The young woman standing next to him bore most of his weight, her strength all that kept him on his feet.
“I’m dyin’, lass. Let me go in peace,” he whispered, regret piercing him as he stared into the wild neon color of those incredible amber eyes. This wee lass who had risked her own life, her own secrets, to tell him of the child they had ordered to be terminated. The child of the man he owed so much to.
And now he’d done gone and done it, as his wee Khileen was wont to say. Aye, he’d done gone and done it. For good this time.
God, the pain was hell. His chest felt as though it were split open, his heart exposed, a raw gaping wound and now exposed to air.
“I can’t do that,” she whispered, all but dragging him along a worn path until he stumbled, nearly taking her to the ground with him.
Suddenly, stronger, broader hands caught him, dragging him into a sheltering darkness before laying him out on a padded floor.
Jorn stared around at the Breeds—he knew they were Breeds. Breeds unlike any he’d ever seen before. These Breeds, they were the stuff of rumor, of horrifying tales of slow, agonizing deaths. They were the ones whose genetics had never fully progressed past the animal state.
“Nephilim,” he whispered.
Men who were animals.
Animals who were men.
There was no true description of these men. The myth of the Breed Nephilim was that they were the product of experiments gone awry that the Genetics Council had studied, experimented upon, then lost control of.
They were crouched around him as he felt whatever they had dragged him into suddenly moving. Lifting?
“Why?” he whispered, directing his question to the one he knew was the leader. There were such legends of these creatures. Greater even than those of the winged breeds in the Americas that groups of soldiers and scientists hunted with such dedication.
One of the creatures gripped his arm, turned it palm outward, while another pushed an old-fashioned syringe into the vein. He could feel the burn of whatever medication was shot into his system as it began to speed through his veins. He tracked it. Through his arm, his shoulder—
“What are you doing? Why are you doing this?” he rasped, directing his question to the leader as he crouched at Jorn’s side.
Nephilim, he thought again. The true terror of the Breeds.
In Europe, the Nephilim were spoken of with the same fear as vampires and werewolves had been in centuries past.
Pale, his face marked with the stripes of a white tiger, his white blond hair flowing to his shoulders, their leader gave a mocking snort as he nodded to Jorn’s side. “She would leave me no peace should I allow you to die.”
Jorn turned his head slowly to the wee lass that had dragged him from the labs.
Barely five three, tawny brown hair, long, thick matching lashes with sharp cheekbones, lips formed nearly like a cat’s, and her eyes—
Cat’s eyes.
And so young. So tiny. Surely no more in age than his wee Khileen.
“Why?” he asked her now as he felt himself drifting, lifting, becoming light as air.
“Because I’m yours,” she whispered, her eyes glowing like amber fire. “And you are all I can claim as mine. How could I allow death to take you in such a way?”
What could she possibly mean? God, he needed to know what she meant. He needed to know—
Agony pierced his chest, his guts. It lifted his body as a scream tore from him as the jagged, serrated teeth of death’s demon bit deep and shredded his insides like a dog shredded meat from a bone. The pain was horrifying. Brutal.
Darkness closed around him.
He prayed death took him.
Katie at 16
She was all wild Irish red hair, big emerald eyes and soft peaches-and-cream skin.