“Demons will never be strong enough.”
Bet you wish you’d listened now.
Some days, it didn’t pay to get out of bed. This was definitely one of them. Thorn returned to his horse and tucked his wings in.
Sick to his stomach, he looked out over the battlefield. If he didn’t find them, this would soon be the entire world of man. Nothing would be left.
The world would be a feeding frenzy.
And everything he’d sacrificed his son to protect would have been in vain.
Fuck me.
He’d send out his scouts to find Belial.
Before it was too late.
CHAPTER7
Valteri awakened with a start, his throat every bit as tight as it’d been back when chains had held him securely to a church altar while he’d been bound like an animal and tortured for the pleasure of those who were no better than the monster they accused him of being. The Latin words of the priest rang in his ears as if even now the priest was trying to exorcize the devil from him.
Fury raged through his veins as he felt that shame and degradation all over again.
Instinctively, he ran his hand through his hair, searching for the cross that had been branded into the back of his head. Only when he found the jagged scar hidden by his hair did he realize he’d been dreaming a vague memory of days long ago. Though his feelings might feel fresh, the events were buried.
They were a long, long time ago.
How he wished they were only imagined nightmares. But there was no denying what they’d done to the innocent child he’d once been. That young boy had died a horrible death, and been reborn the monster they’d proclaimed him. One who lacked mercy and humanity.
He’d become like them. The worst of all things.
And with that came the sharp, brutal anger that swept over him, and he had a difficult time remembering that he’d ever been so young, so vulnerable.
So unprotected.
How could anyone ever do such a thing to another person? Never mind a child so helpless?
Bastards all!
Valteri took a deep breath to calm himself.
Brother Jerome had died years ago. Not by his hand as it should have been, but he was dead nonetheless. Yet the old bugger was never quite dead enough.
Never was he far from his thoughts or sight.
One piece of monk’s robe or sheared head would bring it all back to him. Just as the sound of an a capella chant or the sight of a monastery wall. ’Twas enough to turn him Viking and make him want to burn them all to the ground whenever he passed a monastery.
These nightmares should have faded, along with the passing of the bastard priest, and yet they lurked in the farthest reaches of his mind, waiting for his sleep or some chance encounter before they dared make their presence known. Cowardly memories that always attacked him when he was least expecting it.
Damn them!
Why would they not leave him be? He could battle his memories easily enough while awake, but at night, under the cover of darkness and sleep, they attacked and left him sorely battered. Beleaguered to the end of his reason.
Just as they assaulted him whenever he least expected it. A sight or scent that came out of nowhere.
Valteri growled in frustration.
A sudden soft sigh startled him from his thoughts.
