Vendetta (Deadly Curiosities Book 2) (42 page)

“You bought the painting at the auction,” I said as we walked.

Sorren chuckled. “I figured you’d hear about that.”

“Where are you going to hang it?”

“I’ve got somewhere in mind where it will fit right in with the décor.”

I turned to look at Sorren as we walked up to my piazza door. “Thank you for showing up tonight. I really thought we were toast.”

Sorren’s expression was a mix of regret and hesitation. “I may have gotten us all into something over our heads this time,” he admitted. “But tonight, I could make a difference. So I did. Good night, Cassidy.”

I stepped across the wards, into safety. “Good night, Sorren.”

T
HE NEXT NIGHT,
Teag and Sorren and I sat at my kitchen table, combing through the information we had collected, searching for a way to get an advantage against Sariel. Anthony was doing well enough that he demanded Teag come over and reconnoiter with Sorren and me – that was his word, ‘reconnoiter’ – so that we could carry on. I decided that when all of this was over, I was buying Anthony dinner and a bottle of the best scotch I could afford.

“Sariel’s powerful, and he’s ruthless,” Sorren replied. “So were the others I’ve fought over the centuries. But with most of them, it was strictly business. With Sariel, it’s personal. That need for vengeance makes him especially dangerous – and he was bad news to begin with.”

Sorren looked tired. I wondered if a combination of worry and blaming himself for Sariel’s re-appearance was wearing on him. If so, it was a perfectly normal, perfectly human response for someone who was neither normal nor human. I walked over to the counter to pour myself a glass of wine.

“What was Sariel, before he became a nephilmancer?” I asked.

“More than one hundred years ago, Sariel was a judge who didn’t feel that he received justice, so he appealed to a Power that would enable him to set things right – at least, according to his views. He made a bargain with the Darkness.”

Sorren stared off for a moment, remembering. “The thing is, long ago, the man who became Sariel was a pretty decent person. Back then, he was Judge Asa Larson. Had a reputation for being stern but fair, and he was a family man, pillar of the community.”

He shook his head. “Then things went wrong. His daughter married a homesteader and went West. Many people did, after the war. The daughter and her husband settled out in the Oklahoma territory, set up farming, and did well for a time. Then word came that the daughter and the other settlers had been killed by a bandit gang.”

“And the bandits got away,” I supplied.

Sorren shrugged. “No matter how many crimes the bandits were linked to, they never seemed to get caught.”

“Corrupt officials?”

“Maybe. Or perhaps just incompetent ones.” Sorren gave a sad smile. “There was no DNA analysis, no forensics. It was much easier to get away with murder.” Something in Sorren’s voice gave me the sense that he knew the truth of his statement first-hand.

“So the Judge went out West, decided to take things into his own hands,” Sorren continued. “He hired some vigilantes, and tried to bring the bandits to justice.”

“Sounds like a dedicated father to me. Extreme, but dedicated.”

“The bandits were cruel, brutal men.” Anger smoldered in Sorren’s eyes. “No one would have missed them if Larson had been successful. Even the local sheriffs helped. But your West has a lot of barren, open land. And Larson didn’t count on the bandits having a
bruja
.”

“A witch.”

“Yes. Larson set out with his gunslingers toward a place in the desert the bandits had made their bolt-hole. Thirty men went in. Two came out: Larson, and one other survivor.”

“Was it the witch, or the bandits that defeated him?” I asked.

“According to the stories, it was the witch,” Sorren replied. “It was not a fair fight. Larson survived, but the battle changed him, and he was even more fixated on revenge than before.”

“So Larson decided to try another route?”

Sorren nodded. “Larson’s grief and frustration drove him mad. When the Almighty allowed his daughter to die and didn’t use Larson and his vigilantes to bring judgment, Larson cursed God and sought the power he needed elsewhere.”

“As in, becoming a nephilmancer,” I said.

“Yes,” Sorren replied. “Larson went looking for a deal with whoever could bring the bandits down. He went to several mortal crime lords, but because of his reputation as a judge, none of them would trust him. Finally, mad and destitute, he made the proverbial deal with the Devil – or near enough.”

“So how did his son factor into this?”

Sorren reached down and lifted Baxter onto his lap. Baxter did one turn around and settled in, content to allow Sorren to scratch his ears.

“One of Larson’s sons disavowed him,” he replied after a pause. “But his younger son, Samuel, went along, whether to protect his father or avenge his sister, no one knows.” He paused. “The son that cut him off made Larson dead to him and made it his business to go to war against Larson and people like him.”

Holy shit!
“So Daniel Hunter –”

Sorren nodded. “Yeah. He’s Asa Larson’s other son. One big dysfunctional supernatural family.”

“And did Larson eventually get his vengeance against the bandits?” Listening to Sorren talk about history as if it happened yesterday was more gripping than any reality show. I had to restrain myself from making popcorn.

“He did. But everything has its price. Larson’s vow gave him over, body and soul, to an entity known as Sariel who wanted access to this mortal realm,” he said. “Sariel promised Larson that the bandits would pay for their crimes, and they did.” He was quiet for a moment.

“Whatever atrocities the bandits had committed, what Sariel did – through Larson and his son, along with Nephilim he now controlled – avenged the murdered settlers tenfold. The bandits were tortured, mutilated, burned, vivisected, and their souls were cursed to eternal torment. Larson got his revenge. But the price was his own soul, and quite possibly, his son’s as well. Maybe he and Samuel went to their judgment willingly,” Sorren said with a shrug. “Maybe not.”

“How did you get involved?”

Sorren grimaced. “Larson – now Sariel – drew the attention of the Family.” He didn’t have to explain. The Family is often behind problems the Alliance steps in to fix. They’re the supernatural equivalent of organized crime.

“The Family made sure he got the resources he wanted, until he emerged as an exceptionally powerful nephilmancer and a possible threat to them,” Sorren replied. “Up to this point, I had been only marginally aware of the situation. But when Sariel returned from the West, it became clear that he was a problem the Alliance needed to handle.”

“Because of the Watchers?”

Sorren nodded. “The power of being judge, jury, and executioner corrupted him.”

Teag had brought a bag of Krispy Kreme donuts with him, and the ‘hot now’ smell of sticky, warm glazed goodness wafted up from the open box in the middle of the table. I had already eaten two, and I doubted a third would go well with my wine, so I pushed the box aside.

“Anything else you can tell us about Sariel?” I asked.

Sorren reached into his pocket. “Actually, I was going to let you see for yourself,” he said. And with that, he produced a battered ring from his pocket and placed it on the coffee table.

“I wore this ring in the battle that claimed the life of Sariel’s son,” Sorren said. “I suspect that if you touch it, you’ll see – and you’ll have all the answers you might want about exactly who – and what – we’re up against.”

“Hold on,” Teag said. He produced a strip of cloth about as wide as his hand and about a foot long. Woven into the fabric were runes and markings, and even without touching the cloth, I knew that Teag’s Weaver magic was imbued in the warp and the woof.

“I made this to see if I can piggyback with Cassidy’s visions,” he said. “Let’s try.” He lifted the ring and placed it onto the strip of fabric, then held the end of the strip between his thumb and fingers. “Okay, Cassidy,” he said with a grin. “Do your stuff.”

I took a deep breath and reached out toward Sorren’s ring. As I touched the metal, I closed my eyes, and I felt the jolt of power as my magic showed me a vastly different time and place.

Thanks to the ring, I viewed the scene through Sorren’s eyes. I stood on a sprawling lawn bounded by large live oak trees. Wisps of fog hung in the air, and Spanish moss drooped from the trees’ gnarled branches. Beneath my feet lay the unmarked graves of generations of dead slaves, restless spirits far from home. Such gravesites were common in the Lowcountry, and Sariel and his Reapers had been feasting, bringing across more Nephilim, increasing their strength to win bigger spoils.

We were here to stop them. This night, fast and strong wouldn’t be enough. We were going to need every advantage we could get – and no small amount of luck.

Sariel came over the hill first, followed by the scarred, half-human thing that was once Samuel. Where Judge Larson’s alliance with Sariel had preserved his outward appearance, Samuel’s years of following his father into battle on their quest for vengeance had left him battered and broken. Half of Samuel’s face had been badly scarred by fire, costing him an eye. He moved with a hitch in his gait from old wounds, and his left arm was crippled. Still, he followed, his eyes alight with the same cold malice that animated his father.

We waited in the shadows, cloaked by amulets and wardings. Sariel strode down into the old graveyard and spread his arms, raising them to the sky as he began to chant. Samuel kept watch behind him, with a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other.

Wind rustled through the live oaks’ branches, stirring the moss at first, then tearing at it with force as the breeze became a howling maelstrom. Behind Sariel, it looked as if the night sky itself were ripping open, a jagged tear inky black against the starry heavens.

Sariel’s chant grew louder, and through the rip, I could see shadows descending. Twisting, bat-like shapes emerged from the tear in the sky: Nephilim, tainted spirits born of blood and debauchery that hungered for souls. Sariel had brought five Watchers through already, and the Yellow Fever that now claimed tens of thousands of lives would not end until we destroyed the ones who brought the Harrowing down on Charleston.

Columns of light flared, one from each corner of the burying ground where my allies had concealed themselves. Inside each warded column was a powerful magic user: witch or warlock, mambo or houngan, even a Cherokee shaman. The shimmering light lit the open field more brightly than moonlight, and as I watched, the light began to stretch out between the pillars and over our heads, until we were enclosed in an iridescent dome.

Magical barriers prevented whatever came through that rift from harming those outside the dome or from retreating back from whence they came. If our magic was strong enough, Sariel would not be able to bring more of his minions through the rift, and his Harrowing would end with his destruction.

Until then, we were trapped inside, along with Sariel and his Nephilim.

“Now!” I shouted, and my allies cast off the charms and spells that had hidden them from Sariel’s view. They rose from the shadows, and power surged in arcs through the air, hitting the Nephilim and Watchers. The monsters shrieked and screamed, twisting as our magic consumed them. The air smelled of sulfur and decay.

A dozen Nephilim had come through the rift along with the five Watchers. We had our hands full. I ran for Sariel, sword raised. Gunfire would not harm him; that, we had learned the hard way. But the steel blade in my grip had been spelled by a master witch, and it gleamed a cold, blue light as if it were eager to taste blood. Samuel stepped between us and leveled his gun at me.

I felt the bullet from Samuel’s gun tear through my chest but I kept on going. Another shot, another sharp, agonizing pain, as a second bullet ripped into my left shoulder. Still, I ran. That was why we had left Sariel and his son for me to battle. I was hardest to kill. I dodged the next two bullets, and the fifth grazed my temple. I was close now, and before he could shoot me point-blank, I dove and rolled, fast enough to move out of the way in the instant between the pull of the trigger and the flash of the muzzle.