Page 73 of Destined for Eternity
Bartol put a hand on the young man’s shoulder, relieved it didn’t bother him as much to touch another person as it once did. “Be patient.”
Raguel tensed. “There’s something out there in the…”
Lucas flashed before them. “The demons are here!”
Before anyone could respond to him, the nephilim disappeared in another flash of light. Bartol wanted to follow him to the woods, but it was his job to stay close to the nerou and kill the demons that got near them. The angels and other nephilim would do the fighting, and his father would slay the attackers outside the perimeter.
“Good luck, son,” Raguel said before flashing away.
Tormod rubbed his hands together in glee. “Can I go out there as well?”
“No,” Bartol replied. “You stay with me.”
The demon nerou sighed. “I’d rather be fighting with the others right now.”
“Of course, you would, but I’m certain you’ll get your turn soon enough.”
The familiar noises of battle rang through the trees a few hundred meters away. They’d held the ceremony in the evening this time, and as the sun began to set, flashes of light lit up the nearby woods as angels used their smiting powers. Swords also clashed, growls and snarls sounded, and a large boom punched through the air. The shockwave of it shot straight through Bartol, and the ground rattled beneath his feet. He searched the area around them, unable to locate the source.
“What was that?” Tormod asked, bewildered.
“I have no idea.”
The next thing they knew, a plume of smoke rose from a point just inside the fence line a hundred feet away. Pungent magic, unlike anything he’d ever felt before crackled through the air. A large demon that had to be at least eight feet tall appeared there with black horns on the top of its head, blood-red skin, and a long, pointy tail. It was the stuff of nightmares, and by the looks of it, it had to be one of the princes of Hell. Bartol cursed. This was not going to be an easy fight, but if they didn’t stop the demon, it could kill nearly all of them with little effort. Princes were supremely powerful, capable of slaying archangels in single combat.
He ran for the creature.
Tormod followed closely behind. “Finally, something worth fighting!”
The boy had no idea what he was getting himself into, and there was no time to explain. Bartol took one side of the demon while the nerou took the other. They struck their swords into red flesh, their blades bouncing off their target’s skin without leaving a scratch. The demon laughed at them, making a throaty, evil sound. Then he punched Tormod in the face. The nerou sailed through the air, smashing against the side of the headquarters building and punching a human-sized hole through the front wall. Shards of brick and timber rained down to bury him. Before Bartol could check to see if he was okay, the prince came after him next. He had to use every bit of fancy footwork he’d ever learned through the centuries to keep from getting ripped by the demon’s claws. They cut through the air, sharp and deadly. The tip of one talon grazed the front of Bartol’s shirt, slicing through it cleanly so that the bottom half drooped and left his stomach exposed.
“You’re dead, nephilim,” the demon said in a deep voice.
Zoe appeared, strawberry blond hair loose and flying as she held up a shining blade. “Why don’t you try me instead?”
What was the crazy woman doing? If anyone believed in self-preservation more than Kerbasi, it was her. She avoided fights as much as possible, preferring to strategize battles from afar and let everyone else risk their lives.
The demon grabbed her sword by the blade and jerked it from her. If his palm was cut, he showed no signs of pain or injury. He tossed her weapon aside. Zoe backed away, but he shot forward and picked her up by the throat. His talons dug deep, drawing blood that ran down her neck to the pink bodice she wore. She dangled there with her feet flailing two feet above the ground. Her gaze shot to Bartol, and she dragged in a breath.
“Get him, you fool,” she wheezed.
Before the prince could react, Bartol brought his blade down on the demon’s tail. It crunched, the sharp edge managing to penetrate all the way through. He’d cut the tail in half, getting rid of the pointy end that could whip around and tear through their bodies.
The prince roared, dropping Zoe like a sack of cement. He swung around to face Bartol, eyes glowing a fierce red. There wasn’t a moment to lose. Bartol swung his sword in a high arc and slashed the demon across the cheek. He’d noted the skin was thinner there and potentially more vulnerable. Black blood ran down the prince’s face, but the cut hardly appeared to be much deeper than a scratch. In moments, the wound knitted closed.
The demon swung his meaty fist, striking Bartol in the face. If a speeding train had hit him, it couldn’t have hurt worse. His jaw bone disintegrated as if made of clay. He flew backward, landed on his rear end, then slid across the ground for a dozen feet. Stars danced before his eyes. He gingerly touched his face and found the lower half was little more than mush. In all his years, he’d never been wounded that severely or that fast. He’d heard tales of demon princes and their incredible fighting abilities, but nothing could have prepared him for the real thing.
Through a haze, he caught Zoe slowly rising to her feet to face their opponent alone and unarmed. She lifted her delicate hands and let out small zaps of electricity, attempting to smite the demon. Nephilim didn’t have the kind of wattage angels did, so their strikes were weaker and less effective. The woman was crazy to have even bothered.
The demon let out a bark of laughter. “Nice try, little girl. You look tasty!”
“I’d be poison to you, you bastard,” she said, lifting her chin.
What was she doing? Surely she wasn’t buying Bartol time to recover?
The prince lifted his large hand and struck out with his claws. Zoe dodged to the right, but she didn’t go far enough. The demon ran the tips of his dagger-like talons across her cheeks and neck. She screamed as blood spurted down her body, further soaking her lace bodice and khaki pants. She fell to her knees, her right hand pressed to her wounds.
“You’ll die today,” she vowed, deadly serious.
