Demon of Vengeance: Chronicles of the Fallen, Book 4 Read Free Page A

don’t do it, she scolded herself the moment that traitorous self-sabotaging thought slipped out. Don’t jinx yourself.
    Phoebe skimmed the crowd at the gate, looking for her guide Ricardo. She didn’t see him, but she was familiar enough with both Ricardo as well as her general location that she wasn’t the slightest bit anxious. Mexico—particularly the jungles and all its small hole-in-the-wall villages—were a second home to her and she spoke the regional dialects like a native.
    She should. She’d pretty much grown up here.
    Even before her quest to recover the stolen sword had begun, Phoebe had already been well-versed in many of the archeological ruins of Mexico. She’d spent more of her formative years exploring them at her father’s side than learning in a traditional classroom. The mythology. The art and architecture. Creation stories. The very ruins themselves. It was all in her blood, as it had been in her father’s. He’d taught her everything he knew.
    Perhaps one of the most important things she’d learned from his tutelage was to hire a dependable guide, one she could trust with her very life. After all, no one knew the lay of the land as well as a local.
    That guide was Ricardo Esteban Reynosa Alcalá. Her father had relied on Ricardo without reservation. Phoebe did as well, and he’d never let her down. In fact, on their last trip together, Ricardo had saved her life, at great risk to his own. If Ricardo said he would meet her, then meet her he would.
    But then, that wasn’t strictly true, she corrected herself. Not the meeting part, the worry part. She was plenty worried. Not that Ricardo would stand her up. What troubled her was that she would be exposing Ricardo, and any other innocent villagers they hired, to the increasing dangers she faced. She was terrified over the prospect, but she had no choice. The fate of something far greater hung in the balance.
    That understanding still didn’t mitigate the guilt. Ricardo had already been put at risk, had almost died because of her. If anything else happened to that sweet man, she just didn’t know what she’d do.
    She caught herself tracing her fingertips along the jagged, puckered scar tissue running from the edge of her jaw, just below her ear, down to the center of her throat. She made a conscious effort to drop her hand to her side. Drawing a deep breath and stiffening her spine, Phoebe gripped the strap on her bag with renewed purpose.
    The sword prophesied to be the tool that brought about the end of the world had been stolen. Her father, the sword’s Guardian, had been slain by Hell’s minion. A demon.
    A demon just like the one that had—
    She forced a swallow and shook that frightening thought away, squaring her shoulders. That left her—and her alone—to locate the ancient artifact and secret it away once more. Hide it and protect it with her life if need be.
    Talk about the weight of the world resting on the wrong shoulders.
    Grim, Phoebe scanned the crowd again, looking for her ride. And, even as she did so, she found her thoughts wandering over the details of her fruitless search, picking it apart. Time was ticking away. She could feel it like a giant, razor-sharp guillotine poised over her head. Urgency pushed her to hurry, though she didn’t know why. Knew only that something—something momentous— was happening. Somewhere. And it involved that sword. She had nothing more than a gut feeling—and the theft of the sword, of course—as proof, but she couldn’t shake the certainty.
    She’d begun her quest to reclaim the sword by retracing her father’s last excavation…the location of her father’s murder. For the thousandth time, she wished she’d gone with him on that trip. Wished she hadn’t let other obligations stand in the way. Maybe if she’d gone along things would have been different…
    And, even as she was filled with regret and guilt, she knew the truth. If she’d gone along, if she’d been there with