I am Michael Alexander, the rightful Seer, blood child of the damned and son of Stanley Alexander. He would not fail, even if it cost him his life.
* * *
Boise, Idaho, Present Day
ELLIE STOOD IN THE open doorway in the gathering dusk on the front porch of Airel’s house. The door was kicked aside, the lights—those that hadn’t been broken—were on, and the place was totally trashed. The looters had come and gone, but as she looked more closely, she could tell there was more going on here than looting. Some of the high-value stuff was left behind, like the television. But the couch was overturned, its cushions denuded of their upholstery, and every drawer in the kitchen was out and spilled in a pile on the floor.
Someone is looking for something.
She unsheathed her sword and made her way through the rest of the house. She could smell Brotherhood stench—demon blood left a pungent odor wherever it was spilled. There was a pile of ash at the top of the stairs right outside Airel’s room. Dead Brother. The rest was a stinking hunk of rotting flesh.
She gagged. This one was not a run-of-the-mill demon Brother. It stinks too much. And it hadn’t vanished into dust and ash like those did. This one was more hardy than that. It did not need to bond with a person to gain its full strength; this was one of the Original Rebels, a killer, and a hunter.
She went back down the stairs and sat in the broken opening of the front door, breathing air that was not acrid. “What did you boys want here?” she asked, more to hear herself than anything else. She rubbed her chest. The Mark had gone deep, where she couldn’t touch it. It was learning. Every hour, it took more of her heart, grasping deeper, binding to her DNA and replicating itself from there at the very foundation of her life. She didn’t know how much longer she would last.
She sheathed her sword and tried to think.
What now?
The sun, a cool orange fire, was sinking low in the west. She wondered if she would see it ever again.
What am I? Am I angel, am I Brother, or am I just a girl who’s lost her way in life? Am I a victim of circumstance, even after all these years? She was a 2700-year-old grandmother who looked all of maybe nineteen. That was what she was. A walking contradiction. She thought it over and then she took off running up the stairs, to the corpse.
She covered her nose and mouth. The stink was so bad.
I was one of these once, part of the Brotherhood. She knew she had the ability to manipulate kings and princes; she could maybe read the mind of a dead rebel, too. How hard could it be? Opening her mind, she reached into the dead monster’s cortex and began looking for answers.
A flood of hijacked memories came at her, fast. They hurt physically. As she fought through the pain, it was difficult to keep abreast of her own identity and not lose herself in the storm. Finally, she pushed off, stumbled back through the hall, tripped in the dust pile of the other one, and fell halfway down the stairs.
She steadied herself and gasped. Now it’s coming clearer. She understood why the two assassins were here now. It can’t be even remotely true. Or possible. But she had to admit it was the only thing that made any sense.
Part of her wanted to have a moment to weep, but she didn’t allow herself the luxury.
She knew where to go now.
She stood up tall, breathed deep, and walked to the front door. She swatted the ash from her jeans before vanishing into the atmosphere.
The anointing of the new Seer was imminent, and she wasn’t going to miss the party—every last one of them was going to be there, and there couldn’t be many of them left now. It will be like shooting fish in a barrel.
If she lived to see the end of it.
CHAPTER VI
Dubai, UAE, Present Day
JOHN FOUND PIERRE AFTER saying good-bye to Ethan.
They took a car the short distance to the Burj. As they talked, John found it was a small world—the friend in high places Pierre had been talking about all this time was none other than Jordan Weston. So it’s two birds with one stone, then. Only John’s heart raced, his stomach was in knots, and he had a severe case of heartburn.
Something didn’t sit right and John chewed on it all the way to the 144th floor, where he found it still wouldn’t go down easy.
John and Pierre cooled their heels in the late-afternoon sun-soaked lounge of a dance club near the top of the world’s tallest building, waiting for their appointment.
As was customary in his dealings with Important People, John knew the drill—hurry up and wait; don’t speak until spoken to; the first to talk money loses. Despite how much had changed in the world of late, it was alarming at how little change the modus operandi actually had undergone. Money makes the world go ‘round, John thought. Always has, always will.
Instead of acknowledging the awkward silence between himself and his newest partner Pierre, instead of doing the slightest thing about it, he sipped green tea from bone china, staring out the windows. John wasn’t sure whether to resent or reward him for his connections, so he did nothing.
The door opened. “Mr. Cross.” It was the executive assistant.
He turned.
“He’s ready for you, sir.”
“Very well,” John said, motioning to Pierre to come along.
Pierre agreed beforehand that he would only make introductions and that John would take over from there. To John, Pierre was mostly here for appearances anyway. In these circles, everyone had people—handlers, assistants, bodyguards, thugs. And John wanted to appear to be “normal”, that Pierre was one of his “people”. The people he usually dealt with found appearances to be reassuring; appearances drove home the idea that John was the real deal.
They took the elevator farther up, to the 154th floor, and walked out into a clean, modern lobby. There were double doors at the far end. As they approached, those doors opened to reveal a reception area. A wiry man with an earpiece sat behind a high desk.
He motioned to them to be seated.
Of course.
John disciplined himself to keep from rolling his eyes. He shared a glance with Pierre, wordlessly urging him to keep cool. It was a simple power play; they would be made to wait another five to ten minutes.
As John sat, he was briefly overcome by what he might have irritably termed his conscience—it was like taking a too-large dose of medicine. It was a gigantic “what-am-I-doing” glimpse, an alarming whiff of perspective in which he could taste, see, even smell himself exactly as others might be able to do.
It was repellent.
In that split second, as his full weight came to rest on the seat that supported him, he thought of how at one time he had been innocent, back when he was young and ignorant and uncynical. Back when he had been an amorous husband, a plucky optimist new hire, an inexperienced father of a sweet little girl. But it had never felt quite right. He knew somewhere deep down that having a family was wrong for him, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. The feeling nagged. He hated that he had to keep so many secrets. His work for the CIA and others had required him to make a completely different life for himself apart from Maggie and Airel.
Ethan was the only one who knew the real truth, that one day he had washed up in South Beach, California, as a John Doe—no ID, no name, no memory. Ethan knew about the nightmares, too. Ethan knew why his name was John—because of standard hospital procedure: John Doe. Ethan was the only one who knew he had no memory of who he was, that when he’d been found and resuscitated, he babbled one word over and over.
Derackson . . . Derackson . . . Derackson.
It was the same word the demon in his house had spoken over him before John had pulled the trigger. John wanted to be able to forget that he had forgotten. By the time he met Maggie, he had perfected the routine to the point where she bought it like it was the truth. John Cross. Pleased to meet you, Maggie. She laughed and asked him if he was a secret agent, and he countered that yeah, he worked for the CIA, but as an accountant.
But
everything was a lie. So I’ll just keep piling it on, then, he thought. In the end, he did whatever it took to blot out his empty past. He filled the void with lies, with Maggie, with Airel, with all the standard trappings of suburban American life.
They were beckoned onward now by the wiry man with the earpiece.
John got to his feet and took a deep breath. He looked at Pierre. “Ready?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
They approached the wiry man, who smiled in plastic. John wondered what lay beneath it, but he didn’t wonder too loudly. The door was held open, revealing a sleek and barren room with floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end. A man stood in a tailored suit behind a bar. Beyond those windows was a shallow balcony railed in high-tension cable, on which perhaps a man might be able to pace as he thought about the latest multi-billion-dollar deal.
The man behind the bar introduced himself. “Welcome,” he said, clearly talking to Pierre alone, ignoring John as if he were but a servant. He did not move to shake hands. “Cocktail?”
Pierre declined and motioned toward John. “I would like you to meet someone—John Cross. He is searching for a rare book. I thought of you.”
John looked around for a place to sit. There was none. Therefore, he stood and faced his host.
Jordan Weston went about his business, making something in a sterling silver shaker and pouring the contents into a glass. The three men stood equidistant from each other, forming a triangle; Jordan with his glass, ice clinking against crystal from within, the other two with their hats still in hand.
John recognized what was happening now—something was about to go down. He had walked right into the middle of a trap.
But than Pierre spoke, rearranging everything. “Come, come, darling. It’s time for you to pay up or we’ll both walk.”
Jordan glared. “You’d never get out alive, Valac.”
Pierre shrugged it off and laughed, his eyes yellow and alcoholic now. “Oh?”
For an eternal second, John stood as a reluctant spectator, looking in on a gunfight. But than Pierre’s head twisted around, tearing open in a wet rip, breaking the stifling silence. John watched in horror as the human body fell free and a winged creature unfurled itself. It was half the size of the ones he’d killed in his house, but every bit as much like a dragon. “Behold, Jiki, the Other. Now would be a good time to hand over the Bloodstone so I can be on my way.”
Jordan’s lack of interest with the demon standing in his office was alarming to John. When their eyes met, Jordan offered a sympathetic smile. “All this is coming as a shock to you, I’m sure. Just give me a moment to wrap up some personal business with our friend here, and then I’ll answer all your questions.”
Pierre—the demon—laughed, dark slime dripping down its chin. It snapped its jaws at John, making him flinch and cringe. If dragons could laugh, this thing did so. And than the beast gyrated as if beginning a lurid dance, folding inward on itself. When it stood still once more, it had become a teenage boy. The image before John’s eyes was familiar to him, even though he was naked. That’s the kid Airel went to school with, that Dirk Elliott boy who was all over the news.
“Hey, Mr. Cross. You seen Airel? We had a date, but she never showed up.”
John took a step back as the thing moved toward him.
It danced sickly again and recovered into an image of a beautiful redhead with skin like pure cream. “Or does this suit you better, John? We could have a little fun, you and I—”
“Enough,” Jordan said.
The woman arched and hissed, transforming back into the beast. “The Stone, Jiki. Now.”
“Come,” Jordan said.
The demon obeyed, its gaze locked onto Jordan’s hand as it reached behind the counter.
As the monster drew near, Jordan Weston seized it by the throat, dragging it toward the windows. John didn’t know what to do or say. As they approached, one of the large panes slid away, revealing the narrow balcony outside. A blast of air invaded carrying with it the dust and noise of the world.
The demon flapped and clawed at the floor in vain. As Jordan held the demon in his iron grip, John saw that his arm was mostly bone and rotten flesh.
With great power, Jordan Weston flung the demon out over the cable rail into thin air.
John stood staring, feeling the tingle of the moment run its fingers along the full length of his shocked body.
Jordan turned back toward him, smoothing his hair down, and as he did, John could hear laughter. It sounded like a little boy laughing as if playing a game. The window closed and sealed, and in the red light of a smoke-veiled sun, John saw the beast—Pierre, Dirk Elliott, the redhead, the dragon—flying away unharmed.
Jordan Weston’s eyes were on fire.
John was a deer in the headlights.
Jordan walked to the bar, drew a breath, and held it. “Where was I, where was I?” He fumbled around a bit with bottles and glasses and then stopped, staring into space. “Ah. Cocktail?” he asked John.
John cleared his throat. “I could use one, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, good. I knew you would say that,” Jordan said. “After we’ve had a few drinks, we can talk. You and I have a lot to catch up on, and not much time.” He smiled and rubbed his arm, the one that looked to be dead. “And don’t worry about Valac. He’ll be back, but by the time he regroups, it will be too late.”
CHAPTER VII
Mountains of Hijaz, Present Day
THE ANGEL OF EDEN stood like a tower of bronze as the Eden Detachment gathered near him on the garden wall. The air was taut. The Brotherhood horde had finally mobilized. Men and demons chanted in withering black speech as they approached, and yet the angelic host waited for their captain to issue orders. The wall of Eden could withstand any army. Although they were outnumbered, they were still blessed by the power of El.
Even so, he could feel it wane, and he knew his men could too.
Time had run out.
Flame burst from below as the Angel of Fire engaged the front line of the Brotherhood advance.
“Fly,” he whispered, and like a storm, the angels poured down from the wall, loosing a hail of spears and arrows. Blades of swords and axes hacked and crashed into the black fog of membranous wings and foul flesh below.
He could feel now more than ever the power in the drain. The Brotherhood was sucking him and his forces dry. He drew his sword and dropped into the melee. The sounds of close battle were unmatched. It had been millennia since he had drawn cold steel in anger. He looked around for the young one as he hacked through talons and scraping swords, men dying. He saw him in the distance, flying in great loops as he had been trained, striking parallel to enemy lines, flanking them, taking ten or more at a time. Good boy. To his other side, he beheld one of his other old guard, removing enemy heads with the two-bitted battle axe, flying, spinning, hacking at demon flesh like a harvester. Men and beasts were thrust through with angel blades, and there was the sound of bones breaking, grist in the mill. There was no music as terrible as this. There was no mere talk. There was only death’s threshing floor, and these honorable Defenders of Eden were the winnowing fork.
But than a giant white demon, chalked and enrobed in mossy tangles of decay, came forth from the enemy ranks. Each of its hands was like the branches of a great dead and fruitless tree. It advanced and stood face-to face-with the Angel of Fire.
Right at the Gate.
He watched as fire subsumed the angel’s form, shielding him and blinding his foes. “Get back!” he commanded his men, giving the Guardian of the Gate of Eden ample space to maneuver.
The Angel of Fire swelled with a flourish, a great heavenly sword in each hand, coming to his ready position.
The giant demon took hold of his prey and tore it in half.
The hope of victory abandoned him as he watched the most powerful of Eden’s angels become snuffed like a wet wick. El, where is the help we were promised?
He dodged a slashing t
ail and flew toward the giant white demon.
It turned toward him, looking bored.
Is there no end to evil? Every death of the Eden Detachment was relayed to his mind; he could feel every death. The young one and his old friend might still be fighting, but exhaustion was pounding in on all of them. It was no use; they would stand guarding the Tree, and he would be the last to die defending it. It was better this way, to die doing what they were created to do.
“You need not die, Captain of El,” the giant white demon spoke, its voice like the rasp of dead leaves in a cold wind. “Show us the Tree and we will let you live.”
Eden was a place of many secrets. “I will never surrender the Tree or Eden.”
“I will rip it up by the roots; you shall watch me do it.” It kicked the flaming corpse of the Angel of Fire as it stepped toward him, flicking his sword away and laughing.
He flew a little higher and circled around, searching for his soldiers. He called out for his old friend and heard nothing. The young one was now gone, he was sure. He didn’t want to admit it, but they were all gone. Now there was no denying it—the Eden Detachment was lost. The noises of the battle drew to a quiet, and he could feel only the remnant of the six who stood in guard around the Tree.
“Still believe in your God?” The white demon snatched him out of the air by the neck and lifted him high as a trophy for his horde to behold. They greeted the white demon with a cheer, holding up their dead in response. It turned back to him. “Where is your God now?”
El, help me. He was so weak, he couldn’t answer his captor. He stared across the mass of men and demons, at the broken bodies of his soldiers, and prayed for mercy.
But none came. The gates were broken down, and he was powerless to do anything but watch as the Brotherhood stormed into Eden.
But they did not get far.
Just inside the gate, his captor spun, crouched, and growled low. He then saw what the rest of the horde army saw—a blaze of white speeding toward them.
The Airel Saga Box Set: Young Adult Paranormal Romance Page 86
