The Beacon (The Original's Trilogy Book 1) Page 15

  “A little longer. I don't want to have to worry about her using her Magic on us again.”

  Magic? Christ, she was a witch?

  Which made her fully human.

  And left him fucked six ways to Sunday.

  James stepped out of the cover of the trees, pulling his blade. He intended to go for the smaller of the two, the one creating the illusion, but the larger daemon blocked him.

  His gaze dropped to the silver pendant around James' neck. “So that's the way of things, is it?”

  “This isn't going to happen. Drop the illusion and back away from the woman.”

  The vampire recognized him—or, at least his status as a Guardian. An array of emotion projected across his scarred face. Fear. Rage. Desperation.

  “I'll let you live if you leave now.” James strode forward, fully expecting them to run, but these vampires feared whoever sent them after Lilith more than him.

  The larger vampire stepped to the side, leaving a copy of himself behind. Then again both stepped to the side, each leaving a copy behind. And again. Eight. The Splitter vampire and his copies blocked him from Lilith and the Illusionist, who kept all his attention on Lilith. The copies couldn't be destroyed, just recalled by the Splitter. They felt no pain, had no emotion—just static on the inside. They were, however, solid. And they could hurt him, destroy him.

  He needed to destroy the Splitter. James grabbed his second blade, holding the knife handle backward in his left hand, the silver blade cool against his wrist.

  The Splitter and his seven copies shuffled forward, switching places as they did, until even if he'd tried to keep track of the Splitter, he'd have lost visual contact. Jesus, he felt like the mark in a game of three-card Monte. They surrounded him. James pivoted a slow circle, keeping on the balls of his feet, knees slightly bent, ready to move. He'd mark off the copies. With a little luck he'd stab the Splitter in the process and he'd have to recall the copies to conserve energy for the healing process.

  Damn it, he needed to get to Lilith.

  Three attacked at once. He kicked the first, sending him flying back into another. He spun, sliced across another's neck. His blade cut deep. The copies remained. The third punched him in the back. He stumbled forward into another copy. He swung his arm, slicing deep across his stomach. The copies remained.

  But he’d marked two.

  Another grabbed him from behind, the copy's arms coming up under his, then locking behind his neck, immobilizing him. Another lurched forward, one with a deep slash marked his neck—a copy. He jabbed, slugging James in the face hard. Once. Twice.

  James leaned back into his captor, kicking his feet out. His boot connected with the copy's chin. As his leg came back down, he used the momentum of his body weight to lean forward, sending his captor over his back and onto the street. James brought the knife down onto his chest, marking him. Another copy came at him, throwing his fist out. James sidestepped the punch and grabbed his arm, thrusting his blade down in an arc, stabbing his assailant in the neck. Still they remained. He kicked the copy away. James threw his arm out, clothes-lining another copy running toward him, followed him down to the ground, and stabbed him. Nothing.

  But he'd marked five of the eight.

  James backed away. All eight regained their feet. They showed no sign of slowing, paid no heed to their wounds. He scanned the small crowd for the Splitter, searching for a clue, a sign.

  If smart, the Splitter would stay out of harm's way and let the tireless copies take the beating. Two hung back. Neither bore a mark from his blade.

  His gaze slid to the side to check on Lilith. “Six o'clock, Lil.”

  She spun, lashing out with her sword, but the Illusionist leapt back.

  “Three feet.”

  She ran forward, slashing with both arms.

  The Illusionist dodged.

  A copy rammed into James, throwing them both to the ground. James punched him, swung his arm out, and cut his face.

  When he looked up, one of the copies stared at Lilith, watching her fight. “Gotcha.” James flipped the knife in his hand, holding it lightly by the blade. He cocked his arm back for momentum and let it fly. The blade flew straight to the mark. The Splitter, and all his copies faded to ash.

  He turned just in time to see Lilith thrown across the street by her unseen assailant. She landed not a foot from the Illusionist. “Hard right.”

  Her arm lashed out and her sword scored across his legs and the Illusionist shouted. She turned as she got to her feet, her second sword piercing through the Illusionist's chest.

  As James walked over to them, Lilith stepped back and blinked, looking around. Then her gaze settled on the Illusionist. “Ha! I got you, you bastard.” She pulled her swords out of his body.

  James grabbed him by the shirt, and dragged him to where one of his Guardian blades had fallen. He picked it up, pressing it to the Illusionist’s neck. “Who are you working for?”

  The Illusionist was breathing hard, he wrapped both his hands around James’ wrist, trying to push him away. “Go to hell.”

  “Who?”

  “Fuck you.” He tried to wrest out of James’ grip.

  “Wrong answer.” James lifted his blade.

  The Illusionist’s eyes widened. “M-man named Crowley. He ain’t paying me enough for this shit.”

  James nodded. That’s what he suspected, but he liked having the confirmation. He brought the knife down, burying it to the hilt in the Illusionist's chest and his body fell in a shower of ash. James sheathed his weapons and turned to Lilith.

  Her blackened hands tightened on the grips of her blades and she widened her stance.

  James paused, unsure of whether or not she meant to skewer him, too. He cocked his brow. “We fighting?”

  Her gaze shot to what was left of the Illusionist before coming to rest on him. An exhale shook free of her. “No.”

  Still, he edged closer this time, not wanting to startle her. She didn't look like she knew what to do with the excess of adrenaline that must be pumping through her veins. “Let them go, baby. You're hurting yourself.”

  Lilith looked down, lifting her blackened hands. Her whole body jerked. The blades disappeared as she bowed at the waist, cradling her hands to her chest.

  Those hands worried him. He'd never seen anything like it. “How do I help you, Lil? Do you need a hospital? Medicine?”

  She shook her head. “Time.”

  “Not good enough.” He wanted to pick her up and carry her back home, but he wasn't sure if she had any other injuries. “Where else are you hurt?”

  A gasp broke from her lips and she stood, nearly head-butting him in the face.

  He stepped back.

  “It's better now. It's going away.” A string of curses passed her lips and she jumped up and down. “Gods, that hurts.”

  He felt helpless. “Talk to me, what can I do?”

  She shook her arms out to her sides. “It's healing. I'll be fine in half an hour.”

  Sure enough, the blackness had faded from her upper arms, slowly receding down to her forearms.

  “Good.” He gripped her shoulders. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” But her voice quavered and when she threw herself against him, her wounded hands trapped between them, he couldn't miss the shudder running though her.

  “You’re all right.” He tightened his hold. “I got you.”

  “I kept expecting them to leap into the illusion and kill me. I kept waiting and when they didn't . . . .”

  “I know. You must have been crawling out of your skin. You did good.” He kissed the top of her head. “Let's get you home. We need to talk.”

  She nodded against his chest. “I suppose we do.”

  He guided her toward Haven House.

  “Wait. My stuff.”

  He jogged over to the side of the road, slung her backpack and purse over his shoulder and tucked the box under his arm. Something fluttered within, trying to escape.

  �
�I need my phone.”

  The way she held her arms, he had to assume they still hurt like hell. He dug through the bag, and picked up the phone. A picture of a Latina woman showed on the screen. “You've got an open call.”

  “I was talking to Trina when they attacked.” She held her hand out for the phone.

  Instead, he put it to her ear. “Just talk. I got this.” She needed to rest her hands, and he wanted to hear what they said.

  Warily, she met his gaze. “Trina?”

  “I'm coming home.”

  “No. I'm all right. I don't want you getting in trouble. Everything is fine.” Her gaze slid away. “James happened to be nearby . . .”

  “James?”

  “Yeah, he helped me take care of the, uh, muggers.”

  “Muggers?” There was a pregnant pause. “Yeah, all right.”

  Lilith flinched, probably from the sarcasm infused in Trina's tone, and kept her gaze from meeting his. “We'll talk later. Love you.”

  “You, too.”

  James disconnected the call and dropped the phone back in her bag with a shake of his head. “You two are close.”

  “Like sisters.” She bit her lip.

  Which meant they shared all their secrets. Great. So he had two human women who knew about daemon-kind, at least one of whom possessed Magic.

  He shook his head. He never realized any witches existed outside the Grigori coven and they'd all been dead for centuries. He tucked the box under one arm and put the other around her shoulders. “Whatever is in this box, wants out.”

  “It's a chicken.”

  Another flurry of activity came from inside the box. “Why do you have a live chicken?”

  “Well, a black hen if you want to be specific.” She cut him a sidelong glance. “A live one.” She was hedging, her tone wary.

  “What do you need a hen for?”

  “Oh, it's not for me.”

  Why did that sound ominous? James held aside a branch and they entered Haven House's private property.

  “All right, I'll bite. Who is the chicken for?”

  “You.”

  “Me? Lilith, I don't eat.” He realized his mistake. “Chicken.”

  “It's a hen.”

  “I don't eat those, either.”

  She sighed, stopping on the path. “It's not meant for you to eat.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do with it? I doubt George is going to play nice with a live bird.”

  “I'm going to”—she grimaced—”rub it on you.”

  She was certifiable.

  There was no way in hell anybody was rubbing him with a chicken. He picked up his pace, leaving her behind. And what about the poor chicken? Didn't something like that constitute animal cruelty or some shit?

  “James.” She ran behind him, trying to catch up.

  He didn't stop. “That's some sick shit.”

  “Will you be reasonable?”

  “Reasonable?” He set her things down on the porch and swung around. “You want to rub a live chicken on me. What exactly is reasonable about that?”

  “Oh, grow up. You have ghost-sickness. It's the only cure I could find that didn't involve making you drink something, which we both know you can't do, harming an animal, or burning down the house.”

  Ghost-sickness? He folded his arms over his chest. “Explain.”

  “You know how you're tired all the time? You don't remember things that happened the night before? The fresh scars you wake up with? Nan is feeding off you.”

  He waited for her to break into giggles. She didn’t. “Bullshit.”

  “I saw her.” She reached up and dragged the collar of his shirt down, pointing to two oval scars on either side of his chest. “You've got more on your back.”

  He hadn't noticed the scars. Rarely did he have a reason to look down at himself and he had no reflection. They must be old, though. “If I had fresh wounds that size last night, I'd still be in bed healing.”

  She held up her bandaged hand. “Not if someone bled into the open wound.”

  He stared at her hand as her words sank in. “You know what I am.”

  “You're changing the subject.”

  Hell, yeah. He walked over to the porch steps and sat. He'd suspected she knew he was a vampire, but until now, he hadn't been a hundred percent sure. And now, he discovered it bothered him. A lot.

  And she'd used her own blood to help him? He wasn't sure how he felt about that, either.

  He was supposed to protect her, damn it. Now he had one more thing to add to his list of failures. Hell, what was he supposed to protect her from? She seemed fully capable of dealing with her own shit.

  If what she had said was true, that meant not only had he allowed someone to get the upper hand with him, but he'd allowed a woman to do so. A dead woman. And the woman he was supposed to be protecting, had protected him.

  Someone ash me now.

  “James, this will only take a minute.”

  “No.”

  “If I'm wrong, no harm”—she spread her arms and grinned—”no foul.”

  He cut her a dry glare. He needed to remember that one for Lou. “What's the point? If what you say is true, I'll be in the same condition in the morning. Besides, I feel fine.”

  “Do you?”

  No. “Yeah.”

  “No doubts crowding in on you? No depressing thoughts? You're not having blackouts?”

  She damn well knew he'd had some blackouts. And he had felt horrible that morning. His gaze dropped to her hands. Her arms looked better, but her hands still appeared almost . . . scorched. “What about your hands? You'll hurt yourself.”

  “Nope. This is a natural remedy. No Magic needed.” She smiled, but there were still lines of strain around her eyes.

  “You look like you’re still in pain.”

  “It's fading.” She shrugged. “Maybe holding the hen will be beneficial to me, too.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Get your fucking chicken.”

  She grinned, and part of him was glad he agreed just to see her smile.

  “Take off your jacket.”

  He removed his jacket while she got the chicken, cuddling the panicked bird to her chest. “Shh. You're okay, little one. Shh.” She stroked her hand down the bird's black feathers, cooing until it settled in her arms. “Stand still.”

  He folded his arms over his chest, barely repressing the need to roll his eyes again. He felt stupid. Ridiculous. He scanned the surrounding area, hoping to hell no one lurked in the bushes.

  The bird clucked in alarm as she rubbed the creature down his arm.

  He cleared his throat. “You know I have no reflection, right?”

  “Yeah.” She walked around him, gently stroking the bird up and down his shirt.

  “I can't be recorded, either.”

  “So?”

  “Just in case you've got somebody filming this for a YouTube post.”

  She giggled. “Lift your shirt.”

  He glared.

  “Come on. The directions said to rub the hen all over the patient's body. I'll only do your back. I wouldn't want you to feel violated or anything.”

  “Christ.” He pulled his shirt off. “I'm feeling ten kinds of stupid right now, just so you know.”

  “But you're starting to feel more like yourself, aren't you?”

  Not really. But he did remember Nan, now. He remembered trying to fight her when he’d been injured and failing. He remembered those fucking hooks. Still, he'd be damned if he'd admit he let the ghost of an old woman get the better of him.

  She stroked the bird down his back. “You're being very patient with us.”

  “Us?”

  “Mm, Betty and I.”

  Who the hell is . . . ? He closed his eyes. “Is Betty the chicken?”

  “Hen. Yes.”

  “I'm done. I'm taking a shower now.”

  Her laughter followed him into the house.

  Chapter 22

  Rowena walked to her doo
r, swung it open and gave the young man standing there a quick once over. Blond hair oiled back into neat curls, suit, tie, clean-faced. She sighed. “I'm not Mormon and don't wish to hear the word of God.” She started to swing the door closed but hesitated when he chuckled. There was something decidedly sinful about that sound.

  “I'm not a huge fan of His, either.”

  Rowena arched her brow. He sounded familiar. Where had she heard that voice before? “Who are you?”

  “Sometimes who is far less important than what.” He stepped back out of the halo of her porch light and his eyes glowed as the light hit them in the darkness. “I’d like to make a deal, Madam High Priestess Rowena.”

  Him. Goddess help her, he was becoming brazen. He’d walked right up to her house! “You dare—?”

  “Oh, yes, I dare.” He leaned against the outside wall and shoved his hands into his pants’ pockets. “You and I have a similar problem.”

  Rowena folded her arms over her chest. “The only problem I have, is you.” She’d ash the son of a bitch if it wouldn’t draw the Watchers’ notice. But she didn’t dare start that particular war, not until she had the rest of the coven backing her plans.

  He grinned. “You're going to be out of a job soon, won't you? Someone more powerful is in town. A witch by the name of Lilith.”

  She laughed. Good gods, where did he get his information? “Lilith?” She shook her head. “I don't know what you think you know, but not only is Lilith not in town, she has no Magic. Isn’t this all becoming a little tedious for you? It is for me.”

  “Oh? That must not have been her I saw setting up house over at Haven House. Maybe a clone of hers who visited your daughter, Katherine, today and retrieved her mother's Grimoire.”

  The blood drained from her face. Lilith couldn’t be back. She couldn’t possibly have Magic.

  “You know, up until tonight I wasn’t absolutely sure Lilith was the right woman. She still doesn’t quite feel right. Nothing like when she was a child. But now, I’ve seen a little of what she can do. She’s quite marvelous.” He leaned closer. “Why don't you invite me in, Madam High Priestess? We can discuss things privately.”

  “I will never allow you in this house.” She started to swing the door shut again.

  “Be a shame if the coven ousted you.”