Page 92 of Bad Moon Rising
He held his forehead. “I’m not in good enough shape to deal with something like that today.”
“Get off your drunk, sedated butt and get here. My strength to keep it occupied is waning. It’s already killed at least twenty, maybe more. How long until you’re here?”
He groaned and calculated in his head. “Six to seven hours, give or take.”
“I’ll text you the address.” The call ended.
Roman dropped the phone on the bed and held his pounding head.
“So?” Flynn asked.
“I need ibuprofen. Those knockout pills are the devil.”
“Aside from that?”
“We have to go back to Brussels tonight. It’s probably the same demon Gerard wanted us to deal with.”
“First, you need a shower and a meal. You sure we can’t hold off until tomorrow afternoon?”
“When one of God’s archangels requests you show up, you do it.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Roman was ready to fight by the time he jogged silently beside the angel and Flynn down a narrow street in Brussels. No alcohol in his system this time. Two blocks later, a screech rose up that was not high enough to be female, but the low and ragged cry reflected a human male in the throes of a violent death.
The call hit him on a fundamental level. Protection of the innocent wasn’t only his sworn duty, but it’d been ingrained in his soul for as long as he could remember. It was both a burden and a calling.
As he broke into a sprint, he caught the angel grinning. This time his dark hair was streaked with blond as if he did a home-kit highlighting. He wore an Iron Man T-shirt and tight jeans. The jeans were really tight, as in almost inappropriate. How could he move without wrenching the junk? Also, why was he grinning when someone suffered? He’d never understand this creature. He cornered around a boxy house onto a side street. Familiar scents hit his nostrils—demon and human blood. Demons smelled like the unique aroma of barbequed compost.
Bolting forward, he threw the demon away from the human, not that it would do anything to save the life that was now draining blood from a zillion scratched and pierced holes onto the ground. He wondered if the angel could do a miracle, or even if the guy was worthy of one.
Apparently, the human wasn’t. The angel made no move to approach the human.
Where he’d touched the demon, his hands burned like he’d put a palm down on a hot stove. He outed one of his daggers and nailed the demon in the chest as it charged him. Just as he was about to pull the khopesh sword from the scabbard beneath his coat at his back, which was awkward as hell to carry around—uncomfortable handle size and bulky unbalanced blade—the demon nailed him in the chest with three talons and sent him sailing into the house across the street.
He forced himself to breathe through the pain scorching his chest.
The scent of charbroiled decay kicked up a notch, which meant the demon had called in some friends. Not unexpected. As he got himself upright and untangled from Christmas lights, a mini demon army of six attacked Flynn and…Nova?
He stumbled backward, his head reeling and no longer in the fight. “What the bloody hell? You’re dead. How are you here?”
What was she doing here?
Where was that bloody angel? He did this. The question was how. Did he resurrect her from the dead? Did that make her not the same person?
Zadkiel was gone.
He’d ditched them?
He blinked. And stumbled in her direction.
She was fighting off demons with a knife, dressed in a black outfit that blended with shadows. This wasn’t a hallucination.
The demon on Nova’s back plunged its knife deep into her side. To her credit, she didn’t make a noise, but the sight scrambled his mind.
His brain shifted into high rage. He screamed and charged. Forget locating the one in charge, which was the logical and most effective approach to stop the minion army. Kill the leader and the underlings would run. He didn’t register her fighting back or knocking the little demon to the ground.
Had to protect Nova.
