The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(21)

Thankfully, he hadn’t been near a town. Dawn had just been breaking. A wash of golden light bathed the countryside. As the sun peered over the horizon, Arthur had spotted a massive bull, grazing alone in a fenced pasture. He dove for the creature.

Halfway to the ground, he’d become aware of seething anger. Not his own anger. The emotion had been pouring off a man he’d not previously noticed. The bloke was engaged in repairing the stone fence that separated a pasture from the road. He spat curses as he worked, spewing an ugly mess of hatred and petty grievance. He hated his boss, his wife, his lover. His mates were goddamned motherfucking losers.

As Arthur hovered above him, the laborer hefted a large stone. His grip wasn’t true. The stone slipped from his grasp and smashed into his leg. Bones split with a sickening crack. He collapsed, screaming. His agony washed over Arthur in a beautiful, brutal wave.

Even now, in memory, the dead man’s pain called to Arthur’s demon nature. Doubled over, with his back to the corpse, he fought it. Beads of sweat dripped down face. He swallowed thickly. Dark lights shifted under the thin skin on the back of his hands. His eyes burned. The black tips of his wings were just visible in the periphery of his vision. Any human unfortunate enough to catch a glimpse of him would likely need therapy for years.

With an effort, he pushed his body upright. He dreaded turning around and looking again at the corpse.

He did it anyway.

Blank eyes stared at him out of the disembodied head. Had he gone for the kill instantly? Or had he toyed with the injured man? The former, he thought. He remembered hovering on the cusp of a dive, his entire being focused on the man’s ugly mood. Pain, fear, anger, hatred—such emotions were opiates to a Nephil. He remembered the deathlust burning in his heart. Itching on his palms.

And then...nothing.

Arthur felt heavy, as though he’d added the dead man’s weight to his own. He turned away, to look past the stone wall, and farther, into the pasture. His nausea returned. He grabbed the top of the wall.

The bull lay no more than thirty feet away, as bloody and dead as the man. Its massive head, like the man’s, had been ripped from its body. One shoulder had been chewed to the bone. So he’d killed both, Arthur thought dully, and remembered neither. Damn it all to fucking Oblivion. He’d survived his Ordeal, but what did it matter if he couldn’t control—or even remember—the magic he’d won?

His shoulders slumped. His conscience burned. He’d betrayed every lesson his father had ever taught him. What would Tristan say, what utter disgust would he feel, if he could see what his son had become?

For the first time in seven years, Arthur was glad his father was dead.

***

Maweth and Lucky were seeing who could bounce the highest, without using wings, when the office door opened.

“Shhh!” Maweth slapped his palm over Lucky’s mouth. “He’s back.”

Lucky’s eyes widened. Tentatively, Maweth lifted his hand.

“But it’s only been a couple of hours since we got back from—mmmph.”

“Quiet.” This time Maweth kept his palm in place until Lucky nodded. He hauled the cherub to the back wall of the mirror. “Don’t talk. Don’t move, either.”

Lucky was right. For crap’s sake. What was Dusek doing up? The three of them—Dusek, Maweth, and Lucky—had been out all night. The misadventure had started just after sunset. The master had mounted the stairs to the roof, shifted to demon form, and taken off into the sky. He’d flown from Prague to England, the quicksilver mirror dangling from his neck the entire way.

Two miserable hours of swaying and bouncing. Lucky’d gotten so seasick, he’d heaved. Dusek had spent half the night searching for Arthur. Maweth had expected fireworks once he’d been found, but to his great surprise, the Alchemist hadn’t confronted the rogue Nephil. He’d simply hidden in the shadows, watching him, until dawn.

At daybreak, Arthur killed a bull. While he was feeding, Dusek found his own breakfast. A human male. The poor slob hadn’t had a chance. Dusek swooped in and ripped the man’s head clean off his body. Blood and guts sprayed every which way. Then the master chewed a hunk of thigh, snapped the bone, and sucked out its marrow.

Lucky, who’d only just recovered enough to lift his head, had been sick all over again. Even Maweth had been shaken by the viciousness of the kill. And considering Maweth’s vocation, that was saying something.

He sighed. You’d think he’d be used to death by now, for crying out loud. Currently, an average of nine human beings died every five seconds. Maweth was aware of the agonizing last seconds of each expiring life. Even so. He’d rather bear witness to a full year’s worth of normal deaths, than experience just one of Dusek’s unnatural kills.

The flight home had been just as nauseating. Maweth had hoped Dusek would spend a little time digesting his unholy meal, but no. Here he was, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, at barely— Maweth glanced at the ormolu clock on the sideboard. Barely noon.

The Alchemist wasn’t alone. Dr. Shimon Ben-Meir, archeologist and adjunct professor to the Institute, accompanied him. Maweth sat up. Interesting. For the past six months, Ben-Meir had been on an expedition in Ethiopia, on the site of the ancient city of Axum.

The Israeli scientist was as academically brilliant as he was handsome. His common sense was a bit deficient, though, in Maweth’s humble opinion. A more astute man would have realized by now that his boss was a demon.