She blinked. “That’s it, no more ice cream before bed. Because there is no way any of this is happening.”
“You would dare deny the Shaitan exist! Soon the world will tremble at our name and might. We have returned from exile, and this time we shan’t be stopped.” Smoky man stood right in front of her, a burning furnace, and yet she was chilled to the bone.
She was also done. “I want to wake up.” She shut her eyes and chanted. “This is just a bad dream. I’m sleeping in my bed.”
“As you wish. Sleep forever.” A hand grabbed her throat with too many fingers and lifted.
She gasped and stared at a face that didn’t care. Grabbed at the hand that held her, hot but not burning. She pried at it as she kicked at him.
He smiled. “Humans might cover the world like roaches, but you are weak. Easily squished. Easily conquered.”
Spots danced in front of her eyes. She was dying, and since this was a nightmare, that meant she’d wake up. About time because this wasn’t fun anymore. Blackness crept in as her struggles weakened and her arms fell limp.
“Unhand the female,” a deep voice demanded.
She hit the ground hard and huffed in a breath. It took her a few sucks of air before she could turn her head to see who’d come to her rescue.
What she saw made little sense. Smoky Suit’s feet shifted from perfectly creased slacks ending in hooves to smoke, dancing with a second set of legs encased in dark leather. The kind of pants that molded thighs and were worn by that hot Witcher fellow.
Except the dude wearing them wasn’t Henry Cavill.
Who is that? Her rescuer had short, spiked, platinum hair, square, chiseled features, and glowing eyes.
Had she smacked her head when she hit the floor?
What was happening? She must still be asleep.
She pushed herself to her knees and then to her feet, keeping track of the fighters. Mr. Smoky versus Hot Pants, who’d finished his look with a billowy shirt and an honest-to-goodness cloak. It fell in a long swath from his shoulders and swirled as he kicked.
To little effect. Hot Pants might have all the moves, but they failed to connect with Mr. Smoky, who was solid one moment, a mist the next, usually when about to get pounded.
It didn’t help that Mr. Smoky taunted, “Missed us! Missed us again. Too slow.”
The other dude kept the same placid expression throughout, seriously intent. He hit the mist over and over, grasping nothing. He eventually muttered a vehement, “Fuck.” He drew a metal rod from a clever holster built into the leg of his pants. As it pulled free, he flicked it, the stick extending into a stave that he spun just in time, as Mr. Smoky shot a fireball at the man.
The stave blocked the inferno and shattered it, scattering sparking pieces that had her covering her face. The next ball Mr. Smoky tossed was comprised of lightning, a living, seething ball of energy that hit the stave, but rather than disperse it, Hot Pants dropped the vibrating rod with another grumbled f-word.
Mr. Smoky laughed. “You are no match for us.”
Rather than reply, the dude smiled. “Don’t tell me they have forgotten my name.” His mouth opened, and while nothing came out of it, she’d also swear something did.
A silent word that thundered.
“No!” Mr. Smoky suddenly turned solid and yelled. Probably because Hot Pants shoved his hand inside Mr. Smoky’s chest.
Like literally inside another man.
Holy crap.
“Do you know me now, Shaitan?” asked Hot Pants.
“Azrael,” spat Mr. Smoky. “You should be dead.”
“But I’m not. Where are the others?”
“We are everywhere and nowhere. You cannot stop us,” Smoky taunted.
“You said that last time. Guess you didn’t learn your lesson.”
“Thou shalt regret thy actions,” Smoky hissed before he exploded into a yellow mist that screamed toxic.
“Don’t breathe it,” was Hot Pants warning before clamping his lips.
“You don’t say,” she muttered as she yanked the surgical mask over the lower half of her face.
The dude spoke the invisible word again, and the poison cloud turned into a half-man. The bottom half was undulating mist. Only the upper part retained any kind of shape. And it was pissed.
“Foul serpent.”
“Is that the best you can do after three thousand years?” Hot Pants mocked.
She could have really used some popcorn because this was turning out to be more fascinating than a television show. She really hoped she remembered this dream so she could transcribe it into her notebook as a potential story idea. With a more capable heroine of course. One who didn’t just stand around staring.
“None shall stand against the legion. And your kind shall cease to exist.” More threats from Smoky.
“Not extinct yet.”
“It won’t be long. Soon this world will be ours,” Smoky spat.
“Over my dead body,” was the gravelly reply.
“If you insist. But not today.” Smoky winked. “Which reminds me. This is what I came for.” He reached through the glass atop the pedestal to grab the bottle, which caused the hot dude to mutter another heartfelt “Fuck.”
What was so special about an old glass bottle?
Smoky shattered the glass box, retrieving the amphora, and floated upwards with it. Hot Pants dove for the display and grabbed the bronze knife. Pulling back his arm, he launched it.
The Shaitan had a split second to make a choice. Rather than shield the object, he turned into smoke, and it dropped.
Hot Pants dove for it, but she was closer. Forget all the times she’d never caught the ball. Unless catching it with her face counted. She reached for the bottle, felt the glass hit the tip of her fingers, tilt, and hit the floor with an explosive smash.
There was an exhale, almost a scream, and a rush of air so hot it stole the breath in her lungs. It actually steamed her glasses.
The shriek faded, as did the heat, leaving only silence.
Until the smugly spoken, “Two seals broken. Only five more to go.” With that cryptic message, the mist that was Mr. Smoky jetted for the ceiling and sucked itself back through the vent.
Leaving Daphne with glass shards caught in her hair, ringing ears, and an odd exhilaration. Yes, the bottle was broken, and if this were real, she’d probably get fired. But this was the most epic fantasy dream ever!
And she’d enjoyed some good ones before. Flying on a dragon’s back being the coolest. But confronting an ancient evil and then seeing the good guy come to the rescue? Only one thing left to finish this most excellent subconscious adventure.
She threw herself at Hot Pants, wrapped him in a hug that tugged down his head, and planted a smooch on his lips.
A kiss unreturned as he muttered, “Fuck.”
Chapter Two
The first vow: No distractions
The woman plastered herself to him. Azrael did his best to not respond, but it had been so long since he’d touched someone. And she felt good.
Soft. Nice smelling. Very attractive. But he’d not planned this long to be distracted.
He set her away from him, noticing her wide eyes and parted lips. Delectable. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so hasty.
No. No distractions. He was on a mission.