded killers, preying on humans with the weakest moral compass, otherwise they would’ve consumed humanity millennia ago. They struck quickly and devoured their prey with equal speed. Others, they fed off for decades, marking the individual’s soul for Hell. Whether consumed in a frenzy or at their leisure, the result was the same—damnation.
Luckily, they were easy to kill. Something Bane excelled at.
So, where were the wispy creatures? The night waned. Nothing stopped time. Morning approached, and with it, his immolation. UnHallowed and sunlight didn’t mix. Their punishment for questioning the Maker. Their disgrace. Where once they were Hallowed, they were now UnHallowed—or worse, Demoni Lords.
In unending darkness is where you shall find refuge and no other place.
He’d spent hours crisscrossing downtown to no avail. Did Darklings go on vacation? He could certainly use one. “To hell with this.” He wasn’t far from Scarla’s training center, Maximum Effort, or Lusted, the bar she ran next door. Chances were Scarla was awake. They could annoy each other over a beer. He pivoted and headed that way. Maybe he could find out who she was dating. Chayyliél would pay in gold for that info. He took the overprotective father stereotype to the next level. Bane didn’t blame him. Scarla was the little sister Bane never had and he’d break any man stupid enough to touch her.
Sulfur permeated the air.
Bane halted. Sulfur meant Darklings. Darklings meant death to the unlucky human who stumbled into their path. So much for calling it an early night. His nostrils clogged from the concentration of sulfur in the air. Damn, he’d hit the mother lode. Another opportunity to impress Michael.
Redemption had been promised for his nightly routine. His grace restored and a return to the Celestial Army. He called bullshit on Michael’s promise and turned his back on the human world. Michael couldn’t lie, but that didn’t mean he could be trusted. Then Michael promised the one thing Bane truly desired if he led the UnHallowed back into the fold, not as celestial beings with their full grace restored—which was what most of the UnHallowed wanted—but as a secondary unit fighting the Darklings. A hard sell that didn’t come close to describing the task.
Most of the UnHallowed chose the shadows rather than venture to this side of reality. They blamed the humans for their fallen state. Bane chose the truth rather than bitter illusions. He liked humans, found their pettiness amusing. He even respected the handful he’d studied during his long existence. Because of that, he wanted what was promised—and more. He wanted his wings restored, elevation of his station to archangel, and leadership of the UnHallowed. He’d settle for nothing less.
Bane followed the scent two blocks over and through a vacant lot to a street of boarded up row houses. He leaned on a broken lamppost, surveying the urban landscape at its bleakest. Sixty years ago, this had been a thriving neighborhood with stay-at-home mothers, and kids playing stickball well after the sun had set. The memory triggered a wave of nostalgia he viciously squelched. Too many centuries to stroll down memory lane. That path led to a dead end named insanity.
A crash came from inside the faded red brick structure three houses to his right. Instead of phasing through the brick house and into the middle of the melee, Bane pulled the fabric of the night to him and let the shadows cloak him. He crossed through the conduits and exited in a corner of the living room, his twin blades in his hands, ready to engage.
Except, a female had things well in hand. The head to toe black outfit hid her identity in the same as one of his UnHallowed brethren—and accentuated the swell of her breasts, the sweet flare of her hips, the sensual curve of her ass, and a pair of long, long legs. She had two twelve-inch serrated black blades—similar to his— strapped to her forearms as she faced four Darklings.
Four? A rare occurrence when he usually only found one, two at the most. The creatures appeared as nothing more than black smoke, until they were ready to kill—then they were solid and deadly.
A gentle-hu-man would’ve stepped in and taken over. He was by no means gentle nor could he be mistaken for human. So, he leaned casually against the wall and enjoyed the show.
By the ash residue sprinkled over the scar
red parquet floors, she’d already killed several. Plus, he was entranced by the erotic fluidity of her attack. Sensual, like silk caught in a breeze, except, just when he thought he could predict the pattern of her attack, the breeze became a tornado. He studied every parry and slice of her blades, the way she deflected and delivered her blows. They were slightly erratic, lacking precise control. The subtle tremor in her limbs, the satisfying breath he noted at the completion of each stab or blow. Not enjoyment, per se, but he sensed satisfaction. Pride.
He gave a mental snort. She lacked the cool detachment needed to keep one’s parts and life intact, yet the rhythm of her attack struck a familiar note within him. He’d seen the technique before. The memory flirted with his mind.
While he searched his brain for the answer, she killed one of the four. Next, she delivered a roundhouse kick and followed up with a stab to the second Darkling’s center mass.
Then she saw him and froze. That momentary lapse in her concentration allowed a Darkling to get too close to her unprotected back. One swipe of its claw and it would rip her spine from her body. He’d seen it happen. Wasn’t pretty. Then the demon would suck her soul from her body before it could ascend, if that was its destination. For the Darkling, the soul was a gourmet meal, the hollowed-out body, the dessert. In the end, nothing would be left to bury. Another missing person filed away in a police report.
With a flick of his wrist, Bane threw a blade directly at her, certain she would duck. The female didn’t disappoint. With a second to spare, she shifted to the left. His blade cleared a hair’s breadth to the right of her throat. He expected no less. One with her skills wouldn’t die from a blade she saw coming.
And then there was one Darkling.
Bane stepped from his corner. Together, they circled the creature, and each other.
“Who are you?” he demanded with a smile to put her at ease. Her eyes were hooded, yet their weight touched him. One of her blades remained on the writhing vaporous mass between them. The other, him. She didn’t trust him. He approved.
Only the Fallen (UnHallowed Series Book 1) Page 14
