The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(12)
With a sigh, Maweth clambered to his feet. Frowning, he brushed at the oily residue the vortex had left on his robe. There was a particularly stubborn spot...
A sparkling flash broke over him in joyful, iridescent splendor. Maweth’s head jerked up. What the—?
Forgetting the stain on his robe, he flew to the edge of the mirror. He couldn’t believe what he saw through the swirling quicksilver. A flying creature had entered Dusek’s office, via the open door. It zipped around the room—to the bookcase, to the chandelier, to the desk—propelled by gossamer wings.
The newcomer was blond and rosy, his pudgy body draped in unraveling swaddling clothes. He might’ve been a human baby—he was about the right size—except for the wings. And the shiny gold ring floating just above his head.
Maweth’s jaw dropped so abruptly and so widely that he was obliged to put one hand under his chin and push upward to close his mouth. A cherub? A freaking cherub? One lacking a brain, apparently. No self-respecting angel—not even the most dimwitted cherub, he’d heretofore thought—would venture into Vaclav Dusek’s lair.
Amazed, he watched the celestial creature zig-zag across the room. The angel flew close to a window, catching a ray of light with its buzzing wings. The effect was dazzling.
“Pretty,” Maweth murmured.
“Ooh!” the angel exclaimed. “Shiny!”
The cherub dove toward the desk, directly toward Maweth. His prison jumped as the little guy landed. A moment later, a chubby palm slapped the face of the mirror, momentarily turning everything dark. Then the palm lifted and a sweet, round-cheeked face, weirdly distorted by the shifting surfaces of the quicksilver, took its place.
Baby blue eyes peered intently into the mirror’s depths. “Is somebody in there?”
Maweth grinned and waved up at him. “Yes,” he called out. “Somebody is.”
“Ooh. Who are you?”
“Why don’t you come in here and find out?”
***
Cybele Herne had bought thick slices of beef at a shop in the village. She’d told the butcher she wanted it so rare that it dripped. It did. She ate her share in a sandwich. Arthur devoured his plain. He’d put on the clean jeans she’d brought him, paired with a blue t-shirt she’d always liked. His dark hair, wet and in need of a cut, was slicked back from his face.
He looked, in short, normal. Like her friend, her lover. Not at all like the wild-eyed stranger who’d attacked her.
“Does it help?” she asked.
He slanted her a glance, his gray eyes troubled. “The meat, you mean?”
She nodded.
“Some.”
Better than not at all, she supposed. Adepts newly emerged from the Ordeal experienced an overwhelming urge to spill the blood of weaker creatures and eat their raw flesh. In Demon’s Hollow, Mab encouraged deathlust and feeding. After every Ordeal, a few local humans, and a good deal of cattle, were found with their heads ripped off and their bodies mauled.
One of the Texas dormants, Clayton, had transitioned about six months after Arthur’s arrival in Demon’s Hollow. Arthur had been appalled at the slaughter Clay had strewn across the countryside. In Britain, Arthur had told Cybele with a shaking voice, a new adept ate raw beef until the deathlust faded.
When Cybele had witnessed Arthur’s disgust, she’d been filled with shame. Though why that should be, she didn’t know. She’d been taught that humans were little more than resources to be used and consumed by Nephilim. The only humans given any bit of respect were human witches, whose distant echo of Nephil blood allowed them to bear full Nephil young. But this odd British boy, a year younger and almost a foot shorter than Cybele, had caused her to question everything she thought she knew.
His opinion of the human race could not have been more different from Mab’s. Voice vibrating with conviction, Arthur declared that humans weren’t to be used by Nephilim. They were to be protected. This ideal, handed down through Arthur’s line for generations, had originated with his most famous ancestor, the sorcerer Merlin Ambrosius.
Cybele had been skeptical at first. But slowly, Arthur had persuaded her to his point of view. Luc came to believe as well. At least he had until Mab crooked her little finger at him.
And look where that had led him. Oh, Luc.
She shoved the thought away as she rose and collected the dirty plates. They rattled in her hands as she walked them to the sink. It was hardly worth the bother. She couldn’t wash them. The tap was dry. She stood for a moment, staring down at the bloody remnants of the meal. An old linen tea towel hung over the front edge of the sink. Had it been draped there for the past seven years? The thing was insanely normal—a souvenir from Stonehenge, printed with an image of the famous stones.
“Is the plan still the same, then?” she asked.
Arthur’s voice was tight. “I don’t see how it can be anything else. If I don’t defeat Mab, she’ll give you to Rand.”
The thought of Rand guiding her through the Ordeal, taking control of her body and mind, was nauseating. Not quite as bad, though, as imagining Arthur dead. Mab had tolerated Arthur for seven years, biding her time until she could force him into the Ordeal under her control. She’d wanted him as her thrall, wanted control of his magic. Now that Arthur was a free adept, with the promise of Merlin’s magic within reach, Mab would work to enslave or eliminate him as quickly as she could.