The Demon and the Succubus (5 page)

As the figures came into closer view and the SUV drove right through them, Amalya was able to make out some of their features. “Shades of the dead,” she said as understanding began to dawn. “Earthbound spirits.”

“What the hell?” Jethro craned his neck to study the next one they passed by. “Are they dangerous?”

Levi navigated around a water line and headed toward the gravel road that ran between two fields. “Not necessarily, but as we saw back on the freeway, they can be a distraction, which can cause problems.”

Amalya rubbed at the small throb that had begun at her temples. The mysterious mist was shades and drivers swerving to avoid them were causing terrible accidents. She spoke her next thought aloud. “And if people can now see the shades, then they might be able to hear them as well, which could cause mischief.”

“Define mischief.”

She cringed as they drove through the shade of a small child. “All of the shades have some type of issue that’s kept them from moving on. Some are confused, some stayed to watch over a loved one, some are angry or want revenge, and many more are afraid they won’t get into Heaven for the things they’ve done, so they choose to stay.”

Jethro ran a hand through his hair, leaving behind a sexy, sandy blond tousled look that made Amalya smile. “So, can anyone share why there are suddenly a bunch of ghosts with issues everywhere?”

“They’ve always been here.” Amalya thought about how lonely it must’ve been for them, walking the earth with very few of those alive able to see or even sense them. “Just most beings aren’t able to see them.”

Jethro sighed. “So what do we do now?”

The SUV fishtailed as Levi took a sharp right past a large red barn and guided them onto the road that ran past a rustic two-story farmhouse. A wall of white fog speared up in front of them and Levi cursed as the truck passed through the thick mist, then sputtered and died.

Hard, cold urgency speared through Amalya and she unbuckled her seat belt. “Get to the farmhouse.”

Jethro grabbed her arm. “What’s going on?”

She popped open his seat belt buckle and met his blue gaze. “Trust me. Run.”

Levi jumped out of the car and helped Amalya out, urging her ahead of him.

Glad Jethro had chosen tennis shoes for her to wear, she dodged around the eerie ethereal forms that rose in front of her or suddenly appeared in her path.

A slimy, cool sensation chilled her shoulder and she cringed away only to have the same eerie touch slant across her belly and down her legs. She ran harder, the uncomfortable sensation slapping her again and again on various parts of her body and her energy slowly siphoned away by contact with the shades.

She blinked hard and stumbled as a sudden wave of lethargy washed over her.

Shades often took energy from the living in order to manifest or in some way affect the physical world. But she’d never heard about them being so aggressive.

The sound of one of the men stumbling behind her sent a flash of hot panic through her gut and she slowed to turn back and help them.

“Run, damn it,” Jethro rasped. “We’ll catch up.”

Amalya turned to find Jethro on his knees in the dirt, a thick wall of shades closing in from all sides—so thick she couldn’t make out their individual features. Levi was only a few steps behind, but it was clear from his slow movements and the glazed expressions on both men’s faces that neither man would last much longer without help.

Being drained of all her energy wouldn’t kill Amalya, or so she hoped, but it could kill a human and a half human within minutes.

Such a state would leave her more vulnerable to beings that
could
kill her, but hopefully if the men were safe, they could figure out something to restore her long before that happened.

Amalya spread her arms wide, opening her energy and pushing it forward so it surrounded her like a solid blanket, turning herself into a spotlight beacon for the shades.

As she’d hoped, the wall of entities began to float toward her and leave the men. “To the farmhouse. Find salt,” she yelled as she darted forward, away from the farmhouse and back toward the road.

Cursing behind her confirmed the men didn’t approve of her plan, but since they obviously didn’t have anything better, they’d just have to follow her lead. Hopefully one of them would know what to do with the salt once they found it.

Amalya ran full-out, dodging as many shades as she could and trying not to sprain her ankle as she ran over the furrows that striped along the cotton field. The nearly grown cotton stalks scratched against the sensitive skin of her arms, snagging against her jeans and slowing her progress until she stumbled. She windmilled her arms trying to catch her balance but lost the fight as she fell on her knees in the dirt.

A large wave of ice slid through her as if she were being slowly dipped into arctic waters. She had a moment to hope that Jethro and Levi had made it to safety, another quick moment to hope her sisters were still safe, and then her awareness slid away.

The Archangel Uriel
stared across the street at the seedy bar called the Badass Café. The two-story brick building was tucked into a strip mall between an adult bookstore and a massage parlor that offered much more than massages to anyone who could pay. A combination of heavy metal and classic rock blared from the storefronts, making the sidewalk vibrate beneath his feet.

A cold, drizzled rain pattered against the sputtering streetlights so the only real illumination came from the glaring neon signs over each establishment, strobing over the swirling sea of humanity that spilled out of all three doorways and onto the sidewalk out front.

Ignoring the hostile looks cast his way, Uriel stepped in between two parked cars to make his way across the street. He’d tracked another journal to this place, which meant he would soon be one step closer to understanding the Armageddon prophecies.

Strong fingers closed around his arm as something hard and metal pressed into his side.

Uriel froze. A bullet wouldn’t kill or even incapacitate him, but it would be damned inconvenient to deal with right now. He had been so focused on retrieving the journal, he hadn’t bothered to think that coming to this part of town wearing a designer suit and an expensive-looking trench coat might bring him unwanted attention.

Stupid
, he chided himself. He knew better but had let the prize of the journal blind him to that probability.

He turned to look at his assailant. The man was Caucasian with a touch of something exotic that gave him an olive complexion, high cheekbones, and full lips that would instantly label him as the much sought after “bad boy” by most women. He wore a grimy black leather jacket that reeked of Jack Daniel’s and his eyes were bloodshot and wild. He looked about thirty, but from the energy aura that surrounded him, Uriel would bet he was much younger.

“Welcome to Hell, pretty boy. Hand over your wallet.”

Uriel raised an eyebrow as he stared down at the man. “I don’t carry a wallet. I’ll give you one chance to move on, but that’s all I have time for right now.”

A gravelly laugh accompanied the barrel of the gun being pressed harder against Uriel’s ribs. “Listen, rich man, this is
your
last chance before I blow a hole in your side. Hand over the wallet. You don’t want to test my patience.” A frantic edge crept into the man’s voice as he glared at Uriel.

Uriel stared into the man’s dark eyes and peered closer, opening his senses so he could see inside the man’s soul.

Knowledge, pain, and darkness rushed forward in an icy, murky flood telling Uriel everything about the man before him.

Uriel sighed and shook his head. An addict. What a waste.

The man stumbled as the effects of the soul gaze kicked in, freezing him in place.

Uriel steadied him and, with his free hand closed his fingers around the gun, pointing it away from his side.

Uriel touched the man’s forehead calling forward the dark addiction that held him.

The addiction resisted, digging in and refusing to release its hold on its host. It had existed inside this man for years and resented giving up someone it had worked so hard to master.

Many humans thought addiction was an actual demon that lived inside them. And while addiction did share many traits with the demonic realm, it was created purely by human free will and had to be destroyed the same way.

Except when one of the Heavenly Hosts stepped in, although even with that intervention, addiction couldn’t totally be banished without human consent.

Uriel concentrated, calling the addiction forth until it loosened its hold and finally seeped through the man’s forehead and pooled in Uriel’s hand like a baseball made of thick black tar.

The man in front of him whimpered, the only reaction to Uriel’s sudden intrusion.

A small sense of triumph curled through Uriel and he closed his fingers around the ball, crushing it until it shattered, sprinkling to the wet ground as black specks of dust. “Henry,” Uriel said using the name he’d plucked out of the man’s mind during the soul gaze. “I’ll take the gun. You need to go home.”

Henry loosened his grip on the gun and Uriel slipped it inside the pocket of his jacket.

Henry stumbled back but seemed unable to go farther. “Who the hell are you?”

“Who I am doesn’t matter. I’ve taken the addiction from you, but you’ll have to make the choice not to use again. I can’t affect free will.” Uriel pointed north toward where Henry lived with his pregnant wife. “Go. That’s all I have time for tonight.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Henry’s pain-wracked question was a mere whisper, but Uriel heard it easily through the blaring Metallica coming from just across the street.

“I’m your second chance.” He met Henry’s gaze again for a long moment. “Don’t waste it.” Uriel walked across the street not bothering to watch to see what Henry would do. He’d given up long ago letting human choices get to him. Too often they took their second chances or even third, fourth, or forty-fourth to make the same poor choices again.

Uriel would always hope this one would be different, but sometimes it was best if he kept the hope and didn’t bother to find out for certain. He was afraid that the actual statistics might be much too discouraging to ponder.

He walked purposely through the crowd, which parted before him. He wasn’t sure if it was because they’d seen his run-in with Henry or if they felt his presence. There were some sensitive humans among the crowd who hadn’t ruined their gifts by drowning them with alcohol and drugs. He’d bet most of them were just very adept at sensing the predator versus the prey, which was how they survived.

When he reached the open doorway to the Badass Café, he ducked inside.

A thick haze instantly assaulted him from all sides, a suffocating combination of tobacco, various types of drugs, and the smoke from the dry ice machine that sat under the DJ’s booth. Uriel sent a silent thanks to his Father that he didn’t have to breathe to survive, and he planned on putting that into action unless he had to speak, which unfortunately required him to breathe to force air through his vocal chords.

Sometimes taking human form definitely had its drawbacks. He threaded his way through the gyrating crowd until he made his way to the bar. Patrons parted on either side to let him through.

The bartender handed out a drink and then turned a bored gaze toward Uriel. “Cop?” he yelled to be heard over the music.

“No.” Uriel shook his head in case the bartender had trouble hearing him.

“Then you’re looking to get your ass kicked wearing that in here.” The bartender motioned to Uriel’s suit. “Hell, even if you were a cop, you’re asking for it.”

“Duly noted. I’m looking for T-Bone.” Which was the name of the contact who had acquired the journal.

“And who are you?”

“Uriel,” he said simply and resisted the urge to use a soul gaze to find the information he wanted. He could subdue the entire room if need be, but causing that much of an obviously supernatural disruption within the human realm would only add to the growing hysteria. Ever since the shades had appeared and portions of the oceans and even some lakes had begun to boil, all those with a doomsday message were cashing in on the growing fear. A crowd mentality among the greater part of the human population would only ensure more people were hurt or killed, which is something Uriel hoped to avoid.

The bartender studied him for a long moment before motioning to a man at the end of the bar who looked like the poster boy for “I just got out of prison.” He was at least three hundred pounds of solid muscle. His head was smooth shaven, a tattoo of a skull and crossbones done in green on the back and sides of his skull. One-inch black gauges that looked like intricate hubcaps stretched his earlobes and there were no fewer than twenty piercings peppering the rest of his face and neck.

Uriel was thankful for his supernatural vision, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to see much besides a murky figure at the end of the bar past all the smoke. He materialized a hundred-dollar bill inside his jacket pocket and then slid it onto the bar toward the bartender before edging through the crowd toward the man he assumed to be T-Bone.

The man eyed him suspiciously as he closed the distance between them but didn’t budge from his stance where he leaned indolently against the bar, an open bottle of Budweiser next to his elbow.

“T-Bone?” Uriel asked when he made it close enough to be heard over the music.

“Depends,” came the surly answer as the man gave Uriel an up-and-down glance and sneered at what he saw.

“I’m Uriel. I’m here for the journal.” He tried to ignore the incessant tickle at the back of his throat from all the combined smoke he’d just inhaled in order to speak.

“Do you have payment?”

“Do you have the journal?” Uriel countered.