Magic and Alphas: A Paranormal Romance Collection, page 26
If Michael lost, well… it was likely Honor would die as well, which served to make him that much more determined to win.
Michael found Honor’s life force a comforting presence—because as long as he felt that lilac energy, she remained alive—the ultimate motivation to keep going, to succeed. Michael reached down deep and pulled from his Archangel powers. Powers that went above and beyond those of the other immortals from the Hereafter, and used them to heal his wounds. With his battered body mended, Michael caught a second wind. Strength returned, Michael prepared to wade back into the fray. Despite his vow, it wasn’t the safety of humans or his Guard or the Earthly plane that motivated Michael to succeed.
His love for Honor was the sole reason he kept on fighting.
Michael took a moment and closed his eyes. The sounds of battle faded to the background. He called up visions of Honor’s pale, heart-shaped face surrounded by a halo of tumbling copper waves and smiled. Michael inhaled through his nose and swore he could smell the sweet cinnamon of her skin amongst the coppery blood and damp filth of the barn.
“Hmmm, I sense your love for the female, Protector. Pure and untainted.” Death sneered as if he found the very idea of love repulsive. “Love is a weakness. One that won’t distract me. It is your love that shall allow me to defeat you.” Michael glared at Death who was grinning from atop his mud-streaked steed. The Horseman tilted his head. “Mayhap I shall kill you, then find your pretty Watcher. She and I met once, you know, after she interfered to save you that day in the field. Scrumptious little thing. I could keep her—”
“You shall never touch her,” Michael roared. He lunged before Death could open his mouth to respond, and the battle resumed.
* * *
Jack was disgusted. Thoroughly.
The minute he left the body of the nasty King of Wrath, he sought another host, his smoke form darting across the countryside. Unfortunately, the nearest available human was not only small and unattractive, but also female. Jack felt… dirty. Not that he didn’t appreciate the female form. He did. Oh, did he ever. Jack wasn’t picky about who or what he fucked. Immortal, human, daemon, angelus, male, female… That his partners were attractive and enthusiastic was good enough for him. Though Jack hadn’t bedded many angels as almost universally, they avoided him like Pestilence.
Jack ran his delicate (shudder) hands down his prim and proper, ankle-length dress and blew out a long breath. Dante better damn well appreciate the sacrifice Jack was making, throwing away his very dignity to join a battle he had no stake in.
Okay, fine. That last part wasn’t true. In exchange for Jack’s efforts, the Archangel Michael gave his oath that Jack, as a wraith, would forever be safe to walk the Earthly plane. No one would banish him to the Underworld, as was done to most of his kind. Naturally, the Archangel gave Jack a condition to which he must adhere. If Jack broke a law in which the punishment was banishment, Jack would suffer the sentence like any other immortal.
He rolled his eyes. Angels and their damnable rules.
Peering out the window of the female’s chambers at some nobleman’s estate—she might not be pretty, but Jack had been determined to, at the very least, occupy someone of worth, though he had hoped for the nobleman himself—and grimaced at the weather. Rain fell in such a deluge, the drops flew sideways and a biting wind whistled past the leaded windowpanes.
Ugh. Ugly as a troll, female, and soaking wet? Jack didn’t like it… at all.
Jack closed his eyes to dematerialize directly into the barn and… nothing. He tried again with the same result.
“Oh ,for the love of the bloody saints.”
One final attempt and Jack was bristling with irritation. Were the child-sorcerer’s wards keeping him out? That Michael and the others could come and go from the barn, but not Jack, was a mystery. He was no longer in Wrath’s body, so he should be able to materialize directly. Jack frowned. The kid’s wards were the only explanation. With a huff, he dematerialized, resigned to getting thoroughly drenched.
He materialized next to the teenage sorcerer and cursed. Jack took form right smack in the middle of an ankle-deep, muddy ditch of brown water. The sorcerer sat next to it cross-legged, not caring about the two inches of muck beneath his ass or the sting of rain pelting the side of his face and body. In fact, the sorcerer’s demeanor was as cool and collected as if the kid were lounging in the sun.
Fucking weird-ass sorcerer.
“Why can’t I get inside the barn?” Jack barked. Being in a strange body and standing in the rain with mud up to his ankles, made him a tad tetchy. On top of that, Jack was hungry. Right now, he wanted a new body, a shower, a snack, and Dante freed, in that order. No, wait. Mayhap a hard fuck after eating, but before rescuing his friend. Aye, that sounded good. A wraith had to have his priorities sorted out.
Moving so slow Jack wanted to box the stupid stultus’s ears, the sorcerer turned to face Jack, gaping, as if the kid only just realized Jack was there. The boy scanned up and down Jack’s new body and Jack cursed. Even though the kid’s expression didn’t change, his nostrils flared and eyes widened. The little shit was laughing at him. Son of a… Now Jack really wanted to backhand the brat.
Jack heard a muffled snarl and flicked his gaze to the bound and gagged King of Lust. The King lay next to the sorcerer, hogtied on his stomach in the wet, matted grass and puddles of muck. Lust had his face turned to one side so he wouldn’t suffocate in the thick mud and Jack saw the King’s eyes flash the same glowing blue Jack had witnessed many times when Dante’s daemon half came out. He also noticed a faint golden glow encapsulating the King’s body. One Jack recognized as a cage made from the aether.
Lust wasn’t going anywhere.
“Because the wards were constructed to allow only the Guard in and out. You were inside one of the King’s and to be brought outside by an angel, therefore, I didn’t adjust the wards for a wraith.” The kid spoke as calmly as if they were sharing a cup of tea instead of exposed in the midst of a storm that pretty much amounted to a hurricane, whilst a battle for the fate of all immortality took place on the other side of the field.
By the bloody—
“Well now it does matter! Lower the fucking ward so I can go in you little shit, or I’ll possess you next.”
That finally got a reaction out of the so-called Master of Practitioners. Dark eyes bulged and pale though he was, Jack was pleased to note the kid’s complexion went almost pure white.
The sorcerer closed his eyes and mumbled something Jack couldn’t hear over the relentless thunder and hammering rain. Nothing visible happened, but the kid opened his eyes and nodded.
“The ward is down, hurry.”
Jack tossed him a sneer and dematerialized. What he encountered at his destination was nothing short of chaotic carnage. Slick red blood coated everything—immortals, the walls of the barn, and puddles of it covered the dirt floor. Dirt churned up from feet and hoofs, turned to mud as huge leaks that poured rivers of rainwater onto the ground, caked everyone and everything, casting a brown haze over the space. The clang of swords and shouts of both anger and agony slapped Jack in the face, the noise piercing his new host’s tender eardrums.
Miraculously, not a single immortal noticed Jack’s arrival. Possibly due to the deep, plum dress his host wore. The dark color masked him in the heavy shadows where he rematerialized.
“Fuck,” Jack hissed as he took count of the immortals left standing. Three Horsemen, five Daemon Princes, one King, and multiple sancten and angelen. Several Kings moaning on the ground were beginning to regain consciousness. Shit. Thankfully, the place was warded by the kid to prevent the Kings from using their influence on their sons. Otherwise, the princes would be compelled to fight against Michael and the Guard, not with them.
Jack searched furiously for the Archangel warrior, but in the thick mob of bodies and horseflesh, all were similarly mud coated and barely recognizable. Jack only picked out the daemons because the half-breed princes were near to a head taller than most of the Guard members and their eyes were glowing the color of their sins. The Horsemen were easy when they were all atop their steeds. Two were on top, one on the ground, his horse agitated, but most likely near its rider. The fourth, Jack saw neither horse nor immortal.
Jack briefly wondered who took down the missing Horseman and his steed, but was interrupted when a huge body flew through the air and crashed into him. Jack’s fragile female host crumpled like a sheet of paper. Bones snapped and Jack howled as he ended up beneath almost three hundred pounds of furious half-daemon.
“Get off of me,” Jack growled, unable to stop his claws from extending from his fingertips. He couldn’t help it. Any wraith worth their salt would fight if pinned to the ground by an immortal.
The daemon rolled to the side and once Jack pulled his now-aching body into a sitting position, his jaw dropped. Jack met the filthy male next to him many times via Dante. As one of Dante’s best friends, there was no way Jack could avoid coming in contact with the only other immortal Dante truly cared about. Even though Jack knew the Son of Pride would never in his existence be caught streaked in filth and blood, his fine clothes torn and silky hair plastered to his grimy skin, here Davin was, as soiled as a pig in its sty, looking more like a diseased human than a flawless immortal.
“Pride?” Jack asked, shocked by the male’s appearance.
“Shut up, Jack,” Davin snapped. “Don’t say a word.” With both hands, the male wiped the dirt out of his eyes and frowned when he realized his hands were as filthy as his face and did nothing but spread more mud. Giving up on his eyes, Davin pushed his hair back from his forehead. Or tried to. The blood and muck wasn’t kind to the Prince’s beloved, lustrous mane, and Davin couldn’t get his fingers into the matted mess.
“Hmph. You broke my bones and you’re the one in a shitty mood?” Jack breathed deep and winced as his host’s broken ribs healed.
“And you’re a girl,” Davin shot back.
Fuck, Jack forgot about that. He glared at Davin and climbed to his feet, the other male doing the same.
“End this shit already, will you?” Davin groused as one of the mammoth horses swung its back end, and its lethal hooves, dangerously close. “Dante said you could do… something.” Davin waved his hands in Jack’s direction.
“Where is Michael?” Jack had yet to locate the Archangel and would feel better about what he was about to do if Michael knew it was coming.
“I don’t know. Last I saw, he was fighting Death.”
Bloody Fates.
All right then. Whether or not Michael was informed, it was up to Jack to finish this fight. Their “secret weapon” as Dante called him.
“Keep the space around me clear so I can concentrate,” Jack said to Davin. “And when it happens, remember what I said. Drop to the ground and don’t move.”
Eyes narrowed in irritation at being told what to do by a wraith, Davin reluctantly gave Jack a sharp nod. Good. Arguing with Pride was a no win situation, as the male’s characteristic sin refused to allow Davin anything but the last word.
Jack closed his eyes and called upon his abilities. Mayhap he didn’t possess a soul, but every wraith had a manticae, a sort of pouch that contained the essence of a wraith’s life and immortality. The source of Jack’s substantial powers. Powers that caused other immortals to fear his kind and scatter in his presence. Powers that led to the near total banishment of wraiths, something Jack believed akin to genocide.
He couldn’t save the others, but Jack was bloody well going to save himself.
Pulling nearly all available energy from his manticae, Jack felt the full effect of the boost as pure power flowed through his host body. Black particulates zipped around inside, filling every crevice, every vein, every last cell of the female he occupied. When the potent energy grew to the point Jack feared his host’s skin might split open, he knew it was time.
Letting out an ear-piercing, inhuman screech, Jack’s head tipped back and his mouth opened. Dark smoke similar to Jack’s wraith form poured out, spewing from his poor host’s fingers, toes, and mouth. Possibly her ears as well. Jack couldn’t be sure as he had never attempted nor had he witnessed this before. Using this gift, a wraith could defeat just about any other immortal in existence. Unfortunately, as with Jack, the process took time. Time in which a sorcerer could open the portal and banish the wraith before he or she had a chance to dematerialize. And a class nine sorcerer? Forget it. No wraith could win against a class nine, not even if they drained themselves of every last bit of energy and completely emptied their manticae.
But the immortals contained within the rotted, half collapsed barn? Jack had faith his power would trump theirs. He had to, because if it didn’t, and the Horsemen were able to deflect his attack, they were all as good as dead.
* * *
Michael’s entire body hurt. Fates, even his fingernails hurt. He and Death had sparred for what felt like an eternity. Neither immortal could gain an advantage over the other. Death healed a tad faster than Michael, but as an Archangel, Michael tapped into his energy reserves and healed almost as quickly as the Horseman. Michael could take Death down, if only Death gave him the opportunity to grab the Sword of Light from its sheath.
Death was no fool. He never let up on his assault. Coming again and again, not a second between strikes to prevent Michael from drawing his weapon. It was entirely possible the Maledictus Arma wouldn’t kill a Horseman, but at the very least it would gravely injure one. Immortals all around them fell, either wounded or more unlikely, killed. So far, Michael knew only one of his Guard to be dead. He had no idea the state of the Kings or their sons, but supposed most of the downed immortals were simply incapacitated as they healed.
Death lunged at Michael yet again, and Michael braced himself to deflect the incoming blow. Only it never came. In the blink of an eye, Joan had swept the Horseman’s feet out from under him. That was the break Michael needed. He reached back and pulled his sword free. Joan landed another kick, this one directly to Death’s face. His head collided with the ground and Death roared with rage. Rain pelted the Horseman’s blood-smeared face, the mess a sharp contrast from the bright white of the teeth exposed by Death’s furious sneer.
Michael raised the glowing Sword of Light over the fallen Horseman and the weapon’s great power traveled up Michael’s arms to connect with his life force, creating the bond required to kill an immortal, a bond only the one true Protector could create.
“Now, I shall vanquish you and send you to the Great Infernum, you disgusting piece of filth,” Michael growled. Two-handing the sword, he held it over his head, gripped it tight, and used all his strength to thrust the blade down toward Death.
The tip was about to pierce Death’s breastbone when the barn shook from foundation to rafters, a deep, resounding rumble that vibrated throughout the tenuous timber beams. As one, every King and every Horseman, including Death, rose into the air only to stop and hover. Already in motion, Michael’s sword thrust deep into the mud, buried halfway to the hilt. With a loud curse, he yanked it free and roared, furious to have been denied his hard earned kill.
Ready to spread his wings and pull Death out of the invisible grasp that held him high, Michael was stopped by a strong hand bearing down on his shoulder. He turned and bared his teeth in a vicious snarl.
Donovan paid it no mind and spoke in a hurried tone. “Michael, we must needs leave. The portal is about to open.”
Fuck! This was the wraith’s doing.
Michael gave Death one last glare. He took comfort in the fact that the Horseman appeared frightened, a rare expression on an immortal that hadn’t lost a single battle since he came into existence.
The ground shook, causing those on their feet to stumble to and fro. With a deafening crack, a jagged fissure split the room in half, bathing the barn in a fiery red and orange glow. Cries and wails filled the air along with the angry growls of thousands of daemons inside the portal, eager to escape the Underworld. Michael held his breath. If Dionysus weren’t strong or a skilled enough sorcerer, horrific creatures would pour out of the portal to run free upon the Earthly plane. An unseen wave of power and heat rippled outward from the center of the opening and the hairs on Michael’s arms stood on end.
“Michael,” Donovan pleaded. “If we stay, we run the risk of being banished.”
Michael no longer doubted young Dion or his skill. Donovan and he were as safe at the edge of the bottomless crevice as they would be in their own beds. But Donovan was rattled, something Michael didn’t believe possible, as the warrior feared nothing.
Except banishment to the Underworld, which was in truth, a reasonable thing to fear.
Lifting a hand, Michael shot Death a rude gesture and Donovan in tow, dematerialized out of the barn.
They reappeared in the field, surrounded by the others. Daemon Princes, angels, and saints, all watched as the tattered roof blew off the barn and the unholy fires of the Underworld lit the night sky. At some point it the rain ceased and the stars became visible above, tinted reddish-orange from the ominous glow of the portal. No one breathed a word as Dionysus performed his spell. The young practitioner stood facing the barn, arms spread wide. His incantation rang loud and clear, Dion’s voice resonating across the sodden pasture. The light grew brighter until Michael could see everything as clearly as if the sun shone overhead at high noon.
Chilling screams rose from the barn and the air around the cluster of immortals whipped past them, rushing toward the portal whilst stirring loose clothing and hair. With a powerful whoosh and a loud rumble Michael felt in his very bones, the light extinguished and everything became dark and silent.
“It is done.”
Michael blinked and turned to Dion who looked no worse for the wear, save the fact he was sopping wet and muddy. Fates, after all that transpired, Michael needed a moment to gather his scattered thoughts. Dion waited patiently, as did the others, until Michael formed a response.
