Redemption (Redemption Series Book 1)

by R.K. Ryals

  ~Bezaliel~

  “If you think you’re going anywhere without me, you really are crazy,” Monroe hissed as she followed us out of the house, while pulling an Elvis is alive sweatshirt on over her hastily thrown-on clothes.

  Marcas’ figure loomed in front of me. I wondered absently if he was taller than Conor or if they were the same height. Either way, they both towered over me.

  “This isn’t some simple day trip,” Marcas said brusquely, his stride lengthening.

  I cursed him in my head. Didn’t tall people realize walking faster meant short people had to jog to keep up? Monroe moved past me and tugged on Marcas’ jacket. Talk about bravado. He stopped abruptly and spun around, his face almost feral, his eyes tinted red. Monroe took several steps back.

  “I don’t care how long it takes,” she said confidently.

  I stared at her in awe. Marcas glanced between us.

  “And she’s worth that much loyalty?” Marcas asked, inclining his head in my direction. I scowled at him.

  “Bastard,” I muttered.

  He looked at Monroe. She edged closer to me.

  “Yes,” she answered. No other explanation needed. It was all wrapped up in that one word. We had a long history together. I touched her arm gently.

  “What about your mom?”

  Monroe looked at me, her face determined. I knew then no one would win this battle. Monroe was in.

  “I’ll call her later. But I’m going and that’s that."

  I shrugged. Okay by me. Marcas shook his head and looked Heavenward.

  “Is this part of my curse now too?” he asked the night sky.

  I looked at him silently, my gaze tracing his strong jaw before working its way down the line of his neck. He had muscles everywhere. And what did he mean curse? A thought hit me.

  “Do you have a car?” I asked reasonably.

  His head dropped, his eyes finding mine before inclining his head slightly to the left. Why couldn’t he just point? I looked in that direction and almost yelped. Monroe whistled.

  “Damn, it’s Eleanor,” she muttered, quoting the Gone in Sixty Seconds movie as we both perused the sleek black 1967 Shelby Mustang GT 500 that sat at the end of the drive.

  Marcas didn’t reply, he just moved on, almost gliding as he came up on the car and entered the driver’s side. He seemed more like a motorcycle guy. Something told me he was making a lot of adjustments for me. Like he needed any more reasons to loathe me.

  “Don’t offer to open the door or anything,” Monroe mumbled as she climbed into the back. The snide remarks were usually my forte, but I was still reeling over the whole he-bled-I-bled thing. Kinda spins a person for a loop.

  Marcas glanced at me as I slid in next to him. I thought for a moment he was going to ask me if I was okay then thought better of it. He shifted gears. I looked over at his profile.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  He backed out of the drive and sped into the night. His gaze didn’t meet mine again.

  “You know what I am."

  I hated vague answers.

  “That’s not what I asked,” I said shortly.

  He did glance at me then but briefly.

  “I’m going to make one thing clear. I’m not here to get to know you. I could give a damn how you feel, and I’m not here to explain myself to anyone. I’m here because my brother has wild ideas that are going to get a lot of people killed. And because he didn’t give me a choice,” Marcas fumed. I just stared at him.

  “That was helpful,” I remarked sarcastically. “If you’re done with the whole Demon tirade, can you tell me what I have to do with any of this?”

  Marcas stiffened. If he thought his verbal montage affected me any, he was wrong. I had spent seven years in a home where my feelings weren’t spared. Why start now?

  “They haven’t told you anything, have they?” he asked me quietly. I shrugged.

  “The most I’ve gotten out of all this is that my aunt is the head of some Sethian sect hell-bent on destroying Demons. Somehow she has allied herself with one, drugged me on my birthday, forced me to drink your foul blood, then left me disoriented in a bar. Now I find out I’m somehow tied to you. That’s about the extent of it. Any further explanations are welcome."

  The car slowed.

  “It shouldn’t surprise me that they’d do this. But it does surprise me that they’d involve you this unwillingly. I thought you at least knew what you were,” Marcas said.

  Monroe leaned forward in the back seat. 

  “And that would be what exactly?” she asked.

  I just kept staring at him.

  “I’m a descendant of Seth right?”

  My thoughts were suddenly on Amber. I saw Marcas’ jaw tighten.

  “You are a descendant of the Biblical Seth through your mother’s bloodline. Not your father’s."

  “So?” I asked, confused. Did it matter?

  Marcas sighed. Maybe he thought I was slow. I sure felt that way lately.

  “Your aunt runs a Sethian Sect. This, I’m assuming, you know. There are groups out there, other Sethian groups who prefer a pure Sethian bloodline. Both parents are descended from Seth. But it isn’t a prerequisite. They are quiet, good Christian followers who believe their calling is leading through example. They do not care if your heritage is Sethian although their leaders are. They do not discriminate. But as with any religion, no matter the denomination, there are extremist groups. Your aunt’s group is one of them. They marry only within the Sethian bloodline. The Sisters are an exception only because they’ve chosen not to marry at all. There are Brothers who make that same choice,” Marcas explained. The car was quiet.

  “And this makes Dayton and her sister an anomaly?” Monroe asked from the backseat.

  I stared out the window in front of me. I got one thing out of that whole explanation. If my mother was Sethian, but my father wasn't . . .

  “My father is the key isn’t he?”

  Marcas didn’t answer. I looked over at him.

  “What was my father?”

  Dad’s voice rang through my head, "Look to the light, Day." Marcas glanced at me sharply. The car swerved. Had he heard that?

  “There’s a road, you know,” Monroe complained from the backseat.

  Marcas straightened the car. I kept watching him.

  “What was my father?” I asked again.

  Marcas looked over at me briefly. Our eyes met.

  “He’s a Watcher. They are Angels."

  He looked away. My heart sped up. What did he say? My father? An Angel? As in the Heavenly, I can fly kind of Angels? Monroe sat up abruptly.

  “He was a what? Seriously?” she asked.

  I knew this was even harder for her to swallow with her Wiccan background. I looked back at her and our eyes met. I knew my gaze was conflicted.

  “My father?” I whispered.

  Marcas pulled to a stop at a red light. He turned to me.

  “Your father,” he confirmed. “It’s important you know that. It’s why my brother is so interested in you.”

  Monroe unbuckled and moved up between us.

  “Okay. Wait. It’s not that I’m slow or anything, but can you explain please. What does this make Dayton and Amber? And why is it important?”

  The road around us was empty. The light turned green, but Marcas didn’t move the car.

  “Dayton . . . and Amber were conceived from a union between a Sethian woman and a Watcher. People born from the line of Seth are considered Sons of God. This not only makes Dayton and her sister Nephilim, it makes them unique.” Marcas said, his voice even.

  He’d paused before he’d said Amber’s name, but I didn’t have time to wonder why. I watched him thoughtfully. A few things in my life were beginning to make a little more sense but not many. Marcas' eyes caught mine.

  “Nephilim, or a Naphil in the singular sense, are half Angel/half mortal children. In Biblical times, the Nephilim w
ere aberrations. They were giants and blood-thirsty. Maybe even mad. When the great flood transpired, the Nephilim were wiped out. Never has there been a birth between an Angel and a Sethian descendant. They were always born to the daughters of Cain, the son of Adam and Eve who was cursed because he slew his brother Abel. You and your sister are the first Nephilim born from a Sethian mother. You were not mad, not blood thirsty and not aberrations."

  I sat there a moment, processing the information slowly. My mother was Sethian. My father was an Angel. It was a lot to take in. A thought struck me suddenly, and I bent over in pain. "He's a watcher,” Marcas had said. He'd used the present tense. No! No!

  “Can Angels die?” I asked Marcas, my head resting resolutely on my knees.

  I couldn’t see his face and didn’t want to. The car was dead silent.

  “They can’t."

  A sob escaped my throat and I bit it back. Grief engulfed me. Then that meant . . .

  “My father isn’t dead."

  I could feel Monroe’s hand move onto my shoulder.

  “My God, Dayton!” she whispered.

  I swallowed the anger that suddenly engulfed me and sat up.

  “My mother?” I asked Marcas resolutely.

  He didn’t answer. I reached out and grabbed his leather jacket. My fingers dug into the material.

  “MY MOTHER?” I pleaded.

  He looked down at my hand before looking at my face. I didn’t give a damn if I was leaving marks on the expensive leather.

  “She is dead."

  Everything drained out of me. I let go of his jacket. A sudden honk behind us made me jump, and Marcas glanced in the rearview mirror before turning to drive under the light. I didn’t know what to feel. My whole body was fighting an internal battle.

  “Where is he?” I asked Marcas so silently I wasn’t sure he’d hear. I didn’t have to explain who "he" was.

  “He’s been ordered not to come near you or your sister. It is forbidden that Angels lay with mortal women. He was lucky he got the time with you that he did,” Marcas said.

  Monroe still sat up between us, her hand still on my shoulder. It tightened. He's alive! My father was alive. He was an Angel. And he left us. My heart felt like it was bleeding. Why? He'd obviously forsaken the rules for my mother. Why didn't he forsake them for me now when I needed him? Was I not good enough?

  "Day—" Monroe said gently.

  I ignored her. And my mother? Dead. How? If my father was alive, then what really happened to my mother? I wanted to ask, but I couldn't. I wasn’t going to ask. Not now. I just couldn't! I wanted my father. I wanted him to tell me why this was happening. I wanted him to make it all go away. Why couldn't he? I swallowed hard to keep the tears at bay. Monroe suddenly dropped her hand.

  “What are you doing?” she asked angrily.

  I looked up, my face burning with the need to cry. The Abbey sat in front of us. Marcas put the car in park.

  “I’m coming to see my brother,” he said.

  “What the hell?” Monroe yelled. “It’s not safe here. Did you bring her here to give her to Damon?”

  “I came for my own explanations,” he answered, his gaze looking over us both.

  I just felt cold. I wasn’t sure I cared what happened to me anymore.

  “You asshole!” Monroe spat as we exited the car.

  “I’ve been called worse,” Marcas said as he waited for me to walk in front of him.

  Maybe he just wanted to make sure I didn’t try and run.  He stayed close behind me. Monroe walked on my right. I tried to feel angry, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t angry; I was resolved.

  “Who are you?” I asked Marcas again as we walked through the Abbey’s door. He moved in closer at my back.

  “I am the son of Cain and the Demon Lilith," he said quietly.

  I almost stopped walking then but his hand found the small of my back and the pressure kept me moving. The son of Cain?

  “Dayton, no!” a voice yelled suddenly from our left, and I turned to see my sister Amber. She looked distraught.

  “I told you not to come!” she cried out desperately.

  She started to move toward me until she caught sight of Marcas. Her expression changed from distraught to placid. Her gaze moved over the three of us before landing on Marcas again.

  “So that’s that then,” she said, her voice defeated.

  I reached out and touched her, my fingers curling into the plain blue t-shirt she wore tucked into a pair of blue jeans. She looked me in the eye.

  "Did you know?" I asked her quietly.

  Amber didn't answer and my fingers dug desperately into the material. I heard it rip slightly, and I let go in surprise. Amber's eyes grew round.

  "Did you know?" I asked again, pointedly ignoring what I'd done to her clothes.

  Amber looked down at the tear in her shirt before glancing back at me. She nodded. A sob escaped me, and I chewed on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. She had known about our parents, had known about the Demons. I wanted to yell at her, and I would have said more, but Marcas prodded me slightly in the back. I yelped, and Amber looked up quickly.

  “Where is my brother?” Marcas asked.

  Amber's gaze moved back to mine.

  “I’ll take you to him,” she replied, her answer directed at Marcas, her pity reserved for me. I hated pity.

  Chapter 20

  The curse is a secure one. It is futile to think there may be a way to reverse it. Damon isn’t just asking for war. He is going to guarantee it.