The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(19)

He could, however, wish he’d never been born. He wished that with all his heart.

A door slammed. He turned toward the sound.

From the outside, Mab’s warehouse looked like a tumbledown wreck. It could’ve been a barn thrown up some fifty years ago and since forgotten. The structure stood on a slight rise of land, surrounded by swamp.

It was easy to imagine a stiff wind knocking the place over flat. The illusion was that good. Rotting wood and peeling shingles were, in actuality, concrete and metal. The sagging doors were reinforced steel, guarded by both Druid wardings and an excellent human alarm system.

Two men emerged from the warehouse, carrying the last of the cargo. Dressed in camo gear with AK-47s slung across their backs, they looked like bad news on its way. Luc wasn’t impressed. Arms crossed, he watched the pair stow the merchandise in the back of a dirty white van. Two dozen 19-kilo bags of turf fertilizer, the kind commonly sold at any home and garden chain retailer. At least that was what the printing on the bags said.

The payment, tight rolls of hundreds stashed in a black backpack, lay on the ground at Luc’s feet. The boss of the two—Luc knew him only as Buzzard—was a ridiculously overstated character: massive biceps, shaved head, a jaw that could cut steel. He carried, Luc estimated, seven hidden weapons in addition to the semi-automatic in full sight.

Luc, by contrast, was unarmed. And alone. He felt not the slightest trepidation. The van’s tailgate slammed. Buzzard gave Luc a curt nod. The man was no idiot—he’d been buying from Mab for a couple years now. Luc didn’t think Buzzard quite knew who—or what—he was dealing with, but he knew very well where a fight would get him. He climbed into the driver’s seat without a word.

The other idiot—a strutting fool with more hat than cattle—didn’t have the sense of a frog. Instead of heading straight to the passenger door, he stopped, turned, and pointed his weapon at Luc’s head.

Luc raised his eyebrows.

“Throw the pack this way,” he said. “Nice and easy.”

Luc didn’t move.

“Now, I said.” The rifle’s muzzle jumped. “Or I’ll—”

“Hornet!” Buzzard leaned out the van door. “Get in the fucking van!”

“In a minute. After I get what I want.”

“Fuck, no. We talked about this. Don’t piss him—”

Buzzard’s warning was lost in a barrage of rifle shot. Luc felt each bullet strike—most of them in his chest and stomach, one in his right shoulder, a couple in his limbs. One dead center in his forehead, which hurt like a motherfucker. The rest weren’t much more bother than blackflies.

Magazine exhausted, Hornet stood, chest heaving, mouth agape. Far from falling down dead in a puddle of his own blood, Luc was still standing and hadn’t moved so much as an inch.

“Wha—?”

Buzzard was out of the van, arm half-extended, eyes darting nervously between Hornet and Luc. His face flushed beet red. “Damn it, man, I’m sorry. Hornet shouldn’t’a done that. But fuck it, he’s new, he don’t know—”

He cut off as Luc’s eyes swung toward him. Swallowing hard, Buzzard inched backward, feeling behind him for the van door. Once he located it, he scrambled into the van, slammed the door, and cranked the engine.

Blood dripped from the holes in Luc’s body. It trickled downward, staining his shirt and jeans. He looked up. Anger colored his vision. The bayou took on a red cast. His skin tingled, dark opal lights gliding just under the surface. His demon nature was rising.

He did nothing to stop it.

Buzzard’s tail lights disappeared around a curve, the squeal of his spinning wheels swallowed up by cypress, moss, and mud. Hornet jerked his head back toward Luc. Luc’s wings unfurled, ripping through the t-shirt he hadn’t bothered to take off. The shredded cotton cloth fell away. Hornet’s jaw went slack. A violent shudder passed through him.

“Holy fuck. What are you?”

His legs gave out. He fell on his knees in the dirt, trembling hands extended. A gagging sound emerged from his throat. The stupid slob was trying to beg. Or, maybe, pray. Hell of a lot of good either would do him.

If he’d had any balls at all, he would’ve taken off into the swamp. No one was stopping him. Not that he would’ve gotten far. In Mab’s playbook, one strike and you were out. Permanently.

Luc probably should feel sorry for the poor bastard. He didn’t. He hadn’t felt much of anything—other than self-loathing—since his Ordeal. Nothing else was left. Nothing but the weight of wood and stone around his neck.

Arthur had warned him. Luc hadn’t believed him. He’d believed Mab when she’d told him he’d stand as her equal.

He’d been a fucking fool.

He eyed Hornet. The man was curled up tight, blubbering like a goddamned infant. He sobbed harder as Luc approached. Hardly worth the trouble of killing, but the trouble Luc would bring down on his own head if he let this pitiful excuse for a human escape wasn’t something Luc wished to contemplate. He leaned down and grasped the dealer’s ears with both hands. Lifting the asshole’s head a couple feet off the ground, he gave his neck a tidy twist.

His legs kicked. Luc let go. For a moment the body teetered, as if wondering which way it should fall. It decided on face-forward in the mud.

Fool should’ve run. Or at least screamed. Should’ve fought like a madman for every damn second separating his miserable life from Hell. What was that poem Arthur was so goddamned fond of?