The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Praise for Joy Nash

  The Night Everything Fell Apart

  Dedication

  Genesis 6:2,4

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  DEMONS AND ANGELS

  SUMMONING

  BOOKS BY JOY NASH

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Praise for Joy Nash

  Silver Silence

  “Spellbinding! Joy Nash combines her knowledge of Celtic lore with timeless legends and writes breathtaking romance of unconditional love amid a backdrop of lush descriptions and powerful magic.” ~Paranormal Romance Reviews on Silver Silence

  The Grail King

  A Romantic Times TOP PICK! “Not since Mary Stewart’s Merlin Trilogy has the magic of Avalon flowed as lyrically off the pages.” ~RT BOOKreviews Magazine on The Grail King

  A Little Light Magic

  “One of those books that when you finish reading it, you have to turn around and start it all over again.” ~Bitten by Books on A Little Light Magic

  The Crossing

  “Splendidly entertaining.” ~ Booklist on The Crossing

  “Mac’s personality is in full blaze. It is impossible not to fall in love with this man!” ~Romance Junkies on The Crossing

  Looking For a Hero

  “Oh man! A hilarious ride that had me falling out of my seat with laughter... Don’t miss this story.” ~Romance Reviews Today on Looking For a Hero

  The Night Everything Fell Apart

  Joy Nash

  JOYNASH BOOKS

  Dedication

  To my daughter:

  first reader, social media wizard,

  and advisor on everything magical

  Genesis 6:2,4

  The Sons of God saw that the Daughters of Men were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose.

  The Nephilim were on the earth in those days, and afterward, when the Sons of God came unto the Daughters of Men, who bore children to them.

  ONE

  Arthur Camulus couldn’t say it felt good to be back in England. To be honest, it felt like crap. And wasn’t that bloody ironic? He’d spent years plotting his return.

  At least, he thought he had.

  Why was he here? He couldn’t remember. His brain was that fucked up. It’d been hours, or days, or maybe even weeks, since he’d emerged from his Ordeal. Heat consumed his body; every nerve ending was ablaze. Opal lights moved under his skin. Stray sparks shot from his fingertips. He swiped his tongue across the roof of his mouth. His spit tasted of metal. He stunk of sweat and worse. If he looked down at his bare chest, he’d see blood.

  Not his own blood. That much, he was certain of.

  The first time his body had changed, the pain had been nearly unendurable. The second shift had been easier. His flesh was adjusting to its new condition. His mind? Fried. Horrors flashed behind his eyes. Shouts rang in his ears. The magic was his and yet it wasn’t. He couldn’t call it with any consistency or direct it once it responded.

  He needed help.

  The night was heavy with fog. How long until dawn? Hard to tell. Clouds obscured moon and stars. Night mist soaked his skin as he flew. Moorland, mottled with shadows, peeked through the haze below. To his newly-gained night vision, everything appeared strangely rendered in shades of gray and green.

  It was difficult to keep steady long enough to orient himself. His wings were more awkward than he’d anticipated. Right and left refused to cooperate. Flight was dodgy.

  The site was the highest point for miles around. Even so, he only just managed to see past its protective wardings. He landed inelegantly, in a neglected garden. Here, the fog was thinner, sound muted. The old manor rose like a ghost, its windows like so many vacant eyes. He tilted his head and knew a rush of relief. There might be gaps—vast gaps—in the quagmire of his memory, but this place, at least, occupied solid ground.

  Tŷ’r Cythraul. House of the Demon.

  He willed his wings to melt into his back. Surprisingly, they obeyed. The lights under his skin faded. Breath hissed between his teeth as his body relaxed into human form.

  His childhood home was an unassuming structure. Square and stolid, with a gray stone face. Four rooms below, five above. The attic, one large space under a steeply sloping roof, had once been Arthur’s domain. His life here had been happy until that last, horrific night.

  The front door—solid oak, polished to a high sheen—simultaneously beckoned and repulsed. Reluctant to face it, he pivoted, taking in the garden and its encircling stone wall, where his mother, in all her varied moods, had spent hours tending her plants. Now weeds overran the paths, feral herbs wrestled with gangly shrubs, and saplings choked the well pump.

  Only the oak was unchanged. Its trunk, so massive that three men with outstretched arms could not have encircled it, stood near one corner of the house. Moss-covered roots spread out around the base like a treacherous welcome mat. Branches stretched over the roof, the tips scratching the slates.

  I’ve come for the oak. With sudden clarity, the memory of it burst upon him.

  Funny thing about memories. When they weren’t your own, they had no context. Bits and pieces of his ancestors’ lives churned about in Arthur’s skull, like so much tornado-tossed debris. So many events, so many images. So many lost emotions. A thousand films playing at once, reeling past too quickly to absorb.

  A dull ache pounded his forehead. He bowed his head and pressed his fingertips against it. The oak, he reminded himself. The oak. What the bloody hell was he supposed to remember about the oak?

  Violent as lightning, one memory, one single lucid thought, flashed through his brain. He sucked in air. His eyes flew open. A morass of emotions—clawing, sucking, sickening—swamped him. He stumbled toward the oak and laid his left hand on its trunk.

  Power leapt like a rabid dog. Too much, too strong: he couldn’t control it. The magic savaged his brain, mauled his skull. Lifted his mind from his body. Desperately, he focused on the wood under his palm. He couldn’t fail in this. He would not.

  He swept his hand downward. The bark warmed. The ancient wood went soft. His fingers sank into it. Something slipped into his hand. He pulled the object out of the wood. Several seconds passed as he gathered the courage to look at it.

  When at last he did, he knew. Who he was. What he was. Arthur Camulus. Human. Demon.

  Nephil.

  And he knew one more thing: he was in deep, deep shit.

  TWO

  Michael turned his phone sideways. The video enlarged to fill the screen, but it was barely an improvement. He couldn’t quite make out exactly how the three human males were connected to the two human females. Frustrated, he backtracked and started another video. This one showed only two males, not a female in sight.

  Interesting. How many different ways could there possibly be for humans to copulate?

  “Abomination!”

  The phone slipped from his grip and went flying into blue sky. It exploded overhead. A shower of sp
arks rained down. Each tiny light disappeared into the cloud under his feet.

  Michael regarded his brother sourly. “F-f-f...fuck it.”

  It was difficult, almost painful, to form human profanity on his tongue. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to get it out until he heard the syllable explode from his lips. It gave him an odd feeling—energized and strangely satisfied. He sat up and grinned.

  Raphael regarded him with undisguised horror. “What did you say?”

  “Want me to say it again?”

  “In the name of all that’s holy, no!”

  Gabriel, who was inspecting his fingernails while seated atop a nearby puff of mist, fluttered his silver wings and snorted.

  Raphael cast a baleful eye upon him. “Don’t you start, too.”

  “Who, moi?” Gabe looked up, all wide-eyed and innocent. “Why, I wouldn’t dream of it. There’s certainly no reason for me to get involved just because you can’t control Michael.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with control,” Raphael said.

  Gabriel stood. “Come now, brother.” Grasping his walking stick in his left hand, he smoothed the lapel of his linen suit with his right. “Angels aren’t supposed to lie. Archangels, least of all.”

  The darkest thundercloud could not have rivaled Raphael’s expression for pure fury. His robes whipped around his legs as if buffeted by gale-force winds. His hand landed on the hilt of his sword. “Are you accusing me of falsehood?”

  “If the sandal fits,” Gabe said, cheekily ignoring the oncoming storm. Fingers spread, he frowned down at his left hand. Sighing, he propped his walking stick up against a tuft of cloud and snapped his fingers. An emery board appeared. With the virtuosity of an artist, he applied it to the offending fingernail.

  Raphael glowered. “Insolent brat.”

  “Insufferable bore,” Gabe replied.

  Michael sat back on his cloud, content to watch his siblings quarrel. Raphael would win, of course. Eventually. Until then, Gabriel could drag out a squabble from here to eternity.

  His brothers could not be more different. Raphael, eldest, was the golden boy, with shoulder-length blond hair and a blindingly handsome face. He was, in Michael’s private opinion, the pompous back end of a donkey. If he’d ever seen Raphael wearing anything but sun-bright robes, gold-wrought sandals, and a gilded, belted scabbard—Sword of Righteous Vengeance sheathed threateningly inside—Michael could not remember it.

  Gabriel, the middle brother, was pale. Skin white as parchment, eyes silver-grey. He invariably dressed in a white linen suit, white-on-white striped shirt, skinny silver tie, and white shoes and socks. His hair was clipped short and was—surprise!—pure as driven snow. He carried a white, silver-handled walking stick. A pair of diamond stud earrings, set in platinum, gleamed in his lobes.

  The argument went on. And on. And on. Bored, Michael snapped his fingers. A new smart phone appeared in his hand. He bent his head over the screen and occupied himself scrolling through website after website. He just couldn’t get enough of this human porn thing. The Earth’s Internet was full of it. And cats. For some reason, always cats.

  He was so absorbed in his...erm...research of the human realm that he didn’t notice the altercation had ended until a shadow fell over him. He looked up to find Raphael staring him down.

  “May I help you?” Michael inquired.

  “What,” his brother intoned, “is that infernal human device?”

  Michael quickly shoved the phone into the back pocket of his jeans. “It’s called a smart phone. Almost all humans have one. They carry them everywhere.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “To connect with each other. Send messages and trade pictures and videos and...shit.”

  Raphael did his baleful eye thing again.

  Michael shrugged.

  “Hmph.” Raphael waved a hand. “Humans would be far better served by casting off their...what did you call them?”

  “Smart phones.”

  “Humans would be far better served casting off their smart phones and speaking directly to Heaven.”

  “I’m sure that would be ideal,” Michael hedged, “but I can tell you it’s not likely to happen this millennium. The next millennium looks doubtful, too. From what I’ve seen, humans aren’t all that interested in celestial matters. Sin consumes them. It’s really very interesting—”

  “I sent you to Earth to fight sin,” Raphael said tightly. “Not to wallow in it.”

  “I have to know my audience,” Michael protested. “Humans are very emotional. They’ll fight about anything. Power, money, parking spaces—you name it. And if they’re not fighting, they’re fu—”

  “Cease! I’m thinking you’ve come to know your audience far too well.” Raphael looked Michael up and down. “And what in Heaven’s name are you wearing? Where are your celestial robes?”

  Gone. Michael found denim pants to be surprisingly comfortable. He’d shrunk his righteous sword down to a deadly six-inch switchblade, now hidden in his sleeve. He was equally pleased with his Doc Martens and the frogged military jacket he’d picked up in a vintage shop in SoHo.

  “You don’t have a problem with Gabe’s Earth garb,” he said. “What’s wrong with mine?”

  “You’re wearing black, for Heaven’s sake. What kind of self-respecting angel wears black? And hides his wings?”

  “One that’s undercover,” Michael said testily.

  Gabriel tittered behind his hand. Raphael shot him a glare. Gabe sniffed and turned his head.

  “Undercover is one thing,” Raphael said, “but dignity must be preserved.”

  “I don’t see why.”

  Raphael gave a flap of his golden wings. Robes fluttering behind him, he glided a circle around his brother. Touching down once more, he crossed his arms. “Disgusting garments. Get rid of them.”

  Like hell I will, Michael thought, and then flushed. Human obscenity concerning copulation and defecation were one thing. Invoking the underworld was perhaps going a bit too far.

  “Forget my clothes,” he said. “Don’t you want to hear my field report?”

  Raphael heaved a sigh. “Of course.” He waved a hand, swirling cloud mist into the form of a throne. His celestial buttocks settled upon it. “Proceed.”

  Michael rose and bowed.

  Raphael inclined his head in reply. “Have you located Cherub Fortunato?”

  “Regrettably, no. And believe me, I’ve looked all over.”

  “Odd.” Raphael’s shining brow creased. “I wonder where he might have gone. He’s definitely not up here.”

  “He’s probably just floating around Earth, oblivious. You have to admit, the little guy isn’t exactly the most intelligent of angels.”

  “Heaven knows that’s true. When the Almighty was giving out brains, Fortunato thought He said ‘pains,’ and made himself scarce.”

  Michael chuckled. “He’s as lucky as his name, though. And very soft-hearted. He’ll be fine.”

  Raphael contemplated a moment longer, then shook his head. “I suppose you’re right. Fortunato has always been a curious sort. He probably just got distracted. I expect he’ll turn up eventually.” He leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Very well. Continue. What sin did you find rampant in the human realm?”

  “The usual trouble in the Middle East—that’s a given. In other areas...let’s see. Your typical wars here and there, along with the expected number of refugees fleeing each conflict zone. Species extinction continues unabated. Greed and gluttony is on an upswing. Racism, sexism, and xenophobia holding steady. Murders and thefts are, surprisingly, slightly down. As for illicit sexual congress—”

  Raphael held up a hand. “Please. No details.”

  Michael shrugged. “In that case, I guess that’s about—oh wait. There was one other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s not really about sin, per se. It concerns the Nephilim.”

  Raphael snorted. “If those abominable left-handed demons
are involved, you can be sure it’s a sin. What evil are they up to now?”

  “The Druid clan, descendants of the Watcher Samyaza, has a new adept. A male. He emerged from his Ordeal two days ago.”

  “What do I care about that? Nephil dormants become adept with regrettable regularity.”

  “Not like this, they don’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This particular Nephil went rogue,” Michael said. “Defied his alpha, abandoned his clan, and entered his Ordeal alone. No guide, no mentor, not one scrap of assistance. And yet he survived.”

  Raphael waved a dismissive hand. “So he’s insane now. Nothing need be done about it. He won’t last long enough to become a problem.”

  “Well, that’s just it. He’s not insane. At least, not fully. He emerged from his Ordeal with his mind mostly intact. His demon powers are rapidly escalating. He can’t quite control them yet, but—” Michael shook his head. “It’s amazing, really. Arthur Camulus is—”

  Raphael’s chin jerked up. “What did you say?”

  “I said, the new adept is sane. Mostly.”

  “No, not that part. The other. His name. What is his name?”

  Michael regarded his brother quizzically. “I told you. It’s Arthur Camulus, Nephil of the Druid clan. Descendant of Samyaza, leader of the fallen Watcher angels.”

  Raphael jumped to his feet and paced, golden robes swirling about his ankles like a small tornado. What the—? Michael had never seen his brother so agitated. He shot a questioning look at Gabriel. Gabe raised a hand, palm up, and made a face.

  “It cannot be,” Raphael muttered. “Cannot be, I tell you. Arthur Camulus is dead. He died as a boy of twelve. Seven years ago.”

  “You are...misinformed,” Michael said carefully. “I assure you, Arthur is very much alive.”

  Raphael whipped around to face him. “Even if he were alive, he’s not yet of age. He’d be only nineteen. A full year short of attempting his Ordeal with any hope of survival.”