Page 3 of Destined for Eternity
Chapter 2
Bartol
Bartol was immortal and powerful. Yet most of the time these days, he didn’t feel any stronger than a child. Even with magical abilities that humans would envy and more than eighteen hundred years of living, none of it made a difference after what he’d been through in the last century. One thing a man learns after he’s been tortured and half his face burned into a horrendous scar is that no one is immune to pain or trauma.
He was well aware that everyone wanted him to get over his past and move forward, but they had no idea of the difficulties he faced even trying to socialize with a small group of people. Never mind figuring out how to be a mate to a woman who needed more of him than he could give. He was honestly trying, and he’d gotten somewhat better in recent months, but the psychological damage done to him, including having all his intimate memories altered into nightmares, made it difficult to be “normal.” Every day was a battle to resist the urge to hide in his cabin and shut everyone out the way he’d done in those early months after returning to Earth and freedom.
The afternoon was sunny and clear when Bartol flashed—a method of travel somewhat like teleportation—to the nerou training compound. He hated going to the place, but at least he could appreciate the weather outside. Spring had arrived in Alaska, and the cold that had chilled his bones to the marrow during the winter had finally begun to recede. It was finally above freezing, though still cool compared to southern parts of the United States. As an immortal, temperatures shouldn’t have bothered him very much, but after a century in the icy bowels of Purgatory, he felt it more keenly than most. His time there had changed him in far too many ways.
Bartol walked across the open yard, searching for signs of activity. The compound, consisting of dormitories, classrooms, a gymnasium, and a dining facility was surprisingly quiet. This was a place for the nerou—beings with angel, human, and sensor blood in them—to train. About fifty of them resided there, but their nephilim instructors often broke them down into smaller groups for various training exercises. Usually, at least a handful of students milled about outside, especially on a nice day such as this. Bartol had never seen the place so empty and found it a little unnerving.
He’d arrived to check on a particular nerou—Tormod—the only one of the group with a quarter demon blood in his ancestry. The young man was fortunate the angels let him live, considering his tainted heritage, but since he was a small child when they’d taken him from his parents, they’d let him live so that he could have a chance to prove himself.
Tormod’s father had a dark history with the angels. As a daimoun—half angel and half demon—Yerik was particularly dangerous, making him a threat that Heaven’s minions couldn’t tolerate. They’d sent one of their warriors to execute him some centuries ago, but that battle didn’t go in their favor. The archangel lost the fight and died. The daimoun lived, having to go into hiding from Heaven’s henchmen for centuries until coming back out recently to help free his son and the other nerou from Purgatory where they’d been held their whole lives. With no easy way to dispatch him, Yerik had received a different sort of punishment for killing the archangel and spent a year on a harsh, distant planet. Of course, they didn’t care that he’d simply been defending himself, but while he was powerful and more on the wild side than most, he was hardly among the worst of supernaturals. But he walked a fine line before Heaven decided to throw legions at him to get rid of him.
That was the sort of background Tormod came from, and he had to constantly prove he was an asset and could do good things in the world. Unfortunately, he’d been showing his darker colors recently after a run-in with a powerful demon—one who’d captured his mind and controlled him for days, making him do terrible things. He’d been slowly recovering from the ordeal, but he was no longer the enthusiastic man who enjoyed a bit of mischief. If he didn’t improve quickly enough, or if he committed an unforgivable act that got others hurt, it could put him on the chopping block. The angels wanted an excuse to get rid of a hybrid like him.
Bartol had started guiding him exclusively since last fall to give him the individual attention he needed. It helped Tormod to have that kind of one-on-one mentoring from a nephilim, and he’d been showing great potential to become one of the best enforcers for supernaturals once he graduated training. But after the demon had warped the young man’s mind, they’d had to keep him closeted away for nearly a month before he showed signs of awareness and recognition. Then the next couple of months after that they’d had to bring him out little by little in doses he could handle. Understanding psychological damage himself, Bartol had known what would help, but it was a rather slow process. Both the instructor and student had a long way to go before they’d be considered anything close to “recovered.”
One by one, he searched the buildings in the compound for Tormod or anyone else. He eventually found Eli, a dark-skinned nephilim who many claimed appeared similar to Denzel Washington, sitting at his desk. Among the youngest of the nephilim at four hundred and twenty years old, he tended to be more in touch with the modern world than the rest of them. He was one of the trainers with a specialty in psychiatry he used to aid the students in their mental health. Bartol avoided him as much as possible since the man had a fondness for going after anyone he thought needed “fixing.”
“How are you?” Eli asked, looking up from his desk. He had piles of file folders and notes before him. The whole office was an eclectic mess. No doubt he studied each and every individual, cataloging their behaviors for his own curiosity.
“Fine,” Bartol answered curtly. “Where are the others?”
The nephilim gave him one of his uncomfortable penetrating gazes. “They’re out training a mile from here.”
“Which direction?”
Eli cleared his throat and shuffled some papers. “I’ve been meaning to ask how your relationship with Cori is going now that you’re expecting a child together.” He lifted his brows. “Have you overcome your…reticence to intimacy?”
Bartol stiffened. This was exactly the subject he’d hoped to avoid with this man because it no doubt fascinated him. As a nephilim who was once known as the greatest immortal lover but who could no longer stand to be in close proximity to anyone, he was no doubt a good case study. Oh, certainly, Cori had broken down Bartol’s barriers enough for him to impregnate her, but her touch was still difficult to bear. He had to control every aspect of their intimate relations while she held herself back and kept her hands to herself. It was difficult for her, but she willingly did it for him. She understood that part of his torture in Purgatory ruined him from ever making love again—at least in the sense of there being give and take between the two partners. He was tainted forevermore and still didn’t understand what she saw in him.
“That’s none of your business,” he growled.
Eli pursed his lips. “I could help you. When Lucas needed assistance from his past traumas, I was able to make a difference so that he could move on from them.”
“He didn’t have a choice. The archangels made Lucas do it if he wanted to protect his mate.” Bartol was prepared for this argument, having played it out in his head in case this meeting ever happened.
Lucas was a fellow nephilim who’d had some father issues during his upbringing that caused him to abhor humans and sensors with a passion. He’d been imprisoned in Purgatory numerous times for killing many among both races. Only once he found a mate, ironically a sensor, did he finally have to face his problems and learn to control his anger. For Melena, he’d do anything and had proven it time and again.
“Perhaps that’s true.” Eli shrugged. “But I did help him, and if you’re going to be a father, you’re going to need help as well.”
“I’m doing just fine on my own.” Bartol started to turn away, determined to find the nerou one way or another. “You can stay out of it.”
“What are you going to do when the baby is born? Will you hold the child? Could you?”
He froze in the doorway. Eli had just targeted his greatest worry, and he often saw the concern on Cori’s face when he chose to sleep next to her—a few feet apart on the bed. Would he be able to hold his own son or daughter? A lump formed in his throat as he honestly didn’t know if he could. Even to touch his mate’s swelling stomach once in a while took all he had not to jerk away.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, hanging his head.
A hint of sympathy entered Eli’s voice. “I could help you work on it.”
Bartol hesitated. He might not want anything to do with the nephilim and his modern ways of thinking that involved talking and expressing his feelings, but didn’t his child deserve a father who would hold them? Could he be so selfish as to stay the way he was now?
“I’ll consider it.” That was the best he could do for now.
The other man nodded. “I hope you do—for the child. I’ll be here anytime you need me.”
