Darkness Hunts (Dark Angels 4)

I closed my eyes and imagined myself standing next to him. Though there was little sensation of movement, I suddenly found myself at the far end of the beach. Taylor’s footprints marred the white sand, but Taylor himself was nowhere to be seen.

I frowned and half turned, my gaze searching the emptiness around me. There was nothing—nothing except the sensation of air recoiling. It wasn’t from Taylor, but rather from something else. Something that was approaching really fast.

Then I remembered that Taylor could alter the way I saw the astral plane.

I ducked and flung Amaya upward. She connected with something so hard the force of it reverberated down my arm and made imaginary teeth rattle.

White ash, she screamed. Hate!

White ash was used by witches to repel all manner of darkness, demons included—which meant that Taylor knew what my sword was.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I dropped her away from the invisible ash staff and scrambled backward. Taylor laughed, an eerie sound that came out of the emptiness surrounding me.

I didn’t bother hanging around to see what he was going to do next, but lunged forward, using the tremor of recoiling air as a guide as I attempted to slice him in half. Azriel might have said it wasn’t actually possible to do that on this level of the astral plane, but I had hurt him last time I’d called Amaya into action, so it was worth a shot.

It was a shot that proved futile, because her blade hit nothing but air. I paused, Amaya held at the ready, my gaze searching the immediate area as I tried yet again to pinpoint his position.

And in doing so, I realized the beach was different. It was fading. Or rather, a fog was devouring it—the same sort of fog that had greeted me when I’d first stepped onto the plane. But why? What advantage did it give him when I couldn’t see him now under the fierce sunshine I’d imagined?

The thought died as awareness prickled my skin.

He was behind me.

I raised Amaya and spun around. Caught a glimpse of Taylor’s wickedly pointed staff swooping toward me before the fog whisked him from sight. I lunged forward, under his blow, attempting to skewer him with Amaya’s point. Once again I stabbed nothing but air. I swore and caught my balance. Felt the wash of movement against my skin and jumped back.

But nowhere near fast enough.

Taylor’s staff whacked my left arm with such force that it knocked me sideways. The pain of the blow reverberated through every fiber, as sharp and as real as if I was wearing flesh. Warm stickiness flowed from the impact point and I glanced down quickly. There was no blood, no indication that I’d even been hit, nor should there have been since I wasn’t here physically.

And yet the blood still flowed.

Imagination, I reminded myself fiercely. He was playing with my mind.

The fog crept over the remnants of my beach, obliterating it completely. Again I had to wonder why. Was it something to do with his blindness in real life? Did he think the fog gave him some advantage over me? It wasn’t as if he didn’t already have enough of those—The thought stopped as I suddenly realized what he was doing.>I peered around him. “How can you tell?” They looked exactly the same to me as all the other tiles.

“The edge is fractionally raised. The trap waits above.”

I glanced up. The trap was four rows of long, wickedly pointed metal stakes. They might not kill a vampire—only wooden stakes to the heart or decapitation could really do that—but they would still make a goddamn mess. “This is no seat-of-the-pants trap. He’s been planning this for some time.”

“From the moment you clashed on the astral plane, I would suggest.”

He stepped over the tiles, then offered me his hand. I accepted it gratefully. Four rows of tiles might not be much of a leap, but if I became unbalanced and fell backward into one, I’d be dead. Those stakes would kill me.

We continued moving forward carefully, but there were no more traps and we were soon by Rhoan’s side. Markel motioned me to remain where I was and knelt beside Rhoan. I flexed my fingers, fighting the urge to drop down, press my hands against his pale, still body, and feel the life within him even though I could clearly see he was breathing.

It seemed to take forever for Markel to pat Rhoan down, but eventually he glanced up and gave me a nod.

I dropped down beside Rhoan and touched a hand to his cheek. It was clammy and cold, and though he was definitely breathing, it was becoming labored. That could only mean the hemlock was beginning to fully kick in.

I glanced up. Markel regarded me steadily. It was oddly unnerving. “If we don’t get him to hospital soon, he’ll die.”

He must not die tonight, Azriel said. No reaper waits.

And that meant he’d be one of the lost ones if we couldn’t save him. I closed my eyes and fought the rush of panic. It wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t.

I reached across his body and gripped Markel’s arm. “Get him to that ambulance,” I said fiercely. “Make sure they know he’s been injected with hemlock. And be careful, because I wouldn’t put it past Taylor to have some sort of backup attack on the off chance I did decide to save Rhoan’s life rather than protect myself.”