Authors: Annette McCleave

Surrender to Darkness (34 page)

BOOK: Surrender to Darkness

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The bloody wretch had made a run for it.

Murdoch scanned the shadows between the trees. In what direction? The house? The arena? The perimeter fence? If he were a demon on the run, where would he go?

Ah, Christ.
The hill.

He took off a run. The top of the hill was the only place in five thousand meters where magic could be performed. Stefan had blanketed the ranch in a mystical black hole to keep surprises at a minimum, but the former tennis courts were outside the umbrella of his spell.

On the hill, Watanabe could open a portal to the lower plane and make an escape.

Murdoch picked up the pace.

Over his already-dead body.

“H
ey,Jason,”Emily called to the Soul Gatherer in the gatehouse as she opened the small door in the wrought iron gate. “Thanks for calling me.”

The young man returned her wave, then glanced down at his console. “No sweat. Your mom and MacGregor ought to be here in about ten minutes. They called when they exited the highway.”

A blue arc of electricity crackled in the air, zapping the gate only seconds after Emily let go of the door latch. Another arc followed moments later, accompanied by the scent of freshly squeezed lemons. Emily crossed her arms over her chest as the air grew tight and expectant, then popped.

Uriel appeared before her on the driveway.

“Way to be sneakeramous,” she groaned. “What if a car had come around the corner just now?”

The archangel shrugged. “I checked before I descended. There are no cars within a five-mile radius. Besides, this is important.”

“I’m
so
not liking the sound of that,” she said.

“Have you heard anything more from the between?”

“No, things have been pretty quiet. Why?”

“Michael had one of heaven’s administrators comb through the records of the days following the Great Flood. She found a single, unverified reference to an ashen angel rescued from the floodwaters.”

“Ashen?”

“Pale gray.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “I know what
ashen
means. Why would an angel be gray? Was he dead?”

“No, he was not dead. And the color of his skin is far less concerning that the mention of extensive scarring on his torso.”

“Why?”

Uriel slid a hand through his curls. “Because Azazel had an intricate weaving of malevolent runes etched into his flesh.”

Her heart skidded to a halt at the edge of a cliff. “So, Azazel is alive.”

“We believe so, yes.”

“But he hangs out in hell, right? With Lucifer and Beelzebub and Satan?” She painted on a smile. “And you guys can track him.”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean,
not exactly
?”

“Unlike the other demon lords, Azazel has not appeared at a monthly soul tally in several millennia. Satan makes no official accommodations in hell for him. Nor do we have any accounts of activity attributed to him. It’s like he doesn’t exist.”

Emily blinked. “You’re saying you have no idea where he is? That he could be walking around on the middle plane, sucking souls out of people, and nobody has noticed?”

“We thought he was dead,” the archangel pointed out. “We’re watching for him now. Very closely. And he can’t suck
souls
out of the living. Only blood.”

“That’s not very comforting, Uriel.”

The handsome archangel glanced over his shoulder at the empty road. “Your parents are almost here. You could help us find him, you know.”

“Azazel? How? I have no idea what a fallen angel feels like.” Lure demon, sure. Having one for a boyfriend had taught her how to spot one of those slimy bastards. Thrall demon, yup. Couldn’t mistake those blue smoky guys for anything else. Fallen angel? Pure mystery.

The archangel tilted his head. “What do you see when you look at me?”

“A regular person. Except for a very thin rim of shimmery white stuff at the edge of your gold core.”

“Azazel will appear much the same, except he’s unlikely to be white. Black or dark purple, perhaps.” The gate creaked and slowly began to open. “You can see every soul on the middle plane, Emily. Do some wide sweeps and if you spot him, call me. Do not engage him. Understand?”

“Got it.” Skip the attack on a very powerful fallen angel? She could do that. No problem-o. “Should I warn Lachlan and Brian?”

Uriel nodded. “That might be wise.”

The black Audi rounded the corner and surged up the road toward the gate.

“I have to go,” Uriel said. “Please be careful.”

And with a blue flash in the night, he was gone.

The car purred to a halt beside her and the driver’s-side window descended. Lachlan frowned at her. “Is Michael harassing you again?”

“Nah, it was Uriel.” She tugged open the rear passenger door and slid in next to the car seat. Katie’s red wrinkled face peeked from a swath of pink blankets. Her mom sat on the other side, looking tired but very happy. “I’ll fill you in later. Right now, I need to kiss my baby sister.”

Murdoch caught up to Watanabe as he exited the trees.

The demon was hindered by the physical limits of his human glamour. Murdoch wasn’t. A Soul Gatherer was a spiritual entity of the middle plane and had access to a full complement of skills, with or without magic. Exceptional speed, smell, strength, and night vision. All the things that helped him find and recover souls.

Or fugitive demons.

He slashed at Watanabe in midstride.

And missed. The demon dove and rolled, narrowly escaping the razor-sharp edge of Bloodseeker. As he landed and regained his feet, he shed the black sweater and sprouted a set of massive black wings. A pair of horns curled from his brow and the skin of his upper body and arms glowed dark purple as a series of markings rose up on his pale flesh.

Black feathers.

Did that mean—

A bolt of black lightning darted from the night sky and pierced Murdoch’s left calf. Agony shot through him and his leg buckled, nearly taking him to the ground. But the instant the bolt struck, his berserker snapped the tethers holding it in restraint and swamped his body with hot, satisfying rage. His muscles expanded, his skin stretched, and his heart beat with heavy, fortifying pumps of blood. The pain fell away, completely forgotten. The beast took control, destruction of the demon its only goal.

Bloodseeker hummed through the air, slicing through everything in its path, even the tip of a glossy black wing. Feathers flew, and the demon roared in outrage. The creature tossed a second bolt, but it failed to land, repelled by the shield that was as much a part of the berserker as its skin.

The berserker swung again, and cut into the demon’s thigh.

Hissing angrily, the demon soared into the air with a mighty flap of his huge dark wings. From his superior vantage point, he flung bolt after bolt of lightning, pitting Murdoch’s shield, while remaining out of reach.

The berserker was unable to deal damage to the winged demon. No leap, no feint, no sudden change of direction gained him a point. His sword ripped through empty air. A growl of frustration rose from his throat as he tried again and again.

He had to equalize the battle.

The demon had to come down.

But even with all of Murdoch’s whispered advice, the berserker could not entice the hellspawn within range of his sword. All he could do was dodge the energy bolts as best he could and swat at empty air.

Unacceptable.

He pivoted and jogged down the hill to the tree line. With a fierce grunt and a sharp jerk, he pulled a small pine tree from the ground, whipped around, and flung it at the demon. The heavy javelin struck true, and the creature crashed to the ground amid clumps of dirt and needles.

The berserker dashed in for the kill.

He shoved aside the tree and drove his sword tip straight toward the demon’s rune-emblazoned chest. The demon’s shield held up, but quivered under the powerful force of the thrust. Sensing the imminence of victory, the berserker put both hands upon the hilt and shoved even harder.

And the steel sank in.

But as the hallowed Norse blade parted flesh and ground against bone, something odd happened. The air rippled and bent, the temperature plummeted, and the demon’s body disappeared. Leaving Murdoch standing on the hill with his sword plunged deep in the soil.

“For a second there, I thought you said
feathers
.”

“I did.” Murdoch responded to Webster from the depths of the living room sofa, still replaying the battle in his head. Even the four-hour field mission with the trainees hadn’t dulled the memory. “Black feathers, big wings, horns, and a mess of strange symbols carved into its flesh.”

“You think it was a fallen angel?”

“Aye.”

Webster turned to MacGregor. “What do you think?”

The new father sat forward in his armchair, resting his elbows on his knees. “The black wings and basic human form match the descriptions I’ve heard.”

“But the horns? And the runes?”

MacGregor shook his head. “In most references, Lucifer is described as beautiful. Blond hair, blue eyes, no scars. Were it not for the black wings, he’d be labeled angelic.”

“This creature had black hair, not blond,” Murdoch said. “Admittedly, I didn’t get a look at its eyes. It was dark and I was rather busy at the time.”

“Safe to say it wasn’t Lucifer, then,” Webster said. “So, who was it?”

“Azazel.”

Murdoch glanced at the door to the hallway. Emily stood there, looking as grim as he’d ever seen her, a dirt smudge from the training session bisecting her pale cheek. “Tell us what you know, lass.”

She slowly advanced into the room, a tray of chicken wings in her hand. Placing the tray on the coffee table, she tossed MacGregor a rueful look. “That’s why Uriel was here. I’ve been hearing—or maybe
feeling
is a better word—these sounds from the between. Uriel’s the one who told me about Azazel.”

“Azazel is a fallen angel,” Murdoch said, taking a cue from Webster’s frown. “Once the most powerful demon in Satan’s realm. He is a known seducer, and is credited with introducing war and artifice to the human race.”

Emily nodded. “That’s what Uriel said.” Between bites of chicken, she relayed everything she and Uriel had discussed, from Azazel’s supposed death to the more recent suggestion that he had survived. “He asked me to keep an eye out for him.”

“That’s no longer necessary,” Murdoch said. He’d slain a fallen angel. Bloody hell. He’d finally done something righteous. “Based on Uriel’s description, I can confirm that it was Azazel I killed out on the hill.”

“Are you sure he’s dead?” Webster asked.

“I put a sword right through his heart,” Murdoch said, with a shrug. “None of
us
could survive that.”

“And he didn’t open up a portal to hell?”

BOOK: Surrender to Darkness

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