Phoenix Contract: Part Two (Fallen Angel Watchers) (2 page)

The identity of his assailant caught Magnus unprepared. The Celt recognized the albino as Thrash, a member of Matthew’s enclave and an Alastor. The albino should not have known of Magnus’ existence, let alone his address.

“Wow, great reflexes,” Thrash said. “I can’t believe you got away without a scratch.” Then his gaze flickered to Magnus’ injury where a thin trickle of blood dripped from his arm. “Or should I say only a scratch?”

“Who are you?” Magnus asked. He would say the right things to promote his ignorance for the sake of protecting Matthew. Their friendship had remained a necessary secret, kept for many decades.

The Alastor showed his teeth. “No, I think the real question is
who are you?
” They glared at each other over crossed steel. “You have six fingers and claim to be of House Shemyaza. I have served Guillaume for a millennium, yet not once have I ever seen your face.”

“You call me a liar,” Magnus drawled, amazed at the albino’s audacity.

“I do.”

The Celt made a decision. “Magnus of the Averni.” He would allow the conversation because he needed information. Magnus had to learn what knowledge Thrash possessed, not only of him, but of his connection to Matthew.

“Yes, I know as much,” Thrash replied with a disdainful curl of his lip. “You’re the Celt with the Roman moniker. Tell me something I don’t know. Such as, what are you? I’ve seen more than my share of magic, but I’ve never seen anything like what you did the night before last, bringing that priest back from the dead.”

Magnus had his answer. “You were present in the parking lot.” Even with centuries of practice in masking his emotions, he could not hide his reaction.

Thrash laughed, a cold, superior sound. “Yes,” he said, “I was there. I witnessed your fight with the vampires and the dear priest’s heart attack. I saw it all, and I followed you undetected, straight to your home. Judging by the shutters, you’re a creature of the night, vulnerable to the deadly rays of the sun, just as I am. Now the sun shines, and we’re trapped here together. Isn’t this wonderfully romantic?”

Magnus growled and shifted his stance, twisting his sword in order to force his opponent’s blade down. The golden glow of his eyes lit the room. He faced a dilemma: Thrash couldn’t be permitted to live because he knew too much. But Magnus couldn’t murder a member of Matthew’s enclave and expect the priest to be all right with it. His best option—disarm and subdue the albino and then figure out what to do next. More than that, he sensed something indelibly wrong with the Alastor, and he needed to figure out what.

The swords parted, and the two men squared off again. The confines of even the large bedroom forced Magnus to keep his movement controlled and efficient. The Celt adopted a left forward stance and allowed Thrash to assume the offensive.

The albino took the opening, rushing the Celt while swinging his blade forward and down. At precisely the right moment, Magnus brought his foot up and around in a full circle kick. He caught Thrash in the head. The blow sent the Alastor staggering, and his sword went wide.

Magnus followed through with a rapid series of kicks to Thrash’s head and torso which knocked the sword from his grip. It dropped to the floor, and the albino retreated, using his arms to shield his face from the assault. The entire time, Magnus maintained his hold on the falchion.

A final round kick sent Thrash to his knees. Holding the sword steady and level, Magnus placed the falchion’s blade against his opponent’s throat. “Enough,” Magnus said. “You’re not my equal, so stop wasting my time and tell me what you want.”

“I want your immortal soul.” Thrash tilted his head back and stared up at Magnus. Time stretched while the shadows along the bedroom walls surged like a tide of tar, groping along the floor with leading edges that mimicked fingers feeling their way. The albino’s facial features underwent a fantastic distortion. His mouth opened, and his jaws became unhinged, stretching and twisting into a gaping maw. The scream of a thousand suffering souls issued from his throat, and an inky blankness filled his eyes and mouth.

“What are you?” Magnus demanded, though he had a good idea already.

“I am torment and destruction, the scream in the dark, the taste of ash, bitter tears, the belly of the beast, the essence of evil.” The albino’s face bloated, and his eyes turned as glassy as those of a decaying corpse. The darkness followed from the edges of the room to the center, pooling about his body until the distinction faded.

“The inflated ego,” Magnus said. His sword at the albino’s throat never wavered. He understood the creature’s true nature—demonic. It had assumed Thrash’s identity. He had one last question, though he doubted the albino would answer. “What is your name?”

His failure to invoke fear or disgust caused the demon’s features to contort with displeasure. The swollen sack of flesh wobbled and then deflated, resuming normal human proportions. “Guess,” he taunted.

“I’m guessing you have no name other than the ones you steal,” Magnus replied. For a demon, it was an insult. Names were everything. Only the lowliest and weakest demons lacked a true name.

“Soul Eater,” the creature snapped. “
The
Soul Eater.”

“
The
Soul Eater,” Magnus repeated and laughed. “It is like a waste receptacle calling itself
The
Trash Can.”

The albino’s mouth opened, and then his face flushed with shock and anger. Still laughing, Magnus delivered a short, powerful thrust with the falchion and severed the demon’s head.

No spray of blood followed, no bodily fluids of any kind. The head rolled into the oozing black mass and rapidly disintegrated. The headless body dropped to the ground and also melted into the black tide. Magnus watched the oily mass bubble and percolate, curious to see what would happen next. It emitted a series of lusty burps and moans and then disgorged a lumpy protrusion which coalesced into an inky black human head. The facial features were rough like an unfinished sketch, and the eyes staring up at Magnus were full of the abyss.

“That was rude,” the demon said.

“What can I say,” Magnus replied. “I’m a bad man.”

“You’ve made me angry now.”

Magnus sneered. “I’m shaking.”

A protrusion shot from the tarry mass and wrapped firmly about the Celt’s ankle. Wielding the falchion, Magnus deftly severed the tendril and then the next and the next. The pieces he cut off simply fell back into the creature’s formless body and were reabsorbed. At last, a tentacle got past his guard and yanked Magnus off his feet.

Destructive and consuming, the albino levied his rage. He slammed Magnus into the ceiling and then the wall so hard the Celt lost his grip on the falchion. The viscous mass lifted Magnus and tossed him about like a puppy with a toy. “Your feeble attacks mean nothing to me. I am invulnerable to physical harm. Nothing can hurt me. Not fists or swords or guns or fire! Do you hear?”

“I hear,” Magnus agreed. The rough treatment had left him slightly bruised but largely undamaged. Mostly, the demon had succeeded in pissing him off further.

The Soul Eater shoved Magnus against one of the shuttered windows. The tentacles pinned him in place along the same wall where his cloak hung on a hook. The Celt turned his head toward the cloak and extended his hand, reaching for the garment.

“
Venio veni ventum,
” Magnus intoned.

The cloak immediately came to life, writhing and flapping as it crossed the short distance to its master. It flowed along Magnus’ arm and enveloped him within its folds. The material felt silky against his skin.

“It’s like a tiny cousin to me,” the demon said. Abruptly, Thrash stood opposite Magnus once again, holding the Celt pinned against the metal shutters with an arm across his throat. “Does your pet have a name?”

“The cloak is called Draco,” Magnus replied. “You’re back.”

“I find this form pleasing.” The demon sniffed. “Draco, very amusing. Is that from Harry Potter or
Star Wars
?”

Magnus smiled to show teeth. “None of your business.”

“As much fun as I’m having playing, I do find your bad attitude tedious. You see, I’m trying to locate an artifact very precious to me which dear Thrash here once had in his possession. Unfortunately, I’ve been unable to locate this artifact, and the wild goose chase has led me to you,” the Soul Eater said. “So this is your last chance. Tell me the truth regarding your true nature, or I’ll take it from you by force.” The Soul Eater placed his free hand on Magnus’ chest, pressing all five fingertips into the breastbone over the Celt’s heart.

Magnus lifted his brow. “Will you?” His tone dropped several octaves, barely louder than a whisper. A wise man would have heard it and recognized the danger.

The demon continued blithely on.

“I will. Just. Like. This.” The demon’s fingers sank into Magnus’ chest to the first knuckle. The Soul Eater’s face held expectation.

Magnus narrowed his eyes. “Is this supposed to hurt?”

Bafflement took the demon’s expression. “Excruciatingly so. You see, I’m reaching for your soul.” His brow furrowed. “Perhaps it’s deeper.” His hand disappeared into Magnus’ bare chest, sinking to the wrist.

With piqued interest, Magnus looked down to observe. Black and viscous, the section of the demon’s arm adjacent to his wrist rippled like black oil cast in the shape of an arm.

“Do you feel anything?” the demon asked.

“It tickles.”

Uncertainty flickered across the demon’s mobile features. “Do you have a soul? I’d almost have to report that you are soulless.”

The Celt’s grin turned feral, but the demon, too preoccupied with soul searching, didn’t notice. Magnus allowed his arms to dangle at his sides, then reached back to grasp the cold metal slates with his fingers. Draco, his cloak, clung to his body, twining about torso and limbs, and the hood fell forward over his face.

The Soul Eater withdrew his hand and gave it a shake as if to restore circulation. “I guess we’ll have to call this a draw.”

“I don’t think so,” Magnus said flatly. “While you’ve been talking, I’ve been paying attention. You took your best shot. Now it’s my turn.”

The demon giggled. “Sure, take your best shot.” The Soul Eater stepped back and stood with his eyes closed, arms and legs spread wide. “Go for it.”

“That I will,” Magnus promised. “One thing you should know. I’m all about winning. No matter what the cost.” He grabbed hold of the steel shutter with all of his might. Metal screeched in protest, and then the hinges busted and tore free. Bright white sunlight flooded the eastern facing window.

Startled, the Soul Eater opened his eyes and stared directly up into the mid-morning sun. Light filled his eyes and mouth, searing the demon’s face and body to ash which then collapsed. The scream of a thousand souls filled the air, and the glass of the window shattered.

Magnus bent forward with the shutter on his back. He swung his arms over his head and flung it to the side. Dropping to a crouch, he took cover against the wall beneath the window. The sunlight seared the exposed flesh of his face, arms and chest, his sensitivity to light too great to escape damage. In spite of the cloak’s protection, the smell of burnt flesh, sharp and bitter, filled his nostrils.

The Soul Eater’s deafening scream continued, unbroken. Protrusions appeared across the surface of the shadowy mass, angry pustules that swelled. One after another, the lesions became human heads, faces contorted in agony. They strained against the burning membrane that held them captive. Hundreds and then thousands of souls writhed within the demonic prison.

With a boom and a roar, the demon’s viscous body caught fire. Wildfire flames spread along the inky surface, filling the air with sulfurous smoke. The demon’s formless body convulsed, surged, and heaved like a riptide. The main mass sported flaming protrusions which whipped about the room, setting the furnishings and walls on fire. Then, abruptly, the entire conflagration fled from the sunlight, retreating toward the interior of the building.

Draco whimpered, but Magnus spared his pet no compassion. Magnus would not survive much longer in his current location. Already, his sable hair had burned away, and much of his skin charred to a crispy black. It would take the burns a long time to heal, and crossing the room meant exposing his flesh to more sunlight. Still, he had no choice in the matter. If he stayed put, he would die.

Magnus lifted his head to survey the room. The fire had spread to the ceiling and floors. Soon it would engulf the entire building. Choosing a path, the Celt flung a protective arm across his eyes. Using the cloak as a shield, he charged toward the other side of the room where the shadows promised refuge.

The light was brilliant, a bright, bold caress of pain.

A vast stretch of packed dirt, combed smooth and bearing the consistency of graham cracker crumbs, stretched out before Aiden for the length of several football fields. Twilight surrounded her in all directions, a cool world of velvet grays, and lush violet highlights. After a minute of staring blankly at the field’s level surface, she raised her eyes to survey her surroundings.

The weathered gray stone walls of a massive stadium rose high into the sky. A network of staircases radiated upward through the successive tiers filled with thousands upon thousands of seats. The stands were packed with countless spectators, a surging, screaming, writhing throng of humanity that flowed together in one continuous mass, adjoined in their suffering.

Her physical awareness was acute and afflictive. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears and chest. It raced like some frenzied beast, causing labored breaths and a feverish flush that made her body burn.

Throbbing, pounding, thrashing. The
thud thud thud
grew louder and louder, increasing in volume until it echoed all around her. The sound drowned out the tortured cries of the crowd and merged with the racing beat of her own heart. Aiden looked around and down, and finally found the source.

A naked beating heart lay upon the ground at her feet. Larger than a big man’s fist, the organ fell midway between the realm of red and blue, a rich dark purple hue. The blood vessels that once connected the organ and body had been severed, the cuts clean and precise, made with a sharp blade.

The heart was not still nor silent. It pulsated with inexhaustible energy and a seemingly inexhaustible supply of blood. Each contraction of the muscle pumped more vital fluids through severed arteries to the ground, where it soaked into the dirt, forming a black wet stain. It seemed to be crawling toward Aiden, moving closer with each convulsive beat.

“You must take it up!”

Startled, her eyes flew to the man face down in the dirt who clawed his way toward her. She gasped as Father Matthew lifted his head and extended a grasping hand. His entire arm trembled, and the skin upon his fingers was stretched taut so the sharp lines of bones were clearly visible. His dark complexion had succumbed to a sickly pallor, and blood seeped from his eyes, leaving streaks of red down his cheeks that resembled tear tracks.

“Father?” Aiden took a wide step around the heart in order to approach her mentor.

With a massive effort, the priest attempted to rise onto his arms but collapsed after a desperate struggle, unable to bear the burden of his own weight. The bloody tears he shed had formed a pool of blood in the dirt around his face.

“Aiden, you must. Take it up. It is your burden. It is your destiny!” Matthew shouted, blood bubbling past his lips to form frothy spittle.

Dry dirt crunched beneath approaching feet, heralding the arrival of a towering figure cloaked in darkness. He stopped on the other side of Matthew, his feet evenly spaced, stance alert and poised. He held a scythe in his right hand, angled skyward, poised and ready to strike.

Aiden stared at the newcomer hard, but the terrible brightness behind him made darkness obscure his features. She discerned only his silhouette clearly, and the brilliant halo of light burned the image indelibly onto her retinas.

“Aiden.” The man whispered her name in a dulcet brogue, a voice that spiraled mystery and seduction while weaving a hypnotic spell. The air about them sucked up the sound and echoed her name in undulating whispers, rising and falling, beckoning her closer.

Aiden shivered, recognizing him with a jolt, and a terrible sense of foreboding seized her. Never, never, never would she have expected
him
to invade her dreams, and she couldn’t decide whether to be excited or outraged.

The deluge of sound coming at her from all sides increased tenfold. The screaming crowd, the
KATHUMP, KATHUMP, KATHUMP
of the beating heart, Matthew’s agonized pleas. All of it deafened and overwhelmed her, and only
he
was silent.

“What do you want?” she shouted.

“Trust me.”

Even over the terrible din, she heard his voice calling to her. Torn between doubt and fear, she took a step toward him and stopped, attracted and repulsed, unable to ignore the suspended scythe hanging overhead like the promise of death and doom.

She yearned for illumination, for the recession of the concealing shadows, and as if by magic, her wish came true. The ground at her feet caught blaze, and along the perimeter of the arena, a line of flame sprang up. The fire lived within her and apart, bonded to her soul, and she found comfort in the burning.

“Aiden.” Magnus’ tone grew more insistent. “You’re going to have to make a choice about who to trust.”

His hand rose, extending and summoning, but she refused to yield to his commanding power. A great stubbornness rose up in her, and she vowed then and there that he’d never have his way.

“No,” she hissed. “I won’t trust you. Not ever.”

“Very well. As you wish,” he replied, and she sensed his displeasure. His extended hand fell. “When the end comes, you’ll face it alone.”

“I have friends. I won’t be alone,” Aiden informed him defiantly, refusing to give in to his intimidation. Aiden looked for support in Father Matthew who had managed to climb to his hands and knees.

He crouched in the dirt like an animal, but his face, wholly lacking in the compassion or sentience, made her shudder. He wore a mask of depravity, contorted with hunger and malice.

“They’ll all be dead,” Magnus predicted.

The scythe rose and fell in a graceful downward arc like a swinging pendulum. It met flesh and cleanly cleaved through Matthew’s neck, severing flesh and bone. A warning scream died on Aiden’s lips as Matthew’s head rolled from his shoulders. His severed spinal column glistened bright white, and a river of blood poured from his body. Horrified, Aiden watched her mentor’s head roll closer until it came to a halt at her feet. His brown eyes were open, staring accusingly up at her.

The protective ring of fire extinguished and darkness deluged her. She crouched, cowered, and extended her hand in a futile gesture of self-defense, but she found no protection from the dark. She was alone.

Aiden bolted upright, gasping for air. The hardcover book on her lap fell to the floor with a thud. Waking suddenly caused muscles throughout her body to jerk and tense, and the stitches in the side of her throat tugged painfully. Aiden bent forward in the chair and placed her face between her knees, panting hard. Sweat and tears stung her eyes.

It was only a dream, only a dream, only a dream.

When she looked up, Death greeted her bleary gaze. She blinked, but he remained, huge and looming, the visage straight from her nightmares. The Grim Reaper wore long black robes, the uniform of his ghastly office. The cloaked figure bent over Father Matthew’s hospital bed, obscuring her view of the priest.
Had he come to collect Matthew’s soul?

“No!” Aiden cried, infusing her voice with the power to command Death. She bolted out of the chair she’d been sleeping in and landed upright in a defiant stance. She took a bold stride, ready to challenge the spectral apparition.

“No?” Death’s voice was husky and dulcet and decidedly familiar.
Magnus.
The reaper turned, only he wasn’t Death after all. The robes, open in the front, revealed a man clad in a black shirt and pants. The cowl of his leather cloak hung forward, creating folds of loose material that concealed his face.

“What are you doing here?” Aiden demanded. Suddenly, she was coldly furious, anger covering her fear.

“Just checking to see how Matthew’s doing,” he said, his voice laden with stress and pain.

Had she been imagining things?
Dreaming?
She questioned her own reality and wondered at her sanity but found no easy answers. Aiden stared at him hard as if to perceive past the cowl of the draped hood.

Under her gaze, he stirred, and one of his hands gripped the metal frame at the bottom of the bed. The leather gloves creaked under the pressure of his tightening grip. “What?” His discernable effort to sound normal failed.

“Are you hurt?” Aiden asked, hating the stab of sympathy stirring in her breast.

“I’m—”

She could almost read the thoughts forming in his mind, so clear and eloquent his hesitation. He reconsidered at the last second. Without speaking, he stripped away the glove and revealed a hand burnt almost beyond recognition of a human extremity.

She gasped. Blackened and cracked, the outer skin formed jagged edges over the inner tissue that was bright and red like raw meat, oozing fluids. Along the back of his hand, a network of fine white bones peeked through where the flesh had been burnt away entirely.

“What happened? I-is...” She shuddered so hard her teeth rattled. “Is the rest of you like
that
?”

“Yes, more or less. I managed to protect my eyes,” he said, his tone distant and detached, as if they were discussing the weather.

To Aiden’s immense relief, he put the glove back on. Profoundly disturbed, she didn’t bother to temper her language. “What the hell happened?”

“I’m severely allergic to sunlight,” he stated. “It’s lethal in the right doses.”

A weak tremor wracked Aiden, and she nervously eyed his cloaked form, imagining the gruesome burnt flesh it concealed. “How is it that you’re still alive?” she asked in a shuddering voice.

Magnus cocked his head, causing a slight movement around the fringe of his cowl. She could feel his eyes cutting into her. Then, he shrugged as if the mystery of his continued existence defied explanation.

“How’s your throat?” His hand made a small gesture toward her neck.

“It hurts a little, but it only took three stitches,” Aiden said, her own hand rising reflexively to cover her injury. She was damned lucky to have survived a vampire bite and even luckier that she hadn’t consumed any of Daniel’s blood. With vampires, it was all about blood, and she could’ve been turned into one all too easily.
Just like Daniel had planned.

The very thought made her ill, and she automatically sought to conceal her reaction from this stranger. “Do you need a doctor?”

Abruptly, Magnus turned toward the doorway. “Someone’s coming.”

The sound of the knob being turned caused Aiden to whirl. The door opened, and a man in his late fifties entered. He wore pale green scrubs beneath a white jacket and had a stethoscope looped around his neck. He greeted her with a friendly smile. “Hello.”

He stopped, looking like he wanted to say something more, perhaps to comment on her bewilderment, or inquire as to why she was so frazzled. She expected his attention to be focused on the guy in the black robes, but he stared straight at her. Aiden turned slightly and glanced at Magnus, only to find him gone.

She was alone, completely alone, except for Matthew and the doctor. “It must have been a dream,” she muttered as she scoured every inch of the small room with her gaze.
No one.

“Eh, bad dreams?” He’d surmised that she’d just woken. The doctor scrunched his wizened face and gazed at her through old and kind eyes, hazel orbs with flecks of green and gold behind silver wire-rimmed glasses. He was short, plump and rotund around the abdomen with a light sprinkling of silver hair receding from his forehead.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Aiden said, grimacing at a cramp in her neck as she gave up on her fruitless search and turned back. Her hand automatically moved to work out the kink she’d gotten from sleeping in the uncomfortable chair.

“I’m Doctor Julio Weinman.”

“Aiden McLachlan,” she said. She extended her hand, and they exchanged a short, firm handshake.

“Have you been here all night?” he asked, checking monitors and making notations on the clipboard at the foot of the bed. “You should go home and get some rest,” he said to her affirmation. “Is there anyone else who can relieve you?”

“No, there’s no one else,” she said, her voice soft.

Three days had passed since the incident that had put Father Matthew into the hospital. Aiden had maintained a constant vigil, leaving only briefly to attend to necessities. Katsue and Troy had managed to drop in briefly twice, but they were fully occupied searching for Thrash, and Desdemona cared for no one but herself. It made Aiden sad to think that after over fifty years of service to God, Father Matthew had no one who cared enough to visit.