Falling Blind: The Sentinel Wars (3 page)

Rory shoved out a harsh breath, and backed away from the pair of monsters, easing her weight onto her injured leg. It held, but the pain grew worse with each step. The cold, wet spot on her jeans drooped down farther, reaching her shin now.

Somewhere nearby, a finger bent with age and arthritis dialed 911.

Shit.
Poor cops had no idea how to deal with demons. Some ignorant, law-abiding citizen had just sent the protect-and-serve team into the jaws of evil. Literally.

Maybe if she was out of here fast, the demons would go away and not nom on the cops’ faces. It was the only chance they had.

Before she could take so much as a step, the sight of dead brown grass filled her mind, sliding past her fast. It was lit by a bright green glow that glinted off of a blunt, shiny muzzle that looked just like those of the demons in front of her. And then the vision shifted and she saw another muzzle pointed down at a dirty street, and another lifted high to stare at the top of a chain-link fence, and another slinking under a parked semi.

Fear chilled her skin and tightened her muscles, and she had to make a conscious decision not to go into a screaming tailspin of panic. More demons were coming, getting closer. She had to get out of here—both for her sake as well as the cops’.

Rory took another step and her knee buckled under her weight. She nearly fell, catching herself against the wall before she completely lost her balance.

A scratching sound behind her warned her that something was coming. She flattened her back to the wall and split her attention between the pair of demons and whatever was coming now.

It was small—the size of a rat, but hairless and sporting a barbed scorpion-like tail that curved up over its back. Three glistening spines caught a sparkle of streetlight as its claws scrabbled over the pavement, heading straight for her. Six tiny, glowing eyes lit its path.

Rory had no idea what it was, but she knew what it was going to be in a second: dead.

She aimed and fired, finally hitting where she aimed for once. The little demon—or whatever it was—splattered into a greasy stain. Droplets of black blood sizzled across the pavement, sending up thin tendrils of smoke.

Definitely a demon.

She was feeling pretty pleased with herself, congratulating herself for the shot when she heard more scratching coming from around the corner. Not twenty feet away, she saw a faint green glow. And then she saw what was making it.

Dozens of those barbed scorpion-tailed things came scurrying toward her, moving faster than she could run.

She didn’t have enough bullets. She couldn’t put weight on her fucked-up knee. The only exit was blocked by the pair of greasy black demons. Only seconds had passed since she’d looked away from them, but she didn’t dare turn her attention away for long.

She needed a way out. Fast.

Rory leveled her weapon at the biggest threat. The demon she’d shot in the head was back on its feet. The hole in his skull had begun to seal shut already. The smaller demon was several feet closer to her, and she could see flashes of her own face, pale and terrified as it stalked nearer.

She glanced up, hoping for a convenient fire escape, but there was nothing above her but clear black sky and boarded-up windows way too high to reach.

She pulled in a fortifying breath, working hard to shove out some of her fear as she exhaled. The gun bucked in her grip. The closer demon yelped and flinched, but didn’t go down. She fired again, and again, each shot sliding it back a bit, but making no real difference. The things kept advancing, and she swore they were grinning at her, their green eyes glowing with malicious intent.

Her gun clicked. She was out of bullets. But she wasn’t about to give up and let these fuckers have her. She’d survived worse odds than these.

Of course, she hadn’t been bleeding then, either, calling every hairy, slimy, scaly thing nearby to come and take a bite.

Rory dropped the gun and grabbed the long board that had stabbed her with its inconveniently placed nail. The wood was cold in her grip, but it felt solid and real. If she was going down, she was doing it Babe Ruth style.

One of the little things hit her shoe and started crawling onto it. She tried to fling it off with a hard kick, but the pain stalled her out, and the thing held on. She slammed the end of the board into it, crushing its head and her own toe.

Pain sliced through her, stealing her breath for a moment.

Her attention had been shifted to the little scorpion thing for less than three seconds, but as the vision of her own head getting close filled her mind, she knew that had been too long a distraction. The bigger demon lunged for her, and she was completely flanked, and completely fucked.

The world slowed as adrenaline flooded her body. She turned and began shifting her weight to fling herself out of the way. The jaws of the demon were wide open, its yellow teeth only a couple of feet from her head—close enough to see black blood coating them and pulpy bits of greasy flesh stuck between them. The rotten stink of its breath made her gag.

She lifted the board to protect her face, but even as she began to move, she knew she wouldn’t be fast enough. There wasn’t enough time to get the board in the way before those jaws closed on her head.

This was it. This was how she was going to leave this earth—bleeding, afraid and alone, while the rest of the world moved on as if nothing had happened. The fact that she could see them going about their routines rubbed her nose in just how small and insignificant her life really was. Now that Nana was gone, no one would miss her. As distant as she kept people, chances were no one would even know she’d died. These things would haul her off and eat her, leaving no evidence behind.

What a sad little life she’d led, full of fear and suck.

A metallic sound filled her ears, followed by a solid thwack. The open jaws careening toward her jerked down suddenly and hit her shin, but there was no force behind the blow. The muzzle simply bounced off, and the head rolled away.

It had no body.

Confusion clouded her mind as she tried to figure out what she was seeing. Was this another vision? Something happening nearby? If so, then why wasn’t she dead and seeing nothing?

Rory blinked, hoping to sort out reality.

A man loomed a few feet away, too big to be real. He held a wide sword in his huge hands. The gleaming blade was coated in black oil. His giant body moved fast, muscles straining the seams of his leather jacket.

She didn’t trust her eyes, and yet this all seemed quite real. It even sounded real. Her visions were silent.

At the man’s feet lay the body of the demon that had nearly killed her. Black blood arced out of its neck in a pulsing spray that got weaker and weaker with every spurt. In front of him was the larger demon, staying low and out of range of that lethal blade.

He’d saved her. He’d lopped off the head of the demon and saved her face from being eaten. That wasn’t supposed to happen. That wasn’t the way her life went these days. Things were supposed to suck, just like they always did.

And yet there he was, still there, not vanished like a fleeting vision.

Rory’s world began to make sense again, but the shock of still being alive hadn’t faded. A sense of joy filled her up with her next breath. She wasn’t dead. The world was still moving on, but she was moving with it.

The big man’s back was to her, and he was slowly circling the demon, angling it back into a doorway for an attack. For a moment, all Rory could do was stare. He was smooth, each move flowing into the next in a seamless transition of power and strength. Muscles in his thighs bulged under his jeans, and when he stepped in a shallow puddle, his boot barely made a ripple. Even the mist from his breath curled out slow and lazy, rising into the night as if it had all the time in the world.

Graceful power radiated out from his every gliding step. Shadows caressed him, holding him close in a lover’s embrace. He seemed too solid—grounded as if nothing could so much as rock him. And it wasn’t just his size that gave her that impression. She
felt
something sliding out of him—a heavy kind of energy that pinned her in place, mesmerizing her. She could stare at his broad back all day and never grow bored.

A sharp pain stabbed her ankle, jerking her attention back to reality. She looked down and saw that one of those little scorpion demons had stung her and was now scurrying away, its barb shining wet with her blood.

That pain made sense. That was how her life was supposed to go. She got a beautiful visual treat in exchange for the low, low cost of being stabbed by a demon.

The board was still in her hands, and she batted it at the little fucker, hoping to squash it dead. Her aim was off, and she only winged it, sending it into a skittering spin.

The thing righted itself and sped off. The others of its kind veered around her and went straight for her savior in black leather.

“Behind you!” she called out, even as she pushed herself forward, using the board as an awkward crutch.

The man spun around in a fluid arc that was way too graceful for someone his size. Between his big, booted feet, she saw the head of the second demon roll across the pavement and bounce into a brick wall.

Whoever he was, she was glad he was on her side. At least he was for now.

Rory slammed her board down on one of the rat-sized things, turning it into a greasy black stain.

The man booted one of them into a wall hard enough to make it pop like a water balloon. The rest of the swarm must have seen it happen, because they moved as one, like a flock of birds, reversing direction to flee. Seconds later, they were gone, back around the corner the way they’d come.

He scanned the area, searching for more signs of a threat. His wide shoulders lifted with each even breath, and that big sword was still in his grip, ready for action. Dim light gleamed off his blade, as if collecting specks of it from the inky shadows. He wasn’t looking at her, but she still felt his awareness as keenly as if he’d been staring.

“You’re hurt,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Only a little. I’ll live.”

His gaze hit her then, and drove the breath from her body. His eyes were a deep, earthy green, set below thick, dark brows. The bones of his face stood out, forming rigid, masculine angles. His jaw was a bold statement of strength, the muscles there bulging with determination. It wasn’t his good looks that she reacted to, either, though he was a fine-looking man. There was something else in those dark eyes, something potent and stark, with a kind of desperation she’d seen only a few times in her life—usually in those who knew they were about to die. Pain radiated out from him, quivering in the small lines around his eyes, so much a part of him she wasn’t even sure he was aware of how obvious his agony was to anyone who cared to see it.

She couldn’t look away. His pain called out to her, making her ache in ways she didn’t understand. It was as if something inside of him was reaching for her, screaming in torment.

Rory shut her eyes to block out his silent pleas for help. A vision of an elderly woman’s sleeping face appeared for a moment before it faded behind closing eyelids.

She pushed aside the visions, trying to concentrate on what was real and looming in front of her—all six and a half feet of him.

He took a step closer, scrutinizing her, and she felt that scrutiny glide along her body, down to her cold, throbbing toes. By the time his gaze had made its path from her head to her shoes and back again, she felt stripped bare, was trembling and defenseless. And that pissed her off.

She knew what he saw: the pink hair, the heavy makeup, the multiple piercings. No one ever really saw her beneath the shock factor, and that was the way she liked it.

At least until now. For some stupid reason, she wanted this man to see her—the real her—all the way down to her bones.

His gaze slid over her face, then lowered to where she was bleeding. She couldn’t tell if he was sizing up her injury because he cared or because he was looking for some weakness he could exploit. His face was about as expressive as a marble wall, so there was no way to know for sure. What she did know was that if he sent that sword sailing in her direction, there wasn’t a damn thing she could think to do to stop him from slicing her in two where she stood.

His voice was low and deep, rumbling out of him like stones rolling down a mountain. “Come with me.”

Chapter 2

H
er pink hair was ridiculous. That was Cain’s first thought.

Her dark eyes were lined with smudged black makeup that stood out against her pale skin. Multiple silver rings and sparkling crystals decorated her ears, and she wore a tangled trio of chains around her slender throat, along with what looked disturbingly like a spiked dog collar.

His second thought was that she was more than she seemed—more than pink hair and juvenile trappings. That all felt more like a show to him, a disguise.

Her leather jacket was equipped with metal rings, chains and studs, all positioned in a way that looked suspiciously like they’d been put there for the purpose of guarding her against attack, rather than merely being decorative.

She’d kept her cool in the fight, which made him guess this wasn’t the first one she’d been in.

That thought angered him and made his head pound even harder. Not even the physical exertion and rush of combat had helped ease the pain this time. It loomed inside of him, large and demanding. Meditation no longer helped, and now it seemed he was losing the slight benefit that fighting gave him as well. Once that was gone, he had no idea what he’d do to stave off the pain of his dying soul.

Death or imprisonment were his only options, and neither one appealed to him. Then again, nothing appealed to him anymore. His soul was fading, and with it his ability to find joy in the things around him.

His ward, Sibyl, who had been like his own child for centuries, had grown up and left him a few months ago. He hadn’t seen her since then, and each day he ached with loneliness. Her e-mails from Africa were getting shorter and spaced farther apart. Each time they contained fewer details about her life, as if she were weaning him off of having her around. He knew he had to let her go—that she deserved a life of her own and a chance to find her place in the world—but the cost of losing her was much greater than he’d ever imagined. It was killing him.