Imp Forsaken Page 6

  The sorcerer stepped forward, once again surrounding me with a serious amount of salt—two circles and an inner triangle, as before. With a grunt of pain and an awkward movement, he knelt down and began his circle of chalk runes. I felt a twinge of guilt. This guy wasn’t young, and he was crawling around a cold stone floor on his knees twice in two days. He was a slave, a man who had no option but to follow Feille’s orders. I felt terrible for what I needed to do.

  Done with his runes, the sorcerer stood stiffly and motioned to one of the guards, who brought a box over. The sorcerer pulled a variety of stones from the box and placed them at the four directional corners outside the rune circle, chanting as he went. Granite for north, turquoise for east, red jasper for south, and jade at the west. With both hands massaging his back, he retreated to survey his work. I tensed, waiting for the ritual to begin, and was surprised when he dropped to the ground and began another round of runes outside the stones. This guy wasn’t fucking around. Whatever he planned to do, it was going to be big—big enough to require six layers of defense.

  That done, he stood and mumbled an incantation, too soft for me to hear. The air crackled and I felt walls of power encase me in a sphere that went through the dungeon floor to whatever was below and up past the roof. Worry pushed at the edge of my mind. I began to doubt I’d live to see daylight.

  The sorcerer motioned, and a guard came forward, carefully placing a glass vial into his hand. The contents swirled and churned, a pearl-white with streaks of gray. The sorcerer muttered a few words under his breath, and I wasn’t sure if they were part of the spell, or an entreaty to his deity to protect him from the contents.

  “Lethafa wurthan.” As he spoke, sorcerer threw the vial onto the ground, smashing it just outside the last rune circle. The pearly-white and gray vanished in a puff of sparks that melted the shards of glass onto the stone floor.

  Assent to it. I had a fraction of a second to ponder the words. Was it a command for me to bow down to the spell? If Gregory hadn’t been able to compel me, I doubted elven magic could. Then I realized as a stream of cold seeped into me, like an icy drug through veins, that it was the spell itself commanded to ride on the back of the demon energy, to act as a harmonious pair. The cold was unpleasant, but not painful, and I felt a sensation I hadn’t in so long. The energy stayed within me, held inside my spirit being by the sorcerer’s magic instead of passing through my frantically grasping fingers as it had since my near death experience. It was a tiny amount compared to what I was used to holding over the last forty years, and it felt odd. Normally, I stored raw energy as a compressed mass near my core, but this was spread out all through me. It reminded me of when I’d battled Raim and had exceeded my storage capacity, raw energy flooding along every part of my spirit being. Was that what had triggered the incredible need to devour everything? If the sorcerer’s spell made me repeat that experience, I wasn’t sure I could return from it like I’d done before. Especially without Gregory here to center me and pull me from the brink.

  The sorcerer motioned again and another vial was pressed into his hand. “Lethafa wurthan.” Once again I felt the icy magic and the energy pour through me.

  This continued for four more vials before Feille spoke.

  “How much are you going to use? I thought just one vial would do the job.” His voice sounded uneasy, probably calculating what his remaining stock was and if it would be enough to complete his goals of world domination. I knew what he was thinking—if it took this much to force one little imp to change forms, how much would he need to bring the entire demon race under his thumb? I hoped it was more than he had.

  The sorcerer hesitated. “My Lord, the collected energy was from Low demons, and although she is an imp, she has a huge capacity. If we don’t use an adequate amount, we risk wasting it all for no results.”

  Feille scowled. “How much? How much do you need?”

  The human wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Umm, two, possibly four more.”

  The elven lord narrowed his eyes, shifting his gaze from the nervous sorcerer to me. “Do it.”

  The sorcerer broke four more vials before he finally backed away. Backed far away. They all did. A few of them edged sideways out of my view. Feille usually was a coward, hiding behind magical protection to do his bullying, but this time he stood just a few feet behind the sorcerer, arms crossed as he watched intently.

  “Neadian lil-hamma.”

  Same words, different result. This time I felt something ignite inside me, moving along the icy cold magic and pearl-colored energy. There was a burst of color, a flash of creation as atoms formed and molecules came together. I was vaguely aware of the energy I held pulling together in a knot, then rolling like molten lava in an underground fissure. I felt pressure build, passing the limits of comfort and crossing into agony. Something was going to give, and I had a feeling it would be me. Cell reproduction went into overdrive. I felt like a sausage on the grill about to explode its casing. Just as I thought I could take no more, the energy exploded as a fireball into the dungeon.

  Oddly, my spirit-self, and whatever physical form currently held me, were unaffected. I watched in interest as the triangle, two circles, runes, stones, and outer circle of runes were swept away. Iron bars melted, the floor and walls blackened, huge cracks appeared every ten inches, like a pattern. Chunks of stone fell from the ceiling, smoking as they hit the floor. Figures vanished in the flame. I saw Feille, protected from the heat somehow, thrown against the back wall, bouncing hard and landing on the floor in a heap. The sorcerer, equally protected, slid along the floor to crash beside him. Damn. If I was going to explode and die in a fiery blast, I’d hoped to at least take the pair of them with me. But they appeared only stunned, and I felt… fine.

  I looked down and saw hands. Two hands attached to arms, breasts, belly, legs, and feet, all familiar. It had worked, and as happy as I was to be mobile, I was just as unhappy to realize whatever Feille had planned for the demons would probably work too. I grabbed at the energy in the air around me, thrilled that I could grasp and hold a modest amount. I still had no demon offensive skills, but was confident they would be possible in my near future. Right now I was a human, fragile and without the ability to fix any wounds, but mobile. And I didn’t need demon abilities to fight and kill. Forty years among the humans had taught me I could be just as lethal with my own bare hands.

  It might not be much, but I’d take it. Jumping to my feet, I sprinted across the hot dungeon floor, feeling blisters form on the bottom of my feet. Seeing the sorcerer defenseless, an old man in a crumpled heap of embroidered robes, I had a second of doubt. I didn’t want to kill this man, but I desperately needed the time his death would buy me. Jumping on him, I pressed a shin across his neck, my full weight on his windpipe. He came to with a start, and struggled. I pressed down harder, hearing the thud of hurried footsteps on the stairs beyond the blasted dungeon doors, seeing Feille stir just a few feet away. Killing him this way wouldn’t work. Elves have healing abilities second only to angels, and Feille, or even one of the approaching guards, could resurrect the sorcerer with a flick of a wrist. I planned to do something drastic. Something to make sure there wasn’t enough of a body to resurrect. I just didn’t want the sorcerer to be conscious for it.

  Finally, I saw the light go out from behind his eyes, felt the relaxing of his body under mine. Feille lifted a hand to his head. The guards threw themselves against the melted dungeon door, trying with magic and might to create an opening. I grabbed the largest rock I could find from the partially collapsed ceiling and brought it down over and over on the sorcerer’s head, hearing the sickening crunch of bone and feeling the soft give of the tissue beneath.

  I heard a scream of fury beside me. I didn’t stop. I pounded the rock into what no longer resembled a human head until the whack of a staff against my side threw me off the sorcerer and against the wall.

  Feille stood before me, wielding the staff like a golf club. My side t
hrobbed from the impact, and a deep breath sent a sharp pain through me—at least one rib broken. With a snarl that would have done a demon proud, Feille reversed his grip on the staff and beat me with it. Blows rained down on my head and body as I frantically tried to grab the weapon.

  “You spawn of Satan, you lowly piece of offal. I’ll drag you behind me in chains for centuries, impale you in the square for everyone to beat. I’ll kill everyone you know while you watch.”

  “You’re next, Feille,” I promised, rolling about as I tried to evade his blows and snatch something I could use as a weapon. The only thing handy was the staff smacking me on my back and head. I managed to roll onto my knees and get to my feet, all the while trying to grab the staff as I deflected it with my arms.

  We danced in time to the clanging noise of the guards trying to gain entrance to the dungeon. My hands and arms were numb from the blows, and I was pretty sure I had a few fractures in addition to the broken rib or two. Trying to ignore the pain-induced nausea, I narrowed the distance between the high lord and me, causing him to back up in order to get the best impact out of each swing. If I didn’t get that staff from him soon, he was going to tire of beating me and employ whatever magic he’d used to explode the guard’s head on me. While he screamed in rage, I left myself open to a particularly hard smack to my left side, rolling along the length of the staff to bring Feille’s arm around my body with his momentum.

  I might not be able to fix myself, but I still could tolerate pain better than any human. Disregarding the broken bones and bleeding, I finally managed to wrap my arms around the staff and Feille’s arm. He yanked the staff backward, punching me in the lower back with his other hand. My grasp slid, hands slick with blood.

  Feille spun about with typical elven agility, and my hands slipped along the length of the staff until I stood two feet from him, each of us holding an end of the staff. The elf spun about again, and I flew, like in a game of crack-the-whip, to smack against the dungeon wall. My hands slid further and I would have lost my hold on the staff if my grip hadn’t caught the round crystal mounted into the end. I braced myself against the dungeon wall and yanked back, twisting as I pulled. The staff flew from Feille’s grasp. Instinctively he covered his head as a protective light burst like a bubble around him. I swung the staff past him, tossing it to the side, and dived at the elf lord. Fuck the staff, I wanted to feel my hands wrapping around his neck.

  The dungeon door fell to the floor with an almighty clang. Six inches from Feille, the bubble around him sparked with an arc of electricity and I flew back, convulsing from the shock and hitting the stone hard enough to knock the wind from me.

  I heard the guards, and saw Feille put out his hand to halt them. “Hold back. I’ll take care of her myself.”

  Like hell he would. I staggered to my feet, taking tiny breaths in an attempt to get my diaphragm back in action. The bubble around Feille faded, and he taunted me, waving a finger to motion me forward.

  I rushed him. Well, staggered toward him, actually. He let me get within five feet, then raised his hands with a shimmer of green. I dove, trying to reach him before whatever spell he’d cast activated. Just as I touched his robes, I felt vines wrap around my legs, yanking me backward and to the ground. They grew from the stone floor; gray and hard at the base, gradually becoming a tough, woody green that bound around my body like iron. I struggled, gasping in pain as the rope-like strands tightened against my broken ribs and cracked bones.

  “My Lord, where shall we put her? Half the dungeon has been destroyed, the spells securing it compromised.”

  Feille’s voice was calm, as if he’d been taking tea in the garden and not fighting for his life. “One of the end cells. Pick whichever one is least damaged. I’ll personally repair any breached areas.”

  He walked toward me as I struggled in the viney embrace, sparking little bits of demon energy in an attempt to burn through the restraints. Reaching inside a hidden pocket of his robe, he pulled forth a silver circle—one that I recognized with dread. With a smile, he closed it around my neck, the vines parting for him as he secured it.

  “I’d like you to stay this way, Az, in this soft vulnerable human form. I’d also like you to enjoy your injuries a bit longer. You’ll assume the shape I want you to. You’ll only heal when I allow it. From this moment on, you will have less power than the lowliest of my human slaves. How does that feel, Az?”

  “Won’t stop me from killing you.” I spat at him, my only remaining way to show defiance. “It may be a week, it may be two, but eventually you’ll slip up, and I’ll be waiting. You’re a world-class fuck-up, Feille. You won’t live to see the year’s end; this I promise.”

  A flicker of uncertainty flashed in his eyes, quickly hidden as he motioned the guards forward. They exploded into action, kicking and hitting me as I lay bound and defenseless. I hovered in a delirium of pain, trying to keep from passing out as they dragged me and heaved me into another cell. Feille examined the protection around the bars and walls with a glowing hand, while I tried to look menacing with my swollen eyes and puffed lips. Finally, he smiled at me and closed the door with a clang.

  “Sleep well, Az. You’ve forced me into a difficult choice with your actions tonight. Unfortunate for me, deadly for you. Too bad.”

  He and the guards left the dungeon, and the vines binding me crumbled into dust. I breathed deep and tried to settle into a comfortable position. Whatever Feille had planned for me wasn’t worrying me at the moment. I’d bought myself the time I needed by killing his sorcerer; now I needed to figure out how to get out of here—which wasn’t going to be easy broken, injured, and with this damned collar around my neck keeping me from using even the small amount of demon skills I’d managed to recover. But as that ballsy southern woman had once said; tomorrow was another day.

  8

  Gabriel nudged an old banana peel with his toe. This kind of back alley thing was far beyond what any angel should have to experience. He hated being this close to the humans, so near their areas of commerce. He’d thought about rejecting the odd invitation, debated whether accepting showed an unseemly desperation, or revealed his willingness to move beyond his comfort zone to entertain the interesting proposal. Was this something he wanted to consider personally? Not that it mattered. He still had a duty to make sure nothing about this secretive enterprise violated angelic law or jeopardized their vibration levels.

  He’d been running in circles, trying to get to the bottom of the two deaths, all for nothing. Ruling Council meetings had been suspended indefinitely; the reports from his eldest brother were far overdue. For an immortal, two months should be a wisp of time, but patience never came easy to Gabriel. Especially this past year, when it seemed every second dragged on like eternity. He was at a frustratingly dead end with the matter of the deceased angels, but this was something he could turn his attention to.

  “Exalted one.”

  The voice came from behind him, down the alley, to the left. Gabriel didn’t turn around. An angel of his status didn’t greet others this far down the hierarchy.

  “I regret that a lowly being such as I has been sent to speak with you, but you must understand that in matters as sensitive as this, discretion and secrecy are necessary.”

  Gabriel gave a sharp nod, refusing to face or speak to the angel.

  “We have heard that you may share longings in common with some of us. Longings that we are hoping to alleviate.”

  Gabriel hesitated, finally turning around. In order to find out if these angels were behaving lawfully, it might be best to pose as a potential client. But a conversation about his having a burning desire to create wouldn’t be suitable with such a lowly angel as this. Why had they sent him? Was this an insult, or were they just being cautious, as he claimed?

  “Speak plainly,” Gabriel barked out, deciding to go for ‘insulted’. “I have no time for double talk.”

  A figure emerged from the shadows. Gabriel didn’t recognize him, and there
was nothing to indicate which choir he belonged to—just a low-level angel, nervously shuffling his feet as he approached.

  “There are some who have taken on a project that will result in angels being able to procreate.”

  “If you’re trying to sway my vote on the issues of Nephilim, you’re wasting your time,” Gabriel warned.

  “No, no,” the angel waved his hands. “My superiors would never condone breeding with human females. They seek to find a way to increase the angelic ranks.”

  “That’s impossible. We’ve had a complete separation of our kind. Breeding would violate our treaty. Such contact with demons is not allowed.”

  “We would never promote such a thing.” The angel waved his hand as if clearing the air of such thoughts. “This would not involve any relations that would compromise your vow following the war. There need be no contact with them at all.”

  Gabriel pondered his words, glancing out of the filthy alley into the sunlit street beyond. “An immaculate conception,” he mused.

  “Yes, yes! There is a way to separate demon essence outside of their physical shape and to combine it with the requisite amount of angel to create a new life.”

  The elder angel shook his head. “We don’t form. It’s not just a matter of providing essence, it’s the problem of what happens next that is insurmountable.”

  “Nothing is insurmountable. That hurdle has been overcome. All of Aaru will be invigorated by new life.”

  “And there’s some swampland in Mesopotamia you’d like to sell me.” Gabriel drawled. “First there’s the issue of getting the demon essence. Then being able to store it properly so it doesn’t degrade. Then the insurmountable obstacle of forming. That doesn’t even get into the issues of the end result. What happens if the child is an Angel of Chaos?”