Brimstone Bride. Barbara J. Hancock
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Chapter 2
Few people had gotten close enough to see his scars.
Adam Turov sat with his chest facing the back of a wooden chair. He gripped the polished cherry slats with white knuckles, but he didn’t flinch as he hunched his bare back for Dr. Verenich. The Brimstone in his blood wasn’t always enough to heal the injuries he sustained hunting devils with no care for how much human blood they spilled.
“Live for a century, learn for a century,” the doctor murmured under his breath as he plied needle and thread to close the dagger slash too severe to knit itself. “I have learned to use specially constructed thread in your treatment, shef. And yet you have not learned to avoid daemon-cursed blades.”
“Without effort, you won’t pull fish from a pond,” Adam said. He could fight the doctor saying for saying. He’d learned all his Russian idioms firsthand before the Revolution.
“So, no pain, no gain?” The doctor chuckled grimly as he worked on the man he still referred to as his boss as his father had before him, even though Adam Turov had also become his friend. Gloves protected his hands from Brimstone’s burn, but every now and then they’d sizzle and hiss, and smoke would rise into the air as he pierced Adam’s skin with his needle and fireproof thread. “I’ll tell you what you have gained, my friend...” He urged Adam to turn his back toward an antique mirror with a gilded frame. It was Tsarist, of course. The Turov family had brought a king’s ransom to California during the Revolution. They survived by adapting, persevering. They had worked through the darkest hours. Sweat and blood had replaced diamonds and tiaras.
Reflected in the mirror, Adam Turov didn’t look a day over thirty, even after a life-threatening battle with evil monks from the Order of Samuel and their Rogue daemon allies. On a good day, in fine clothes, he would seem even younger. Too young to successfully run the oldest winery in Sonoma, California.
“Wings. Over all these years, you’ve developed a macabre pair of wings,” the doctor said.
Adam could see them. The scarifications the doctor pointed out by gesturing in the air above them. The tracery of scars swept down his back on both sides like folded wings. The irony caused a grim smile to curve his lips. There. That expression was older. Much more in keeping with his actual age.
“A dark angel indeed, Doctor,” he said.
He could remember the initial beatings with a lash that had begun the “wings.” And later, every hack and slash. Every stitch. Every battle. He could remember the face of every monk he’d delivered to hell. None of the monks in his memory were the one that most haunted him. Not yet. Father Malachi had wielded the lash with enthusiasm. The younger the novitiate, the better. The Order purported to be the last line of defense between hell and Earth, but they lied. In truth, the faction of Rogue daemons that wanted to overthrow Lucifer’s Army and wage war on heaven had corrupted them. The Order of Samuel wasn’t holy. They were as damned as he was.
He liked to think he escorted them to their just ends, one monk at a time. He might never reclaim the soul he’d sold, but he could face his own damnation one day if he delivered every single monk to hell before him.
“No, not an angel. You are more like the legendary firebird caught in a greedy prince’s golden cage,” the doctor said. “You will insist on attending the party, I’m sure. Movement will cause great pain. That was a deep wound. You should rest. Heal.”
The doctor was already wiping Brimstone blood and ash from Adam’s lean, muscled back in preparation for the evening suit that waited across the foot of his bed. It was a disguise. He used the expensive, tailored clothes and the carefully cultivated sophistication of a vintner to hide his true warrior’s nature.
But he’d been hiding it for so long that his disguise came naturally to him now. He ran the Nightingale Vineyards as easily as he battled evil monks.
“I prefer the nightingale to the firebird, Doctor. The firebird was my mother’s favorite. I named our best pinot noir in her honor. There’s nothing golden about me. I’m far too dark for that comparison,” Adam said.
“Ah, but you’re forgetting how the prince was cursed by the firebird for his greed. Capturing the firebird was a mistake. It proved deadly. A dark enough tale, indeed,” the doctor said.
“Nothing heals more than movement,” Adam said, dismissing the fanciful talk. He rolled his shoulders to illustrate. The doctor hissed, but Adam ignored the agony that flared outward from his damaged skin. “We must keep moving forward.”
He’d been damaged for a long time. Agony was a familiar friend.
He’d been nine when the Order had stolen him from his family. He’d been infinitely older when he’d escaped. In experience if not in years.
“Victoria D’Arcy is arriving tonight. That’s why I completed a sweep. To clear the area so I could focus on her,” Adam said.
The doctor busied himself, cleaning his instruments and packing his case while Adam dressed. His bag resembled a traditional black leather satchel, but it held the instruments necessary to be the private physician to a powerful man who’d sold his soul a hundred years ago. Dr. Verenich was the second-generation descendant of a physician who had followed the Turov family to America.
“You must protect her?” the doctor asked.
“Those are my orders. I haven’t decided if I’ll be able to follow them,” Adam said. She’d been hunted by the Order of Samuel. They were her enemy, but she was their pawn. She wasn’t coming to the Turov estate as his friend. Adam had been kidnapped, beaten, tortured, programmed to become a daemon slayer so that he could be used by Rogue daemons to overthrow Lucifer. But it had been a Loyalist daemon that had saved him. And it was the new Loyalist king that he now served.
A daemon that claimed Victoria D’Arcy as his stepchild.
He’d been warned by the daemon king that the Order of Samuel was sending Victoria to infiltrate Nightingale Vineyards and uncover his secrets.
The woman he welcomed tonight might well be the most dangerous threat he’d ever faced. He was supposed to help her even as she planned to betray him.
* * *
She was afraid. Fear always made her angry. She rebelled against it. How many times had she stood on an opera house stage bathed in light and draped in a character’s costume—completely armored in powder, wig and an imaginary persona—to sing out in protest against her plight? She had fallen in love with a daemon. She’d gone against the Order of Samuel. She had survived. The father of her baby hadn’t. The Order had killed him. She’d barely lived. For their baby.
Everything had changed when Michael was born. She was no longer a rebel. She was a mother. Now she had to be cautious for two.
Tonight, as she hurried toward Nightingale Vineyards, more than her voice was lost. It was as if her very heart had been ripped from her chest and it beat elsewhere. Slowly, steadily, but threatened; each beat might be its last if she didn’t do as she was told. The new leader of the Order of Samuel, Father Malachi, held her strings and she was a puppet who could dance only to evil’s song.
She’d flown into California in a plain summer suit of black linen. The gray shell sweater underneath the blazer stretched loosely to brush the top of her thighs. As she was only five foot three, it didn’t have to stretch far. She’d pulled an oversize black fedora low over her eyes. Only her heels and handbag betrayed any personality. She’d grabbed them too hurriedly to think of disguise. Red. A holdover from a much bolder Victoria. That flamboyant woman seemed a lifetime ago.
Katherine had handled the other packing. She’d sent Victoria’s bags ahead to the vineyard’s estate house. Victoria hadn’t told Kat about the danger Michael was in. It was only a matter of time before Katherine discovered her nephew was being stalked by the Order of Samuel. By then, Victoria hoped to have accomplished what she’d been sent to do.
Anything