Daughters of Eve Collection (Books 1, 2 & 3)

by Bourdon, Danielle

  Rhett went over and plucked the handset up. “Dial tone.”

  Standing on the other side of the desk, Evelyn waited to see if the call connected when he punched the numbers in. She knew it hadn't when frustration crossed his face. Coming around, she started opening the drawers.

  “Look through the rolodex there. Might be scribbled at the corner of one card. I'll look in here.”

  “We don't have a lot of time, Evelyn.”

  “Five minutes.” She rifled through the drawers, lifting papers, opening smaller account books. He rifled through the rolodex, flicking cards one after the other.

  “Here, I bet this is it!” The manager, or owner, or whoever ran the place, had scribbled a two digit code at the top of a paper with a list of other numbers and names that meant nothing to her.

  Rhett took the paper from her and tapped in the two numbers before adding the rest.

  Thirty seconds went by.

  “Dad! It's me. Yes. Listen I—no wait, just listen for a second.”

  Evelyn slid the drawer closed and breathed a sigh of relief. Finally. Something went their way. She knew Dragar and Christian, along with some other Templar named Roman were at a different safe house or stronghold in Athens.

  “Here's what you need to do, we don't have a lot of time. Bring Christian with you to The Temple of Isis on Philae. Just the two of-- no, no. Don't bring Roman. Just you two. Trust me, no one else can get where we're going. When I say hurry, I mean drop everything and leave right now.”

  Rhett's urgency made her skin break out in goosebumps.

  “That's right. I love you, too.” He hung up the phone.

  Evelyn twitched unexpectedly hearing those three words come out of his mouth. They weren't directed at her but it didn't matter. His obvious affection for his father touched her as much as if he'd said the same thing straight to her face. It showed her a deeper side that she'd suspected lived there all along.

  “Are they on their way?” she asked, clearing the husk out of her voice.

  Rhett looked up, pale green eyes sharp, assessing as they'd ever been. “Yes. He's just bringing Christian with him. We need to get back to Philae and wait, hope Dracht and Alexandra show up at some point.”

  “If Dracht is anything like you, I know they'll get back all right.” Her faith in the brothers ran strong.

  Rhett closed the foot of space between them, cupped her cheek with a rough palm, and bent to kiss her lips. Just a touch down, a brush of warmth before it was gone. It left promises in its wake that encouraged her.

  “We need to get back.”

  In a strange office, in a strange town, with the world in chaos around them, she wouldn't have imagined she could be distracted by a pair of eyes and a gentle kiss. She nodded once and stepped back to let him out from behind the desk. It was time to go.

  Now it was up to fate and a bit of luck to deliver their family to the Temple.

  ***

  “Rhett insisted I am to only bring Christian with me. Stay here, Roman, for as long as you can. There's food and water to last you until we find out what's going on. I'll call as soon as I'm able.” Dragar packed water bottles, jerky, trail mix and granola bars into a small backpack.

  Christian did the same.

  “Good luck, gentlemen. It looks nasty out there,” Roman said.

  The advent of the storms and the rain hadn't surprised any of them. Not after the eerie situation with the sun, the moon and the swarm. But it had cast a pall over the three, watching one event happen after another. Knowing there was nothing they could do to stop it.

  Dragar was deeply concerned for Dracht and Rhett, and he knew Christian's preoccupation was over the same. Whatever betrayals he'd committed did not transcend blood.

  Dragar shook Roman's hand after Christian, and with a final word of goodbye, they left to battle their way to Egypt.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When the van broke down for the second time, Dracht ditched it on the side of the road. They were just outside of a small, nondescript town. Alexandra paced alongside him until they reached the outskirts, scraping her long hair back into a loose knot. Pieces stuck out here or there and she didn't care. The mass was off her neck, allowing the tepid breeze to dry the sweat on her nape. Her thighs protested walking, muscles seizing and bunching. It was nothing compared to the stabbing pain in her spine, causing her to hunch her shoulders forward to relieve it. What she wouldn't give for a long soak in a hot tub.

  Night had come and gone hours ago, the darkness lifting only a few shades to gray. The desert stretched far and wide with cities randomly interspersed along the highway, and they'd found food, water and gas without too much trouble. More and more people were coming out of their homes, out of their businesses or hotels now that the rain had stopped and the swarm was either gone or in layers on the ground. None of the them bothered her or Dracht, too busy dealing with their own personal crisis.

  In the lot of what she thought was a Doctor's office, they found a newer Mustang, cherry red, with a full tank of gas and good tread on the tires. Shockingly, the doors were unlocked. Three minutes later they were on the road with several hundred horses galloping under the hood. With no one to monitor their speed, no one to care how fast they drove the endless, empty miles, he pegged the speedometer out at ninety and scrolled through radio stations to catch up on the news.

  More chaos, looting, rioting, murdering. Thousands—no millions possibly dead or missing. Citizens of the world were encouraged to keep the peace, remain calm, and wait for further instruction.

  She thought it was telling that scripture from every walk of life got the air time between each newscast. No ads played, no announcements for elections or new cars or discount wars at favorite stores. The information poured out in Arabic but also in other languages; English, Japanese, German. It was like the airwaves had all merged into one. Alexandra translated some of it for Dracht, at least in the languages he didn't understand. It helped kill time.

  Out the windows of the Mustang, she kept watch for signs that the Sixth Seal had been broken.

  ***

  “What do we do if they don't make it?” Evelyn asked as they stood between the east and west colonnades of the Temple of Isis. The trip along the Nile had, for a change, been uneventful.

  Rhett stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the ground instead of their surroundings.

  “We'll go on with our original plan. There's nothing else we can do. Right?”

  “Not really. How long do you think it'll take them to get here from Greece?” She wanted an estimate if all went reasonably well for Dragar and Christian.

  “If they can get hold of a boat, and I'm sure they can, then it's a matter of crossing the Mediterranean without anything going wrong between here and there. Then there's the drive here. Maybe three days?”

  “That's really pushing it.”

  “Nothing else we can do, Evelyn. Can't stop time.” Rhett met her eyes before pacing a slow circle around her.

  “Did you really mean all that? About speaking for your father and brother?”

  “Yes. Christian—well, we'll all have some things to work out. Dad told me there's another element involved. It'll go easier if I know he did it because he was forced to, not because he wanted to.”

  “You've known him your whole life. What does your gut instinct tell you?” she asked, following his languid path with her eyes.

  “That he didn't want to be doing what he was doing and felt he had no other choice. He's never, ever broken any of our covenants before. I also think he was frustrated and knew he was in over his head.”

  “Maybe his heart is blacker than you realize. Or maybe you've suspected all along but like the good brother that you are, you chose to turn a blind eye,” someone said.

  Evelyn whipped a look toward the edge of the colonnades when the strange voice broke into their conversation. In periphery she saw Rhett do the same.

  Like Ashrael, this man was tall. Six-six at least. He
wore leather armor the color of charcoal, the breastplate carved with a scene of battle. In the shape of fish scales, the leather tapered over his shoulders and decorated the outside of bracers he wore on his forearms. The pieces on his thighs were all separate, protecting major muscle mass only, his boots ending in a wicked point with arcane carvings cut into the arch. A wide belt encircled his waist from which hung a sword in its elaborate sheath. Another, located right above it, didn't seem quite as long but was surely just as lethal. Black hair hung to his shoulders, cut blunt and straight, gray eyes almost mocking in his regard of them.

  Evelyn recognized him for reasons more than his armor and the craftmanship of the sword. He reeked of malevolence and mayhem. The same eerie, powerful presence exuded from him as it did Ashrael.

  Her skin prickled with unease.

  He was a Servant of the Fallen.

  One glance at Rhett told her he suffered no misconception about what they were facing.

  “What, nothing to say? And here I've been looking forward to making the acquaintance of a Templar for so long.” The stranger bowed his head to accompany his condescending quip.

  “How did you find us?” The question popped out before she could stop it. Ashrael's presence at the East Gate prevented any Fallen from entering Eden—unless he lost a direct battle with them—as well as humans who might stumble in. None ever had in the history of man thanks to the precautions they had taken. She worried the Fallen would amass here and attack Ashrael and destroy the one sanctuary that would remain when Armageddon swept the earth.

  “Once a seal is broken, it is easy for us to hone in on the source,” the Servant said. He pulled his sword slowly from the sheath with a hiss of steel. “While my brethren were busy with other things, I followed you, knowing you would lead us to the East Gate at last.”

  Evelyn knew she couldn't grab Rhett and run through the colonnades to the doorway. The Servant would follow, remember the key and the path, and tell all the others. The battle Ashrael talked about would come straight to him.

  That left fighting the Fallen hand to hand. Armored, unusually tall and strong with at least two weapons on him, he held a distinct advantage over her Templar. She glanced at Rhett; he seemed as intent as she'd ever seen him, pale green eyes sharp on the Servant, posture defensive without being aggressive—yet.

  “What I would like you to do, is tell me how to get in. I know there is some kind of protection in place.” The Servant raised the sword to point at Evelyn, then swerved to point at Rhett. “Show me, and I will spare his life.”

  “Don't do it,” Rhett snapped without looking at her. He paced a stalking circle away from Evelyn, drawing the Servant's attention.

  “Rhett...”

  “I said no.”

  The Servant didn't mock them; he slithered the other sword from its sheath and suddenly pitched it through the air. It was not as long as the one he held but a fine weapon nevertheless.

  Evelyn thought it would pierce Rhett where he stood and smothered a gasp with her hands. The sword glinted as it flew end over end, thudding into the ground a half yard from Rhett's boots.

  “That evens the odds a little more.” The Servant stalked toward Rhett, gripping the hilt of his sword tight.

  Evelyn didn't see it that way. Rhett, tall on his own, stood shorter by a handful of inches. He was mortal; the Servant was something other, a creature with enhanced strength and the ability to heal at a much faster rate than even she and her sisters. Rhett had no armor, little sleep and several wounds still in recovery stages. While her faith was with Rhett, there could be no denying he was at a severe disadvantage.

  She glanced at the colonnades while the Servant and Rhett faced off, beginning a slow circle around each other. If she ran for it while the Servant was distracted, he wouldn't be able to see which path she took. The Servant needed to be following right behind her to get the key; all the colonnades in rows confused any observer standing anywhere else.

  If she could get to the pylon doors, get to Ashrael, he would help. Minna wouldn't think to come out and check for Dragar and Christian for hours and hours yet. She couldn't count on that.

  A hard clang of steel on steel drew her gaze from the colonnades. Rhett deflected a first strike, lips peeled back from his teeth, muscles straining in his arms.

  The battle had begun.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Under a stormy but rainless sky, the Temple of Isis flanking them on three of four sides, the Servant of the Fallen and the Templar fought for dominance.

  Rhett knew he fought for more than his life; he battled for Evelyn, for Eden, for the rest of the unsuspecting humanity who had no idea how dire the situation had become.

  His entire life narrowed down to this one moment; every skirmish, every training session, every trick learned from his elders would be put to the test. The ability to think on his feet, to overcome odds stacked against him, all of it landed him here at the pinnacle, faced off with an adversary who had just as much motivation to win.

  Arcing the sword down, he brought the Servant's with him and made a bold move; he stomped a boot across the arcane blade, hoping to snap the hilt out of the Servant's hand. He felt the steel sing under the assault—but the Servant did not let go. It wobbled in the man's grasp just before Rhett got backhanded.

  Spinning out, he stayed in a crouch, hearing the Servant's blade whistle a few inches above his head. Evelyn's scream confirmed the close call. He lashed his sword out for a leg, skittering to the left like a crab, forcing the Servant to dance back out of range or take a hit where the armor separated to allow his knee to bend.

  Rhett popped to his feet while the Servant recovered. He didn't give him long to gather his wits or a strategy plan; shuffle-stepping, he kicked up a wad of dead insects with his boot, aiming for the eyes. The Servant twitched his head but not in time; the mud-bug mass splatted against his face. Rhett understood the Servant's abilities enough to know he would likely strike right now, when he figured Rhett would advance.

  Sure enough, the long sword sliced through the air at waist level. Out of harms way, Rhett waited until just after the lethal strike to lunge forward, stabbing for the soft spot between the head and shoulders where the armor offered a gap of vulnerability. A grunt and a splash of red told him he'd succeeded.

  Before he could turn out of range, he felt a strong leg sweep his calves; a second later he stared up at the sky, air whooshing out of his lungs. Without thinking, he rolled quickly to the left. Hearing the sword thud into the ground where he'd just been, Rhett angled up to his feet already swinging, coming around with a backhand that landed on armor straight across the Servant's back. He knew it wouldn't cut or slice, only knock his adversary off balance.

  The Servant's sword came slicing around to ward off another possible attack, missing his arm by inches. Rhett swerved out, letting the blade pass by. While the motion was still going, Rhett parried forward, relentless, driving the Servant back with sheer fearlessness. Right in his face, shouting at the top of his lungs, cracking the sword against the Servant's with a flurry of overhand attacks.

  The immortal had little time to recover after each swing, driven back until he thumped against a stone column. Rhett, two hands on the hilt, went for a kill strike: right for the exposed throat, shoulders twisting with the power he put behind it.

  Mid-swing, the Servant kicked him in the stomach. His strike fell short when he pitched backward onto the ground. The sword flew out of his hand. He saw the intent on the Servant's face and rolled left, scrambled right, scooted backward at three hard slashes from the blade. One after the other, driving forward like he'd driven the Servant back earlier.

  Except now he'd lost his weapon. Under his palms he felt the carapaces of the swarm snap and break. A tickle-sharp sensation he would remember long after this was over. One of the vivid, surreal details of war that stayed with a man far beyond its time.

  His adversary cocked his elbows, the blade aiming for his head, and lunged.
<
br />   Rhett forced himself to be still for a breath of a second. He wanted the Servant to think he was caught off guard, wanted him to be distracted by the initial thought of a win. At the last possible moment, he turned his head. The sword sank into the ground right next to his ear.

  Close. Close.

  While the blade was stuck, Rhett snapped a hard kick against the Servant's wrist. He heard the vibration rattle down the length of steel just before the immortal's hand flew away from the sword. Grabbing the hilt over his shoulder, a strange reach-and-yank, he dislodged it from the ground and, still sitting, stabbed it forward when the Servant came in to attack. The timing couldn't have been more precise if they'd rehearsed it through millenia.

  Unfortunately, from a sitting position, his trajectory was off.

  The tip of the sword contacted the armor, bouncing the Servant back but it didn't deliver a killing wound. Rhett missed the break in the armor between the stomach and the hips.

  Shit.

  With a slap of his hand, the immortal drove the blade away from his stomach. Rhett's arms shifted with it. He couldn't be in a worse position.

  The Servant struck out with a heavy boot, kicking him in the head. Stunned, he landed with his cheek in the mud, in the dead bugs, the sword laying out at an angle from his body.

  Around him time slowed down. He heard the gentle wind, the creak of the Servant's armor, felt the pressure of the boot on his ear. In the distance, Evelyn screamed. Screamed with the fervor of someone about to watch a loved one die.

  The immortal reached down to grab the sword out of his hands. Rhett knew what it meant. Knew the Servant would add more pressure to the boot on his head and stab him straight through the neck. Instead of fight the man for the sword, Rhett let go with one hand and swung it back, grabbing for the curve in the armor near the Servant's neck. A blind reach since he couldn't lift his head to look.