Magnus grudgingly began again, “The albino was the only adopted persona that spoke.”
“Yes, our missing Alastor: Thorton Aston the III. Goes by Thrash. His father is a powerful man within House Ramiel,” Matthew said with a long face, weariness weighing heavily upon him.
It pained the priest to think of the awful fate that had befallen the poor boy. Magnus had described the demon in too graphic detail: the souls of its victims neither ascending nor descending, but rather drunk up and made nothing.
“He’s been eaten, Matt. There’s nothing to be done for him now. You need to concern yourself with the welfare of the living,” Magnus agreed, his tone cool and detached.
The Celt wasn’t unfeeling, but he’d had no personal connection to Thrash, so the albino’s death was little more than a statistic. However, to Matthew, it was a grim, horrible reality.
“Ah yes, the ramifications.” Matthew's shoulders slumped. “It means he knows about us, our names, and identities. Everything that Alastor Aston knew.” Horrified realization washed over him. Thrash had been well placed within their organization which made him a perfect target for a demon wishing to penetrate their security.
“Matt…”
At the second shortening of his given name, a telling slip, Matthew looked up sharply.
“It knows things that it shouldn’t know. It knows we’re friends,” Magnus explained.
“Are you sure?” Matthew demanded, mind reeling. “How could it know? It’s a secret we’ve kept successfully for decades. Even Aiden only just found out.”
His friendship with the Celt, a cursed member of House Shemyaza was a closely guarded secret, one that could have deadly consequences if it became known. He didn’t fear for his own life. He already had one foot in the grave. However, he worried about Aiden and would take any steps necessary to protect her. The thought that his adopted daughter might suffer because of his sins brought Matthew to the verge of panic.
“I don’t know how it knows, but it does,” Magnus said in a stern voice. “It told me.”
“Arrgggh!” Matthew emitted a strangled growl of frustration and made a choking gesture with his hands toward the Celt’s throat. “Let’s try this again! Stop being deliberately difficult, and try volunteering information for a change. Why didn’t you mention this little detail from the start?”
“I’m not being deliberately difficult,” Magnus muttered in a hurt tone. His cloak rustled in a way that, absurdly enough, gave the impression of sullenness.
Abruptly, Matthew flushed with guilt for allowing agitation to overrule reason. He felt awful for having even thought that Magnus had deliberately withheld information. Given his horrendous pain, Magnus probably wasn’t thinking clearly. The Celt wouldn’t have withheld information on purpose.
“I’m sorry,” Matthew apologized, his tone heartfelt. “That was wrong of me. My only excuse is that I’m accustomed to thinking of you as... invulnerable. The thought of this thing knowing... and that you’d do this to yourself...” The priest gestured toward Magnus with open hands. “Well, frankly, I’m scared to death.”
Magnus leaned forward slightly. “It scares me too.”
Matthew shuddered. The soft admission struck terror in his heart, deep down where his darkest dread dwelt. It was one thing for the priest to confess his fear, it was another to hear Magnus make it real.
“All right, this thing has teeth,” Matthew said, clenching his jaws. “We’ll just have to pull them.”
“And how do you propose we do that, Matthew me lad?” Magnus’ brogue grew smooth and thick like butter. The Celt only sounded so colloquial while in the grips of strong emotion or when he was being cuttingly sarcastic.
He chuckled. “Bring up the differences in our ages. Can you be any more petty?”
The Celt flashed a wide grin. “You’d be surprised.”
“No, I wouldn't. We know it’s vulnerable to sunlight,” Matthew said, refusing to rise to the bait. “If we could get it into the open at dawn...”
“It’s also made of liquid darkness,” Magnus reminded him. “It’s only solid when it wants to be, so dragging it isn’t an option, and I doubt I could trick it again.”
“You wouldn’t survive a second brush with sunlight anyway,” Matthew said with a wave of his hand. “But what if we could find some way to force it to become corporeal?”
“It’s worth looking in to,” the Celt agreed.
“It means using magic. Unfortunately, I’m not in the best condition for spell casting at the moment,” Matthew said with a grimace. “And you’re hardly in top fighting shape.”
“Don't underestimate me. Do the research, and see what you turn up.”
“Fine, I’ll start going through the Grimoires tonight,” Matthew said, referring to the potent manuals of black magic which were used for invoking spirits and demons. Study of the dark arts was forbidden to all but the most experienced Nephilim elders, so the priest kept his small contraband collection of tomes under lock and key.
“Why did you want to see me, anyway?” The Celt moved closer to the hearth, perhaps seeking the heat of the fire.
Startled by the omission, Matthew blinked and snapped his fingers. “Ah, apparently you’re not the only one suffering minor memory lapses this evening.”
The priest rose and ambled to the portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson which concealed his wall safe. He removed the wrapped sword and laid it out on the table.
Magnus drifted closer.
“This was in Alastor Aston’s possession when he was killed,” Matthew explained. “It may be the reason he was murdered. It may be a coincidence.”
He unfolded the velvet wrapping to reveal the onyx blade, pulsating with power, shining in all its glory. “There are Celtic circles etched on one side of the blade, and the hilt is distinctly Celtic in origin. There are runes on the opposite side of the blade which are angelic script, and—”
Magnus reached for the hilt, drawing a strangled squawk from the priest.
“Don’t touch it!” he urged, because even a gloved hand might not afford the wielder enough protection from the weapon’s enchanting aura.
The second the Celt snatched up the weapon, a tremor passed through the blade, and it burned crimson. An angry hiss, a sharp sibilant warning, rose up from the sword as if it didn’t want Magnus touching it.
Apparently unfazed by the weapon’s reaction, Magnus brandished the sword and stepped back three paces. He took several passes through empty air, wielding it with grace and mastery.
“It’s a fine sword,” the Celt declared with a grunt and returned the hissing weapon to its resting spot on the table.
Bending over, Matthew pressed his palms against the tabletop and leaned heavily forward. He wondered if Magnus had only picked up the weapon to prove that he could or if his friend had an ulterior motive.
“Is that your expert opinion?” Matthew asked, biting the inside of his cheek to refrain from a more venomous comment.
“These circles are decorative, and the carved blade is much older than the hilt. I reckon that the tang has been re-wrapped multiple times.” Ignoring the sibilant cry of protest from the indignant weapon, Magnus flipped the sword over to display the pommel which bore the mark of the weapon smith, an ancient signature. “This is the stamp of Greagoir of Ulster, two hundred and twelve Anno Domini.”
The very neutrality of the Celt’s tone made the priest wonder just what was not being said. “The blade was carved, not forged?” Matthew asked, wanting to confirm what he already suspected.
The Celt gave a sharp nod, causing the cowl of his cloak to rustle. “The blade has been carved from a dragon’s tooth.” He turned it over so the angelic script faced up and released the hilt.
The sword’s angry hiss finally dissipated along with the crimson glow.
Matthew sagged with relief. “I’d really rather you didn’t touch it, thanks.” He inhaled and stared at the weapon, enraptured as swirling, seductive patterns of light danced
just under the sleek surface. “A tooth?”
“A tooth,” Magnus confirmed, and his tone contained some rich, indefinable irony.
“I’ll go through my history books and see if I can find any reference to a dragon being slain around then.” Matthew extracted a pen and a notebook from his pocket and jotted down a few notes.
“My people regarded dragons with reverence and respect,” Magnus said in such a reserved tone that it gave Matthew pause.
“What are you saying?” the priest asked.
Magnus pursued an enigmatic silence before answering. “Nothing, I’m saying nothing.” He stroked a finger along the sword’s elegant ebony surface. “What’s her name?”
Surprise flickered through Matthew, but he supposed that he should have expected the question. Being one himself, Magnus was no stranger to ancient antiquities, and he knew that old swords were often named.
“Acerbitas,” Matthew replied. “Bitterness.” The word left an acerbic tang in his mouth, sour and metallic, as if speaking the name aloud gave it power. “It also means harshness.”
With a flicker, Magnus’ gloved fingers indicated the rune closest to the hilt. “What do these mean?”
“That is the mark of Lilith,” Matthew said. “As in Adam’s wife, Lilith, mother of demons. Lilith, who left paradise when the cost of freedom and equality was too high, rather than serve a man—”
“I know who Lilith is,” Magnus snapped. “I don’t care for her much.”
“You what?!” Jaw hanging open like a great flycatcher, Matthew ogled his old friend. Not once in forty years had Magnus ever mentioned… “You must be kidding!” Matthew exclaimed.
“I must be,” Magnus agreed. The hood hid the Celt’s expression, but Matthew recognized that insufferably smug tone.
Abruptly, Matthew gave a shaky laugh and shook his head, grinning ruefully. “You had me going for a second there,” the priest said. “Now, as I was saying, Lilith is also rumored to be the progenitor of all demons, and the most powerful.”
The priest continued, “The rest I’m not certain of just yet. I need time to translate the runes and decipher the inscription. I also need to research the sword, see if there is anything in my books that might shed some light on its origins.”
Matthew carefully lifted the corners of the black velvet and folded the cloth over the weapon. He breathed easier once it was covered.
“What purpose do you suppose such a weapon could serve?” Matthew mused. “Bearing the mark of Lilith and angelic inscription, carved from a dragon’s tooth?”
The Celt shrugged, seemingly indifferent. “Well, whatever its purpose, don’t leave it lying about,” Magnus suggested. “People have already died trying to possess it.”
“A good point,” Matthew agreed. He looked down at the covered sword unable to shake his fascination with it. The vision of a great rune weapon captured his imagination, weaving dreams that were born of every boy’s romantic fantasies. “This sword is the stuff of legends, a maker of myths, a weapon of heroes, and men of renown.”
Magnus grunted. “Yeah, you should lock it up.”
Matthew shot Magnus a dirty look, disgusted with the Celt’s lack of romance. But then Magnus had a solid point. The priest reverently lifted the sword and carried it toward the safe. “I’ll lock it up.”
Chapter Thirteen
Weeks flew into months, and midterms arrived, leaving Aiden with no time or energy to spare for anything but school. As part of her graduate program, she’d taken three demanding courses in advanced language studies in addition to the one she was teaching and her thesis work. The whole time, awful nightmares plagued her and robbed her of rest when she needed it the most.
The scholarly frenzy culminated in a hairy climax of tests and papers, during which Aiden subsisted on four hours of sleep per night when she was lucky, and infusions of caffeine and Doritos. She barely saw Father Matthew, Katsue, or Troy. And then, finally, it ended and the fall break arrived. She dropped off her last completed paper at her Latin professor’s office at 5 PM on Thursday afternoon.
Caught between weary exhaustion and the overwhelming relief of being finished, she crossed the campus in a heady daze. She’d made it through the academic ordeal and had another two weeks before school resumed. During the break, she planned to do absolutely nothing but rest and relax.
Aiden reached the Archeology building and smiled, her mood vastly improved with the prospect of seeing her friends for the first time in weeks. She descended the stairs to the basement where the Alastors maintained a gym—their private, safe place to train away from prying eyes. It also housed a locking cabinet filled with weapons for both training and practical purposes.
Katsue was bench-pressing a barbell, and Troy was spotting her. The beautiful Japanese woman wore a form-fitting black spandex workout outfit, and wet wisps of hair clung to her flushed cheeks. Her face was set in a mask of intense concentration, and Aiden guessed the amount of weight on the bar was probably too much. Katsue’s relentless competitive nature drove her to constantly push her limits.
Troy had his back to Aiden, so she ogled his ass unnoticed. Unlike his partner, Troy dressed for utility rather than glam. He wore a white tee shirt and a pair of blue nylon Nike shorts that showed off his muscular legs and backside. He had the kind of ass she longed to dig her fingers—or teeth—into, and Aiden couldn’t help herself. If he ever caught her staring, she’d die of embarrassment, but that wasn’t a good enough incentive to stop.
“Hey, guys, what’s up?” Aiden greeted them.
Katsue grunted a greeting and Troy turned round, capturing Aiden with his eyes. Her breath caught in her throat, because he’d never looked at her before with such concentration.
“Hey there, stranger. Long time no see,” Troy drawled, stalking toward her with unsettling intensity. His blue gaze held raw hunger, not sexual, but rather the feral, ravenous look of a starving animal.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been busy,” Aiden replied, confusion causing her to babble. “Midterms, you know.”
“Troy!” Katsue snapped, tone sharp and demanding while his head snapped around. “Take this! It’s too heavy. I’m going to drop it.”
Troy’s mouth compressed. He looked at Aiden, and for a moment, she thought he was going to ignore his partner’s request for help. Then he swung back and seized the barbell. Annoyance visible in every tight movement, he lifted it away from Katsue.
“Anyway,” Aiden said, watching with uncertainty as Katsue sat up and mopped her forehead and neck with a nearby towel. “I came to see if you guys wanted to get something to eat...” She trailed off awkwardly, trying to hide her confusion, and grasp the weird dynamic going on with the Alastors. Something was off about their behavior, and it was totally creeping her out.
“Count me in,” Troy said, looking at Aiden again with that hungry, menacing expression. “I’m starving. Feel like I haven’t eaten in weeks.” His lips curled into a sneer that doubled as a smirk, lauding some private joke that she wasn’t privy to.
“Actually, count you out. One of us has to present the weekly summary to Demon, and I did it last week. It’s your turn,” Katsue said, glaring at her partner with surprising severity.
“Take care not to push me,” Troy said, soft and deadly.
Aiden’s bewilderment increased as Katsue and Troy glared at one another, exchanging nasty looks.
“And you don’t push me,” Katsue hissed. She gave the impression of being terrified of Troy, but Aiden quickly dismissed the notion as ridiculous. But still, the tension between the two Alastors had intensified to the point where violence threatened, tainting every word and expression.
“We could wait,” Aiden suggested, eager to break up the confrontation. “Then we could all go.”
Katsue shook her head. “I’ve already spent the day with this goon. I could use a break.” The Japanese woman clamped a hand over Aiden’s wrist and dragged the younger woman toward the stairs.
Troy watched them
go with hooded eyes, arms crossed across his chest, and a nasty smirk playing on his lips.
Nonplussed, Aiden allowed the abduction to take place without a protest. Secretly, she was relieved to be out of there. Troy gave her the heebie-jeebies.
Once they were upstairs, Aiden wrenched her wrist free of Katsue’s grasp. “Okay, that whole thing just now was weird! “Is something up with you two, or is it just my sleep-deprived, caffeine-soaked brain making things up?”
Katsue used a fingertip to rub one of her eyebrows, drawing attention to the dark circles under her eyes. Her entire face scrunched into a tense frown, and she had the haggard, frazzled air of someone under unbearable strain.
“Let’s just say that Troy hasn’t been himself lately,” Katsue said grimly. “Not at all.”
“How so?” Aiden asked.
Looking up, the Japanese woman caught sight of Aiden’s expression and laughed, waving it off. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve both just been under a lot of stress lately, and when you spend as much time together as we do, you get on each other’s nerves. We just need some time apart. Let’s get going. Want to stop at my place to shower and change.”
“Okay,” Aiden agreed, eager to let the subject drop. “Where do you want to eat?”
“Swenson’s,” Katsue said as they exited the building. “I’m dying for something chocolate.”
“Sounds good.”
Katsue hesitated and glanced over her shoulder toward the Archeology building as if fearful of being watched. Nervously, Aiden looked back, but she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
“What is it?” Aiden asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Katsue stared at her and seemed to arrive at a decision. “Aiden, you need to stay away from Troy,” she said firmly. “Don’t ask why, just promise me.”
Aiden bit her lower lip. She indeed wanted to ask, but Katsue’s grim expression forbade it. Finally, the red head nodded. “Okay, I’ll keep clear of him for a while, but we’re going to talk about this when you calm down.”
“Fine.” Stiff-necked and defiant, Katsue walked off without a backward glance.
Phoenix Contract: Part Three (Fallen Angel Watchers) Page 5
