The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(111)

A Nephil.

Images and memories leaped from the dark corners of his brain—emboldened, perhaps, by the events of the past few days. The so-called volcano in Wales. Masses of hellfiends streaming overhead, like an endless plume of ash. The unnatural sky and Piers’s troubled reaction to it had unearthed memories Cam would have preferred to keep buried. His life in the time before—a blur of homelessness, hunger, and heroin. His life in between, when an overdose had pitched him toward death. His unexpected survival had sent him careening into his Ordeal. If Piers hadn’t found him, huddled and shivering, lying in his own stink...

A rush of gratitude and love for his savior unfurled in his chest. The warmth and hope of it chased the trauma of his past—most of it—back into the dark. Cam rolled onto his side facing Piers, his arm tucked under his head. A breeze played with the open curtains. Moonlight filtered through, falling in a slant across the floor. Abruptly, Cam sat up, realizing the light meant the sky was clear at last. But what, exactly, did that mean?

It was barely past midnight, but he was certain he wasn’t falling back asleep any time soon. He might as well get up. The antique pocket watch was almost done. A massive Bavarian cuckoo clock was his next project. It was in pitiful shape; it would absorb his attention for days. He was quite looking forward to it. The precision and concentration needed in repairing clockworks soothed him.

He eased out of bed, careful not to disturb Piers, who liked to sleep late. There was no reason for him to rise, even when the sun came up. The shop had seen only two intrepid customers in the last few days. Cam moved to the window and peered up at the sky. The hellfiends were indeed gone, leaving a full moon and collection of washed-out stars. But even if the clear sky encouraged more foot traffic, the shop didn’t need to open before eleven.

Piers muttered in his sleep and rolled to one side. A glint of red light caught the corner of Cam’s eye. Reflexively, he looked closer. And sucked in a breath. Cam hadn’t been mistaken. The ruby earring was glowing.

Unease gathered in his chest and sank into a knot in his stomach. Piers had warned him this day might come. He glanced down at the ring he wore on the middle finger of his left hand. The diamond touchstone Piers had given him after he’d emerged from his Ordeal was clear. Of course it was. Piers had made damn sure Cam’s magic wasn’t tied to his own.

Too soon. He wasn’t ready. He’d barely come to terms with what he was. What Piers was. Nephilim. He wasn’t ready to confront others of their kind, much less face the clan alpha that Piers hated and feared so ferociously.

Cam clasped Piers’s shoulder. It was very hot. Either that, or Cam’s hands had gone very, very cold.

“Piers? Wake up.” He gave him a shake.

“What—?” Piers blinked blearily. He looked into Cam’s eyes. The last remnants of sleep evaporated. He shoved into a sitting position, the sheet whispering down over his naked torso.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Cam gestured toward the earring. Piers glanced into the mirror above the dressing table. His eyes widened. Deftly, he removed the earring and stared at the glowing gem.

“A summons.”

“Do we have to answer it?” Cam asked.

“I must, if I wish to stay alive. You, however... ”

Cam sank down on the edge of the bed. “This has to have something to do with the hellfiends.”

“That’s a fair guess, yes.” Piers flung back the bedcovers and rose. He strode to the wardrobe and opened it, surveying a line of crisply ironed garments. He chose a pair of black trousers and pulled them on. “But it’s by no means certain. A summons from the alpha can come for any number of reasons.”

“None of them good, I take it.”

Piers shot him a glance. “No. None of them good.”

“I’m going with you,” Cam said quietly.

“No.” Piers pinned him with a look. “You will not. Mab doesn’t know anything about you. I want to keep it that way.”

Cam twisted his ring. “You may not come back.”

Piers said nothing.

“I couldn’t stand that,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t stand not knowing. I couldn’t stand waiting. I’m going with you.”

“Cam—”

“You gave me my freedom at the end of my Ordeal. You can’t take it away now.” He stood. “I’m going with you. I’ll stand at your side.”

“If you do,” Piers warned, “you may very well die there.”

“So be it,” Cam said.

Braxton Camulus wore a signet on the last finger of his right hand. It was a finely wrought wood mosaic, set with a chip of raw ruby. When the stone began to glow, he stared at it for a long moment, then swore softly.

What the hell time was it? He closed his laptop and glanced at his phone. Past midnight. He’d been running the pattern of the hellfiend invasion through an advanced epidemic model he’d hacked from the US Centers for Disease Control. The CDC, however, were accustomed to illnesses caused by viruses and bacteria. They had no experience with—or, presumably, any belief in—demons. Brax had been obliged to modify the algorithm to account for a number of metaphysical variables. The revised output carried a significant margin of error, but the gist of the threat was clear.

Earth was in deep shit. The human race wasn’t exactly doomed—not yet, at any rate. But absent an immediate, intelligent, coordinated global effort, the world would soon be consumed by evil and chaos.