“I tried to keep you safe—”
“From what? Finnén? Mytwinthought I was your lover and he almost killed me for it because you persisted in keeping me close. Strange, isn’t it? He could never see the resemblance.”
“You are fraternal. He takes after his sire.”
And he was like her? Great. Blaéz glanced about the filthy backstreet at the roaches scurrying in the overflowing dumpsters. Why was he even having this conversation? Nothing good would come of it, except perhaps, easing her guilt. He wasn’t inclined to do so.
“Here’s the thing about not having a soul. I no longer care.” He dematerialized downtown, wishing she’d left him living in obscurity, growing up as a servant with no knowledge of the truth—of who he really was.
Back in physical form, Blaéz headed for the cages at the warehouse. The strong, fishy stench ripened the air. A fight would keep his mind occupied, because right then, he wanted to go to Darci. Needed her touch, needed her to warm the emptiness inside him.
Rather than ruin her life, he shoved open the metal door leading down to the fighting pit instead. The coppery odor of fresh blood nailed him in the lungs, the opponent’s pain saturating his mind. Hooked on the sensation, he made his way down the dank passage and into the chaotic, brightly lit basement.
Blaéz, get over here—alley off Eldridge Street.
He stopped, debating ignoring Dagan’s telepathic message.
At length, with little choice and his Guardian oath too deeply ingrained, he headed outside again and dematerialized to the Lower East Side. As he took form in a decrepit cul-de-sac not too far from the synagogue, an insidious chill slid over his skin. The acrid stench of sulfur, of malevolence overpowered the place along with grunts and hisses. Steel clashed, reverberating off the grubby walls.
In the midst of a furious battle, Dagan single-handedly fought a horde of demons. He spun around, his long hair flying out like another weapon.
They mentioned you by name,he telepathed.
Maloch. It could only be his doing.
Blaéz didn’t bother summoning his sword. He flew into the horde, slammed one against the wall in a chokehold, and dug into his mind for the truth. The demon squalled at the vicious mental invasion—
A shadowy figure, a guttural tone. “Find who he’s with now…”
What the hell?
The demon broke free before Blaéz could dig out more info, and rammed a fist into his face. Stars exploded behind his eyes. The scourge plowed another blow into Blaéz’s belly, sending him back a few steps.
“You bastards should know I thrive on pain.” With a powerful left hook, Blaéz drove his fist into the demon’s jaw. Bone cracked. The demon howled. “And that’s how it’s done.” Blaéz swiped off the warm, wet gush marring his sight. Probably split his brow.
His heightened hearing picked up a whizzing sound amidst the cacophony. He spun around, and the gleaming red hellfire bolt nailed him dead in the chest. He stumbled back, sucked air into flattened lungs. He’d heard the others curse lavishly when struck by a bolt. He didn’t bother; just let the pain seep through him. But the fucker had ruined his shirt.
He summoned his weapon. His sword took form in his hand. He leaped into the air, blade arching, and decapitated the grinning scourge coming at him like a demented bat. Landing on his feet, Blaéz stumbled.
The curse of the hell-bolt was already weakening him. His vision darkened. Unable to wield his weapon, Blaéz dismissed it. With little choice, he seized the demon’smind and let loose a surge of power. The scourge’s head exploded into bone, brain, and gore. Gray ash rained down to the asphalt. He seized another and detonated it, as well.
A dissonance of screeches flooded the alley as the remaining demons fled, disappearing through the shimmering tear in the mystical veil protecting the realm, and back into Hell.
Blaéz rested a hand on the greasy wall and tried to steady himself. Dizziness crowded him. A coppery smell invaded his nose. He glanced at his chest and the fist-size burn there, his tee glossy with blood. Damn. Guardians could self-heal from almost any injury except this crap.
Dagan jogged over. He pulled out a half-smoked cigar from his pocket, lit the thing and took a drag. “We have another rip in the veils.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “Shit will fly when the Empyrean hears about this.”
Indeed, it would. The mystical veils protected the realm and stopped supernatural evil from entering, but cracks formed, and those demon fuckers had tore through to cross over. It meant Echo had to use her newly burgeoning powers to help mend the rift, fast. Crap would definitely land everywhere since she still wasn’t strong enough to tackle this so soon after coming out of her coma.
“You okay?” Dagan asked, his gaze lowering to Blaéz’s chest.
“Will be.”
Dagan nodded. “I’ll take first shift and keep guard here.”
They would have to watch the rift now until the veils healed naturally—a long process, but it would heal, as long as it wasn’t used again. Right then, Blaéz cared little. He just wanted to get out of here, head back to the castle, crash for a couple of hours. Then he’d be good to go. “Later.”
Blaéz made his way toward a darkened doorway. With a palm braced on a mucky wall splashed with faded graffiti, he shook his head to clear the cottony sensation piling up inside his skull and attempted to dematerialize…nothing. His mind was too foggy to summon that ability.
