He looked at her dead body at his feet, splayed out on her stomach, dark hair spread around her. The pool of blood seeped from beneath her in an ever-increasing circle.
The demon who’d delivered her practically vibrated with glee.
“I found her,” it grunted. If the demon had a tail, it would have been wagging.
“We’ll see.” He wedged his foot beneath her and rolled her onto her back. Her torso was shredded, a victim of the demon's claws.
The coloring was right, the size and age right. Was it her? Crouching, he brushed the hair back from her face.
“Goddamn it!” he roared, rising to his feet, fists clenched. It wasn’t her. Not her face and definitely no magic.
“Not her?” The demon bowed his head, dejected.
“Not her,” he agreed.
He wanted to punch his fist through the demon's chest and tear his heart out for his mistake. Instead, he clenched and released his fingers to curb the anger that pulsed through him.
They were getting closer. He could feel it. For millennia Zachariah had been his target, yet he’d eluded him. For all these years, he’d remained invisible to him, out of reach, untouchable. And all these years he’d searched, the prophecy breathing down his neck. It had to be stopped. For she was the most powerful witch ever created, and her unborn child even more so. She had the power that he needed, the magic that he would steal not only from her but all the witches, and infuse it into his Nephilim army to make them invincible. He had to steal her power before she used it against him. The easiest way to do that? Kill her.
Crossing to the ancient bowl set upon a pedestal, he waved his hand over the black liquid within, a smirk curling his lips as the water rippled. Closing his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath, releasing it as he held both hands above the liquid, feeling the connection, the energy transfer from the black depths to him and back again.
Opening his eyes, he leaned over and peered into the inky darkness, the ripples smoothing away until he could see the image clearly, playing out like a movie.
* * *
Where is she, and how did she get here? Confused, Georgia looks over her shoulder. Nothing. The streetlights are out, and the houses on either side of the road are dark. It’s pitch black, silent, and eerie.
The wind suddenly gusts, blowing her loose hair around her head. She reaches up to brush it out of her eyes, shivering, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.
“Zak!” she calls, startled to hear her own voice echo back at her. Echo? In the middle of a street? What the hell is going on?
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees something and swivels, wincing as the asphalt digs into her bare feet. A mist is rolling in, a big gray wave that appears bigger and bigger, slowly creeping toward her, obscuring everything in its path.
Something tells her the fog is not a good thing.
Turning, she runs, yet she gets nowhere, makes no progress. The street is endless, with no twists or turns, just more straight road ahead of her.
Her feet are stinging, and her heart pumping as she glances over her shoulder. The fog is closer now, almost upon her. Panic spikes, adrenaline fuelling her, she pushes harder.
Must. Get. Away.
Then it’s upon her, the gray surrounds her, swallows her whole, and she staggers to a halt, unable to see a foot in front of her. It’s cold. Deathly cold.
A hand clamps down on her shoulder, and she screams, spinning.
“You’re going the wrong way,” Dainton tells her, his eyes empty, devoid of emotion.
“Dainton? What are you doing here? Where are we? And what do you mean, going the wrong way?” But he’s not looking at her; he’s looking over her head.
She casts a glance over her shoulder, but she can’t see what he’s looking at. What can he see that she can’t?
“Dainton? Come on, you’re scaring me.” He doesn’t answer, just brushes past her, bumping her with his shoulder. She staggers, regains her balance in time to see his back disappear into the fog.
“Dainton! Come back! Wait!” She takes off after him, but he’s gone, swallowed up by the mist. Stopping, she holds her breath, listening. Not a sound. Not even his footsteps.
But now she’s all turned around. He said she was going the wrong way, but which way was that? She couldn’t see a damn thing, and it’s freezing here. Maybe she’d try and find a house, bang on the door until they let her in. They could call Zak to come get her.
Nodding her head, she begins walking again, but nothing changes no matter what direction she tries. The road remains beneath her feet, sharp and painful. She can’t find the sidewalk, let alone a house.
Calling upon her magic, she creates a ball of light, holding it in front of her to illuminate the way.
Then she hears it.
Faint at first. Pausing, she listens. What is that? A whooshing noise. Getting louder. Closer. Is it coming toward her, or is she traveling toward it? She can’t tell.
Her chest tightens panic dancing across her skin. WHOOSH! A giant wing brushes past her face, knocking her backward. She trips and falls, elbows scraping painfully on the bitumen.
“Who’s there?” she demands, crouching, ignoring her stinging elbows.
Someone is playing with her, taunting her, and her fear is slowly being replaced with anger. Do they even know who they’re messing with? She has the power of a thousand witches within her. She’ll singe his sorry feathers until they’re nothing but stumps.
WHACK! A wing clips her across the back of her head, and she tumbles forward, this time her knees taking the brunt. Goddamn it, she’d be grazed all over at this rate!
“Show yourself, coward!” she demands, climbing to her feet, ignoring the trickle of blood she could feel running down her shins. Then she sees it, coming toward her through the mist. Big. Giant. Massive. A being with the most enormous wings she’d ever seen.
She squints. What is that? The shape looks like a man, but it’s dark, she can’t make out his features, but he is twice the size of an average man. What is he? Not angel, too big, too evil, for she could feel it oozing from him in waves, lapping at her, repulsing her. The wings had to span at least twenty feet each, and as he gets closer, he grows larger. A giant.
Turning, she runs. She feels the wind buffet her as he moves his wing, getting ready to strike. If he hits her, she’ll die. She knows it, senses it. So she runs, ignoring her shredded feet, bleeding knees, and elbows. She runs for her life.
“Georgia!” Her cheek stung, and she blinked, sucking in a startled breath.
“Zak?” Confused, she looked up into the face of her fiancé. His dark eyes stared back at her, full of concern. Gently he cupped her cheek, his fingers soothing her stinging flesh, and she sighed.
“What are you doing?” she murmured, thankful to be tucked up warm in bed.
“You were dreaming. I couldn’t wake you, so I slapped you. Sorry.”
“You slapped me!” She sat up, outraged, then saw the blood on the sheets. Throwing the covers off, she looked at her dirty feet: blood smeared everywhere. Her knees and elbows, while healed, were still covered in blood.
“You were hurt. Bleeding. Thrashing about and calling for Dainton.”
“Just a really vivid dream,” she reassured Zak, sliding from the bed. She needed to get cleaned up.
“You don’t bleed in dreams,” he pointed out, climbing out of bed and standing with his hands on his hips.
“No. You don’t,” she agreed. She didn’t know what to tell him. The truth? That some sort of giant creature with massive wings had been trying to kill her? And that Dainton had been there to warn her. “But I’m not exactly normal. I’m sure it’s okay,” she lied, placing a hand on his arm to soothe him.
“Nothing to worry about.”
Of course, he didn’t believe her. The way his brow arched and his head tilted told her that much.
