Hellsbane 01 - Hellsbane (4 page)

I managed to get to my feet and scurried around the next closest car—a red something. I’d lost one of my sandals and kicked the other off.

“What’s wrong with you, lady?”

“You threaten my deliverer.” She tucked some of her pretty blonde hair behind her ear. Very dainty—and so bizarrely normal. We played a slow game of Ring Around the Car for a few seconds while I caught my breath. My hand held my side as much to stem the pain as to slow the blood loss.

My heart pounded against my rib cage, each beat jarring torn flesh, reminding me of the hole that shouldn’t be there. My gut was bleeding like I had tons to spare. I didn’t. The lightheaded spin to my vision told me that.

I leaned against the car for a minute, steadying myself. “I didn’t threaten anyone, lady. You’ve got the wrong person.”

“You’re nephilim. You live. That’s threat enough,” she said in that creepy, ghoulish voice. The next instant, she lunged at me, coming across the hood of the car, snarling, with tiny sprays of spittle flying from the corners of her mouth.

I threw myself backward, and her knife jammed into the shiny red hood, making a clean hole. She yanked it out, metal screeching against metal, then bolted over the car to the other side in a blur. I turned and ran, but she was too fast. Her blade sliced down my back.

The pain jolted through my brain, tightening muscles, stealing my breath. But I kept running. I had to get away, find help.

Her penny loafers echoed the slaps of my bare feet as we ran—so surreal. Her fingers scratched my shoulder once, twice, grasping for a good hold. My skin tore right along with my blouse, her fingernails like claws. She fisted my blouse and the sudden yank staggered me, slowing me down so I had to run sideways. But I kept running.

Another slice with the knife, this time across the back of my neck and down my shoulder blade, ignited a searing jolt of pain. The swing cost her. She lost her grip on my blouse, and I darted around the end of a pickup truck. The tailgate was open, and on the second turn, I cut it close enough that the rusted metal snagged my blouse at the waist, tore the fabric, scraped my skin. Soccer Mom wasn’t so lucky.

The sharp corner got her across the gut, folding her in half. It stopped her cold, at least for a few seconds. She grunted from the impact and then gave a very human-sounding howl of pain. I almost glanced back, but resisted the urge. This was my chance…slim as it was.

I kept going, heading for the church at the other end of the lot, opposite St. Anthony’s. Each stride punched a yelp from my throat, muscles stretching and pinching, tearing skin, ripping meat. I kept running. I had to.

I was still fifteen feet from the front door when a man, dressed all in black except for a tiny square of white at his collar, came around the side of the building.

“What’s going on out here?”

“Thank God.” I ran for him.

Without an ounce of pride, I threw myself into the priest’s arms. The impact nearly sent us both to the ground. He huffed, shuffled back two steps, but kept us both on our feet.

My arms around his neck, I hugged my ear against his chest. He was at least a foot taller than me, and strong. He’d protect me. He had to. Right?

“She’s trying to kill me. She’s trying to kill me,” I mumbled into the lapel of his suit jacket.

“Yes, dear,” he said, and the too-calm sound of his voice turned my spine to ice. “Our deliverer commands it.”

My side pinched suddenly, and then burned. I straightened and looked down to see the priest’s hand clutching the hilt of a knife, the blade buried deep inside me.

Shit
. I shoved him hard—harder than I knew I could. He fell back a few steps, taking the knife with him. I hadn’t really felt it go in, but I sure as hell felt every inch of that scary-long blade slide back out. I’d never forget the gross, wet sucking sound it made.

I was suddenly on my knees, though I didn’t remember falling. There was a hissing sound, like wind escaping, and I couldn’t catch a good breath.

My gaze flicked to the priest who’d stabbed me, his black hair, his dark brown eyes, his pretty pink lips. He looked like such a nice man…except for the blood splattered over his hand and the enormous, red, goo-covered knife he held.

None of it seemed real, not the pain, not the strangely sweet-looking priest smiling down at me as I slowly bled to death. Weirder still, what hurt the most were the scratches on my shoulder from Psycho Soccer Mom. They burned like acid.

Numbly, I cupped my hand over the newest wound on my side, but it wasn’t my side I felt under my palm. I looked. There was a hand there, holding me, stemming the blood flow. It wasn’t mine.

Sublime warmth, comfort unlike anything I’d ever felt, and a profound sense of safety engulfed me. Like being cradled in my mother’s lap as a kid, nothing could harm me; all around me was love.

“You can’t interfere, Watcher,” the priest said in the same kind of heavy smoker voice that Psycho Soccer Mom had.

“Thomas,” the man holding me said, his voice serene. “When you have a minute…”

I felt him then, the man comforting me. The heat of his body surrounded mine, his strength kept me safe, and suddenly there was no other place in the world I wanted to be but in his arms. I didn’t care about anything else. Nothing mattered but the way I felt in that moment.

“In…one…second,” Tommy said from a distance. “This one can’t get it through her…head that she’s…finished.”

I was slipping, my mind struggling to focus, my eyes fluttering closed against my will. I had the vague understanding Tommy was fighting—his stunted speech pattern, the sounds of metal clinking and sliding against metal. But I couldn’t make any real sense of it.

“You can’t heal that nephilim, Watcher,” the priest said. “It’s God’s will.”

“If God objects, I trust He has the means to correct the error,” the nice man holding me said.

“No. That’s not the agreement.” The priest’s eyes narrowed. His hand fisted, the other adjusting its bloody grip on the knife. “My deliverer was promised.”

“Shut up, demon,” Tommy said, appearing out of nowhere beside him. “You’re dead.”

Tommy’s shoulders rolled, a flash of silvery metal swung, and the priest’s pretty, dark-haired, brown-eyed head was…gone.

And then the world faded to black.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Yeah? Well, I told her not to touch the sword. You see how well she listened that time.”

I knew Tommy was talking about me. And I didn’t even have to use my gift. Someone was holding my hand. I opened my eyes a slit, not ready to interrupt the conversation.

Tommy was at my feet, standing at the end of the bed I was lying on. I couldn’t see who was holding my hand without turning my head, but I knew he was male by the brush of hair on his forearm, the muscle, the strength.

“She’ll learn,” my handholder said. “If she wants to live.”

That did it. I opened my eyes.

“Hello, Emma Jane.”

The man was…stunning. Beautiful, even. Flawless skin, pale blue eyes, and silky black hair. And he was staring straight at me, as though he knew I’d been faking sleep for a while. I took my hand back.

“Hey.” I swallowed. My throat felt like Hell’s drainage pipe, dry as baked dirt. I licked my lips, my sluggish brain making a leap in logic. “Are you…are you Father Eli?”

“Eli. Please,” he said, and blinked lashes so long and black, they had no business being on a man.

I couldn’t stop staring, so I did my best not to look mentally impaired while I gawked. This priest was tall, maybe six-seven, six-eight. His blue-black hair hung in waves, brushing across his forehead, little swirls curling around his ear and over his collar.

His face was oval with a sharp, smooth-shaven jaw, high cheekbones, and a delicate, straight nose that gave him a kind of feminine prettiness—but he was solid male.

He lowered his head and smiled up at me through those impossibly long lashes. The expression crinkled the corners of glacial blue eyes. Figures he’d be a priest.

I exhaled against the wishful shudder rippling through me, and I put the naughty thoughts from my head. “This a hospital?”

I sat up slowly, holding my breath, bracing for the stab of pain I was sure would come from my injuries. Nothing happened. I rolled my head, stretching my neck. My muscles were a little tight, kind of tender, but nothing I couldn’t ignore. How was that possible?

“You’re in the rectory,” Eli said. “How do you feel?”

I glanced around the sparsely furnished bedroom, testing my body with careful stretches this way and that. “I’m okay.”

The room was small with only a single bed, a nightstand, a bookshelf, and a chest of drawers. I touched my fingers to the wound on my side, then my gut, and winced, the skin still tender. But it was nearly healed. New, puckered flesh already closed the stab wounds. “How long have I been out?”

“Twenty minutes,” Tommy said.

I laughed, panic stirring—not humor. “That’s impossible. I should be in surgery. But I feel…I feel like I’ve had weeks to heal.” I touched my shoulder, which sent a quick jolt of pain slicing along my nerves. I hissed. “Except there.”

“Ah. That’s the brimstone,” Eli said, pushing to his feet. He leaned over me, lifting the collar of my blouse off my shoulder.

The touch, the gesture, sent a quick flood of heat swamping through my body. I couldn’t help it. My chest warmed, the flush rising into my cheeks.

I stretched my neck to see the long scars, bubbled pink flesh, running from my shoulder to my back. They looked the same way Tommy’s had, like cauliflower had gotten trapped under the skin. It wasn’t pretty. Bathing suit season was going to suck.

I tried to keep my mind on my disgusting scars, but the sweet smell swirling from Eli filled my every breath. Like spring air and cotton blossoms, like warm summer sun with a hint of sweet male cologne, his scent was so captivating, I closed my eyes and took another deep breath. He shifted back just as I inhaled.
Busted
.

“You’re healing,” he said, his voice soft and soothing. “Brimstone from under the demon’s nails must have gotten into the wound. It slows the healing process. But you’ll feel better in a few hours.”

He let go of my blouse and braced his hands on the mattress, one on each side of my hips. Our eyes met, and awareness tingled through my veins, made things low inside me warm. I swallowed hard. “Thanks.”

“You ever have one of these? A female illorum?” Tommy’s voice squelched the electric charge sizzling in the air, and Eli straightened.

“Yes. Once,” Eli said.

“This going to be a problem?” The two men exchanged a look.

“No.”

“Uh, hello?” I waved a hand. “Newly conscious girl here. Anyone care to share the info?”

Tommy’s gaze shifted to me, and he flashed his all-star smile, though it melted a little around the edges after a quick second. “You can thank Eli for your feeling good enough to sit up like that.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He broke the rules for you,” Tommy said, plopping his tall, muscled body at the end of the bed. “He’s not supposed to get involved. At least not
that
involved. He healed you.”

“Healed me how? He’s a priest.”
What, with the power of prayer?

“I sustained her. She healed on her own,” Eli said. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his black slacks, his knee-length priest-like black jacket held back at his wrists.

Tommy shrugged. “Maybe. But not this fast.”

“The holy water healed her, Thomas. I only kept her from slipping away until you could give it to her.” Eli walked slowly across the room to the wall. He leaned a shoulder against the tall bookcase, the setting sun casting a soft glow through the window beside him.

“Which is still more than you’re supposed to do. But okay, whatever. I’m not complaining.” Tommy smiled, his attention shifting back to me. “Anyway, without Eli
sustaining
you, I doubt you would’ve made it. By the time I took that demon scum’s head and dragged you back into the church—where I
told
you to stay—you’d have been dead.”

“I’m not a puppy.”

“No, worse,” he said. “You’re a headstrong pain in the butt.”

“But I’m house-trained.” The sarcasm made my tone sharp. I took a breath. “Never mind that. You’re right. I should be dead. So why aren’t I?”

“Because you’re illorum,” Eli said. “You’ve been chosen. And with that comes certain…advantages.”

“What, like random attacks from psychotic yuppie moms and sadistic priests?”

“Demons,” Eli said. “They weren’t human. They only held the form to draw close enough to strike without discovery. And…yes. Demon attacks are common for illorum.”

“Lucky me.”

“Indeed,” Eli said, totally serious.

I was starting to think he didn’t really get sarcasm.

“What Eli means is that the second you were marked, your angelic half kind of…kicked into gear,” Tommy said. “We can’t do the things Eli can do, but what we can do—heal and move faster than humans, fight, read emotions, sense the Fallen—it comes in handy.”

“And Eli has extra special abilities because he’s an illorum
and
a priest?”

“Eli’s not a priest.”

Oh
? Things were looking up.

“He’s an angel.”

Never mind
. “An angel? Right.” He looked like a rock-and-roll priest in his slacks and shoes and long black jacket. His white shirt had one of those stiff banded collars. I’d just assumed…

“Where are his wings?” I asked, only half-joking.

“They’re mostly for show,” Eli said.

“Of course they are,” I said.

And then he disappeared.
Shit
. My heart jumped to my throat and my brain locked.

“Who needs wings?” he said, suddenly on the other side of me.

“Ack!” I snapped my head around.

“Teleporting—folding time and space—doesn’t require wings.” His breath warmed against my ear.

“
Holy hell
, you scared me. Nice trick. Houdini’s got nothin’ on you.”

Eli straightened, his hands cupped in front of him. He flashed a smile to stop my heart, then vanished again. The next instant he was back where he’d started, leaning against the bookshelf as though he’d never moved.

“I can also read the thoughts at the front of your mind,” he said. “Those thoughts you might otherwise say if not for decorum and self-consciousness. Deeper thoughts, however, are
verboten
.”

Thank Heaven for small restraints
.

“Indeed,” he said.

Crap
. I’d have to get a handle on that. I looked to Tommy. “So, when you were saying he healed me, you really meant
he
, Eli, healed me. Not with prayers, but with, what, angelic power?”

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “Your body can heal most superficial wounds on its own now. The nastier ones need holy water to help them along, especially ones infected with brimstone. But you still have to be able to get to the holy water. Keep that in mind next time, ’kay? You’re not invulnerable, Emma Jane. You’re just a little harder to kill.”

“I pray,” Eli said, as though he was just catching up with the conversation, “but as an angel I have been blessed with gifts…abilities. The power to heal is one of those abilities.”

“Speaking of gifts,” Tommy said, getting to his feet, “don’t you have something for her?”

“I do.” Eli straightened. He held out his hands, palms up, and produced a long sword out of thin air. “Keep it with you, always.”

I swung my feet to the floor and went to get a closer look. “That’s huge. It’s not like I can hide it in my purse. People are gonna notice.”

“Once you take possession, the blade exists by your will alone,” Eli said. “Without your desire focused on a single thought, the blade returns to the ether and to the intangible edges of your aura.”

From tip to hilt, the thing was almost three feet long. The blade itself was etched with a semi-circle at the hilt and the same crossed keys as the mark on my wrist. The grip was simple, leather wrapped, with a silver teardrop pommel and, at the end where it met the blade, a thick guard of metal stretched nearly straight across, the ends curving toward the grip with my name engraved in capital letters—
HELLSBANE
.

“Sweet.” My hands itched to hold it. I rubbed my palms against my thighs, resisting the urge.

“It was made for you, Emma Jane,” Eli said. “Forged in the fires of Heaven. An illorum’s sword is the only thing on earth with the power to dispatch the Fallen to the abyss.”

“What about demons?” I asked.

“That’s kind of complicated,” Tommy said.

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t stop staring at that sword. I finally reached for it, and the instant the grip settled into my hand, I realized the hilt on Tommy’s sword had been a little too thick, a little too long. This one fit in my palm like a part of me, an extension of my hand, my arm, my body.

I turned and swung the sword. Nothing had ever felt so natural. “Complicated, huh? How about you explain it to me?”

Tommy crossed his arms over his battle-worn T-shirt and leaned his butt against the bedpost. “Demons
are
fallen angels.”

That stopped me. “Come again?”

“Which of those words was too big for you?” He flashed his charming all-star smile and winked.

Ass
. He was too cute for his own good.

“Thomas,” Eli said, “you’re not helping. Demons were once angels, Emma Jane.”

“They were sent to the abyss but were then freed by the Fallen to serve them,” Tommy said. “But what comes out isn’t the same as what went in. They’re twisted. And they’re so grateful to be free of the abyss they’ll do anything, even die, for the one who freed them.”

“The abyss. You mean Hell, don’t you?” I plopped onto the edge of the bed, sword between my knees, tip to the floor.

“Yes,” Eli said. “Even angels can sin.”

“Rape.”

He met my eyes. “Yes. And they are punished for their sins.”

“When we can catch them.”

Eli shifted his gaze to Tommy. “Exactly. Now, however, there is a means in place to deal with their betrayal.”

“Oh yeah?” I said. “What’s that?”

“You, and others like you,” Eli said. “The chosen. The illorum. Your sword was forged in the fires of Heaven for your hand alone, for a single purpose. To exact God’s will and banish the condemned to the abyss.”

“And for that we get attacked by demons on a daily basis and possibly killed?” I asked. Calling it a raw deal hardly scratched the surface. “Why us?”

“Penance,” Eli said.

“For what?”

“For the sins of your fathers.”

“That’s not fair.”

Eli slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “The Lord is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, forgiving iniquity and transgression, but He will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children, to the third and the fourth generation.”

“Old Testament. The book of Numbers, verses fourteen through eighteen,” Tommy said.

Right. The Bible. What’d I know? “But you guys help, right? The angels help us.”

Tommy snorted. “Can you say, hell no?”

“I am here only as your teacher, your magister,” Eli said. “I will train you to fight and share what knowledge I am permitted. But the rest will be up to you.”

“And by ‘the rest’ you mean…?”

He looked confused. “Dispatching the Fallen.”

“All of them?”

“Until you find and dispatch the angel who spawned you. Then your penance is paid.”

“You mean our fathers?
My
father, specifically? Perfect. How hard could that be, when no one even remembers he existed?” I got up and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Tommy asked.

“Where do you think? I’m calling my mom. See if she remembers talking to any angels.”