Death of a Demon (The Dark Angel Wars 3)

I chewed on the inside of my mouth. All the excitement of the last couple days had thrown the box completely from my mind. I remembered the feeling I’d gotten from it. A powerful urge, as if it had been made for me.

“Did you find anything useful?” I asked, swallowing the disappointment that he’d hit another dead end on my situation. After last night, I was hoping for some good news.

“There’s a brief entry in an ancient Aramaic text about something called Psyche's Urn. That’s a rough translation, but I think it might be talking about our artifact.”

My eyebrows knit together. “Psyche's Urn? Doesn’t an urn have ashes of the dead inside it?”

“Sometimes.” The tip of his tongue traced his teeth. “But I think in this case, it’s more of a powerful storage container than anything else.”

The fact that there might be the creepy remains of some dead person in the box I’d toted around for several hours made me feel

somewhat nauseated. Hopefully, Luke was right.

“Does it do anything?”

He sighed. “Not as far as I know, but I’m taking every precaution in my observations. We don’t want a dangerous situation on our hands.”

“That’s too bad.” I shrugged and pursed my lips. “I was hoping it trapped demons or something useful like that. That priest seemed pretty intent on using it to save his friend. I wonder how he got it.”

“That’s the mystery.” Luke blinked, his eyelids heavy. “But if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to have a lie down for a short while. My bed is calling to me.”

I laughed and waved him on. “Get some sleep for the both of us. I’m going for a walk. The fresh air is calling my name.”

He nodded gratefully and continued up the stairs. I found myself out on the lawn in no time, drifting across the wet grass and gazing up at the pink, soft glow of the morning sun. A few Nephilim were out and about, mostly the foreign researchers Luke had recruited, still on their home time. I spotted a few headed into the training facility.

Not in the mood to visit with a stranger, I took a sharp right and headed toward the stables. It had been too long since I’d visited Reba, the spirited mare who seemed to only behave when I rode her. The stables were warm and smelled of hay and alfalfa. I inhaled the strong, comforting scent and strode toward Reba’s stall.

The dappled gray horse was pacing in her stall, swinging her head from side to side. As soon as she caught sight of me, she nickered and snorted, coming forward to search my hands for treats.

“Sorry, girl. Didn’t think to bring anything,” I said, stroking her forelock.

She grunted, pushing against my chest.

“Here,” a gruff voice said behind me.

I turned to find Laramie, one of the few humans who lived at the manor. She was holding an apple in her hand. With a swift jerk of her wrist, she tossed it my way.

“Thanks.”

I turned to feed it to Reba. She snatched it from my hand and then walked away with an ungrateful twitch of her long dark tail.

“The stable’s been quiet with all the teams out demon hunting,” Laramie said, pulling a broom off a wall. “I’ll be glad when it’s over. The horses are getting antsy without the exercise.”

“Sorry we’ve been neglecting you,” I said, taking another broom off the wall to join her in sweeping the concrete floor. “It’s been crazy.”

“I understand.”

She straightened her spine and stretched to her highest height, which wasn’t much compared to the Nephilim around here who all towered above six foot tall. Laramie had to be only about five foot and thick around the waste. She had an extra chin and thick wrists, short curly brown hair and small flashing eyes. But none of that kept her from wrangling some of the most spirited horses I’d ever seen. She kept a tight ship, allowing the Nephilim to train their horses for battle.

“I’m surprised to see you up and about at this hour,” she said, swinging her broom with ease. “Something on your mind?”

A heavy sigh left my lips. Not only was Laramie the absolutely best stable manager, but she had a way of taking on the roll as my personal therapist. She was blunt and to the point. I could expect honesty from her. It was a refreshing trait.

“Too much to mention,” I replied.

Most days, I would’ve spilled my guts to her. But today, I just needed a distraction from reality.

“I see.” She dug in her pocket for a handful of oats and fed it to a bay sticking its head out of the nearest stall. Running her hand up his nose, she smiled to herself. “Did you know that today begins my fifteenth year at Westward Manor?”