Chapter 60 Archer
Chapter sixty
Archer
The night pressed close around us, heavy with mist and the metallic tang of the river.
The garden was a hushed cathedral of ancient oaks and clawing moss, the quiet shattered only by the muttered incantation that still held Genevieve captive and the distant cries and soft rasp of insects in the dark.
My shadows curled eagerly along the hedge walls, restless, hungry.
They could already taste what was coming.
I stared at him, the coward of a witch who thought he could touch what was mine, letting him see the depth of my fury.
And, oh, how he trembled.
The large, tattooed swine who had shown no hesitation brutalizing my mate shook before me, his massive frame betraying its weakness in the subtle quiver of his muscles. His barrel chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, his previous bravado already unraveling.
“The Storm-bringer didn’t say anything about her being a demon’s mate,” he huffed, trying for defiance, but failing. His chin lifted, but his eyes betrayed him, wide and fearful. “I wouldn’t have touched her if I’d known she was yours.”
Mex spat at the ground, her spine rigid though her face was still pale from the wound she had just received. “So women only have value if they belong to a man? That’s some serious bullshit, if you ask me.”
“I—”
“Spare me.” My voice cut sharper than steel. I turned my head, seeking Delilah through the chaos. I needed to see her. To breathe her in. To remind myself why I was prepared to let my shadows devour the lot of them.
She stood a few paces back, her shoulders squared though exhaustion hung heavy on her frame.
She tried to hide it, but the bond thrummed with the truth—it showed just how much healing Mex had truly cost her, how close she was to collapse.
Yet her skin still glowed faintly, leaking magic she couldn’t contain, her body too full of power to hold it all in.
It reminded me of myself, how my shadows slipped free when rage owned me. Delilah truly was my opposite and my equal: her inner light spilling over even when she tried to contain it, while I bled nothing but darkness.
Protect the light.
Words I’d heard a million times before, words I had tattooed on my very flesh, but never had they held more meaning than they did in that moment.
Delilah was my light, and I would protect her with everything I had.
As though she sensed my gaze, she lifted her chin and met my eyes. Her blue irises softened to silver, gratitude pulsing down the bond between us. Love answered in my chest—raw, fierce, unyielding.
No one would harm her ever again. Not while I still drew breath.
I turned back to the trembling man, curling my lip. He would learn what it meant to cross me.
Pain. I would carve it into his bones until he prayed for death.
“So, the Storm-bringer refused to face me again?” I asked, smirking down at the man who had very little time left to live.
“After he was so easily defeated the last time we faced each other, I am not surprised at his reluctance for a another round. I do have a hard time believing you were the best that the Order had to offer. After all, you were a coward in Boston, and you’re a coward now.
” Rolling my head, I cracked my neck from side to side, my rage a living thing inside me. “And now, you’ll die a coward’s death.”
“Wait—wait a minute.” His voice cracked as he raised his hands, eyes darting to the others for support. They offered him none. “There’s no need to—”
“Boss!” Vine’s shout split the night. He, Mal, and Corson burst through the shadow wall I’d raised, bloodied but unbroken. My pride swelled—my brothers, still whole, still standing.
Still with me.
Vine grinned like a madman, spinning his spear. “Hope we didn’t miss the party.”
“Just getting started,” I replied, eyes narrowing on the witch quaking before me.
Vine’s gaze shifted past me to where two men still held Genevieve captive, her face still filled with fear. “Oh, look, boys. Leftovers.”
Mal sighed and Corson snorted, but Vine was already striding forward, his spear twirling lazily in his hands. “Time to play.” His demon rose within him, his eyes gone black as pitch, the visage of the soul eater he truly was rising in the night.
That was it; the two other witches abandoned their post, the first dropping the grimoire, the spell releasing fully, the second backing away from Genevieve in fear.
Cowards.
Genevieve extricated her hand from the wooden stake that had pierced it, then crumpled to the grass in a sobbing, velvet-covered heap. Mal moved to stand next to her, not offering consolation, just standing silently guard.
“Come on, fellas,” Corson called with fake joviality. His short sword twitched by his side, already bloody and ready for more. “Don’t be like that.”
The two of them bolted for the edges of the clearing, fleeing blindly as their terror overwhelmed them.
But there was nowhere to go.
My wall of shadow rose high and impenetrable, blocking every exit.
The first witch struck it at full speed, and the darkness responded, attempting to swallow him whole.
The man barely had time to scream before the shadows bit into him, blistering his skin wherever it touched.
Thick tendrils wound up his arm, digging like claws beneath his flesh.
He clawed back in blind panic, shrieking as skin sloughed from bone, his arm unraveling into pulpy ruin.
“No! Please, just make it stop!”
The second man froze, paralyzed by horror, his face draining to chalk.
“Move!” the woman shouted, shoving the stunned man out of the way so she could reach her screaming friend. “Fuck!” She hissed, her hands hovering over him as she attempted to quell my ravenous shadows with her magic.
Her attempt was laughable, her magic nowhere near strong enough to dispel my infernal gift.
Over and over, she tried, sending wave after wave of her power toward him, but nothing worked, and she was too frightened of suffering the same fate to get any closer.
Instead, she crawled away, cowering next to her hell hound as she watched the nightmare play out.
Finally, the man collapsed, the flesh of his arm liquefying into steaming pools on the dewy grass, sobs choking out between his screams. The scent of rotten meat and the iron of spilled blood filled the night.
“Damn, Archer.” Mex’s voice was low, almost reverent, as she took in the scene. “You’ve learned some new tricks since I saw you last.”
I hummed, noncommittal. She didn’t need to know that I hadn’t truly commanded any of it. The shadows had acted on their own, drunk on the power coursing through me since bonding with Delilah. Stronger. Wilder. Hungrier.
The only conscious thought I’d had was the desperate need to protect my mate. My magic had done the rest.
Delilah’s sharp inhale pulled me back. She stood stock-still beside me, eyes wide as she took in the horror unfolding in the clearing.
“Archer,” she breathed, her voice soft and pained.
Her hand slid to my arm, a touch more powerful than any shackle or restraint. “Archer, that’s enough. Make it stop.”
Her eyes glistened, blue orbs gone wet with unshed tears. Not for herself, but for the writhing man. For the suffering I had unleashed.
She felt it, that pain, and something inside me recoiled at that realization. Through the bond I could feel her devastation, her unrelenting compassion for someone who would have only caused her harm. My mate bore the weight of his agony as though it were her own.
And, for the first time, I truly recognized then the chasm between us.
I was a demon. A soldier of Lucifer’s Host. Judgment, torment, and vengeance were tattooed into my very soul. Since the Fall, it had been my duty—our duty—to scour the earth clean of sinners and deliver them to their eternal punishment. I had never questioned it, never once questioned my purpose.
But Delilah…she had lived with a different purpose, one of life and love, of hope and devotion.
She was light.
And I? I had been forged in darkness. The very essence of shadow
She had known this, known me, and still, she had chosen me. She loved me as I was, shadows and all. She would accept me—of that I had no doubt. Yet as her touch burned into my skin and her plea echoed through me, something shifted.
I didn’t want her to simply accept what I was. I wanted to be more.
More than endless torment. More than a vessel for pain and suffering.
I could be judgment.
But I could also be justice.
For her, I could be anything.
Resolved, I swept my hand wide. The shadows recoiled with a hiss, retreating into me as the man fell still, gasping, broken. His arm was ruined, his flesh scarred and mangled, but he lived. He would remember. He would fear.
The silence that followed was thick. Even the night insects seemed to pause, as though the garden itself watched, waiting.
Delilah’s hand lingered on my arm, a tremor in her fingers. Relief flowed through the bond, bright as morning light, and my chest ached with it. She leaned close, her voice whisper soft. “Thank you.”
The words pierced deeper than any blade. For her, I would hold back the storm. For her, I would choose restraint.
The tattooed man still crouched before me, shuddering, as his eyes darted to his injured companion, then to the wall of shadows that still loomed around us. Terror dripped from him like sweat, and the woman and the hound approached him, seeming to feel they were safer together.
While the two witches cowered, the hound stared me down, lips drawn back as it snarled in our direction, refusing to be cowed.
“Back, Ferox!” the woman shouted, but the hound would not be swayed. It crept across the grass, head low and ears back, red eyes burning like coals in the fading night.
Its growl was a low thunder, vibrating the ground beneath our boots. Drool hissed as it struck the grass, smoke rising where it fell. Every muscle in its body coiled, promising blood.
I raised my clawed hands, prepared to fight, to defend my mate and my men against the animal I knew would be vicious in its attack, when movement in the grass caught my eye.
Waddling across the lawn, moving faster than I would have thought possible, was the hedgehog, Pandora, appearing to be determined to place herself between the hound and her mistress.
“No, little bestie!” Vine shouted, having seen the tiny, spiked thing at the same time I did. “Don’t do it! I’ll save you!”
He moved, ready to reach down and scoop the creature out of harm’s way, but before he could get near, the hedgehog began to change, her form shifting before our very eyes.
We all stood, open mouthed, as Pandora, my mate’s tiny familiar, became something else entirely.
Her small body shimmered, bones stretching, fur bristling as the air warped around her.
In a matter of a few heartbeats, the hedgehog was gone, replaced by something monstrous and magnificent—an armored titan with spines like spears and eyes like two radiant suns.
The witches scrambled back, the horrific-looking creature looming above them, and I turned my head to see a small, prideful smile on my witch’s face.
“Holy Hell,” Vine breathed, his tone awed, as he watched Pandora face off against the hell hound, each of them showing their vicious teeth in a battle of dominance.
Suddenly, the hound lunged, making a very misguided attempt at reaching the soft underbelly of the massive hedgehog familiar.
With seemingly no effort, Pandora dodged, then retaliated, her pointed nose swinging sideways as the hound dove for her throat, and those sharp teeth sunk into the black, burning flesh of the hound.
The sound the creature made was awful, a pained cry that scraped jaggedly across the night, heavy with anger and regret.
She shook the beast like a ragdoll, a furious growl resonating from her heavy chest, before her jaws snapped shut with the sound of shattering bone.
The hell hound writhed once, twice—and then she bit down again, harder, tearing through sinew and spine.
The animal fell still, its limp body hanging from her maw, then slowly disappeared into the depths of her throat.
Pandora consumed the beast piece by piece, her massive jaws working methodically until nothing remained but a curl of acrid smoke and a smear of ash on the damp grass.
The center of the maze was draped in stunned silence, all of us staring at the scene that had just played out.
When Pandora casually shrank back into her small, prickly form, she shook herself once, scattering motes of gray ash from her spines before toddling toward Delilah with an almost dainty squeak. The absurdity of it—such carnage, followed by that petite, unbothered waddle—left even me speechless.
Delilah’s lips curved into the smallest, proudest smile, as though she’d always known her familiar had been capable of such an incredible feat. Only then did she crouch, gathering Pandora close with tenderness that seemed preposterous absurd after such violence.
“I told you she didn’t like hell hounds,” Delilah said quietly, and Vine let out a disbelieving huff.
“No shit, bestie.”