“They took me to this place and…there was another man, a good man, a fighter who tried to help me… Where are we now? This isn’t a hospital?”
He was still fuzzy, his thought process irregular. Jude and Father Clementine were suddenly in the room. They must’ve heard my exclamation. Father rushed around me and placed his palm on Dad’s forehead. Ordinarily, this looked like a man checking for fever, but I sensed the energy revving in the room, vibrating in the air.
Father Clementine smiled. “He seems to be doing much better, but he still needs his rest.”
A sigh of relief whistled out of me. “You hear that, Dad? You’re going to be okay.”
Of course, he didn’t even know he’d been stabbed through the chest with a broadsword. He still seemed out of sorts, unable to comprehend everything going on around him.
“Genevieve,” said Jude with a hand on my shoulder. “We have to go.”
Father Clementine turned up the oil lamp as the darkness crept in. I hated to leave my father, but he was in the best of hands.
I leaned over and kissed him, pressing my cheek to his, trying not to brush his wound and hurt him. “I love you, Dad. I’ve got to go, but I’ll be back soon.”
“Love you, sweetheart.”
He didn’t even ask where I was going. His eyes slid closed again when Father Clementine placed his palms over the wound and began his repetition of healing prayers.
“Good luck,” said Dommiel from the darkened corner.
Jude and I both turned at the door.
“Thank you,” replied Jude.
With all the animosity and history of nastiness between these two, it was the most humble and grateful
thank you
I’d ever heard. It was appreciation for more than Dommiel’s well-wishes. It was for the demon risking his own life to help me. Yes, Dommiel had admitted he’d done it for selfish reasons, but we all knew that wasn’t all true. Mostly true, but not all. There was a seed of good in that cantankerous demon. I wondered what sort of life he would lead from here and hoped that he would change his ways, even just a little.
I slipped on my leather jacket at the back door. Jude had been wearing his for an hour, anxious to go. He was nervous. So was I. We marched out into the cold, crunching on the snow as we pushed open the gate and passed beyond the wards. Jude and I stood facing each other. He looked up. I followed suit.
The night was clear and bright, the moon a perfect silver globe hanging above us, so serene, casting moon shadows on the freshly fallen snow. Tonight was definitely the night. My VS tingled with anticipation of events to come.
“Before we’re no longer alone and the world goes to hell, I wanted to tell you something,” Jude said.
“Yes?” My teeth chattered, more from nerves than the cold.
“If anything should happen to me or if I should get into trouble and Damas tries to use me as bait to draw you into a vulnerable position, you must promise that you won’t hand yourself over or pull some heroic bullshit of any kind.”
I stifled a laugh. “Look who’s calling the kettle black.”
“What are you talking about? Why would I speak to a kettle?”
I blanked for a second. “Jude. Are you telling me you’ve never heard this expression, about the pot calling the kettle black?”
“No. That’s a common expression?”
“Jude Delacroix. What the hell? I swear, for a man of your infinite years, you know very little about pop culture. Or even twentieth-century culture.”
“Pop culture isn’t relevant to expelling demons.”
“Right. But still, it’s kind of ridiculous the things you don’t know compared to the things you do.”
“So what does this mean? Calling the kettle black?”
“It means that you’re one to talk. You’re telling me not to do something that you’ve done a hundred times already.”
“You’re exaggerating. And I’m expendable. There are other Dominus Daemonum. There is only one Vessel of Light to lead the Great War.”
I punched him in the shoulder, hurting my knuckles more than him. “Ow. To me, you’re not expendable. There is only one Jude, father of my child, and I will have you healthy and whole after this fucking night is over.”
“Don’t be angry. Your mood can certainly turn on a dime these days.”
“Are you calling me moody again?” Didn’t men know what not to say to a moody woman? I was getting hotter by the minute. “And how the hell do you know the phrase ‘turn on a dime’ and yet you don’t know the pot calling the kettle black? You just—”
He grabbed me by both arms, held me still and slanted his lips over mine, silencing me with a toe-tingling kiss that had my head spinning into orbit. When my body grew pliant and melded against his, a soft moan humming deep in my throat, he nipped lightly. Our breaths mingled. My senses reeled, my underlight primed and beaming like the moon above us.
“Better?” he asked in a husky whisper.
“Yes.” I laced my fingers behind his nape. “But you won’t be able to solve all our arguments by kissing me, you know.”
“Oh, my heart. I have other weapons in my arsenal.”
Before my head could fall into the gutter where that comment was leading me, we spun into the Void toward our destiny.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jude and I waited on Southwark Bridge in London. He’d taken me for a long walk along the streets of London before we were to meet George. He didn’t tell me why. I didn’t ask. I’d thought we were meeting with George and Kat early to formulate a plan. But what plan could we formulate when fate held the cards?
As we walked, hand in hand, the crisp night air awakening my senses, I spun a cast of illusion to cover my underlight growing brighter with every block. Every now and then, Jude would say something like, “Never drop the connection with your Vessel power.” He’d stop at a shop window. “Remember that I’m there. Though you must face Bamal’s Vessel on your own, I’ll still be there.” I’d nod, and we’d walk on.
When we finally made it to our destination at the center of Southwark Bridge, the tiered lamps breaking through an unusual fog, he pulled me to a stop to face him.
“And know, Genevieve, that you are the Vessel of Light spoken of in the prophecy.”
“But the prophecy only speaks of probable events, not definites. I may not win.”
He paused, studying me the way he used to when we first met, a curious expression of keen observation crossing his features. “You will,
mon coeur
. I have no doubt.”
I was glad one of us was so confident, but it did little to assuage my fears. One line from the prophecy kept repeating in my mind.
A sacrificial lamb must die; her blood must pool under darkened sky.
This didn’t appear to be a possible outcome but something that
must
happen, ordered by the fates. I looked up at the moon, shining like a silver beacon for the world to see. The hour of the eclipse drew near.
Footsteps approached. We both turned. I recognized Kat’s slim silhouette and swinging ponytail as she emerged from the mist. George walked at her side, Xander and Dorian behind them.
Kat didn’t even pause but pulled me into her arms at once. She said nothing, her green eyes swirling with black residue saying it all. This was it.
“Xander, are you well enough?” Jude asked.
“I’m well enough to kick the bloody hell out of a few demons.”
George held up his hand. “There is no fighting until Genevieve has faced Bamal’s Vessel.”
“We know,” said Dorian, his usual charming smile nowhere to be found.
“Where’s Uriel?” asked Jude.
“He’ll already be there,” replied George.
“It’s time to go,” I said, feeling my VS pulsing through my veins unbidden. She knew as well as I that it was time.
“The fog is fortunate,” said Xander, glancing over his shoulder and finding no one within eyesight. “Come, sweet Katherine. Destiny awaits,” he said, taking her by the hand.
His flirtation didn’t seem to bother George at all as he took her other hand. No time for petty grievances.
“I’ll lead the sift,” said George.
The rest of us completed the circle, Jude gripping me tight. George took us through the Void at hyperspeed. Then we stood on solid ground, the air chilly and damp.
I gasped at the sight stretching across Dartmoor before us. Under the vibrant moon, I could see the moor rolling away in the distance, and upon every snowy hill stood hundreds, no thousands, of Flamma stretching into the distance. In front of me, the Flamma opened a path leading to a circle of standing stones approximately fifty yards away.
The Flamma of Dark stood to one side—red-eyed demons, black-scaled spawn, multi-clawed beasts. A dragon lifted its horned head above the horde and snuffed the air, blowing a great puff of steam into the cold. On the other side stood row upon row of angels, beaming with a honey-hued underlight. Wings of white, gold, crimson, blue and even black. All wore battle gear, but those with black wings were garbed in uniforms of red tunics and silver breast plates, appearing much like the archangels from mythology. All stood at attention.
“Who are they?” I whispered to Jude.
“St. Michael’s army.”
Uriel stood tall next to a black-winged archangel—piercing blue eyes and a face as hard as granite. Must be St. Michael. I swallowed but had no spit left in my mouth. The archangels had been building their army for this moment. So had the demons.
Kat let go of my hand, but Jude kept me in his grip and led me down the open path. The others walked behind us, escorting me to the ring. All eyes swiveled as we passed. I removed my cast of illusion, letting my presence shine bright. A female angel with royal blue wings and black hair gave me an approving nod.
The Flamma of Light had been told there was a Vessel on earth who may indeed fulfill the prophecy, but now I was here to prove the rumors true. I held my chin high. Whether I won or lost, this was the moment to begin the Great War.
As we drew closer to the circle, I saw Damas standing in a line with four other high demons who resonated with his level of power—the kind that threatened to buckle my knees and toss me like a rag to the ground. Only my constant control using my VS kept me upright. The one to his right had white-blond hair, cut close and sharp, mirroring the stark lines of his face.
“That’s Vadek. The one next to him is Calliban.”
Two more demon princes. Calliban had a swarthy complexion. He smiled with a seductive lure as a sheik would to one of his harem. The two standing to their right made my pulse quicken with dread, like a rabbit in a snare when the wolf is drawing closer.
“The other two are Rook and Simian.”
Jude and George had said these two held no domains on earth, and I knew why. There was no stitch of humanity in their pallid, black-veined faces or their crimson eyes. With long black hair and wearing full-body metallic material, like double-layered chainmail, they had the look of ancient barbarians, monster vampires and modern-day bikers all at once. They were not of this world. So these were the demon princes—all but Danté, who no longer walked any realm, and Bamal.
Damas stood on the edge of the ring of stones, his dark hair perfectly set, sea-green eyes glinting in the moonlight. At his back stood Bellock, malevolence rolling off him in waves. Jude’s grip tightened on me. This was the first time he’d encountered Damas since learning he’d masqueraded as my guardian angel, Thomas. I knew Damas wouldn’t let the moment pass without saying some asshole-worthy comment.
“Judas, how wonderful to see you so healthy,” he said in greeting, proving my premonition immediately. He called him the Roman equivalent of his name, but it was obviously an innuendo linking him to the great betrayer. “You must’ve had an attentive nurse.”
You’d have to be stupid to miss the dripping sarcasm and suggestive tone. I waited for Jude to respond with an equally snarky greeting or a punch to the face. He did not. He held the gaze of the demon prince, rage lining Jude’s features with tension, before finally peering down at me. With a tender smile, he let go of my hand, then mouthed
I’m here
.
Jude rose above Damas and his baiting by refusing to acknowledge him at all. I was so proud, I wanted to throw my arms around his neck, but now was certainly not the time or the place. I walked into the circle of stones, which had been wreathed with tall torches set just beyond the monoliths. Nothing and no one was here. Only a slab of slate rock elevated knee-high sat at the center of the ring.
Jude took his place opposite Damas but kept his sights on me. I unsheathed my katana, readying myself for whatever came next.
A crackling snap announced someone sifting down the path. I watched from the center of the stones as Prince Bamal walked with a steady gait, holding the hand of a red-cloaked woman, her head down and hood up—his Vessel. His henchmen Gorham and Razor, the assholes who’d tried and failed to kidnap me for their master, walked at his back, all arrogance and swagger.
When they reached the edge of the circle, Bamal faced his petite Vessel and whispered low to her. I couldn’t hear and stepped forward out of curiosity. He pulled the mantle of her cloak from her head, revealing waves of blond hair and the beautiful silhouette of—