Soul Resurrected (Sons of Wrath, #2) (6 page)

“Who is she?”

Anna tipped her head and clasped her hands together. “Diana. Artemis in Greek mythology. She is the goddess of the hunt.”

Beauty and strength encased in the solid form of the sculpture. “Diana,” Calla echoed. “Do the demons have books on her?”

Anna shuffled over to the bed and pulled back the covers. The green sheets resembled a patch of soft grass that Calla could hardly wait to curl inside and fall asleep. “Diana? I suppose Master Gavin may, in his library. He’s quite fond of mythology.” She coughed. “So I hear. Would you like me to fetch it for you?”

“Yes. I’d love to know more about her.”

“I’ll look in the morning, love. Now let me get that glass of milk. You settle in here.”

Calla nodded. “Anna? Thank you.”

Anna smiled back at her. “Since you and Master Kane arrived, I feel so much more useful. So, thank
you
, miss.” She shuffled from the room, turning off the light before closing the door.

CHAPTER 4

Runoff from the alley where Draven stood trickled between the cracks and pooled at his boot. Darkness swarmed in the space between that and the building opposite, emphasizing the silver rays pouring down from the sky, reflecting in the puddles of water. The outside of the seemingly-abandoned building he stared up held no scars, no hints, no evidence of the horrors that took place on the inside—ones conducted by nephilim.

Slow and cautious, Draven approached the oversized, cast-iron door. Hinges clicked before his knuckles even hit the face of it, and the door slid to the side.

A tall male with small but defined muscles and black hair about his shoulders filled the doorway. Chains covered most of his chest; leather donned his bottom half.

Not that Draven looked at males that way, but
damn
.

Sapphire eyes met his and the male tipped his head, giving Draven full view of the fang marks covering his neck like heroin tracks on a junkie.

Slave.
He stifled a shiver. Visions of being at the mercy of a nephilim for hours gave him the goddamn willies. Rumor had it that vile shit went down behind their bedroom doors, like something out of a snuff film.

After a moment of them staring at each other, Draven raised a brow.

The slave stepped aside and allowed him passage.

Corridors inside the building were just as dark as the alley, worse with no moon to light Draven’s way. Hairs stiffened on his skin.
Fucking nephilim.

Was there a species worse than the fallen? Of course there was. But nephilim had a quality about them akin to black spiders—creepy freaks that lurked in shadows and pounced on prey. Not to mention, they hated humans despite, in most cases, their mothers being mortals.

Screams bounced out from somewhere ahead. Christ, it had to be three in the morning. Did the terrors in the place ever cease?

Light streamed in at the end of the hall. His heart galloped, like a horse trying to warn its rider of the dangers ahead. That light didn’t promise good things. Draven had seen some shit that’d make Leatherface piss his pants, but nothing compared to what the fallen considered good, wholesome fun. He swallowed a gulp and ignored the tremors spreading through his body.

The dark passage opened to the main part of the building. The auditorium. It’d once been a great theater back in the day. Lately, the sport that took place beneath its ruined dome was enough to make him vomit bile—the place where supes tortured each other for their sick and twisted entertainment. Not like boxing or cage fighting. Not even hardcore BDSM shit that’d make a Dom queasy. The place had no rules. Contenders were made to do whatever the crowd yearned for and paid big money to see. Mutilation, rape, fighting. It all went down there by request.

Try as they might, the cops couldn’t bust it. Nephilim had powers no other species possessed. A cop looking to investigate might just be enchanted into volunteering himself to be laid out on a cement table while his tormentor went to work on him for the crowd.

Goddamn, the place gave Draven the creeps.

Torture and beatings had always been common in the Alexi compound, but at least General Wade had some purpose behind it. To harden soldiers. Make them tough.

The nephilim entertainment held no reason.

A few scattered supes occupied the seats throughout the auditorium. Draven didn’t dare stare too long at them for fear they’d work their charms. A bastard could be suckered without even knowing and end up behind a dumpster, giving some shady supe a blowjob before becoming its meal.

An enormous cage sat smack in the middle of the auditorium. From the top, an enormous pendulum hung motionless. Like some dark Poe tale come to life. Another scream hit the air, echoing through the mostly empty room, and Draven’s gaze fell on a man, stretched out across a slab of concrete. His carver had taken his time, etching small designs into his flesh, the man’s innards spilling out of wounds.

Human?
Draven couldn’t tell from where he stood. Didn’t know if the guy had volunteered for the gruesome act or had the misfortune of simply being at the wrong place, wrong time. Some nutzoid humans considered it a privilege to be abducted by supes. Like they’d been
chosen
by the angels. Torture. Death. All in the name of dying for his fellow man. If only they knew how many angels roamed with black wings and malicious intent.

A gurgling sensation churned in Draven’s gut.

“He’s the best. Straight out of Obsidius.”

Draven jerked back. The voice came from his left.
Ryke.
The nephilim he’d come to see. With a forced breath, Draven took a seat in one of the dilapidated chairs beside him. “You guys are a bunch of sick fucks.”

“Are we?” A daunting charm laced his voice, like intoxicating poison. All nephilim carried that distinct angelic quality, as if he could sing a beautiful dirge while slicing your throat open. “Perhaps you’d let him do the honors?” Ryke turned to face him, and his sapphire eyes swirled like they’d suddenly come to life.

“Stop. Please.” Draven squinted and forced himself to look away.

Ryke’s chuckle bounced around the empty room. “Weak humans. Had we not whores for mothers, we’d never know the fears of man.” He turned back toward the torture in the cage. “But then this wouldn’t be near as fun to watch either.”

“I’ve killed him. One of them.”

The nephilim’s eyes lit up, though with more excitement than the sorcery of a moment before. “Which?”

“Logan. I stabbed him in the chest.”

“With Demortis?”

“Yes. The other wasn’t there.”

An earnest darkness swelled in the neon blue of the nephilim’s eyes. “Are you sure it was Logan?”

Draven’s thoughts reverted back to the hallway in the demon mansion, Calla on her knees, bent over the demon, begging him. ‘
Stay with me Logan. Please don’t die.
’ His lip curled at the memory. “Yeah. Logan. I’m positive it was him. He tried to kill me—” Draven caught himself.

“Why?”

Could nephilim read minds?

With an arc of his brow, Ryke tipped his head. “What mischief provoked the demon?”

“It was nothing.”

“And yet, I’m curious. Such hatred and aggression toward a female.”

Shit
. He could read minds.

“Only human thoughts.” Ryke winked.

“Yeah. He walked in on me and … a woman.”

“Who is this female?”

“Some bitch staying with them.” Draven damn near choked on the words. Like supernatural terrorists, nephilim looked for any possible ties that could be used to their advantage. “No one important.”

“Logan sticks his head out for no one.” Ryke stroked his chin. “Does she stay there now?”

Draven shrugged. “I really don’t know. I left her ass there.”

“You’re lying to me about this female.”

Draven’s muscles tensed ready to snap; he needed distraction, something that would allow the conversation to simply pass. What did she matter to him, anyway?

“No matter.” Ryke smiled and nodded, giving Draven both a moment of relief and anxiety. “My man, you are useful for something. Congratulations on your first demon kill.”

“His brother, Gavin, will be after me. For Logan, and for the fact I know where they live. I wondered if you might offer…
protection?
” The words struggled past his lips. Asking for protection from the shady motherfuckin’ nephilim was like asking to hide out in the mouth of a Great White Shark.

“For any other human—”

“I’m not human.”

Ryke smirked. “You’re not as human as that poor bastard”—he nodded toward the cage—“but you are, in fact, human. However, since you, by some miracle, managed to take down a Wrath, you’ve earned a much higher rung on the food chain.”

“Will you help me, then? I suspect they’ll hunt me down.”

“Yes, which would actually make you a very sweet trade. Lucky for you, the bastards come equipped with a conscience.” He chuckled. “My help comes at a cost.”

Fuck.
Draven’s stomach lurched. “Which is …”

“It seems the old Alexi compound went up in flames last night.” A scream hit the air, loud and crackling from below, and Ryke hissed, his eyes sliding shut, as if lost to a moment of ecstasy. “Gods, I love that sound.” He shifted on the chair, his silken black hair falling across his face. His hand emerged from the shadows in front of him and he ran it through the fallen strands.

Blood trickled down his wrist as if …
Sick bastards.
Got off on pain.

Draven pushed aside the visuals of Ryke mutilating his own cock beside him and focused on the conversation at hand. “Burned?” Ayden and one of the Wrath demons had gone to pay Wade a visit; that he remembered from the confrontation at the demon’s mansion the night before.

What happened to Wade?

“I will offer you some protection on the condition that you track down every one of your Alexi brothers and sisters until you find the Lywa antibody.” He sucked in a breath. “Kill off the weak ones. And I want you to bring the strongest Alexi, along with the antibody, to me.”

“You’re assuming that they
have
the Lywa antibody.”

Ryke smiled. “They do.”

Roiling in his gut had Draven placing a hand over his stomach.
Crooked
flashed in his head like a marquee.
Kill off Alexi soldiers?
His brothers and sisters?

They’ll die, anyway,
he justified—because no way Draven would survive the demons without some help. Sides, the other Alexi didn’t have the knack for survival that he and Ayden possessed.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“This female you mentioned. She no longer trusts you, after you hurt her.”

Draven cleared his throat and sat forward, entwining his fingers. “She … I guess …” His voice trailed off. Why did he keep asking about her?

“A curiosity is all.” Ryke waved his hand through the air as if to dismiss the conversation. “Should you find the antibody, perhaps I’ll be willing to strike another deal with you.”

Draven nodded. The idea of making too many deals with a nephilim was dangerous, though. He’d have to keep track of who owed whom lest he’d find himself subject to performing some favor like the poor chump who’d greeted him at the door with chains and fang trails. He shuddered at the thought.

“By the way, you look like shit.”

Draven’d already assumed as such. His torn leathers had been sliced open by the wolves. Dirt and blood covered every inch of his skin. The back of his calf where the hellhounds of the demon mansion had mangled his leg had stiffened, as if the scars from the wounds had healed wrong.

“Follow me.” Ryke zipped up his pants and rose from the chair. “I want to show you something.”

The idea of following him anywhere made Draven want to bolt in the opposite direction. Fortunately, the nephilim had tasked him with something, making his life slightly more valuable than it’d been when he first arrived.

They descended the stairs, advancing closer toward the cage. The sight of the mutilated human lying open and bleeding on the concrete summoned the acids up from his stomach and stamped out the hunger of not having eaten a thing in two days. The tormentor, wearing a bull’s mask and brown leather pants to match, paced inside the cage. His hands flew to his head and he whimpered. Judging by the way the human didn’t move, limbs hanging over the side, entrails stringing from his opened belly, the torturer had gone too far.

The bullhead paused, bulging muscles twitching from beneath the straps that crossed over his otherwise bare chest. The mask turned in Draven’s direction and the wearer charged toward him. Before Draven could react, a hand shot out between the bars, clutching his jacket, and slammed him up against the cage.