Blood Debts (The Temple Chronicles Book 2) Page 3

  I hoped there were rules…

  “Out of respect for what you are going through, I will let this minor annoyance slide, with a warning. If you ever strike a Knight of Heaven again, you won’t even have time to apologize. We will smite you out of existence. If our nephews and nieces, the Nephilim here, don’t find you first. They have less scrutiny about their daily duties than us Angels.” With that, he turned on a proud heel, nodded to his gang of warriors, and they all left the bar. His shoulders fluttered anxiously underneath his coat as if alive. Then he was gone, ducking slightly through the broken door.

  I sat down, breathing heavily.

  I had suckerpunched an Angel, and I was still kicking.

  I noticed that a man down the bar was appraising me thoughtfully. Somehow, he also hadn’t been affected by the Angel’s manipulation of time. He didn’t look impressed at my bravery.

  Or maybe stupidity.

  Time jolted, and everyone in the bar seemed suddenly surprised at his or her abrupt locomotion, as if wondering whether or not anything odd had happened. Even Freaks hadn’t sensed the Angel’s ability to stop time. I heard the bartender begin shouting about the broken door. His eyes quickly flicked towards me but I was still at the bar, obviously nowhere near the damage. His brow furrowed in thought, no doubt wondering how I had done it. Hemmingway finally belted out, “Balls! You’ve got a titanic pair of balls. Or you have a death wish.” He exclaimed between bouts of laughter.

  “Shut up and drink, Hemmingway.”

  Hemmingway smiled at my nickname, lifted his glass in salute, and downed his drink, shaking his head as he continued to mutter to himself.

  What had I gotten myself into?

  Chapter 4

  I continued to stare at the broken doorway with a frown of concentration, noticing the chill air from outside sucking out a good chunk of the bar’s heat. Thanks to me. People began putting on their coats, but remained inside.

  I was too tired to connect the dots. I needed to clear my head. So, I stood and strolled outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Angel again. I entered the street, but saw no sign of him or his thugs. Just the typical Mardi Gras revelers.

  Curious.

  Apparently, someone sent from upstairs wanted me to stay out of my parents’ murder investigation. I just wanted justice. Nothing more. But someone was watching me. Did that mean I was close to the answer? Why were freaking Angels investigating their murder? And to top it all off, I apparently reeked of Demons. But… why?

  I had no idea. Shivering, I stormed back inside, ready to pay my tab and leave.

  Sauntering over to the bar, the TV caught my attention. Someone had turned up the volume. As the words reached my ears, I groaned inwardly. Hemmingway seemed to be listening with rapt attention. It was the now familiar news rehash about me from the last few months. “Master Temple is still refusing to comment, so the world is full of speculation. As everyone is aware, a few months ago, our beloved benefactor, Nate Temple — recently nicknamed the Archangel — and heir of Temple Industries after his parents’ murder, was allegedly involved as a person-of-interest in a murder spree the likes of which St. Louis has never seen before. At this time, he is not considered a suspect.” Her tone said otherwise. “Alaric Slate — Master Temple’s business partner in a so-called coalition of supernaturals — is apparently missing, so no interviews with him have been forthcoming.” The news reporter then went on to declare that the high-speed car chase over the Eads Bridge involving a Demon was no doubt a monstrous hoax. A woman had been found at the bottom of the river, but it was determined that she was most likely just an innocent crash victim. They had yet to determine her identity. I scowled. She hadn’t been an innocent bystander. She had been a silver scaled dragon intent on mutilating me. My best friend — werewolf, and now ex-FBI agent — Gunnar Randulf had barely helped me out of that one. Literally. Silver and werewolves were not bed-buddies.

  I idly fingered the bracelet of misshapen teeth on my wrist. Dragon teeth. Acquired from the late Dragon Lord, Alaric Slate. I had killed Alaric, and used his dental palate to make a fashionable bracelet. It had made me feel marginally better. When Alaric’s ritual had backfired, thanks to yours truly, the spell had then transferred the power and designation Obsidian Son to his offspring, Raego, making him the new de-facto leader of the dragon nation.

  A twofer if I ever heard one.

  Raego, always savvy, chose to break the morbid news to his fellow dragons by making my bracelet an award, like a god-damned Purple Heart, declaring me a friend of dragons everywhere. One phrase stuck in my eidetic memory like a persistent hunk of caramel corn. “He is the ultimate death for us. Our very own Grim Reaper for those who wish to act terrible to humans… or those who disappoint me.” I fingered the bracelet angrily. “I won’t be Raego’s fucking hit man.” I growled.

  I felt Hemmingway turn to study me acutely. “What?” I snapped, nervous at the attention the news story might have caused, as well as my last comment.

  But he didn’t acknowledge my idle comment. “Grandma, what great big balls you have!” He chimed in a falsetto voice, grinning wide.

  “You already said that.” I muttered. He chuckled. I pondered my recent encounter. “You really think so? He didn’t look too tough. Although he walked off my sucker punch pretty well.” I continued, regarding my departed appointment.

  “Well, does it take more guts to twice traverse a staircase in a burning building or to make a one-time leap into a volcano? Damned if I know, Kimosabe. All I know is when you’re making those kinds of calls, you’re up in the high country.”

  I chuckled. “Never heard that before.”

  Hemmingway nodded. “One of the Greats. S. H. Graymore. Interesting man.” He took a deep pull from his drink. “I hate those amoral ass hats.”

  I choked a bit on my drink, biting back a laugh. “Pardon?”

  “That was Eae, the Demon thwarter. But he’s nothing compared to the Archangels.” He looked me up and down. “The real Archangels…” his eyes twinkled, alluding to the nickname the media had granted me.

  I felt an icy shiver crawl down my spine. “So that was an Angel? I thought he might have just been a temp employee. Eae? For an Angel, that name’s pretty… lame.”

  Hemmingway simply stared at me. Like, really stared at me. I began to fidget after what felt like a full minute of silence.

  “Okay. It’s a badass name. Terrifying. The Demon thwarter… interesting job description.” He continued to stare. I decided to change the topic to avoid his gaze. “Why didn’t you stop me from pissing him off? He could have smote me… smited me… no, that’s not right either… Anyway, I could have used a warning.”

  Hemmingway’s gaze finally broke with an amused grin. “You handled yourself well. Except for launching him into the street. You shouldn’t make that a habit. You wouldn’t look good as a pillar of salt. Then you called him a pigeon! In front of the Nephilim!” He roared in laughter. “Pigeon…” He muttered again before taking another sip. “He was right, you know.” He added, almost as an afterthought.

  “About what?” I grumbled, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I had just sucker punched a freaking Angel. And then mocked him. And in front of his crew no less. I pondered his thugs. Nephilim — the offspring of Angels and humans. Supposedly powerful soldiers of Heaven, although I had never crossed swords with any of them before tonight. I hadn’t even believed they were actually real.

  Boy was I damned.

  Hemmingway scouted the bar carefully. Having already scoped the place out myself several times — keeping track of the people who had entered and exited — I noticed the man who also hadn’t been affected by the Angel’s time manipulation. He was down the bar, and glaring pure frustration at Hemmingway. I turned back to Hemmingway and watched him nod amiably at the scarred man. The Irish-looking man continued to scowl back, but finally gave a dismissive nod in return, swiveling to instead watch a pair of particularly cute vampires playing pool. I
assumed the man was one of Achilles’ generals. Playing bouncer 2,000 years later must suck after such a glorious feat as starring in The Iliad. Hemmingway didn’t seem concerned with the stranger, so I let it go.

  Maybe I was reading too much into things. I mean, it’s not often that an Angel arrives in a bar to politely tell you to cut it out. How many other Angels were in the bar? Or Nephilim? Jesus. I had never considered tussling with an Angel. I hadn’t even known they were real, let alone on our plane of existence. Thankfully, no one was close enough to overhear us as Hemmingway took a long pull from a fresh cigarette.

  My nervous fingers ached to reach out for the cancer stick, but I managed to compose myself. I had successfully remained smoke-free for a few days now, and was proud of my discipline. But I had just survived a smiting. Perhaps I deserved one. Just one. I shook my head defiantly. No. “So, what was the Angel right about?” I asked instead.

  “You smell like Brimstone. It’s a pungent odor, and it could get you murdered quick if some of his more blade-happy brethren caught you unprotected.” I sniffed myself, picking up the light sulfuric smell, surprised that I hadn’t noticed it earlier.

  “I don’t know why I smell like that. I haven’t summoned any Demons. Lately.” Hemmingway blinked at me with those eyes that seemed able to weigh my soul and judge my guilt. Was he an Angel too? Eae had seemed nervous of him. “Honestly,” I said, holding up my hands.

  Hemmingway shook his head. “I believe you, but regardless. This town reeks of it. And so do you. Rumor mill does hint at Demons being involved in your parents’ murder.” I blinked, suddenly pissed. This mysterious stranger, among others, seemed to know more information about my parents than I did. Hemmingway continued, unaware of my frustration. “Get rid of the odor as soon as possible. It will only attract the wrong kinds of attention, as you just noticed. Angels don’t make a habit of appearing to mortals, but when they do…” his voice and gaze grew distant. “Nothing good comes of it.” He finally finished in a soft voice.

  He studied me for a moment before deciding to continue. “I once heard a story from a down-and-out farmer about Angels and Demons. It might put things into perspective for you, as it did me. Especially since you’re not bright enough to leave well enough alone.” He winked. “It shook me to my core. But I was a different man then. A virgin to the true ways of the world. Perhaps wiser. Perhaps less.” His eyes grew far away.

  He shook his head after a moment. “Anyway, the man was distraught, filled with grief. And despite offering him a ride the following morning, I never heard from him again. He fled in the middle of the night. I’ve thought of him often as the years have passed me by, curiosity getting the best of me. Perhaps he was telling me his story.” Hemmingway winked again, conspiratorially. “Alas, I never discovered his identity…” He took a sip of his drink, gathering his thoughts. I nodded for him to continue and hunkered down, ready to listen. I would stay a little longer to hear this.

  His next words enveloped me like a warm blanket. Stories from an experienced raconteur could do that. “I’ll tell it to you like it was told to me.” I nodded. He cleared his throat again, his voice changing slightly as he began to tell me a tale.

  An exhausted local farmer was on his way home from selling his wheat at the market a day’s ride away. It was drizzling, but a true rain would fall soon. He knew these kinds of things after farming for so many years. He didn’t know how he knew, but he was right more often than not. He was eager to get home and see his family after a long day, eager to share his success, and eager to revel in the more important joys life had to offer… family. He wasn’t an established farmer, with vast fields and many clients. No. He worked only for himself and his family.

  A prideful, peaceful, god-fearing man.

  He trotted beside his horse and cart up the final hill to his home only to discover his son’s broken body on the lawn that led to the front porch. The farmer froze, unable to even blink. His boy was not even ten years old. His beautiful, daring, carefree son had been left to suffer, the long smear of blood trailing from the porch and down the freshly painted steps to the lawn a statement of his tenacity to escape. But escape from what? What could so terrify his bold, courageous son in such a way? Especially while mortally wounded? The farmer could not even begin to fathom, let alone truly accept the death before him.

  His heart was a hollow shell of ice, liable to shatter at the slightest breeze. The wind began to howl, heralding the approaching storm, but it was a distant, solemn sound in his ears. He carelessly dropped the reins to the horse and crouched over his son’s broken body. He brushed the boy’s icy-blue eyes closed with shaking fingers, too pained to do more for his fallen, innocent offspring. But what he would see next would make him realize that his son had been the lucky one. The farmer managed to stand, stumbling only slightly in the growling, approaching wind, and entered the small, humble foyer of his home. Like so many times before, his wife greeted him immediately, although those past circumstances were never as abhorrent as this.

  His wife had been tied down to face the open doorway. Her dress lay in tatters beside her nude marble-like form. There were many empty wine bottles on the ground, and several piles of ash from a pipe. Enough ash to signify that several men had bided their time in this room while he had been away at market bartering higher prices for his wheat. The house reeked of tobacco. And he wasn’t a smoker. He subconsciously knew that his future path would now lead him to darker places than he could ever imagine. His life would be forever changed.

  I shivered, feeling the dark story touch a part of me that I had to fight to squash down. I had enough frightening memories to fuel my recent night terrors. I didn’t need another. But I knew Hemmingway would tell this story only once. Also, this story would be my only knowledge about Angels and Demons outside of the Bible. If Angels were watching my movements, I needed the information. I waited for him to continue, signaling the bartender to refill Hemmingway’s glass. The storyteller nodded in appreciation.

  Upon seeing his dearly beloved murdered, the farmer crashed to his knees, the forgotten purse of money that was clutched in his fist dropping to the floor like a sack of wheat. The coins spilled across the gnarled wooden planks, one coin rolling toward the tear-filled, terror-laden gaze of his wife, before briefly brushing her long lashes and settling flat against the floor in a rattle that seemed to echo for eternity. That and the desperate panting of the farmer’s breath were the only sounds in the haunted house. But they were enough to fill it completely. He had been anxious to see the look of joy in her eyes at the coins.

  The sensation of pride from her meant everything to him. It lent him his own pride. Instead he received this glassy, empty stare that would forever haunt his dreams. The woman who had made his life worth living, the woman who had saved him from his own darkness, the mother of his beautiful son, the woman who had made the endless hours of toil in the fields worth it lay before him, filling his vision like a never-ending scream that tore at the very fabric of reality. Thunder rumbled outside as if an extension of his grief. He would never be able to look at a coin again without remembering this scene. He had been proud to come home. Proud of his success at market. Proud of what the money would mean to his family. The prideful, peaceful, god-fearing farmer felt a scalding tear sear his weathered cheeks.

  He distantly realized that he was no longer a prideful man.

  A cold, amused voice emanated from the shadows. “Do you seek justice, farmer?”

  The farmer jolted, hands shaking with fear… and something else. A feeling he had not experienced in many years. White-hot rage. He stared into the shadows, only able to see a hazy silhouette, wondering if it was one of his wife’s rapists mocking him. If it was, so be it.

  Everything that mattered in his life lay dead before him. He would welcome the cold, merciless slumber of death in order to escape this haunting grief. Or he would avenge his grief on this wretched soul. It was a long time before the farmer answered, knowing that farmin
g held no interest to him anymore. Nothing held any interest for him anymore. Well, one thing did…

  Vengeance. The sight of their blood on his weathered knuckles, the scent of their fear filling his nostrils, the feel of their dying struggle under his blade. The sound of their endless, tortured screams was the only sensation that would appease this once prideful, peaceful, god-fearing man.

  “I do.” The farmer rasped, realizing he was no longer a peaceful man.

  Lightning flashed, the thunderous crack instantaneous, rattling the open windowpanes, and billowing the curtains. With it came the downpour of rain that had been biding its time in the dark skies above. A new voice entered the conversation from another shadow of the room.

  “Together, then. We must each give him a gift. To represent both worlds. He must agree to neutrality. To live in a world of grays, as the final arbiter of truth.” This voice was deeper, more authoritative, and obviously hesitant at the situation, judging by his tone. The voice addressed the farmer again. “After your vengeance is complete, do you agree to forget this past life, and embrace your new vocation? I cannot tell you what it might entail, but you shall never be able to deviate once the choice is made. I can promise that you will not be alone. You will have Brothers to aid you in your cause.”

  The farmer nodded. “If I can obtain justice first, I agree. I have nothing else left to me.”

  The first voice grunted his agreement with a puff of stale sulfur that the farmer could taste even from across the foyer. What could only be described as a Demon slowly uncoiled into the light, red eyes blazing with anticipation, his leathery, scaly skin covering an almost human-like frame. The horned, shadowy creature, pulsing with physical shadows of molten fire and ash, handed the farmer a gift, placing it over the man’s face, which instantly transformed the approaching darkness into a hazy green, the shadows evaporating under his newfound night-vision. The Demon stepped back, appraising the man before him with satisfaction and uncertainty… even fear, before waving a hand in the direction of the other voice. The farmer turned to assess the second creature, eyes no longer able to show surprise. The man-like being that stood before him crackled with blue power, like lightning given form. An Angel. Wings of smoking ice and burning embers arced out from the creature’s back, sparks drifting lazily down to the wooden floor, dying away before contact. The Angel extended a marble hand, offering up a gleaming silver gift. The farmer took it, the item familiar in his hands.