Descent of Demons Read online

  Gaining entrance through a rear door, he walked slowly down shadowy hallways, brushing aside spider webs to enter the dining hall. It had been stripped of all furnishings except the rectangular table that had, in the past, served as many as fifty-two people. Its top was littered with the carcasses of small fowl and other beasties. Silver goblets once flowing with wine now were empty, containing only dust and the memories of a bygone era.

  Others had come, but they had not remained. Few wanted to claim a land that was close to becoming inhabitable.

  He went on, making his way through the maze, until he came to a great stone foyer. Here, he confronted the lions from outside. The great beasts glared down on him, threatening and malevolent. They guarded the front door, locked by a huge plank held firmly in place by iron staples on both sides. He had already been aware there would be no hope of getting it open from outside.

  He continued onward to the place where it was waiting for him. Opening a door at the foot of the staircase, he stepped over the threshold. He paused, feeling the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Yes, it was present. As it always had been. Waiting. As he knew it would be.

  "I know you are here," he whispered. "Show yourself."

  Almost immediately, steady radiance sprang up around him, tiny flickering golden flames that hovered in midair, chasing away the darkness of the chamber. The flames gave no heat, only light. A smile turned up the corners of his lips. He was not the source of the light.

  But he knew what was.

  This was its domain, the place in which he had trapped his ci'biote when he'd separated from it. Far from being inactive, it continued to exist in this stone prison, a thing still animate in this place of decay.

  "It has been a long time," he said aloud, as though speaking to a visible thing when in reality there was nothing tangible to be seen by the naked eye. He searched every nook and cranny of the chamber as if trying to memorize the smallest detail.

  The den was the only room in the huge old Basque castle that was paneled in wood, an innovative bit of carpentry for the medieval time in which it had been constructed. Chairs and a single divan were covered with beautifully woven Irish linen, decorated with bursts of Celtic needlework depicting pagan symbols. Thick hand-woven carpets lavishly covered most of the stone floor, and exquisitely crafted tables matched the furniture in elegance as well as usefulness. All but one table held silver candelabra with unlit white candles.

  Positioned on a stand between two of the chairs sat a chessboard carved from dark Spanish oak. Chessmen cut from black ebony and white ivory were fashioned in the images of the Grim Reaper and an Archangel, the pieces poised for the game of war.

  Shelves lined with old manuscripts and exotic curios, collected over centuries, populated two and a half of the den's five walls. The fourth and widest wall had a fireplace hewn deep into the gray stone, overhung by an elegant black marble mantle. A black wrought-iron screen, held in the paws of two iron lions, hedged the hearth.

  The fifth wall of the den supported the staircase to an open mezzanine surrounding the room. A four-foot iron rail insured occupants against a nasty fall.

  Tucked under the staircase was a recess that housed a bar, an obvious afterthought to fill space. More than a haven for well-aged whiskey, the bar served as a reference point. At its end was a concealed entrance to the catacombs under the sanctuary.

  Ascending the stairs, Morgan walked to the center of the room. As he moved, the mysterious dancing flames moved with him, jumping from candle to candle, lighting the wicks. The last flew into the hearth, spreading out across the dry wood stacked there. Now that it was well-illuminated, he could see the den had been no less bitten by time's spoilage than the rest of the castle. Cobwebs covered the ceiling and most of the furniture. The silver was tarnished. A heavy layer of dust coated every item, dulling the workmanship of craftsmen long dead. Everything was still in its place, exactly as he had left it. It was with no joy that he was returning. Coming back was not a victory, but a defeat.

  This damned place has my blood embedded in its very stone. And it was alive, abounding with the sins committed inside its walls. Fillean meal ar an meallaire. Evil returns to the evildoer. Never were words more apt.

  Depression all at once surged through him like an angry bull, feeding his self-hatred. A red haze colored his thoughts, spreading through his mind. Sorrow was a hole in his soul; it was deep, black, cold--a consuming thing of sheer malevolence. Regret was a fever, crawling through his veins and throbbing in his cranium like a pulsing fire, the emotional pain progressing past the physical and going straight into the core of his being. He wanted to deny he had feelings, needs, but in this instance he could not. For the second time in his life, he had let a woman get to him.

  The first had been Nisidia.

  The second was Julienne Blackthorne.

  Two women. Both tied to him in blood, both entangled in the sins that would forever taint his past and curse his future. Two women who had to die because he'd made a grievous mistake.

  He lifted his left hand. On his third finger glinted an engraved circlet of gold. Here was the selfish reason he had returned--to reclaim the soul of the unborn child sired between himself and Nisidia. In repossessing it, he'd also taken back a piece of himself, a bit of the soul he had lost. He was finally his own master after two hundred and fifty years.

  The accursed thing seemed to wink evilly, burning into his skin.

  Like all curses, it comes with strings attached, he thought. Like a millstone around my neck, I will be saddled with it unto the end of my days. He did not want to possess the damned ring, but if it fell out of his keeping he would again be obligated to serve whoever held it against him. Moreover, if he were to pass beyond the physical without possessing it, he would be trapped, neither truly dead nor alive, a specter wandering between worlds. That was the true hell of Xavier's spell. Not even death offered escape. But, then again, neither had exile. That had only delayed the inevitable.

  Even though I am free, there is no walking away. Always, I am bound to be something I do not wish to be.

  Taking the ring off, he balanced it between two fingers and lifted it to study the intricate engraving scored into the surface of the delicate gold. To possess it was a bitter victory. The price paid was too high.

  I have lost the only mate I have ever taken. It glinted in the hard firelight, mocking him. What he had fought to regain, his soul, now meant nothing to him.

  "Is this what you are waiting for?" he snarled. "Your freedom?" He was not sure whom he was addressing. Himself? Or the silent but potent entity that waited in the shadows.

  "You wanted it," he continued in a harsh voice he hardly recognized as his own. "Coveted it--sacrificed lives and souls…" He closed his fingers over the ring. "Now that you have it, what will you do?"

  As if in reply the hidden door opened behind him, a section of the wall sliding inward on silent hinges to expose a gaping maw of darkness.

  Sensing more than hearing it, he turned. The open door. It was all he saw, all his fogged mind could concentrate on. He felt his blood pressure drop, the air in his lungs becoming a deep, heavy weight in his chest, a crushing sensation. He felt dazed and sick, but more than that he felt the true emptiness of his entire existence since he had turned from the occult. He felt a wild impulse to burst into loud, hysterical laughter. His mouth moved a little as he struggled with strong emotions, but he forced himself to keep silent.

  Wanting to turn away, yet knowing he could not, he walked on leaden feet toward the opening. Stopping suddenly, he leaned forward, hands gripping each side of the door's frame as if trying to keep the maw from dragging him inside. He could not fail to be affected by the atmosphere the sepulcher below spewed forth. Its aura seethed with tenebrous secrets. Was he imagining it, or had the drone just beyond the edge of his hearing turned into voices? Calling him, mocking him, daring him to return to the depths that had spawned him.

  Come back, they called.
>
  Sinking to his knees, struggling to resist the voices, he closed his eyes, trying to suppress the tremor passing through his body. It never entirely left me, he thought. It is a thing I cannot escape, for it is a part of me, an inborn part of me. However much I have wanted to deny it, I can never escape it. Yet neither can I completely accept it and survive.

  Hear me, the voices repeated, their drone becoming a chant that echoed oddly, half in his ears, half in his mind.

  As if gripped by the static fingers of a nightmare, he could not shut them out. His breath caught. His eyes closed, awareness stretched taut.

  "I knew you would not let me go," he intoned softly. He wished they would cease, but instead they grew stronger, louder.

  You have no choice, the voices whispered in a reverberating unison that filled his skull. Legacy will not be denied. Blood will not be denied.

  Unable to listen any longer, he pushed away from the tunnel's mouth, settling down on the floor, his back to the wall. It was as far as he could go. Brow drawing down in a scowl, he ran his hands through his disheveled hair, then clenched them into tight fists. Though he did not will it so, his mind turned toward the magical forces he had forsaken.

  Not for the first time he considered that his greatest mistake had been not in accepting it, but in denying it. None of this would have happened if he had been stronger. Instead, he had been weak, and in that weakness he had allowed the dark wars to rage on when he had once held the key to preserve the balance.

  Feeling his disintegration, he bowed his head and massaged the ache in his temples. Was he losing his mind? Gritting his teeth, he shook his head, struggling for control.

  "I deny thee," he grated in a voice barely above a whisper. "You have haunted me with your temptations since I cast you away. I know what you are--the darkness in my heart, the shadow on my soul. I will not hear you. I will not again be your instrument of death."

  The voices from below receded once more into a low drone, but they continued to call, a low mournful wail that carried the sorrow of abandonment. Even with his eyes closed, his mind engaged in denial, he could still hear the unbroken howl.

  Gripped in his own inner torment, he did not immediately notice a figure slip into the chamber; steal stealthily down the staircase, until it was too late. Because there was no longer a circle of protection around his sanctuary, anyone could enter and anyone could do harm.

  Morgan shook his head and sighed, making an inward effort to fight the pain in his body. He needed time for rest, for regeneration, but doubted his enemies would grant it. They would strike when he was at his weakest.

  He rubbed his eyes to clear his vision so he could better see the approaching figure. He did not bother to get up, draw a weapon. He didn't feel like fighting. Heavy with weariness and lassitude, he didn't even feel like standing. He mentally sized up the man.

  Azoroath, his mind filled in. A priest of the lower-caste adepts--and a skilled warrior. It had not taken long for Xavier's mercenaries to come crawling out of the woodwork.

  "Azoroath." He offered a brief nod. At the moment, it was about all he could do.

  The tall being proceeded, crossing the space that seemed suddenly smaller for his presence. Shadows aped his movements upon the walls, a dark army ready to act at his summoning. Azoroath wrinkled his nose in disdain.

  "How predictable of you to return to the ruins of your past, this place that used to offer you sanctuary."

  Morgan shrugged. He set his mouth into a tight thin line. Conversation was not on his list of things to do at the moment.

  Azoroath continued his taunt, his speech rough and curt. "Looks like you came crawling back here to lick your wounds. It seems to my eyes you are hardly the invincible lord of death anymore." He laughed, short and curt. "But then, you never were. Xavier found your weaknesses, played on them, bringing one of the gods to the ground."

  "I never claimed to be a god," Morgan finally said, shifting his body, trying to find a more comfortable position--impossible given the hard stone beneath him.

  "Yes, I remember. You always fall prey to your human side, to the frailties of the flesh. That mortal blood in you can have little use, yet you allow it to cripple you." Azoroath's analytical expression betrayed no compassion, only distaste. He made a brief gesture with his hands. "You still skulk in the shadows amid the remains. Why? I ask myself. Why did a being of such power choose to waste it?"

  "The tholtanagh, the ruin, suits my mood," Morgan bit off. "But surely that cannot be why you came here, to remind me of my failures."

  Azoroath stopped his round-the-room transit. His tall, heavy-set figure cast a long shadow.

  "I call them as I see them." A sly look sidled into his eyes, and he prodded with his booted foot, a gesture of disdain and contempt. He hunkered down; no hint of compassion hovered behind his pink stare.

  "If you do not care for it, then ersooyl lhiat. Go away!"

  "You know why I have come," Azoroath answered, his features perceptibly altering to utter seriousness. All derision aside, there was reason behind his presence.

  "To avenge the humiliating blow I have dealt your master?" Morgan opened his hand to show what he held. "And for this--" He deliberately slid the ring back onto his finger. "You can have it if you can kill me." He reached toward the dagger sheathed in his left boot. "If you think I am entirely helpless, think again."

  His accented voice had become low, menacing. A man with nothing to lose had the advantage.

  Azoroath's gaze flicked over the ring. The hint of a smile seemed to linger across his arid lips a moment longer than necessary. He was toying with his prey the way a cat would a wounded bird. He knew he had the advantage. He knew he had the time. He certainly knew he had the intent to kill.

  "I have no need of it because I have not come to mete out Xavier's revenge." He lifted his arms in a reverent gesture. "It is the opposite; to show you his mercy, that he can forgive. The blow you dealt him was a minor one. You should know that as long as we are willing to feed him our lives and souls he is eternal."

  "Xavier's mercy?" Morgan repeated with a derisive snort. "How generous, but I am not impressed."

  "Believe it or not." Azoroath made a motion of appeasement. He spread his large hands wide, palms up. "I came to try and speak sense to you. I draw no weapon, to show my words are true. That I came alone is further proof. You don't know what has occurred since you left."

  There was a long and faintly uneasy silence.

  "Say what you will, then." Morgan let his hand drop. This day may yet bring my end. The idea did not alarm him. Instead, it offered great relief, an easy escape from the guilt, from the voices harrying him. His life was gyn feeuid--worthless--of no value except to those who would take it.

  Azoroath inclined his head in a condescending manner. "When the heavens went out of alignment, it wreaked great havoc upon our realm. Forces are shifting that affect us all. Our ways, our very world, is in danger of becoming extinct. Look around. Sclyd is ravaged, growing more barren with each passing year. We need mortal resources to replenish ours, their people for mating."

  "And sacrifice. Let us not forget how hungry Ouroborous is for souls."

  Azoroath ignored him, saying emphatically, "Since the parting, their world has changed in ways we do not understand…"

  "…and I know their ways," Morgan finished.

  Now he knew why Azoroath had come, and what they wanted from him. For all the illusions that could be conjured, there were many things magic could not do, such as weave cloth upon the loom to make clothing or grow food to fill the bellies of those dependent on physical needs. Someone had to do the common work, till the fields, harvest crops.

  Much worse, though, the human populace settled in Sclyd was beginning to suffer from a devastating sterility, unable to reproduce. The gene pool of pureblooded humans desperately needed replenishing, and for an immortal to engender an heir, a mortal mate was needed.

  "You've spent a long time on their side."

>   "I will not serve the legion's cause," he breathed out, "by helping them take down the faase ainmhidh, the weaker animal."

  Azoroath made a ritual gesture, tucking his two middle fingers under his thumb, extending his index and last finger before turning his hand down. "You give no thought to your answers."

  Morgan recognized the gesture. He was ddeyrit gy baase, under the sentence of death. He glanced toward the gaping mouth of the catacombs. He closed his eyes, but only briefly. In his brain, a fierce struggle raged, the desire to escape completely fighting the pull of voices only he could hear. There would be no escape. Even if he took his run back into the mortal realm, he would not for very long be able to dodge the assassins who would come after him.

  Jaw tightening, he hardened his resolve.

  "You are wrong," he finally said. "I give every thought to them."

  Scowling, Azoroath lifted his hand in a sharp gesture.

  "Then you give no choices." His resonant voice rang loud, his thin lips curling into a harsh frown, eyes narrowing in accusation. "If you won't stand with us, then you are against us."

  "I always have been." He released a brief, bitter laugh, wishing the dull thud in his head would cease. He was tired. His nerves were frayed. And the migraine was getting worse, pain overcoming sense. The demon in his mind drew out its whip, lashing viciously into the soft tissue of his brain. His tormentor was relentless, bending his brain into new shapes with cruel hands.

  "I expected more of you," Azoroath said. "You've been away a long, long time. The politics of our world is altering. Even now, there is peace between the legion and the witches' council."

  "And they were wrong to agree to an alliance. What they believe might preserve Sclyd will destroy it."

  Azoroath's eyes turned icy with offense. "Xavier has given you the opportunity to redeem yourself, and you have refused. It truly is the mortal half that makes you weak. Living among them, taking one as a mate, has twisted your thinking."