Stricken (The War Scrolls Book 1)

by A. K. Morgen

  To this day, Killian’s own father refused to acknowledge him. The mighty angel was unwilling to besmirch his honor by admitting to the same weakness that had nearly destroyed the Fallen and seen them cast from Heaven. But not all were so misguided and dishonorable.

  Some defied convention and remained with the humans they impregnated. They raised their children with honor and pride outside of Fallen society and never looked back, allowing Elioud like Aubrey to flourish. But the story was altogether different for most Nephilim children. It would have been for Killian without Caitria, one of the Dominion who understood what honor truly meant. She’d taken Killian in, raised him alongside Abriel and Dom, and given him the best of everything.

  Others like Killian were raised by their human parent, if the parent survived. Many, too many, were pawned off on orphanages or left to wander on their own. They were unstable then, volatile, unable to understand the need for justice brewing in their souls.

  When that happened, innocents like Aubrey paid the price.

  The entire business disgusted Killian.

  How many human lives were lost because of the crimes of the Fallen?

  How many Nephilim were sentenced to death?

  He’d lost count long ago.

  “Why are the Elioud hunting her?” Abriel asked, settling into a recliner with a grunt.

  Killian leaned back and closed his eyes. When was the last time he’d slept? Two days ago? Three? He couldn’t remember. “She said she doesn’t know.”

  “Is she being truthful?”

  “Yeah, she is.” The girl was afraid of Killian, too afraid to lie to him. He felt bad about that, but he wouldn’t make her promises he couldn’t keep. Even if the blood was faint in her, she was still Elioud, which meant she could become infected. If that happened, killing her would be a mercy.

  He didn’t think she was ready to hear that, though.

  “We need more information.”

  They needed a whole lot more information. Like where the girl came from, and what she was mixed up in. Or what they were going to do with her.

  What the hell were they going to do with her?

  The water began running in his bathroom.

  “You think she knows more about the virus than she’s saying?” Abriel asked.

  “Honestly? No.” Killian cracked open an eye to find his brother staring at him, a contemplative frown on his face. “Chances are she’s mixed up in something else, but…” But they couldn’t afford for him to be wrong, either. No one could.

  “I almost miss the Inquisition.” Abriel rubbed his temples, grimacing.

  Dealing with sanctimonious pricks would be a walk in the park compared to what they now faced day in and day out. The last four months had been one hopeless battle after another, one mindless execution after another. Infected Fallen-kin kept coming, and the Fallen were running out of warriors to toss in front of them. Soon, there would be no one left. If this was God’s way of punishing the Fallen for their excesses and sins, He was a bigger bastard than Killian had always thought.

  “Are you taking her home?” Abriel asked.

  Did she even have a home?

  Jesus, Killian hoped she wasn’t kidding about her aunt.

  “Yeah,” he said before clearing his throat as if that would wipe away the sympathy welling in his chest. He didn’t want to sympathize with Aubrey, and he couldn’t afford to like her, not when he might have to kill her. “We should at least take a look at the place before we decide whether to leave her there.”

  “Do you need me to come with you?”

  “Nah, I’ll go.”

  “I’ll deal with the bodies, then.” Abriel sighed before climbing to his feet. “Be careful, though, brother,” he said, rolling his neck and stretching. “If she does know something and we lose her—”

  Killian didn’t need his blade-brother to finish the sentence to know where it ended.

  If Aubrey knew something about the virus and they lost her, the Fallen would die.

  ***

  The steaming water eased Aubrey’s aching and tired muscles and eliminated the stench clinging to her. She stayed under the warm spray until her skin wrinkled and the worst of her pain vanished. Half an hour later, she emerged feeling refreshed and calmer than when she’d stepped in.

  After a little judicious poking and prowling through the medicine cabinet, she found a bottle of cologne and doused her clothes liberally. They still looked as though she’d been rolling in mud and worse when she dressed, but at least they no longer smelled as if she lived on the streets.

  A definite improvement, she decided as she crossed the bedroom and stepped into the long hall beyond. She glanced around, hoping to learn something about the Nephilim warrior who’d promised to help her. His house, while lavishly decorated, appeared no different than her and Mel’s apartment. Nothing screamed “angel.”

  The walls were wood paneled like those in the bedroom. A thick carpet, nearly the same deep red as the comforter on the bed, covered the floor. Antique-styled sconces hung at intervals along the hallway, casting light on elaborate paintings positioned here and there down the entire length. Two rows of closed doors lined the hall. Bedrooms, she guessed, though she hadn’t expected there to be quite so many of them.

  How big was the house?

  The end of the hallway opened onto a large living area. She stepped into the room, uncertain if she should be wandering around by herself, and then stopped. The area was easily the size of a football field and a whole lot more modern than she was prepared for.

  A television took up one entire wall. A game console, controllers, and a DVD player sat atop a low table beneath the television. An oversized couch and half a dozen recliners, quite similar to the armchair in the bedroom, were arranged in an arc around the television.

  The connecting wall was solid glass. Dawn approached on the horizon, coloring the sky a deep orange. The combination of shadows and growing light made the room appear even more massive.

  A glass-fronted armoire set against the north wall dominated the room. Wicked axes, huge swords, sharp daggers, dangerous-looking knives, and even a longbow and quiver of arrows hung from pegs inside. Aubrey moved closer to the cabinet to get a better look, awed at such a display. She’d never met anyone who kept an arsenal in his living room.

  She felt someone enter the room and turned her head.

  Killian stood across from her with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was indecipherable, but Aubrey shivered as she took him in. He was breathtaking. Too masculine to be beautiful, but beautiful was the only word that came close to describing him. Standing there, he appeared ethereal, mysterious, exactly as she’d always imagined real angels looked before she ever saw her first one.

  A subtle golden glow emanated from his skin. She’d noticed the faint sheen back in the bedroom too, but more immediate needs—like her overwhelming desire not to be killed—had taken precedence then. Now that she was refreshed and fairly certain he wasn’t going to kill her just yet, she couldn’t help but stare at him.

  She should have run for her life, but she wasn’t afraid of him exactly. Oh, she didn’t doubt for a minute that he would kill her without blinking an eye if she gave him reason. But he was so different from the Nephilim boy who’d tormented her years ago. Killian seemed too focused, too driven to ever give in to hatred.

  He caught her gaze, and she blushed, breaking eye contact and gestured to the cabinet of weapons. “Impressive,” she said when he moved toward her. “It reminds me of Buffy.”

  Killian’s lips twitched in a semblance of a smile, the first Aubrey had seen from him. His expression didn’t soften, but he seemed less severe. “The Vampire Slayer.”

  Aubrey shivered at the soft tone of his voice.

  She’d forgotten how hypnotic he sounded when he wasn’t snarling at her.

  “I always wondered if anyone in real life actually kept a mini-arsenal close at hand like she did,” Aubrey said, turning toward him wh
en he stepped up beside her. She smiled a little, nervous. He was so much bigger than she was. “Art imitating life.”

  “Life imitating art in this case.” He shrugged one shoulder when she looked up at him. “It seemed to work well for her.”

  “And has it worked as well for you?” Aubrey asked, surprised he knew the show.

  Who was he?

  “More or less.” Killian pressed his lips together. Something a lot like regret floated through his eyes for a moment before they hardened into blue storm clouds. “Results still pending.”

  “Ah,” Aubrey murmured and then shook her head. “You watch Buffy?”

  “There’s not much else on TV at five in the morning,” he said. “The Slayer would have made a good Warrior of Light.” He paused. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not really.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, or what she last ate, for that matter, but the thought of food made her stomach churn.

  “Then if you’re ready, we can go.” Killian pulled the cabinet open and selected two knives before slipping them up his sleeves.

  A dagger and a little flare disappeared into folds of his clothing and pockets. Had she not seen him sliding the weapons into sheaths, she never would have known they were there. Not a hint of them showed. Impressive, considering he wore only jeans, a long-sleeved black shirt, and combat boots.

  “Where are we going?” she asked when he finished donning his weapons.

  “You’d like to go home, wouldn’t you?” He arched a brow at her.

  God, yes, she wanted to go home, but she was surprised he planned to let her. For all she knew, helping her meant keeping her prisoner here.

  “Are the others coming with us?”

  Killian closed the door to the weapon cabinet before reaching for her arm. Her skin tingled where he touched her as if tiny fires blazed in the glow encompassing him. For the first time in hours, she felt truly calm, as if his touch had soothed the jumble of thoughts and emotion running through her.

  “They’re my blade-brothers,” he said, steering her toward the opposite side of the room, “and no, they aren’t coming with us. Abriel is busy, and Dahmiel is recovering.”

  “Recovering?” She vaguely remembered Dahmiel hissing in pain when he’d grabbed her at the abandoned house. “How did he get hurt?”

  “I stabbed him,” Killian said.

  “You what?” Aubrey jerked to a halt, shocked.

  Killian turned toward her, an odd expression on his face—half grim frustration, half amusement. “Not on purpose. I aimed for the shifter, but he moved. The knives hit Dom.”

  “Oh. Are his injuries severe?”

  “The knives were silver.”

  “That matters?”

  “Yes. Silver burns the Fallen just as badly as it does demons.”

  “How?”

  “Apparently God didn’t want invincible warriors,” Killian said as if that explained everything. He reached into his sleeve for a moment and pulled out one of the knives tucked away there.

  When he held it out to her, Aubrey took it carefully. The knife appeared to be sharp and expensive, but it was only a knife to her. She knew nothing about weapons.

  “This is silver?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Killian held his hand out for the knife.

  Aubrey gave it back to him and then watched as he held his index finger against the tip of the blade before slicing his skin. He didn’t even grimace when the edges of the wound reddened and puckered as if infected. Blood trickled down his hand.

  “See?”

  Aubrey nodded, feeling faint.

  Killian wiped the blade on his thigh before tucking it away. “Knives are better than the alternative.”

  “Which is?”

  “Killing the infected by hand.”

  “Oh.” Aubrey swallowed hard as he popped his finger into his mouth.

  When he pulled it out, the cut had stopped bleeding.

  Neither she nor Killian spoke for several minutes.

  “We can’t risk becoming infected,” Killian said then, his tight expression easing a little. “The virus spreads through any bodily-fluid contact. It corrupts the blood, killing our ability to Heal. Once infected, not even a full-blooded Fallen can heal himself.” He looked at her, wide-eyed and serious. “Weapons are safer.”

  Aubrey bobbed her head in sick agreement, though she didn’t understand at all. To her, La Morte Nera was a myth. Nothing more than a fairy-tale virus whispered like a ghost story between her father and Aaron. Wrapping her mind around the reality of the deadly virus didn’t come easy for her. She didn’t need to add images of Killian killing the Elioud with his bare hands to the disturbing mix already clamoring for her attention.

  She licked her lips, pushing the image away. “How many have been infected?”

  “Most of the werewolves and vampires. Over half of the Elioud and Nephilim we’ve been able to track down, and almost a third of the Fallen.”

  “My God. How?”

  “There’s no cure.” Killian sighed, his head bowing as if a great weight rested on his shoulders. “Once you’re infected, that’s that.”

  “The virus kills everyone it infects?” Aubrey whispered, feeling physically ill. There were hundreds of people out there like her and Aaron. Thousands of angels and demons. The enormity of the situation horrified her.

  “If they’re lucky.”

  “And if they aren’t?”

  Killian lifted his head until his eyes met hers again. Rage burned in his gaze, twisting his expression into a fierce scowl. “We kill them.”

  Aubrey recoiled, stunned by his savagery.

  He noticed. “The virus ravages the mind as much as the body, Aubrey. It’s like acid, eating its way through us. The werewolves and vampires are dangerous as it is. They’re half-demon, predators. You saw the Elioud last night, and they’re human. Imagine five, ten thousand demons like that running free around the world.”

  She couldn’t imagine it.

  God, she didn’t want to imagine it.

  “It’s like that for all of them? For the Fallen too?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Killian said. “None of us have been spared.”

  Aubrey’s dad had always said angel blood changed people on a fundamental level. That change was passed on to their children, and to their children’s children, granting some of them abilities no ordinary human possessed. Now it would cost them their lives too.

  “I’m Elioud too. Can…” She paused, licked her lips, and then tried again. “Can I become infected?”

  Killian nodded.

  Aubrey’s heart sank.

  “But I don’t have any Talents.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Caitria, my mother, believes the Elioud share a specific genetic marker with the Fallen, something passed down through the generations. Sometimes, that gene is dominant, giving Elioud angel-like abilities, Talents. When that happens, the Elioud can shift or read minds. Some have a gift for Persuasion or Precognition. A few can Heal. Other times, like with you, the gene is recessive and no Talents manifest. Either way, you have angel blood, so you’re susceptible to the virus too.” He paused. “Most of the Elioud die quickly,” he said as if trying to offer her some measure of comfort.

  “Do my people know what’s happening?”

  “The Elioud? Yes, many do.”

  “What about the humans?” Those were Aubrey’s people, not the Elioud.

  “We’ve tried to keep it contained, to keep it away from the humans, but our worlds intersect at too many points to be sure they don’t know. If any of them are aware of what’s happening to us, they’re not telling anyone,” Killian said.

  “What happens when the Elioud don’t die quickly?”

  “The Elioud are as much God’s warriors as a full-blooded angel is, Aubrey. He forged a battle cry into our souls. The need to mete out justice is powerful even for the Elioud. When the virus doesn’t kill, it strips away everything but that base instinct…that bloodthir
st. The infected hunt and kill indiscriminately, unable to tell right from wrong. Fallen, Elioud, Nephilim, demon…it doesn’t matter how much angelic blood we possess, the virus affects us the same.”

  Aubrey’s stomach roiled at the thought of so much senseless death and destruction. She wasn’t like Aaron. She didn’t feel that blood calling to her like he had. It didn’t demand she protect anyone or dispense justice to those who didn’t play nice. She didn’t understand the lure of violence. In fact, she hated violence, and she didn’t want to die just because some ancestor a long time ago had slept with a fallen angel and had a child who then had children of his or her own. How was that fair?

  Hell, who was she kidding?

  Life wasn’t fair, and God’s mercy was a double-edged sword. He had an endless abundance of patience with humanity and none at all for the angels He’d created to help rule over them. Was it any wonder they had rebelled against the leash He’d bound them to? The allure of freedom had to be overwhelming for the Fallen, humanity like an oasis in the middle of the desert. Why wouldn’t they reach for that release with both hands, no matter the cost?

  Aubrey’s eyes widened as a frightening thought occurred. “Can ordinary humans be infected?”

  “Not that we’re aware of, but the differences between the Elioud and ordinary humans are small. They amount to little more than genetic abnormalities. If people like you can be infected, there’s no guarantee the virus won’t cross into the mainstream human population. We have to find a cure before that happens,” Killian said as if the eventual mutation of the virus was a foregone conclusion. And maybe it was.

  Her dad had known better than anyone how an infection in one population could mutate easily and become as bad as the Bubonic Plague that’d swept through Europe in the Middle Ages, killing millions. At the time, she’d thought her father’s musings were nothing more than supposition and what-ifs, considerations of what the mythical virus might do if it were real. But the virus was real.