The Unforgiven (The Watchers) Read online

  RAVE REVIEWS FOR USA TODAY

  BESTSELLING AUTHOR JOY NASH!

  IMMORTALS: THE CROSSING

  “I read this book in one sitting because it is just too good to put down. Don’t miss out on one of the best paranormal romances of the year!”

  —Romance Junkies

  “Nash’s latest hero is a charming rogue with a compassionate heart, while her heroine is a desperate mother willing to sacrifice everything to save her son . . . Mac Lir is a hero to die for.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  IMMORTALS: THE AWAKENING

  “Nash takes readers on a fast journey, keeping the action going from beginning to end. Cutting-edge drama, creative characters and a plot that moves like fire all create a great read. The Immortals series just keeps getting better and it may be hard to top this fantastic addition.”

  —Paranormal Romance Writers

  “This book is fantasy romance done right and done well.”

  —All About Romance

  DEEP MAGIC

  “Deep Magic is filled with the imagery and magic of Druids during the Roman Era . . . Strong, lyrical writing with well drawn settings and characters bring the story alive. Suspense and twists hold the reader’s attention and an intense ending makes this a satisfying read. Deep Magic is an enchanting tale.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “Nash follows The Grail King with a love story that completely envelops the reader in a magical world. Skilled at merging reality with Druid legend, she illuminates a dark age with fiery passions, political complexities, and an enchanting story.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  THE GRAIL KING

  “Not since Mary Stewart’s Merlin trilogy has the magic of Avalon flowed as lyrically off the pages. Nash captures the myths of the Druids in a fresh, exciting approach delivering a tale that grabs hold of your heart and reaches deep into your soul bringing forth joy . . .”

  —RT Book Reviews, Top Pick, 4 1/2 stars

  “The Grail King turned out to be a rare jewel of a book, which grabbed my attention from the beginning and kept me enthralled until the very end . . . Wonderful, complex characters, an exciting, adventurous plot, and a great romance . . . Do yourself a favor and read The Grail King.”

  —Once Upon a Romance Review

  CELTIC FIRE

  “Joy Nash has created a lush world for senses of all kinds . . . This is a wonderfully fast-paced read full of romance, love and fantasy that will continue to burn in the hearts of readers after the last page is turned.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Joy Nash is definitely one to be watched. She has great world building skills, and her own personal magic with the pen is guaranteed to make hers a very strong name on the market in the not too distant future.”

  —Love Romances

  A DARK BOND

  His eyes were light, she thought. Blue, maybe? It was too dark to tell for sure. Starlight dusted his profile. His cheekbones slanted sharply, and his bold nose and strong jaw matched in angularity. It was a supremely masculine face, unexpectedly softened by lush eyelashes and the supple fullness of his lips. A dark, restless energy clung to him.

  “I think I’d better go,” Maddie said.

  “No.” His tone was one of quiet command. Inescapable. “No, I think not. Not quite yet.”

  Then he was standing close. His hands, warm and large, cupped the back of her skull. His mouth was barely an inch from hers. He inhaled her startled breath and gave her a slow, wicked smile. Then he took her lips in an aching kiss.

  Other books by Joy Nash:

  SILVER SILENCE

  A LITTLE LIGHT MAGIC

  IMMORTALS: THE RECKONING (Anthology)

  IMMORTALS: THE CROSSING

  IMMORTALS: THE AWAKENING

  DEEP MAGIC

  THE GRAIL KING

  CELTIC FIRE

  DORCHESTER PUBLISHING

  Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  200 Madison Avenue

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © 2011 by Joy Nash

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Trade ISBN: 978-1-4285-1122-4

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-4285-1189-7

  First Dorchester Publishing, Co., Inc. edition: August 2011

  The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Visit us online at www.dorchesterpub.com.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Dedication

  To my biggest fans and cheerleaders:

  To J—for all the groceries bought, dinners cooked, and chauffeur-dad miles driven

  To J2—for your beauty, brains, and creativity, and for your intellectual curiosity about absolutely everything (well, except sports)

  To K—for all the discussions on moral philosophy and religion, for your cheerful good nature, and for being at all times a peacemaker

  To C—for your awesome scientific mind and your love of story, and for the book of your own that will be on the shelf someday, if only you can resist the time-sucking dark side of video gaming

  To M—for the Metallica

  And lastly, to the unknown woman who stopped by one of my book signings a few years ago. We chatted about Druidry and other esotery, and on your way out of the bookstore, you handed me a book about the Nephilim, saying, “I think you’ll like this.” You were right. Thank you!

  When men began to multiply on the earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of Heaven saw how beautiful the daughters of Man were, and so they took for their wives as many of them as they chose . . . At that time the Nephilim appeared on earth.

  —Genesis 6:1-2,4

  What I’ve felt, what I’ve known

  Turn the pages, turn to stone

  Behind the door,

  Should I open it for you?

  What I’ve felt, what I’ve known

  Sick and tired, I stand alone

  Could you be there,

  ’Cause I’m the one who waits for you?

  Or are you unforgiven, too?

  —Metallica, “The Unforgiven II”

  Chapter One<
br />
  London, East End, Present Day

  The last thing Artur Camulus wanted to see in his flat was a goddamned candy-ass archangel. But there it was, lounging on the sofa, white wing-tip loafers propped on the coffee table. Watching the telly. Drinking whiskey.

  Artur’s telly. Artur’s whiskey.

  A miniature ax man began chopping away at the inside of Artur’s skull, right between the eyes.

  “Bloody hell. Isn’t anything sacred anymore? Get out, you sodding celestial prat.”

  Gabriel’s hair was, as always, perfect. His pale eyes consumed the screen. A spotty adolescent boy took the stage of Britain’s Got Talent, and Artur’s blood began a slow boil.

  “Blast it all to Oblivion.”

  The angel patted the air. “Pipe down, will you? I want to see this. There’s no Simon Cowell where I come from.”

  “No wonder they call it Heaven.”

  “Shush!”

  Artur killed the switch. Cowell’s big white teeth disappeared.

  “Hey! I was watching that!”

  “Right. And now you’re not. You’ve got a lot of nerve, Gabe, coming here.”

  Ivory wings unfurled as the archangel drew to his full height. “Temper, temper. Come now, Artur. I know those two lovely . . . ahem . . . ladies . . . currently relaxing in your bed have taxed your endurance, but didn’t your mother tell you? We must mind our manners, even under duress.”

  “I’ll give you duress, you nancy poof. Get out, before I rip your wings off.”

  “Is that demon humor? Rather unamusing, I must say. But then, I suppose one can’t expect comedy from a Nephilim.”

  Artur stiffened. He knew what he was; he didn’t need a bloody git of an angel rubbing his face in it. As if he’d asked to be born. He hadn’t. But he could hardly escape the truth of what he was: five thousand years ago, his ancestor Samyaza, a fallen angel, had copulated with a human woman. That forbidden union, and others like it, had produced a race of unnatural, soulless creatures. Gabriel and his archangel brothers had named Artur’s kind Nephilim. But Artur would see himself in Oblivion before he answered to any such slur. He called himself by the name given to his celestial ancestors before their fall: Watcher.

  For half a pence, he’d kick Gabriel’s pearly white arse into the street. Unfortunately, he couldn’t. Heaven’s messenger enjoyed unique immunity in the human world. Artur’s magic, powerful as it was, wasn’t worth shit against him.

  And didn’t the dickless bastard know it.

  “Really,” Gabe huffed, picking lint off his sleeve, “it would serve you right if I did leave.”

  “Serve me right, then. Please.”

  Gabriel frowned and tugged at his vest. The garment was white, like everything else about him. Suit, shirt, tie, socks, shoes. Hell, even his skin and hair were sickly shades of parchment.

  Artur took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Enough bullshit, Gabe. Why are you here?”

  “I’ve come from Glastonbury.”

  Glastonbury? Glastonbury was Clan Samyaza’s territory, home to five of the clan’s Druid adepts. On occasion, it was even home to Artur himself. Needless to say, archangels were not frequent visitors.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I was summoned, of course. By one of yours.”

  Artur snorted. “Unlikely.”

  “But true. And not surprising, really, given last night’s dustup. Such a tragedy.”

  A twinge of real unease pinched Artur’s throat. “Dustup? What dustup?”

  Gabriel examined his fingernails. “You really have no idea, do you? But of course not. The great Artur Camulus, guardian and chieftain of Clan Samyaza, has, of late, put himself completely beyond reach of his responsibilities. Inaccessible by phone, text, or e-mail.”

  Likely true, Artur thought. He’d been drunk as a boiled owl these past three days. His cell was certainly dead. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d checked e-mail.

  “Modern technology.” Gabriel sighed. “So overrated. I much prefer celestial messaging, don’t you? Old-fashioned, perhaps, but foolproof. Of course,” he added with a self-deprecating chuckle, “I am biased.”

  “Brax would never summon you.” Artur’s half brother would never stoop so low. “None of my people would.” At least, Artur was certain neither Morgana nor Niall would. As for the others . . .

  Cade Leucetius, the most recent addition to Clan Samyaza, was something of a loose cannon, but as much as Artur loathed the rough Welshman, he couldn’t imagine him summoning an angel. Leucetius’s instinctive Watcher distrust of blessed creatures rivaled Artur’s own.

  But then there was Cybele. One never knew what Cybele might do.

  “I don’t know why your people mistrust me,” Gabriel complained. “So unfair! What have I ever done to Clan Samyaza? It’s a case of shoot-the-messenger syndrome, I tell you. And how many times have I had to deal with that petty human prejudice over the last few millennia?” He shook his pale head. “Thank heaven Cybele is—”

  “Do not,” Artur hissed, “utter that name in my presence.”

  Gabriel’s pale eyes lit. “Ah! A sore spot! Still angry, I suppose, that she threw you over for Cade.”

  Red rage exploded. With a snarl, Artur lunged. A heartbeat, a white blur of movement, and . . . pain, splitting the back of his skull. He opened his eyes to find himself laid out on the floor, blinking up at one very smug angel.

  “You know, you really should do something about all that excess testosterone.” Gabriel dusted his palms. “Again and again, it leads to unpleasantness.”

  Artur lurched to his feet and stalked into the kitchen. A whiskey bottle, nearly empty, stood on the counter. “Blast it,” he muttered. “That was new.”

  “And excellent, I don’t mind telling you.”

  He gulped down the dregs and tossed the empty. The alcohol burned an angry path down his throat. “Why even bother? You can’t get drunk.”

  “Ah, but I can irritate you.”

  Artur grunted.

  Gabe huffed. “You know, most people rejoice when angels visit.”

  “I’m not most people. As you so kindly pointed out, I’m Nephilim. Half angel, half human. A product of sin and depravity. A cursed atrocity. An archdemon. Dung under your immaculate slippers.”

  The angel sniffed. “Your unfortunate ancestry is no excuse for incivility.”

  Artur shut his eyes. “All right. I give up. Just tell me: how in the name of Oblivion do I get rid of you?”

  “Hmmm. Let me think.” A long finger tapped bloodless lips. “Ah, yes! I’ve got it. Shut your gob and receive my message. That should do the trick.”

  “Fine. Talk. Then leave.”

  “Now that’s more like it!” Adjusting his vest, Gabe raised one hand. “Hail, Artur, full of—” He broke off with a chuckle. “Well. Perhaps it’s best I don’t go there, eh?”

  “Just get on with it.”

  “As you wish. Hail, Artur Camulus. I come to you with a message from Cybele Andraste.”

  Artur gritted his teeth.

  “Demon annihilators have hit Clan Samyaza. Twelve dead, four wounded. Come quickly.”

  “Bloody fucking hell!”

  Gabriel exhaled. “That’s all.”

  Artur was already out the door.

  Chapter Two

  London, England

  Father Jonas Walker was too beautiful to be a man of God. Graced with the musculature of an athlete and the face of a movie star, the priest shone like an angel. His handsome face all but leaped off the computer screen. His lips moved with perfect grace:

  “Demon Annihilators Mutual Network is an international nonprofit organization dedicated to the eradication of demonkind. I’m Reverend Jonas Walker, international director of DAMN, and this is a public service announcement. Have you, or anyone you know, experienced demonic activity? Been the victim of hellfiend influence? Suffered an attack by a possessed human?

  Walker leaned closer.

  “Or
have you perhaps encountered the greatest evil—the hybrid atrocity known as a Nephilim? Half human, half spawn of Hell, Nephilim possess all the cunning and skill of human and demon alike. Begotten in sin, steeped in evil, these archdemon overlords live to prey on the weakness of mankind.”

  The priest straightened.

  “My brothers, my sisters, if you encounter any damned being, be it common hellfiend or Nephilim archdemon, know that prompt reporting saves lives—and, more importantly—souls. Call or text your sighting to DAMN’s New York City headquarters at 01-212-555-7734. That’s 01-212-555-7734. Do not falter. Do not delay. Your life—and your salvation—depend on YOU.”

  Walker lifted a fist, revealing the letters D-A-M-N in red ink on the backs of his fingers.

  “Death to the Nephilim! Hellfire to hellfiends! Annihilation to demonkind! Thank you, and God bless.”

  The computer video feed froze on the red flames of the DAMN logo. For several long seconds, silence dripped like blood.

  Cade Leucetius jumped to his feet, sending his chair clattering to the floor. He paced the room, his fury a living, writhing presence inside his chest. “I say death to them. The whole lot. Every last sodding DAMNer. Beginning”—he pointed at the screen—“with that one.”

  Brax Cocidus shook his head. The bandage on his right temple, stark white beneath his nut brown hair, was stained where the blood had seeped through. “Walker didn’t conceive the attack on the Glastonbury compound. The man’s being used, Cade, by—”

  “To Oblivion with that. I—”

  “Cease.”

  Artur Camulus raised a hand. The room fell silent. Garbed in unrelieved black, Clan Samyaza’s chieftain cut an impressive figure. The absence of color accentuated the paleness of his skin. His long black hair, tinged with gray at the temples, was gathered in a severe ponytail, exposing the harsh angles of his face. His eyes, set deep under black brows, resembled nothing so much as glittering chips of black ice.