Maybe she thought using utensils would make him less wretched. Regardless, her kindness and companionship sustained him. He’d do anything to never lose her favor.
“Samuel, mon cher, can you hear me?”
Thunk. The spoon dropped from his hand onto the wooden table. He stiffened with an overwhelming fear that Marie-Claire would be punished for feeding him. Ignoring his physical discomfort, he turned and frowned. No one was there.
Marie grasped his wrist. “You can hear me, can’t you?” His gaze locked on hers but it took him another moment to realize what he’d heard was the dulcet tones of her voice inside of his head.
He gaped. “Yes,” he whispered.
“Not out loud—with your mind. Think what it is that you want to say.”
“How are you doing that?” he asked, wondering if she could actually understand his thoughts.
Her lips turned up and then flattened. “There is much to explain now that you are ready, mon cher.” Her rough palm was warm on the back of his hand. “Many nights I’ve tried to speak with you thus. Tonight is the first time that you’ve heeded my call.”
He stared, struck dumb.
She squeezed his hand and met his eyes. “We’re special, each of us in our own way. You are a Nephil, a child of Uriel. The angelic blood of your father runs through your human veins. As for me, what I am is less important.”
His father was angelic? Her words made no sense, leaving him with a strange sense of disquiet. “What?”
She dropped her hands to her lap. “Much time will be needed to answer your questions . . . to explain it all. For now, know that you’re not alone, Samuel.”
Heaviness settled in his brow. “Samuel?”
A small smile curled onto her lips. “Yes, mon cher. That is your given name.”
“How come my father has never used it? He calls me Mongrel or Abomination.” Realizing he wasn’t nameless like he’d always believed spurred a small flutter of warmth in his chest.
“It’s the name your mother gave you. The archdemon you call father . . . is not. You are but a spoil of war. A prisoner who was raised to believe he is demon spawn. It’s the opposite; you’re angelic in nature. That’s why he despises you and why you’re punished. You’re an unwelcome reminder of what the Dark Ones lost and will never regain.”
Samuel sat frozen. “How can this be true?”
“It’s only one of many truths.” She coughed and pulled her shawl more securely around her shoulders. “Do you ever wonder why you never feel cold, or why you heal so quickly unless they use the cursed whips like tonight?”
He’d never given it much thought. “No.”
She touched his hand again and held it with strong, twisted fingers. “As a Nephil, you have certain gifts and strengths that, as of yet, are not fully present. You sit on the cusp of manhood. Soon your body will awaken in many ways. Your wings will emerge, and with them so shall your power.”
Samuel’s eyes went wide and his mind filled with questions. “Wings?”
“Yes, mon cher. You will have wings to call on your command. At rest, they will stay hidden.”
For a moment, she reminded him of those prisoners who spoke fantastical and delusional words before they died. Could she be ill?
“You’re important, Samuel, and your time will come. Play their game. You’re destined for something greater. A time will come when you’ll save many lives. When that time comes, you’ll know it. Hide your intelligence, and gain their trust to secure your freedom,” she said.
Her words slowly sank in and he gritted his teeth, feeling empowered for the first time in his life. “But I want revenge.”
“They will pay, but in a way that is more crippling. Patience and a humble façade will be the key to everything. Then you can go home . . . where you belong.”
His mouth dried out, tasting both hope and fear. “I know nothing of a home, except here with you,” he said, unable to bear the thought of leaving her behind.
“This is nothing but your prison. You have a mother who awaits you and others who will welcome you.”
Anger bubbled up in his chest and he bristled. “If my mother wanted me so badly, why hasn’t she come for me?”
Marie-Claire’s warm gaze met his. “Because you were stolen from her and she thinks you’re dead, my sweet Nephil boy.”
“What?” It took a moment for him to understand, and then his eyes welled with the possibility that maybe he was wanted. He had always believed the words of the archdemon who called himself his “father”—that his mother had reviled and abandoned him. “What if she dies before I escape?”
“That, mon cher, I promise, will never happen.”
“Are you a seer?” Samuel asked with a sudden sense of excitement.
“No, but I carry the message that was meant only for you. Nothing more, nothing less. Be warned, everything I teach you must stay secret. Your life depends on it.”
The heavy wood door flung open, slamming against the rough stone. A guard glared at them. “Time for him to return to his cell, old woman.”
Marie-Claire caught Samuel’s eye a moment before she dipped her head and got up from the table. She motioned for Samuel to go.
He grabbed his remaining clothes as the guard jerked him up and hauled him to the door.
For once, he didn’t fight back.
Chapter 2
SAMUEL
Northern California.
“AHHH!!!!”
More than one hundred twenty-five years after Marie-Claire’s passing, Samuel shot upright on the lumpy straw mattress, awakened by the ear-splitting scream that had ripped from his throat. He trembled in the darkness, his nerve endings roaring with pain as if touched by demon-fire.
“It’s just a dream,” he muttered through panting breaths, drawing in the foul, damp air of the dungeon. Much like the fortress of his childhood in France, the northern California compound had been his home for nearly a century. He cradled his head, his cheeks blazing against his palms as sweat trickled down the scars on his chest underneath his ragged shirt.
Fever, he thought, the only condition under which he could sweat. Or so he’d been told by one of the many scientists who had experimented on him.
It must have been the latest injection. Not that he knew the purpose. The tests were endless. Lately, when he wasn’t being beaten or left forgotten in his cell, he was used as a lab specimen. It wasn’t the first time. But he’d take this round any day over the exhaustive studies focused on his reproductive system, which had lasted for nearly two decades. Nothing since had come close to that level of humiliation. Being shackled naked while strangers manipulated his sexual organs and probed his orifices with instruments was soul-crushing enough. But the worst affront was being made to perform intimate acts for a roomful of academics hiding behind two-way mirrors. He couldn’t help but wonder if those tests had been meant more for satisfying their perverse pleasure rather than serving an actual scientific purpose. If the archdemon claiming to be his father had had anything to do with it, the strong possibility existed that the exercise was meant solely to humiliate him.
Once the scientists realized he couldn’t reproduce, he had hoped the tests would stop. But they hadn’t.
Samuel closed his eyes and tried to still the involuntary quaking in his fever-fueled muscles. The only thing sustaining him was his prophesized salvation, which burned like a solitary flame lighting his way to freedom. One day it would be different.
Lives would be saved because he lived . . . and his captors would pay once he took his place as one of the Holy Twelve chosen to lead the final battle between good and evil.
But nearly one hundred fifty years of brutality at the hands of the archdemon would shake the resolve of even the most faithful.
What he would give to feel Marie-Claire’s soothing touch on his forehead. Some days, he struggled to keep his faith, even when death seemed the preferable option. She visited his dreams when he was at his lowest, making him swear he�
�d survive yet another day.
With a deep sigh, his respiration eased as the pain subsided. He lay back onto the too-small mattress and curled into a fetal position, hungering for human contact that would never come.
Closing his eyes, he prayed that what Marie-Claire had foretold would happen soon.
A pity; his only immediate hope for freedom hinged on the same person who could just as easily lead him to his destruction.
Keys rattled on the other side of the dungeon door as they twisted in the lock. Samuel sat up with a start; the fever from the night before was long gone.
The door cracked open. He drew his hand up in front of his eyes to block the light from the hall as it cut through the darkness around the hulking twins standing in the doorway. Chaos and Destruction. He couldn’t tell one pale, pasty Sphinx from the other. He only knew he was no match for either of his watchdogs. Even though he stood six foot seven, they towered over him and outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds. And, speaking from experience, they could crush the bones of his forearm in their fists. After many thwarted attempts and bones broken trying to escape Achanelech over the years, Samuel had learned the hard way that Sphinx were more powerful than Nephilim. Eventually, he gave up trying to flee in favor of waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. According to Marie-Claire, eventually one would . . .
The willowy figure of the archdemon’s consort, Emanelech, entered between them, carrying an electric lantern. “Go,” she barked at her two minions. The door clanged shut, and she approached inside the lantern’s wide arching glow.
“Mon chouchou,” Emanelech said softly, using the endearment—her favorite blue-eyed boy—she has bestowed on him as a child. He’d never been able to understand how “my little cabbage” translated to what she claimed. Then again, she was accustomed to making up her own rules, and who was he to argue?
He rose from his pallet and gave her a silent circumspect stare. They had an unspoken agreement. She would remain his silent patron. The only one he had. He would never reveal their interactions or the gifts she’d given him. In return, he would help her as she needed. But over the years, he’d learned that her kindness was sprinkled in and amongst indifference and occasional unexplained moments of cruelty. He didn’t understand her or her affection for him any better now than he had as a child. True, she had protected him on many occasions, while leaving him to suffer at her demon lover’s hand on an equal number of others.
He clenched his hands. “I thought you said the tests would stop,” he said quietly, meeting her eyes and biting back his welling anger. A promise she’d made during their visit a month ago.
Giving him a tight smile, her pupils shifted from blue to black. “A little demanding today, aren’t we? Wake up on the wrong side of the pallet?”
He lowered his to head to hide his gritted teeth. “Why did you come, Mistress?”
Her voice softened. “To give you good news.” She touched his shoulder, leaving an icy sensation as her fingers dropped away. “I have a plan, but I’ll need your help. It will guarantee an end to your days as a lab specimen and hopefully yield better short-term accommodations.”
He lifted his head, a spark of hope igniting. “What do you need me to do?”
Knowing her the way he did, there had to be something important in it for her. No doubt the execution of her plan also carried a risk of pain and suffering for him.
Her eyes returned to their normal shade of blue, and her smile took on a mischievous twist. “You’ll see.” She arched a brow. “In the meantime, I have to pay Acchie a visit upstairs and do some heavy convincing.”
Acchie. Her pet name for his self-proclaimed father, Achanelech. The Demon King of Fire. Lieutenant to Lucifer himself.
“Later, pet,” she said and blew him an icy kiss. The glow of her lantern headed to the door. “Before I go, did you enjoy my gift?” For years after Marie-Claire died, Emanelech had smuggled him books with matches and tapers to read by. Classics when he was young and whatever was current as he got older. Always fiction, anything ranging from thrillers to romance. He suspected they were whatever she herself had consumed. Either way, they provided one of his only links to the outside world.
“Yes, thank you,” he said quietly.
“Good. I’ll have Destruction bring more if all goes well upstairs. Ta-ta for now.” The door thumped closed behind her, leaving him again draped in darkness.
Chapter 3
EMANELECH
“EM, WHAT’S SO IMPORTANT that it can’t wait until my day is done?” Achanelech glared at her from across his heavy wooden desk. The polished sycamore surface was hidden underneath piles of paperwork and his open laptop. His black eyes blazed with a color matching his long, slicked-back hair, and the red V-shaped scar stood out on his pale cheek.
Unfazed at his annoyance, she smirked and thought about what she’d do to him later. So delicious when he’s indignant, she thought. Regardless, he wasn’t the only one inconvenienced. She’d had to interrupt her day and sit in traffic to be here. The minute she’d hatched her plan at Forrester Research Labs, she’d left to pay Samuel a quick visit in the dungeon and then came directly here.
That was her definition of commitment. Some days, she wondered about his.
Usually, he embraced her midday interruptions. Not today. She didn’t have time to dilly-dally anyway; she needed to take care of business.
“We’re at a dead end,” Em said, planting her hands securely on her hips and tapping her high-heeled Manolo. “I need more specimens, Acchie.” Absent was her usual style of flirty manipulation to get what she wanted. To convey her seriousness, she had dressed the part, wearing a lab coat over her form-fitting white blouse and pencil skirt, her dark hair pulled back into a gleaming ponytail. The only thing she needed to complete the image of her phony high-brow PhD and professional credentials would’ve been a pair of glasses perched on the tip of her nose. In her haste, she had accidentally left them sitting on her desk at Forrester.
Achanelech glared at her and snorted. “And how do you suppose we do that? Kidnap more Nephil babies? We don’t have time to wait for them to grow up.”
Sometimes he’s not the brightest bulb in the box, she thought. Most days, she savored that fact.
She arched a brow. “I was thinking something more immediate . . . like snatching a Guardian or two.”
He stared, speechless, and then a chortle rose from his throat until laughter consumed him and tears ran down his face. Clutching his stomach, he gasped for air. “Em, I do . . . enjoy . . . your sense of humor.”
She felt her irises shift from blue to black with her growing anger until it crystalized, and a snowball shot from her palm straight into his cackling puss.
His eyes widened in surprise as snow slid down his cheeks. Popping out of the chair, he bubbled with ire, searing the air. “What in the name of Lucifer was that for?” he snarled as the last of the white flakes dissipated in wisps of steam from his brow.
For being such a fool, she thought. A sexy one, but still a fool. Sometimes opposites truly did attract. His fire to her ice made for an explosive relationship, in and out of bed. Although tempted to do this on her own, she begrudgingly admitted she needed his support . . . and his dungeon.
“I’ll tell you, but don’t take the Master’s name in vain,” she said, piercing him with an icy stare. “I’m not joking. I need more Nephilim. One isn’t enough. We’ve exhausted your pet’s samples. I’m out of options. If we expect to produce this vaccine anytime soon, I need some diverse samples,” she said.
He grunted and glared—the warning signal to impending obstinacy.
She decided to tack back to her usual approach. She let out a deep sigh and walked over to him, swaying her hips and giving him a sexy pout.
“Acchie, I need your help, mon cher,” she said, pumping up his ego after her little attack. His hungry gaze swept down her body, lust cracking through the look of aggravation he wore. She sidled up behind him and sank her man
icured fingers into his shoulder muscles to knead out the tension that never seemed to disappear.
“Mmm. Cherie, that feels magnificent, but how do you expect me to get more? With a big butterfly net? Or, better yet, we storm a Guardianship stronghold—and then what? Ask some of them to accompany us home? There’s a reason why they remain elusive to us, or have you forgotten?” The more he spoke, the more his irritation sliced through his words.
Em shook her head behind him and rolled her eyes. Why do I always have to do all of the thinking? “Do I ever come empty-handed? I have a plan, of course.”
He smirked. “Why am I not surprised?”
Willing her nails into sharp points, she dug them into his shoulders.
He shook her off. Turning in a flash, he grasped her wrists. “Watch it, you’re trying my patience,” he warned in a low voice.
She met his hot gaze head-on. “Then don’t belittle me unless you plan on finding new entertainment and procuring your own food.”
He pushed away from her and paced along the Persian carpet, heat rolling off him in sizzling waves. “Must it always come down to that?” he snapped.
“No, it always comes down to something simple called respect,” she replied, infusing a chill into her voice. Sometimes their constant bickering grated on her nerves. He’d take a couple of extra lashes for this later.
“I do respect you. Otherwise, I would’ve killed you long ago,” he said, giving her a dismissive wave of his hand.
Bastard. They needed each other too much for that. Their Master expected them to deliver on a very critical mission in the war between good and evil. An eternity of agony awaited them if they failed. Like it or not, they were stuck with one another. Given how they filled their nights, they were most definitely making the best of it. Luckily, their mutual need for control added some interesting spice to their unnatural lives.
Hope's Prelude: The Angelorum Twelve Chronicles #2.5 Page 2
