The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(43)

“I’m fine,” he said.

The bloke stumbled toward him, one hand outstretched. “Lemme see,” he said. “I’m a paramedic.”

“So? Fuck off.”

He grinned. “Hurts that bad? Mush...mush...must be broken.”

“I told you, fuck off.”

“Just lemme see...” Moving more quickly than Arthur would’ve thought possible, the drunk lunged and grabbed for Arthur’s wrist. Missing, he stumbled forward, practically into Arthur’s arms. One arm went around Arthur’s waist, the other clutched at his neck. He exhaled frying grease and ale into Arthur’s face.

“Get. The fuck. Off me.” Arthur tried to fling the human away. The bloke clung like a bloody limpet, grinning. His weight, his stink, his wide, smiling mouth...the drool slipping over his lips...

Suddenly it all was too much.

Arthur’s anger and frustration hit boiling point. His hands went around the drunk’s neck, thumbs pressing his windpipe. The bloke’s mouth fell open. A gagging sound emerged. His lower body jerked like a marionette. The smell of urine permeated the air. Two bulging blue eyes, drenched with fear, stared up at Arthur.

And then everything went white.

The next thing Arthur knew, he was sprawled on his arse on the pavement. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was, or why. Then memory rushed in. He lurched to his feet and looked wildly around.

The drunk lay face down, not twenty feet away. Arthur’s stomach churned as he stumbled toward the man’s motionless form. He heaved the bloke over onto his back. There were bruises on this throat, in the shape of Arthur’s fingers. Fresh blood streamed from his swollen, broken nose.

Dead? No. The man’s pulse was jumping. As Arthur straightened and backed away, his victim’s eyes fluttered open. The drunk made a gagging sound, then rolled to one side and vomited a mixture of blood and beer onto the pavement.

A couple of humans, recently exited from the pub and very unsteady on their feet, stood gawking at him. The woman clutched her partner’s arm and let out a strangled cry. The man fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone.

His wings were out, Arthur realized abruptly. When had he shifted? He couldn’t remember doing it. He threw a narrow stream of hellfire at the phone, shattering it in the man’s hand. Leaping into the sky, he shot out over the sea.

Damn it all to Oblivion. He didn’t need this. He could only hope that, come morning, the three humans who had seen him in demon form would be too hungover to trust their drunken memories.

He circled endlessly above the choppy surf, too agitated to practice his magic, but reluctant to return to land. But even a Nephil’s endurance had its limits. By the time a pale arc of light showed on the horizon, his wings ached with the effort of keeping his body aloft.

He set a course for T?’r Cythraul. He landed in the garden, but couldn’t quite bring himself to enter the house. Cybele would have a thousand questions. He didn’t want to answer even one of them. The sight of the man, lying bloody on the ground, haunted him. How could he possibly defeat Mab? She was decades older than he, vastly more powerful. And she wasn’t out of her fucking mind.

His wings melted back into his body. His skin became human again. At least he was making progress with shifting. That was something, he supposed. The first few transformations in and out of his demon body had been excruciating. Now changing from human to demon and back again didn’t hurt at all.

He sank down on the stone bench, leaning forward and bracing his forearms on his thighs. His mind was a dark blur of dread, and he was heartily sick of it. Sick of thinking, endlessly, and coming up with no useful solutions. Were Merlin’s memories lost forever? And what of his other ancestors? They may not have been as powerful as Merlin, but their magic had been considerable. Why couldn’t he remember anything?

He stared at the ground. The sun was above the horizon now, peering over the garden wall. One brilliant ray slanted into the clump of weeds a few feet in front of him. A sharp glint among the green leaves caught his eye. Frowning, he went to investigate.

It was nothing. Just a broken bit of mirror, the silvering on the back of the glass mottled with age. It’d probably been discarded years ago. Idly, he turned the piece over in his hands and peered into the glass.

He blinked and lifted his head. And was chilled to note that the sun was now almost as high as the roof. How bloody long had he been crouching in the garden, unaware of the passage of time? It had felt no longer than an instant.

Damnation. Not again. He looked around. To his relief, he saw nothing dead. But moving his head brought on nausea and fierce, spinning vertigo. He eased down to his knees and braced one hand on the ground.

The memory hit him like a gale force wind. His head came up. An instant later he was sprinting for the house. He pounded up the stair and burst into the attic. “Cybele!”

She bolted upright on the bed, her hair tumbling over her shoulders in wild disarray. “Arthur? Wha—?”

He stopped short, his heart pounding. “I remember something.”

She sucked in a breath. “From your ancestors?”

“From Merlin. I think.” His hands went to either side of his head, palms pressing as if to keep the memory from escaping his skull. “I mean, it has to be, right? It can hardly be anything else.”

“Tell me.”

She scrambled out of bed, grabbed his arm, and drew him down to sit beside her on the mattress. He hunched forward. His hands, dangling between his knees, shook. He laced his fingers tightly together.