Demon of Vengeance: Chronicles of the Fallen, Book 4 (7 page)

As he’d recited the Prophesy to her, she’d lost what little color she’d regained. But, at his last accusation about the former Guardian, anger glittered in her emerald eyes and color rushed back to her cheeks. “It wasn’t like he had a moment of forgetfulness and misplaced the damned thing.”

The instant the words passed her lips, her expression registered her shock. She clamped her mouth shut, but it was too late.

Sebastian cocked his head and let one corner of his mouth lift.
Gotcha.
“Out with it. You’ve already given yourself away.”

“Who are you?” she asked, subdued.

“I already told you, I’m Sebastian.”

“No. I mean
who
are you.”

He rolled the dice. She might as well know exactly what she was dealing with. “I am the Demon of Vengeance.”

He watched the blood drain from her face once more and her eyes widen. Shit. Was she going to get sick again?

“Vengeance,” she whispered. She drew a deep, shuddering breath, and pressed, “As in ‘Death comes on the wings of Vengeance’?”

Another tiny spike of energy.

What the hell is she?

Judging by her expression, his reputation had preceded him. He hadn’t heard that phrase in centuries. He’d starred as the boogeyman in many a native culture. Still, that she knew the phrase surprised him a bit.

That was all right though. It would save time.

“You saw me. You saw the wings. You know what I can do. Kind of stupid to deny what I am now,” he added.

Would she finally come clean about what
she
was?

He watched as she looked to the door, then to the window.

A stronger shot of power pulsed from her for a moment before withering away.

Hoping for a way out, princess?

Finally her attention returned to him. Her lips set in a mulish line.

Apparently no easy admissions would be had here today.

Yet again, she displayed a complete lack of trust. His instincts roared inside him. Over the course of the last several days, as he’d tended her and nursed her back to health, Sebastian had reached the conclusion that she was the one for him, the woman he was set to claim as his mate. The connection he felt to her was just too strong to ignore, too powerful to deny. Did she not feel the connection? She sure as hell wasn’t acting like it. And it was driving him crazy.

Still, he sought to reassure her. “You, of all people, have no reason to fear me.”

“Sure I don’t,” she hissed. “You only managed to singlehandedly decimate a cave full of those…those other
creatures
. And you’ve just told me you intend to keep me prisoner. But I shouldn’t fear you? Ha!”

Okay, maybe she should fear him. Fear the fact that he wanted, more than just about anything else on Earth right now, to turn her over his knee and—

His vaunted patience snapped like a brittle twig. “I killed those demons to save
your
life. Demons, if you hadn’t noticed, that were doing a damned fine job of making a meal of
you
. And then I saved your life
again
from venom poisoning…at great expense to me, I might add. You’ve been damned near comatose—and at my
complete mercy
—for four entire days. If I was going to kill you, I would have done so already.”

“Why would you do all that? Why save me?”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. How much to tell her? How much before she ran screaming for the hills? Roll the dice again and tell her the truth—that he’d decided to make her his mate?

No. He didn’t think she’d handle that too well. Not yet anyway.

Better stick with the party line. He was a patient demon. She’d come around to his way of thinking. He just needed time to convince her.

“Because I am of the Fallen. No longer a warrior of Hell. I, along with my brothers Xander, Niklas, Gideon, and Mikhail have thrown off Lucifer’s rule and strive for redemption. We work to reclaim our places in Heaven. We want only forgiveness.”

She watched him for a long moment, her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Yet you seek the very weapons that will kill Lucifer.”

Of course she would lock on that point. He clenched his fists in his lap and inhaled deeply, striving for self control.

“Only to prevent them from falling into the wrong hands. To keep the barriers between Hell and Earth from toppling. The balance between good and evil must be maintained. We, myself and the other Fallen, will keep the Sacred Relics safe. While we no longer follow Lucifer, we will keep those weapons from the hands of those that seek to end his reign and enslave all of humankind. That’s why it’s so important to get the sword back from the demon prince who now has it.”

“What demon? Who’s trying to overthrow him?” she asked. He noted the way her fingertips had crept up to trace the scar on her throat. Again, he didn’t think she was even aware of it.

So she didn’t know who was behind her attack? His mind immediately began turning that puzzle over and over, looking for ways to use it to his advantage. It was all about information right now. Information he had that she wanted. Information she had that he needed.

So he took a gamble. “I can tell you about him, the one behind the attacks on you.”

Her attention flew to his face, and he knew the hook was set. He just had to reel her in.

“I can tell you about him.” He waited a long beat, just to set the hook a little deeper. “But I require a sharing of information.”

She bit down on her lower lip, her brow scrunched. She was waffling. He waited, wouldn’t speak until she finally gave a faint nod.

“His name is Stolas, the one who’s making the power play. He’s Lucifer’s own grandson.” She was hanging on his every word now, sucking the information up like a dry sponge. And he knew he’d chosen the right tactic. “Stolas is the one who took the sword and killed the last Guardian… Or rather his minions did, as Stolas is trapped in Hell. But he’s actively working on changing that. My compatriots have already prevented his summoning once. If he gets his hands on the rest of those relics, your world is going to burn. I’m here to stop that from happening. But I need your help.”

She eyed him, suspicious, as she sat up a little straighter, tucking the blanket beneath her armpits, baring those delicious shoulders to his hungry eyes, or one of them anyway as the other was still covered beneath a thick pad of gauze. “You’re keeping me here against my will. How can that be deemed as an act of someone wanting forgiveness?”

“Say the words, honey. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll take you back to Mexico. Hell, I’ll even
help
you summon the damned sword back to Earth.” Yeah, he’d take her back in a heartbeat. But he wouldn’t be leaving her. He’d never let her go.

“So you can steal it for yourself, you mean?”

He stared at her, hard, and he pledged from the bottom of his black soul, “I give you my solemn vow I will never take the sword from you. It shall remain in your possession, always. And I vow my protection to you until the day I die.”

She weighed his offer in silence, a deep frown etching her features. With a small shake of her head, she asked, “Why would you make that promise?”

Because you are mine.

Mine to keep. Mine to protect.

She wasn’t ready to hear that truth of what he wanted from her though, not yet. That was plain as day. So he guided her in another direction. “I’m guessing this latest incident with Sïnsobar isn’t the only bit of trouble you’ve experienced. And I’m guessing you got that scar from one of Stolas’s minions. You should know, things are only going to heat up from here on out.”

Her brow puckered. She was cornered and, he could see, she didn’t like it. Not one bit. She clenched her hands in her lap. “Why are the attacks getting worse? Why now?”

Not exactly falling at his feet in gratitude and unconditional acceptance. But her body language had relaxed a bit, and her frown wasn’t nearly as suspicious as before, only more curious. Ah, sweet progress.

“My brothers and I have already found the Arc Stone and the Chosen One.” No way was he going to tell her
how
they’d managed to obtain the Chosen One, at least not just yet anyway. Or that Stolas had captured their most dangerous warrior. No need to freak her out if he didn’t have to. “I’m sure Stolas must be feeling pretty desperate. Logic dictates those attacks are just going to get worse. Only I can keep you safe. You need me.”

He fell silent, letting the implications sink in. She closed her eyes and rubbed her hands over her face, her fingertips sliding beneath her glasses to massage her eyes. Saints above, she was adorable when she did that.

But she was tiring faster than he’d anticipated. Asher’s antidote might have cured her, but the venom had still taken its toll. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with her index finger and settled back on the bed with an exhausted sigh.

Concern for his mate battled with the pressing worry for his brothers, his need to save Mikhail and recover the relics.

“Admit it,” he coaxed, feeling like a rank bastard for pressing his advantage. “I could be a very useful ally. I’ll be the brawn to your brain. I can protect you while you search. And just think, no more need for airplane tickets, no more bumpy rides.”

At least, not on a plane
. He fought to restrain the wicked grin pushing at his lips.

Staring up at the ceiling, Phoebe huffed out a mirthless laugh. “I think,” she said with a great deal of wary resignation, “there’s far more brain in that head of yours than you’d have me believe.”

His cheek twitched. She had his number. She knew it. And she was going to make damned sure that he knew that she knew too. Praise God, she was perfect for him.

She lay there so long he feared she might be slipping back into unconsciousness again. But then she let out a disgusted groan.

A patented sound of aggrieved acceptance if ever he’d heard one.

“I don’t have any choice here, do I?”

“Nope,” he said, doing his best to keep his tone as far from gloating as possible.

At last, she gave in. She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

Chapter Five

Sebastian sat back and crossed his arms like judge and jury.

Easier said than done. Her father’s journals had cautioned her to the extreme, insisting that she must never confide in
anyone
about the sword. For any reason. Not until she was ready to pass the mantle on to her own child.

Besides, she felt like death warmed over. Her limbs were as useless as rubber, heavy as if weights had been strapped to her wrists and ankles. Her shoulder throbbed where that…that
thing
had sunk its fangs into her. She probed at the thick pad of gauze covering the wound, grimacing. Her body hurt everywhere, but at least the racking, fiery pain had subsided. She wanted to sleep for another week. Or two. But her mind whirled. According to him, she’d already been out for four days. She didn’t have any more time to lose.

If all he’d said was true…then she owed him. Owed him huge. He
could
be a useful ally.

If she could trust him.

That was a big
if…

She wasn’t sure she could. He was a demon. And, up to date, her experience with demons had been less than pleasant.

All she could do was go with her gut. Go with her gut and ignore this stupid physical attraction that had her all tied up in knots. Rely on what she’d seen with her own eyes, what she’d witnessed in that cave. She remembered bits and pieces of her illness, fragments of moments, really. His face close to hers as she’d slipped in and out of consciousness, his brow creased with worry. His gentle hands as he’d forced her to drink. Over and over. His steadfast strength when he’d held her as she’d gotten sick. His soothing voice murmuring encouragement, telling her over and over that he would not allow her to die. How he forbade it.

So she’d trust her gut. But she’d also use her head. Just because they were on the same side didn’t mean she had to play
all
her cards up front.

Another memory surfaced, and she felt her face grow warm. Cold water. Icy cold. Cascading down her naked body. And…

And someone had been in that shower with her, holding her up, bracing her. Unbelievably strong arms wrapped around her with such tender care, supporting her, cradling her against an equally naked, very hot chest as that bone chilling water beat down upon her. And, quite honestly, that
hot
could be taken in more ways than one.

Oh, dear God, please let that have been a hallucination.

Rubbing her lips together, she pushed that thought aside. She’d never be able to work with him, never be able to look him in the eyes again if she thought for one minute that—

The very idea left her mortified.

And all her girly parts shockingly aroused.

Business
, she reminded herself sternly. She needed to look at this as a business arrangement. Work with him until it no longer worked in her favor.

Or maybe she was just exhausted and delusional.

Either way, she really only had one option.

So to hell with it.

Still, there was a niggling iota of self preservation swimming around somewhere inside her that hadn’t completely drown in exhaustion. Self preservation and a horrible sense of
un
reality. She could do this on her own. Without him. She
should
do this on her own, she told herself.

Just because you
can
, doesn’t mean you
should
.
Her father’s all too frequent warnings to her came back to haunt her. She ground her teeth.

“So…if I tell you what I know, you promise you’ll help me find the sword? Help me find it, but you won’t try to take it away from me?” Sweet Mary, she couldn’t believe she was doing this. “You’ll swear on whatever it is you hold sacred that you won’t betray me?”

She watched, wary, as Sebastian rose from the chair. He crossed the distance between them in three determined steps and sat down beside her, hip to hip. He took her hand and clasped it between his like a medieval knight pledging troth to his lady as he stared deep into her eyes. His hands were slightly rough in texture, strong, and oh-so-warm. His expression was so serious it created an uncomfortable ache in the pit of her stomach.

“I swear to you, on everything I hold sacred, I will never betray you.” He placed her palm flat on his chest, directly over his heart, trapped it there with one of his hands. The heat of his flesh burned her though the thin cotton. His muscles felt like granite beneath her touch. His free hand, he laid gently over her own heart.

“I vow to you, I will protect you with my own life, now and always,” he said in a deep, oddly layered voice, using a language she shouldn’t understand. Shouldn’t but did. Words that left her completely baffled, and shockingly compelled to repeat them back to him.

Something odd shifted inside her, seemed to click into place. Unsettled, she pressed her lips together, fearful of what she might let slip out, and listened as he went on, “I will safeguard your happiness and put you before all things. I bind myself to you.
Qui et illisium speccaté
.”
Now and forevermore.
“I will do everything within my power to help you find that sword, and I will not take it from you, ever,” he finished in English.

Had he not realized she could understand everything that he’d said? All of it?

Umm, all righty then.

She hadn’t been expecting anything quite so excessive. A simple
yes
would have sufficed. Phoebe didn’t know how to respond to his pronouncement. At least, not rationally. But her gut was telling her he’d meant every word. And she always trusted her gut.

But the things he’d said…

And the
way
he’d said them…

He’d sounded as if he’d meant something far more serious—far more permanent—than just searching for the sword.

No, she scoffed. That was just crazy. She’d misunderstood somehow. It was her illness, her exhaustion making her misinterpret things.

Uncomfortable with his grave demeanor, she twisted her hand until she could shake his in a curt, businesslike manner. “We have an arrangement then.”

He tilted his head, the strangest look crossed his face as he leaned back. “An arrangement?”

“Yeah.” She frowned. “You know, a deal. Business.”

“Business.” A lethally seductive smile crept over his face. Her heart stuttered in her chest.

Business. Business
, she repeated.
This is just business.

He turned her hand over in his once more. Slowly—oh Lord, so slowly—his steady stare locked on her, he lifted her hand to his sculpted lips and pressed a lingering, very
un
businesslike kiss to the center of her palm. Those blue, blue eyes held her captive.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. Couldn’t jerk her hand back, though that was what she
should
be doing.

At last, after what felt like an eternity of oxygen deprivation, he drew his lips from her skin. Taking far longer than
he
should. “We have an…
arrangement
.”

Oh, why does that sound as if he means something entirely different than what I intended?

Troubled, hoping that strange, intimate vow and his stomach-fluttering kiss had just been an odd demon way of sealing a deal—some cultural thing she wasn’t aware of—she drew her hand away. The weight of his prolonged stare made her fidget. Just when she didn’t think she could take it a second longer, he stood and returned to his chair in the corner. She cleared her throat.

“My father’s people have been Guardians of the sword back to the beginning,” she said, eager to break through the sudden tension clogging the room. She went on to tell him what she knew of the Prophesy, strikingly similar to the version he’d told her earlier.

“I was ten years old the first and only time I saw the actual sword. It was the night of the fire. The apartment building where we were living at the time burned to the ground. It was dark, and the smoke was thick. I was very young, but I remember it like it was yesterday. I still dream of it once in a while. It happened pretty quickly, just a glance really, but it made an impression. Especially since the circumstances were so intense, and I’d never seen my father carrying a weapon before,
any
kind of weapon.”

She looked to Sebastian, expecting him to begin questioning her then, but he just nodded, waiting in silence for her to continue.

“The sword seemed so out of place given Dad’s area of expertise, you know? Anyway, Dad’s journals documented it pretty thoroughly so I would recognize it again, if ever I saw it. The sword was actually a medieval broadsword. Forty-five inches in length. Three inches across the forte. Just over four and a half pounds. The fuller—that shallow center indentation that runs the length of a straight double-edged blade—was etched with symbols, glyphs of some kind. Dad was never able to interpret them, nor were any of our ancestors.” She rubbed at her temple as she recited what she knew, the facts that her father had documented in his coded journals.

“The cross guard was inlaid with silver,” she said. “When Dad first came to be Guardian, he had a very trusted and ethically unshakable mentor working for a respected antiquities museum. Dr. Brewster was also a leading expert on several ancient languages. Dad, being the archeologist that he was, asked his mentor for a favor, asked him to analyze the sword. But Dad was cautious, swearing Dr. Brewster to secrecy, making him promise not to show the sword to or talk about it with anyone else. His mentor, of course, agreed.

“According to the documentation in Dad’s journals, Brewster ran extensive tests. Unfortunately, even after studying the sword in great detail, he was unable to decipher the glyphs on the blade. However, he did date the sword back to the early sixth century. He gave Dad all the results of his findings, everything pertaining to the sword. The strongest indicator that there was something…
unique
about it came in the materials used to make the sword. His findings showed that the grip was made of—”

She broke off, glancing away, uneasy.

Sebastian leaned forward, drawing her focus back to him. “Made of what?”

She licked her lips. “It’s not unheard of for the grip on these types of swords to be fashioned from horn. But Dr. Brewster believed this grip was actually crafted from bone.” Phoebe drew a deep, fortifying breath. “The one and only test Dad had allowed was a tiny sample to be taken for DNA testing to determine what kind of bone it was. But the tests were…inconclusive. Bone of unknown origin, they read. It didn’t fit anything in the database, mammalian, reptilian, or other. He never did figure out exactly what kind of bone it was, or what it might have belonged to. And Dad, for obvious reasons, refused to allow the sword to be sent in for further testing.

“But Dr. Brewster had also found one other even more disturbing clue. Grips on these kinds of swords were often wrapped in leather. This bone grip was covered with
skin
. Dr. Brewster had also taken samples of that too, but he didn’t tell my father, not until the results came back. According to the tests results, the skin was something close to, but not quite, human. Of unknown origin. And, although there were no known dyes present, the skin itself was distinctly red in pigmentation. Red with some kind of distorted black markings. Only the black segments showed dyes. Dr. Brewster believed the black segments were actually tattoos of some kind.”

“So the bone would have been demonic in origin,” Sebastian surmised, rubbing his jaw, his expression thoughtful. “Or even angelic, I guess. But the skins would most definitely be demonic. No angel that I know of would have red skin. The problem is, there are a lot of demons with that skin pigmentation. Maybe Animagi? Or Carpathï?”

“My father later wrote in one of his journals that he feared Dr. Brewster had let something about the sword slip to someone. Or that he’d retained samples from the grip for further examination. Maybe took pictures, or something.”

“Why would he think that?” Sebastian asked sharply.

“Less than twenty-four hours after he’d returned the sword to my father along with the documentation, Dr. Brewster was found in his lab in the basement of the museum, murdered. His lab had been ransacked.”

“Could his murder have been related to something else he might have been studying?”

“Museum officials insisted everything on his inventory lists was accounted for. Dr. Brewster hadn’t gone on an excavation in decades. The man practically lived in the basement of the museum. According to my father, Brewster had taken on researching the sword as his final project before retirement. He wasn’t researching anything else, nothing at all.”

Sebastian seemed to be rolling those facts around in his head. His brow was puckered, his focus now distant. “Anything else?”

Anything else? The damned thing was made of bone and skin! An innocent man had been murdered because of it. Isn’t that enough?

She stared hard at him for a moment. She
felt
like she could trust him. Like she
should
trust him. Still, sharing this much information, willingly, about the sword…it was taboo. As if she was crossing some invisible line.

“A single, rough cut, blood red stone was set in the pommel. Fist sized,” she admitted with a great deal of reluctance.

“Ruby?”

She shook her head. “Red Jasper. It’s among the oldest known gemstones. In fact, Red Jasper is even mentioned in the Bible. The high priest, Aaron, was said to have one in his breastplate. It was called
Odem
then. Red Jasper was held in high esteem with the inhabitants of ancient Babylon and Egypt, and was made into protective amulets. Red Jasper was often referred to as the stone of perseverance.”

“I remember,” Sebastian muttered.

She’d already opened her mouth to finish her story, but his words registered, and she stopped cold. “You remember? What do you mean, you remember?”

Sebastian gave her a hooded look, one she couldn’t interpret to save her soul. “I wasn’t Hellborn.”