Phoenix Contract: Part Three (Fallen Angel Watchers) Read online

  Phoenix Contract

  Part Three

  by Melissa Thomas

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

  PHOENIX CONTRACT Part Three

  Series: Fallen Angel Watchers

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Publishing History :

  COPYRIGHT ©2015 by Melissa Thomas

  Published in the United States of America.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author respects trademarks and copyrighted material mentioned in this book by introducing such registered items in italics or with proper capitalization.

  Genesis 6: 1-4

  When human beings began to increase in number on the earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that the daughters of humans were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose.

  Then the Lord said, “My Spirit will not contend with humans forever, for they are mortal; their days will be a hundred and twenty years.”

  The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward—when the sons of God went to the daughters of humans and had children by them. They were the heroes of old, men of renown.

  Chapter Nine

  “Wait a second!”

  Matthew stopped and raised inquiring eyebrows at Aiden. “Yes?”

  “Magnus only used one sword that night in the parking lot!” She bounced with the excitement of having discovered a supposed inconsistency in his story.

  “He’s versatile,” Matthew said archly and shrugged. “And a showoff. He’s also been known to use guns when he’s not clowning around. Now may I continue?”

  “I guess,” she replied with a sullen pout.

  The swordsman held the skewered ghoul aloft upon his left sword. He drew back his other arm, which was tense and rock steady, elbow bent and blade angled high over his head. The raised sword hovered over the hapless ghoul like a portent of doom.

  Lightning fast the blow fell, and the sword severed the ghoul’s right arm with a downward stroke. The blade swept up and around, then down again in a figure eight, returning to sever the other arm. He yanked the other sword from the ghoul’s chest, and the creature dropped to its knees, toppling to the ground with a ragged moan.

  Dead silence followed. Then feet pounded upon the pavement as the remaining ghouls ran, making a mass exodus from the alley.

  “Apparently they’re smart enough to have a sense of self-preservation,” Matthew observed. “You said they were ghouls?”

  “None other.”

  “I see.” His trembling hand rose to his throat. “They ate flesh,” he added, relieved to have a companion with whom to share his disgust.

  “Without a master, many of the weakest vampires succumb to flesh-eating,” the swordsman agreed with a philosophical shrug.

  His accent drove Matthew, an accomplished linguist, to distraction. He’d never heard anything like it.

  “Is that what happens?” Matthew muttered, only vaguely curious as his fingers followed the shallow cut bisecting his throat. His arcane education had covered both undead and demons, but only in the most general terms. It hadn’t prepared him to deal with a pack of the creatures face-to-face. “Ghouls, Eaters of the Dead, only one rung higher on the undead ladder than zombies,” Matthew said, reciting what little he knew from memory. “Their traditional haunt is cemeteries, foraging fresh graves if I’m not mistaken.”

  “It is, Father, but things aren’t as they used to be,” the swordsman agreed grimly. “In the old days, the villagers would’ve dragged these abominations from their graves, stuck them onto a burning pyre during daylight, and saved me the trouble,” he complained.

  “Urban sprawl has broken down the historical separation between cities and burial grounds. And you’re right, things were done differently in the Dark Ages,” he added with sardonic humor.

  “The darkness of an age is relative to where you’re standing,” the swordsman muttered cryptically.

  “I suppose,” Matthew agreed, thinking of the Church’s past, and not really understanding what the other man meant. Full enlightenment wouldn’t come until years later, and that was another story entirely.

  The swordsman agreed with a curt nod. “Ghouls are craven cowards, but they’re vicious and cunning. This pack has grown numerous and bold, hunting full grown men in alleys.” He bent to examine the mauled body of the victim, a homeless man with a rat’s nest of long, dirty dark gray hair and tattered clothing.

  “What are you doing?” Matthew asked, moving closer.

  The swordsman turned the body onto its back, exposing the gutted abdominal cavity. The priest gagged as the putrid stench filled his nostrils.

  “Attending to details,” the swordsman replied succinctly.

  The priest had his mouth open to put forth another question when the warrior grabbed hold of the remnants of the corpse’s shirtfront and hauled it from the ground. He drew one of his sheathed swords and lopped the head off. Matthew’s jaws closed with an audible click.

  “He’d have risen,” the swordsman said.

  “I suppose, but that doesn’t make the task any less gruesome,” Matthew babbled. So compelling was his horror, he couldn’t seem to get a hold of his tongue. “Disgusting creatures. They’re widely despised by other undead if I’m not mistaken.”

  The swordsman set about verifying the final destruction of the ghouls he’d slaughtered. “You wouldn’t be mistaken.”

  Matthew’s bushy eyebrows knit in consternation. What exactly was he not mistaken about?

  “You’re hunting them,” Matthew said, choosing to focus on less murky motivations. “Why are you hunting them? Is this personal?” Had the ghouls killed someone beloved to this man?

  “I hunt them because I’m a hunter by nature. It’s not personal,” the swordsman explained with infuriating simplicity. “Best be on your way, Father. They’ll head back to their lair where there’ll be more of them. I’m going to clean out the nest.” The swordsman snapped off a smart salute with one of the swords and spun to chase after the retreating ghouls.

  A smart man would have done as the hunter had suggested, but then Matthew wasn’t always so smart. He could have let the blasted fool go, but the priest felt a strong sense of obligation because the man had saved his life after all.

  “Wait up!” Matthew dashed after the swordsman, but the fighter had already run on. “Blast it, man, you can’t go after them alone! You’re going to get yourself killed! Those things aren’t human!”

  Matthew kept in good shape, but both the ghouls and the swordsman rapidly out-paced him. Again, he received the impression of physical expenditure without effort. No more than an impression, but Matthew could have sworn two things. First, the swordsman could have overtaken the ghouls but did not. Second, the hunter could have left Matthew far behind but did not. Instead, he moved at a pace that allowed the priest to keep his quarry in sight.

  They passed a high stone fence with a wrought iron gate and entered a cemetery. The older graveyard held a mishmash of various tombstones and crypts, full of weeds and trash. Very little care had been taken of the grounds.

  The swordsman stopped, seemingly waiting for him because the ghouls were no
where to be seen. They were alone in the rundown cemetery. Matthew’s sides ached as he slowed to a panting halt and tried to get enough air to speak.

  “I told you to get lost.” The swordsman’s brusque tone and rudeness replaced the courtesy the priest had been shown before.

  Matthew interpreted this curtness of manner as concern for his safety. “And like I was trying to tell you,” he retorted, sucking in a deep breath of air and allowing the argument to burst forth. “Those things, ghouls, aren’t human!”

  “And I am?”

  Matthew almost missed the softly spoken question. Even as it registered in the back of his mind, he continued determinedly onward with a preacher’s loquacious talent. “You might be good enough to take three or four by yourself, but going into their nest alone is surely suicide!”

  The swordsman stared at him hard. Matthew sensed, rather than saw, eyes boring into his face, and registered a slight, curious tilt of the other’s head. Obviously, the swordsman did not know quite what to make of him.

  Abruptly, the priest petered out. “And, excuse me? Could you repeat that last thing you said?” Matthew asked, oh-so-ridiculously polite.

  “I’m not human.” It was a flat statement of fact.

  The swordsman cut an imposing figure against the pitch black of the night, a silhouette because background illumination from the city lit up only the outline of shapes. Facial details were indiscernible. Matthew faced the other man with the feeling of standing on the very edge of a cliff over a great drop, mixed parts of expectation and dread.

  Out of the swordsman’s undefined face, a pair of eyes appeared, bright gold and glowing, burning flames set in the sockets of a human skull. “I’m not human,” the hunter repeated in a deep, otherworldly voice that surrounded the priest like a palpable thing, sound caressing his flesh.

  Years later Matthew could acknowledge with a self-depreciating chuckle that he’d fallen for what amounted to a cheap parlor trick. Magnus had utilized some minor magic to make his eyes glow, and the Celt’s verbal witchery wouldn’t have been out of place in a Disney film.

  However, at the time, it had sent chills down Matthew’s spine and literally terrified him worse than even the ghouls had managed. The fear in turn made him angry, which made him reckless, which made him brave. Stupidly so.

  “Oh, very nice,” he drawled, filling his voice up with standing tall sarcasm. “Save the scare tactics. If you wanted me dead—”

  “I’d have killed you already,” the hunter finished with a long sigh.

  Matthew received the impression of a resigned blink, and the burning gold flames winked out.

  “What are you anyway?” Matthew asked after an indeterminate pause. “Are you Of the Blood?”

  “Does it matter?” the hunter looked around as if hoping a bunch of ghouls would burst out and save him from further conversation. “Look, obviously I’m not human, so I’m not in any real danger, which was your entire reason for following me. Why don’t you leave now, so I can get back to hunting instead of standing here to make sure that you don’t get yourself killed?” It was probably the longest statement the priest had heard the swordsman make thus far.

  “I’ll leave when I’m ready, and your being inhuman doesn’t alter my obligation to you. You saved my life.” He cursed himself a fool for arguing with an admitted supernatural creature in a graveyard in the middle of the night. However, his curiosity burned. And it wasn’t like Matthew didn’t possess his own share of angelic blood.

  “This is why I avoid people!” The exclamation exploded from the clearly annoyed hunter on a great huff of exasperation. “You know, as a rule I don’t kill to feed, but I’m beginning to reconsider.”

  Matthew deliberately ignored the swordsman’s attempt at intimidation. “Didn’t we just cover this? Your bark is worse than your bite, and now you’re becoming repetitious.”

  The swordsman sighed. Loudly. “Just go away? Please?”

  “I really can’t,” Matthew said, not the least bit apologetic in spite of the other’s pleading tone. “I’m a priest. We’re trained to be persistent and patient, so you’re really better off just answering.”

  “The question was rude,” the swordsman snapped. “I’m not a what, I’m a person.”

  “Oh, terribly sorry. I beg your pardon,” Matthew apologized. “Who are you exactly?” he asked, conscientiously polite even though the swordsman had been the one to objectify himself in the first place.

  Another hard short sigh issued before the swordsman spat out his lineage. “Fine, you win. I am Of the Blood. Magnus, son of Vercingetorix of the Averni, House Shemyaza.”

  Matthew’s jaw dropped, and his mouth hung open, emitting an “Ahh-ahh” sound of sheer astonishment. The man before him claimed to be a Hierophant, a direct descendant of the Seraphim Shemyaza, leader of the Watcher angels. A lie. It had to be.

  “Magnus is a Latin name,” Matthew pointed out, pouncing on the inconsistency as if to reveal an obvious flaw in an otherwise grand lie.

  “My mother was Roman and a slave. I was named for her father.”

  “A Roman and an Avernian,” Matthew mused. The Averni were a Celtic tribe renowned for their hatred of the Romans. “How did that work?”

  Magnus shrugged. “Vercingetorix ordered my mother, along with all of the other women and children, to be placed outside the walls of Alesia during the dead of winter. I was old enough to wield a sword, so I was spared.” The way he said his father’s name was anything but ambivalent. He harbored resentment even after more than two thousand years.

  “Oh,” Matthew said stupidly, stunned. What an atrocity. His modern, civilized sensibilities were deeply offended even though the historian in him knew and understood the reasons for what had been done. It had been a different time with a different way of thinking. Vercingetorix had sought to preserve his food supply in the midst of a siege, but it didn’t change the fact that all of the exiled women and children trapped between Gallic and Roman lines had died of exposure and starvation.

  When Matthew sufficiently recovered his wits, a vehement denial burst from his lips. “Impossible!” exclaimed the priest. “House Shemyaza was destroyed. They say it was cursed. They say that all of the members are dead.”

  “They say lots of things. Only some of them are true,” Magnus said.

  The swordsman did not seem in the least surprised that Matthew was familiar with the Great Nephilim Houses. And somehow, the priest didn’t believe that Magnus was lying. A priest knew how to spot a liar, and Magnus’ words possessed the ring of truth.

  “What’s your House, Father?” Magnus asked.

  “Armaros,” Matthew supplied.

  “Ahh, that would explain a lot,” Magnus said, infusing his voice with snide condescension.

  “Hey now, there’s no call for that,” Matthew snapped. He’d never before encountered a member of House Shemyaza since they’d all allegedly died before he was born. But he’d read enough to know what to expect: elitist snobbery.

  “I answered your question. Are you going to leave now so I can return to my hunting in peace?”

  “No. My curiosity is piqued,” Matthew said, feeling his own obstinate streak rear its ugly head. For what felt like hours, they stood in the rundown cemetery, two men in a show down, arguing in the dark. And yet, the longer he stayed, the more interesting things got. How could he possibly leave? There were too many unanswered questions, too much to be learned.

  “Fine, then stay. If you get yourself killed, it’s not on me. I’m not answering any more of your questions.” Throwing up his hands, Magnus turned away and began a token inspection of the surrounding graves, perhaps searching for disturbed earth or an underground entrance.

  Matthew had a feeling that the stubborn swordsman knew exactly where to look... and wouldn’t while a priest was present.

  Fatigue suddenly overwhelmed Matthew, causing him to feel dizzy and faint. His hand pulsated with awful, excruciating pain and hurt all of the way down to the b
one. With a pained grunt, he silently offered the dead an apology and then leaned heavily against the side of a crypt. Carefully, Matthew held up his hand and unwound the handkerchief he’d wrapped around it. The makeshift bandage was saturated with blood, and his hand had begun to throb in rhythm with his heartbeat.

  Looming over the priest, Magnus appeared before Matthew without warning. “What happened to your hand, Father?” he asked, tone guarded.

  “I was bitten,” Matthew said, sharply scrutinizing the swordsman’s features. Something in the hunter’s guarded manner caused him alarm. “Why?”

  Magnus’ very silence was answer enough.

  “That’s how you get turned, isn’t it?” Matthew asked. The priest laughed bitterly, fighting to even his ragged breathing. “I should have known. It’s the same with all undead, spread through a bite or a scratch. How long do I have?”

  “Twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”

  Struck with shock and denial, Matthew spit out, “When I die…”

  “You’ll become one of them,” Magnus finished.

  Chapter Ten

  “No! I can’t accept that!” Aiden exploded, sitting straight and stiff in front of the fire. She barely felt its heat on her back, and denial raged in her heart. Her quick mind attacked the problem, analyzing, turning it over in her head, tearing it apart in a frantic search for fallacies.

  “I’m afraid that it’s quite inevitable,” Matthew said, firm but gentle. “I’ve had much longer to learn to accept it than you.”

  “Over forty years. That right there is contrary to what you said about the victims only having twenty-four to thirty-six hours before they turn,” Aiden said.

  “My medication has delayed the onset of the condition. However, as my health fails—“

  “What happened at the hospital?” Aiden asked, grim and suddenly still.