Page 16 of Helsing: Demon Slayer (The Dragon’s Paladins #1)

He laughed to himself as he poured a dollop of cream into his coffee and shook his head.

He was way younger than that great Hungarian lug András, who’d been born just after World War I, making him nearly a hundred years old.

As for Mihàil and Miró, well, those two seasoned Elioud warriors were so old they might as well be immortal.

Sweet Elohim , Miles was practically a baby at 36.

Human or not, he should be able to cover for Ryan Helsing, the Kastriotis’ chief of security, whose second-in-command didn’t need Miles looking over his shoulder.

The silent, capable man listened to Miles’s commands and then executed them, often more quickly and effectively than Miles had ordered.

Only access to the ops center required Miles’s authority.

Miles grabbed some nuts and cheese with which Olivia had stocked the breakroom along with one of the addictive chocolate bars her company made.

He liked them all, but this morning he sought out the dark chocolate with purple peppercorns from Vietnam.

Despite their name, these tiny berries added a complex, fruity sweetness that reminded him of the three years he’d spent in southeast Asia as a young field operative with the CIA.

If he were honest, the flavor of the exotic peppercorns reminded him more of the energy and drive he’d had back then.

He could use a little of both right now, at least until Helsing returned from whatever mission the zonje had tasked him while her husband was distracted strengthening alliances with other Elioud warriors along with building up his own network of assets.

Although Miles suspected that Olivia had purposefully kept her husband out of the loop, he would never give her game away, not even to the fearsome zoti .

But when Miles walked into the TOC a few minutes later, he saw that his discretion no longer mattered.

Mihàil knew. And by the looks of it, the Elioud commander was pissed.

Miles had never seen Olivia so white or trembling.

She’d always been a cool customer, even when he’d been chasing her through Disneyland Paris for the Company.

Of course, Miles had to sally into that scenario and deflect some of the ire aimed at her. Olivia was tough and didn’t need his help, but he’d give it, even if he didn’t owe her for rescuing him from the soul-destroying job he’d had at the American intelligence agency.

“Hey, Boss One and Boss Two,” he said, lifting his mug to each of them in turn, Olivia first. “You both look tired. Luljeta keeping you awake?”

He walked to the command desk for the operations center, which belonged to whomever operated as Aerie Actual, and nodded at the junior staff member who’d held operational authority during the graveyard shift. She got up so that he could relieve her as commander.

As operations director, Miles had a small, but swanky, office in the Aerie, the new, uncompleted operations building that Mihàil had ordered built after Asmodeus’s bogomili had attacked them last December.

Miles hoped he’d get to spend more time there than currently, but for now he did all his office work in the ops center.

He set his mug down on the desk and turned to face the power couple. Olivia sat at a corner workstation with Mihàil standing an arms’ length away, his expression thunderous. Electricity swirled in the air between them.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Miles looked at each and said, “Okay, out with it. I’m pretty sure you aren’t hiding in the ops center from your teething baby. Something must be going on.”

Olivia jerked upright a moment later, her eyes widening.

She spun in her chair, dismissing them. “Understood, Demon Slayer,” she said, an edge in her voice Miles had never heard before.

“Transport vehicle has gotten caught in traffic on the D410. Can you hold that location until they clear a path to you?”

That’s when Miles caught sight of the monitor behind Olivia, which showed a street-level view of a seething mass of people along a coastal promenade. A dynamic black-and-white graphic overlay showed the distorted harmonics around this mob in stark relief.

“Holy crap! Where’s that?” he asked, as if the answer might come with a body count.

He came to stand next to Mihàil, his gaze scanning the various text blocks running along the bottom and right side of the livestreaming video. The GPS coordinates had a text label: Split, Croatia.

The next moment, Helsing’s voice came through the TOC’s speakers. All of the staff, including the two from the night shift who’d remained working on non-urgent tasks, sat up. Without being told, they knew that their jobs had just moved from routine to battle mode.

“I’m gonna go old school on this one, Harlequin,” said Helsing. “Better hope your team reaches me before I run out of Aperol and kitchen towels.”

“Get my helo ready,” said Mihàil, growling into the pointed silence. “I want Alpha team along for the ride, standard gear and weapons. Wheels up ASAP.”

One of the staff said, “Yes, sir,” before spinning in her seat while murmuring via the comm system to the flight crew, who’d moved onto Alert status as soon as the zoti had walked into the TOC. ASAP was code for five minutes.

Mihàil glanced at Miles, who couldn’t suppress the instinctive shiver that raced down his spine at the supernatural glow lighting the Elioud ’s angelic blue eyes.

“What assets do we have between here and Split?” his commander asked, already heading toward the door.

Behind him, Olivia stood, her gaze riveted to Mihàil’s back.

Miles narrowed his eyes in thought. “We’ve got a couple of teams installing network bollards with day bases in Kastrat and Belaj. There’s also Shkoder, which has the prototype truck, but it’s up on a lift while diagnostics are being run.”

“Miró has a Daemon Buster ready to test,” said Olivia aloud, shifting her feet apart and folding her arms across her chest.

Miles knew that they’d already been discussing the Elioud tech architect’s latest design telepathically. He wasn’t surprised when the zoti stiffened and halted without turning.

“I can guide it,” said Olivia in a stubborn tone that suggested they’d already disagreed about using the prototype harmonic missile. “It cleared diagnostics days ago.”

“Do as you will,” said her husband. “You have already made it clear that my judgment on this matter means little to you.”

And saying this, he disappeared. Literally. Miles would never grow used to the supernatural powers his Elioud bosses wielded, especially the zoti , whose mother was an angel.

Olivia, shooting a cryptic, narrowed glance at Miles, sat back in her chair.

“You’ve got your orders, Farm Boy,” she said, her voice ringing with her authority as the zoti’ s lady as she alerted him that she’d taken command of the TOC by using his personal call sign.

“Get those teams on the road, and work up a plan to extract Helsing. He’s the only one standing between my sister and an army of the damned. ”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Dianne behind Ryan, clearly ignoring his answer about her not doing anything. The panic in her voice had died. “I can help. I tended bar a few summers on the Cape during college.”

Ryan refrained from saying that knowing how to mix Cosmopolitans and open beer bottles had little to do with making poor-man’s grenades. Instead, he pulled bottles from the shelves and lined them on the counter behind him.

“You’re gonna need a larger supply,” she said when he didn’t answer. “And someone to hand them to you.”

“Okay,” he said without looking at her as he began ripping towels into strips for wicks. “Grab all of the alcohol there is, the higher the proof the better. After that, check and see if there’s a supply in a stockroom or pantry or we’ll only have a few bottle bombs.”

Not nearly enough to keep the meat puppets at bay . But he didn’t say that thought aloud.

“Right,” she said. She turned and left his side.

Behind him on the café floor, he heard Germaine panting and muttering.

He didn’t have the time to focus on her.

Through the windows and door, he could hear the multitude of daemoniacs outside on the promenade and street from the pier.

Despite the glass buffer muting the clamor, he estimated that the most determined individuals would be upon them in ninety seconds.

A familiar icy calm descended. The Elioud described it as their battle senses engaging. Even though he didn’t have the ability to read harmonics or heat signatures, Ryan had gotten to the point where he could almost envision them.

Today his senses had heightened to an acute edge, slowing his sense of time and lending a clarity to his vision that he’d never before experienced.

He knew that he would have time to prep all of the bottles.

St. Benedict’s Exorcism Prayer chanted through his thoughts as he doused all of the makeshift wicks with vodka before stuffing them into open bottle necks.

Dianne dropped a crate of bottles on the counter next to Ryan’s elbow. She began twisting caps from each and sliding them in front of him. They worked in silence, quickly and efficiently assembling a stockpile of simple incendiary devices in the crate.

And then time ran out.

Ryan looked up as the first wave of the doomed swelled on the sidewalk in front of the café.

“Here,” said Dianne, handing him a couple of flaming “cocktails,” her hands steady, her eyes fierce with purpose.

He hadn’t even seen her procure a book of matches or lighter, but he didn’t question it. Grabbing each burning bundle, he strode to the door, Dianne at his heels. She unlocked the door, shot him a glance filled with confidence and terror and something else, and then pulled it wide.

Ryan yelled and lobbed the bottles at the feet of the forward attackers, one to the north and the other to the south.

They crashed against the pavement, flaring up onto the clothing of the targets.

Ryan didn’t stay to see any more results.

He pivoted and ran back to the counter, where Dianne handed him two more bottles before restocking the crate with half a dozen more and running after him.

For the next thirty seconds, they kept up a steady bombardment. But although individuals caught fire, shrieking and stumbling into their comrades, sometimes even pulling several down as they flailed, the implacable horde kept coming.

Ryan threw the final Molotov cocktail, which hit a tall male in the head. As the target’s hair burst into flames, his murderous glare remained locked onto Ryan. He shoved his companions out of the way and rushed toward the café.

Ryan managed to slam the door in his face.

Then the daemoniac roared and smashed the top of his head into the glass, sending a web of cracks racing from where his forehead connected.

The creature kept bashing his skull into the reinforced material, blood streaking it as flames engulfed him. Dozens of more daemoniacs launched themselves at the windows, their violent battering sending rivulets of breaks and blood along its once pristine surface.

It would be only moments before the glass gave way, and they exploded into the formerly cheerful café with a rank deluge of gore and daemonic lust.

The roar of an engine and automatic gunfire cut through the bestial noise. A moment later, a Range Rover plowed through the attackers, pinning some under tires and against the glass. It screeched to a halt with the rear passenger door aligned to the café door.

An armed Kastrioti asset opened the vehicle’s door and brandished a combat shotgun, aiming it at them. Ryan pulled Dianne away, and the man blasted the weakened glass door.

“With me,” said Ryan, pulling Dianne after him before she could say anything.

She let him guide her to the other man, who pulled her into the SUV.

Ryan waited until she’d been seated before pivoting to run back to get Germaine, who’d managed to sit upright, leaning on her elbows.

He scooped her up and carried her back to the Range Rover as the driver and the other man shot their weapons from both sides at the undeterred daemoniacs , who climbed over each other like rats or insects trying to get into the armor-plated vehicle.

Ryan lunged into the SUV’s rear seat, pulling the injured woman onto his lap while yelling, “Go, go, go!” even before he swung the door closed.

A moment later, a massive detonation shook the waterfront promenade thirty meters away.

Its blast wave rocked the Range Rover, sending the SUV’s rear tires sliding across the pavement.

All around them, the possessed citizens and tourists fell abruptly to the ground as if they were marionettes whose strings had been sliced at the same time.

The driver recovered from the fishtail and floored the gas, speeding east on the D410 highway and freedom.

Behind them in the bell tower of the Cathedral of St. Domnius, a one-eyed daemoniac stood watching impassively as the reinforced luxury SUV gunned its engines and raced away.

The vitreous gel had dried on his cheek, but he’d already forgotten the initial spurt of pain as his eye burst. The human to which the eye belonged had long succumbed to its master’s will—a master in the form of a daemon who’d withstood the painful harmonics that had overcome his fellow daemons .

The same daemon who’d engaged the paladin inside a weak female vessel, now broken and discarded like the worthless plaything she’d been.

The daemon waited until the Range Rover had traveled beyond the limits of the current male vessel’s remaining eye. Then he lifted the cellphone the woman had dropped on the pier, its line still open to someone named Olivia.

Someone powerful enough to wield harmonic weapons the daemon had never encountered before. True harmonic weapons, measured, precise, and deadly across distance. Weapons no being with human blood had ever wielded.

Weapons no being short of an angel should ever be allowed to possess, let alone wield.

Worse, the daemon had sensed the harmonic bond, slender and weak as it was, already formed between the paladin and the woman.

The vulnerable woman who had a blood relationship with this supernaturally powerful Olivia.

The bond between the paladin and this unshielded woman must not be allowed to become permanent.

Thoughtfully he pressed the call-end button and slipped the device into his vessel’s pocket. He had his own powerful weapon that would enable him to infiltrate and poison the fragile human relationship.

And destroy the Elioud stronghold from the inside.