Divine Wrath, page 1
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Copyright © 2016 by Sonya Bateman
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Char Adlesperger, Wicked Cover Designs
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
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* * This book was previously published as Running Blind / Hunted under the pseudonym S.W. Vaughn. This version has been revised / updated since the original publication. * *
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More books by Sonya Bateman
The DeathSpeaker Codex
Available now from Amazon and Kindle Unlimited
WRONG SIDE OF HELL | Book 1
FIELDS OF BLOOD | Book 2
REALM OF MIRRORS | Book 3
RETURN OF THE HUNTERS | Book 4
CITY OF SECRETS | Book 5
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COMING SOON:
PRISON OF HORRORS
The DeathSpeaker Codex, Book 6
The Gavyn Donatti series – Available for Kindle and wherever books are sold
MASTER OF NONE
One unlucky thief. One unlikely genie. One very odd couple.
MASTER AND APPRENTICE
A deadly cult. An unbreakable curse. The rules are simple: Learn to kill…or die trying.
Chapter 1
Las Vegas, Nevada
Grace heard the words bouncing between the security chief’s ears. They weren’t anywhere near the ones coming out of his mouth.
“You can leave just as soon as we finish checking your identification and reviewing the tapes. It’s standard procedure whenever a … guest wins such a large amount,” he said. And thought: No way you’re twenty-one. If you’re twenty-one, then I’m Elvis goddamn Presley. And I know you cheated, you smug bitch. I’ll catch you, and I’m gonna laugh when they haul your pretty ass off to jail.
Unfortunately, he was right on both counts. She wasn’t twenty-one, and she had cheated. Sort of. She also knew he couldn’t prove it. The knowledge provided little comfort. She tried not to hate him, knew he was just doing his job. But he didn’t have to be such a dick about it.
Maybe she shouldn’t have taken the slots and the blackjack table. If she’d stuck with one or the other, they wouldn’t have been suspicious. But she wanted to stay out of the casinos for as long as possible this time, and the slots jackpot hadn’t been enough. If the place wasn’t so damned stingy on the payouts, she would have stopped there.
“Ms. Donovan, are you sure there isn’t anything you want to tell me?” Confess, damn it. My shift was supposed to end half an hour ago.
Tough shit, Grace thought. She’d already been in this sweltering office for two hours, breathing in body odor and bitterness from a man who watched people make and lose fortunes every night, while he inched along on his casino salary and cleaned up the messes gamblers made. She did feel sorry for him, but this wasn’t any easier on her. She had no choice — it was this, or starve.
“No,” she said at last. She’d learned the less she said, the better.
He glowered at her. Before he could think of a smart-ass reply, and say something bland to cover it, his desk phone rang. He picked it up with a gruff, “Lauder, security.” He paused. “Yes, she’s still here.” His eyes narrowed. “You sure? You ran it twice?” A beat. “What about the tape?” After a longer pause, he frowned and hung up. “You check out, Ms. Donovan. I’ll just ask you to fill out a form, and then you’re free to go, with our apologies.” And if you ever step foot in here again, I’ll be watching you. Closely.
Grace kept her features blank. She’d almost gotten the hang of tuning out other people’s thoughts, but the emotionally charged ones still insisted on coming through. The form he slid across the desk was standard: name, reason for visiting Las Vegas, address of the hotel, a yes/no checkbox for felony convictions with space to explain a positive reply. She gripped the pen, envisioned her current alias before she filled in the blanks. Susan Donovan, visiting for pleasure, staying at the fabulously cockroach-infested, off-the-strip Three Sailors Motel. No convictions.
It wasn’t exactly a lie. Being a freak wasn’t a crime, and she’d been a minor when everyone found out. Her court records had been sealed.
She slid the form across the desk and waited. The security chief’s gaze skated over the paper. He huffed, stowed the form in a drawer, and stood. Her bag sat near his feet. He scooped it up and placed it on the desk, as though it contained ten pounds of dog shit instead of a change of clothing and a stack of cashier’s checks—five grand apiece, fifty thousand altogether. The casinos never liked paying out that way, but she couldn’t risk anything as traceable as a bank account, nor could she carry around that much cash. “I assume you can find your way out,” the security chief said.
He must have calmed down. Grace couldn’t hear his thoughts any more.
“Yes. Thank you.” She picked up the single-strap backpack, slung it over a shoulder, and headed out. Down the access stairs, through the steel door, into the frenetic and blistering atmosphere of the casino floor. Hundreds of voices blended in a thick soup of conversation, good-luck prayers, muttered dissatisfaction and the occasional jubilant victory cry. Other sounds punctuated the human hubbub: the clatter-click-rattle of the roulette wheel, beeps and bells and cheery mocking jingles from the banks of slots and video poker machines, dice clacking in cupped hands and tumbling over felt.
Grace moved with piston purpose through the crowd, ignoring the inevitable drink offers and requests for lucky dice-blows. From the moment she’d entered this neon nightmare, she’d felt a disturbing, electric undercurrent that whispered impending disaster. Casino security had thwarted her get-in-get-out strategy, and intuition — or whatever this crap was she had — screamed foul.
The guards at the front door glared, but they let her pass without question. She stepped outside expecting the panic to ease.
It didn’t.
The motel. She’d feel better once she returned to her room, and the few possessions that represented her portable home. Her contacts — blue today — had dried relentlessly during her stint in the security room, and a burning itch consumed her eyes. She couldn’t take them out until she reached the safety of the motel. She’d left her wraparounds in her briefcase.
Where were the cabs? A few of them always idled at the casinos, hoping to score fares giddy with takes, and in generous moods. But the street was practically deserted. She heard engines zipping in the distance, and turned right on the crowded sidewalk.
A brisk night wind kicked up and brought tears to her parched eyes. Her right contact shifted. Damn it! Squeezing her eye shut, she edged away from the crowd and leaned against the building beside the casino, a sagging shanty tacked on to the neighboring abandoned highrise. She went for casual: ho hum, just another disillusioned gambler bemoaning my fate, leave me alone, thanks. A cigarette would have helped, but she’d left those in the room too.
She turned her head, right side away from the crowd, still thinking bland thoughts. Oh, look at this interesting door. She surreptitiously pushed the contact back into place, and then stared. The door actually was interesting. Faded, cracked and splintering, warped in the frame, but fitted with a gleaming brass knob and fresh hinges.
Above the door, a single wide brushstroke of deep red paint had hardened on the lintel like dried blood.
The door called to her. She reached for the knob, watched her fingers brush the brass surface as though they belonged to someone else. They met pulsating warmth instead of cold metal. The electric undercurrent surged, became raw power hammering her nerves.
Get back!
Though she’d never heard the voice, Grace obeyed the mental command instantly. The door burst open and missed her by a breath. A disheveled young woman flew out, into her. They both went down.
Flew. The other girl been flying. Her feet hadn’t touched the ground.
The assailant jerked her head back. Her eyes met Grace’s. Her bright green, glowing eyes.
Shock rendered Grace speechless. She’d never seen another person with eyes like that. Like her own, when she wasn’t hiding them with contacts. Was this why she’d been drawn here? For nearly six years, Grace had known her mysterious affliction to be unique. But here was this girl, with glowing eyes. Flying. And looking like the Devil would burst out the door after her, and drag her into the flames of Hell.
The girl scrambled off and righted herself. Grace struggled to her feet. The girl stood spring-loaded, glancing behind her, left, right.
Grace had to talk to her. She opened her mouth.
A man appeared beside the young woman. Just appeared, from empty air. Heartbreak-beautiful, muscled as sin. Covered in streaks of blood and splashes of gore. The man clamped crimson-coated hands on either side of the girl’s skull and forced her to her knees. Moving to stand on her shins, the bloodied apparition twisted hard — and ripped her head from her shoulders with a single, grisly pull.
The world stopped. Someone screamed.
Grace stumbled back and pressed into the shadow of the highrise. The killer’s eyes followed her. He still held the head, oblivious to the grotesque and dripping spectacle. More screams rent the air. Someone vomited. Grace heard retching, a thick splash.
With her gaze locked on the killer, she watched a flame-haired woman wink into existence beside him. The woman’s furious expression moved from the severed head to the killer’s blank face. “You idiot!” she spat. “Put that down. Now.”
The killer dropped the head. It landed on the girl’s crumpled body, bounced, and rolled a few feet to stop in front of Grace. She whimpered, held her breath. The woman’s gaze sought the shadows. Her eyes narrowed.
I’ve marked you, Nephilim scum. Your time is up.
The voice that filled Grace’s head was not her own. Instinct commanded her to run. Before she could move, the woman gripped the killer’s wrist, and they vanished.
Chapter 2
Silver shifted them to the ravine, right in front of his crypt. At least he’d done something right. Lorin released his wrist, stepped away, and backhanded him. He flinched and dropped his gaze.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”
“I...”
“Shut up. Your voice sickens me.” Lorin touched the base of her throat. She felt the raised outline of the inverted triangle there, burned into her flesh. She’d been Marked. Branded like a cow. The hunters had been too close in Vegas.
“Look at me,” she demanded. Silver raised his head. She pulled the collar of her shirt down to expose the blackened Mark. “If I’m destroyed, I can’t come back. That means you’ll stay locked up forever. Do you understand that?”
Silver didn’t reply. Lorin recalled that she’d told him not to speak.
“Answer.”
“Yes, Lorin.”
“Go and wash up. You reek of Nephilim.”
Lorin watched him walk along the floor of the ravine. Her monster, her burden. Her son. She’d been unable to kill him at birth — not for lack of trying, though — and so had been compelled to keep his existence secret. For six centuries. His power only increased, even when she left him chained inside his crypt for decades at a time.
At least he was useful for killing mules. The ten he’d slaughtered tonight represented the most Nephilim she’d found in one place since Sri Lanka. Still, discovering another of the creatures outside the nest had stained her victory. She would’ve had Silver kill it there in the open, since he’d already screwed up once, if she hadn’t felt the Presence saturating the air like an oil slick — and simultaneously experienced the burn of the Mark. Now the Bright Host hunters had her scent, and she’d be pursued relentlessly.
She would not let Silver bring about her destruction.
Damn him. Silver wasn’t equipped to make decisions. She’d never let him. She controlled his every move, every thought. If he were allowed to do as he pleased, Lorin suspected he could destroy all of Creation — and he just might. Without a tight leash, he could quickly become a death machine. It was all he knew: how to kill. And he did it spectacularly.
She smiled, remembering the way he’d ripped off a mule’s arm and used it to bludgeon another’s skull. She’d never taught him that. He was getting creative.
The chill of night air saturated the ravine, a comforting cloak. Lorin knew the hunters would have trouble finding her in upstate New York. After all, Silver had remained undiscovered in his living tomb for centuries now. But she wouldn’t stay long. She wanted to find that stray they’d left behind in Vegas, and watch Silver tear it apart. No sense wasting her own power, when her son had so much more.
First, though, she wanted to hurt something. Like Silver.
As though responding to her unspoken desires, Silver slid down the embankment wall at the far end of the ravine and started toward her. She glanced around at the brush and detritus, and considered throwing rocks at him for a while. Ultimately, though, stoning him would not satisfy. The rocks only struck once, and he’d heal too quickly.
No matter what she did, he would heal. The bastard always healed. At least she could make him scream, make him suffer.
She spotted a stout oak limb, freshly broken. Nice and straight, a good two inches around at the widest point. She picked it up and began breaking the smaller twigs that sprouted from it, leaving jagged nubs to inflict more damage.
Silver stopped before her and stared at the branch. He shuddered once. Something that resembled fear flickered in his eyes and left. Good.
Lorin pointed to the ground. “On your knees.”
Silver obeyed. Lorin circled him and stared at his back. Blast him for being so powerful, so perfect. For living so long. “You missed one,” she said. “You’ll pay for that. Tomorrow, we go back to find it. Today, you suffer.”
Please don’t...
His voice in her head. Lorin gripped the branch with both hands and swung hard. The impact echoed down the ravine, tore his shirt. “Don’t speak to me. Don’t Reach for me. Your existence disgusts me, miserable freak.”
She drew back again, and halted. Waste not. What she had in mind required considerable power. She’d make him do it. She circled him and held the branch out. “Take it. Impale yourself with it. Understand?”
She almost felt sorry for him. If he would just obey her unconditionally, she wouldn’t have to hurt him so often. But he was too powerful. Even the slightest act of free will made him a threat.
She didn’t feel sorry enough to stop.
Silver shuddered again. He accepted the branch, hesitated, and plunged it into his abdomen. A groan left him. His repulsive, unnatural blood poured on the ground.
“All the way through.”
He drew a pained breath and pushed harder. The branch broke through his back, ripped his shirt further. He sobbed, but said nothing.
Lorin left him kneeling in his blood, and went to find more branches.
Chapter 3
Despite the horror she’d just witnessed, Grace felt oddly calm. That woman—what had she called her? Neffa limb, neffle him? A gibberish word. She wouldn’t think just now about the strength it must require to rip a person’s head clear off, or the fact that the killer and his boss, or whatever she was, apparently had one of those transporters from Star Trek stashed somewhere.
Gradually, she realized the sense of peace had spread to the crowds. No one screamed or ran, or whipped out cell phones to dial 911 — or worse, take pictures or videos. In fact, no one seemed to notice the rather hard-to-miss headless body lying on the sidewalk, or the severed head at Grace’s feet. How had they developed collective amnesia?
Shit. With the killer gone, she looked guilty standing here. She edged out of the shadows, and stared again at the door, left open on gaping gloom. She still felt that sense of electricity flooding everything. Maybe there were more like her — like them — inside.
Maybe she wasn’t alone in the world.
Grace glanced back. No one looked in her direction. She slipped through the gap and closed the door. Seamless dark greeted her inside. Her eyes adjusted enough to realize there was nothing at all here. Just a floor, walls, a ceiling. No furniture, no debris or bare wires. She tried to sense something electrical. A light would be useful. Manipulating machines was another of her abnormal abilities. Thank goodness she hadn’t shared that with her mother. The woman would have had her influencing lottery results, and probably brewing her morning coffee too.
Her mind connected with something, and she urged it to operate. Dim light shone to her right and illuminated stairs leading down. She approached them, stopped, and listened. She heard the steady beat of her heart, her own controlled breathing. Nothing more.
With a shrug, she descended the stairs. The walls blocked her view of whatever awaited her down there. She reached the bottom, and dropped into analytical mode to avoid losing her mind at what she saw.
To the left of the stairs, a massive steel door lay flat on the floor. It looked like someone had ripped the hinges off and let it fall. An arm, without a body, had been dropped on the exposed surface, the elbow bent the wrong way.
The shivers came back with a vengeance.
The dim light situated in the stairwell spared her a clear view of the room beyond the doorway. Still, she could make out vague shapes scattered in heaps and clumps across the floor. She guessed at least one of those shapes was minus an arm.
