Black Fallen (5 page)

“What did you see?” he asks. Jake leans close and he all but crowds me, he’s so big.

Without hesitation, I meet his gaze. “The night you were taken,” I answer. “You were
jumped by several vampires. You didn’t know what they were at first because they attacked
you from above.” His face flashes with pain as memories race through his head. “They
killed your family,” I say quietly, and rest my hand against his forearm. “They turned
you that night. I’m sorry, Jake. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. I
can’t imagine losing three at once.”

A waver of vulnerability flares in his fathomless eyes. A glimpse of his past rests
there, and I can see it. I can feel his pain all over again, feel the love he still
has for his wife and children. So many years ago, yet in those flash of seconds, he
relives it as though it has just happened. His eyes soften as they stare at me.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think of them. Time has eased the pain, though.

I narrow my eyes.
Liar.

A smile touches Jake’s mouth.
Somewhat.

“They’re here,” Gabriel says, interrupting.

Jake gives Gabriel a nod.

“Who is here?” I ask, looking between the two.

Jake meets my questioning gaze. “Two of the fiercest, most lethal swordsmen,” he says
with a grin, “of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.” He slaps my back, and I buck
forward. “Your new mentors.”

A grumbling voice catches my attention from outside, and I tune my acute hearing to
pick it up. The accent is . . . odd. English with a little French, and old. Ancient.

“Andorra! Where the bloody hell are you, man? Damn me, this manor reeks of something
chilling and evil. Don’t you think so, Conwyk? Conwyk, where are you? Damn.”

I glance at Jake, whose slow smile leaves me wondering if I’m in a lot more trouble
than I initially think.

Oh, you most certainly are.

I resist the urge to smack Jake on the back of the head, and I anxiously await the
booming, strange voice to enter the dojo.

Part Four

OTHERBEINGS

There was something aw
esome in the thought of the solitary mortal standing by the open window and summoning
in from the gloom outside the spirits of the nether world.

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, “Selecting a Ghost”

It gives me some relief to know the extent—or
at least most of the extent—of Riley’s powers will more likely than not keep her
safe. I knew I’d made the right choice by inviting her to join the team. She’s invaluable.
The Fallen will not be easy foes to manipulate, so hopefully she’ll have the power
of suggestion as a complete surprise to the bastards. Otherwise, we’ll all be holdin’
our crotches.

—Jake Andorra

T
he very second I think to myself that the dojo can’t become any more crowded with
enormous, ancient, testosterone-filled otherbeings, I’m proven wrong. A man ducks
into the dojo.

Swaggering. As if he owns the place.

His massive body alone nearly fills up the entrance.

“Andorra!” the man yells.

Jake laughs and walks toward him. “De Barre, you fool, I’m right here.” He walks over
and grabs the big man by the shoulders and shakes. “Glad to see you, man.”

“Aye, aye, the same here,” De Barre answers, grasping Jake’s shoulders in return.

What kind of name is that—De Barre? I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.

“Where’s Conwyk?” Jake asks.

“No doubt took a bloody wrong turn,” De Barre answers. He looks around. “This place.
It gives me nightmares just standing here. There’s something unsettling about it.”

We have one thing in common so far.

Jake laughs. “The Crescent has its own particular . . . charm. And that’s funny, coming
from you, my old friend.” He turns and eyes me. “Come on, man, and meet your new pupils.”

I watch the two big men cross the dojo, hugging the wall and making their way toward
me. Even I, surrounded by unusually gorgeous otherbeings, have to admit that besides
being massive, he’s one handsome guy.

And apparently old as dirt. Jake had mentioned twelfth and thirteenth centuries. I
can see that, looking at this guy. He’s all of six feet, six inches. At least. He
is taller than Jake, Gabriel, and Eli. Heavily muscled. Broad shoulders. Dark wavy
hair to his shoulders, partially pulled back at the nape. Piercing eyes lock onto
mine as he walks. Struts, rather. He definitely has swag. Definitely swagalicious.

Across the dojo, Eli all but growls. I try not to laugh. I shoot him a mock stern
look and turn to meet my mentor.

“Tristan de Barre, this is our newest and most human WUP member, Ms. Riley Poe,” Jake
introduces, and looks at me. He lifts a dark brow.

Before I can acknowledge the intro, Tristan de Barre grasps my hand and lowers his
head over it. His eyes, a striking shade of sapphire, fix on mine. “My pleasure, lady,”
he says, then brushes his lips over the top of my hand.

It happens too fast.

I really need to learn how to control this gift.

The room spins, tilts, and I feel myself losing gravity as a suffocating blackness
swallows me. I know what’s happening the second it begins.

I’m him. Tristan. I concentrate hard, and this time, I’m able to watch, as if peering
through a window. It’s a long-ago century, that much is for sure. A musky, dank dungeon.
It’s cold, and Tristan is shackled to the wall.

Then, everything happens in fast-forward. A man, trusted by Tristan. Murder. A curse
that lasts centuries. Tristan and his knights are spirits . . .

“Lady? Is there aught amiss?”

My body is shaken by strong hands. None too gently. I feel it, but I’m still watching . . .

“Lady?”

I blink and focus on Tristan’s face no more than a few inches from my own. He is holding
me in his arms. He blinks.

“Why are you unwell?” he asks. Sapphire eyes narrow. “Is Andorra tasking you overmuch?”

Tristan speaks in the weirdest of ways, yet I seem to get most of what he’s saying.
I slip a fast glance at Jake Andorra, who is standing close by, then look back at
Tristan. “Yes. He is.”

A slow, sexy smile spreads over Tristan’s face. “You remind me of my lovely wife,
Ms. Poe. Quite feisty, you Colonists.” He fingered the wings inked into my cheek.
“Although you’ve a few more unnatural attributes.” He sets me straight on my feet
and looks down at me. “She’s got speckles,” he drags his finger over the bridge of
his nose. “Just here. Now, then. What did you see when I touched you?”

The others are standing close behind me now, all awaiting my answer. “You’re called
Dragonhawk,” I answer, meeting full-on his inquisitive gaze. I tell him everything
I’d just witnessed. “Your foster father murdered you and your knights. Not sure which
century but I know it was a helluva long time ago.” I cock my head. “So . . . how
are you here now?” I poke his chest. “You seem solid enough, but you were all ghosts
for centuries. Are you immortal, too? I don’t know what year it was, but”—I glance
down at his thick thighs clothed in black martial arts gear—“you looked like you were
wearing pantyhose under all those steel chains.”

Tristan’s compelling blue gaze fixes on mine. He studies me for a moment before throwing
his head back and laughing.

I stare at Jake.

“Damn me, but you’re a witty wench,” Tristan says. “Aye. My men and I were murdered
by my foster father. ’Twas in the fourteenth century. We walked the earth as spirits
after that. Ghosts cursed, for nearly seven hundred years. ’Twas not that long ago
that my bride swept into my life and saved me.” His blue eyes shine. “Saved us all.”

Wench?

“I guess we all have a lot of catching up to do,” I say. “Where does that accent come
from? Besides the fourteenth century?” I smile.

“Ah,” Tristan says, nodding. “’Tis my English-French Norman accent you fancy. As does
my bride, Andrea.”

I nod my approval.

“When we sup I shall tell you all about it,” Tristan promises. He glances around.
“There are beings in this chamber who still consume food, aye? Mortal food?”

“Riley definitely does,” Noah says. He walks up and sticks his hand out to Tristan,
and the two shake. “Noah Miles. I’ve heard quite a lot about you from Andorra.”

“And I, you,” Tristan answers. “I hear you have a fine ’sixty-nine Camaro you’ve restored
single-handedly.”

Noah’s eyes take on a shine that I’ve seen in otherbeings and human males alike. It’s
that . . . car-shine. A deep, weird love of iron and steel and whatever else with
four tires. “I did,” Noah says. “Smooth and fine.”

See?

As Jake introduces Tristan around the room, I lean my back against the wall, cross
my feet at the ankles, and watch. It’s sort of a surreal scene. I’m in an old manor,
once a school for weird, freaky little kids with unexplained powers, and I’m training
under a medieval knight who was murdered centuries ago but gained another chance at
mortality. I’m part of an extermination team comprised of vampires, immortal druids,
and werewolves. We’re in old Edinburgh, where three nasty fallen angels can create
human-looking monstrosities to apprehend innocent souls for their own selfish needs.

And then there’s me. Probably the most . . . normal of the bunch.

With the exception of Peter. The old, crazy driver.

Seriously, even growing up with my surrogate Gullah grandparents and their hoodoo
and root-doctor beliefs, I never suspected such otherbeings existed on the same plane
as mortals. To look at them all now—Tristan, Jake, Darius, Gabriel, Eli, Noah, Victorian,
Lucian, Ginger, and Sydney—they seem to be ordinary, although beautiful, regular-Joe
human beings. Skin. Flesh. Muscle. Bone. Blood.

Well, some without blood.

It’s all seriously mind-blowing.

Despite the long windows lining the dojo wall, the already-bleak grayness from outside
now grows darker, shadows begin to extend, and the chamber takes on a distinctly creepy,
eerie feel. It’s almost as if I’m looking at an old black-and-white roll of film or
one of the silent pictures from the 1920s. Surreal. That’s about the only word that
fits it. I almost feel displaced, as if I’m not really here, but rather looking down
through a hole and seeing all of this going on. Weird.

“Grimm. How nice of you to find your way up here and join us,” Tristan says, causing
me to glance at the doorway.

And things only get weirder.

Now there’s the guy standing in the entranceway. I immediately sense something different
about him, other than being from a long-ago century. Something unearthly. Not so much . . .
otherbeing, but, no . . . yeah. Otherbeing. Holy? Definitely ethereal. With dark,
wavy auburn hair worn loose around his shoulders, he isn’t as big and bulky as Tristan.
Lean. Strong. Broad. He also wears black martial arts gear and a black jacket. His
name is Grimm? Seriously?

“Aye, well, I was detained by Peter,” he replies. He moves his gaze to Gabriel. “Gabriel,
quite a . . . unique place, this.”

Gabriel gives a slight nod. He even almost smiles. “It is.”

I study Grimm. A unique sort of accent he has, too. Old. Medieval, like Tristan’s,
but different somehow. I’m already anxious to hear his story.

Or see it.

Jake introduces him to the team. “Gawan of Conwyk, of Castle Grimm, and a longtime
best mate of de Barre here,” he says. “Conwyk, the team.”

Gawan Conwyk, also, apparently, called Grimm, glances over us all, and his eyes rest
on me. It’s not difficult to follow his eyes as he takes in my inked wings. He gives
a slight nod of acknowledgment.

Why do I feel as though I’ve been the topic of convo between these guys?

Because you have, love,
says Jake in my head.
You are somewhat of an anomaly, Ms. Poe. Get used to it.

A snort escapes me. I can’t hold it in. Swear to God, I can’t help it. I’m the anomaly
here? Seriously?

All eyes turn to me.

Jake smothers a grin.

“All right,” he finally says. “Why don’t we break into groups?” He points. “Eli, you’re
with Conwyk. Miles, you’re with Gabriel. Lucian, you’re with me. Ginger, you and Sydney
are with Darius.” Jake’s gaze latches on to mine. “Riley, you’re with de Barre. We’ll
eventually all rotate partners, to get the feel of each different technique used in
sparring. For now”—he throws a probing look over us all—“let’s see what you have.
Miles, MacLeod, help me with this mat. Aye?”

We all step off the mat and hug the wall, and Jake and the guys roll up the mat and
push it to the end of the dojo. Beneath it lays the old wooden floor. I notice every
couple of feet are four grooves embedded into the wood. When I glance up, Jake’s grinning
at me. “Desks. For the children.”

God, that freaks me out.

Jake laughs.

“Ms. Poe?”

I turn and look up—way up. Tristan is standing there, waiting. “Ready?” he asks.

“Always,” I respond.

Together we cross the dojo. I catch Eli’s gaze, he gives me a smile, and he turns
to talk to Gawan. I have to say, I extremely need some Eli Time. Soon.

Good to hear, Poe. Now pay attention so you don’t get hacked with a blade,
oui
?

I smile to myself and notice then that Tristan is staring at me as we walk. “That’s
an interesting bit of artwork on your face, Ms. Poe,” he says. “Does it mean something?”

I laugh. “Yeah,” I say. “It means I was wasted when I got it,” I answer. “I honestly
don’t even remember getting inked. I was . . . young. Stupid.”

Tristan’s stare is profound and lasts for several seconds. “Aye, well, we’ve all been
that at one time.” His eyes are sincere. “It means something now, aye?”

I consider his words. “Yeah, I guess it does.” The big guy seems to be a bit more
perceptive than I gave him credit for.

The sound of steel sliding against metal catches my attention, and I glance over to
the rack of blades just as Eli is withdrawing a sword. Damn, it’s big. Only then do
I notice Gawan, who has pulled off his jacket. The black, billowy sleeves of his martial
arts tunic come only to just below his elbows. Extending down each arm is a series
of pitch-black markings all the way to his fingers. I’m too far away to see them in
detail, but they intrigue me.

“Try this one out for size,” Tristan says, and I turn my attention to the sword he’s
holding out to me. “Grasp the hilt like so,” he instructs, and I do as he says. “Feel
the weight of it in your arms. Make sure it’s distributed from hilt to sword tip.”

Extending it just in front of me, I measure the weight. It’s not too heavy; my muscles
tighten as they control it. “It feels okay.”

“Just okay, or does it feel more like an extension of your arm?” Tristan asks.

I heft it up and down and then smile. “Okay, yeah, I can feel it from my shoulder
to my fingertips.”

“Aye, ’tis a good sign, then,” he answers. From a large black leather scabbard, he
withdraws his own sword. A sapphire stone commands the hilt.

“Nice,” I say, looking it over. I glance up at Tristan. “Big.”

He hefts it a time or two. “Aye, but at my size ’twould do me no good to use a splinter,
like the one you have. Now, would it?” He grins.

“Splinter?” I reply. I tap my blade to his. “Talk is cheap, big guy. Teach me, and
I’ll show you what I can do with a splinter. Show me what’s what.”

Tristan nods. “Very well. Put your blade back in the rack.”

I blink. “Say what?”

“You’ve got to see a pair of true sword fighters duel before handling a crash course
yourself,” Jake says.

Conwyk steps forward. Both men disrobe down to just their pants. My eyes nearly bug
out of their sockets.

Across Gawan’s chest, down both arms, and from shoulder to shoulder and down his spine
are intricately inked markings. Old-looking.

Very old indeed. They’re Pictish symbols,
Jake offers in my head.
Each stand for a number of men killed in battle.

Well, damn. I don’t even know what else to say about that.

Tristan and Gawan draw their swords, move to the center of the dojo. I, along with
the team, move to the edges to watch. Beside me, Lucian and Eli. Each swordsman takes
his position—back straight, legs apart and braced—and taps the other blade with his
own.