Retribution, Devotion (6 page)

Pulling his locks back into a ponytail, he stretched. Both of his large hands ran over his scruffy face before he stepped out of their room to walk down the hall. He needed to shave, but he'd take care of that later. Pictures of his house family over the years, as well as his parents, passed by his massive frame making him furrow his brow briefly lost in thought. San was definitely in his mind. Like her, he'd do everything in his power to protect the people who came into his once-fledging House, people who chose to dedicate themselves to his mission and who opened their arms to him as family. These people, his family, all of them deserved the Most High's praises with his own for their selflessness. Due to that, he knew it would be nothing for him to sacrifice himself for them. If it meant life and death to protect them from harm, he'd do it without hesitation, regardless of the cost.

Khamun stopped near the edge of the indoor veranda in the compound. With a leap over the banister railing, he landed in the middle of the living room in a low crouch. The compound was quiet. Usually after a battle, even though healing, he could find Calvin sitting with Nox watching basketball or football. Kali would be in the kitchen making the place smell good with the usage of the spices of her nation and various dishes like aloo ki puri with coconut curry chicken. But today was different.

His family was drained. What they had witnessed had taken a lot out of them all, which he understood deeply. The scent of faded sage let him know that Kali had gone through the compound and blessed the rooms. Kali was the House's spiritual security. Her Mystic gift allowed her to feel whenever a threat was on the land or in the compound before the general security cameras or alarms did. So, while he walked, he could feel the urgency of her prayers in the air with that of another thread of energy connecting to him. The weak tug had him following it as it led him to the healing rooms.

The b-boy he had hooked Calvin up with to work on some tracks lay resting and healing. It was an interesting sight. Though he was on one of the healing beds covered in medicinal drenched white clothes, his body was fully stone. Next to him was Kyo who sat by him on her knees. Her head rested upon his granite shoulder, her lips pressed in a frozen kiss. Khamun rested his shoulder on the doorway observing the screen. Kyo's hand was entwined with Ryo's as her eyes seemed to be carved closed in her quiet statue rest.

He noticed that Take sat behind his sister with his wings expanded. His hand lay on her shoulder in a protective hold. His posture displayed that he was watching over the pair in his mimicking statue state. Fangs appeared carved by Michelangelo's touch on the trio's mouths while their dragon nails occasionally casted shards of light in the room. The scene was magnificent. It reminded Khamun of something he could see in the Sistine Chapel. Definitely, he wanted to paint what he observed.

Khamun could not believe that this dude was his Protector. He had lived a long time and was reborn many times, none of which he could remember, but he could feel it in his soul that this Ryo aka RJ was his bodyguard of sorts. Him having a Protector felt right and incredulous at the same time, only because Khamun was accustomed to having his family act as surrogate Protectors. For a long time it was just him and Marco busting heads in the streets. Then Lenox was next, then Calvin right after him. Everything seemed to be set in place for him at that time when he was younger and then Kali eventually moved in without his permission.

He literally walked into the abandoned building they had taken over for their first compound and, like magic, there she was with her bags on the floor. He had always known her because she worked with Calvin and was his adopted sister. He had seen the potential she held when he first saw them taking down demons. But before he would allow her back in the family he had demanded that she find out her Mystic roots. He did it protect her, but the day he walked into his compound and saw her bags, he knew immediately that there was no holding Kali back from her destiny. She was quickly an extension of him, the little sister he had always wanted.

They were his first family, the ones who accepted him in all his changes. Marco, Lenox, Calvin, and Kali watched his back. They were his only Protectors even when he did not want them to be. That thought made him idyllically think back to Kali giving him San's blood. Damn, he wanted to shake her for that but was damn grateful for it at the same time. But, like he remembered when they first came into his life, it had to happen; otherwise, he would have been left in the darkness alone. Now, more humans and Nephilim needed him and his House. It gave him a sense that his House was going to continue to grow, so, as they say, with change there's growth, which he could respect.

He had a Dragon, a real deal living Dragon. A mythical lethal fighter he had grown up reading about from his mother. Homie was something dangerous, not only when he transformed into his full dragon form, but also in his natural state, which he was witness to. The Most High definitely knew what he was doing since dude matched Khamun's own unique style. It was natural law to have a Protector in the old days, he learned from his book, and now history was being reborn through them.

Quietly moving through the multilevel underground compound, he let his mind continue its wondering. Hell, from what he saw back when Ryo helped Take and Dare out at the house party they had attended, Khamun saw how much of a master of mixed martial arts and a killer with his hands the guy was. The House now had its second sensei, Lenox being the first, and Khamun really could appreciate the Most High's plan even more. Dude definitely was going to be an acceptable addition to the household, as would Amit.

Amit had held his own in the battle although he was still learning how to adapt to his new gifts as a demon den tracker. Now it was time to see how he was going to cope with his own change from surviving being a Cursed captive to now being part of an elite group of Nephilim fighters who were considered rogue. Everything was falling into place, even with the onset of more change. Rubbing his chin in recognition and reverence, Khamun headed to the kitchen thinking of his next game plan with that of Sanna's sleeping lush form.

“Shit! Shit. Shit. Shit.
Shittt!
”

The Medusa had to duck from the shards of glass that flew her way in the dilapidated factory she stood in on Chicago's South Side after making it out of battle, all thanks to their lethal Witch, Winter. Every time she slid down an inch or two, she was forced to sidestep the pieces of crumbling wall that seemed to want to follow her. Pain had her recoiling in conflict of pleasure and newfound discomfort. It had her gripping her seeping wounds in a slow exhale. Lingering thoughts resulted in a hidden smirk across her pretty face. He was magnificent. The very image of what a warrior was to her. The only difference was that he was not in her dreams. He wasn't in Ghana, fighting by her side while they slashed at pale monsters with red eyes in the dark, cloaking jungles. No, this time, he was in her reality. In her face, going head to head with her, protecting his new family, which was disrespectful because that act alone pissed her off. She felt betrayed.

He should be with her. On her side. Fighting in unison with her. Protecting her family. He should be standing near her. His large hands running down her body. Cloaking her in healing Witch light, not darkness. Not standing there, doing those most intimate warrior things with some other broad on his team. The injustice of it all left a sour, acid taste in her mouth, which was not acceptable.

Inwardly chuckling at herself, she shook her head. The Dark Lady roared behind her, yet again, “
Hijo de puta!
”

The Medusa couldn't help from letting “Ya heard me” slip from her own mouth in agreement with the Dark Lady. She fleetingly felt the Dark Lady's cold, blazing stare etch unto her back before they shifted away. More items shattered then flew around them in a rage.
That damn man and his phrase.
Every time he uttered that drawl, it made her eye twitch and now it almost just got her in trouble.

Something about that phrase with its application to every sentence he had to utter annoyed and turned her on at the same time. His emerald glowing eyes with his rumbling molasses-thick blended New Orleans and Brooklyn accents did things to her that had her hungry to get a taste of his sweetness.
Damn, Mystic! Damn, human Immortal bastard. Calvin!

He should be ready and engorged for her. Eager to impale the adrenaline rush that was currently keeping her heady and hungry for sex, but no. That sexy, glorious bastard had to be her enemy. He had to be the one to give her strange dreams of hunting in Africa, of fighting for her safety. Of roaring in indignant fury at being kidnapped by dark shadows with glowing eyes and putrid scents; but where were they taking her? She had no idea. She understood in her dreams that she didn't want to go and would die trying. But, she always woke up in sweating discomfort. Sheets shredded, and shameful tears falling down her cocoa-dusted skin confused and pissed at the dreams.

She hated the feelings he invoked, hated how much she needed him, but besides that, that fucker tried to kill her!

How dare he!
ran through her mind. She didn't know why she wanted him so bad. Since the first time she saw him back in St. Louis. They had gone toe-to-toe. She kicked his Mystic ass and pumped her poison into his leader, the Reaper. In that fight between her and her green-eyed prey, it was as if her biology whispered, “Mate.” He was the polar opposite of her. He also fucked up the rotation and stopped her from her objective: ending that Oracle chick and capturing the key.

She ran a hand over her side, and the raw, regenerating, fleshy nub of her missing right hand. Blood seeped over her fingers as she ducked yet again from a flying brick. Pain made her grit her teeth. Not just an ache from the fight but that familiar searing, slashing, ripping, and jarring hurt that burned hot down her spinal cord. The pain was intense.

Its touch seemed to pull at the nape of her neck where the spinal protrusions began and spilled down the curves of her exposed vertebrae. It was comparable to burning acid that stopped at the lower base of her back then tapered off into her rear. Ragged breaths escaped from her lips. Her nails dug into the flesh of her palm. Her scaly skin began to become taut and it almost felt as if it were going to rip while she braced herself against a nearby brick wall. She needed to channel the pain away.

Shit!
She couldn't move or walk away when she was like this. She had to get her mind elsewhere so she focused on the loss today. She had to admire the anger that the Oracle . . . no, she heard her name being screamed. Ah, yes, it was Sanna. She could admire that woman's skills in how she smoothly came at her and removed her limb. The woman's movements were ancient and worthy of a warrior such as herself, albeit the broad was on the wrong side.

“No, you are,”
echoed in the back of her mind. The Medusa ignored it in favor of keeping her mind on her objective: the Oracle.

The Oracle bitch's backing was fierce. The pain she inflicted would make any Cursed noble heady in pleasure, if it were projected toward the Light Nephilims. Therefore, it was a shame to her that she had to hunt Sanna down and end her Light. It would be interesting to see exactly what she could be if she was given the Bite.

“Like you or worse,”
echoed again in her mind. The scattered odd thought made the Medusa bite the inside of her cheek in restrained fury. Once again ignoring that strange, pesky voice that seemed to appear out of nowhere after that Reaper touched her. She hissed to herself returning to her thoughts.

How interesting it would be to see those beautiful fangs and wings of hers contort into absolute malice. But of course, a part of her didn't want to think of the repercussions of what that meant, if she had caught her.

In winning that big prize and turning her, it would mean the constant hunt of the Reaper. The man whose very fiery eyes put the fear of God in any and every Cursed he ever encountered and she could vouch for it. For some reason it amused her to see him rip her kind apart. His tactics were very dark, very much her style. But she refused to have her dark soul ended. Only the “True” death by hands of the Light kept her on her toes, ready for battles. However, it was the “True” death by the hands of the Reaper, that meant pain, torture, and forever living in the everlasting fires of Hades, which made her always watch her back.

Every fiber in her declared that he need not come after her. She enjoyed breathing. She would rather take a bullet from a mortal and not die than be ripped apart by the Reaper as she had witnessed in the club today. She shuddered to think about the light from his very touch being forced to infuse into her malicious DNA. To relive every dark sin she had ever committed gave the Medusa the type of nightmares only her kind were known to give. Although, the idea of going head to head with him still toyed with her interest and kept her curious, slightly. She had watched him well. She had felt what he could do with his touch and knew to definitely battle him with caution and awareness and never let him touch her again.

Her eyes were becoming glossy like oil over water, which drew her away from her thoughts. Her vision was starting to waver causing her hiss out in agony. All aspects of pleasure were gone. Intense pain made her sharply inhale while her head felt as if it were splitting in two. Each jab of discomfort made her reflect. When they went flying off the roof, she had no idea what the extent of the wounds inflicted on her.

Everything seemed to run in a fluid seamlessness. Her focus was on making sure everyone she encountered either A: died; or B: were left with gashing, life-threatening wounds. Each objective, outside of killing the Oracle, or the Dark Lady's future toy, she successfully achieved. She loved marking her targets in such a way; unfortunately, it seemed circumstances were reversed. That broad's touch had changed something within her, which made her feel this pain; it was the only explanation. Her body was now seamlessly burning with jarring heat. She needed to sit with their healer and she needed to fast.

Winter saved them in that club. Had she not tracked them and then gone head to head with those bastards, who would have known what would have happened? She herself had failed her Mistress by not protecting her as best as she could have, but something in her echoed that it was a shame that the Reaper hadn't shredded the Dark Lady apart.

“My lady, shall we visit Winter? I believe she has the healing properties ready; and you seemed to have a dislocated shoulder and open wounds down your back, Princess.”

The Medusa knew she was risking confronting the Dark Lady in her fit of rage but fuck it. She had her own self to worry about and, currently, the bleeding in her side. Her slowly reforming fleshy nub of a hand and the fact that her hip was dislocated was not helping anyone, including herself.

The Dark Lady's edgy and heated voice flowed over her in icy tension as she squeezed her eyes shut from the searing throbbing. Leaking fluid appeared to seep through her grasping fingers and she was taken aback by it.

“Pain is what feeds us, Nydia, or do you forget that in your own needs? What we need to do is get what is ours and coat our hands in their blood,” her Mistress patronized.

Nydia had to keep herself from slapping the Dark Lady, opting instead to give a curt nod in submission. The Dark Lady's irrational traits could be so damn annoying. Did they not just go head to head with the enemy? Did they not just barely escape from being eaten by the Reaper? The bitch was insane.

Carefully she kept her stance while her vision threatened to flicker in and out. “Yes, Princess, we do need to coat our hands in their blood. Their attack was an affront and of course we have the right to defend ourselves; but our healer is calling us and you know the rules of war.”

The Dark Lady cringed then exhaled. Blood dripped from her Mistress's plush lips while her wavy mahogany hair draped her face in wet tendrils. “Father would not be amused by this . . . affront.
Sí,
you are right. Let us be about this damn healing and then payback will be had.”

 

 

“This is an unfortunate failure on our behalf, daughter. You do know this disgraces our efforts of winning this war, hmm?”

The Medusa slowly uncrossed then crossed her well-honed, voluptuous legs while she sat at the Cursed kingdom council table. She listened to the low Cuban-accented voice of the Mad King callously address her Mistress. Today Nydia noticed that her Mistress chose to wear her jeweled silver crown upon her cascading hair. Mystery was decadence to the Dark Lady, which was why Nydia knew that she chose to wear that specific crown. Jeweled beads spilled down her mistress's face to cloak her features and leave only her kohl-lined eyes peering through its veil.

Millions upon millions of what appeared to be painted handprints adorned the council chamber walls. They added to the sinister coldness in the massive room. These were the difficult ones. Victims, or hostages, so the Cursed loved to called them. Fools who were taken from the human world and Nephilim hunting grounds by either Nydia's own hands or other Cursed entities' touch. Each soul that was trapped was to be used for later games or to be given the Bite, which would taint their weak bodies and make them Cursed.

Like an elaborate crown, the prints framed the Mad King's haunting visage. Tapping her nail against her temple with her good hand, Nydia couldn't help but watch in feigned respect. Dressed in a gray Italian suit that fit his broad, muscular frame, it accented his tanned walnut-toned skin, allowing the Mad King to project an old world suave allure. His goatee caressed his face in a salt-and-pepper hug while the dimples in his cheeks reminded Nydia of her mistress twin. If the King once smiled, it was always in sinister pleasure.
He could be the toned twin of Antonio Banderas with Afro characteristics, but only taller, at six feet nine inches,
Nydia considered.

The Mad King aka Caius Primus de M'ylce was the first and only created Fallen Elder. She had learned from Reina that he was created by taking the dark soul of the Original Fallen Arch Bernael. While the evil old one lay on the battlefield dying by the hands of the extinct co-angel of death Gabriel, he was fused into the Cursed bitten Vessel named Caius Grete, a cruel human who bartered with the Dark for more power to become a general in the Roman army because he knew he carried the Nephilim DNA strain. He was accepted into the Cursed fold with the sole purpose to be created as a test to see if the Dark were able to create life and extend their ranks.

Being the first and only created Dark Nephilim, procreation was a gift lost to them in the Fall unlike with their enemy. In order to make Dark Nephilim, the Bite had to be given or humans had to submit to the Dark through handing their souls over. This was the case of Caius Grete. He willingly did both for his own gain. He dropped Grete and became Caius Primus de M'ylce of the House of Deception. As the King of the Curse Society, he had earned his transition into the Curse and ruled it with malevolent power.

King Caius watched her mistress with a cool expression. His ebon eyes were rimmed in ruby rings that glinted in the light while studying his daughter. He calmly strummed his fingers on the glossy midnight surface of the council table in contrived attentiveness. Observing the Royal House ring that adorned his right pinky, Nydia let her anger simmer through her body to fuse with the pain running down her spinal cord.

The Medusa knew her King; she knew him very well. Pulsing veins at each bronze temple displayed his quiet fury. Nydia could almost breathe her mistress's equally agitated fury, which amused her. Reina was ready to shred someone or something apart, again. The bloody slurry of black-red intestines and bowels that currently lay at Reina's feet had Nydia staring in delight with a malicious smile. The lax councilmember didn't see it coming when her mistress snatched him up in her quiet angst and ended his darkness.