28. What if I’m Not the Hero
What if I’m Not the Hero
The air shimmers a few feet from Nahaz. Red, like the pentagram that protects him.
Glancing at Selene, I’m careful to keep the visceral fear I feel from showing on my face. We must be safe from the Daemon when it’s raised, even though we’re outside the protection spell. Nahaz must use it to control the creature, making sure it kills only those he and Selene want it to.
The detective in me is wondering how we found no trace of the red powder used to make Nahaz’s pentagram, even though he must have used it for protection at each crime scene.
Both Jason and Evan were killed where we found their bodies, and only Lila was moved after her murder, staged for show on the steps to the Coven.
Yet every trace of the ritual was somehow wiped clean, along with Selene and Nahaz’s Signatures.
But was a residue of Magic left behind that other Paranormals couldn’t detect?
We’ve been under the assumption it was Selene’s power masking their presence, but now I think it’s more likely to have been Nahaz’s Death Magic.
Which could partly explain why she partnered with him, and why Micah couldn’t track them.
I have to wonder if she’ll try to dispose of him once she has what she wants, and if he can withstand her?
She’s thousands of years old, but his Magic comes from hell itself.
For the first time since I woke up, I’m afraid. True fear that holds me in its grip, like a fist around my heart. I pull at the restraints on my wrists, desperate to get my hands free.
The shimmering red is like a force field, and sheer horror assails me as an image solidifies within it. At first, it looks like a holo, wavering and indistinct, and I’m intensely grateful for the distance between us as a figure forms out of the ether.
Nahaz is chanting in a language I don’t know, his hands drawing symbols in the air that shimmer and disappear as fast as he can form them. His tattoos are writhing over his arms as if they’re alive, a sheen of sweat coating his dark skin, visible even from this distance.
I wish I could look away, my body rooted to the spot, pressing into the wall as if I’m trying to merge with it. Selene’s face is expressionless, but her body is taut, almost humming with anticipation. The electricity in the air crackles through her hair like a lightning storm.
I’ve never seen anything as horribly, terrifyingly beautiful as the being that appears. I was expecting a twisted creature from a nightmare. Every horror holo all rolled up together. But the Daemon, Ashrael, is a fallen angel, banished to the depths of hell.
Larger than a human male, he’s shadow given form.
At first, he’s indistinct, as if seen through smoky glass.
His skin is a dark, inky black; arms, chest, and legs sculpted with muscle.
His hands end in claws, so like a Weres, yet different.
One moment they’re smoke, and the next they’re solid, curved, and lethal.
His face is a statue brought to life by one of the Masters, as if Michelangelo himself freed him from obsidian marble.
Black wings made from feathered shadows rise majestically behind him.
The shimmering red force field around him explodes in a shower of sparks, and he roars with rage as I’ve never heard, and never want to again.
I don’t care if it makes me a coward as I stumble from the wall to shelter behind Selene.
She laughs, and I think I’m going to vomit. I’m shaking so hard my teeth hurt.
Ashrael is a Prince of Hell. I’ve never felt such visceral fear lash through my body as when his eyes fix on me.
He cocks his head to the side, a bird of prey with eyes reminiscent of the night sky without moon or stars.
A void to an eternity of torment. Lifting an arm toward where I stand with Selene, his claw trailing shadows, he beckons, mouth tilting in a smile that sends ice sliding through my veins.
‘Have you brought me an offering, acolyte?’ His voice is cold as the grave, promising death with every syllable. He’s talking to Nahaz, but his attention is wholly on me. I can’t spare more than a second to assimilate that he’s speaking English. Perhaps he adapts to his environment.
Oh fuck. He thinks I’m a sacrifice, as if he’s a dark god who requires an offering for his services. A death for him to consume the same as Vampires drink blood.
Did Nahaz promise me to him? Ashrael killed Jason, but he must have been frustrated that he was deprived of Evan and Lila’s deaths.
Selene was responsible for those. Did he mark Nahaz as a sign of displeasure and a reminder to the Warlock of who truly holds the power?
I would pray to a God I don’t believe in if I thought Nahaz’s death would send Ashrael straight back to hell.
But the Necromancer may be the only one standing between me and an excruciating death.
Nahaz slides his eyes carefully to Selene at the Daemon’s question, even while he’s still speaking words in an ancient language so fast he’s almost tripping over them. She shakes her head.
He stops and turns back to Ashrael. ‘Not yet. We’re waiting on a guest.’
The Daemon moves as fast as lightning, but before I have time to blink, he hits an invisible barrier.
He turns and snarls at Nahaz, beating his curled fists against it in rage, face twisted with promised violence.
His wings flare wider, the shadow feathers moving on a phantom wind.
Then he stops, and with a smirk at Nahaz, rakes one claw down the barrier in silent promise.
If the Necromancer is afraid, he doesn’t show it.
I’m frozen and shaking at the same time.
I need to pull myself together, right the fuck now.
I fought against death with Jezreel, and I can do nothing less now.
They won’t kill me until Micah arrives, which Selene seems to think is imminent.
I decide I don’t care if she plans to let me go once she has him; I won’t leave him to die.
If I can get to my gun, we may have a chance.
I’m planning ahead while they wait, Ashrael standing with his legs spread, hands now crossed over his massive chest, the invisible barrier Nahaz cast the only thing keeping him from ripping us all to shreds.
I’m so on edge, so taut with tension, I’m not sure what to do or where to look.
Selene floats closer to Nahaz, stopping a few feet away as if in preparation for the main event.
She has no fear at all that this won’t turn out exactly as she planned, her smile wide, ocean eyes glimmering with anticipation.
I’m surprised she’s not wearing a tiara as a reminder that she’s a princess by blood.
How sad to stay stagnant for all this time.
To not change and grow. She’s just a spoiled bitch used to getting everything she wants.
‘I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.’
My knees almost buckle at the sound of his voice. I don’t even care that a whimper escapes me as I almost cry with relief.
Micah steps into the room from the archway across from me, wearing a black suit with a deep blue shirt, midnight hair perfectly in place, hands casually in the pockets of his pants. But his onyx eyes are burning with an unholy fire, a barely restrained rage that promises death.
In one sweep, he takes in the vista before him.
Selene, standing between me and the Necromancer, her smile growing even wider.
The look in her eyes is untamed hunger as she stares at the Vampire who Turned her.
Nahaz is carefully neutral, monitoring the Daemon who is definitely not his pet.
And Ashrael, with his back now turned on me to assess the Vampire who’s come to my rescue.
Ashrael laughs, and it sounds like fear made flesh. ‘I accept this sacrifice. I shall add his power to mine. I may let you live for this worthy gift,’ he says to Nahaz, his words echoing with ancient malice and unending hunger.
Micah’s eyes meet mine, and then he’s a blur across the insurmountable chasm between us.
But Selene gets to me first, Nahaz’s knife against my throat, drawing blood as she wraps an arm around my waist from behind. Micah stops feet from us, in front of where Nahaz and Ashrael stand, his back to them.
‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Selene, what will happen to you if you hurt her.’ His voice is deceptively casual, but there’s cold, hard steel running through it. I remember the snap of a neck and lifeless eyes in New Orleans.
‘Oh, Micah. Nothing changes. Your heart will be your downfall. She’s merely a human.’ Her breath is warm against my neck as she taunts him. The press of the blade has me standing as still as I can, while I’m careful to curve my back slightly inward so she doesn’t discover my gun.
‘Every life has value,’ he says.
‘How trite. And hypocritical. As if you’ve never killed before.’ Selene sneers at him; her beauty in this moment is only skin deep.
‘Never those who did not deserve it,’ he says easily, refusing to play her game.
‘Your immortal life is about to come to an end. But you can still save hers, since she means so much to you.’ Jealousy really is the ugliest thing you can wear, and it’s wrapped around her like a cloak.
I have no idea why a Witch and a Vampire seem to think Micah has feelings for me. He may have in the past, but never the kind they think. But apparently, hell hath no fury like an immortal scorned, even if it’s only in her mind. Selene only wants her toy when she believes someone else does.
As the tip of the blade presses further into my skin, blood flows in a slow trickle down my neck.
Selene leans forward and licks it off. I want to shudder with revulsion, but I can’t move.
My eyes find Micah’s as I try to calm myself.
His face is a mask, eyes glittering with promise, but he’s not looking at me.