Another of the three men attacked; his hands were rough as he tore at the smoky quality of Dylan’s ethereal form. He couldn’t see her, but he could sense there was something there; something was keeping him from what he wanted. And he wanted it, like a dying man wants salvation, like a starving man wants food. But he wasn’t getting it.
Each time one of these men touched Dylan, she felt a coldness, a darkness that was like nothing she’d ever felt before. It was painful, both physically and mentally. She shrank back from it as much as she could, but she couldn’t leave the boy unprotected. Stiles ran over, yelling at the men to leave the boy alone. The last of the men, the one who had yet to reach the boy, turned on Stiles, slicing a knife across his arm as Stiles moved to defend himself. In a quick motion, Stiles grabbed the knife and threw it to the ground, then wrapped his arms around the man’s neck and cut off his air until his knees buckled and he fell to the ground.
Dylan screamed—a soundless scream that seemed to reverberate around her—as the men attacked together, both pulling and tearing at her form almost as though they could see it, as though it was as real to them as the boy whose body they wanted to tear from limb to limb. Stiles rushed to her aid, but it was almost as if someone had called a warning. The two men suddenly backed off and ran, rushing around Dylan to disappear somewhere along the far side of the street.
Dylan let the boy go and slipped back into her human form. Her clothing was torn and her arms were covered in deep red welts that seemed unwilling to heal. The boy fell, unconscious, to the ground. She touched his forehead to make sure he was still breathing, and was relieved to find he was.
Stiles moved up behind her, wiping his hands over her arms to make the welts disappear. He pulled her back and his hands moved up to her head, checking to make sure there were no other marks or injuries on her body.
“I’m okay,” she said, stepping away from him. “What was that?”
Instead of answering, Stiles went back to the man lying on the ground. He bent over him, not touching, but studying him. There was something wrong with this man’s aura, Dylan could see it from across the street. She walked over and joined Stiles, kneeling on the other side of the man.
“His soul is blackened,” Stiles said.
“Why?”
Stiles touched the man’s forehead, and then reared back. A second later, a dark, inky cloud rose up out of the man’s body. There was laughter that seemed to echo all around Dylan, humorless laughter that chilled her as the touch of the other men had done. She watched it dissipate and was relieved when it disappeared.
She looked back down at the man. His aura was no longer changed, his soul no longer darkened.
“What was that?”
Stiles shook his head as he stood. “Another soul.”
“Another? A soul just floating free?”
Stiles stared at the man on the ground for a long moment. Then his gaze slowly came up to Dylan’s.
“I think I know what it is. And, if I’m right, we could be in for a long, difficult battle.”
Chapter 7
The boy’s mother came running out of the building a moment later, sobs wracking her body as she wrapped him in her arms. Another woman, younger, came to Dylan with tears in her eyes as she embraced her.
“Thank you for helping my brother.”
Dylan returned the woman’s embrace as Stiles watched, her eyes refusing to leave his.
They waited around long enough to make sure the boy’s attackers didn’t return. Then Stiles grabbed Dylan’s hand and took her to a place where he knew they wouldn’t be disturbed. He could see that she recognized it immediately; it was a heavily wooded area behind what was once a motel. They’d met there once before—and shared a kiss he would never forget—and then again in a dream when he’d come back from heaven. It was special to him, like the place by the river was special to Rebecca.
“What’s going on?” Dylan demanded.
Stiles leaned back against a tree and stared down at his feet, picking at his nails as he did.
“I’ve heard it’s possible, but I’ve never seen one.”
“Seen what?”
“A Nephilim soul.”
“There are lots of Nephilim souls. I saw Jimmy’s soul when he passed and it didn’t look anything like that.”
“An unblessed Nephilim soul. The kind that existed before your birth.”
Dylan stopped, the look in her eyes filled with terror. She shook her head, hard enough to throw her off balance when she took a step toward him.
“I don’t understand.”
Stiles didn’t even know how to begin to explain it to her. He didn’t understand it himself. It was a rumor, heavenly gossip. The Nephilim died and their souls were trapped in this world because they were unblessed; their existence was unsanctioned by God. They weren’t allowed in heaven because they weren’t supposed to have been born in the first place. And these wandering souls, trapped between heaven and Earth, were said to dwell on the anger and hurts of their previous life, to grow so dark that they sometimes could manipulate the reality around them. They were, supposedly, the source of the hauntings humans supposedly experienced before the war—before they had more important things to concentrate on.
But they weren’t supposed to be capable of taking form, not capable of insinuating themselves on human souls. But, Joanna had taken a form. Perhaps they were more capable of these things than anyone had known.
“Stiles…”
“They are lost souls, angry souls. From the beginning of time, these children of angels and humans were doomed, their souls trapped here for all eternity. That only changed when you were born, when God blessed their souls and allowed for them to go to heaven when they died. All the others that died before that moment, they’re still stuck here.”
“My choice didn’t change that?”
“Apparently not.”
“And now? What are they doing?”
“Expressing their outrage, I suppose.”
“How do we stop them?”
That was the question. Stiles looked up at her, no answer on his lips. She saw that and the color drained from her face.
“They hurt me. Their touch was like fire, burning my flesh.”
“I know.”
“How could something as simple as a soul do that?”
“A soul is complex, Dylan, capable of so much more than humans could ever comprehend. Even I’m not completely sure of what all they can do. This…it’s out of my realm of experience.”
“Great,” she said, moving past him, pacing as she was wont to do when she was upset. “And they’re moving closer to home, closer to the people we love. How are we supposed to stop them if we don’t even understand them?”
“We go to Demetria. Maybe the gargoyles have faced this before.”
“If they had, they wouldn’t have been asking us what they were.” She turned toward him. “We can’t fight something we don’t understand.”
“We will learn about them.”
“How, Stiles? You’re from heaven and you don’t understand…I don’t even know how that’s possible. What if—”
“Don’t do that.” He went to her and grabbed her arms to shake a little clarity into her. “Don’t panic. That will cause you to act rashly and that, I can tell you, is a mistake in any situation.”
“I can’t let those things hurt anyone else. The things they’ve done…”
She stopped on a sob, her body shaking from the fear welling inside of her. Stiles pulled her gently into his arms and kissed the top of her head, drawing as much of the ache from her body as he could. She slowly calmed down, but tears still soaked the front of his shirt. He’d never seen her like this, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t share her fear. The idea of one of those things getting ahold of Harry or one of his kids or his grandkids scared the crap out of him, too.
These things had just declared war. And they had more to lose than they’d had before.
***
>
The gargoyles seemed to be waiting for them. Stiles tensed when he saw Wilhelm sitting at the back of the room, watching the drama unfold before him. He couldn’t make himself trust Wilhelm, not after everything that had happened in Philadelphia. If not for Wilhelm, Stiles would have had more time with Rebecca. If not for Wilhelm, the people he’d left behind would have been safer. If not for Wilhelm…
Dylan took his hand, squeezing it. She knew him well enough to know where his thoughts were going, with or without the ability to hear them. He squeezed back.
“Nephilim souls.” Demetria glanced back at Wilhelm as she settled on the edge of the conference table. “We’ve seen them move objects and make noises in people’s dwellings, but never anything like this.”
“We saw it,” Stiles said. “There was no mistaking its nature.”
“A dark soul.”
“Yes.”
Demetria looked down at the floor, her thoughts clearly swirling. “How do we fight them?”
Dylan groaned, turning as a sense of helplessness settled over her. Stiles pulled her closer to him and cradled her head against his shoulder for a brief moment.
“We were hoping you would know,” he said to Demetria.
Demetria stood and walked to the wall where the pictures and notes they’d tacked up were. She ran her finger over a couple of the pictures; her shoulders were stooped as if she were holding a heavy burden. A few of the other gargoyles moved up behind her, also looking at what they’d probably seen many times over the last few months. They had this way of communicating without speaking, and their drive to protect the humans was so strong that this was throwing them into something of a tailwind. Stiles could already see that coming here had been a waste of time.
“You made it leave the man’s body,” Wilhelm said.
Stiles glanced at him, the pettiness of his emotions encouraging him not to speak to him. But Dylan was still standing close to him, still holding his hand tighter than necessary. She needed answers.
“I don’t think I did. I think it wanted to show itself.”
“Why?”
Stiles remembered a moment from his past; he remembered Jack…
As Stiles watched, Jack’s soul lifted from his physical being and moved up toward the ceiling. But it stopped there. It had nowhere to go, no home to ascend to. Stiles could feel the confusion, the fear.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “What made you desirable to the scientists here will forever trap your soul in this place.” He shook his head, tears rolling slowly down his cheeks as he did. “You are Nephilim, my friend—the descendant of an angel and his human lover.”
The soul seemed to shudder as it loomed there up against the ceiling. And then it backed away, as though it felt a burning desire to escape. A moment later, it soared through the concrete wall, disappearing into the earth around the subbasement.
“I don’t know,” he said to Wilhelm. “But I have a few ideas.”
“Such as?”
Stiles tilted his head slightly as his eyes moved around the room, taking in the familiar faces of the gargoyles around him. Many of them he had known years ago, back when he worked closely with Demetria and her people to fight the angels.
“We all knew Nephilim, back before—and during—the war, before Dylan’s birth changed everything. And they say that they hold on to their memories…some of them anyway.”
“You think it’s personal.”
“Hasn’t it crossed your mind?”
Wilhelm broke eye contact, looking away for the first time since Stiles had walked into the room. Demetria, too, looked down at the ground, her thoughts clearly filled with similar memories as Stiles’. He could almost see those memories, dancing in their minds. They had all done things they were not proud of during the war in the name of doing the right thing. Sometimes they were justified, sometimes they weren’t.
“Did you know the soul you saw today?”
“I don’t know.”
Dylan pulled away from Stiles and fell into a chair at the conference table. “This is all interesting, but it doesn’t really solve our problem. How, exactly, do we kill something that’s already technically dead?”
Silence fell over the room. No one had any ideas.
“Maybe it’s not about killing them,” Wilhelm said. “Maybe it’s more about fixing their nature.”
“How do you propose doing that?”
Wilhelm glanced at Stiles. “Maybe you need to have a discussion with your Father.”
“You think he can bless their souls? Now?” Stiles shook his head even as he stepped back and leaned against the far wall. “If that was possible, they would have all disappeared when Dylan was born, or when she made her choice.”
“Like Joanna.”
All eyes turned to Dylan.
“Do you think Joanna has something to do with this?” Demetria asked.
Dylan glanced at Stiles. “I heard her voice in the first dream I had.”
“Dream?”
“She had dreams about the attacks,” Stiles said, gesturing toward the wall of pictures. “She didn’t realize they were connected until we were here this morning.”
Demetria crossed her arms; her expression was grim, almost as though she had slipped back into the dorm leader’s persona.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“What was I supposed to say? I had a nightmare about a woman who looked a lot like one of the women you found murdered? What difference would it have made?”
“It could have made a lot of difference. Don’t you know that this means you’re connected to the people? That they’re calling you when they’re in trouble?”
Stiles wasn’t sure Dylan was ready for this discussion.
“It’s not the dreams that are important,” Stiles said. “The connection to Joanna is.”
Demetria stared at him for a long second, confusion shining in her eyes. But then she inclined her head slightly, acknowledging words Stiles hadn’t spoken.
“Is it possible that Joanna did something, all those years ago, to create this change in the Nephilim?”
“Why would I hear her voice again after all these years if she wasn’t connected?” Dylan asked.
Wilhelm stood from his observation position, crossing the room to take a seat in front of Dylan. Stiles wanted to make him move—he didn’t want him that close to her—but Demetria stepped between the two of them before he could drag him out of that chair.
Wilhelm took Dylan’s hand and caressed it lightly.
“What did she say?”
“She told me to come and get her.”
“Anything else?”
Dylan shook her head, her eyes never leaving Wilhelm’s. “But I’d heard her voice before. She’d spoken to me when I was pregnant with Josephine, when I’d thought Wyatt was dead. She told me things and helped me through the labor and delivery…only to mock me when it was done.”
Wilhelm stroked her hand again. “And you’re sure it was her voice you heard in your dreams?”
“Yes. But it was only the one dream.”
“The first?”
She nodded.
Wilhelm glanced at Stiles. “She was your soul mate, wasn’t she?”
“She’s gone,” Stiles said. “She’s been gone for more than forty years.”
Wilhelm turned back to Dylan. “I think you heard Joanna’s voice because that’s what they wanted you to hear. They knew you would recognize it, and that you would respond to the sound of her voice. They’re playing with you.”
“Why me? I’ve never been in contact with any of these souls. I’ve never caused any of them to become trapped.”
“No. But you are—”
“We don’t really know for sure what’s going on, Dylan,” Stiles said, cutting Wilhelm off before he could say something that would upset her further. “Maybe it’s just because they felt the connection between you and the people.”
Dylan accepted that. Reluctantly…but she accepted
it.
Wilhelm stood and made his way back to his little chair at the back of the room, turning back in to the observer rather than a participant. The hopelessness in the room was beginning to weigh on Stiles, causing an ache deep in his chest. Dylan’s pain weighed on him the most. Despite the strength of her mental walls, he heard Wyatt and Josephine’s names racing through her mind over and over again. She was so frightened for her family that it was clouding her judgement. That was why he couldn’t tell her, and he couldn’t let Demetria or Wilhelm let it slip. She wasn’t ready to know that her responsibility to humanity was so much bigger than she’d imagined.
He moved up behind her, about to suggest they head back home, when Donna burst through the conference room door.
“There’s a group of men out front. They’re trying to break through the doors.”
Chapter 8
Stiles could see that they were possessed, too, these men. They were pounding on the doors with heavy, steel beams that they must have taken from an old ruin somewhere. Just the fact that they were able to lift them was incredible—they weighed tons. Ordinary men never should have been able to lift them.
Another thing the dark souls could do. How many things were they capable of? How many things could they do that would make it that much harder to fight them?
Stiles stepped back from the window where he had been surreptitiously watching, only to find Dylan at his side.
“Stay here,” he said, pushing her back, further into the room.
“No.”
“Dylan, we don’t know for sure what we’re fighting right now. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’m not a child anymore, Stiles.”
She stepped around him and joined the gargoyles who were preparing for battle.
She was stubborn. So very stubborn. At times, she reminded him of Rebecca. She was like that, too, refusing to do what he said when she knew it would mean placing him in greater danger. It was frustrating, but he couldn’t help but admire it. A strong spirit would definitely be a benefit in what they were sure to face next.
They slipped out a door at the back of the building. The building where Demetria and her crew made their headquarters—once a luxury home for some wealthy businessman before the war—was located in a hilly area that overlooked what was a major metropolitan area. Now it overlooked abandoned ruins. They were hundreds of miles from where Dylan and Stiles had faced off with the Nephilim souls, suggesting they had come here to intentionally face off with the gargoyles. Or, perhaps, they knew he and Dylan were here. Whatever their reason, it was clear that no one was safe if they were able to find this place so easily.
DARK SOULS (Angels and Demons Book 2) Page 4
