Fate

by Nadine Nightingale

  The Nun shakes her head with a desperation that’s almost human. “You say freedom, but at what cost? You, of all knights, should know best what happens when the gates are open. The battle—”

  “Will be fought,” he cuts her off. “And once we win, we’ll reclaim what was taken from us.”

  The Nun steps closer. “We won’t win,” she barks. “No one will. Lucifer—”

  “Lucifer is gone, remember?” His lips curve into a wicked grin. “Hell needs a new leader.”

  “And you think you’re the man for the job,” Jesse teases, laughing. “Sorry, pal. You ain’t got the King of Hell look going for ya.”

  “Careful,” the First Knight hisses. “Only takes a second to send your precious little mamba to purgatory.” And as if that weren’t enough, he glides his hand down B’s chest, pinching her nipples. “Would be a damn shame to off such a nice piece of ass, don’t you think?”

  Jesse is seconds away from finishing what Pink Nail Polish started. Luckily, I manage to get a grip on his shirt. “You’re just going to hurt Bonnie.”

  My little brother’s muscles relax a bit, giving me time to return my focus to the First Knight. “So what brings you here? Surely, Mr. Invincible-Unstoppable isn’t afraid we might come find you to send your sorry ass back to hell, right?”

  “Afraid?” His gaze darts from me to my brother and the demons. “Of a bunch of demons, a mamba, and two hunters? I don’t think so. Not when I have the most powerful untouchable by my side.”

  The First Knight’s gaze locks on the Nun. “You’ve always been my favorite, Berith. It’s why I have a proposal for you and your legion.”

  The Nun aka Berith—I have a feeling he slipped her name on purpose, hoping we used it to exorcise her back to hell—cocks a brow. “I’m not interested.”

  “Hear me out,” he demands, taking both her hands in his. “Help me unlock the gate and we can rule hell together. It’ll be you and I…like old times, remember?”

  The Nun’s eyes grow distant.

  “C’mon, Berith.” He smiles at her. “Why be a princess when you can be a queen?”

  She’s a princess of hell? Damn.

  “Let’s conquer this world together,” he continues.

  A dry laugh escapes the Nun’s mouth. “I’m impressed. Did you rehearse this crap, or are you so desperate to buy your witch some time you actually came up with this bullshit as you went?”

  “I take that as a no.” His amber eyes catch fire. “Very well then. I shall see you at your funeral, Berith.” A fraction of a second later, B’s eyes clear up and she drops to the floor. Her head barely misses the boiler.

  “B?” Jesse is next to her in a heartbeat. “Hey”—he slaps her gently—“you with me?”

  “Hit me again,” she mutters. “And I’ll make you do the Macarena.” At least one of us hasn’t lost her humor yet.

  “Mm…mmm!” Demon-Boy waves his hands, desperately seeking attention.

  Pink Nail Polish has him covered. “You’ll be good as new.” She puts her palms on his mouth, chanting some spell that reverses the First Knight’s magic.

  “He’s fucking crazy,” Demon-Boy yells the instant the thread is gone.

  The Nun stares at the spot where the lunatic demon just stood. “We have to stop him.”

  I can’t believe I find myself agreeing with a princess of fucking hell. But she’s right. This crazy mother needs stopped before…well, before the world ends by Manda’s hands. “Any idea how?”

  Demon-Boy casts me a sidelong glance. “You sound as if we’re playing for the same team.”

  “Don’t we?” Jesse shoots back. “I mean, we all want that crazy demon back in the pit, right?”

  Pink Nail Polish sighs. “Maybe so. But we’re demons and you guys are…” She trails off. “Anyway, why should we trust you?”

  Seriously? “Because we’re the good guys, remember?”

  “Whatever that means,” the Nun grumbles.

  I approach her. “It means we don’t stab people in the back.”

  Demon-Boy faces the Nun. “We can’t trust them. They’re—”

  “The only ones who can stop Amanda,” B says, surprising us all.

  The Nun frowns. “You can’t. No one can. The power of the First Grimoire will corrupt her. And by the time she’s given in to it, she won’t be the same.”

  “She won’t hurt us,” I say, feeling the truth of those words rattling through my marrow. Manda took a bullet for Jesse and me, walked away from her new life the moment she learned about my deal, and traded her soul so I wouldn’t go to hell—she’d never harm us.

  The Nun gazes at the map, considering her options. You don’t have to be a mind-reader to understand she ain’t got many left. “Well then.” She meets my gaze. “Go to Bayview, try your luck. We”—she eyeballs her demon pals—“will gather some reinforcements in case you fail.”

  “Which you will,” Demon-Boy adds, grinning like a mother.

  Not if we have some help. “Where’s my phone?” I ask, not finding it in my pocket.

  Pink Nail Polish pulls it out of her jacket. “Sorry.” She shrugs. “Couldn’t have you call for backup, could we?”

  “Just give me my damn phone,” I mutter, snatching it from her hand.

  Jesse squints. “What are you doing?”

  “Calling for backup,” I reply, dialing JJ’s number.

  Chapter 29

  I begin to realize why demons are so damn hard to hunt. Those mothers are a resourceful bunch, having everything at arm’s reach. A private jet? Just a call away. Getting permission to take off despite the reality all other planes are grounded due to the earthquake? No problem. Organizing a brand new, silver Mercedes G65 AMG? It waited for us, fueled and ready to go, at Spokane International Airport. So yeah. Thanks to the Nun aka Berith, aka Princess of Hell, we made it to Idaho in a little less than six hours. Without her demonic assistance, it would have taken us at least forty.

  “We’re almost there,” Jesse says.

  According to the fancy German GPS system, we’re just six miles outside Bayview. Our calculated estimated arrival is less than twelve minutes. “Question is what we’re going to do once when we get there?” It’s not like the locator spell gave us an exact location of the knight. All we have is Bayview, Idaho. And while this isn’t New York, we still don’t have time to search the whole damn town. Especially since the demon has a six-hour head start. He could be halfway across the country by now.

  Jesse eyeballs B in the rearview mirror. He looks like he’s waiting for her to tell us what to do, but the mamba stares ahead, unresponsive and slightly out of it. She’s been like that since we walked out of Green House. I can’t say I blame her. It’s not every day the Big Apple is reduced to ashes and dust. The images of hurt folks, tossed cars, and collapsed houses—they’ll haunt you for the rest of your life.

  My phone buzzes. “It’s JJ.”

  “What did she say?” Jesse inquires.

  “On our way,” I read. “Will be there early tomorrow morning.” Good. When I called her and gave her a quick summary of what happened, she immediately agreed to meet us in Bayview. So did Bay, by the way. I might not like that dude—for obvious, Manda-digging reasons—but he’s reliable and loyal.

  “We need all the help we can get,” Jesse murmurs, eyes distant.

  Another period of silence stretches between us. I’m done replaying the conversation with the First Knight. I’ve been tortured by it for the past six hours. It didn’t get me anywhere. Okay, it sorta led me into a spiral of self-pity and hopelessness, but that’s hardly helpful.

  I switch the radio on. Music always had a calming effect on me. Sometimes, however, the wrong song comes on and fucks with my mind some more. Kinda like now. When God decides to torture me with “Cat’s in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin. C’mon, from the millions of songs out there I get the one that’s about a father who neglects his son?

  The damn lyrics cut through my marrow. It’s as if t
he big man up there, on his golden throne, needs to remind me how badly I fucked up. Trust me, he doesn’t. I’m aware of what a bastard I was. I have a son I never met. A son I never got to hug. A son who’d be raised thinking his father had died. Manda was wrong. She’s not the one who doesn’t deserve to call herself a parent. I am.

  He’s too young to blame you, a faint voice whispers in the back of my mind.

  Maybe, but I blame myself enough for both of us. Let’s face it; while I was busy treating Manda like garbage and playing the hero for strangers, my own flesh and blood was exposed to all kinds of dangers. Now he’s in the claws of demons, and every Malleus hunter is out there looking for him.

  Why didn’t Bay say anything? His old pals probably figured where his loyalty truly lay. Bay could have handed Manda over on a silver plate back in Winter Harbor. Instead, he kept his mouth shut, lying to his fellow order members.

  I wonder if those Malleus assholes know who Leandro truly is. Half witch, half hunter, something tells me they don’t like that combination.

  Demon-Boy flashes across my mind. “He’s an abomination,” the asshole said, fear dominating his voice.

  I still want to smash the bastard’s head for calling my son an abomination. But like it or not, I get why that little boy makes a grown demon pale. Amanda is the most powerful witch I’ve ever encountered. It’s why I turned to her when Jesse was MIA in Bakersfield. I knew if anyone could find him, it would be her. All right, I also missed her and sorta wanted to see how she’s doing, but that’s a story for another time. Anyway, with her abilities—reading people like damn books, seeing past, future and present with just a single touch—and her sharp mind, she’s a force to be reckoned. If her child only inherited some of her gifts, hunters would regard it as a danger. Leandro, however, isn’t just her son. He’s mine, too—a descendant of the Arrows of Artemis, the most feared hunters in the world. Add all those ingredients and you have a recipe for a power vacuum. So yeah, only God knows what he’s truly capable of.

  Power doesn’t make him evil, I assure myself. Leandro is just a child. He deserves a chance to prove himself, regardless of who his parents are. And if he’s just a bit like his mother, he’ll never be a danger to others.

  Unless they’re bullies, torture animals, or—

  Stop. I won’t go down this road again. It turned Manda into the slave of some demon. I’ll be damned if the same happens to Leandro. What he is doesn’t matter. Who he is, is what counts. For now, he’s just a little boy. Nothing more, nothing less.

  B’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Stop the car,” she orders, out of the blue.

  I maneuver the Mercedes to the side of the road. “What’s up?”

  She gets out of the car. Both, Jesse and I, follow her. “B,” Jesse shouts. “Where are you going?”

  Like a robot, the mamba crosses the road. She halts in front of a ponderosa pine. There, hidden beneath a branch, is a street sign. It reads, Cape Horn Road.

  “He was here,” she whispers, eyes glued to the sign.

  “The First Knight?” I gotta be sure.

  She nods. “I feel his essence.” She looks me in the eye. “The stink of him is still fresh.”

  Nothing good can ever come out of a road that has the word “horn” in it. It’s basically destined for evilness. “All right.” I reach for my useless Beretta. “Let’s go.”

  “Yup.” Jesse has his Glock out in under a second. “Let’s rock n’ roll.”

  B moves toward a small bridge. “Hey.” Jesse pulls her back. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  She cocks a brow, and I catch a glimpse of the old, defiant, don’t-fuck-with-me B. “Wherever this path leads me,” she shoots back.

  Jesse shakes his head. “No way.” He circles her wrist, hauling her toward the car. “You’re gonna stay right here.”

  “No,” she says, digging her heels into the ground, refusing to move. “I won’t.”

  “B—”

  “Don’t make me use magic on you,” she cuts him off, face like stone.

  “You—”

  “Last time I checked,” she says. “I was the only one who could command a demon. So”—she slams her hands on her hips—“unless you’re a voodoo priest and forgot to tell me, I am your best shot at getting out alive.”

  What she said is logical. Jesse, however, doesn’t do rational when it comes to the mamba with the cognac eyes. The one that teased him in a damn strip club, just to walk away and leave him dry and high. “B—”

  I get between them. “That’s enough.”

  “Tell her to get her ass back in the car,” Jesse barks.

  “Tell him to stop treating me like a damn child,” she shoots back.

  I’ve had a rotten day. The last thing I need is a bitch fight. I face my brother. “She’s coming.”

  B grins. “Ha!”

  “But”—I cast her a sidelong glance—“you’ll stay behind us and do exactly as we say. Got it?”

  It’s Jesse’s turn to gloat.

  I head toward the small bridge before another fight ensues.

  “Shit,” Jesse hisses, somewhere behind me.

  I spin, half expecting to find the mamba at his throat. But like Jesse, B’s frozen. “What’s—” Fuck. Beneath the bridge is a landscaped creek with a waterfall. That’s not why we’re rooted to the spot with dropped jaws, though.

  “Is that…is that…” B can’t say it.

  So Jesse does it for her. “Blood.”

  Yeah, the water isn’t casual blue, it’s not even a dirty brown. It resembles a pool of red wine. I’m no end-of-days specialist, but water turned to blood? Can’t be a good sign, can it?

  “Alex.” B is next to me. “We better hurry.” One look into her eyes and I can tell this whole water-to-blood thing is worse than I thought.

  I nod, forcing my feet into action.

  The closer we get to the gray-stone mansion, the weirder I feel. My stomach cramps, my eyes water, and my chest is heavy yet empty.

  I ogle the name below the bell. It reads Blair.

  “Door’s open,” Jesse whispers, kicking the massive wood.

  On high alert, I move in first. The weight of my Beretta is nothing compared to the pressure building in my chest. B’s right. Something stinks.

  The hallway is open with high ceilings, and plenty of fancy furniture. The walls on each side are covered with crosses and religious paintings. Some I recognize from research. Yes, hunters don’t just kill. No, I don’t like that part of the job. Jesse does. Anyway, there’s Mother Mary with baby Jesus, the lamb in heaven, and several of the Savior himself—half of the churches in Texas aren’t as well equipped.

  “Alex.” Jesse nudges me. “Listen.”

  I stop dead in my tracks. Somewhere, not too far from where we stand, music plays. It’s just a faint noise, at first. The farther we walk, the louder it grows. Soon, I find myself humming to the tunes of “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin.

  Shivers course down my spine. And I know…I just know I won’t like what I’ll find behind that wooden door to my right.

  Face your demons, Remington.

  I draw a deep breath, steady my Beretta, and push inside.

  “Fuck!” is the only damn word that comes mind, but could never do the Kill Bill battlefield justice. There’s blood everywhere—the walls, the ivory sofa, the marble floor, all across the fireplace.

  “Jesus,” Jesse hisses.

  And B? Remember the elevator scene in The Shining? The look on Wendy Torrance’s face when she encountered a wall of blood oozing from the elevator shaft? It’s pretty much the same expression B rocks—terrified, tortured, damaged. It doesn’t surprise me. I bet the mamba doesn’t get to see crucified folks very often. Yeah, that’s right. Dangling from the ceiling are two inverted crosses. Nailed to the first one is a dude; his head barely attached to his spine. On the second, secured with long rusty nails driven through hands and feet, is a woman. Her throat is slit, but at least her head doe
sn’t look like it’ll fall off any second.

  I’m ready to haul B’s pale ass out when an all too familiar sound echoes through the living room—the removal of a safety click.

  Chapter 30

  “Drop your guns,” some dude screams. “Drop them now.”

  I lower my Beretta, and turn slowly.

  “Don’t move!” he warns, voice trembling.

  “Help me out, man. How can we drop our guns when we’re not supposed to move?” Hey, I’m not trying to be an asshole here, but we can’t possibly do both.

  The dude groans. “Put them down. Slow-ly.”

  Jesse and I follow the directions.

  “Good,” he says. “Now, kick them away.”

  We do as we’re told.

  “Show me your hands,” he continues.

  We lift them above our heads. All of us, except B. The mamba can barely lift her jaw from the ground, let alone her hands. She just stands there, staring at the corpses hanging on the crosses.

  “You too,” he yells at her.

  “Listen,” Jesse starts. “This isn’t what it looks like.” He reaches for his badge. “We’re—”

  “I said don’t move!”

  “We’re FBI,” I blurt out, quickly. “I’m going to get my badge, okay?”

  “Don’t even think about it,” he barks.

  Heavy footsteps echo through the living room. A dark-haired, twenty-something deputy stands in front of me. He holds his gun with one hand. Rookie mistake. I could disarm him in the blink of an eye. He’d never knew what hit him.

  “Where’s your badge?” he asks, giving me a once over. Yeah, ripped jeans and leather jacket doesn’t look very federal agent. I get it.

  “Left, inner pocket,” I say, sounding calmer than I actually am. We have enough on our plate. A meet and greet with local law enforcement is the last thing we need.

  The deputy wrinkles his hooked nose. My guess, he had it fractured once or twice. He’s either into boxing, or bullied relentlessly as a kid. “Don’t try anything stupid,” he warns us.