SOPHIE CLARK’s latest novel, Cruel Is the Light, is a gripping romantasy with a star-crossed, enemies-to-lovers romance.
Read on for an extract.
ABOUT THE BOOK
A brutal war between demons and humanity has raged across Europe for over a century. At its heart are two elite soldiers: Selene Alleva, a powerful exorcists trained at the prestigious Vatican Academy, and foot soldier, Jules Lacroix, unrivalled in battle.
When their paths cross, despite initial distrust – then unwelcome attraction – Jules and Selene discover a terrible secret at the heart of the holy Vatican City . . .
Soon Jules is forced to question everything he’s ever known – including himself. And Selene, unable to ignore her growing feelings for Jules, must make an impossible choice between love and duty.
Serpent and Dove meets Empire of the Vampire, with a star-crossed, enemies-to-lovers romance at its heart. Perfect for fans of Powerless, Fourth Wing and Divine Rivals.
EXTRACT
CHAPTER ONE
God created man and demon.
Demon crucified God.
Man abandoned God.
And one more tenet only the Vatican knew:
Man harnessed demons’ unholy magic.
Selene Alleva ghosted her blade over the faint blue veins of her inner arm, lingering when she found the symbol carved into her bones. Devour. She hesitated. Her magic was the enemy, bleeding her with every exorcism. If it was only fear of pain that gave her pause, or some misplaced principle, then she could overcome it. Pain no longer frightened her – it had become familiar in the years of her Vatican training.
Dio Immortale, she swore. She’d made mistakes tonight. If she had done one thing differently, she wouldn’t be in this predicament now – poised to bleed herself for power as the scent of rot and mould encased her. The metallic tang of blood beneath it all. She should never have lowered her guard.
The threat of snow scented the air. Selene shivered, but not because the evening’s chill sliced knife-like up her spine. A rank wave of demonic magic ached through her eye teeth and into the depths of her skull.
That was more than one demon.
They tasted like violence. Like a split lip. Vaguely iron and putrid. ‘Captain Alleva?’
Selene silenced her subordinate with a look. Ambrose Zurzulo was not perceptive enough to feel the tainted magic, and Selene had no patience for his dearth of natural talent. She glanced at the rune-carved metal hugging his hands. Knuckledusters. Honestly. But he was too infatuated with his own magnificence to notice her disdain.
Why anyone would elect for extreme close-range combat, and willingly let a demon so damn near, she had no clue.
‘We’re close. Move.’ She led her team down a shallow flight of stairs, chasing the cold pull of demon magic to a crumbling stucco building at the end of the street. It looked abandoned – but wasn’t. Two. No, three. Maybe more. An infestation of this size was not unheard of in the heart of Rome, but it was unusual to find one so close to the Vatican.
She would reward them with steel for their trouble.
Selene skidded to a stop out of sight of the windows, flanked by Ambrose and Benedetta. Both were new to her team, and while Benedetta Fiore had been in Selene’s year at the Academy, they’d never been close. It wasn’t ideal that today was her first opportunity to see them in action.
Ambrose stretched his fingers, knuckles cracking. ‘I’ll take point,’ he said, starting to shadow-box.
Not ideal at all.
But she had little say in the matter. Her superiors had spoken, and if the Vatican was anything at all, it was a place of strict hierarchy.
‘I think not,’ Selene said, her voice dangerously soft. ‘Don’t even look a demon in the eye without my say-so.’ She counted on her fingers. ‘Obey. Impress me. Survive. In that order. Simple enough.’ Even for you.
She pinned Benedetta with her eyes. ‘Stay close to Zurzulo. He’ll protect you.’
Ambrose nodded his agreement, and the knot of worry in her chest loosened. Just a bit.
‘What about you?’ Benedetta asked. Selene held her gaze. ‘I’ll protect you too.’
Benedetta blinked wide-eyed, and smiled a lightbulb smile. ‘Oh, I know that. I meant who’s going to protect you?’
Selene didn’t think that required an answer.
A tall figure rounded the corner. ‘O Captain, my Captain,’ Caterina Altamura drawled, flicking a still glowing cigarette into the dark. ‘Relax. The cavalry’s here.’
Selene finally let a small smile tip her lips.
A weapons artificer like Ambrose, Caterina was as skilful as she was insubordinate.
Then a second figure trailed Caterina out of the dark.
Lucia Scavo angled her pointed chin into the breeze, turning her pretty heart-shaped face as though scenting the air. Her sensitivity to demon magic was well known within the Vatican, and Selene trusted Lucia’s instincts nearly as much as her own.
Selene extended her senses too. Her power was always with her. In her blood. But it sang louder now in proximity to demons. She glanced at Lucia. ‘I don’t feel anything above a Level Two.’
The sister of medicine nodded, her cheeks whipped ruddy by the cold. ‘And no more than five. All low grade.’
The Vatican ranked demons on a six-point scale. Curses and Ghouls frequently broke through nowadays. Low level, low difficulty, but with high potential for collateral damage. Enough to force the Vatican to respond quickly. With extreme prejudice.
Ambrose flipped a hexagonal disc that glimmered in the weak lamplight, and Selene snatched it from the air.
She frowned. ‘Do you have any idea what this is?’
The brawler pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘Found it.’ ‘Where?’
He shrugged.
Selene turned it between her fingers, inspecting it. It was stamped with the seal of the Deathless God. A ward coin. One of many hidden within statues around Rome, their powerful magic working together to ward off demons. Which begged the question, why did Ambrose have it?
Lucia’s voice broke into her thoughts, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant. ‘I sense … maybe a Fiend?’
Benedetta paled at that, touching her forehead, throat, and the middle of her chest in a quick prayer. As if Selene needed further confirmation Benedetta had no business facing demons in the field.
‘Save your prayers,’ Selene said coldly. ‘No need to call on God for a Level Three.’
Caterina smothered a smile, but Lucia smirked openly.
Ignoring them, Selene slipped the ward coin into her pocket and turned to the building. The chipped stucco facade appeared more orange than pink in the glow of the street lamps, but Selene was more focused on the presences beyond. They throbbed weakly, like butterflies in her fist. Soon she’d crush them just as easily. Despite that confidence, unease coiled in her ribcage. Something felt off.
Caterina sliced her thumb and pressed it against the seal on her gatling rifle. Bright threads of power raced along the gun’s six barrels, as her blood unlocked its full potential.
The five of them parted ways, silently sweeping the apartments on the ground floor before climbing the stairs to the next. Selene shadowed Ambrose and Benedetta, keeping them in her line of sight. She didn’t need to tell Caterina and Lucia what to do – they’d climbed the ranks two years ahead of her at the Academy and had been an effective team far longer than she’d been their commander. She respected their prowess. But she didn’t trust the other two.
She’d fought tooth and nail against having Benedetta on this mission, but, no. Two healers, they’d said. And so she obeyed her directive.
A smoky, vaguely reptilian Curse demon trickled from the shadows, stretching toward Ambrose. Level One. Selene cut through it before Ambrose even noticed, flicking clinging shadows off her blade. She turned in the centre of the room and then sheathed her sword.
Behind her came a clang as a Ghoul scrabbled its way out of a disused dumbwaiter, grinning rows of serrated teeth in a horrible wide mouth. Level Two. Distinguishable by the fact she felt barely a ripple of power from it. It had made its home in a corpse on the wrong side of decomposing, corrupting it with its magic. Benedetta shrank back, but Ambrose strode forward. His eyes gleamed with the fire of a subordinate desperate to prove his mettle.
Selene flung an arm out to stop him. ‘Wait!’
But Ambrose crowed a battle cry and wound up for a punch that would take the demon’s head off its shoulders.
The demon was deceptively fast. It opened its terrible maw, swallowing Ambrose’s arm to the elbow. His scream ricocheted around inside her ribs.
‘Captain!’ Ambrose pleaded, his arm and those damned knuckledusters buried in the demon’s gullet. Time slowed as she watched his eyes – black now from blown pupils and desperation. Save me, they said. Save me, please.
The arm was salvageable. His stupidity – terminal.
In a blink she had her knife poised over skin and bone – the cutting edge above the symbol for devour. She hesitated. Triggering her magic would devour another piece of her soul. If she wasn’t careful, soon she’d have nothing left. Cold fingers caressed her spine at the unwelcome thought. She moved the blade away from her skin.
Sorry, Ambrose.
Even a single drop of her magic was worth more than a limb. And so she sacrificed his arm on the altar of her ambition. There were other, far more powerful demons to kill, and she didn’t know how much soul she had left.
Flipping the knife, she sheathed it and drew the gun at her thigh in the same sinuous movement. Ambrose’s eyes widened as Selene chose, as so often, to fight and condemn with hot metal and blade. Her first bullet detached his arm at the shoulder. Selene strode closer, firing shot after shot until the demon went still. Nudging it with her boot, her nose wrinkled in distaste. Deader than dead. Still not dead enough.
Selene toyed with the idea of shooting it again.
Instead, she turned on her heel, blinking blood from her lashes. Benedetta knelt beside Ambrose, applying a tourniquet to his arm.
As Ambrose whimpered piteously, Selene thought about the final unspoken tenet of their religion. Man harnessed demons’ unholy magic.
A secret. Though perhaps not their most dangerous. One known only to the select few who graduated from the Vatican’s elite Military Academy. Demons had given them the means of fighting back. Unwillingly. Bitterly, perhaps.
At his continued whimpering, Selene indicated the brawler. ‘Silence him.’
Biting her lower lip, Benedetta touched his forehead with two fingers. His pain drained away. Silent now, Ambrose glared at Selene over Benedetta’s shoulder, hatred replacing agony.
Selene crouched in front of him. ‘We’ll get you another arm. One made of steel this time, like your little knuckledusters.’
Benedetta redirected her attention to the demon. Pushing her wispy blonde hair beneath her habit, she withdrew vials to collect blood and humours. She hesitated over the mess Selene had made of the demon’s skull before delicately extracting a tooth for later analysis.
Selene extended her senses as she circled the room, open to the slightest stirring of demon magic. Nothing. Satisfied, she followed the hum of voices down the hallway as Caterina and Lucia compared notes on their kills. She stepped into the doorway just in time to see Caterina level her secondary weapon, a shotgun, and blast a demon across the room. The bullet flared on impact.
As the imprint of the demon faded, she felt another.
Pivoting, she searched the dark corners. Somewhere nearby another demon waited. It plucked at her senses like a spider playing the threads of its own web – gleaning information from her. More than she was getting from it. Selene hissed, drawing her handgun. Too slow. A demon smashed through the lead-light transom window over the door on the other side of the hall. It had crawled into the body of a small girl. Bright doll-blue eyes glinted prettily through a fall of dark hair. Its elbows bent the wrong way as it skittered across the ceiling, disappearing into the hallway’s gloom.
A Level Four.
Caterina and Lucia were supposed to have cleared that end, but had evidently fucked it up. And she had lowered her guard. How had she not sensed a Noble? Plunging through milky spiderwebs, she arrived in the main room a split second after the demon. Borne by the essence of a child, it would burn out quickly. When its power started to wane, it would seek another body to consume from within. Parasite.
It already had Benedetta cornered.
Selene met the child’s blue eyes. No, damn it all, don’t lose focus. The child’s gone. The reminder rang hollow.
Projecting calm, Selene twitched a finger. Go. Benedetta eased toward the closest doorway. ‘Well, hello,’ Selene said conversationally.
‘Exorcist,’ the creature hissed, tongue curling across its dead cheek. She had to keep the demon’s attention on her. ‘I’m impressed you managed to penetrate this far into Rome undetected. Quite a feat.
You must be powerful indeed.’
The demon preened. ‘More powerful with you. I shall enjoy possessing your body. My every whim will be at our fingertips.’ It curled its backward-jointed fingers, skin and tendons snapping.
Selene nodded sagely. ‘Ah yes. I, too, appreciate that mental imagery.’
The demon blinked double-lidded eyes, head tipping. ‘You do?’ Her brow inched higher. The Noble was a literalist, then.
Benedetta was almost clear when broken glass crunched beneath her boot. The demon’s head snapped in her direction. Selene raced to intercept as the demon went for Benedetta, but it was impossibly fast even as its skin split at the seams of those fingers. The demon’s jaw disengaged as it lunged, tearing its cheeks as it bit out Benedetta’s jugular.
No!
Benedetta’s body slumped to its knees.
Tumbling forward, Selene aimed and squeezed the trigger. Her bullets shattered a cobweb-draped chandelier as the demon skittered away, making a curious sound. Laughter.
It was laughing.
Propelled by cold rage, Selene followed, driving it back. Reaching for the sword slung across her back, she caught the demon the moment it failed to navigate the second chandelier, lopping off its legs at the knee.
An agonized shriek pierced her eardrums and the world rang with pure silence. Across the room, Ambrose pressed his remaining palm to a bleeding ear.
Selene ignored her own pain. ‘Get out!’
He obeyed as the creature landed scrabbling on the floor.
Selene pinned it with her sword, straddling it to hold down its clawing hands. It bucked its small, powerful body. It could crush a man’s skull between two overlong fingers, but her strength was greater. Selene leaned to look into those haunting blue eyes and bared her teeth.
She would make it suffer for Benedetta’s life.
It lunged, teeth clicking in front of her face. Selene punched it. Once, twice. It dodged her third, and her fist ruptured stone. Pain popped behind her eyes when she flexed her fingers.
The demon subsided and Selene drew her knife. Best to end this quickly. An exorcism, then, she thought, a familiar ache behind her ribs. Before anyone else dies.
And so, with the knife she hadn’t used to save Ambrose’s arm, she carved the symbols.
Devour. Return. Teeth. Burn.
When her blood hit the air, it smoked, coiling and lashing like a viper. The symbols she whittled into bone flared gold, as though filled by molten metal. Her magic could raze a city block if she wanted it to. Perhaps the whole of Rome.
And in that breath of misused magic, she’d be worse than dead and a monster in more ways than one.
Her hearing slammed back and her eyesight cleared so evening became a summer afternoon. Only the demon beneath her was shadowy. A writhing supernova of untamed energy. This was power.
She could feel everything that moved in the apartment building. Could even feel the skittering heartbeat of a mouse holding still in the walls.
As though time had slowed, she could count every eyelash and freckle on the demon’s stolen face as she laid a palm against its forehead. The creature lunged, teeth lengthening. Then it disappeared in a burst of light so intense it could blind.
Blinking the spots away, Selene approached Benedetta. Her blonde hair haloed her head, slowly soaking crimson. Horrific, even to the Macellaia di Roma. The Butcher of Rome.
‘I’m sorry,’ Selene breathed, closing the healer’s eyes.
A draught stirred up dust from the dull parquet floor, caressing Caterina’s dark hair over her cheek where silvery scar tissue devoured smooth skin on one side of her face. ‘That was a Level Four,’ Caterina said accusingly, setting her shotgun on her shoulder.
Selene waved Caterina off. ‘I know. I didn’t sense it.’ She turned to Lucia, whose white habit was now splattered with gore. ‘And neither did you. I thought you were meant to be good at this.’
Lucia shrugged. ‘We all make mistakes.’
Selene jabbed her finger to where Benedetta’s body lay. ‘Tell her that.’
Caterina stepped between them. ‘She said sorry.’
‘She did not,’ Selene drawled, circling the room. ‘And I shouldn’t need to point out that Lucia wasn’t the only one who made mistakes tonight.’
Caterina’s jaw worked but she didn’t argue.
‘The next regional assignment will be all yours. You two can get out of Rome for a while. Enjoy the quiet.’
Distantly Ave Maria, one of the Vatican’s six bells, rang out a fraction of a second ahead of the others. Angling her wrist, Selene glanced at her watch. Late. Damn.
Pivoting on her heel, she left them to the clean-up, her expression melting from angry to contemplative.
If she, alone, had made that mistake … well, that was one thing. But Lucia had also miscalculated the enemy’s strength and numbers. Unusual, because she was the most perceptive in all the Vatican. It made Selene’s stomach coil. Unusual was never good when it came to demons.
Unusual meant something had changed. And death was sure to follow.
CHAPTER TWO
A newspaper broadsheet tumbled over the frozen mud of the battlefield, a dark silhouette against the blood-smeared horizon. Jules Lacroix blinked. No, not blood. Blood never remained that aggressive shade for long. That particular vibrancy was just the rising sun. Jules let out a long breath. The endless night was almost done. Praise the Deathless God.
The broadsheet caught against a coil of barbed wire, fluttering in the wind. As though unwilling to be rid of imminent death just yet, Jules stood brushing ice off his shoulders. What news from Rome?
Eyeing the tattered broadsheet, Jules pulled himself over the edge of the trench, scrabbling in the mud to reach it. Ignoring tired shouts, he grabbed the newspaper and slid back to safety just as gunfire ate up the mud. He grinned, sliding down the wall as his legs collapsed beneath him.
Someone kicked his boot. ‘Crazy motherfucker.’
Yeah, and? Jules smoothed the broadsheet over his knees, smearing mud and printing ink.
Most of the soldiers in the trench with him were new, so green they still had the puppy fat of youth. Still remembered the taste of croissants, the scent of snow untainted by gunpowder and blood, remembered what it was like to close their eyes without seeing death painted on the backs of their eyelids. He didn’t know any of them by name. Not one. And he wouldn’t bother learning, either. Not when they’d only die like all the rest.
Jules drank in the large type of the headline: ROME CRIES BLOOD. He smirked slightly, knowing the headline wasn’t about the war. Their blood didn’t count. No doubt some exorcist had left a trail of carnage again. It happened a lot. Demons didn’t go down easy. He knew that better than most.
The most powerful demons could kill a regiment single-handed. The ones who played with fire or wind, or spoke to the wild things. The ones who controlled ice. Jules could count on one hand the number of times a demon like that had been within even a hundred miles. Otherwise he wouldn’t be breathing.
With shaking fingers Jules withdrew a tin of slender black cigarettes and put one between his lips, but the matches were damp and wouldn’t strike. ‘Shit.’
He squinted at the date. January 6. He turned 19 today. It was four years to the day since the orphanage in Nice had given him the steel-capped boot an hour before dawn. He’d been only fifteen. That auspicious age when French boys with no family and fewer prospects were shipped off to war.
Matron had dragged him out by his ear. ‘Out with you, little thorn. Fifteen today and a man in all ways but the ones that count! Now you can change that last, at least.’
And so he had.
He put away his cigarette tin, eyes roaming the page..
Rome. The Holy Vatican Empire was a ravenous beast devouring all Europe. Now even their proud French newspapers spent ink on constant speculation about the capital, where the Deathless God resided in His steepled churches that had grown jagged and dark, their stone spires edging toward the sky as the exorcists built up their defences. All to protect their God from the demons who wanted to prove that Deathless was not a permanent state of being, only wishful thinking.
He considered dropping the newspaper into the slurry beneath his feet, but thought better of it and tucked it into his pocket instead.
‘Jules, get up from there. You’re done.’
He reached for the rough wooden bar of the trench, the splinters biting his palm proof enough he was alive as he pulled himself nose to nose with his superior. Frost gilded his eyelashes and eyebrows and probably his stubble since yesterday’s shave. The cold was inside his bones. Had been for four years, since he began haunting the no-man’s land outside Ostrava with the rest of his regiment.
He could barely remember what warmth felt like. ‘Sergeant—’
‘Corporal Lacroix, that was not a request.’ Jules sighed, pushing his hands into his pockets.
‘How long since you’ve slept? How long since you’ve eaten?’ Jules shook his head, unable to answer either question. ‘Farah—’ ‘My name is not an answer, Corporal. You look half dead.’ The hard line between her brows deepened, and he could see what she was thinking, More than half.
Jules pressed his lips together, watching a place behind her ear. She was right. And maybe he should be. Dead with the rest of his regiment.
Farah snapped her fingers in his face, drawing back his wandering mind. Worry worked its way into her eyes, and for the first time he considered that maybe she was right to be concerned. As he followed her back through the trenches toward their main encampment, nestled in the lee of Ostrava’s crumbling stone wall, he wavered on his feet. Hunger was not new, far from it, but this hollow ache had settled in beneath his ribs.
Farah caught him, ducking beneath his arm. ‘Damn it, Lacroix.
Starving yourself will not buy us victory.’ ‘Worth a try.’ He let a small grin tip his lips.
She shook her head, frustration darkening her eyes. Just a few years older than Jules, not even twenty-five, and already silver glinted in the gold at her temples. Unlike him, she’d volunteered for this – trained for this. But still, war ate them all.
‘Jules, you need to take care of yourself. You’re the last of my original men. Don’t make me walk forward alone.’ Farah looked away, gazing blankly over the frozen mud. After a pause she added in the clipped tone of his superior, ‘Besides, Rome cannot afford to lose you.’
As Farah led Jules along the path furthest from the grimmest of front-line trenches, Jules recognised a few faces. They watched him warily, nodding when he caught their eye. He could be back here too, warmer and drier than the pups at the front.
Lacroix. How many kills? Does that make it a hundred, Lacroix? Two hundred? More?
Jules heard them as though they screamed at him, and looked away. Two hundred demon kills would be admirable for sure, but it was nowhere near the reality. His hands were dark with blood. But the worst part was how intrinsic it felt to him. The strength of his body. The pull of the kill. Being truly excellent at something. When it was just him with a blade in his hand, the world became quiet. His choices simple.
Live or die.
Fight or die.
Kill or die.
And he was good at it. Sometimes he hated how good.
Absently Jules tugged at his sleeve. Countless pale scars twined in neat rows past his elbows. He felt eyes on him and adjusted his shirt cuff lower, hiding …
The ozone scent of distant lightning made his nose itch. Jules tipped his head, closing his eyes for a moment. A storm thickened the air, making it almost crackle with intent. The blood red of pre-dawn had diluted into a weak piss yellow, and when Jules narrowed his eyes against the rising sun, he could see storm clouds gathering nearly out of sight.
He almost slammed into Farah, tugging again at his sleeve. ‘Inside.’ She held open the canvas door of her tent, not missing his gesture. ‘Farah—’
‘Sergeant Bachelet.’
Jules rolled his eyes and ducked under her arm, ignoring the whistles that abruptly ceased when Farah cut the offending parties a sharp look. Dropping the door and lending them some semblance of privacy, she set a kettle on to boil.
‘Take those off. I intend to burn them. They reek worse than a dead demon’s asshole.’
‘You want me naked that bad, Farah? This is the last shirt I have.’ ‘No, it’s not.’ She indicated her pallet bed and a neat stack of clothes – fresh elements of his usual uniform. ‘A shipment came in from Rome. I made sure to get you some.’
Jules tipped a brow. ‘The Vatican managed to spare us some funds, huh?’
‘Apparently, there’s an exorcist in Rome running about nearly nude.’
‘Poor thing. No seasonal winter wardrobe. It must be rough.’
‘Terribly.’
‘Just the silver spoon they were born with clacking between their teeth.’
‘Careful. You almost sound bitter.’
He laughed, tension easing from his shoulders. ‘I know what they do for us.’ He lifted up the shirt, rubbing his thumb over the Vatican seal pressed into each button. ‘But is it really so important we die branded as Vatican property?’
Farah’s lips quirked as she spooned coffee grounds into a filter, but she was too loyal to agree with more than her eyes.
The Vatican, where the cult of the Deathless God had crawled inside the bones of whatever came before, and the epicentre of the centuries-old assault by demons against God.
Whether you were a soldier in the mud, or an exorcist in Rome, you knew that 200 years ago, God had intervened to defend the holy city and its people. With smoke blackening the sky and flames devouring the city, He had stepped forth in human form to fight for them. In a titanic battle at the heart of the old Vatican City, a demon had impaled Him, but not before God had delivered a killing blow of His own.
And so the Vatican had been chosen by God as the place His body would rest for eternity in a forever Deathless state.
Or so the dogma claimed.
The thick canvas walls billowed and an icy draught bit at his ankles. It wasn’t getting any warmer, so Jules pulled his shirt over his head to wash in the lukewarm water of her basin.
Jules felt Farah at his shoulder as she stepped up behind him. Rolling up her sleeves with the weight of ritual, she held her wrist against his, baring her kill scars.
He smiled at her reflection in the small mirror and angled his forearm so she could see his new row of marks. She read the silvery scars in his skin like words in a forgotten language. A language of their own making – telling the stories of demons he’d killed in each of the longer downward strokes.
Farah’s expression darkened. ‘So many,’ she said, meaning the horizontal lines that marked their dead.
For every demon he killed, they lost two or three of their own.
Sometimes more.
Only he and Farah were left of those who marked kills in their flesh. Jules wasn’t sure how it started. All he knew was he couldn’t stop.
The luxuriant scent of coffee filled the tent, but Jules could still smell the promise of a violent storm. He pushed open the tent flap, crossing his arms over his bare chest as he leaned a shoulder against the post, staring over the tent city toward the forest. The front line stretched for a thousand miles in both directions. Maybe more. He didn’t really know. He was just a soldier. Beyond the trees, gathering clouds darkened the horizon.
Farah handed him a mug and he took it, his brows furrowing. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I smell lightning.’
Farah arched a brow. ‘Are you a dog?’
He gave her an unamused look and she laughed.
Jules set down his untouched mug so he could yank on his shirt, his fingers clumsy as he transferred his metal collar buttons from the old – truly reeking, Farah was right about that – to the new. Unease coiled in his belly as he pulled on his jacket. The night had been quiet. He’d stayed awake throughout, waiting for an attack, but none had come. This disquiet was probably just the residual effects of exhaustion and starvation … And yet, he couldn’t relax.
‘Jules, eat something. That’s an order.’ ‘Something’s not right—’
‘Sit down—’
The downpour roared like a monsoon, rain pelting their tent. Surprised shouts came from outside at the sudden, drenching rain. Tipping his head back, Jules stared at the tent roof, waiting. The hairs on his nape prickled at electricity in the air. ‘This isn’t right.’
Farah nodded grimly, reaching for her gun belt. Jules grabbed his sword, pulling it from its scabbard to count the sigils on the flat side. Vatican-forged, it would only survive fifty kills. One sigil for every 10, he had three sigils remaining. The other two, burned and blackened, marked his sword half spent.
It would have to do.
The Caspian Federation’s demon horde had arrived.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sophie Clark is a graduate of Pitch Wars class of 2021 and was mentored by Emily Thiede (This Vicious Grace) and Lauren Blackwood (Within These Wicked Walls) while working on Cruel is The Light. Her agent fought off five others to represent her. Sophie has a Masters degree in International Relations from the University of Melbourne, and previously worked for the Australian Senate. She now resides in Tasmania, Australia, with a beautiful black and white Border Collie called Indy.
0 Comments