Her Black Wings (The Dark Amulet Series Book 1) (27 page)

CHAPTER

SEVENTY-TWO

Brandon

Brandon drove down the dark street. The houses were set far enough back on acre lots so any illumination coming from porch lights didn’t reach the road. High beams were a necessity. The feather left in his car lay on the floor of the passenger side. In the darkened interior, he couldn’t see the plume, however, that didn’t stop him from obsessing over it. Why he hadn’t thrown it out the window was as mysterious as the person who left the damn thing.

Their conversation played over in his head like a warped record. He’d understood now why she told him her story. He would always regret what he planned to do. No matter if he got away with the murder or not, he’d never escape the horrible feeling of taking someone’s life.

Four houses down, the fate of his future would change. There was no “undo” button after completing the act. He read off the house numbers until he reached his destination. Several fancy cars—a Mercedes, a pair of Audis, and a Lincoln sat along the edge of the lawn.

Driving past, Brandon rounded the next two corners and parked the car on the street directly behind the house. A patch of woods butted up to the victim’s backyard. This was his escape route.

The clock on his dashboard shined 11:25 PM.

“Times up, Buddy,” he said out loud, trying to psych himself up.

With the pistol and silencer hidden at the small of his back, he traipsed through the thicket of trees and came out into the backyard. Although only a porch light had been on in the front of the house, he could see through the glass double back doors that the house was lit up inside. These weren’t social people. What were they doing, having a party?

He went in for a closer look. Yep. Definitely a dinner party. Glasses clanked. Laughter rose.

Now what?

Well, he wasn’t about to go on a killing spree and this wasn’t part of the deal with Damien. He’d have to ask for more time.

No, you’re not.

Brandon rang the doorbell and prayed his victim answered the door alone. A man yelled from inside the house, “Coming. Hold on a minute.” The guy opened the door. It was the mark, Charles Montgomery.

The man’s brow crinkled. “May I help you?”

Montgomery was taller than he looked at a distance. Younger too. Brandon blinked while the man looked at him with expectation. “Are you all right?”

“Y-yeah…um…” How in the world was he going to shoot him? Amalya was right. He wasn’t a killer. “I think I have the wrong address.”

“Oh, okay,” the man said, still staring at him.

Brandon spun on his heel and walked toward the porch steps, then turned to look at the guy.

“Do you happen to know anyone by the name Damien, by chance?”

Pursing his lips the man shook his head. “No.”

“Sorry to bother you then.”

With his brows raised, the man smiled, chuckling a little. “Okay then, take care.”

Safely back inside his car and before Brandon drove off, he felt around on the floor boards for the feather. Picking it up, he noticed how light and silky soft the feather felt, almost like he couldn’t feel it between his fingers.

CHAPTER

SEVENTY-THREE

Damien/Reed

Damien leaned over his kitchen table across from Bobo, rolling a joint. The nape of his neck tingled with tiny pinpricks and his spine stiffened. Rotten egg odor wafted by his nose. He grimaced. “Hey man, did you fart,
again
?”

“Uh uh,” Bobo said. When he gulped loudly, Damien glanced up through his lashes. His friend’s eyes were wide and his face was pale.

Tsk.

Tsk.

Tsk.

“I’m so disappointed.”

Damien wrenched around in the chair. “What the hell!” He tried getting to his feet, but they wouldn’t work properly.

“That’s all right, stay where you are.”

A black as night skinned beast with frosty blue eyes stood glaring at them, its clawed hands curled into fists. Dark hair flowed from a widow’s peak, off the shoulders and in waves. Ridged horns rose above the head then arched up, out and around, almost meeting at the points. Bulging muscles rippled. Giant cloven hoofs grew where feet should exist. Etched lines textured its skin.

The creature gestured at Bobo. “You, fat one, leave,” it growled. Bobo only gaped—didn’t move an inch. “Out!”

Bobo’s chair scraped across the linoleum, digging gouges into the floor. Stumbling toward the side kitchen door, he belly flopped on the tile. Managing to get onto his hands and knees, he moaned. “OhGodohGodohGod.” His sweaty hands slipped and he went splat again. He pulled himself along, squeaking toward the exit. Using the knob for support he labored to his feet. Bobo banged on the door, twisting the handle until he burst through. He landed hard on the ground outside.

The beast chuckled low, deep within its chest. “Fortunately for Bobo, his time isn’t up. However, your time is waning.”

“W-What are you talking about? W-who are—?”

“Shall I just throw you back into the Void now, then?”

Abaddon.

“My Lord.” Damien knelt before the master. Reed wouldn’t have dreamed of bowing down to anyone, but the mind and spirit of Damien Stone worshipped Satan. The Devil had torn the soul of Damien out, leaving remnants clinging to the recesses inside the brain. When Reed’s soul was inserted, the remaining memories mixed with his, creating an altered version of what he once had been. “How may I serve you?”

“Get up, you fool. Brandon Smith has not completed his task.”

“But he was…he called, said he was on his way to take care of it.”

“Well, it appears he changed his mind.”

Damien swallowed gulps of air. “No, he said he’d do—”

“Enough!”

The beast grabbed him by the collar one-handed and held off the floor with his feet dangling. “Do you hear yourself? He has failed. You have until sunrise to convince him of his error, otherwise our deal is off.”

The compromised circulation in Damien’s neck turned his face red. “I’m sure he just needs more time. I—”

“You have until sunrise.” His Lord opened his fist.

Damien dropped like a brick, landing in a sprawling heap. Black smoke filled the air around them. Wisps were sucked into his nose and down his throat when he inhaled. His eyes burned, lungs wheezed. Boisterous laughter rang in his ears.

Abruptly the room became deadly quiet and the smog cleared.

CHAPTER

SEVENTY-FOUR

Damien/Reed

Staying out of Netherworld and maintaining his established lucrative drug biz were Damien’s top two priorities. There were only two people he could use to “convince” Brandon to act. Later, he would find Bobo and get things aligned for expansion. After all, one needed to branch out if they planned on their enterprise sticking around for a long while.

The kidnapping plans he’d worked out in his brain on the way to committing the crimes turned out easier than he imagined. The wife of his first victim had been asleep upstairs while the husband practiced his indoor putting with a mug standing in for the hole. A simple gun to the head made a great persuasion tool:
Make a sound and the wife dies.

Mrs. Angela Bishop also decided a bullet lodged in her skull wasn’t her preferred method of death. In fact, she’d been maybe a little too easily swayed to see his side of things. Whatever. He had the ammunition he needed. Now, with the two tied up in Brandon’s basement, he waited. And waited. Checking his phone for the time every ten minutes, until the old biddy started asking questions.

“Oh dear, are you waiting for Brandon? I don’t think he’s coming home.”

“How do you know?” God, he should have remembered to bring duct tape so he could’ve gagged the bitch. Stuffed a sock in her mouth and taped her yapper shut. He sat down at the top of the stairs to get away from her. It didn’t help.

“He stopped over and said he wouldn’t be coming around anymore.” She started talking aloud to herself, because Damien had knocked Montgomery unconscious with the hilt of his Sig Sauer and the man was still out of it. “Brandon is a nice boy, he’ll save us, you’ll see.”

“Shut it, you old bitch!”

Headlights flashed through the sheers hanging in the front window.

About damn time.

Damien shut his victims in the basement and waited for Brandon by the garage door. He leaned against a wall with his legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded over his chest.

Creak.

Brandon’s head peeked around the door jamb. Damien had parked his car around the block so his visit would be a shocker.

“Surprise, motherfucker,” Damien grinned.

“Wha…shit!”

The weasel retreated and tried slamming the door in his face. Damien’s hand snaked out, stopping the door from closing all the way. He flung the wood panel hard enough to jerk some of the hinge screws loose. Catching Brandon and twisting his arm behind his back, Damien shoved him against the car, grinding his cheek on the roof.

“You’re going to git the fuck back in the house, now!”

Brandon gasped. “And if I don’t—”

“You’re gonna do it! Angela is waiting patiently for you,” Damien growled.

“You wouldn’t.” Brandon lifted his head. Blood trickled from a cut on his cheek below one of his eyes.

“Oh, but I
will
.” Damien pushed him toward the entrance to the house.

CHAPTER

SEVENTY-FIVE

Brandon

Brandon needed a few things before he skipped town. The things which seemed important five minutes ago didn’t matter now. Who cared if he hadn’t packed his toothbrush or all his clothes? Except those items had been his excuse. What he really came back for was a shoebox. A silly-ass Adidas box full of stupid mementoes that in light of his current problem meant absolutely nothing in comparison.

Ahead of Damien, who held a gun, Brandon led them down to the basement. The musty smell made him sneeze twice before reaching the bottom of the steps.

Brandon only expected to see Angela tied up. She sat mutely with her hands and ankles tied to a metal folding chair. The man he didn’t kill earlier lifted his head and once he recognized Brandon, opened his eyes wide. An incomprehensible sound came out of his mouth, a cross between fear, pain, and disbelief.

“What are we doing here?” Brandon asked.

Damien chuckled. “Glad ya asked. See, you was supposed to kill Mr. Montgomery.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Oh, so ya have the fifty thou now? Why didn’t you say so?”

Brandon looked up at the low ceiling. Pipes ran along the floor joists. Cobwebs stuck in the corners between the upstairs sub-floor and the beams. Bare wiring provided electricity to the fluorescent fixtures.

“That’s what I thought.” Damien walked over and put his hands on Montgomery’s shoulders. The man flinched. “Ya see, I never want to be accused of being stingy, so I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do. One of these two dies tonight, and you get to choose which one.”

Why is this so important?

He wondered what Damien would possible gain from this. The men didn’t even know each other.

The look on Montgomery’s face was pure dread. Brandon didn’t blame the guy. Given the choice between murdering a sweet little old lady without a mean bone in her body, or a criminal defense attorney, Brandon was sure even Montgomery could imagine which most people would choose. Angela just looked around, which seemed an odd reaction, even for her.

Brandon’s heart thumped so hard, he thought it might actually be hitting the back of his sternum. He had to breathe through his mouth in order to get enough oxygen into his lungs. Damien glared at him, as if the look alone would be enough to convince him to change his mind again.

“So who’s it gonna be, Brandon? Bishop, or Charles here?” Damien knocked the side of the man’s head then ran a finger across Angela’s neck.

Amalya appeared behind Damien. She stood close enough that Brandon didn’t call attention to her presence by taking his eyes off Damien to look at her. The dark angel seemed slightly disoriented but managed to get her mind wrapped around the situation. Looking Damien right in the eye, he said with a renewed sense of false confidence, “I’m not killing anyone.” Amalya’s face lit with approval. She silently golf clapped.

“Oh, sweetie pie. You don’t need to be a hero. Plenty of those in the world,” Angela said. Montgomery shook his head.

“I’m not trying to be,” Brandon said.

“It’s all right,” Angela said. “I’ve lived a long enough life, you can kill me.”

Amalya mimicked Brandon’s furrowed brow. Damien spun around when she exhaled.

“I thought I chased you away?”

“I’m not afraid of you. I killed you once, remember? I can do it again,” Amalya said.

“Right. What’re ya gonna do, run me over? Sorry, bitch, there aren’t any cars around.”

Amalya sneered at Damien with the equivalent of giving him the finger.

“Brandon!” Angela said to get his attention. “Charles here has a wife. I’ll gladly sacrifice my life for—”

“I’m not killing anyone. I’m done.”

Damien lunged for Amalya and yanked with one hand on something Brandon couldn’t see at first. The gun was in the other hand.

She screeched, “Ow. Ow. Ow!” Her wings appeared.

Damien pinned her down, pressing his knees into her back, only it was her wings that had been trapped. A bone cracked. “Ow!” she howled. The barrel of the piston was aimed at the back of her skull.

“Kill one of them or you know what happens next!” he yelled at Brandon.

With what?
Brandon looked around the basement for a weapon.
What am I doing?

“I’m already dead, Brandon, you hear me? I’m dead, don’t listen to—”

“Shut up, you bitch!” Damien clocked her on the back of the head with the gun. She lay on the floor motionless.

Creak.

Crack.

Ka-boom!

A bomb went off…no, an explosion. Warm liquid hit Brandon in the face and coated his shirt. His vision blurred from the watery substance.

“What the
fuck
!” A coopery taste filled his mouth along with bits of… he spat whatever it was out.

Leaning over at the waist, he spat again. Blinking profusely, his eyes began to clear. Amalya still lay on the floor.

“Holy shit!” The monster Brandon had tried to forget for the last twenty years stood hunched under the low ceiling. He swallowed, only to choke. He coughed. His face turned red then purple.

Pitched over on his side, Montgomery lay on the cement floor, still attached to his chair, covered in slimy red—oh God, what was that?

Brandon’s stomach bottomed out. His gag reflex forced his tongue forward. Cold sweat poured off him. Angela was gone.

“You disappoint me!” the beast bellowed, grabbing the gun out of Damien’s hand. He swiped at him, hurling him into a wall. Damien lay in a heap, bloody claw marks across his face.

The beast charged Amalya. Picked her up and balanced her by the waist, face up, using one hand. Her head, arms and legs dangled, her wings lax and pointing toward the floor. Jagged bone peeked through the feathers of one of her wings.

The beast’s crystal blue eyes narrowed on him. Paralyzed with fear, Brandon couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. An object clattered near him then spun several times, stopping at the side of his foot. The gun.

“Pick it up,” the beast grumbled.

He stared at the black monster with an open mouth. His breath came out in shallow pants.

“You will do as I say, boy!”

Although Brandon
didn’t want to comply, he was compelled to anyway. Squatting, he felt for the weapon blindly as he couldn’t take his eyes off the beast.

Amalya started to squirm. The beast paid no attention. “Kill Montgomery!”

Brandon’s pupils went wide. He marched over to Montgomery and put the muzzle to the man’s exposed temple.

Amalya regained consciousness and shouted, “No, Brandon!”

He looked at her, hesitated, and then glanced at his intended victim.

“Do it or she’s ash!” the beast bellowed. Amalya cringed and squeezed her eyes shut as strings of spit flew from the creature’s mouth.

“I’m dead either way, Brandon. Fight thi—” With the beast’s hand to her forehead, her body went limp again.

Brandon’s hand trembled as his finger curled around the trigger.

She’s already dead…