Hellsbane 01 - Hellsbane (3 page)

“You can’t make me.” Geez, I sounded like an eight-year-old.

“That’s what I thought. And then the demons came, and came, and came. And Eli kept dogging me, saying I had to train.” He stepped around me on his way to the door, limping, moving slower than he had when he’d come in. “The demons can find you anywhere, Emma Jane. They feel you the way you and I can feel each other when we first come together. You know, the way your stomach rolls?”

“The roller-coaster thing? You feel that too?”

He smiled his star-jock smile. “Yeah. I feel it, too. That’s how I knew you were nephilim in high school. I felt it. Felt it around Coach Clark, too. ’Course, I didn’t know what it was until Eli explained it. Before that it was kind of…confusing.”

“That explains a lot,” I said. “Who’s Eli?”

He turned and opened the door. “Eli will keep you alive. Unfor-tunately, if I don’t get to some holy water soon, I won’t survive to introduce you.”

Tommy took a step and his legs gave out. I lunged to catch him, but I was too late. His body sprawled across the threshold, his legs on one side, his upper body on the other. I was at his side just as he pushed up to sit. I caught a glimpse of his wounds.

“Jesus, Tommy.” I shoved his torn T-shirt out of the way so I could get a better look.

“Emma Jane. It’s not just a rule, it’s a commandment,” he said, even as he tried to wrestle his shirt out of my grip.

I couldn’t stop staring. The claw marks had healed…sort of. The edges of the wounds had closed, but the flesh was bulged and misshapen, like he’d somehow trapped a line of cauliflower underneath his skin. And a fine line of black goo oozed at the seal.

“Why’s it like that?”

Tommy finally gave a hard yank to his shirt and got it free of my grip. He shoved it down, covering himself. “Brimstone. It’s boiling my insides. Holy water will neutralize it. Holy objects slow it down, but—”

“Wait here.” I ran up to my room. The rosary was right where I remembered seeing it in the drawer of the bedside table. I brought it down to Tommy and hung it around his neck. Pain eased from his expression almost instantly—if only a little.

“Thanks,” he said. “It helps, but I still need holy water.”

“I think I’ve got some mineral water in the fridge. Do they even sell holy water somewhere?” I was seriously drawing a blank.

He leaned his back against the open front door. His throat worked hard to swallow, and he finally managed to say, “I have to get to a church, Emma Jane. A church, holy ground, priests, get it?”

“Oh. Right.”

Duh
.

CHAPTER THREE

There was a church down the street from my house, but that one wasn’t good enough for Tommy. Apparently, the holy water was holier at St. Anthony’s Chapel, all the way on the other side of Pittsburgh, in Troy Hill. So I loaded him into my Jeep and we took off.

St. Anthony’s is a nice little church, with Gothic, old-world-style architecture. I’d heard about the ton of religious relics housed in the tiny chapel. I’d also heard most of them were bone fragments from saints. Kind of creepy, but a part of me was always curious to see them. Careful what you wish for.

On the way, Tommy mumbled something about the power of those bones being concentrated in one place, and how it made their holy water potent. Whatever worked. He wasn’t looking too good.

I turned off the engine and ducked a little so I could see the top of the church turrets through the passenger window. It was smaller than I’d thought it would be. My gaze dropped to Tommy, sleeping in his seat. He’d passed out twice on the drive over, though potholes jolted him back to consciousness a few times. I tried to avoid them, but Pennsylvania potholes don’t just lie in wait, they attack.

I got out and came around to the passenger’s side of my Jeep, opening the door enough to stick my hand in. I braced Tommy by the shoulder while I opened the door the rest of the way. The movement revived him enough that he helped keep himself upright as he turned in the bucket seat, swung his feet around, and slipped out.

His legs buckled the second they were asked to hold his weight. I lunged fast enough to get my arms under his, and he grabbed for the Jeep. Together, we kept him from going to his knees. He didn’t argue when I tugged his arm over my shoulder and slipped my other hand around his back. He needed the help. It was why he’d come to me.

We hobbled across the parking lot like losers in a three-legged race. It was a warm day, even for July in Pennsylvania, but as we walked, the air seemed to cool. Apple trees and lilac blossoms scented the breeze.

The smell reminded me of lazy summer days at Gram’s house as a kid, playing with my sister and our cousins. The same secure comfort washed over me, like coming home.

I stopped and looked to the chapel at the end of the parking lot. “You sure it’s cool that we go in? I mean, we’re the result of a pretty hefty no-no. Right? I don’t want to be struck by lightning or something.”

“You’ve never been to church?”

“Well, yeah. Of course, but…”

“You were born nephilim, Emma Jane. It’s what you are,” he said. “The only thing that’s changed is now the other side knows it. Besides, you think God needs a church to take you out?”

“Right.” We started walking again.

St. Anthony’s was like the Little Engine That Could, a tiny chapel that strived to be so much more than a one-room church. I could almost sense the power some people might expect inside the Vatican itself thrumming within its walls.

There was no real vestibule, so when we walked through the doors we stepped into the chapel. Stunning stained-glass windows ringed the top of the wall beneath the cathedral ceiling, illuminating the small chapel with a hazy, unreal color. Each window depicted a different Apostle, plus three more for Mary, Joseph, and St. Anthony himself.

Beneath the windows, tucked into the side walls, were life-size wooden figures depicting the Stations of the Cross. Each one was housed in its own gilded nook, framed with Roman columns and scrolling filigree. Banks of prayer candles glowed midway in the chapel, but it was what lay beyond that drew my attention.

A shaft of soft, white light, like an otherworldly spotlight, beamed through the high cupola at the far end of the church. An ethereal haze drifted over the altar and the ornate, golden reliquaries behind it.

I knew from the articles I’d read that some of the holy artifacts those reliquaries housed supposedly included slivers of the crucifixion cross, small pieces of the table from the Last Supper, and thorns from the actual crown of thorns.

But the moment my gaze settled on the gilded cases, a breath-stealing wall of energy slammed into me. I wasn’t sure if it was an innate power those objects possessed or some other unseen force within this church, but the wave of heat that rolled over my body staggered me. I clutched at Tommy, leveraging myself against him to keep us both on our feet.

My skin tingled in the wake of the power burst. “Holy crap. What was that?”

I’d no sooner caught my breath from the last slam than another wave hit. This time, I managed to keep my footing.

“Faith. Belief in the relics,” Tommy said. “Now you understand why I wanted to come here?”

I nodded, unable to form words. The power radiating through the church made the air thick, tightened my chest. It was hard to breathe, hard to think. It was like nothing I’d ever felt.

“Over there,” Tommy said, tipping his chin toward the brass bowl on the wall by the door. “Holy water.”

We stumbled up to it, and Tommy reached for the ornately carved wooden chair next to the bowl. I helped lower him, found him a position that wouldn’t let him crumble onto the floor. The table behind the last pew held a fan of promotional flyers, a few collection plates, and a tray of plastic cups with a pitcher of water.

I snagged a cup and went to the bowl. Despite my flimsy belief, dipping a plastic cup into a holy font felt wrong. Tommy’s hiss of pain pushed me through the hesitation.

“Lift your shirt,” I said, ready to pour the sanctified water over the wound.

Tommy shook his head, reaching for the cup. “It’s inside me. The wound’s already healed.” He chugged the water, then asked for more. He’d barely emptied the second cup before his hand dropped to his lap, exhausted. Tommy leaned his head back, his eyes fluttering closed.

Was it working? Who knew? It was all I could do to stand there, waiting to find out. The power washing over and around me itched and tingled along my skin, like my flesh was trying to crawl off my bones. I held my breath to withstand the sensation, gulping air in before the next wave hit. It was like standing chest-deep in an ocean with the water rolling over my head, keeping me down. I could never quite fill my lungs.

My gaze drifted back to the enormous reliquaries at the far end of the chapel. Was this maddening sensation really coming from them? It was crazy. How could any of this be real?

I tensed just before another wave hit. I sucked in a breath, held it until the energy wave passed. I couldn’t stand it. I had to get out.

“Relax,” Tommy said, and I flicked my gaze to him, realizing he’d been watching me. “It’s worse if you fight it.”

“I’m not fighting anything. I’m just standing here.” I crossed my arms over my belly, held my breath an instant before another invisible wave slammed into me.

“It’s smothering because you’re fighting it. You don’t have to.” He pushed straight up in his chair, obviously feeling better. “Nephilim are more sensitive to the feel of faith than most humans. Instead of making it push around you, relax and let the power flow through you.”

“It makes my skin crawl. Don’t really want that going through me,” I said. My skin itched and squirmed like millions of tiny bugs were gnawing at my flesh. I rubbed my arms, trying to ease the sensation. It didn’t help.

“Faith is like a house in a tornado. There’s air all around, inside and out, but if you keep the windows up, pressure builds and the place will blow. Open the windows and nature finds a balance.”

“Or it rips the friggin’ roof off.” I said it harsher than I’d meant to, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted to crawl out of my skin.

“Trust me, Emma Jane,” he said. “Relax. Let down your guard.”

“I can’t.” My feet were already backing me toward the door. I rubbed my arms, my neck, everywhere my skin tingled. “It’s too much. I can’t breathe. I have to go.”

“Emma Jane, wait.” He reached out to me, but stopped short of getting to his feet. He was still weak, still unwilling to trust his legs would hold. “You have to talk to Eli. You don’t know what you’re walking into. I mean it; I can’t let you be alone. Not yet. I’m sorry, but you have to wait until he comes.”

“You’re meeting him here? What is he, a priest or something?”
Crap
. Made sense. But the last thing I needed was to talk to someone even more fanatical than Tommy. I didn’t remember him being such a religious freak in high school. “No. I can’t. I’m done. Sorry. Your friend’s coming; you’ll be fine. But I…I have to go.”

I turned and practically ran out the thick double doors, taking the front steps two at a time. The second my feet hit the blacktop, I could breathe again. I doubled over, hands to my knees, sucking in breaths.

It took me a few minutes, but my skin stopped trying to run away without me, and I stopped thinking about breathing and just did it. I’d be okay.

After a quick glance back at the church, I walked across the long parking lot toward my Jeep. Worry for Tommy tugged through my belly. I hated leaving him hurt and alone, but that priest guy, Eli, would take care of him. That’s what they do, right?

Besides, downing those shots of holy water seemed to have perked him up.

I scanned the parking lot and the buildings surrounding it. There were at least two more churches and a smaller building in the same gothic style as Saint Anthony’s Chapel. The smaller building had a tarnished brass sign next to the door that read
Saint Anthony’s Rectory
and I wondered if the priest Tommy was waiting for was inside. There were a few houses surrounding the parking lot as well, including one that had been remodeled and, judging by the canvas banner hanging on the front porch banister, now served as a kind of museum and gift shop for the quasi-famous chapel. But my attention ultimately focused on the woman getting into a blue SUV parked across the row from my Jeep. We were the only two in the lot.

Just as I reached the back of my car, she came around the end of hers, pushing an empty stroller. I watched her open her tailgate, then struggle to fold the cumbersome stroller.

I’d almost made it to the driver’s side of my Jeep when I heard her call.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Miss. Could you help me? Please?”

I looked. Was she really talking to me? What did I know about folding those things? “I’m sorry?”

She was pretty, thin, a few inches taller than I was, with long blonde hair and a pink headband to match the cardigan tied over her shoulders. Her white, buttoned blouse was practically perfect, tucked into her khaki culottes. The woman was wearing loafers with actual pennies in them.

She flashed a perfect, white smile. “My husband usually helps me with this. I can never figure it out. Do you mind?”

I smiled politely and crossed the parking lot to her. “Okay. I mean, I can try. Not sure how much help I’ll be. I’ve never even pushed one of these things.”

She waved the comment away. “You’re probably better than I am. I can’t even get the parts back together on our espresso machine without looking at the manual.”

I laughed. “You have the manual for this? We might need it.”

“No. Unfortunately.”

Reflex made me glance into the SUV. I saw the back of the baby carrier peeking above the bench seat. I assumed her kid was in there, but the back was so high, I couldn’t see a head. Judging by the weird odor drifting from the car, I figured Junior had made a nice little thank-you gift for Mom in his pants.
Ah, kids
.

I stood, leaning over the stroller to search the other side for a lever, or hinges, or a big honkin’ sign that read, “Pull here, nimrod.”

“How old?” I asked.

That’s what you ask people with babies, right? Standard questions, age, name, and—if they’re wearing yellow—sex.

“What?” she said.

I looked at her. “The baby. How old is he?”

“Oh.” She seemed thrown for a minute, and then recovered. “Eight weeks.”

Well, that didn’t track. My sister had three rug rats, and she’d have a hissy if anyone tried to latch them into a forward-facing car seat before they were six months.

Instinct itched across my shoulders. I opened my psychic gift to the seemingly perfect mom and nearly choked on a nauseating wave of hate. It burned through me, tensing every muscle, making my heart race and my teeth clench. Holy crap, the woman wanted me ten feet under. I slammed a mental door in my head. And then that weird smell hit me again, stronger this time, like whatever was making it had suddenly stepped closer.

“So my deliverer might live, you must die,” she said in a voice that belonged to a three-pack-a-day smoker instead of an all-American soccer mom.

I did one of those slow-motion turns over my shoulder. Like in a horror movie when the heroine knows the monster is right behind her, but doesn’t want to look.

Yeah. The monster was right behind me…sort of. Mom, turned psycho bitch, was close enough that her rotten egg breath left my neck hot and sticky wet.

“You’re not really a soccer mom, are you?”

She still looked like she should be on her way to a playdate, except she wasn’t smiling anymore. Her pretty face was red with rage—lips curled back, snarling—her putrid breaths coming in quick pants.

I leaned away, but not fast enough. A sharp pain stabbed through my gut. I stumbled back, my hand going to the spot. My blouse was wet to the touch. Something hot and gooey trickled over my fingers and I glanced at my hand. My brain had trouble reconciling what I knew had happened and the speed at which she’d done it.

“You stabbed me.” I looked back at her, then to her hand and the bloody dagger she held.

That was my blood.
My blood!

“Damn you to the abyss, nephilim,” she said in a raw hiss. She lunged at me, thrusting the dagger at my chest. It was all I could do to backpedal beyond her reach, falling on my butt two steps past just-far-enough. I rolled before she could re-center her balance and come at me again.

My skirt was ruined. Demon blood, my blood, and now scraps of asphalt will do that to cotton. The problem wasn’t the stains; it was all that fabric twisting around my legs and catching under my feet.
I hate dresses, I hate dresses, I hate dresses.