Assassin: Fall of the Golden Valefar
Page 2

The peace shattered as Julia’s body went still. The blood flowing from her wounds ceased. She did not breathe. The life was sucked out of her, destroyed by the brimstone. Eric didn’t turn her into a Valefar. As much fun as that would be, he didn’t want Ivy to know what he did. Not yet.
Eric lifted a small vial out of his pocket, and uncorked the top. Holding it over Julia’s charred body, he let one drop of crystal clear liquid fall. The drop floated down, as if it were a feather, and landed on her chest. The droplet hissed before combusting into flames. The air filled with the scent of jasmine, sulfur, and burnt flesh until a gust of wind whisked it away.
The only trace of Julia’s death were golden scorch marks on the ground. They formed a perfect silhouette of her body, encompassing every detail, even the strands of her hair. He stared, feeling neither relieved nor elated. Eric didn’t expect to revel in this moment, and he knew better than lingering about. There was nothing to gloat about. Julia was right about some things. He was an abomination—a being with no race, a cruel creature that only felt good when others were in agony. He pressed his lips together and walked away.
CHAPTER TWO
Eric pulled his dark hood up to obscure his face. After assassinating the leader of the Martis, he knew that their guard would turn the city inside out looking for him. With Rome the way it was, burned with entire sections torn apart so that a person couldn’t even walk down the street, he knew they would never find him. There was no reason for him to leave the city.
Only a few short years passed since the night the gates of Hell burst open and Kreturus, King of the Underworld, tore this land apart. It didn’t matter that Ivy, the object of his desire, was not in the cities he destroyed. At first, Eric had thought that the damage was isolated to the eastern coast of the United States. He’d been there when the demon king arrived, slaughtering to his heart’s content. But, the damage was not contained to one region or one country. It was everywhere, a worldwide epidemic, an apocalypse the survivors only whisper of. Speaking of it would only draw attention to the horror surrounding them.
The humans preferred to act as if nothing happened, even though there was much evidence to suggest otherwise. Entire sections of once thriving cities had burned and crumbled. They remained in disrepair, without electricity, shrouded in darkness. Each city was the same—New York, Paris, Rome, Los Angeles, London—each metropolis failed to mend, failed to heal. Survivors wandered the streets with fear in their eyes. It was not the daunting task of rebuilding that frightened them. It was the gut-wrenching nightmares that woke them in the dead of night leaving them covered in cold sweat. They left their cities in shambles because they didn’t believe the war was over.
People were constantly on edge, glancing over their shoulders waiting for the next attack. He couldn’t blame them, either. Eric had lived through countless wars. He understood the fear in their eyes. The rubble he walked through now was a burial ground. It marked the lives lost, the absolute decimation of humanity and their inability to fight back.
Remembering that night, Eric pushed his hair back, eyes narrowing—watching—always watching. The Valefar were everywhere. When Ivy killed the king, her reign began rather reluctantly, but as the years passed she found her way. The Valefar had been permitted to remain as they were, but were forbidden from killing those who did not deserve it. A twisted smile lined his lips. Although Ivy was their Queen, she was not one of them. She did not think like the soul-sucking Valefar. They rationalized their actions, carefully at first as to not draw the attention of the Queen, but over time, they had grown careless. The Valefar returned to their old ways, killing for pleasure, stripping away pure souls because it suited them.
The Martis should have slaughtered the Valefar, but they failed to notice. They failed to do anything. Unlike before, the humans with angel blood flowing through their veins remained silent, hidden. It was as if they were waiting for something, plotting their next move. Silence was not a good thing.
Eric shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked, golden eyes searching the abandoned storefronts for signs of life. This section of Rome was the first to burn. The emergency services came with all their trucks and tried to stop it, so some buildings still stood, charred with great black stripes of soot clinging to formerly pale walls.
The sun beat down. Eric wiped beads of sweat from his brow. He knew where he was headed. The broken glass, burned wood, and busted-up road were warning signs for people of a more peaceful disposition to stay away, but Eric wasn’t like that. His black boots crushed the rubble under his feet. A few others moved quickly, darting in and out of abandoned buildings. They were no threat to him. Eric kept his head down and kept walking, passing landmarks and art all blasted to bits.
A chill washed over him, despite the balmy temperature. Eric glanced behind him without turning around. Looking into a piece of cracked glass on the side mirror of an abandoned car, he could see a lone figure, small and demure, in the distance. He didn’t change his pace or alert the figure that he was aware of their presence. Eric continued to walk, but altered his path. If he was being followed, he didn’t want anyone to find out where he was going. Turning sharply, he moved down an ancient alleyway. The steps that rose to connect this street with the upper one were smashed to bits. The buildings leaned close together, nearly blocking the path. It looked as if they could fall at any moment. Eric bounded up the stairs, jumping over the rubble. The path twisted and turned until he was out in the open. He glanced over his shoulder. The small figure that was trailing him was gone. Eric wanted to effonate, but he still felt eyes on him, so he didn’t. He didn’t want to reveal his true nature, and effonating would do just that.
Eric continued walking until he reached the back of an old tavern. A fallen statue crushed the front entrance to the bar, making it impassable, but the back entrance off the alley was still intact and still in use. Eric pushed through the door and walked to the bar. The room was dark, the way it was before the demons attempted to take over. Since then, people were afraid of the dark. Somehow, they thought light would keep them safe if the demons came back.
Survivors still didn’t understand what happened the night the gates of Hell swung open. They ascribed all sorts of theories as to what occurred, but none were correct. None supposed an ancient demon, hell-bent on leaving the Underworld and taking over this one, broke free to massacre the angels and conquer their realm. No one thought such things were true, even after seeing demons with their own eyes. They chose to create other explanations, things that they could fathom—explanations that didn’t contradict their beliefs.
Eric leaned heavily on the bar, before sitting on an old stool. Reaching up, he pushed his hood back. The barkeep nodded at him once, and slid him clear liquid in a small glass. Eric reached out and grabbed it before it went flying off the end of the bar. It would do little for him. Eric already knew that, but the liquor in that tiny cup still burned as it slid down his throat. If he drank it fast enough, he could feel a little of the alcohol’s effects, but that was all. There was no way to lose himself in the bottom of a bottle. Besides, he wasn’t here for the alcohol this time. It was a cover, a guise to check in on something—someone.
A few lanterns flickered in the dark room. Electricity was never fully restored to this section of the city. Eric nodded at the bartender, who kept his distance. Smart man. Out of the corner of his eye, Eric could see two men talking at the other end of the room. They were nursing drinks, as they spoke in whispers. Their hushed voices wouldn’t have been heard by mortal ears, but Eric wasn’t mortal.
The round man had stubble on his jowls and his back was ramrod straight. Gripping his mug so tightly that his hands shook, he leaned closer, whispering, “That’s what they said. At least that’s the way I heard it. Crazy, right?” His copious eyebrows inched up to accentuate his point.
His companion was dressed to be forgotten. He looked like everyone and no one at all. There was nothing unique about him, but Eric had seen him before. People like that needed to be watched closer. The man nodded once, slowly, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. “Yeah, that’s…” he shook his head, looking side to side, and then back at the fat man, “No bodies? Nothing?”
The first man shook his head, “Nothing. There was nothing at all, except a bunch of burn marks. That’s why no one’s out today.” He gestured to the street, his hands moving slowly to not attract attention. The room was filled with other men, having similar conversations. Eric heard every word. The man continued, “They’re all hiding, waiting to see what happens. And it wasn’t just us this time.”
“What do you mean?” he glanced around, leaning in closer, hushing his voice. Eric recognized the tightness of his voice, the hesitation to speak. Saying the wrong thing when times were filled with turmoil was like dropping a spark on a pile of tinder.
The fat man’s eyes narrowed, “Russia, England, and France. All of them. And every single one—didn’t matter what kind of guard they had—they all died the same way.”
His companion sat back hard in the booth, his face pale, staring blankly.
Eric’s jaw tightened as he took in the information. His ears burned like he could sense that something larger was at hand, but he didn’t realize how closely at hand it was.
A pretty brunette snapped him out of his thoughts. The girl didn’t seem to be much older than he appeared—eighteen, maybe twenty. She had generous curves on her tall frame, with hips that melted into a pair of perfect legs. Her long, dark hair was tied in a knot on the back of her head. Several strands had pulled free, which were tucked behind her ear. The clothing she wore clung to her body, accentuating every curve. She didn’t move like she was aware of the perfection of her body, although she didn’t try to hide it either.
The girl sat down hard next to him. A tiny cup came flying down the top of the bar. She plucked it up before it flew off the end, and knocked back the contents. Slamming it down on the bar top, she turned to Eric, “Where the hell have you been?” Her eyes were blue, cold and lifeless—haunted, like his.
Eric was leaning over the bar with his head in his hands, pretending to ignore her. “What do you want, Natalia?” Eric snapped, intentionally mean. He was aware of his curse, of what it would do to her if she got to close to him. He was never making that mistake again.
She grabbed his shoulder, and turned him toward her. Eric’s eyebrow shot up, surprised she had the guts to shove him. Her pink lips smoothed into a flat line. She hissed, “Don’t talk to me like that. For three years, I’ve known where you were, and we’ve helped each other out, and then you disappear without warning.”
She released him, seething, angry and relieved at the same time. It would have been three years wasted, had she lost track of Eric. He had a way of falling off the grid and totally disappearing. This time, no matter how hard she tried to locate him, he was simply gone. Waiting, befriending him like this, was a risk, but she needed more time.