Eve of Destruction Read online

  Who was the faery holding hostage? Ken? Edwards?

  There should be three Marks in there. Where was the third man?

  “Come any closer,” the faery said, “and he gets it.”

  “He ‘gets it’?” Richens laughed. “What rubbish.”

  “Shut your mouth, Richens!” Ken gasped. “This knife is jaggy.”

  Eve paused a moment, surprised to learn that it was Ken who was captive. She was further astonished when she pushed the swinging door open a couple of inches and took in the enfolding situation courtesy of her nictitating lenses.

  Richens stood with his back to her. Two yards in front of him, Ken was kneeling. Behind Ken, a portly and kindly faced woman with gray hair hovered gracefully, supported by impossibly tiny wings.

  It was one of Sleeping Beauty’s faery godmothers; cherry red cheeks, pastel dress, and pointed hat included.

  Unsure of whether to laugh or freak out, Eve surveyed the rest of the kitchen. It was staged as if the owners had walked outside for a short break. Pots and pans sat on the stove, knives and cutting boards littered the island. She looked for Edwards and found him prone on the floor, unconscious. Her feelings of unease increased. The sight of an unmoving body on the filthy ground was just too realistic for her tastes.

  How far would this simulation go? What was the best way to bring it to an end?

  Ken’s eyes were wide, his neck arched away from the blade pressed against his skin. “What do you want?” he bit out.

  “You’re coming with me, toots.” The faery smiled and the result was so sweet-looking and innocuous, Eve had a hard time reconciling it with the reality of the knife in her chubby little hand. “We are going to slip out the back and make our getaway.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.” Richens’s voice held a chilling amusement. “I’ll shoot him before I let you walk out of here.”

  A dark cloud moved over the faery’s features, briefly revealing the horror of her demonic soul. An Infernal could never be tamed or trusted. But they could be understood. They were similar to infants—self-centered, impatient, ravenous for attention and stimuli.

  The faery made a tisking noise. “You should have crossed over to the dark side, sugar. You would have made a great Infernal.”

  Eve took aim and shot Richens in the ass.

  He screamed like a girl. The gun fell from his hand and hit the floor, firing a bullet into a cast-iron skillet hanging on a pot rack above the stove. The bullet ricocheted, squealing through the air and waking Edwards, who bolted upright. His upthrust head smacked the underside of a cutting board whose edge protruded beyond the lip of the island. The knives atop the board leaped into the air. They spun and twisted, then fell to the counter in a deadly riot. They skidded across the surface as a single writhing mass, hitting a small metal canister and sending it toppling over the side. It struck Edwards on the crown of his head, dumping its contents over him before rolling to the floor with a resounding gong. The resulting cloud of flour billowed outward, expanding in unison with Edwards’s choked curses.

  Ken tossed the startled faery from his back, sending her careening into a tailspin. She crashed into the overhanging rack, her “Oh, shit!” muffled by the stockpot that fell from its perch and dropped over her head. She toppled to the floor with a substantial thud, landing still as death.

  Richens was still screaming. Ken lunged to his feet and hit him with a perfect right hook. The Mark crumpled to the floor beside the faery, knocked out.

  “Arsemonger,” Ken muttered.

  His gaze met Eve’s. She looked at Edwards, who resembled Casper the Friendly Ghost or an uncooked corn dog, depending on the turn of his head. His eyes were two blinking black holes in an otherwise white face, his mouth a round “O” as he stared at the two prone bodies on the ground.

  Eve’s brain caught up to the series of events.

  The screaming hadn’t stopped. It had just moved outside.

  “Claire,” she breathed.

  She jumped over the unconscious bodies and sprinted out the service door. For a split second, her nictitating lenses hindered her sight, then she retracted them with a deliberate blink.

  Claire stood in the center of the narrow alley, her beautiful features frozen into a mask of terror. Her mouth was wide and a hideous wailing poured out. Her eyes were locked on a spot beyond Eve’s shoulder, and madness stirred in the cerulean depths. Eve turned her head, her gaze following the Frenchwoman’s line of sight.

  She choked, then stumbled, the world spinning. Ken’s tall form emerged from the unlit kitchen, his head turning to align with theirs.

  “Holy mother of God,” he gasped.

  Pinned to the exterior wall of the diner was Molenaar’s body. Arms splayed and hands affixed to the metal facade with iron nails through the palms. Urine soaked his pants and puddled on the crumbling asphalt. His sightless eyes gazed heavenward, his mouth lax and lips spattered with crimson. A circlet of rusted barbed wire hugged his head, completing the sick recreation of the Crucifixion.

  Where was the blood . . . ?

  “Sa tête est—” Claire doubled over, but no vomit came up, her body too perfect to succumb to her emotions.

  It was then that Eve realized Molenaar’s head had been severed from his body. It was held in place above his neck by nails staked through his ears.

  Terror chilled her fevered skin.

  Eve screamed, her fists clenching even as her knees weakened.

  A flock of seagulls joined them, screeching to the sky and the God who allowed such things to happen to those who served him.

  CHAPTER 9

  Reed pulled off Highway 1, the fabled Pacific Coast Highway, at the Fremont Boulevard exit. A moment later his rented Porsche was purring across Fort McCroskey.

  He could have been with Eve already if he’d shifted directly to her, but he knew Raguel too well. The archangel would have his students holed up together with no chance of privacy. That was fine for training. It wasn’t fine for dealing with the turmoil Reed sensed in Eve.

  Through their handler/Mark connection, he felt her alienation from the rest of her class and sensed that she was dealing with it by shutting herself off emotionally. She was running on autopilot and that was dangerous for a Mark. He suspected he’d need to get her away from the strain of her classmates before she would relax enough to talk about what was troubling her. Hence the need for wheels.

  The fact that the car was also a babe magnet was a bonus. Eve had been attracted to Cain and his Harley. It wasn’t a stretch to hope that she might find the 911 Turbo Cabriolet a turn-on, too. With a top speed just shy of two hundred miles an hour, Reed hoped to open the throttle on both the engine and Eve’s stress.

  Using his connection to Eve as an inner tracking device, Reed maneuvered across the base. Raguel would want a report on the trip to Australia, then the archangel would try to make Reed leave, which wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t going anywhere while there was any hazard to Eve’s well-being.

  Although he would never admit it, he was still reeling from losing her last week. Seeing Cain broken had only added to the surreal quality of his torment. All his life, he had wanted to see his older brother humbled by something. Anything. Yet he’d discovered that losing Eve to accomplish that aim was too high a price to pay.

  He had handled countless female Marks over the centuries, sharing a connection with them as deep as the one he shared with Eve, yet she was the only one with whom he’d ever felt so conflicted.

  She blamed his fascination on the animosity between him and Cain. She said he was only interested in her because she represented an opportunity to hurt his brother. But they both knew that wasn’t true. Reed wished it was. Everything would be so much easier that way.

  Rounding a bend in the road, he slowed as he came upon the duplex with the unmarked white van in the driveway. The license frame read Gadara Enterprises. Reed pulled into the vacant spot beside it. He didn’t need to knock on the door to know that no one was ho
me. He felt the yawning vacancy before he turned off the engine.

  Reed exited the car and set off on foot, walking in Eve’s wake. As he passed the house, he noted the shattered partition by the entrance of the far side of the duplex. The mess looked fresh and gave him pause.

  The first wave of terror hit Reed with enough force to hinder his stride. The second rolled over him like thunder, building in tension until it exploded with such force that he began to run. The leather soles of his Gucci moccasins gained little purchase. He shifted in midsprint and materialized beside Eve.

  She was screaming. A quick glance at the building she faced told him why. Reed snatched her close, snapped open his wings, and surged into the air. Airborne, he held her tightly, containing her struggles.

  “Shh.” His arms wrapped completely around her slim body. “I’m here.”

  “Reed.” She clutched at him, her face buried in his neck, her tears sliding across his skin.

  He alighted onto the neighboring rooftop and retracted his wings, but didn’t release her. Her fear, grief, and horror pulsed through him in rhythmic beats that left him unable to erect the barriers he used with his other Marks.

  And the feel of her . . . the smell of her . . . It had been weeks since he’d touched her.

  He had been forbidden to touch her.

  “D-did you s-see?” She pulled back to stare up at him with tear-filled eyes.

  “Yes.” He didn’t tell her that she would inevitably see much worse.

  “I can’t do this.”

  And in that moment, Reed didn’t want her to, which screwed up everything—his ambitions, goals, and dreams. They all hinged on keeping her around. And he wanted her again, damn it. His entire body was hard for her.

  Along with every-fucking-thing else, he was obsessed. How the hell was he supposed to get over that, if even a dead Mark and her terror couldn’t diminish it?

  “Help me get out,” she begged.

  His forehead dropped to rest against hers, which was hot and damp.

  Shit. Deep shit.

  Her fingertips dug into the muscles framing his spine. “Say something, damn you!”

  Inhaling sharply, he slipped into the tried and true lines he always used to calm skittish Marks. “I know this is tough for you. But think of the good works you will do, the people you will save—”

  “Like him?” Eve gestured viciously at the alleyway below. “Isn’t that what he was told, too? What about his good works? What about the people he was supposed to save? Are they just as fucked as he is now?”

  “Eve . . .”

  She shoved him away. “Tough for me? That’s all you’ve got to say? Some propaganda bullshit? There is a dead man down there. Without . . . his . . . head!”

  “Give me a break, Eve,” he snapped, angrier with himself than with her. “I’m trying to help.”

  “Try harder.”

  Her lithe form vibrated with her inner turmoil. She was covered in jeans, shirt, and sweater jacket. Her hair was in a simple ponytail that accentuated the exotic tilt of her eyes. Her face was devoid of makeup, allowing the porcelain perfection of her Asian skin to take the stage.

  Reed struggled with his attraction to her, a magnetism that started in his gut and worked its way out. Having been surrounded by brunettes for centuries, his first exposure to blondes had spurred a fascination with fair-haired beauties like Sara. Yet here he was, fighting an itch that wouldn’t quit over a woman who looked nothing like his “type.”

  “What kind of training is this?” Eve rubbed her eyes with her fists. “No one said anyone was going to die!”

  “Accidents happen, rarely. Overzealous and frightened Marks are unpredictable. But never like this. Never murder.”

  The sky darkened as clouds rolled in so fast they appeared to be on fast-forward. The breeze turned chilly, whipping the long strands of Eve’s hair across her face. Reed watched her frame stiffen and her fists clench. He shifted to the edge of the roof and looked down at the scene unfolding beneath them.

  Raguel hovered several feet above the ground, his arms and wings spread wide. His head was back, his eyes glowing gold and trained heavenward. His mouth was open in a silent scream. It was a riveting sight, both eerie and beautiful.

  As Eve drew abreast of Reed, her hand pushed into his. She leaned over cautiously, her balance maintained by her death grip on him.

  “What is he doing?” she asked, her voice ripped away by the furious wind.

  “Lamenting. Sharing his grief with the Lord.”

  “I have something to share with the Lord,” she muttered. “A piece of my mind.”

  Thunder cracked, booming through the dark gray sky.

  “Watch it,” Reed admonished, squeezing her hand in warning.

  “Did the faery do this?”

  “Faery?”

  Eve pulled wind-whipped strands of hair out of her mouth. “The Infernal we were hunting in this exercise.”

  “You always blame us first.”

  Reed turned to face the speaker. So did Eve.

  A dour-faced woman with gray hair that matched her gray suit stood just outside the stairwell door. Her laser-bright eyes told him she was an Infernal a second before the scent of her decaying soul did. She was staring at his hand holding Eve’s, which seemed to remind Eve of the connection. She tugged her hand free.

  Eve shouted to be heard above the storm. “Don’t get pissy. It’s a valid question.”

  “Pox on you.” The Infernal approached with a pigeon-toed stride that did much to mitigate the intimidating force of her glower. Her details weren’t visible, but her accent and haggard appearance suggested that she was a Welsh gwyllion—a demon known for its ability to inspire trust and confidence while leading mortals directly into danger. “We’re out here in this dump, playing your idiotic war games, training assassins how to kill our kind. Yet every time something goes wrong, we are the first to be blamed.”

  A bark of laughter escaped Reed. He couldn’t help it. A self-righteous Infernal? Now he’d seen everything.

  Eve stared at the gwyllion for a long moment, then she started forward, her steps deliberate and unwavering. “That’s total crap. You’re not here out of the goodness of your rotten soul. You’re here because you can’t be wherever you would really like to be and you want to save your damned hide.”

  The demon halted and crossed her arms. “That doesn’t mean you should accuse us first!”

  Pointing toward the alley, Eve asked, “Doesn’t that look like Infernal handiwork to you?”

  The dourness faded into a broad smile. “It’s brilliant, that much is true. So precisely rendered and creative.”

  “I have a loaded gun.” Eve aimed it at the demon. “Perhaps you might reconsider your admiration?”

  The gwyllion’s merriment faded instantly. “Quite right. Terrible. Only a sicko could have done something so heinous.”

  “Who?”

  “Wasn’t me.”

  “Make a guess.”

  Reed held his tongue, watching Eve work, noting the stubborn set of her chin and determined glint in her eyes. She didn’t know her own strengths, at least not when they applied to her marking. The selfish part of him smiled, thinking that maybe she could manage to accept the calling without becoming jaded and hardened. Maybe she would learn to take pride in her accomplishments and find something worthy in what she was doing, some positive amid all the negative. Maybe she would become a believer and find her faith.

  Miracles were known to happen in his line of work.

  The wind died down and the clouds separated. In the wake of the abrupt storm, silence reigned. The air was heavy with uncustomary humidity. It was oppressive, reflective of the confusion, horror, and sorrow that permeated their immediate vicinity.

  “There are three of us working this training session,” the gwyllion said. “Griselda, Bernard, and me.”

  “And you are?”

  “I’m Aeronwen.”

  “That’s . . . lovely,�
�� Eve said grudgingly.

  Reed grinned. “It’s derived from the name of the Celtic goddess of carnage and slaughter.”

  “Why do these things keep surprising me?”

  “I like it.” Aeronwen beamed.

  “Of course. Griselda is the faery?”

  “No, Bernard is the faery. Did you like the godmother glamour? He’s so fun like that.”

  “A laugh a minute. What’s Griselda?”

  Raguel appeared at the edge of the roof, levitating over the lip and landing beside Eve. He pointed to the shacklike protrusion that shielded the stairs from the elements. Eve’s sharp inhalation told Reed that she saw the dragon peering around the corner.

  “Great,” she muttered. “My favorite type of demon.”

  “Hello, Raguel,” Reed greeted.

  “Did she herald you?” the archangel asked.

  “No.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Reed arched a brow in an expression that asked, Do you really want to talk about that here and now?

  Raguel nodded. “You frightened the others with your abduction of Ms. Hollis.”

  A shrug was Reed’s reply. The other Marks were Raguel’s concern.

  The archangel’s gaze passed over the two Infernals, then settled on Eve. Deep grooves framed his lips and eyes. He could hide them, if he wished, but he chose not to. “What are you doing, Ms. Hollis?”

  Eve felt her mouth curve, although she found nothing at all humorous about the mess that was her life.

  “Freaking out. Losing my mind. Take your pick.” Outwardly she probably looked composed, maybe even serene. But the knuckles of her gun hand were beginning to hurt from the force of her grip and the set of her shoulders was causing a crick in her neck. She was still screaming, even if no one could hear it.

  “You should be with the others.”

  “No, I should be in Orange County. Designing the interior of someone’s dream house. Looking out my windows and considering hitting the beach. Reminding myself to get my car washed and speed-dialing Mrs. Basso to see if she needs anything from the store.” Her foot tapped rhythmically into the gravel. “But I can’t do that, because she’s dead. And the poodle is dead. And now Molenaar is dead. I’m sick of people dying around me, Gadara.”