The Beacon (The Original's Trilogy Book 1)

  Dedication

  To mom

  Miss you.

  When the Original is no longer cursed,

  She’ll come to thee as three.

  All as humans first,

  Then as daemons, are set free:

  The beacon burning bright,

  The shadow hidden from sight,

  The blighted, damned knight.

  -The Black Book of Daemonology

  Chapter 1

  Twenty years ago

  When human, James had lived by sword and cross. He'd dedicated his pathetic life to the words within one old book. He'd lived by that book. He'd killed by that book. Back then, he'd been little more than a monster cloaked in human skin and bolstered by a mortal soul.

  Now he was just a monster.

  He'd retained his human form, but his soul had died long ago and he no longer lived by the ideals in that fucking book. He'd ignored them for ages, deciding that the only purpose for the paradoxes of religion was to drive men insane. A red herring of sorts to hold him immobile as life and death, good deeds and evil, continued to unfold around him.

  So why then did his damnable mind keep returning to that book?

  Because things were changing. Times were changing.

  He felt the end drawing near. And while he knew that book bore nothing but hatred and disdain for his kind, his mind kept insisting that if he found a way to understand the beginning . . . perhaps he'd discover a means of escaping the end. Or at least rediscover his humanity and redeem himself before Armageddon. Mostly, he concentrated on Genesis, because, as all daemons knew, that's when everything went to shit.

  His mark came into view just ahead: A slender woman wrapped in a fine, calf-length coat. She had shapely legs. Her companion seemed to think so, too. The blond-haired male kept making a show of sneaking peeks, teasing giggles from her despite the cold and the rain.

  James snorted. She wouldn't be laughing for long.

  He couldn't carry out the assassination here. Downtown Seattle buzzed with activity even at this late hour. Humans raced about in their cars, eager to get to the next entertainment of the night and hurried along the sidewalk with their hoods raised to avoid mussed hair and makeup from the weather. Such weighty concerns they had, these favored mortals.

  The rain didn't bother him, not enough to even don a jacket, though the drips of water did make seeing through his shades in the darkness a challenge.

  As he stalked his prey, his thoughts returned to that book. It kept his mind off the fact he would soon kill the woman. It prevented him from wondering why this job hadn't come from his usual source. Why Julius Crowley and the Council felt the need to break protocol by ordering this hit.

  He knew he wouldn't like the answers. So, don’t think about it.

  How did the story go? Reciting the damn book from memory failed him. Now, he only remembered the gist. In the beginning, there had been nothing. No stars scattered throughout the void. No void, actually, because there was nothing. Which was a paradox of sorts, because there was God. There must have been a god.

  The couple stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. The woman placed her hand on the blond man's chest, rose to her tiptoes, and kissed him. She pressed her mouth to his right there in the rain with humans all around.

  James paused, too, hiding in the shadows of a dark alleyway. He'd existed almost a millennium now and had yet to see a miracle. Never met God. Instead of finding peace in the rhythmic cycles of the world, he found chaos and pain. And yet, even after all this time, he couldn't say He didn't exist.

  He tugged off his sunglasses long enough to drag his hand down his shaved head and face, pushing away the rivulets of rain cascading down his features.

  God was an asshole—He'd abandoned him in his darkest hour and every day since—but He was out there. Somewhere. God in His infinite, yet questionable, wisdom had created angels called the Watchers—the two hundred angels who had eventually fallen from grace. Giant creatures filled with emotion, insight, and power, yet no free will.

  The traffic light changed and his mark crossed the street. James followed with a shake of his head.

  The Watchers were God's first mistake. After a time, God made other angels. He created a vast universe with stars and planets and granted these angels dominion over the world of Raquia. He made humans and gave them the Earth and gifted them with free will. Another mistake. Or maybe just a very bad decision, because man fucked up everything.

  The blond male slipped his hand down the woman's back and patted her ass. She spun around, walking backward for a moment to shake her finger at him, though a welcoming smile curved her lips.

  The Watchers, the sons of God, lusted after the daughters of men. They set themselves up as gods on Earth. They fathered the Nephilim—corrupted, maniacal progeny that devoured all they came in contact with—with humans. And God, the all-seeing Almighty, sent a flood to destroy the Nephilim nearly wiping out humans in the process. He banished the Watchers to Machon, stripping them of their flesh after forcing them to watch their kin die.

  His mark turned down an alleyway between two towering office buildings. The scattered street lights illuminated the alley a dull, colicky yellow. The thrumming music from a nearby club drowned out the sounds of human chatter from the main road. The rain muted the report of the woman's heels on the asphalt.

  The Watchers remained on Machon to this day, watching Earth from their prison cells, and directing the Guardian—protectors chosen from the last remaining kin of the Watchers—to assassinate those who threatened the balance. Because, hell, no one wanted another Armageddon. But He’d allowed daemon-kind—who were vampires like him—and other daemons who were either cursed or blessed by the Watcher's Magic—to remain among humans. Now the only thing standing between humans and Armageddon were the very creatures humans feared and loathed: Daemon vampires.

  James drew his Guardian dagger, a hollow silver blade with designs cut down the center to reveal a strip of wood caught between the two halves. The silver made quick work of most daemons, the wood took care of the rest. Either, if stabbed in the right spot, would eliminate a human.

  Leaving daemons here was another mistake. A fatal one, really. God never should have left the monsters amid the humans. It was like leaving a child to guard a stash of candy. And yet, this mistake fascinated him most. There was a lesson there. Somewhere. Just beyond his reach. Maybe even the answer to his dilemma. Did daemons have free will? The angels didn't, but humans did. Daemons were a little of both.

  Did it matter? None of the choices he made seemed to lead anywhere good. He'd failed as a priest, as a man, and he wasn't faring much better as a daemon.

  Come on, now. Focus. James put aside his inner debate and picked up his pace, closing in on the woman and her date. He lifted his blade.

  Pain sliced though his skull, halting him in his tracks. For an instant, he thought someone had hit him, but he searched the shadows, finding no one.

  His mark strolled along the alley, her arm looped with her mate’s. She tipped her head to the side, resting her cheek on his shoulder as they walked, blissfully unaware how closely death stalked her.

  James started after them again. A tugging sensation gripped his mind, pulling his attention from the woman. The compulsion to turn away grew demanding, becoming tangible. He stopped mid-stride. His body jerked around to face the other direction. Tendrils of fear closed in as a burst of adrenaline washed through his veins.

  What was happening?

  He'd be damned if he left an assignment unfinished—his one claim to success. Maybe this hit had been ordered by the Vampiric Council—the Guardian overseers—inst
ead of the Watchers, but that didn’t mean he could let himself fail.

  James fought against his body, pushing away the unnatural need to abandon his prey. With renewed determination, he turned back toward his mark and picked up his pace, avoiding the puddles scattered across the asphalt. Again, he closed in on the woman.

  The compulsion in his mind metastasized, becoming irresistible.

  He stopped shy of the couple as pain burst into his head like fireworks. He doubled over, gripping his head in his hands, knocking his shades to the pavement and dropping his blade. Shit! His gaze shot up.

  His mark glanced back, her eyes glowing in the dim light, widening as understanding dawned. Her features twisted in fear and revulsion.

  James grabbed his blade, dragging himself up to stand on wobbly legs. He wiped his eyes with the back of his forearm, trying to clear away the blur caused by the pain in his head. “Augustina Saar, Historian.” Jesus, his voice shook. He cleared the thickness from his throat. “You were accused and tried for blatant disregard for our Discovery Laws and—”

  “Liar.” She braced her legs apart, facing him.

  “You deny the charge?” James motioned to the male by her side. “And yet I see proof.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his head as if a bit of pressure might stop the pulsing ache behind his eyes.

  “I've mated a human, not broadcasted the truth of daemon-kind to the masses.”

  His stomach roiled. What the hell was wrong? Daemons didn't get sick and yet his head spun, filling him with a disconnected sensation, making him sway on his feet. Jesus, pull it together.

  The blond male tried to pull her behind him. “Kill me. If I'm gone, no rules have been broken.”

  James gave the male his attention. He didn't expect a human to be so honorable, nor to understand their laws. Damn. The male would have to die. “He knows too much.”

  “No.” Augustina's skin split as she began to transform, preparing to fight. The flesh didn't tear, there was no blood, her skin simply came apart at hidden seams along her limbs, torso, and face. A knotty black substance spilled out, expanding and lifting the remaining strips of her flesh until they were smooth, cream-colored battle scars on the creature. Its oblong, amoeba-like body resembled a corrupted, twisted brain with several limbs bursting out at odd angles. Those limbs were clawed, the ridges and strands of muscles and ligaments enhanced by the creature's too-tight flesh as opposed to covered by it. Three eyes of different sizes and colors appeared in the front of the pulsing mass, the only impressions of any type of face.

  Well, shit. He'd expected a vampire like him, but she was a baldander, a protean daemon. No wonder Crowley had bestowed this dubious honor on him; this was a fucking suicide mission. Augustina wouldn’t even break a sweat as she crushed him to dust. James' gaze fell to the Historian's mate. The blond male stepped back. Not in fear. Not in shock. He seemed to want to give her more room. The male knew far too much.

  Meeting James' gaze, he grinned. “You're in some shit now, Guardian.”

  Christ, he needed to salvage this. If he took the human hostage and forced—

  “Don't you look at him.” The ground trembled as she put herself in front of her mate.

  Perhaps he'd leave the human alone for now. His gaze jerked back to the baldander. “You've been found guilty.”

  “By who?” Her voice vibrated through the air. “Not the Watchers, I'd wager. Julius Crowley sent you, didn't he?”

  James paused. How did she know? “You broke—” He blinked away the blur in his vision, cleared the growing tightness from his throat. “You broke the Discovery Law.”

  “He's using you. He's furious I won't tell him what he wishes to know.” She swiped at him with one of her massive claws. “Leave now, Guardian. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  James jumped to the side, but she clipped the building with her claw. Brick rained down, pelting his body. Christ, much more and they'd draw an audience. He needed to put a stop to this quickly or he, too, would be guilty of breaking the Discovery Laws. He leaned back on the wall. “I'll use my talent, Historian.” Vampires all had special abilities. Gifts handed down to them from the Watchers they descended from. He hadn't used his since he was a neophyte—it was too damn dangerous, but she’d left him little choice tonight. “You're a seer. Tell me how tonight ends if I use my talent.”

  The baldander folded in on itself, diminishing in size until the whole protean mass fit back within her human form. “Don't. You'll kill everyone.”

  He opened his mouth to tell her to prepare for her destruction and pushed himself away from the wall. Pain exploded in his head again. A thick pressure crammed his throat. He clutched at his neck. “Leave her. Obey us.” His whole frame jerked in response as the first alien voices left his mouth. Abyss-deep and guttural, his vocal cords strained to accommodate them. “You must—” He clenched his jaw, refusing to let the voices speak. What the hell had Crowley gotten him into tonight?

  The Historian came closer and her mate drew her back out of reach. She was almost near enough for him to stab her, or for her to ash him. “The Great Ones speak through you.”

  The Watchers chose now to use him as a fucking puppet? He struggled to take another step toward Augustina, but the pain shooting through his head forced him to bow low, tearing a shout from his throat. He fell to his knees, the icy puddle beneath him seeping into his jeans.

  The Historian pushed away her mate's protective embrace and approached. She cupped his face in her hands. “I know what you seek, Guardian.” The Historian leaned close, her eyes swirling with liquid fire. “The Watchers will lead you to what you desire. Heed them.”

  As if he had a choice. The pressure in his head built. He couldn't speak. The Watchers held his body immobile, leaving his existence to hang by the Historian's mercy.

  “Surrender, Guardian. Quit the fight.”

  What was she doing? She could destroy him now, take him out with his own blade and he'd not be able to protect himself. Instead she seemed to be trying to . . . soothe him.

  “Be at ease. She needs you.”

  Who? He didn't have any current attachments.

  He stopped struggling, allowing the tension to ease from his muscles, and closed his eyes. The low buzz of traffic and the noise of the city faded, leaving behind the whine of an airplane passing under cloudy skies.

  James opened his eyes. If able, he would've cursed. The alley, the Historian and her mate, were gone.

  “The house.” The Watchers wrung the words from his vocal chords. “She is in the house. Save her.”

  Chapter 2

  Jesus. He imagined the monstrosity of Victorian revival might have swallowed her—whoever she was—whole. The two-story house glared down with dead eyes. Sneered wickedly with its jagged, broken porch. The faded-blue station wagon parked in the drive and plethora of dolls and brightly colored hoops littering the unkempt lawn were the only signs of human life—those and the green haze of the shield blocking his entrance.

  How the hell did they expect him to get past the door shield? The barrier protected the inhabitants from his kind and, if he dared cross the threshold without permission, he wasn't sure if he'd survive the resulting shock. Something uncomfortable—something he didn't want to name—slithered up his spine. Never, not once in the millennia he’d worked as the Watchers' personal assassin, had they asked him to save someone. It went against his job description.

  A warning pain speared through his head. “Hurry.”

  He stood up, pivoted in a slow circle, and checked out his surroundings. The forest beyond the yard sat quiet except for a choir of frogs. Noting the abundance of cedars and firs, he figured he was still in Washington, somewhere west of the Cascades.

  He strode up the porch steps, the old wood groaning under his weight, as he searched the darkness for potential threats. At last, the headache and the stifling pressure in his throat disappeared. He banged on the wall near the door, avoiding the shields on the windows and door. Seconds lat
er, the door swung open. His eyes picked up fragments of light from the dark interior. Like a feline at night, he made out the sparsely decorated entryway.

  A young Latina girl stood there, eight or nine years old, her face dirty and tear-streaked. Her wide, terrified eyes overpowered the rest of her features.

  You have got to be fucking kidding me. He had no experience with kids. He started to walk away but a warning pain flared behind his eyes. He let out a low growl and turned back to the child. He imagined he looked to her innocent gaze like an ordinary man rather than a monster, though his eyes surely glowed in this lighting. Humans couldn't see door shields, so as far as she knew, nothing held him back.

  She squeaked.

  An unfamiliar restless energy crawled under his skin, urging him to action, demanding he get inside. “Speak up.”

  The girl flinched at his demand.

  Come on, get in the game. What would a human do? He scrubbed his hand over his shaved head and knelt on one knee. “What's your name?”

  “Trina.”

  “What’s the problem, Trina?”

  “It's my fault.” She spoke to his knee, unable or unwilling to look at his face. “Are you a policeman? Can you help my friend?” A fat tear ambled down her cheek, leaving a clean trail in its wake.

  “Yeah, sure.” He leaned as close as he dared, the warning buzz of the door shield filling his ears. “You have to invite me in.”

  She chewed her lip for a moment in indecision. “'Kay, but don't tell Nan. You promise?”

  A howl in the distance lifted the hair at his nape. He wheeled around, scouring the darkness beyond the porch. “Yeah. You have my word.”

  “Please, come in.” She backed away to give him room.

  The door shield dematerialized, allowing him to cross the threshold.

  Nearly a dozen girls peeked out at him from behind the rundown furniture in the living room and kitchen. A door with another shield stood in front of him beneath a sprawling split staircase. “Where?”