Bound to the Fallen (Prophecy #2) Page 2

  As part of the agreement the mortals assigned Guardians to watch us and ensure we obeyed the contract. It was required that these Guardians come from the lineage of Cain, and if they ever revealed the secrets of this world, they would face death. They were made to hide and protect The Book of Enoch, The Book of Eden, and all records of our existence, and from that day forward The Fallen were referred to as myths, legends, the great tales of long ago.

  Centuries later a mortal prophesized the end of the fallen and man, the war of wars when again heaven and earth would be one. A time when the darkness would be lifted. The prophecy was named the Song of the Fallen, but before the prophet was able to complete his visionary work he died, and Azaal stole the book. Azaal claimed the book revealed how man could kill us and that he had burned it to protect us, but I never believed Azaal destroyed that text. Azaal had a side to him none of the other fallen did. He was purely wicked.

  Several days after Azaal had taken the book he and I sat together in the desert and watched as man toiled to build pyramids stretching to the heavens. The sun scorched my skin and the sand stung as the wind whipped it against my face.

  Azaal reached over and gripped my shoulder. “The prophecy said, ‘The souls of a fallen and mortal shall be bound together and the desire for immortal love shall shed the blood of innocence and wickedness alike.’ “He sighed heavily before continuing. “‘Mortals shall find the weakness of the immortal and destroy the darkness along with all breathing beings. Nothingness shall abound and the heavens shall once again be at peace.’” Azaal’s eyes blazed with fire. His voice softened, “And you still think it wise to lay with any woman you please?”

  I stared at him. His contempt and hatred toward man had grown with time. Brushing his hand away from my shoulder, I said, “What are you afraid of, Azaal? Have we not already lost all one could hope for? I’d much rather enjoy this damned existence than worry about having it end.”

  “You want him to win? Man. He mocks us!” Azaal rose from the ground, dusting the sand from his legs. “And what’s to keep you from getting so overwhelmed that you take the soul of one of these women you crave? Or even worse, should you love one of them and turn them immortal!”

  My eyes focused on him. “I’m perfectly capable of remaining in control.”

  “Yes, just as you did the day the woman pressed her lips against yours.” He laughed. “Lose your control in the least and you’ll rip their soul from them. Lest one of them anger you and brood the anger of the demons that we’ve been cursed to become and you’ll thirst for her blood.” He turned his back to me, shaking his head with disapproval. “Woman will be the fall of all creatures in the end. For a mortal creature she knows not the power she has — and you, my dearest friend, know not the control she has over you.”

  Trudging down the sandy embankment, he disappeared behind the stone monuments. That was the last time I saw him for many, many years.

  I sat there, looking over the barren landscape and watching the men below. Enslaved. These men were enslaved, just as I, but they had the hope of freedom.

  Generations of man had been born and swallowed by death. And I was forced to watch this creature evolve, grow wiser, become more powerful — he changed and yet I stayed the same, with the exception of my name. Centuries later I chose the name Gavin. I felt a name meaning white hawk of battle was fitting and so I shed the last piece of grace I’d been given, my name.

  Chapter One

  Brooke

  May 29, 2014

  I flipped through the bent pages of that damn book, the smell of the paper lifting with the air the fluttering pages created. As soon as I got to the end, I picked the thick pages up between my fingers and flipped them again. Stopping halfway through the book, I glanced down at the printed words that tried to warn me about him, about this being who had unknowingly possessed me to my core. I shut the cover and tossed the book to the floor. The loud thud of the book hitting the floor echoed from the walls.

  Coldness. I felt as though I’d been swallowed by coldness.

  Bringing my knees to my chest, I wrapped my arms around them and pulled them in tightly. My eyes scanned the room. It was bare aside from the couch I was sitting on. I looked up, and although it was dark, I was able to make out black pipes running across the opened ceiling. The smallest amount of light crept in from underneath the door, which is the only reason I was able to make out the faint image of something flying in the air. My eyes strained to focus as the object came closer. A butterfly landed delicately on my foot. I peered at its pale white wings, and fear consumed me. The wings were almost transparent and it looked like dark red blood was coursing through the veins of its wings. The noise of the door creaking open startled it and the creature flittered away, disappearing into the darkness. I directed my gaze toward the far wall and his shadow appeared in the doorway.

  “Stand up,” he growled.

  His demeanor was rigid and he stood with his feet shoulder width apart, his arms held tightly down by his side. The immaculate body of this man caused carnal sensations of desire to cross my body in waves.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I stumbled to my feet. I glanced back at that book just as his fingers wrapped tightly around my wrist.

  “We must leave — now,” he said. I couldn’t determine whether it was fear or anger that coated his deep voice, but the tone in it stirred anxiety within me.

  I closed my eyes and succumbed to his demands, overwhelmed by the feeling that I was too lost, too entangled. I knew I should run, but I couldn’t. I had no intentions of trying to escape this man.

  I woke up in a cold sweat, to the unsettling feeling of my heart pounding relentlessly in my chest. Gasping as I sat up, I glanced around my small bedroom. The sun was pouring in from the single aluminum window. I let out a sigh of relief.

  It was just a dream.

  I’d lost count of how many times I’d had that same dream, and I still wasn’t sure whether to call it a fantasy or a nightmare. Whatever it was, it seemed so real and although I always wakened in a panic, there was a sense of desire for the faceless man who was the object of that vision. The thing that bothered me more than anything was that during the dream I could read the words printed on the pages, but I never could remember what book it was when I woke up.

  It drove me absolutely crazy.

  Hours later I found my mind wandering back to the dream, my mind snapping back to reality when I heard my name being called.

  “Ms. Brooklyn Sydney Davis.”

  Applause from a multitude of strangers erupted as I walked across the stage and shook the president of the university’s hand.

  “Congratulations,” the gray haired man whispered as we turned to have our picture taken.

  After a bright flash from a camera I was escorted back through the auditorium to the aluminum chair draped with a velvet seat cover, and sat down next to other people whose last name started with “D.”

  Glancing up at the stadium, I saw my family smiling and waving at me, with the exception of my father, who rarely smiled about anything anymore. I smiled and waved proudly back. I didn’t care that I was most likely going to have to sit there in that hot auditorium for another hour until all of the diploma’s had been passed out. I was beyond thankful to be feeling the smooth leather of my diploma cover in my hands. Knowing that in four to six weeks my Masters of Science in Public Health Degree would be arriving in the mail was a huge relief. I was so sick of school, so done with it. I realized at that moment that I had absolutely made the right decision by not going to medical school, albeit much to the disapproval of my father, James Sydney Davis, III, M.D., Ph.D.

  I knew why he wasn’t beaming with pride at my accomplishment, he’d made that very clear during dinner the night before when I told him that I’d decided to hold off on pursuing a Ph.D. I had watched his face grow red and wrinkled while I tried to explain that I just wanted a break, that I wanted to get some professional experience and then poss
ibly go back for my Ph.D. I don’t know why I ever expected a man who holds four degrees to understand the need for a break… or a life.

  My recollection of the previous night was interrupted when the announcer called out, “Brody Layton Vaughn.” The crowd applauded loudly and several girls screamed. I rolled my eyes and slunk down in my chair, the velvet material bunching underneath me as I slid down. Letting out a loud, fuming breath, I watched the devilishly attractive guy strut across the stage, his charming smile stretching proudly over his face. My cheeks became heated as I stared at the guy I’d made the unfortunate mistake of spending a year and a half of my life with. It had been almost exactly a year since we’d broken up and the hatred I had for that boy was still just as intense as it was the moment he confessed he’d been cheating on me for several months with some blonde undergraduate student.

  I so should have slapped him. Asshole!

  “I love you, Brody!” I heard a girl yell out across the auditorium. He winked and waved. I wanted to scream.

  The further down the aisle he came, the warmer my cheeks grew. It felt like a raging fire had been lit on my face. As he got closer to me, I cut my eyes down to the floor. I didn’t want to give that bastard the gratification of thinking he’d hurt me that badly. I was still angry at him, not because I’d been that in love with him, but because I evidently hadn’t been good enough for him. Who wants to feel like they’re not good enough for someone they care about and trust? Brody was the person who had finally shattered my trust.

  An hour after I watched that wretched man walk past me, we were instructed to throw our caps in celebration of our accomplishments. I kept mine on my head and fled through the crowd of royal blue caps and gowns, trying to find my family.

  “Honey! Brooke —” I heard my mother’s voice shouting.

  Looking over, I saw her making her way toward me. She really was stunning. Her slender frame and salon-dyed black hair stood out in the crowd. Her bright, icy blue eyes were framed by thick lashes and her collagen-treated lips were coated perfectly with dark, wine-colored lipstick. She didn’t look like she was fifty-two; I caught several of the young, recently graduated guys ogling her as she sashayed across the wooden floor.

  “Brooke!” She reached up, grabbing onto the sides of my face with her delicate fingers, “I’m so proud of you.” She pulled me in and hugged me tightly.

  My sister, Melissa, ran up and hugged me as well. “Congrats, B. Know you’re so relieved to be done with that.”

  Melissa understood my pain because our father had actually talked her into going to medical school. She made it through her first year and a half and then found out she was pregnant, so she quit. My father had been furious with her, at least until he held his granddaughter for the first time, then he kind of forgot about the whole medical school thing. Of course, that just meant that I had no choice but to become a doctor and carry on the long-lived family tradition, and my father took every opportunity to tell me so.

  “She’s not done though, right, Brooke?” My father walked up and put his arm around my shoulder, slightly shaking me. “Right?” His voice was stern.

  “Yeah. Gonna go back — eventually,” I sighed and glared over at my sister, hoping she would come to the rescue.

  “Oh,” Melissa fished through her black purse and pulled out a card. “It’s from Amber,” she said and handed the card to me.

  Smiling, I looked down at the brightly decorated envelope. Amber, my niece, had drawn palm trees and mermaids all over the back of the envelope. I slid my finger underneath the flap and carefully tore the envelope open, pulling out a card decorated with a photograph of Gerber daisies. She had written a sweet poem inside of it. My father glanced over my shoulder and read it out loud. Amber was the only thing that could derail him from harassing me about going after a Ph.D.

  I slid the card back into the envelope and looked over at my mother. A wave of repulsion covered her face as she stared at my father. The longer she watched him the angrier she looked. I noticed the slight glisten of tears in her eyes when she came over to me.

  “Well, I guess we should be getting out of here,” she eyed my father. “James, don’t you need to be getting on the road so you have plenty of time to rest up for tomorrow? Don’t you have to be in early for surgery?”

  “Yes,” he said as he straightened his gray suit jacket.

  I studied his face and it seemed as though he’d aged several years since I’d seen him at Christmas five months ago. His tanned skin showed new and deep wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead. His brown eyes seemed dull and lifeless; his lips had thinned and lost their shape. His hair was thick and graying, and salt and peppered hairs were scattered throughout his eyebrows.

  “I do need to be getting on the road. Most patients appreciate a well-rested surgeon,” his voice seemed to get louder as he announced his profession. “Love you, Brooke.” He hugged me tightly. His hand rested on my shoulder and he looked me in the eyes. “I am proud of you. You’ve done well for yourself. Headstrong — and you know what’s best for you. I’m proud of you for that.” His mouth curved up momentarily before he turned and made his way through the crowd to the exit.

  I stood there, shocked that my father had just told me he was proud of me despite my defiance to attend any type of school that would allow me to be addressed as “Dr. Davis.”

  “Well, that certainly was unexpected,” my mother’s soft voice exclaimed. “Come on, honey, let’s go back to your apartment. Me and your sister are going to have to leave soon as well. Don’t want to be on the road too late tonight.”

  Melissa stood in my kitchen struggling to open a bottle of red wine. Her dark brown hair hung in her face while she yanked back on the wine key. Her thin arms flexed as she pulled tightly, finally freeing the cork. Looking up at me, her blue eyes, whose color matched our mother’s, lit up with pride as she pulled a fully intact cork from the cork screw. She never had been able to open a bottle of wine without ripping the cork in half. Closing one eye, Melissa peered down through the neck of the bottle before pouring three full glasses.

  Melissa beamed as she raised her glass. Arching one eyebrow, she toasted, “To ending family traditions!”

  She and I both giggled and Mother just looked at us and sighed. I’d expected her to get onto us for making fun of our father, but she just sat there silently.

  I glanced over at Mother, who took back several very large gulps, sat the glass on my coffee table, and then placed her hands on her knees. She suddenly rose from my couch, pulling her mint green skirt down as she stood. Grabbing the glass, she tilted it back and swallowed several more mouthfuls of the bitter wine. Mother’s behavior was so out of sorts, I knew something had to be wrong. This was a woman who would never have more than two sips of alcohol at any given time, and Melissa and I both watched, completely astonished, as she polished off her glass of wine within moments.

  I was afraid that she was about to tell me something I’d known about for ten years. Holding my breath, I prepared myself for what she was about to say.

  Mother paced across the living room and looked at the collage of pictures I had on my Ikea entertainment center. She sat her empty wine glass down, fiddled with the charm hung from the stem, and turned around. A tear streaked down her cheek and I waited for the pending confession.

  Pulling her shoulders back, she wiped the tear quickly away. She lifted her chin, trying to maintain some sense of pride as she spoke. “Your father and I are getting a divorce.”

  My shoulders fell. I exhaled and closed my eyes.

  I knew it.

  I knew that she was going to tell us that. Opening my eyes, I found Melissa sitting slack-jawed from disbelief.

  “What?” Melissa stood up from the barstool. “Why?” Her eyes watered up.

  “Your father’s leaving me for another woman.” Mother sucked a quick breath through her daintily shaped nose and fought back the tears. “He said he’s in love wit
h her —” she paused and hurried back to the couch. Sitting down, she crossed her legs and looked up toward the ceiling. “Evidently, he’s been seeing her for a few years.” Mother shook her head. “She’s not much older than you, Brooke.” Covering her face with her hands, her chest rose as she struggled to not burst out into sobs.

  I wrapped my arms around her in an effort to provide some type of comfort. “I’m so sorry, Mother,” I said, rubbing my hand across her back.

  Melissa knelt in the floor beside her. She looked helplessly up at me; neither of us knew what to do besides try our best to console her.

  At that moment I despised my father.

  That night after Melissa and Mother left, I laid in my bed, unable to go to sleep. I’d known since I was fourteen that my father was cheating on my mother. I’d lost count of the women he had been with.

  The summer after I turned fourteen I helped out at the hospital by filing papers and making copies in his office. He thought I was oblivious to his flirting with the nurses, secretaries, and medical students that came through the office. I don’t guess he realized that during the weeks he was on service the women in the office talked about him and his higher than normal sex drive. I overheard more than I ever cared to.

  It was amazing how women would just throw themselves at him. In his youth my father was a very handsome man, but I would have thought that his dry sense of humor and inability to empathize would have turned most women off. Evidently, the fact that he was a surgeon and made a ton of money made up for his personality flaws.

  Every summer it was someone different. The last time I’d been forced to work there was the summer before my senior year. I’ll never forget watching him come on to the new nurse practitioner he’d hired. She was in her twenties, fresh out of graduate school, blonde with a body of a pin-up model. Her name was Trisha and I hated her. She tried to be so nice to me; she even invited me to go get a manicure with her. I, of course, politely declined.