The Unforgiven (The Watchers) Page 2

  Artur, guardian and protector. Well, as far as Cade was concerned, the man had done precious little guarding or protecting in the past year. He itched to smash the bastard’s face.

  Of course, he didn’t dare.

  Artur held a roll of parchment. Ornate script the color of dirty rust flowed over the gilded paper. The ink carried the metallic scent of blood.

  “At dawn today, this scroll appeared at my door. Clan Azazel claims full responsibility for the attack on our people. The missive states that Vaclav Dusek himself created the weapons Jonas Walker’s DAMNers used to murder our kin.”

  “But . . . Dusek is a Watcher. A Nephilim.” Cybele Andraste, standing by the window, held herself stiffly, nursing a cracked rib. She looked up from the glass. “Walker is a menace, but the man doesn’t strike me as a hypocrite.”

  Brax brought up a photo on his laptop screen, an image of Vaclav Dusek shaking hands with none other than Father Jonas Walker. “This photo was taken yesterday. In front of DAMN’s international headquarters in New York City. Dusek has accepted an appointment as DAMN’s European director.”

  “So we have no reason to doubt the truth of Dusek’s claim,” Artur said. “That the weapons used in the Glastonbury attack, primed with Watcher magic, were supplied by Dusek.”

  “Clan Samyaza magic,” Cade muttered. “Not Clan Azazel magic.”

  “Indeed,” said Artur. “The wardings against Clan Azazel magic were in place. We never thought to ward against our own power.”

  A mistake that had cost them dearly. A mistake that Cade would rather have gone to Oblivion than make. And yet here he was, alive. While so many others—his own infant son included—were not.

  Gareth, the only Watcher dormant to have survived the massacre, sported a raw gash on his left cheek and a burned leg. His already fair skin was even paler than usual, his freckles and ginger hair providing an almost garish contrast. He spoke now, for the first time, gritting his teeth against the pain. “A Watcher—a Nephilim—leading a demon-annihilation organization? That’s insane. It’s only a matter of time before someone at DAMN figures out what Dusek is.”

  Cybele glanced at him. “Maybe someone already knows.”

  “Maybe,” Brax allowed. “But it’s a good bet it’s not Walker himself. Cybele is right. The man is a sincerely pious Roman Catholic priest. He’d slit his own throat before he knowingly made a deal with a Nephilim.”

  “Well, someone at DAMN isn’t too holy to deal with the damned,” muttered Cade.

  “Consider,” Artur said, “that for millennia Azazel’s descendants have sought to destroy our kin. Now, with Samyaza magic in his arsenal and an army of zealot demon annihilators to wield it, Dusek is closer to the goal than his ancestors have ever been.” He released the parchment. The paper fluttered to the floor to lie like a deadly snake in their midst. No one moved to take it.

  “So you understand,” Artur continued, “Jonas Walker is only a distraction.”

  Cybele, lips compressed, returned her gaze to the oily shine of London rain on the window glass. Her curling blonde hair, usually her most striking feature, hung in a limp rope down her back. A slight stiffening of her spine and the black pepper scent of grief told Cade how close she was to breaking down. As he was. But his anguish took a more active form: anger.

  He rounded on Artur. “Distraction?” He slapped his fist into his open palm. The motion caused the gash on his left shoulder to burn. Magical wounds didn’t heal as cleanly as those inflicted by human weapons. Especially when one’s own clan magic caused the injury.

  “A dozen dead bodies,” he spat. “Two adepts, three human concubines, seven dormant children. I hope you’re not suggesting, Artur, that we allow their murderers to live.”

  The first bomb had detonated in the children’s wing, before the clan adepts even realized the wards had failed. Six DAMN annihilators, heavily armed, had breached the compound’s protections. The clan had sprung into immediate action; not one DAMNner had made it out alive. The police had shown up shortly after the battle ended, summoned by a suspicious neighbor. Cybele, despite her injury, had woven a glamour of normalcy, and the officers had quickly departed, leaving the survivors to dispose of the bodies of both kin and enemy.

  The stink of burned flesh lingered in Cade’s nostrils even now, days later. Clan Samyaza’s future, in ashes. Cade’s own son, dead. The infant’s human mother had abandoned the boy on Cade’s doorsteps just days before.

  Cade had not been pleased to see the infant; he had not yet even given the baby a name. He barely remembered its mother; he’d slept with her only to dull the pain of Cybele’s rejection. But Watcher children were few, and every one represented the survival of the race. There had been no question that the baby would be raised in the clan. But now the promise of the child’s life was lost to Oblivion. Cade would never forgive himself for that. Never.

  Brax had lost two sons and both their human mothers. Artur had lost a son, a child of ten, also born of a human mother. Three other boys, Niall’s sons, had died. Morgana had been the mother of one of Niall’s lads. She and Niall’s human concubine had died trying to save their children.

  The strain of loss clearly showed in Brax’s eyes, but Artur’s countenance showed no trace of grief. Cade could not even catch a scent of emotion, however faint. He wondered if the bastard ever felt anything.

  Artur’s Druid powers were, of course, vast. His right to Clan Samyaza’s chieftaincy was unchallenged. If Artur had been present the night of the DAMN attack, he very well might have succeeded in saving what Cade and the others had lost. Instead, Artur had arrived at dawn, as the blood from the slaughter dried on the walls. And only then because Cybele had sent the archangel Gabriel to fetch him. As far as Cade was concerned, Artur should have stayed in bleeding London.

  “Twelve lives under your protection,” Cade hissed through gritted teeth. “Your own sons, your nephews, murdered in their beds. Swatted like flies. While the great Artur Camulus fucked his London whores.”

  A muscle twitched in Artur’s jaw. A dark flash in his eyes was the only hint that Cade might be close to crossing a line.

  “Sit, Leucetius.”

  Cade’s fists flexed. “And if I don’t?”

  Brax, eyes flaring crimson, slapped his palms on the table on either side of the computer, half rising from his chair. “Stop this. We’ve all suffered losses. Fighting among ourselves is not going to help anything.”

  Artur ignored his brother. “A challenge, Leucetius?” His eyes hardened into obsidian. The odor of barely suppressed violence reached Cade’s nostrils; his pulse spiked.

  “Come on, then.” Artur’s voice was deadly soft. “Do it.”

  Suicide, to take on Artur. Every Watcher in the room knew it. The ancient words of challenge, once uttered, would seal Cade’s doom. Artur was far stronger than any of them—stronger even than all the other Watchers in the room at once. Cade did not doubt that Artur could—and would—tear him to pieces. But not before Cade inflicted some damage of his own. He shifted onto the balls of his feet, preparing—

  A touch on his arm dragged him back to sanity. He jerked his head around. He hadn’t even noticed Cybele moving from the window. Their eyes tangled, and for a moment he was lost in the clear, sad gray of her irises. His heart clenched, and he cursed himself for still wanting her, when she had never wanted anyone but Artur.

  “Cade. Stop this. Please. It isn’t helping.”

  She was right, of course. Giving Artur the pleasure of killing him was no solution. A shudder passed through him; he nodded once.

  Artur’s gaze fell on Cybele. “Take your hand off him.”

  Cybele’s green eyes flashed. Her hand did not move. Her Texas accent dripped contempt into each syllable of her reply.

  “Do us all a favor, Mr. Master and Commander. Choke on that arrogance. There are six of us left. Six. That’s assuming . . .” Her voice faltered, then steadied. “That’s assuming Lucas is alive.” Cybele’s brother had been o
ut of touch with the clan for months, and Cade knew she’d been anxious about his silence even before the massacre.

  “You want to take more of us out, Artur? Great. Crawl on over to Vaclav Dusek and offer your services as assassin.”

  Artur’s expression didn’t change as he absorbed the tirade. When it was done, he simply raised one eyebrow and turned his back.

  Cybele’s throat worked. Cade smelled a rush of sour heat. He wasn’t fooled. Cybele wasn’t so much angry as she was hurt. She craved Artur’s fire, not his frost. She loved the bastard. Only the devil in hell knew why. Cade certainly didn’t understand.

  He removed Cybele’s hand from his arm. She was right about one thing. Clan Samyaza couldn’t afford to fight among themselves. Hatred among the clans was one aspect of the curse delivered to the original Watcher angels after their fall from grace, and their half-human children had inherited it. Every Nephilim harbored an instinctive mistrust of those not of their own clan’s line. The animosity had only intensified through the ages, as the Watchers’ descendants had fought for survival and for control of mankind. Heaven did not want them banding together.

  The original Watcher leaders, Samyaza and Azazel, once as close as brothers, had fought bitterly for supremacy on earth. For millennia, their progeny had continued the feud. The battle was fierce and unending, with neither clan able to gain the upper hand for long. Many times throughout history, clan loyalty and unquestioning obedience to the clan chieftain had been the primary factor preventing Clan Samyaza’s destruction. Oblivion awaited Cade and his clan now if Clan Samyaza could not face the current threat with a united front.

  Though it nearly killed him to do so, Cade faced Artur and bowed. The gesture of fealty left a sour taste in his mouth, but Artur’s acknowledging touch on his head was, thankfully, brief. The scent of the clan’s collective relief took the edge off the humiliation.

  The chieftain addressed the room. “Dusek has struck a knife into the heart of our clan. He has stolen our magic. He has won one battle. But make no mistake. He will not win the war. Clan Samyaza will wipe Vaclav Dusek and his sons from the face of the earth. We will consign Clan Azazel to Oblivion.”

  Cade had been a part of the clan for little more than a year. Before his transition he’d known nothing of his Watcher heritage; he’d spent the time immediately after his transition—immediately after Cybele had made it clear she did not return his love—learning what he was. He’d learned to master his blood cravings, control his Druid magic, and had sifted through five millennia of ancestral memory. He’d chosen his Watcher surname, as all Samyaza adepts did, from the pantheon of Latinized Celtic deities: Leucetius, god of lightning. He’d listened to tales of Watcher history. There were many things, though, Cade had yet to understand.

  “You say Dusek has stolen Samyaza magic,” he asked. “How is that possible?”

  Artur and Brax exchanged glances, and a shadow flitted across Cybele’s face. Gareth looked down at his hands. Unlike Cade, all of them had known what they were since birth.

  It was Brax who answered. “There’s only one way Dusek could have done it. By making a slave. By anchoring a Samyaza dormant through transition and afterward retaining the power of mastery rather than setting the new adept free.”

  The talk of transition and crisis triggered flashes of unwanted memory in Cade’s brain. Even though more than a year had passed, a hot flush spread up Cade’s neck. Acid flooded his stomach. Slave. Yes, he had been that to Cybele. Still was, in some ways.

  “Just imagine, Cade,” Artur taunted softly, as if he’d heard Cade’s thoughts. “It might have been you who were enslaved.” The chieftain’s gaze fell on the woman who had once been his bonded mate. “If Cybele had not been so honorable as to set you free.”

  Cybele stiffened. Cade’s fingers curled into fists. Artur, bastard that he was, loved to torment his former mate with the choice she had made that night. Cybele had broken her vows to Artur in order to save the life of a dying kinsman, a stranger she’d stumbled upon completely by chance. In doing so, she’d earned the hatred of the man she loved. Cade was all too aware of how powerless he was to repay the debt he owed her.

  Brax sent Artur a repressive glance. “We know of no female Samyaza dormants,” he continued pointedly. “They’re very rare. But Dusek must have located one. An unaware dormant, living among humans.”

  Cybele met Artur’s gaze. “We can’t allow Clan Azazel to hold one of our kin. We have to free her.”

  “A fine goal.” Brax’s cool voice cut in. “For our own sake as well as for our unknown brother’s. But at the moment, the notion is completely unrealistic. With a Samyaza slave under his thumb, Dusek has use of our magic. He can reproduce our spells as well as neutralize them. The slave gives him a clear advantage.”

  “For now.” The merciless expression in Artur’s eyes went a long way toward chilling Cade’s blood.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, Leucetius, that we will attack Dusek with magic he does not expect. Magic we do not currently possess.”

  Cybele paled. “You can’t mean for Clan Samyaza to take slaves of our own.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean, Cybele, my love.”

  She ignored the stain of sarcasm on Artur’s endearment. “But . . . how? We’d need to find a Watcher dormant on the cusp of transition. That’s all but impossible.”

  Artur strode to the sideboard and poured a whiskey. He took a long sip before speaking.

  “Dusek found a Watcher dormant. And you, Cybele, found Cade.”

  “My finding Cade was pure chance. One in a million,” Cybele said tightly. “You know that, Artur. It’s not likely to happen again. Our Druid earth magic provides protection and illusion; we don’t have the advantage of Dusek’s fire alchemy for remote vision and discernment. Even if we did, we have no idea what spells he used to locate his victim.”

  Artur tilted his glass toward his brother. “All very true. Even so, Brax has been, shall we say, working his own brand of magic. With great success, I might add. An hour ago, he located a dormant Watcher in the early stage of transition. Better yet, it’s an unaware Watcher, with no inkling what’s to come. All we need to do, my dear Cybele, is be on hand when the crisis strikes.”

  The last drops of color drained from Cybele’s face. A seething turmoil of scents slapped at Cade’s nostrils: rage, hurt, bewilderment. Cybele was the clan’s only surviving female. Every Watcher in the room knew what that meant.

  “You bastard,” she whispered. “You can forget it. I won’t anchor him. I won’t become a slaver. You can’t ask it of me. You wouldn’t.”

  “You’re right.” Artur’s eyes darkened. “I wouldn’t ask. I would command.”

  Cybele flinched as if he’d struck her. “I won’t obey. I won’t whore for you, Artur.”

  The whiskey glass clinked on the sideboard. Artur paced forward, slowly, stopping only when the tips of Cybele’s breasts brushed his chest. Cade’s eyes narrowed as Cybele lifted her chin and—foolishly, Cade thought—held her ground.

  Artur’s long fingers encircled her slender neck. “You will obey me, Cybele, when my command is spoken. I will make certain of it.”

  He pressed the translucent skin just above her windpipe. The scent of her fear spiked.

  If that had been the only odor Cade’s nostrils plucked from the air, he would have leaped to Cybele’s defense, and blast the consequences. But it wasn’t. Hard on the heels of her panic came the rushing odor of her desire. So Cade stayed where he was. Cybele had made it clear over and over again: she did not welcome Cade’s interference. Not where Artur was concerned.

  After a moment, Artur gave a humorless laugh. Releasing Cybele, as if the tense interlude had never occurred, he strode back to his drink. “Clan Samyaza will counter Dusek’s advantage,” he said, “We will bring new magic under our control, quickly.”

  “And what of Clan Samyaza’s honor?” Cybele cried. “Are we to toss our self-respect in the tras
h and become everything we despise? Everything Jonas Walker believes us to be? Taking slaves will taint every one of us. Issue all the threats you want, Artur, but I, for one, would rather go to Oblivion than anchor a slave.” She rounded on Brax. “You stand with him on this? How could you?”

  Brax shifted in his seat. “The way I see it, Cybele, we have two choices. Fight slime with slime, or roll over and show our throats. You might be willing to embrace Oblivion, but I’m not. I agree with Artur. Slave-making is our only option.”

  “And you’ve already found our victim.”

  “Yes,” Brax said. “I have.”

  “How? You haven’t cast a spell all day. You’ve been staring at that computer.”

  Brax drummed his fingers once on the table. “I’ve been hacking police reports on hellfiend activity.”

  “Why on earth . . . ?”

  “Hellfiends sense the presence of Watchers and typically avoid them. They know they can’t possess us. Quite the opposite, they’re more likely to fall under our control or be slain outright. They know confronting Watchers will only bring trouble. Given that fact, it therefore follows that areas with a minimum of hellfiend crime will coincide with areas of Watcher activity. When these regions occur outside the territory of the known Watcher clans, it’s possible the effect is caused by an unaware Watcher, one who’s just entered the transitioning phase.”

  “One who’s recently survived a near-death experience, you mean,” Cybele said.

  “Exactly.” Brax tapped a few keys. “In the past, it’s been difficult to track these patterns using only magic, but now, with computers and the Internet . . . All I have to do is cross-reference the crime-free areas with corresponding local hospital records of patients who’ve experienced a near-death trauma.

  “Once I assembled a list of NDE survivors under thirty years of age, it was easy enough to search school and medical records and check for typical Watcher characteristics: prematurely dead parent, no full siblings, dysfunction in human society, tall stature, left-handedness. In effect, all the common traits compatible with Watcher genetics.” He shrugged. “The methodology is tedious but simple enough. I didn’t have to use magic at all.”