The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(25)

Tristan’s head jerked up. Slowly, his hands left Alwen’s body. The pupils of his eyes glowed red. Opal lights skated under his skin. Hellfire spat from his fingers. “I’ll kill you for this.”

“I think not.”

The stranger’s hellfire erupted. It was dark gold, slender as a blade, and just as deadly. A thin red line appeared on Tristan’s throat. His expression hardly had time to register its shock before his head tumbled from his shoulders. Blood sprayed from his neck, splattering walls, ceilings, furniture.

Arthur recoiled as his father’s blood struck the glass of the window above the sink. He lost his balance; his tailbone smacked hard on the dirt. With a yelp of pain, he flung himself onto his hands and knees. His stomach heaved. He lost his dinner in the dirt.

He was on his feet almost immediately, dragging his sleeve across his mouth as he dashed across the garden, through the gate, and onto the moor. His only thought was to get away. Where he was going, he had no idea. About fifty yards out, a hand collared him from behind. He jerked to a halt. Twisting, he kicked out at a shadowy foe.

“Arthur.” His opponent gave him a savage shake. “Get hold of yourself, boy.”

He gulped air. It wasn’t the rival Nephil. It was the American adept. Mab. Outspread black wings framed her beautiful, scowling face. He didn’t trust her—was, in fact, afraid of her. But just then she looked like salvation.

“Wha—” He choked. “What are you doing here?”

“I sensed something wasn’t right.”

“It’s—not.” A sob forced its way up his throat. He swallowed it back. “Father—mother— Dead. A Nephil—a rival—killed them.”

“Yes, I know. He’s left the house now. He’s searching for you.”

“Who...is he?” He dragged in a breath. The air, though cool, burned his lungs. “Why—”

“Stay down,” she said sharply, shoving him to the ground. “Don’t move. Wait for me.” With a pass of her spread fingers, an illusion of nothingness descended around his body. Anyone looking in his direction would see unbroken moorland.

He waited, trembling. After what seemed like an eternity, Mab returned. Without a word, she lifted him from the ground, spread her wings, and took off into the sky. He clung to her, dizzy and confused, all the way to Texas.

They arrived many interminable hours later. Dusk was falling as Mab landed. Arthur looked up at the rambling wooden house and the alien landscape of moss-draped trees surrounding it. He hardly had a chance to take it all in before Mab grabbed him by the upper arm and yanked him up onto a wide porch.

A glint on her finger caused Arthur to dig in his heels. “You’re wearing Father’s touchstone.” He stared at the diamond, embedded in a ring carved of yew wood.

“Yes.” She gave him a shove across the porch. “What of it?”

“It’s mine.”

She chuckled. “I think not, sugar. Tristan is dead. Soon I’ll be alpha in his place. His touchstone belongs to me.”

Your father is dead... Arthur had seen the murder with his own eyes, yet it still felt unreal, as if the end of his father’s existence was something that couldn’t possibly have happened.

They stopped before the house’s door, painted blood red. Arthur dug in his heels. “Who killed my father? Give me his name. His clan.”

Mab’s smile widened. “Come, sugar. Do you seriously imagine you can avenge Tristan? Against a rival Nephil adept?”

“Perhaps not now,” Arthur replied seriously. “But someday I will. It is my duty.”

Mab turned the knob and escorted him into a narrow entry hall. “Your duty is to wipe last night from your mind.”

He heard voices. Mab steered him through the foyer, down a short hall, and into a kitchen. There, fifteen or more people surrounded a large table, sharing a noisy meal. As Mab swept through the doorway, pushing Arthur before her, an abrupt silence descended.

Arthur looked slowly about the room. Piles of dirty pots and dishes were stacked in the sink and on a long countertop. Crushed beer cans and empty bottles of whiskey littered the floor. A mirror, topped by a few lines of white dust and a razor blade, lay on a sideboard, amid a forest of liquor bottles.

The people sitting at the table were no less unsettling. A number of rough-looking males and scantily dressed females. There were children, too. The youngest was only a toddler, sitting in a high chair. The rest were a blur of curious faces. He saw only one of them clearly—a girl, perhaps a year or two older than Arthur. For some reason, in his mind’s eye, she shone like a rare beacon.

Maybe it was her blond hair. Arthur had never seen anything quite like it. It was long and curly, a wild, unbound mane that was just one shade darker than white. Her green eyes, wide and framed by nearly colorless lashes, reminded him of a jade stone his father had once shown him. Her expression was curious and thoughtful at the same time. Almost, Arthur thought in a daze, like she recognized him. But that couldn’t be. If he’d ever seen her before, he was sure the memory of such a momentous occurrence would be seared in his brain.

Who is she? he thought.

Mab prodded him in the back. “Are you hungry, sugar?”

Arthur, startled, looked up into Mab’s glittering blue eyes. His stomach turned. Hungry? Was she mad? Just the thought of food made him want to throw up.