by Brenda Huber
Stepping closer, Rodrigo pulled the side of his trench coat aside, revealing rows upon rows of deep pockets brimming with tiny pouches and jumbles of gold and silver. The man was a walking pharmacy of illegal drugs and, apparently, a fence for stolen jewelry. The pusher also made sure he flashed the hunk of steel tucked into his waistband.
Like that gun would make a difference.
His actions justified—at least in his mind—Niklas raised his hand, slapping his palm to Rodrigo’s chest. The dealer sucked in a sharp breath, his expression swiftly turning to a scowl as his body went rigid.
“Whad’a de hell, man. Get yo’ fu—” His voice suddenly choked off, the sound garbling into a pained gasp. His eyes widened and his aura bled brilliant orange. Rodrigo’s knees gave out as his eyes rolled back in his head. He hung there, suspended from nothing more than the contact of Niklas’s palm against his chest.
A tingling burn seared Niklas’s skin as Rodrigo’s life force began to seep into his hand and surge up his arm. At last, as Rodrigo’s heart ceased to beat, as his lungs ceased to draw breath, Niklas dropped him to the pavement like the refuse he was. Knowing how useless it was to waste the effort over a man whose soul was as black as this one’s had been, he muttered a brief prayer for all those affected by this man’s greed instead.
Rubbing his hands together, warming his palms, he pushed fire out, pouring it over the body. In a matter of second, flames engulfed the empty shell that used to be Rodrigo. Glancing one last time both ways down the alley, Niklas drew a deep breath and focused on the apartment.
Chapter Seven
Carly banged a palm against the window. She’d wiggled it, she’d pounded on it, and she’d pushed with all her might. But the window wouldn’t budge. Stupid thing. She stomped to the sofa and sat down.
He didn’t have a single book in the place. No magazines. Not so much as an old newspaper. No TV or radio either. She couldn’t very well sit there twiddling her thumbs. This was ridiculous. She had a life, one she needed to get back to. Soon. Provided she hadn’t been fired. She’d lost her phone in the park and, despite having an excess of time on her hands, she hadn’t been able to crack the pass code on Niklas’s phone. Then he’d done that vanishing thing and she hadn’t even had a chance to tell him she needed to make a call.
And that vanishing thing he did had been the final straw in convincing her of his claims; his fantastic story was all true.
That, or she’d fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole and might as well apply for permanent residency.
She wasn’t one to sit idle. Digging through drawers, Carly located an old rag and set to rummaging beneath the sink for cleaning supplies. Her fallback. She was a bored cleaner. Hmmm. Come to think of it, she was a mad cleaner too. Peering into the dark abyss beneath the sink, she scowled. Not much there either. A bottle of dish detergent. A spray can of general disinfectant. A half-empty bottle of window cleaner. All had a thick coat of dust on them.
Wow, talk about a bachelor pad with the bare basics.
Shaking her head, she took out the window cleaner, her mind wandering to the travel guide she’d recently purchased. Blue liquid misted the window, and she set rag to glass. Paris. The Eiffel Tower. Bistros and sidewalk cafés. What would the city smell like? The scent of ammonia faded into the aroma of yeast and cinnamon. Fresh breads? Coffee?
She scrubbed until the rag had cleared away a squeaky, clean circle. And the Rhône Valley, recently named wine region of the year. What must that be like? Oh, how she’d like to visit all the great vineyards of the world. Italy, Spain—
“What are you doing?”
A strangled screech escaped her as she whirled around, clutching the rag to her chest as a meager shield, aiming the Windex at his chest like a gun, ready to fire.
Niklas. She dropped her chin to her chest as her shoulders sagged with relief.
Gathering her frayed nerves, she lowered the bottle and skirted him on the way to the kitchenette. Her hands trembled as she set her makeshift weapon on the counter. She’d almost shot him with Windex. Good grief. Just call her Rambo. Look out demons of the world. She was armed and dangerous.
“Cleaning. I was cleaning.”
He was clearly baffled. “Why?”
Her earlier irritation returned. “Because you left me here with nothing to do. Don’t you own a TV? A magazine? A comic book, for Pete’s sake?”
“I told you to rest.”
“Pardon me if I don’t sleep on command,” she snapped.
Niklas stepped closer to the window, frowned and peered through it as if he’d never looked through a clean glass pane before.
“Where did you go?”
He turned to face her, and she got her first good look at him since his return. Her breath caught in the back of her throat. Chippendales’ finest had nothing on him. He looked amazing. His face held no shadows, his skin was healthy and sun-kissed once more. His eyes were alert, his carriage strong and proud again.
He’d been gone less than an hour.
Not possible.
“What happened to you?” Unable to stop herself, she brushed her fingertips over his cheek. She searched his face for lingering signs of his illness. There weren’t any. Not a single one.
He captured her wrist and pulled her hand away from his face. The muscle in his jaw leaped. “I’ve healed.”
Turning, Niklas crossed to the bed and dropped to one knee. From beneath the bed, he pulled a large case and dropped it atop the mattress. Carly edged closer. Her wonder over his miraculous recovery was momentarily set aside as her curiosity over the case stirred. He clicked the latches open and lifted the lid.
Knives and daggers of various sizes were strapped to the inside of the lid. Some were bejeweled, others plain. Some had intricate scrollwork and symbols carved upon the blades. Others had handles inlaid with ivory, ebony and old bone.
He lifted a flat inner partition, presumably one that protected the knives from the rest of the case’s contents. The case itself, perhaps a foot deep, was sectioned into five compartments with velvet-covered dividers.
One compartment held a hodgepodge of gold and silver jewelry. Delicate necklaces, thick chains, pendants, rings. The next partition contained a pile of small, velvet pouches that were tied with golden string. Dozens of tiny, corked bottles filled with multicolored liquids lined the third compartment. Parchment scrolls were stacked in the fourth compartment. And the last section was filled with rocks.
Rocks?
Bending closer, she peered hard at the last compartment, bracing one hand on his shoulder. No, not rocks. Crystals. Rough, unrefined crystals and stones.
Turning his head, he lifted a brow.
“Sorry,” she muttered, swiping her hand back as heat swam up her neck and gushed into her cheeks.
She sat on the bed, tucked a foot beneath her and watched him paw through the pile of gold and silver. “What is all this stuff?”
“Souvenirs,” he offered with a wry twist of his lips. “Ward stones, holy water, potions and powders. Ah, here they are.” He extracted a long silver chain and a silver ring from the tangle. The ring looked like an heirloom; its center stone was a square-cut peridot, surrounded by small diamonds. An oval-cut garnet winked at her from a fragile-looking pendant suspended from the necklace. Its setting was a beautiful weave of silver filament dotted with slivers of diamonds.
“Here.” He held the pieces out to her. “Put these on. And don’t take them off.” His eyes met hers, his stare hard and insistent as he added, “Ever.”
She accepted them, bending to examine them more closely. “What are they?”
“They’re guard stones.” Niklas once again pawed through the pile of jewelry. He pulled out a thick signet ring inlaid with a strange, mottled, reddish-brown stone, and pushed it onto his pinkie.
“Is that what those big crystals in that compartme
nt are? Guard stones?”
“No, those are ward stones.”
Frowning, she held the dainty ring between her fingers, examined the stone, traced the edge with her forefinger. “What’s the difference?”
After impatiently taking the ring from her, he grasped her left wrist and lifted her hand. Without ceremony, he shoved the ring onto her ring finger. “Don’t take it off.” He waved his finger at the necklace.
“Okay,” she conceded, fastening the jewelry around her throat. Touchy, touchy. “What’s the difference between ward stones and guard stones?”
“Ward stones protect building or tract of land, preventing demons and evil spirits from entering or exiting a location. Guard stones protect the individual. The guard stone in that ring—peridot—protects against demons and evil. Diamonds and the garnet will protect against evil and during physical travel.”
He dug with renewed vigor, finally extracting a bracelet.
Fearing a future as the Queen of Sheba, she held up a hand and exclaimed, “Look, I’m not really a jewelry kind of girl—”
“You are now,” came his terse pronouncement.
Heaving a put-upon sigh, she held out her right wrist. After pushing it aside, he took her left wrist in hand, fastening the intricate clasp. She lifted her wrist to the light and studied the ring of small stones dangling from the pagan-looking bracelet. Despite her earlier complaint, she couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship. It really was beautiful.
“I’ve never seen these before. What are they?”
“Chrysoberyl to guard against possession, and brecciated jasper to protect during astral travel.”
“Astral—are you serious?”
The glance he sent her spoke volumes. “Whatever you do, don’t take that bracelet off. Or the ring. Or the necklace. The bracelet will prevent Ronové and his minions from shimmering with you.”
“Shimmering?” She stared at him, frowning. Shimmering? The only thing she could connect the strange word to was… “Is that the vanishing thing you did earlier?”
“Yeah.” One corner of his mouth edged upward. “That vanishing thing.”
“What about you? Won’t it prevent you from doing the same then?”
He wiggled the signet ring in front of her. The stone matched the ones on her bracelet. “They’re cut from the same stone. The kindred stones will allow me to shimmer with you.”
Silent, she examined the bracelet again. She’d read about the healing and protective properties of gems and stones. At the time, she hadn’t really believed any of it valid. Now? Well, if Niklas said they worked—after all she’d recently witnessed—who was she to say otherwise?
Dropping her hands to her lap, she watched as he withdrew a scroll. Leaning forward, she squinted at the strange writing. She couldn’t read a word. “What’s that?”
Grudging amusement glinted in his eyes. “Didn’t anyone ever warn you about curiosity killing the—”
“Cat,” she finished for him, heaving a sigh. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. I figure by now, if I was that stupid cat, my nine lives would be about all used up.” Her gaze zeroed in on the scroll once more. “What kind of writing is that?”
“Cryptoglyphs.”
Frowning, she studied the strange symbols more closely. “I’ve seen those somewhere before.”
“Ronové’s tattoos. And mine, when I’m in demon form.”
Her gaze flew to his face. “Do all demons have those marks?”
“No.” He examined the scroll before replacing it and taking up another. “Only high ranking generals in Lucifer’s army—warriors who’ve proven themselves ferocious, merciless and cunning in battle—are gifted with Cryptoglyphs. The more legendary the warrior, the more magnificent his feats, the more intricate and extensive the Cryptoglyphs.”
“So they’re like Medals of Honor or Purple Hearts or something?”
“Something like that. They’re like—” He glanced up, clearly searching for the right framework for his explanation. “Like the ancient Egyptians used hieroglyphs to tell the stories of their pharaohs, Cryptoglyphs tell the stories of revered demon warriors.”
She fell silent for a short while, chewing on the inside of her lip as she recalled the plethora of Cryptoglyphs that had adorned Niklas’s demonic body. He may not have followed Lucifer anymore, but when he had, he must have been among Lucifer’s most elite generals.
With a tiny shiver, she turned her focus to something else. “Where did you get these scrolls?”
“They are pages torn from Lucifer’s grimoire.”
“Lucifer’s grimoire? As in—”
“As in the book of dark magic Lucifer uses to create objects such as talismans and amulets, to perform magical spells, charms and divination, to summon or invoke entities such as angels, spirits and demons. Yada. Yada. That book.”
After unrolling the crackling, aged parchment, Niklas studied the pictures and crude symbols scrawled across the page. He selected five of the ward stones and a black handled dagger, and then set aside the scroll. He strode to the center of the room and drew a large symbol on the floor with a piece of chalk. He then tucked the athamé in the waistband of his jeans before methodically placing the stones at strategic points all around him. When he finished this strange ritual, he checked the scroll one last time and then held his hands out. A frown tugged her brow, but she rose and went to him.
“Give me your hands. Now, look into my eyes and do not break the connection, do not even blink, no matter what. Do not interrupt.” He squeezed her hands and gave her a warning look, and she snapped her mouth closed. “Save your questions for later.”
“Fine.” Pressing her lips together, she glared up at him.
Taking a deep breath, he locked his gaze onto hers. She couldn’t have looked away even if the apartment suddenly went up in flames. He began to speak, his voice deeper, darker, layered.
“Mïachtra onto’on quïelletra baté en eschweïst,” he chanted. His words spilled on and on, washing over her.
Everything outside the circle of stones dimmed as mist curled up from the floor inside the circle, swirling around them. All she could see was him. His eyes. They turned black. She didn’t so much as blink. She couldn’t. Power coursed through his hands into hers, tingling up her arms, tickling inside her chest.
She fell into his stare, numb and blind to all else. Pain pierced the skin on her palms, but she couldn’t flinch, couldn’t look away. Heat grew as his palms once again covered hers, grew until her skin must surely be blistered.
And still, she couldn’t pull away.
The heat spread, coursing through her entire body.
“Ibentra talic manthras ocht.” Her head swam. The cadence of her heartbeat filled her ears, or was it his heartbeat? The pulse of it throbbed around her, and yet inside her too. She couldn’t be sure. “Coré otháme aoté collas, tá’hiri.”
He finally broke the trance. The mist was gone, the room no longer shrouded in darkness, and yet the warmth lingered, pulsing in her every cell. An acute awareness of him. Intimate. Unsettling.
A sudden wave of weakness caught her by surprise. Her knees went out from beneath her. Niklas caught her against him, his arm slipping around her waist. He held her like that for a long moment, his gaze caressing her face, and then he swept her off her feet and lifted her high against his chest. Niklas stepped from the circle and lowered her gently to the bed. As he brushed the hair from her forehead, a disconcertingly tender expression softened his features.
When he pulled his hand back, she blinked and caught his wrist. Drying blood was smeared across his palm. A thin line of scarlet sliced across his palm, a once deep wound nearly healed. Holding her own palm up, she gasped, seeing the mirror image reflected upon her flesh.
“What did you do?”
His expression held unmistakable guilt before he tur
ned away. Without a word, he gathered the stones from the floor and repacked the trunk, then returned it to its hiding place beneath the bed.
“Is that how you healed yourself while you were gone? With stones like these? With a spell or something?” Inexplicable, insidious fear swam into her blood.
“No, I—” He abruptly scanned the air around her, frowning. He shook his head, as though confused. Rocking back on his heels, he rubbed his eyes, and peered at her as if she’d grown two more heads.
“What? What’s wrong?” Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she pushed herself into a sitting position. “What?”
“I can’t…” He shook his head, looking baffled and more than a bit green around the gills. “I can’t see you.”
“What do you mean you can’t see me?” Fear of a new kind surged through her. She lunged for him, grasped his face between her hands, and pulled him closer so she could peer into his eyes. They looked normal, not damaged in any way. He’d had a raging fever for so long. Fever could affect hearing—perhaps it had affected his vision somehow. A delayed reaction of some kind. “Do you see anything at all? Is everything black, can you see any light? Are you able to—”
“No.” He took hold of her wrists, though he didn’t pull her hands from his face. “You don’t understand. I can’t see your aura anymore. There’s no color. No color around you.” His expression darkened, and then his eyes went wide. Horrified, his grip on her wrists tightened. “Are you okay? Do you feel strange?”
“I feel fine.” She frowned, adding, “A little warm, maybe, but otherwise fine. Unless you count the bruises you’re trying to give me.”
His grip immediately eased, but his dark scowl remained. “Your emotions. You still have them, right? Emotions?”
What a ridiculous question. “Um, yeah?”
A long sigh shuddered from him. Only then did he release her. She could tell something was still bothering him, but he’d shut down.
