Descent of Demons

  "The bedroom," she mouthed. "You, me, naked, now."

  She was shivering with need, burning with passion. Her body wanted more, her skin craved his touch, but she wasn't about to allow him to take her on the floor like a dog rutting a bitch. She wanted a little romance. A soft mattress under her back would certainly help.

  Grumbling, Morgan swung her up into his arms and carried her into his bedroom. He hit the bed with his knee, tumbling them onto the firm surface. Immediately, his body was back over hers. When his palm connected with her bare breast she thought she'd explode right out of her skin. She gasped with pleasure when he began to tease the hard pink tip with his fingers. She rubbed her hands across his shoulders, down across his chest to his waist.

  "Oh, no," she teased. "The shirt, the pants. Lose them now."

  Sighing in mock agitation, he got up.

  Julienne rolled onto her stomach. She placed her chin atop her hands and looked at him, eyes following the line from his square shoulders to his lean, muscular waist as he took off his shirt. In a very few moments, his boots followed and then his slacks.

  "No stopping me," he growled, "from having you now."

  Keepers of Eternity

  Echoes of Angels: Book 1

  Other books by Caitlyn McKenna writing as Jeya Jenson

  Available at: http://www.extasybooks.com

  Before Night Falls

  Biker Chic

  Celluloid Fantasy

  Flesh and the Devil

  Mistress of Death

  Tarot Series: Lost Hearts, Found Souls

  Three to Dance

  Whispering Shadows

  DESCENT OF DEMONS

  Keepers of Eternity

  Book 2

  By

  Caitlyn McKenna

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Descent of Demons

  Keepers of Eternity Book 2

  © 2004 by Caitlyn McKenna

  ISBN 1-55410-153-0

  Cover art and design by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books 2004

  Look for us online at http://www.extasybooks.com

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  McKenna, Caitlyn

  Descent of demons [electronic resource] / Caitlyn McKenna.

  (Keepers of eternity ; bk. 2)

  Also available in print format.

  ISBN 1-55410-153-0

  I. Title. II. Series: McKenna, Caitlyn Keepers of eternity ; bk. 2.

  PS3613.C756D48 2004a 813'.6 C2004-903403-0

  "As the gods ordained at the time of creation, the separation will not last, for the three worlds are meant to be a single entity. Parted, they must, like magnets, be drawn back together."

  "The Dragon and his legions will wage a great war. The will of the beast will rise and death shall reign over all…"

  --Prophecies of the Lioar Fàisneachd, the book of Armageddon.

  Part One

  Resurrections

  Chapter One

  The flash of a blade. Sharp…deadly…it came in a murderous arc, swift as a heartbeat, cutting through naked flesh.

  Excruciating pain. Invasive…the trickle of blood warming his chilled flesh.

  Then came fear, in the shape of a devouring beast. Vicious. Untamed. Gnawing its way through his body, twisting his guts and turning his bowels to liquid.

  Screaming…the shattering wail of agony…of betrayal.

  He should not be screaming, but he was. The cries of abject terror were his…

  * * *

  Escaping a long, blurred nightmare in which he seemed to stumble through the storms and shadows of a Hadean dreamscape, Xavier D'Shagre gradually drifted back toward consciousness. Around him, the sound of a low, keening chant rose, beating incessantly at his ears, beckoning him back from the sphere between waking and sleep.

  "O Dragon, give strength to our master, draw him not into everlasting darkness, but release him…"

  The voices intoned on, their plea punctuated with phrases that vibrated with a sonorous, pulsating rhythm. Tampering with nature, bending it to the will of deviant forces, the rising and falling cadences of otherworldly litanies transported him on raven-black wings, ending his long passage through the searing heat of consuming flames, through the breath of the Dragon.

  Rescued from the chaotic inferno, he hovered, disoriented by the mingling and merging of corporeal and incorporeal. Writhing in anguish, convulsing, his body arched with the agonies of merging. His head thrashed side-to-side and his arms beat the air, defending himself against an enemy living only within his twisted brain. A sluggish groan rose to his ears, feeble and without objective, extended by the wheeze emanating from his mouth. Grasping fingers clawed at him, threatening to drag him back into the abyss of insensibility. He resisted, struggling to remain aware.

  There was a low throbbing throughout his body, but it was all far away, held at bay by the voices reverberating around him. Moaning, he twitched, the feeling of abject helplessness only adding to his panic as his senses reeled. A chill seized his brain. He could not control his limbs, could not rise to his feet. He became conscious of the beating of his own heart. The organ hammered inside his chest, a hollow, irregular rhythm. His blood thrummed through his veins at a furious pace, seeming to press for release.

  In a delirious haze, he groaned again and muttered in a strange, eldritch tongue. The swollen slit that was his left--his single--eye cracked open, eyelid twitching like a moth impaled on a pin. Through long, frightening minutes he saw naught, staring into a dusky gray nothingness. Bewildered and then, by turns, enraged, he feared himself blind, imprisoned in the black morass that was his own mind.

  He shut his eye, praying silently that he not be forever sightless. When he opened it again, he was able to detect the spiking shafts of firelight that filled the atmosphere with wavering shadows. He breathed a secret sigh of relief as his vision adjusted to the gloom. He lay shuddering, bound, while the sensations that had seemed so terrifying only moments before faded.

  With great difficulty Xavier turned his head, discovering he rested on a great altar of hard stone. Its elaborately engraved surface was darkly stained, for in past times he had given many lives in sacrifice. This time was different. The husk that was his physical body had been placed upon the sacrificial stone not as an offering, but for restoration.

  Lit by ever-burning torches set into the walls, the underground sepulcher that was the Temple of Ouroborous was immense. A concentrated haze of sandalwood incense hung in the air, mingling with the oppressive humidity that weighed within his chest, threatening to swell his lungs until they burst. Water trickled, drop-by-drop, out of cracks in the foundation to fall onto the stone floor. Because of the dampness, the arched mosaic ceiling was lost in a green luminescence--draped like mossy cobwebs, phosphorescent lichen was attached to the moist stone. Engulfing huge sections, it had begun to grow down the walls; its vile growth was a haven for mutated insects. Its smothering wetness, inexorably attracted to the torchlight, threatened to snuff out the sooty flames.

  The voracious plant was like an unstoppable virus, its putrescent growth creeping toward any source of inviting warmth. The flames flickered and spluttered, creating wavering shapes that morphed into grotesque figures around the chamber, unsuccessfully resisting the parasitic fungus. Given time, all the chambers underground would be consumed.

 
Ruin…

  Decay…

  Death…

  All surrounded him, gathering him in a familiar rotting embrace, drawing him close to a breast pillaged by time. He was one with devastation, for he was a carrier of destruction. As one who wrought the demise of countless beings, he was part of the ruination, could never escape it.

  Kneeling around the edges of the altar were the Yn-Jeea, first tier adepts of Ouroborous, who served his needs. Their chanting voices grew louder, stronger, more intense. The ritual of his legion deepened, quickened, pulsed in a strange, echoing cadence that extended through the infinity that was time and space--encompassing the beginning, the end and all else throughout the three worlds. The closed chamber cast back the strange words of the worshippers. All were hooded, their mantles drawn so far over their heads and hands it was impossible to tell men from women.

  Lowering her hood, a woman broke away from the worshipper's circle, gliding up to the altar. Tall, her body was narrow with an unnatural, painful gauntness. Her face was not a beautiful one--eyes spaced too widely, nose and mouth too generous to fit the oval of her head. Her skin was pasty, and a green-veined pallor marked her as one who spent much time within the cloak of shadows. Her rich brown hair had been shorn close to her scalp, leaving her a soft, downy nap. Small creases at the corners of her eyes were the sole indication that she was not as young as she appeared.

  She was dressed in drab robes, and leather moccasins masked her steps. A delicate red circle with two dots at its edge was tattooed onto her left cheek: the mark of the Dragon. Her step and manner were disciplined. The voices receded into silence.

  Xavier inwardly welcomed the woman's presence, so familiar to him.

  "Ilya…" His words were little more than a weak gurgle. His mouth was parched, tongue swollen with dehydration. He tried to rise but fell back, hampered by limbs that would not obey.

  "I am here to serve you." Ilya's voice was low and resonant, with an overlay of effort, as if she always held herself in careful control. "And to never fail you."

  She reached out, stroking away the oily sweat that beaded his hairless brow and soaked a ragged strip of stained linen cloth wrapped clumsily around half his pallid face. Though it managed to conceal a gruesome mutilation, the cloth failed to absorb the stinking pus leaking from poorly placed stitches that tore his bloated flesh.

  His right eye was gone. Long ago, the eyeball had been gouged out. Grotesque thick scars marred the hollow socket.

  He stretched out an imploring hand. For the first time he became aware of the thick bandages wrapped around the appendage. He tried to flex his fingers. Spikes of pain shot up his arm like sharp little fangs, bringing an agony so intense he could feel the blood drain from his face. He remembered his hands, once so strong and skillful, able to create life as well as take it. The twisted travesty that was now his right one enraged him. It had been scorched to the bone, mutilated, the flesh beginning to putrefy underneath the bandages, additional damage to the hatefully weak carcass that was his physical shell.

  The realization disturbed the precarious control he held over his mind and body; the surging disparity left him alarmed. He found himself thinking that this anguish he suffered was the preliminary of a grievous punishment. For what? Failing Ouroborous? In his mind's eye he could clearly visualize the time when, as a young apprentice by his father's side, he had forever pledged his soul to the Dragon.

  Follow him and you will not regret your heritage, Sylvaan had told him.

  Gasping to catch his breath, he made a bizarre imprecise sound much like a sob. Did he regret his choices? He wasn't sure. Then, as was true now, the Dragon never really abandoned a servant. Hadn't Ouroborous opened paths to new sources of power in the past? Yes, the Dragon was always willing to share his knowledge…for a price.

  A price must always be paid, and I've paid several times over.

  Gritting rotting teeth over the sacrifices he had made to the demonic god he served, Xavier unclenched his good hand and raked his fingernails across the surface of the altar. Desperately he sought to halt the psychological upheaval that would diminish the vanishing dominion he barely held--yet must continue to hold--over the agony his physical shell suffered.

  Ilya took his hand and guided it back to rest across his stomach.

  "Do not move," she soothed. "It'll only hamper healing."

  She put her own skilled hands to work with purpose, laying aside the cloth covering his face. Seeing the damage, she did not turn away, for she was used to viewing the miseries of mutilated flesh. Her jaw hardened as she examined the wound. Running from the bridge of the sorcerer's nose to the edge of his cheek was a slash etched so deeply into his flesh it threatened his sight.

  "The assassin's blade cut deep." Ilya's tone was shaded with hatred, and she bit off the last words as if they tasted unpleasant. "The fever isn't receding."

  She motioned with her hand to a second figure. A woman clothed in the brown sackcloth shift of a serving wench stepped forward, extending a copper basin filled with an astringent of agrimony, woundwarts and black birch bark. The medicinal properties could reduce pain and swelling as well as aid in healing. Ilya dipped into the bowl, then pressed a wet cloth against the wound.

  The assassin, Xavier thought, relishing the cool against his feverish skin. He's come back… He turned white and rigid as unwelcome memories curled back his numb lips.

  "Morgan." The single word became a low growl that settled deep in the back of his throat. His forehead ridged in deep thought, the folds growing deeper as his animosity intensified. Images began to filter through his mind, tugging him back to the vicious events that had come close to sending him spiraling into the dark vale of the netherworld.

  An odor assailed his nostrils, one he too well recognized. It was the smell of fear. A palpable thing, more sour than the bile at the back of his throat, his fear was a specter, mocking, laughing, a leering death's mask. He would never forget the sight of the dagger his enemy had wielded nor the sensation of cold steel penetrating fragile flesh. The echoes of his screams still resounded in his ears, mocking his failure to maintain control.

  Once you were as one of my own, came the silent accusation, but the dark war changed that. You turned on me, turned against me, betraying my power to humble me. But I had the last laugh, owning your soul.

  "Do not think of him." Ilya's gentle voice soothed. "You must rest if you are to regain your glory. Later, you can deal with your enemy." Laying aside the cloth, she slid her hand under the sorcerer's neck, lifting, pressing the rim of an engraved silver chalice to his mouth.

  Xavier raised his head and drank deeply of the healing potion: snakeroot to treat the fever and black cohosh, which would act as a relaxant and sedative. Feeling his guts spasm painfully as the bitter liquid hit his empty stomach, he clenched his teeth. A long shudder ripped through him.

  "I will be made well." Again silence, as his emotions became too tightly stretched for speech.

  A fit of unexpected quaking overtook him. His blood turned to icy water, and a long wave of anguish began to ripple through his body. Fighting the mental quagmire of writhing snakes in his head, Xavier concentrated his energies and struggled to center his thoughts. He did not yet want to succumb to a slumber so deep he would barely draw a breath. Gathering strength, he said, "I will have my revenge."

  As his brain wound through the murk of the potent drug, he felt Ilya press her palm to his feverish forehead.

  "You must have a care during this healing time," she warned, her words quiet and calm. She gently laid her cool hand across his swollen throat. "Don't try to speak further. Rest."

  Xavier blanketed her hand with his. His grip tightened, fingers crushing hers. She did not flinch at the pain he inflicted, though her face grew pale.

  "I want Morgan back under my control…" he rasped. "He shall suffer a thousand torments."

  "I pray to the Dragon it will be so."

  Breaking away from his hold, Ilya made a ceremonial bow
, then turned and spread her arms in a wide arc toward the brethren. With her hands she made a certain sign.

  "I call you forth to serve your master, give of yourselves so that he may grow stronger."

  At her command, the worshippers in the chamber rose from their knees. Faces hooded, bodies completely concealed in their dark cloaks, they glided on silent, sandaled feet to surround the altar. Ilya did not join the group. Instead, she stepped aside and stood alone, covering her head with the cowl and concealing her hands in her sleeves.

  Forming an unbroken circle, the members of the brethren placed their hands, palms down, on the sorcerer's body. Their eerie male-female vocalization began anew, intensified, growing louder, pulsing inside the closed tomb with a thundering force. A strange, ragged lightning with no apparent source began to flicker, and a sudden blast of ice-cold air moaned through the chamber. The bolt struck one of the worshippers, enveloping the robed figure in an iridescent field. The fire spread, pale at first, then gaining strength as it grew.

  There came a distant roar as the flames flared, claiming each body but causing no damage, for no heat issued from the otherworldly force that closed the acolytes of Ouroborous inside the unyielding grip of the ritual. Red-orange flames tipped with yellow danced in a hellish harmony. The light burned bright and strong with the aura of power that belonged to a timeless, all-consuming evil.

  "O Drago, is mór an onóir é feidhmiú." O Dragon, it is a great honor to serve…

  Xavier began to draw from the acolytes, feeding off their soul-essences like a parasite sucking away the vital fluids of life. He could feel their strength flow into his mangled form, stimulating him as healing energies fused within the voracious core of his being. A steady cadence, a regular beat that was both sound and light, engulfed him; and he felt as if he were rising, floating. In, around and of every living thing, he did not need eyes to see nor ears to hear nor hands to feel.