a Phoenix Chronicles Novel by Lori Handeland Chapter 1
Freedom’s good. Right?
Unless you’re talking about demons. The earth is full of them. They’re called the Nephilim. They’re the offspring of the fallen angels—or Grigori--and the daughters of men.
Word is God sent the Grigori to keep an eye on the humans. In the end, the angels were the ones who needed watching. So God banished them from the earth—bam, you’re legend--but he left their progeny behind to test us. Eden was a memory. We’d proved we didn’t deserve it. But I don’t think we deserved the Nephilim either.
Fast forward a million millennia. The prophesies of Revelation are bearing down on us like runaway horses. Perhaps four of them? No matter what the forces of good do to prevent the end of the world, nothing’s working.
And that’s where I come in.
Elizabeth Phoenix, Liz to my friends. They call me the leader of the light. I got dropped into the middle of this whole Doomsday mess, and I’m having a helluva time getting back out.
For reasons beyond mine or anyone else’s comprehension, Tartarus opened; the Grigori flew free, and now all hell has broken loose. Literally.
“Dammit, Lizzy! Duck!”
I ducked. Razor sharp claws swooshed through the air right where my head had been. Not only did I duck, but I rolled. Good thing too, since seconds later something sliced into the ground right next to my head.
I’d come to Los Angeles with Jimmy Sanducci, head demon killer and my second in command, to ferret out a nest of varcolacs. Eclipse demons. Kind of rare considering they hail from Romania but I’d seen stranger things.
Sure, the smog in LA could be blamed for the dark splotches that kept appearing over the moon and the sun, which is what everyone around here believed. But I knew better.
The varcolac tugged on its arm, trying to free the needle-like appendages it used for fingers from the desert dust. Part human, part dragon, varcolacs are rumored to eat the sun and the moon, thus causing said eclipses. And if they ever succeeded in actually devouring those celestial bodies, the end of the world is nigh. Since I’ve been trying to prevent that, I dragged Jimmy to LA, and we started hunting.
Before the varcolac could use his other arm to kill me, Sanducci sliced through its neck. When dealing with Nephilim, head slicing usually worked. At the least, being without a head slowed down even the most determined demon.
Jimmy’s dark gaze met mine. “Get up,” he ordered, before turning away to dispatch more bad guys.
I tried not to let the chill in his eyes bother me. Sanducci would never allow anything to hurt me; he’d loved me once. Right now, however, love was no longer on the table, and I had no one to blame for that but myself.
I did a kip, from my back to my feet in one quick movement--a state champion medal in high school gymnastics had been coming in very handy lately--then retrieved my own sword and went back to hacking.
Once in LA it hadn’t taken Jimmy and I long to find the varcolacs in the desert. Most days they appeared human. They lived their lives; they blended in, only going dragon beneath an eclipse.
Which came first the chicken or the egg? The dragon eating the moon or the moon going dark and bringing out the dragon? Hard to say.
What I did know was that as soon as the Grigori flew free, all the Nephilim stopped hiding. Their time had come. And things, for me and my kind, had become a bit dicey.
Previously, each demon killer had worked with a seer—someone who possessed a psychic gift to see past the Nephilim’s human disguise to the demon that lay within.
I’d been a seer once myself, but things had changed.
Oh, I was still psychic—always had been. Since I was old enough to talk, maybe before, I could touch animate and inanimate objects and I’d know things—what people had done, where they’d gone, what they thought.
But later, when I’d become the leader of the light, I’d inherited the ability of the woman who’d raised me. As Ruthie Kane died in my arms, all her power transferred to me. I’d wound up not only psychometric, but suddenly I could channel too. Ruthie might be dead, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t hear her, talk to her, sometimes even see her. She became my conduit. Whenever a Nephilim was near, I heard about it in Ruthie’s whisper on the wind, and when they were up to something major—they always were--I received a vision to tell me all about it. At least until recently.
“Too many,” Jimmy muttered.
We were covered in varcolac blood. We’d hacked up a dozen, but a dozen more had appeared. We needed help, but there wasn’t any to spare.
The federation—that group of demon killers, or DKs, and seers who’d been charged with fighting this supernatural war—had been seriously depleted after Ruthie’s death, and we couldn’t just pick up a few new demon killers at the demon killer superstore. They had to be trained. New seers had to be discovered. I hadn’t had time to do much recruiting, even before the whole Tartarus opening, Grigori escaping incident. And now . . .
Now I wasn’t going to have time to do much but ride the runaway train to Armageddon. Basically, we were fucked. But that didn’t mean we were going to quit. Besides, I had a secret weapon. What I liked to call a vampire in a box.
I lifted my arm, traced my fingers along the magic jeweled dog collar that circled my neck. As long as I wore the thing, I was me. But if I took it off—
“No, Lizzy.”
I glanced at Jimmy. He’d seen me fingering the necklace.
Even if he didn’t know me better than just about anyone, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what I’d been contemplating.
One of the varcolacs charged, dragon wings flapping, talons outstretched. Jimmy hacked off its head with only a token glance in that direction. He was good. I still needed to put a bit more effort into killing things.
I let go of the collar, faced the next varcolac with both hands around my sword and did what needed to be done. I lost track of Jimmy for a while. The damn demons seemed to be multiplying. For every one we killed, two more came out of the darkness. Their wings flickered against the silvery light of the gibbous moon, reminding me of the night the Grigori had flown free, their spirits darkening what had then been a perfectly round orb.
Jimmy cried out, the sound making my heart jolt, my head turn. One of the varcolacs had speared him through the shoulder with a talon, lifting him clear off the ground. Blood dripped into the sand, turning the moon pale grains black. Jimmy’s sword lay at his feet.
There appeared to be an army of dragon men behind them. Their scaly wings flapped in syncopation, filling the sky with a morbid tick-tock. Dragon heads and arms, human legs and torsos that sprouted dragon’s wings.
“Surrender, seer.” The varcolac snorted fire from his nose. Jimmy hissed when the flames started his pants on fire.
“No.” I lopped off the nearest varcolac head, which hit the ground with a dull thud, rolled a few feet and disintegrated into ashes along with the still upright body. If you killed a Nephilim correctly, clean upsweren’t any problem at all.
“You can’t win, he said. “We are legion.”
He was probably right, but giving up . . .
Just wasn’t my style.
We were tied with golden chains, staked into the desert ground, naked. Man, I hated when that happened.
“This is my fault?”
I turned my head. The moon sparkled in his dark eyes, sparked off his hair threading the black strands with silver. The sheen glistened off the supple, bronzed skin of his chest. Sanducci had always been too damn pretty for anyone’s good. Especially mine.
“Had to come to LA,” he continued. “Had to find out what was creeping around in the desert.”
“Isn’t that what we do?”
He sighed. “Yeah. But I don’t think it’s going to go as well as it used to.”
He was right. Where before the federation had been stemming the demon tide, the tide had become a flood, and the dam had a shitload of holes.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Does it look like I’m okay?”
Jimmy and I had always had a volatile relationship. Hell, the first time I’d met him he’d put a snake in my bed; then I’d loosened his teeth. We were twelve.
At seventeen he’d relieved me of my virginity; a year later he’d broken my heart. Same old tune, heard a thousand times before.
Except Jimmy and I weren’t like a thousand other couples. I was psychic and Jimmy—
Jimmy was a dhampir.
My gaze lowered from his face to his gored shoulder, which wasn’t gored anymore. The gaping wound had almost healed.
Most demon killers were breeds—offspring of a Nephilim and a human. With less demon to contend with, they could choose to fight for the forces of good, and because they had demon blood, breeds had supernatural powers. To fight demons of biblical proportion, they needed them.
Jimmy was the son of a vampire and a woman. He was very good at finding and killing bloodsuckers of any type. As a dhampir, Jimmy had mythical strength and speed; he could heal just about anything--although wounds made with a weapon of pure gold took longer, and they stung like a bitch.
My gaze went to the approaching cadre of varcolacs. Each of them now carried a weapon that glinted golden beneath the moon. Hell.
“What do you want to know?” I asked.
“Lizzy,” Jimmy snapped. He was the only one who called me that, the only one who dared.
“Doesn’t cost anything to ask,” I said, but I was just stalling. I wasn’t going to tell them jack. Jimmy wouldn’t either.
Just because he could heal didn’t mean he couldn’t hurt. Though I’d spent the past seven years hating Sanducci’s guts, lulled myself to sleep many a long, lonely night imagining ways to make him cry and scream, beg and bleed, times had changed. Now I just wanted him to forgive me, but I didn’t think he was going to.
“Sanducci and Phoenix, what a prize we have won.”
The varcolacs had returned to their human forms. I’m sure it was difficult to perform torture with claws where your fingers should be.
“You know killing us won’t change anything,” I said.
“Killing you will change everything, seer. You are the leader of the light. If you die without passing on your power, all that power is lost.”
Well, there was that. What they didn’t know was that I was even harder to kill than Jimmy.
The head varcolac—a guy who resembled some minor pretty boy actor on a stupid show with numbers for a title—crouched at my side. Another one—big guy, wide shoulders and teeth that reminded me a lot of the governator before he’d had them fixed—hovered over Jimmy. They both carried sharp, golden spiky things, and they appeared as if they knew what to do with them.
But really how hard was it? Pointy end goes into flesh, rip and tear. The only difficulty was if hurting someone bothered you. These were demons. It didn’t.
“I’m going to give you one chance, seer. You answer my question, I will kill you—” He took the flat of the blade and ran it over my hip. Wherever it touched, I burned. “Quickly.”
In the depths of his eyes, yellow flames flickered. He wasn’t going to kill me quickly no matter what he promised. I wasn’t capable of dying quickly anyway.
The point of the knife, which was big enough to have been fashioned by Bowie himself, pressed to the throbbing vein in my neck. “Where is the key?”
“To what?”
He nicked my skin, and blood trickled. “What do you think, fool? To your house? Your car? Your heart?” The yellow flickered in his eyes again as he lowered the knife. “Ah, your heart. I always wanted to see what one looked like.”
He sliced me across the left breast. The blade grated along bone, and I gritted my teeth to keep from reacting to both the pain and that annoying noise. Wouldn’t do any good.
“She doesn’t know anything about the key,” Jimmy said.
I blinked. That sounded like he did.
The varcolacs exchanged glances. Pretty Boy lifted his chin, a signal to the other, and Jimmy grunted. I caught the scent of fresh blood on the wind.
“Leave him alone.”
The varcolac at my side snorted. “I don’t take orders from you.”
“Who do you take orders from?”
A few weeks back I’d torn their leader limb from limb, literally, so the forces of darkness should be in chaos. That they weren’t was more disturbing than I wanted to admit. Because if hell had flown open and all the demonic fallen angels were now free, that meant the one who’d instigated the rebellion in the first place was free too. And we all know who that is.
“Samyaza,” I said. Another name for Satan. There were quite a few of them. “Beelzebub is pulling your strings?”
Yellow flared in his eyes. He was pissed about something. But what? I shifted. I was tied pretty tightly, and any movement caused the golden chains to scrape my skin. The burn was excruciating, but I managed to brush my finger against his knee, and suddenly I understood.
“Whoever has the key can command the demons. And you want it to be you.”
Dissension in the ranks. Gotta love it.
The varcolac shrugged. “I don’t take orders well.”
Most Nephilim didn’t. Which made me wonder how Satan planned to rule this rock. Simple answer--he was going to need the key too.
What I’m referring to is the Key of Solomon, a grimoire or book of spells, supposedly composed by King Solomon. In it are incantations used to summon, release and command demons--for starters. Over the years several translations had been made, but none of them were complete. What we were looking for was the original copy, which held everything.
Unfortunately, no one knew where that was. The last person to see it had been a rabbi by the name of Turnblat. Wild dogs—code for shape-shifters—had killed him, and the key hadn’t been found in his personal affects.
I’d figured the Nephilim had it. How else had the damn demons flown free? But if they were asking us where it was . . . Well that threw things into a whole new light.
“Where is the key?” the varcolac demanded again.
“Seriously, pal, we thought you had it.”
“Lizzy!”
My name ended in a curse as the other varcolac cut Jimmy again. He’d heal, hell, so would I, although I kinda hoped they wouldn’t notice. So far the Nephilim didn’t know all the things I could do, and I’d like to keep it that way.
“Why would we have it?” the varcolac asked.
“You killed Rabbi Turnblat.”
He grinned. “Not me personally.”
“Then you took the key.” He shook his head; I managed to shrug without moving my chains. “Someone did. You’d better start slapping around the minions.”
For an instant, doubt flickered along with the yellow flames in the varcolac’s eyes, then he scowled. “We know you have it. The key is with the Phoenix. That is what the rabbi said.”
I had a feeling the rabbi would have said just about anything when confronted with whatever Nephilim had been sent to kill him, maybe even the truth, but--
“I don’t have it. Swear to God.”
The varcolac hissed, and I rolled my eyes. The name of God didn’t hurt them. If it did I’d be singing hymns 24-7.
“You will tell us. I will make you.” He lifted the golden knife and tried to slice my neck, but the dog collar prevented it. With a sound of annoyance, he reached for the latch.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I murmured.
He ignored me.
“Don’t!” Jimmy shouted. “She needs to have that collar on. Shit!”
I shifted my gaze. The muscle bound varcolac had begun to hack at Jimmy in earnest. “Knock that off!”I ordered.
The varcolac nearest to me grinned. “And who will make us?”
“I might.”
He leaned closer, put his face right next to mine. “You are bound, seer. You will never be free again. You will tell us everything we want to know. You will watch us kill your ‘minion,’” His lip pulled back in snarl. “Then we will satisfy ourselves on your body—all of us and we are legion. If you are still in one piece, and this I doubt, then we will make you beg to die.” He licked my cheek, and his breath smelled of rot. “Where is the key?”
“Fuck you.”
He tried to nick my throat again--exactly what I was after. When his knife encountered my jeweled collar, he returned his attention to the clasp, fussed and fiddled, but eventually released it.
The breeze stilled. Jimmy murmured, “Uh-oh.”
The change came over me like a flash flood, a forest fire, a tornado—natural but deadly. The collar kept my inner nature contained. Without it, I became the new and improved me.
Not really a problem when I was killing demons. The trouble came when it was time to put the vampire back into the box. There were very few beings on this earth that were capable of it, and right now one of them was chained to the ground.
The varcolac had glanced at Jimmy when he said “uh-oh,” now he glanced back and his eyes widened. Mine must be bright red.
He tried to scramble away. Before he could, I ate his nose. He wasn’t going to need it anymore. Then I sank my fangs into his neck and drank. Nephilim blood tastes like candy, and the rush . . . pure sugar.
Free. What a fantastic word.
The chains flapped about—striking me here and there, making me burn. I slid my fingers between the cuffs and skin, broke them off and tossed them aside. Sure that stung a little, but it didn’t last long enough to matter.
The varcolac leader wasn’t dead yet, an easy fix. I picked him up and yanked his head free of the rest of him. He was ashes before the two halves hit the ground.
“Who’s next?” I asked.
“You-you—you’re a vampire,” Jimmy’s captor stuttered.
“What was your first clue?”
I breathed in, relishing the fear and uncertainty. When I was like this colors were brighter, smells so much smellier, sounds reached me from miles away as if they were right next to me. I could hear blood coursing through veins, the increase in the swish-swash signaling terror. Anticipating the flavor, I licked my lips.
I was so strong I could do anything. Kill anyone. I had no conscience, no morality, not a worry in this world or any other.
“I-I-I’ll kill him.” The varcolac had the knife to Jimmy’s throat. I reached out and snatched the fool by his Adam’s Apple—in this form I was so fast my movements became a blur--tore it out with one sharp yank. The blood washed over Jimmy like a warm spring rain.
“Sheesh, Lizzy.”
I licked my fingers. “You’re welcome.”
As I turned away, what remained of the varcolac burst into ashes, the remnants sticking to Jimmy’s glistening skin like feathers on tar.
I’ll give the varcolacs credit. They didn’t run. They came at me like an army.
But they didn’t stand a chance. Excerpted from APOCALYPSE HAPPENS Copyright Lori Handeland St. Martin's Press ISBN 978-0312366025 |
