The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(112)

The slim ray of hope wasn’t much comfort. When, in all of human history, had mankind ever launched an immediate, intelligent, coordinated global effort? Against anything? Add the fact that ninety-nine percent of humanity believed the invasion was a volcanic ash plume, and the probability of human survival plummeted.

Brax revised his assessment. Humanity was fucked.

He drummed his fingers on the table, eyeing his ring. It’d been years—seven years, precisely—since he’d been forced to trade his onyx touchstone for Mab’s ruby. In all that time, the ruby had remained dark. Now, just a few days after a horde of hellfiends exploded from the deep, a summons arrived. Even if he believed in coincidences—which he didn’t—this one would be a stretch.

Was Mab behind the invasion? He had no trouble believing she had the power to imagine, and bring into reality, such a calamity. He did have trouble believing she’d actually do it. The Druid alpha was vicious, but it didn’t fit her style. Mab’s legal and illegal business activities relied on a relatively intact and healthy human realm. Her focus was narrow and completely self-absorbed. Powerful as she was, he couldn’t imagine her taking an interest in terrorizing all of humanity just for the hell of it.

He’d have to wake Raine, he supposed, and try to explain. As a witch, she wouldn’t be required to accompany him. He only hoped he could convince her to stay here in London. Avalyn and Ronan, and Harry, of course, would have received their own summons.

But the lads...

He slipped his computer into its sleeve and stood. The bedroom door was slightly ajar. Light and the electronic sounds of video games spilled through. He opened the door the rest of the way. Gawain’s eyes remained on the screen. Gareth, who was much more perceptive than his cousin, looked up.

“Uncle?” He frowned. “Is something wrong?”

Gawain glanced his way. He must’ve seen something disturbing in his father’s expression, because his fingers froze on the game controller. His avatar took a hit and died, and he didn’t even notice.

“Dad? What is it?”

Brax studied the lads. Gareth was Avalyn’s and Ronan’s son. He was sixteen, two years older than Brax’s own son, Gawain. Gareth looked younger than Gawain, though. He’d inherited his mother’s red hair, fair skin, and freckles. Brax had always been grateful that he and Avalyn, though twins, didn’t look much alike.

“Dad?” Gawain said again.

Brax shook his head slightly. No logic in delaying. They had to be told. He held up his hand. At the sight of his ring, both boys’ eyes widened.

“A summons,” he said. “From the alpha.”

“We’re going to Texas?” Gareth asked, swallowing hard.

No. Texas didn’t feel right. “Not Texas,” he said slowly. He closed his eyes briefly, touching the stone with his mind. He felt a jolt of disbelief.

He opened his eyes. “We’re to assemble at T?’r Cythraul, in Devon.” He nodded toward the screen. “Turn it off. We leave within the hour.”

Morgana MacKerran sent the icy deluge squarely into Collum’s face. Her useless cousin bolted upright, sputtering. He shook his head and inhaled, she guessed, more water than air. Collum roared his displeasure, then ruined the effect with a fit of wheezy coughing.

His bedmates had gotten a good dose of ice water as well. The lasses floundered about, flashing naked limbs and breasts. By all the ancestors in Oblivion! Their shrieks were like icepicks in Morgana’s ears. She waited by side of the bed, empty bucket in hand, for the stramash to subside. Eventually, Collum caught his breath and blinked up at her, resentment plain on his handsome face.

“I might’a known.” His blue eyes regarded her balefully. “You perishing besom. Only you would assault a man in his own bed, and wi’ a bucket of ice, no less! Damn it, woman, isn’t Scotland cold enough for ye?”

He climbed out of bed naked and reached for his robe. He had sixty years if he had a day, but he cut as fine a figure as any human thirty years his junior. If Morgana had a taste for men, she supposed she’d be tempted. Thankfully, manly bits left her unmoved.

“Morgana,” Collum said as he cinched his belt. “I know you disapprove, but—” He cut off as the two females in his bed, having presumably gulped some fresh air into their generous lungs, renewed their caterwauling.

He winced. “Lasses! Please! Silence!”

The blond immediately shut her mouth. The brunette made a few more squeaking sounds before she subsided. Morgana very much doubted Collum even knew their given names. The man wasn’t much for such details.

She set the bucket on the floor. “Lasses,” she said quietly. “Gather your clothes and go.”

They pair of them did, and quickly. Hurried along, no doubt, by Morgana’s expression. The blond paused to blow Collum a kiss on her way out the door. Morgana rolled her eyes.

When they were at last alone, Collum turned to face her, arms crossed over his substantial chest. “Damn it, Morgana. Why can’t you just let me be?”

“Why can’t you let those human lasses be? How old were they, anyway?”

“Of age,” he said succinctly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“And they weren’t even witches.” It was unnatural, her cousin’s penchant for magicless human lovers.