Bound by Darkness Page 2

  She didn’t make things easy. Despite her weakened state, the girl flailed.

  “No,” she said as she pummeled him with her fist. “I can’t leave.”

  “Honey, if we don’t leave, we’re going to die,” he told her grimly, his fingers struggling to keep their hold on her blood-slicked skin.

  “Let me go.”

  A fireball hit him in the lower back—a teeth-rattling jolt of energy that disintegrated his new shield as easily as the last. He stumbled, but kept running. Conjuring up another shield, he leapt left, over a pew and behind a fluted column. Just in time. The wrought-iron chandelier above his last position crashed to the floor, sending a spray of fine glass and chipped tile in all directions.

  But the dive allowed the girl to slip free of his hold. She slithered under the nearest bench and peered out at him from her dim hideout. Her face was ashen, her eyes dark and wide. And it stirred memories. Memories of another time and another desperate girl. Brian shook his head to regain his focus.

  “This is a church,” she whispered. “This is sanctuary. It can’t hurt me here.”

  He stared at her. Damn. She believed that shit. She had no idea that hallowed ground did little more than inflict a slow burn on a demon’s flesh.

  The column protecting them took an indirect hit, cracked, and partially crumbled. There wasn’t enough time to explain how things really worked, so he reached for her again.

  She flinched away.

  “Sweetheart, please,” he begged. The marble floor trembled under the advancing steps of the demon. “This whole place is about to fall around our ears.”

  But she withdrew into the shadows and shook her head, refusing to be swayed.

  Which left him with only one option: his original choice—fight.

  He closed his eyes, finding and focusing on the throb of power that lay deep in his chest. Drawing hard on the cool white energy, he shoved off the floor. His muscular legs flexed with practiced ease and he flipped over ten pews, landing in the nave with his sword ready for action. The demon again ignored him, maintaining its relentless pursuit of the girl.

  Perfect.

  Brian ducked under the creature’s long, whipping tail and went for its Achilles’ tendons.

  Were they still called that if the creature had cloven hooves?

  The mystical enhancements on his blade cut through the demon’s shield, and he sliced deep. Unfortunately, the demon’s thick, scaly hide served its purpose and his swing fell short of success, unable to sever the tendons completely.

  The demon issued an angry roar that blew out every stained-glass window in the cathedral. It spun around, splintering a dozen pews into matchsticks with its tail, and released a gust of thousand-degree breath in Brian’s direction. Benches all around him licked into a fiery blaze, then disintegrated into ash. But Brian’s shield survived the attack, and so did he. Dripping with sweat but still vigorously alive, he rushed the demon again, leaping high and scoring two slices—one across the beast’s massive chest and the other across its biceps.

  Before he could regroup and deal another blow, however, the demon’s tail slipped around his waist. With anaconda strength, it flicked him aside, tossing him a hundred feet with incredible ease. Brian smacked into a wall, the air in his lungs expelling in a sharp huff. He slid to the floor, dazed, an easy target for the huge chunk of masonry the demon tore from a wall and flung atop him. His shield repelled the worst of the blow, but Brian’s sternum took the rest, cracking and bruising. He heaved to his feet, sucking in a pinched breath.

  Shunting his misery aside, burying his pain beneath a layer of fierce resolve, he sped back toward the demon. He zigzagged around several pillars to present a more erratic target, but the demon managed to lock onto him in spite of his defensive maneuvers. Molten lava hit him at the hip, tore through his shield as if it were made of tissue paper, and burrowed into his skin. Brian staggered.

  A dozen hot, hungry worms chewed through his flesh, right to the bone. Every nerve ending howled. Black spots crowded his vision—a vain attempt by his mind to shut out the pain. Nausea clawed at his belly, and his arms and legs turned to rubber. He might well have fallen to his knees were it not for the feeble words that filtered through his agony-induced haze.

  “Hail Mary ... full of grace ...”

  The girl was praying, using her last breaths to beg forgiveness for her sins.

  Damn it. No. He couldn’t let her die here, not like this. There hadn’t been a mark on her cheek, no sign that she was destined to die today. And she was just a kid, barely a woman. She was a lot like—too much like—Melanie. He’d screwed up with his sister, but this girl he could help. All he had to do was keep his shit together.

  Brian reached deeper, found a last reserve of strength, and forced his legs to move. This fucking demon had to go down. Now.

  He pumped his legs again and again, each step firmer than the last, each step taking him closer to his quarry. Another fireball hit him, but he kept going, the pain an ever-tightening cinch around his chest and yet, somehow, hollow and distant. As if it tore through the guts of someone else. Adjusting his hold on the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword, he envisioned his attack, right through to a successful conclusion.

  Then he leapt.

  Using the creature’s flexed knee for leverage, he launched himself upward, ducking around its massive arm, swinging at the bulging cords of its neck. His Oakeshott-style blade, forged by a very talented mage, had gained new energy from the drips of demon gore sliding down its length. It hummed with supernatural strength, and the glowing blue edge broke through the demon’s shield with reassuring ease. Out of the corner of his eye, Brian saw the angry, undulating tail lash in his direction, but his attention remained locked on his target—the base of the neck, where a fat jugular vein pulsed with undead life.

  The cutting edge of the sword bit deep into the demon’s flesh, carving through hide and sinew and nerves alike. Thick, crimson blood sprayed everywhere. Success. Sort of. The demon’s tail whipped around his torso, circling. It slithered all the way up to his shoulder and then ... squeezed. Ribs, collarbone, shoulder blade—a dozen bones snapped under the relentless choking, the sound a sickening series of crunches. Only when a death-throes shudder racked the demon from head to toe did the pressure ease. Thrashing wildly, the tail flung Brian into the air.

  The demon lurched, fell to its knees, and collapsed face-first in the rubble.

  Brian only vaguely noted the fall. Agony had him firmly in its grip. He’d ended his flight thirty pews to the left, atop his mangled shoulder. His immortal body, aware that the battle was over, was threatening to shut down for repair, but he fought the siren call of blackout. The job wasn’t done. He had to reach the girl.

  Bile in his mouth, vision distorted by a red film, he pushed unsteadily to his feet.

  Every part of his pulverized body howled. His blood pounded in protest, filling his ears with an angry rush. Forcing the pain to recede, he dragged himself across the floor, where he found her still huddled beneath a pew near the doors. Pale and bloodless. Her eyes were closed, her prayers silenced. He knew long before he grasped her slender hand that she was dead; he just didn’t want to believe.

  Gently, he tugged her out of her cave and into his arms. The movement jarred his ravaged shoulder, sending an agonizing stab in the direction of his lungs, but the pain felt right and just. He let his chin sink to his chest. He’d failed her.

  The sudden crackle of electricity didn’t rouse him. Nor did the pop of his ears, or the light scent of lemons. His body clamored for sleep, and he almost gave in to the demand.

  “I came as soon as I heard her prayer,” a quiet male voice said. “But I see I’m too late.”

  Fueled by a wave of bitter frustration, Brian lifted his head to glare at the angel—a lean, casually dressed young man with a cascade of light brown curls falling to his shoulders. For someone so pretty, he exuded a robust intensity. “You guys are always too late.”

&
nbsp; The angel crouched beside him. “Not true. I’ve battled my share of demons.”

  “Since when? I thought psychopomps only collected souls?”

  A half smile curved the angel’s lips. “I’m no psycho-pomp. My name is Uriel.”

  Brian frowned. “As in Archangel Uriel?”

  His visitor nodded offhandedly, as if archangels dropped in on Soul Gatherers every day—a casual attitude matched by his baggy blue jeans and skater-boy sneakers. His gaze wandered to the fallen demon.

  “Congratulations on your victory. It couldn’t have been easy.”

  Yeah, Brian was reminded of how not easy it had been every time he took a breath. His body would heal with immortal speed, but he was still in for several hours of wicked pain. “What is that thing? Bastard ate through my shield with one blow.”

  Uriel stood. “A martial demon. You’re lucky to still be around. Only a handful of Gatherers have survived an encounter with one.”

  Brian blinked. Rumor had it his buddy MacGregor had once battled and defeated two martial demons single-handedly. His estimation of the guy just went up twenty points.

  “I’d best get rid of our large friend,” the archangel said. “He’ll be a little difficult to explain to the authorities. When you’re ready, I’ll collect your souls.”

  Brian’s gaze dropped to the limp girl in his arms and his gut knotted. Brushing a blood-crusted lock of hair away from her face, he studied the keen angles and sunken eyes of an unhappy life ended way too soon. “Sometimes I hate this damn job.”

  Uriel’s voice deepened with sympathy. “We’ll take good care of her—I promise.”

  Then the angel left him to his thoughts.

  Brian gently laid the girl’s body out on the broken tiles. Barely weighs anything, poor kid. About to put his hand on her throat and collect her soul, he paused. A martial demon. One of Satan’s most able-bodied warriors, sent to snuff this little slip of a girl, a ninety-pound threat. How did that make any sense?

  He explored her face again, taking in the big eyes and sharp cheekbones. Was she someone important? Someone powerful? The cheap clothing hanging off her starved frame said otherwise. His gaze slid to her fisted left hand. Seemed unlikely a street kid would own a keepsake the devil himself desired, but she’d clutched that hand tight, never once loosening her grip, right up to the moment of her demise.

  He uncurled her fingers.

  In the center of her palm lay a dull silver coin. Uneven edges, stamped with the image of some curly-haired guy, no date that he could see. It looked old.

  A ripple of unease swept through him as he stared at the coin. He had the sense it was familiar, and yet he was equally convinced he’d never seen it before. Laughing at himself for being superstitious, he picked the coin up with the edge of his shirtsleeve. The back had an engraving of some kind of weird bird.

  “Uriel.”

  In the midst of working some heavenly magic on the demon’s body, white sparkles dripping off both hands, the angel glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

  “This look familiar?” Brian held up the coin.

  Uriel narrowed his eyes. “It’s a Tyrian shekel, once used to pay temple taxes in Jerusalem.”

  “Any chance it’s what the demon was after?”

  The archangel turned back to the creature’s corpse. A casual flick of long fingers, a brilliant flash of white light, and all that remained of the beast was a tidy pile of red sand. Releasing a heavy sigh, Uriel faced Brian once more. “Is there a tiny star stamped on the back?”

  Brian looked closer. “Yeah.”

  “Then it’s possible, yes. Peter marked all thirty coins with a star when he retrieved them from the potter.” He seemed a little disappointed that Brian didn’t immediately understand the reference. “It’s one of the silver pieces Judas received for selling out the Son of God.”

  “Okay.” Ancient, not just old. And likely very valuable. “Does that make it yours?”

  “No, I dare not even touch it.” Uriel raked a hand through his long curls, a crease marring his perfect brow. “The Judas coins are one of a handful of artifacts tainted by a dark evil. The villainy inherent in the coins was so great that they were divided into two separate collections only months after the Crucifixion and sent to opposite ends of the earth. Discovering one in this child’s hand is very unsettling. Seventeen of the coins were under the care of a noble Protector here in New York.”

  A Protector? As in a priest, like Father O’Shaunessy? Shit. “You’re saying the coins are another Pontius Pilate Linen,” he said flatly.

  “Yes.”

  Brian sighed. “All right, hit me with it. The coins have their own special brand of nastiness, right? What do they do?”

  “A true expert in middle-plane artifacts could provide more detail, but if I recall correctly, each coin enhances the holder’s ability to sway those around him. It happens in an unconscious manner, which the holder often interprets as luck. The power of the coins eventually corrupts the holder’s soul, inciting him to commit betrayal on a grand scale. History has also proven that the more coins held, the stronger the influence and the more rapid the decline.”

  “Nice.” Brian did some quick math. “If seventeen coins were here in New York, where are the other thirteen?”

  “That’s uncertain. They were lost during the fall of the Knights Templar in the fourteenth century.”

  “Is it possible Satan already has them?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Why?”

  “Things are too calm. But if he acquired sixteen today, as we must assume he did, that will change. A wave of corruption and scandal will soon sweep the globe. Jobs will be lost, savings will be wiped out, and as the profiteering spreads, people will lose faith in their leaders to right the wrongs. They will become frightened. And frightened people do desperate and foolish things.” Uriel frowned. “Fear is Satan’s most powerful weapon. If he manages to locate the missing thirteen, the turmoil will worsen. He’ll topple governments and fling major corporations into chaos. The fear will escalate. There will be riots and possibly wars. And if he gains the last coin ... Well, I’m sure I don’t need to fill in all the details.”

  An invisible weight settled on Brian’s shoulders. “So, let me see if I have this straight. This little piece of silver in my hand may be the only thing standing between the devil and a cataclysmic butt-fuck of humankind.”

  The angel’s brows soared, but a glimmer of amusement shone in his eyes. “Those wouldn’t be the words I’d use, but yes. That’s the gist of it.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  Brian tucked the coin in his pants pocket. The minute he got back to San Jose, this damned thing was getting dumped into MacGregor’s lap. The last thing the world needed was to be relying on Brian Webster to save the day.

  “Let’s finish up,” the angel urged. “We have less than a minute left before the New York City Fire Department comes charging through the door.”

  Brian nodded.

  His gaze dropped back to the lifeless girl. How wrong was it that he didn’t even know her name? Hell, she was the hero in all this. Maybe she understood what she was doing, and maybe she didn’t—but she gave her life to protect the coin. And no one would ever know it but him. No statue would be erected in her honor; no speech would ever credit her incredible bravery.

  Damn it.

  If a fragile little girl could make that kind of sacrifice, the least he could do was make sure it wasn’t for nothing. Protecting this coin meant something to her. Abandoning it to MacGregor’s care without a second thought would be a slap in the face of her devotion.

  Life had kicked this poor kid in the teeth—repeatedly, by the look of her. She’d spent months, maybe years on the streets—lost, starved, and needy. And in all that time, no one had come to her rescue. No one had saved her.

  Not even him.

  Which meant he now had the deaths of two girls on his conscience.

  Putting a hand on her pale throat,
he gathered her soul.

  2

  A flock of sparrows whirled and spun overhead, chirping with every gambol of the capricious wind. Lena eyed the flawless blue sky from the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, her heart clenched at the blazing normalcy of the beautiful spring morning. It should be raining. Or at least cloudy. Something that acknowledged this world was a lesser place upon the passing of a young girl.

  Or was God that cavalier about Amanda’s loss?

  Continuing her climb, she nodded to the balding Catholic priest standing before a column at the front entrance. He smiled in return, reassuring her that no traces of tears lingered on her face. Makeup covered the purple smudges beneath her weary eyes, and a crisp white shirt and khaki slacks did an admirable job of convincing casual passersby of her serenity.

  But serenity was a state she’d never enjoy again.

  She paid her entrance fee, then made her way to the Egyptian collection in the Sackler Wing. The Temple of Dendur had been her choice of a meeting place. The soothing familiarity gave her strength. It was also immensely popular and busy, often welcoming busloads of children along with a steady stream of visitors to the city. In fact, a horde of uniformed schoolgirls were currently oohing and aahing over the reliefs carved into the worn sandstone walls.

  Aware that the exact timing of the meeting was out of her control, she walked slowly around the exhibit, recalling the breathless excitement in her father’s voice the first time she’d heard him mention the temple. A level of interest he seldom displayed after the death of her mother, except when discussing his artifacts.

  “Excuse me?”

  She spun on her heel.

  Standing behind her was a dark-haired man in a plaid shirt, maybe thirty-five. His arm was hooked over the shoulders of a young girl with glasses. He smiled and held out his Nikon camera. “I wonder if you’d be willing to take a picture of my daughter and me in front of the temple?”