The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(6)

It wasn’t the first time he’d blacked out since his Ordeal. Far from it. His time as a Nephil adept could be described as a few islands of lucidity engulfed by a sea of darkness. Simple exhaustion? A natural learning curve? Insanity? With no guide to teach him, he couldn’t know.

His fingers closed on the moonstone. He’d pinned all his hopes on it. He could use any stone as a focus to his magic, but a gem handed down through his ancestral line offered the greatest advantage. He’d hoped his mother’s stone would end his blackouts. But here it was, in his possession, and he was no better off than before.

Coming so abruptly back to himself, to the aftermath of magic he couldn’t remember calling, left him on the edge of panic. And there was something else...or, rather, someone else, wavering indistinctly in the back his mind. His own memory? A fragment of a long-dead ancestor’s past? Whichever it was, the jade-eyed woman never wandered far from his awareness.

He heaved the table upright. It teetered, then thudded into place. Roaming the kitchen, he set chairs on their legs and retrieved fallen cookware. He swept up shattered crockery and emptied it into the rubbish bin. He would remember, he told himself. He had to.

He stacked two chairs, broken beyond repair, in a corner of the room. He placed his mother’s valise, unopened, beside them.

His head jerked up. Fine hairs lifted on the back of his neck. The noise was slight. Nothing more than a faint creak on the back stair. Every muscle tensed. His palms tingled. He shifted onto the balls of his feet, listening.

Footsteps, descending. Pausing. Someone—or something—was in the house. A cold drip of sweat trickled down the side of his face. Mab? No. The Druid alpha would never sneak. But who else could have gotten through her wardings?

The back stair gave out in a corner of the kitchen. Arthur moved toward it on silent feet, mentally tracing the intruder’s path. Nine steps down from the upper hall to the landing. A tight turn then another ten steps down to the kitchen. Once on that lower stretch, his descending quarry would be effectively trapped.

He inhaled. Druid magic, cast with any measure of control, felt impossible. Magic common to all Nephil clans, however, seemed much more doable. Shifting into demon form, even that first, harrowing time, had been instinctive. Casting hellfire also came fairly easily. He only had to think of it to have it spring, burning, to his fingertips. Actually aiming it at a target was more of a challenge.

A creak sounded in the stairwell. The intruder had resumed his descent, with a cautious footstep on the landing. Another pause. Another squeaking tread. A figure appeared...

Arthur surged up the steps. With a snap of his wrists, hissing fire streaked into the narrow passage. His aim was pitiful. One white streak hit the ceiling. The other struck the wall. The recoils bounced, whip-like, to wind about his adversary’s neck. Arthur leaped back, stumbling down the stair, pulling the firelashes with him.

His captive bounced down the last three steps and landed hard at his feet.

It was a woman. A blond woman, dressed in blue jeans and a flowery, flowing blouse. She gagged, clawing at the hellfire wrapped around her throat. Her eyes—wide and jade green—met his. Her lips parted.

“Arthuuuuuuur—”

Recognition slammed into his brain. Followed by pure, primal terror.

“Fuck!”

He dropped to his knees. He hauled Cybele into his arms even before he’d managed to banish the last sputter of his hellfire. Her body sagged across his thighs. Her eyes rolled up, and her head lolled to one side. She went limp.

“No,” he rasped. “No.”

He ran a shaking hand over her head, her shoulder. He flattened his palm against her chest. Her heart was beating. He clung to the sensation. The rhythm was rapid and none too steady. His own heart stuttered.

Was she breathing? His firelash had left an angry red welt across her throat. It didn’t look like he’d crushed her windpipe. But her chest...it wasn’t moving.

“Damn it. Damn it. Fucking damn it.” He grasped her shoulder and shook. Nothing.

He tried again, harder. Her head snapped forward. A rasping sound—her lungs abruptly sucked air. Her spine arched with the force of it.

Arthur’s rush of relief was so intense, it caused black spots to dance before his eyes. Cybele’s exhale shuddered out of her lungs. He froze, waiting. An eternity passed before the next breath came.

“That’s it.” He held her tightly and rocked her back and forth on his lap. If he’d had a soul, he might’ve even uttered a prayer.

“Breathe, damn it. Breathe.”

Perhaps Heaven was watching. If so, he was sure it was laughing. Cybele’s third breath was a choking gasp. Fear closed Arthur’s throat. His arms were banded around her ribs. Too tightly? He forced himself to loosen his hold.

He lowered her onto the floor. Her lips parted. With trembling hands, he cupped her face.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Come on...”

She sucked in a breath, and then expelled it in a bout of fierce coughing. He rolled her onto her side and pounded between her shoulder blades. When at last the hacking subsided, he eased her onto her back. She was definitely breathing. But her chest rose and fell in an erratic rhythm.

“Cybele.” She gave no indication she’d heard. “God damn it, Cybele. Wake up.”

This time, her eyelids fluttered. He tensed, willing them to open. They didn’t. Her complexion was deathly pale, her lips a faint shade of blue. Fuck. Her hands were like ice. The red stripe across her neck might as well have been a lash against his own back.