Darkened Soul (When Watchers Fall)

by C. G. Blaine

  He searches my face, his nostrils flaring while his brow creases. “A what?”

  I open my mouth and close it, confused by his response. “A Descended,” I repeat, thinking he missed it the first time because my voice had trembled.

  He blinks a few times.

  Then. He. Shrugs.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I jerk my hands out from under his, possibly more furious than when Abaddon freaking impaled me. “They say The Fallen are full of themselves, but this is beyond anything I could have imagined.”

  I start to march away, only making it a few steps before he grasps my wrist and tugs me back around. He steps into me, twisting my arm behind my back and pulling until I’m flush against his chest.

  “How about you cool it with the insults and tell me what the hell you’re talking about.”

  I try to wiggle out of his hold, huffing out a breath when I don’t get anywhere. “The Watchers,” I hiss. “The ones turned human as punishment for creating the Nephilim and left behind to repopulate the world.”

  His face darkens then, breath hot on my face. “What about them?”

  “I’m from one of their bloodlines—Kokabiel, leader of the twelve Descended Watchers.”

  The mask slips, a flash of surprise in his deep blues before they narrow into an irritated glare. “Those assholes called themselves The Descended?”

  He releases me without warning, leaving me off-balance in more than one way. I stumble backward a step and rub my wrist while he puts the knife away.

  I expect questions, interest, something, but he walks away from me, shaking his head and muttering, “Is anyone fucking original anymore?”

  “Where are you going?” I call after him.

  When he keeps going, I glance around, not sure what to do. My choices seem to be wait in the desert alone until I die or until Abaddon blinks in to kill me again, or I can chase after an angel who still might very well kill me himself. The odds of me surviving the night suck all around, but at least with Chaz, I stand a slight chance of seeing Nyla one last time. The thought wedges in my throat, and I peel off the bloody sweatshirt. I drop it on the ground and follow him, sniffing away the threat of tears.

  I can’t spare the hydration right now.

  The sun beats down on us, relentless while it treks through the sky. At first, the temperature feels bearable, but the longer we walk, the hotter it feels. Chaz hasn’t said a word or even looked at me since I caught up with him. Even then, it was only long enough to roll his eyes.

  So it surprises me when, out of nowhere, he says, “We call them The Others. Not that we talk about them often—or at all since the last one died off thousands of years ago. Until now, I wasn’t aware we needed to worry about their human descendants.”

  “The stories say you abandoned them when they asked for help surviving, leaving them to suffer.”

  He snorts. “The Descended, or whatever, were full of shit. We avoided them because what they wanted was for us to risk further punishment by helping them get their powers back. They were obsessed with it.” He looks over, giving me a once-over. “Looks like they figured something out just fine without us.” A couple steps later, he asks, “What happened to the last one?”

  “What?”

  “Earlier, you said there were twelve Descended, but there should have been thirteen.”

  It takes him a few seconds to realize I’ve stopped, and he turns around. I stand there while he holds up a hand to shade his vision from the sun.

  “Twenty original Watchers,” he says. “Thirteen created the Nephilim, and seven passed along knowledge.”

  “The stories passed down to us said there were twelve Descended and eight Fallen.”

  His hand falls to his side, and he shrugs. “Further proof those assholes were full of shit.”

  And suddenly, I’m starting to think they might have been.

  Chaz leaves me behind, still heading in the opposite direction of the sun. His back glistens from sweat, the black angel wings tattooed across the span of his shoulder blades gleaming. I haven’t seen them before, and I almost smile. Both of us hiding in plain sight.

  I rub the back of my neck, my stomach turning. Before I can think much about the tattoo that should be there, I hurry to catch up with him.

  We walk a while longer before I quit trying to keep up with him. Each of his long strides spans two of mine, and my muscles are tired, my mouth dry. Chaz stops a hundred feet ahead of me. He doesn’t turn around, but he waits. Progress. Or so I think until I reach him and see why he really stopped.

  Up ahead between two bushes sits a red-and-white cooler.

  “You think—”

  “Donny needs me alive,” Chaz says. “It’s in his best interest to hydrate the mortal.” His voice drops on the last word, and he makes his way to the cooler.

  He tosses me a bottle of water, and I immediately twist it open. He pulls out another couple of bottles and closes the lid, so he can sit down.

  “Cheers,” he deadpans.

  I sip my water, watching him lean his elbows on his thighs and drink. He looks paler than yesterday, even after walking an hour in the sun. Nothing else has changed. His features are still sharp, his body sculpted, but that small detail makes him look more … human.

  “It was for my sister.” I pause for any reaction from him, but he doesn’t even look up. Just tips back the bottle, his throat working to swallow, and then hangs his head between his shoulders, staring at the barren ground between his feet. “She’s dying—really dying.”

  I want to say more, but he stands up and stalks toward me. He stops inches away from me, and I can still smell his body wash mixed with his sweat. Every other time he’s been this close, he’s wanted me even if he wouldn’t admit it. But now, his glare is cold enough to give me a chill in the desert. My breaths are shallow, his on my face.

  “And now, so am I,” he says.

  Then he walks away, setting two bottles on the lid of the cooler as he passes.

  One a water, the other sunscreen.

  By the time the sun starts to set behind us, we’ve been walking for hours. The temperature lowers drastically without the sun overhead, and I rub my bare arms. Blood-soaked or not, I regret leaving the sweatshirt behind.

  “Here.” Chaz tugs the shirt out of his back pocket and holds it out for me.

  Jesus. Déjà vu much?

  But instead of arguing like last night, I pull it over my head. I leave my arms inside and wear the thing like a poncho. “Thank you.”

  He nods.

  “You don’t think Abaddon would go after Kai and Avery, do you?”

  He spares me a sideways glance but ignores my question, and I sigh.

  “Considering they’re your charges, I thought you’d be a little more concerned. I mean, if he kills them and then you somehow get your light back—” I cut off, startled when he jerks toward me.

  “I will get my light back. And with the Demon of Destruction lurking around, possibly with a weapon to end me, you don’t think I have a contingency plan?”

  He opens his hand, revealing a flat crystal in his palm. Kai’s image appears in the center. He and Avery are both on their couch, carryout cartons spread across the coffee table in front of them.

  I run my fingers over the smooth surface, biting back the guilt for having possibly put them on Abaddon’s radar. “They’re safe there?”

  “Untouchable. And soon, a switch will flip in Kai’s brain.” He snaps his fingers beside my ear. “He’ll whip out his phone, find Rosie the Babysitter in his contacts, and call my brother Rosdan.” He pulls the stone away and shoves it in his pocket. “I set it all up after Donny resurfaced. If Kai ever goes more than twenty-four hours without hearing from me, he sends up the alarm. I texted him last night, so it will be any minute now. Ros knows what to do, and once he tells Cass…” He pauses with a hint of a smirk. “Let’s just say, a pissed off Cass is the only being you need on your side.”

  “Armaros and Kasda
ye?” I ask, using the names I’ve known as long as his.

  He nods, and I can’t help but smile. Papa told us stories about The Fallen every night until we were about eight. He meant them as a warning of how selfish and dangerous they were, using their charges to justify killing anyone who crossed them. Nyla and I refused to believe him, though, calling them our angels and making up our own stories. We’d divide them up—we thought there were eight, so it was fair. Armaros and Kasdaye were ones we would argue over and trade back and forth. But we each had one who was always ours without question. Nyla claimed Samyaza. My angel was Chazaqiel.

  Of course, I thought he glowed, could control lightning, and would fall insanely in love with me the moment our eyes met.

  “What the…” Chaz fixes on something in the distance. “Is that fire?”

  When I turn, I see the faintest flicker. Small and barely visible against the serene purple backdrop of the fading sunset. The first sign of life we’ve seen since the cooler.

  We follow the flame, the last of night falling while we walk. Once we’re closer, Chaz reaches back to move me behind him. I want to think he cares if I live or die, but the gesture seems to be more of a habit. The green smudge behind the fire begins to take shape. A tent. His hold falls away from my hip, so he can check it out. I stop beside a change of clothes, folded neatly on one of the logs spread around the campsite.

  “Empty,” he says, flipping the flap back down. He picks up the paper from on top of the clothes and reads, shaking his head before he holds it out. “For you.”

  “Me?” I take the note while he disappears into the tent.

  Stay warm. And alive.

  —H

  I roll my eyes and let the paper flutter into the fire. It will take Hex more than a pair of yoga pants and a clean hoodie to buy my forgiveness.

  Chaz comes out with a cooler. As he sits on the other log and starts pulling out food, my mouth waters. Nope, still not enough.

  As soon as Chaz unloads a handful of towelette packets, I grab for them. “Oh, thank God.”

  I leave him one and bring the rest with me into the tent to clean up and change. The blood smears as I scrub down my forearms and between my fingers. Chaz’s shirt, along with my tank and bra, hit the floor before I sacrifice the rest of the packages to clean up my front and back. I’m down to my last two when I walk out of the tent, my new zip-up hoodie held over my chest.

  Chaz bites into an apple, scanning me as I stand in front of him with my hand held out.

  “Please?” I say, spinning around. “I can’t reach the middle.”

  He blows out an annoyed breath that I consider a yes, and I rip open a wipe, handing it over my shoulder. It pulls from my fingers. He runs his hand across my shoulder blades, brushing my hair out of the way as he goes. I play with the drawstring while he works up the center of my back, trying to ignore his skin on mine.

  “You have more?” he asks, standing up.

  I tear open the last packet and pass it back. He moves my hair again, his presence looming over me. His hand slides down my back. It leaves a trail that chills in the cool night air. I fight off a shiver, adjusting the hoodie to better cover my arms. He dips beneath the waistband of my yoga pants, and I shiver again.

  Once he finishes, he tosses the towelettes into the fire. I start to step away, but he grips my side. My breath catches, his long fingers splaying over my ribs. He moves closer until his body heat spreads across my back like a blanket, and he sweeps my hair away from the nape of my neck.

  “Your tattoo.” His voice is low, breath on my skin. It reminds me of the fight, the crowd and noise surrounding us yet completely separate. “The four lines,” he says. “I couldn’t figure out how I knew them before, but they’re The Watchers’ fall from grace.”

  A wave of relief washes over me as I nod. “It’s still there?”

  I’ve wanted to ask all day, but I couldn’t face the possibility of it being gone.

  He answers first by tracing his thumb down one of the curvy lines and then the loop of the Ouroborus—life and death. “It’s faded more.”

  “It loses color with every resurrection, like a mystical power gauge.”

  “You have a limit on how many times you can come back?”

  “The soul can only leave the body so many times before losing its hold permanently. Once the tattoo’s gone, I’ll be on my final life.” I turn with the sweatshirt still loosely held to my chest. “Until then, my soul reenters my body, which reverts to its most ideal state.”

  His expression stays impassive. “How many times have you died?”

  “Five. Twice of old age, once from consumption, a hit-and-run last year, and then…” I trail off, the evidence of the last time still burning a few feet away.

  “And your sister?”

  “Five.” I look out over the desert, the sand white under the moon. “She came back five times before her tattoo disappeared.”

  “Let me guess. Sweet Donny promised you a way to save her.”

  “The Essence of Creation. The original Descended gained their abilities by fusing their blood with it. Back then, it was everywhere. It’s gone now, but I thought if I could just find enough to reset her…” I shake my head, looking up at him. “It doesn’t matter. Abaddon lied about there being a way to make more.”

  Chaz stares at me hard, his jaw working beneath the surface. “I could have told you he couldn’t. Saved us all a lot of drama.” He sits back down and nudges the cooler until it bumps my legs.

  I turn around to put the sweatshirt on and zip it up before I grab a sandwich.

  When we finish eating, Chaz pulls on the tee Hex left him. He stops outside the tent and holds up the flap. “In.”

  Despite the shortness of his command, I duck under his arm. “Sir.”

  Instead of sleeping bags, the demon, who’s clearly never camped, left us three pillows and half a dozen blankets of various sizes. I start spreading out two to lie on. For some reason, it surprises me when, Chaz steps in a few minutes later. He lowers down in the center of my blankets and stretches out on his side.

  The space fills with him, and I have no choice but to drop down right beside him. I roll to face him, a safe foot of tent between us. “Should we create a blanket wall, or—”

  I gasp when Chaz drags me toward him. He traps my arms behind my back, holding my wrists in his hand and pulling me closer. I’m plastered against his hard chest, his mouth inches from mine. And then I feel the fabric wrap around my wrists. My bra isn’t in the corner anymore, and I realize too late what he’s doing.

  “No.” I wiggle to free my hands, but he rolls us over so that half of his body covers mine. It leaves me nowhere to go while he finishes binding my hands together. I tug a few more times before I rest my forehead on his chest. An admission of defeat.

  “In case you get any ideas in the night.” He tightens the knot and rolls to his back. “As is one, then so will be the other.”

  Asshole.

  I twirl the dagger in my hand, staring up at the green material of the tent. Nyx finally quit huffing and settled down, but I can’t fucking sleep. All I can think about is that, for the first time in my existence, I’m aging. I said it earlier, but it didn’t sink in until now.

  I’m one day closer to dying. Not to going home or finishing my sentence. Dying.

  The blanket moves when Nyx readjusts.

  “How old are you?” I ask, twisting the tip of the metal against my palm.

  “Tie me in front, and I’ll tell you.” But when I ignore her request, she sighs. “When we met, I was twenty-three. Now, I’m twenty-two—at least, that seems to be my body’s age whenever it resets.”

  “Cool. And all my shit says I’m twenty-four.” I roll my head on the pillow to see her. “How old are you?”

  She’s still facing me, arms secured behind her. “One hundred and fifty-eight.”

  I do the math. Most likely, I would have been dropping around the East Coast then. Maybe a rogue charge st
ill in Paris. With the last name Lamore, she was probably there, too, but I don’t bother asking. We’re doing the staring thing again, like every other time we’re around each other. Except now, it’s different. Now, I see her. And I move my head back to stare at the top of the tent, done fucking looking.

  Sometime in the night, Nyx wiggles her way over. I wake up with her cuddled into me. Even with the blankets, it’s fucking cold, and I’m not running hot for once, so I let her stay.

  Traitorous or not, she’s warm.

  I readjust onto my side, draping my arm over her. A little while later, she’s wormed even closer somehow. Her shoes are off, her feet wedged between my legs, her even breaths on my chest, and head tucked under my chin. I blame it on being half-asleep that I slide my other arm under her until I’m full-on snuggling with the enemy. Fuck me. I still can’t keep my hands to myself with her.

  We haven’t moved by the time the first light of morning shines through the porous material of the tent. I detangle myself, moving Nyx’s head off my arm, wisps of black hair across her forehead. She looks peaceful with her cheek pressed against the pillow. Angelic. Innocent. Deceitful, even in her sleep.

  Once I’ve inched away, I put my shoes on and grab the blade from under my pillow. I’m halfway through the flap when I stop, still hunched over. A carryout coffee cup sits on one of the logs, another change of clothes the next over. Jeans, a gray tank top, new bra, and panties. None of it in my size.

  Then I catch the tiniest whiff of burnt soul.

  He faces away from me, on the other side of the ashes left from the fire last night.

  Before I move again, I return the dagger to my belt loops and pull my shirt over it. “Come to apologize?” I straighten as Hex turns around.

  Square jaw, straight-edged nose, and another goddamn suit. I never expected Donny to work with someone so … pretty.

  “We weren’t given an opportunity to properly introduce ourselves.” He extends his hand, only to withdraw it a second later when I cross my arms. “Not a morning person?”