The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(24)

Despite Mab’s blatant sexual appeal, or perhaps because of it, Arthur hadn’t trusted her. She was like a poisonous spider or cobra: beautiful, but deadly.

His instincts had always been bloody excellent.

He returned to the kitchen. This room was the worst. It was where it had happened. Cybele had left an oil lamp burning near the stove. He wished she hadn’t. The flame cast flickering shadows on the walls and ceiling. He could almost feel his parents’ murderer creeping up on him.

He stared at the spot where the blood had been. His mother had been acting oddly for several weeks before that fateful night. She’d been away from the house more than usual. Even when she was home, she’d seemed withdrawn. Twice he’d seen her crying. When he’d asked her about her moonstone—or rather, its absence—she’d pressed her lips together and turned away.

On the morning of that last day, his parents had argued. His father had left the house angry. His mother, agitated, had shut herself in the parlor. She still hadn’t emerged when night fell. His father remained absent as well. Arthur climbed the steps to the attic, where he lay awake in his bed and wondered what was going on. The window above the front door was open. The sound of the knocker startled him out of his brooding. His father would hardly request entry to his own house. Had another of Arthur’s kin arrived, unannounced?

He sat up, listening to low voices drifting up the stairway. A man’s voice, his accent placing his origin someplace in Eastern Europe, blended with Alwen’s proper English inflections. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but a moment later his mother appeared on the stair. “Pack a bag,” she’d told him. “Quickly.”

He’d ask where they were going, but she vanished without answering. It was clear something wasn’t right. Arthur went to the window and, after a moment’s hesitation, opened the sash. It took only a few minutes to climb onto the roof and swing himself onto a sturdy oak branch.

As he jumped to the ground, a black shape, wings spread, descended from the sky. He let out a sigh of relief. Father. He had already started forward, ready to call out as Tristan landed in the garden. But when Arthur caught sight of his father’s face, the greeting died in his throat. He’d never seen such rage.

Tristan disappeared into the house. Shouts erupted inside. Arthur could make out only a few words. “Traitor,” his father growled. “Ingrate.” That had been his mother’s voice, high-pitched and barely recognizable. “Fool.” That pronouncement had been uttered in the mocking voice of the stranger.

Arthur crept to the kitchen window and peered in. His mother stood by the hallway door, her valise clutched in one hand. The stranger stood beside her. He was very tall, as all Nephilim were, but almost unnaturally slender. A black cape, the edge of its lining a slash of crimson, hung from his shoulders.

Tristan stood across the room, facing them. “Alwen.” His voice was calm. “Step away from that bastard.”

“No. I’m leaving with him.”

“With a rival? Are you mad?”

She might be, Arthur realized suddenly. Her eyes certainly didn’t appear quite sane.

“You are a Druid,” his father continued. “You cannot take your magic away from your line, and use it for the benefit of a rival clan. The very thought is repugnant. I will not allow it.”

“I am not your thrall,” his mother spat. “We are not bondmates. And yet you think you own me. Why, you’ve even stolen my ancestral stone. I’ll never forgive you for that.”

All this time, the stranger remained silent, a small, mocking smile playing on his lips. Arthur’s eye was drawn to the ring he wore on the middle finger of his left hand—the dominant hand of all Nephilim. The ring was gold, lit from within by a glow of magic. Where a stone might have been, there was a face instead. It was, Arthur realized, the stranger’s exact likeness. Even from across the room, there was no mistaking it.

“I took your touchstone for safekeeping.” His father moved a step closer. “You know why I did it. Precisely because of this. Because of him.” Tristan held out his hand to Alwen. “All you need do is send him on his way, and I will put it into your hand.”

“You expect me to trust you? After what you’ve done? You’re a bigger fool than I thought.” She picked up her valise with one hand and grasped the stranger’s arm with the other. “Let’s go,” she said to the man.

“Of course, my dear.” The rival Nephil placed his hand on the small of her back.

His father’s strike was so sudden, Arthur hadn’t even known it was coming. Blue hellfire erupted. At the same moment, Alwen threw herself—or was she shoved?—between Tristan and the stranger. The blast hit her neck, right under her jaw. For one frozen moment, her body seemed to hang in mid-air, head tipped back, arms flung out. Then a fountain of blood spurted from her throat. Her body crumpled to the ground.

“No!” Tristan’s hellfire vanished. He flung himself down beside Alwen. Blood pulsed in waves from the wound on her neck. He slapped both hands over it. Life seeped through his fingers, turning his hands crimson.

Arthur, frozen outside the window, clapped his own hands over his mouth, trying to contain the bile surging up his throat.

The stranger laughed. “Are you trying to get all that blood back into her body? You’ll not do it. You’ve killed her, you fool.”