The Wanderer's Children

by L. G. O'Connor

  Brett thought about the interview and groaned. That was the last thing he wanted to do. One more date in New York to make up for the cancelation was all he had to get through.

  He grimaced. No doubt, between Roxy and his agent, they would be on his ass as soon as the tour ended, trying to get him back into the studio. But shit, he was burned-out.

  There was only one logical solution he could think of.

  Thirty minutes later, Brett picked up his cell and dialed the band’s head of private security.

  “Frank, I need an assist. No eyes.”

  “Um… ’kay. Thought you weren’t due to leave until this afternoon,” he said.

  “Change of plans.”

  Frank cleared his throat and asked gingerly, “Does Rachel need separate transport after last night?”

  Brett cringed, forgetting that everyone but him knew what went down the night before. His shoulders tightened as a wave of shame and disappointment rolled through him.

  “Who the hell knows. Yeah. I guess. If she turns up.” He raked his hand through his damp hair and sighed, trying to dispel his agitation. There goes ten months of his love life that he’d never get back. It wasn’t like the signs weren’t there. Being on tour is hard enough on a relationship, but the last few months had turned into the “gimmes”—“gimme this, gimme that.” While he rehearsed and prepared for shows, Rachel made ample use of his credit card. After the shows, she spent less and less time by his side, disappearing to God knows where. Then there was the sex and her recent loss of enthusiasm for it. At least she didn’t have the key to anything. Maybe he’d give her a call once he cooled down. Or maybe not.

  “ ’Kay. Be up in five to take your bags.”

  “Appreciate it, but hurry. I need to haul ass before Roxy finds out I’m leaving.” Brett hung up and massaged his throbbing temples. He knew the drill. It would be at least another twelve hours before his hangover subsided.

  He drew his hair back with an elastic band and then stuffed the things he wanted into a duffel bag and placed it with his guitar case next to the door. Roxy would take care of the rest if she didn’t burn his shit out of spite for what he was about to do.

  Wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and boots, he added his LA Dodgers cap and tucked his ponytail underneath. Not the best disguise, but at least it wouldn’t draw attention. The hat would conceal his face enough for him to slip out of the hotel unnoticed.

  Halfway through his shower he’d realized that he needed to disappear until the last concert date. Granted, this wouldn’t be the first time he’d slipped away during the tour. The last time was two months ago when he’d reached a saturation point and snuck off for a long weekend.

  He did one last sweep of the suite. The moment his feet hit the threshold of the sitting room, the skin on his arms pebbled and pain speared his skull down to his molars with the speed of a bullet train, dropping him to his knees into the plush carpet. He cradled his head in his hands and muffled a scream.

  Brett’s vision blurred, his breath coming in short pants. He squinted at his duffel across the room with despair. Channeling every drop of energy he had, he dragged himself over to the bag. His heart pounded and his hands shook as he riffled through the pocket where he kept his aspirin, wishing for something stronger.

  Fucking hell. This made the fifth attack in as many weeks. He wanted to cry in relief as his fingers found the familiar plastic bottle. As he twisted off the cap, the pain disappeared.

  Gone.

  Like it had never been there… just like the other attacks. Brett collapsed back onto the carpet, quaking with residual tremors as he recovered.

  Might be time to see a doctor, Brett thought. He’d make an appointment when the tour ended. Either way, Roxy couldn’t find out. He shuddered. No one could.

  Moments later, a soft knock sounded at the door. Brett pulled himself up and glanced through the peephole. Frank, a former linebacker for the NFL, filled the doorway through the fisheye lens. Brett cracked the door open and stepped aside to let him in. Frank’s head almost touched the top of the doorframe. Wearing a short, dark military cut, he was the size of a human refrigerator.

  Frank paused, giving Brett a once-over. “You okay?”

  Brett nodded. “Been better. A little more hungover than usual.”

  Frank eyed him warily and then lunged for his stuff. “Car’s downstairs out back. Where you going?”

  “Home,” Brett lied. He had no intention of returning to San Francisco, but best to avoid Frank getting all up in his business.

  Frank raised a brow. “Uh-huh. You need to hang tight until the last gig in New York. You don’t want me comin’ after you this time.”

  Brett snorted. “Last I heard, it’s still a fucking free country. I’ll be there.” Frank had ripped him a new one after his last little adventure.

  Frank dropped his bags, turned on him, and pushed his face into Brett’s. Eyes hot and hard, his breath traveled over Brett’s cheek. As Brett took a step back, Frank’s hammy hand shot out. Sausage-sized fingers sank into Brett’s upper arm and pulled him into Frank’s cement-hard chest. “Don’t fuck with me, Brett. Once the tour’s done, you get your life back. ’Til then, your ass is mine. No more disappearing acts. Capiche?”

  Frank’s bonus would be on the line if Brett disappeared a second time during the tour.

  Fuck it, Brett thought, I’ll make him whole out of my own pocket.

  Brett glared at him and gritted his teeth. “I got it. Now let me go.” As much as he wanted to pull a self-defense move out of his mixed martial arts arsenal, he needed to get out of the hotel before Roxy found him. At the end of the day, she scared him far more than Frank ever would.

  Frank pulled back and his eyes lost some of their fire. “Good. But if I find out you left the golden state of California without my permission, we’re going to go a couple rounds. Got me?”

  Brett blew out a breath, and grabbed his guitar case. “Yeah.”

  Five minutes later, Brett sat comfortably in the back of small, nondescript Town Car with tinted windows. Now at a safe distance, he texted Roxy: HAD TO JET, SORRY ABOUT THE INTERVIEW. SEE YOU IN NYC. Then he turned off his phone to escape the tirade he knew would follow.

  “Pacific Coast Highway to San Francisco, sir?” asked the driver.

  “Nope. LAX.”

  Chapter 3

  BRETT

  United Airlines Flight. Saturday, May 11, 9:30 PM ET

  ALMOST TO HIS DESTINATION, Brett stared out the first class window and listened to his iPod with his LA Dodgers cap pulled down around his ears, trying to maintain a low profile.

  Where he planned to go, he wouldn’t have to fight off any fans.

  He had an open invitation to stay at his Aunt Adela’s place in Connecticut—his one safe haven—anytime. When he’d called earlier, he was disappointed to find out she was on business again in Paris, but that didn’t stop her from calling ahead to have the house stocked with food in time for his arrival.

  Her fifteen-acre estate was located ten minutes from town in a park-like setting. Private, but not remote. He smiled at the thought of the little red Mercedes SLK sitting in one of the three garages. Subtle—not—but no one would expect him to be there.

  Another thought hit him, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. Taking out his phone, he scrolled through his contacts until he found the name he was looking for…

  Cara Collins.

  Methinks it’s time to collect on that breakfast.

  Arching his brow, his smile widened as he remembered how attracted he’d been to her when they’d met in March at the outdoor café. Not just because she was pretty, but because she seemed to genuinely like him for himself. Of all the people in his life right now, he could count the ones he considered real friends on one hand.

  Then he recalled that he’d skated over the truth about his identity, and his smile dampened. When she’d asked what he did for a living, he’d claimed to be a songwriter, not a well-known rock music
ian. Not a lie, but only the partial truth.

  His smile faded altogether and his forehead wrinkled in concentration. If he told her now, would her eyes glaze over, turning her into just another female fan? Something in his gut told him he could trust her, that she wasn’t that shallow. But what if he was wrong? Telling her might expose the only place he truly felt safe.

  Shit. He put his phone back into his pocket. Yeah, he’d definitely have to think about this more carefully before he did anything stupid.

  He relaxed back into the seat and thought about his home away from home. He’d spent summers there from the time he was ten years old until he went to college. All year long he looked forward to returning to the smell of the fresh baked bread and pies his Aunt Adela would make for him when he visited. His life in Connecticut enveloped him in tranquility and allowed him to pretend he’d had a normal childhood, as opposed to the reality of his life as a latchkey kid in urban Los Angeles.

  His parents divorced before his first birthday, leaving his mother to raise him and his older brother, Colin, alone. There had been some hard years as his mom worked two nursing jobs to keep them in decent housing. His brother, almost fourteen when his parents split up, took it hard and quickly fell in with the wrong crowd. Colin left home at seventeen. At twenty-two, he was dead of a heroin overdose.

  After his brother’s death, his mother sent Brett to Connecticut every summer, ostensibly to get him away from the hot LA summers. But he knew the truth: his mother didn’t want him hanging around LA while she worked day and night. She didn’t want him to end up like Colin, and believed Brett was safer in “horse country.” He had to admit, he liked the idea. Plus, his aunt and uncle couldn’t have kids, so they enjoyed having him around.

  The stewardess tapped Brett gently on the shoulder to get his attention, pulling him away from his reflections. “Sir, can you please put your seat up? We’re about to land.”

  Startled, he looked up and unplugged the earpiece. “Sorry, what was that?”

  “Please put your seat up. Thanks.” She smiled, but didn’t recognize him.

  As the plane landed, Brett already felt better. Stress drained from his body and was replaced with a sense of freedom and anticipation. A twinge of something more than relief hit him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he had the strange notion that he wouldn’t be returning to the life he’d just left in LA.

  Chapter 4

  ACHANELECH

  France. Versailles Gardens. Monday, May 13, 12:05 AM GMT+1

  “WHAT TIME IS IT, Chérie?” Achanelech asked, feeling his brow pinch in irritation. He waited with his consort, Emanelech, under the cover of darkness by the tree line near one of the many fountains in the geometric gardens of Versailles.

  Humidity—the smell a mixture of acid rain and summer heat—hung in the silent night air and covered his skin in an unwanted layer of pungent moisture. Impatiently, he scanned the well-groomed periphery. The full moon shimmered off the surface of the nearest fountain, illuminating the now-deserted park.

  Strolling through these gardens over the centuries had given him great pleasure. He had to tip his hat to that megalomaniac Louis XIV for building them. But they weren’t here tonight for a pleasant stroll to admire the maniacally ordered shrubbery. They had business to conduct with their sworn enemy—a meeting that was long overdue.

  One did as one must, he thought. Especially when trying to gain a tactical advantage in the war to survive.

  “Five minutes later than the last time you asked,” Emanelech snapped. “A few minutes after midnight. Our source will be here any minute.”

  Achanelech tsked at her and paced, making heavy use of his cane to support him. His bones creaked as he walked; the stiffness in his leg unbearable since his last tête-a-tête in Hell. The jeweled top of his walking stick dug into his palm. Attached to a concealed knife, it was a replacement for the one he’d lost back in April while attempting to dispatch that scientist, Dr. Kai Solomon.

  He glanced at Emanelech, thinking he also should’ve worn a cloak to protect him from the cloying dampness. Then again, her reasons had nothing to do with the weather. She wore it to cover her still healing injuries from when they made payment for their botched assignment.

  Their Master had been clear: capture Cara Collins, don’t kill her. They’d failed in the first, and nearly succeeded in the second when Achanelech had wielded his knife at Dr. Solomon only to have Miss Collins dive in front of the blade.

  Achanelech hadn’t quite anticipated Cara’s willingness to forfeit her life for the good doctor. A mistake he wouldn’t make again.… Had Cara died, Achanelech would’ve single-handedly destroyed his chance and that of his Master, Lucifer, and all of his brethren for winning their prize and escaping Judgment Day. Not his intended or desired outcome by far, yet one for which he and Emanelech bore the full brunt of their Master’s displeasure.

  As for the cloak, Emanelech refused to be seen uncovered in public. The scarring on her arms and the deep slash over her right eyebrow continued to cause her angst. Nothing a few more meals of human souls couldn’t heal.

  They’d come a long way on their road to recovery over the last eight weeks, crawling back from charred lumps of demon flesh to their former selves and current human guises. Well almost. Even after two months he still had trouble sleeping on his back.

  A figure dressed in a hooded cloak emerged from the darkness. The dark-colored garment swirled around the wearer and gave its movement the appearance of gliding across a smooth surface.

  Crickets that had been silent seconds before began to chirp in symphony, and the surrounding forest came alive with the sounds of night creatures.

  Lulled into safety by the presence of an angel, perhaps? He scowled, irritated that God’s creatures insisted on hiding in his presence. As if they sensed a predator… or something worse.

  “It’s about time,” Achanelech muttered under his breath, hoping to make this a quick and productive encounter. His priority was to return himself and Emanelech into Lucifer’s good graces. As such he needed to gain something of value from tonight’s meeting.

  “What do you have for us?” Emanelech asked anxiously before he could even form words.

  “News of the Twelve,” said the gender-neutral voice from underneath the hood. Standing midway between a tall woman and a medium-sized man, Achanelech couldn’t surmise if the obscured figure was either male or female under the garment.

  “Names? How many?” he asked. His pulse quickened. That would hold them over. Beside one possible suspect they’d been pursuing since childhood, Cara Collins was the only confirmed member of the Holy Twelve who would lead the battle on the side of their enemy.

  “The ‘possible’ has been confirmed, and a new member revealed.”

  “That’s all?” he groused, his hope short-lived. Three in total. The Angelorum was sure taking its time assembling its little army of twelve.

  Emanelech stepped on his foot. Pain shot up from the claws at the end of his toes, and he let out a grunt. Bitch. She’ll pay for that later, he thought.

  “We appreciate your taking this chance to tell us,” she gritted out, glaring at Achanelech with glowing eyes from under her hood. Her less-than-gentle reminder that this was her contact, not his.

  Her voice turned to a purr as she addressed the angel. “The new name?”

  A gloved hand pulled an envelope from within the cloak and handed it to Emanelech.

  “You’ll find it in there. Burn it once you are done. One more thing, they’re expected at the Sanctuary before month end.” Without another word, the figure turned and glided away, disappearing back into the night. The insects and night creatures fell back into silence with the angel’s departure.

  Emanelech tore open the envelope.

  Calling a flame to his forefinger, Achanelech crouched next to her to illuminate the paper.

  He skipped past the name he already knew. A smile spread across his face when he saw the one he hadn’t.

>   Chamuel, Son of Eae.

  A plan rapidly unfurled in his mind. He cackled with glee. This might give them exactly what they needed to gain back Lucifer’s favor… not to mention help even up the score with his angelic nemesis, Eae.

  There was no mistaking the aura of love that surrounded the Nephilim male when Cara lay dying in his arms at the warehouse as Dr. Solomon attempted to save her life. If his feelings were returned by her, he’d make the perfect bait.

  Achanelech set the paper and envelope on fire, watching the flame lick across the creamy paper leaving black ash in its wake. The delicate charred flakes broke off, spinning in pirouettes to the ground until nothing remained. A chortle rose from his throat as he rubbed his hands together to relieve them of residual ash.

  “Acchie, you’re thinking what I’m thinking, aren’t you?” purred Emanelech.

  Delight filled his demon heart. “Oui, Chérie. Cara Collins, once again, will be ours.”

  Chapter 5

  CARA

  New York City. Fifth Avenue Penthouse. Thursday, May 23, 9:25 AM ET

  “PICKLED DUCK EGGS, Cara, really?” The distaste in her mother’s voice rattled her.

  “Quail eggs, Mom, not duck eggs,” she replied, tightening her grip around her cell phone and trying not to grind her teeth.

  “Sweetie—duck, quail, pheasant—who cares? Can’t we choose more festive appetizers for your cocktail hour? The wedding’s on the Fourth of July. What’s wrong with mini hot dogs?”

  Just kill me now, Cara thought, wanting to slam her head against the back of the mahogany deck chair she was stretched out on. All she wanted was to enjoy her cup of coffee and a little therapeutic sunbathing on the terrace before starting her crazy day. Debating Simon’s eclectic menu selections with her mother was so far down on her to-do list, not to mention worrying about the delicate taste buds of her father’s culinary-challenged side of the family. She had far more important things to worry about… like staying out the clutches of the Dark Ones.