Revelation (17 page)

Morgan gaped, and risked a glance upwards, half expecting a lightning bolt. But the dust just settled, the echo fading. The dude must be asleep or something.

She shook her head, incredulous, and tossed Luniel the rucksack he’d taken from her office. He’d filled it with empty glass specimen jars, the kind with metal pop lids.

She stepped carefully over the rail. The font water glowed when Lune put his hand on the stone, golden as if sunshine pierced the depths. Morgan squinted around for light, but there was none. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s that?”

Luniel’s eyes glowed, too, heavenblue. “That, my good doctor, is faith. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

“You still believe in God? After what they did to you? Falling to earth, and all that?”

“Honey, if God didn’t exist, I wouldn’t be in this mess. Just because I fucked up doesn’t mean He’s not there.”

“So you’re not pissed at Him?”

“Loving and believing aren’t the same thing.” Luniel’s glance pierced her, unsettling. “Your science is a cruel mistress, I’ll bet. Doesn’t mean you don’t worship her, right?”

She fidgeted, recalling all the times she’d struggled to prove a hypothesis she knew in her heart was true, fighting evidence that wouldn’t support her case. Heartbreaking. But all the more satisfying when she finally got it right—and the richer the
sweetness eclipsing the bitter when she admitted she was wrong. “Then you don’t think it’s unjust that you should suffer for breaking His rules?”

Luniel laughed, warm and delighted, like she’d said something enchanting. “You want a world without consequences? A few folks tried that. They got thrown out of the garden, so I heard.” He unzipped the bag, breaking out the squat cylindrical jars. “The world is what it is. I knew the rules when I broke them. Whining about injustice won’t change anything.”

Her old anger flared. “So we should just do as we’re told without question, then?”

“Obedience? Shit. You’re asking the wrong angel. Try Japheth, he’s better at it than I am.”

“You’re avoiding the question. Sorry, but I prefer to make up my own mind.”

“Yeah. That’s what we all thought.” Luniel pushed a jar towards her along the font’s broad stone rim. “Fill ’em up, sister.”

She popped the round lid, the glass smooth and fine in her fingers. It’d break without much of a shock. “Holy water bombs?”

“More like Molotov cocktails. You’ll see.” He dipped a jar in the water, and snatched his hand back with a hiss of pain.

“What is it?” She touched his arm, alarmed.

A naughty smile. “Just kidding.”

She thumped him, laughing in spite of herself, and he dipped the jar again and filled it. But she couldn’t help noticing he used only his right hand.

The one without the Tainted sigil.

Guess he wasn’t taking any chances. And it only made what he’d been saying about God more believable.

She shrugged, uneasy, and started filling jars.

After what seemed like hours, Jadzia caught her breath, leaning against a coffee shop window for a moment’s respite. The fight had led her outside, into the barricaded traffic-free zone around Wall Street. Heat shimmered over the concrete. Blood—not her own—ran stinging down her cheek, and she wiped it off with a dirty hand. Her armor was splashed with gore and rotting flesh, and her sword arm ached.

The Prince of Blood’s little fan club had come downtown, all right. Dozens of the ugly motherfuckers, grinning and sharp-toothed, taunting her with insults and filthy come-ons, showing her bits of their bodies she really hadn’t needed to see. Mutie minions, remorseless, their souls already damned, armed with bike chains and chainsaws and heaven knew what else. Virus victims, slobbering and raging, their teeth slick with munched flesh. She’d killed them all, one after the other, slashing and stabbing and tearing with her bare hands.

She managed a feral grin. Iria was right. Slaughter had made her feel better. Her sorrow had burned away, for the time being. Now, only anger raged in her veins. At the monsters. At the minions who willingly followed them. At the as-yet-unseen Prince of Blood who ruled them all.

And at the ones who’d done this to her. The archangels who made her into a killing machine, bereft of love or hope.

A lazy footstep scraped behind her, and she whirled and stabbed straight for the hellwraith’s heart.

A lanky apelike thing, grinning at her, its wiry limbs flailing as it brandished a razor-sharp pitchfork. Clotted black blood spurted, and she yanked her sword back and slashed, sending its greasy brown head spinning to splatter the glass wall.

No, raging at the archangels didn’t change things. But it sure made her feel better for now.

She flicked the mess from her sword and walked on. Sweat trickled inside her armor, the heat cloying in her nostrils and drying her mouth. In the basement, she and Iria had found a bunch of terrified humans, cowering together naked in a rusted cage, where the muties and hellshits had left them waiting to be sacrificed. A vast vat already awaited their warm living blood. They screamed when they saw Jaz and Iria coming, and when the two angels tore the metal gate from its rivets and set them free, the pitiful creatures fled. Ungrateful scum.

But that was what she was here for, Jadzia reflected as she crept across the bright-lit street and under a cantilever, sword poised, her sharp angelsight gleaming white. Saving the tortured. Rescuing the benighted. Bringing relief to the almost damned.

Pity there was no one to do the same for her.

Broken glass crunched behind her. She tensed, ready to whirl, and velvety blackness snuffed out the light.

Stifling emptiness sucked away her breath. No light. Not from her sword, not from the moon nor the office windows. Nothing. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t hear. Only her own heartbeat, pounding in her ears.

Demon magic.

She whirled blind, slashing with her invisible sword at throat height.

Icy breeze goosepimpled her skin, blowing her hair back, and a fierce blow rammed her face-first into a wall. Something hard slammed into her wrist, and her sword fell from nerveless fingers, making no sound on the pavement.

Hot steel whispered across the back of her neck, a searing kiss, and a hand yanked her head back by the hair.

“Pleased to meet you, angel,” the demon whispered into hellspelled silence. “Now move one muscle, and I’ll carve your pretty head from your neck.”

Jadzia panted, her heart racing. Solid blackness. It didn’t matter whether she opened her eyes or not. She couldn’t see. She could only feel the demon’s hard body, burning, jamming her against the wall. His fingers curled in her hair, singeing. His razor-sharp weapon licked heat down the back of her neck.

She struggled, kicking for his shins. He jammed his knee between hers, spreading her legs. She wished for her sword, but he knocked it from her hand again. His blade stung deeper. “I said, don’t move.”

His sepulchral voice shivered deep inside her. He was tall. Strong. She couldn’t shift him. Defeated at last, by distraction and a stupid black helltrick. Fuck.

She harbored no illusions about what he’d do to her. Torture her. Flay her alive. Chew her wings off, fuck her, invite his hell-crazy friends and gang-rape her until she whimpered for death.

No more than she deserved.

One last act of defiance. Make him kill her. She rammed her head backwards, skull connecting with a sick crunch. He grunted, pain and surprise.

“I moved, hellshit,” she sneered. “So kill me and get it over with.”

And she closed her eyes and waited for the end. Hot demon steel, slicing her spine in two. Exquisite numbness. Nothing.

The demon’s fist tightened in her hair. His blade dug deeper, and blood trickled down inside her armor. And then he cursed, sibilant hellwords that blistered her cheek, and let go.

Light sprang bright, his demonspell dissolving. She blinked, dizzy with astonishment, and lurched around.

Her sword lay on the dirty pavement, spitting angry blue sparks. And the demon—tall, lean, a tumble of soft blue-black hair—eyed her ruefully, his crimson irises glowing. He wore black studded leather armor, sparks crackling with hellmagic, his wiry arms bare beneath curved shoulder guards. His temple trickled black where she’d clocked him. A thin curved blade hovered in his grip, steady but low.

“You got me,” he admitted, with a hell-sweet smile. “Can’t stab a lady in the back.”

For a dangerous moment, Jadzia stared, lost.

And then a disbelieving laugh throttled her. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she snarled, and in mid-sentence she leapt for her sword, rolled, and came up kicking.

Her boot slammed into his chiseled chin. He tumbled onto his back, and she dived on top of him, pinning his arms down with her elbows, his thighs with her knees. The angry heat of their contact—angel on demon—seared through their clothing. Skin on skin would burn.

She cracked his skull back into the pavement, and whipped her sword coolly to his throat. His satiny hair scorched her palm. “Still feeling gallant, hellslime?”

The demon choked, and metal clanged at her side. He’d dropped his blade. “Do it,” he spat through sharp teeth. “At least I’ll die with honor. Where’s your honor, lady?”

“In the fucking cesspit with yours,” she snarled, but her voice cracked, treacherous.

He’d had his chance, and let her live.
Can’t stab a lady in the back.
Not even a winged lady of heaven, snarling for his blood.

And this was how she’d repay that? Fountaining his hell-cursed life to the dirt?

She gripped her sword tighter. Black blood smeared, dripping
along his throat. But deep inside her chest, a shameful ache burned raw.

Fuck.

Shaking, she climbed to her feet and let him go.

The demon snaked gracefully up. His red eyes shone, warm and wary. “We understand each other, then. Be satisfied.”

Jadzia stared, dazed and trembling. Dimly, she registered that the other angels’ scents were faded, distant. They couldn’t see her. No one would ever know she’d let a demon live.

She’d regret this. Sure as the demonslime staining her hands, he’d come back to bite her on the ass. Kill her friends. Make her life a misery.

But she couldn’t kill an unarmed man who’d spared her life. Not even one from hell.

She leveled her sword, circling. “We understand nothing, demon. And I’m not satisfied. Pick up your god-rotting sword and let’s have at it.”

“And if I won’t?” He tossed night-blue hair over his shoulder, calm. He didn’t arm himself. Just stood there, glistening with sweat and blood.

She didn’t lower her sword. But her mind gibbered, confused. “What’s wrong with you? What do you want from me, demon?”

“You can stop calling me ‘demon,’ for a start. My name’s Shax. What’s yours?” He smiled, disarming, moonlight glittering his narrow face silver and jeweling his hair. Luminous, that face, cheekbones carved light like ice, and a sensuous, curving mouth.

So he was beautiful. Demons were. “I don’t care what your fucking name is,” she growled. “Fight me and let’s get it done.”

“I know why you’re here,” Shax offered, as if she hadn’t spoken. “The blood sacrifice. Vats of souls, vows to Satan, copious gluttony and lust. Sound familiar?”

“You talk too much.” She struck, sword flashing.

He dodged, agile, leaping back and aside. “What if I could help you? Tell you who’s responsible?”

“Cease your lies, demon. Why would you tell me that? For all I know, it’s you.” Another lunge, stabbing for his heart.

Another leap and dodge. “Far from it. The Prince of Blood’s in charge here. I’m just a sidekick. And I’m not the demon of lies, by the way.”

“No, you’re the demon of full of shit. Astonish me. Why the fuck would you help me?”

“Because I’m moved.” Shax’s sunset gaze didn’t slip. “You’re kind and beautiful, lady. Even hell weeps at beauty.”

She flushed, her heart beating faster. His eyes were so warm. So sincere. “Whatever. Spill your secrets, if it makes you feel better. I’ll only beat ’em out of you when I catch you.”

“A favor in return, my moonlight-haired queen.” His hot velvety voice sparkled down her spine.

Flattery. A cheap shot. But Jadzia stammered, stupid. Iria would know what to do. Flirt back. Spit in his face. Kill him.

Sweat dripped inside her breastplate, and she shivered. She tried to think, make a decision. He might have useful information. He might be lying through his teeth. She could always kill him afterwards. She should kill him right now.

But part of her just wanted to stand there and gaze into his hypnotic scarlet eyes.

She shook herself, keeping her burning sword leveled. If this…Shax…was mesmerizing her with hellmagic, he’d be sorry.

But she didn’t feel spell addled. She felt…noticed. Warm and shivery. Aware.

She fidgeted, flushing. “I…I can’t give you anything. I don’t have anything you want.”

“But you do.” He edged closer, daring, within range of her blade.

She didn’t strike. “What?”

“Your name, solitary lady.” Shax touched her sword’s tip with one finger. It hissed, smoking. He didn’t flinch. Just pushed it aside, and gave her that intoxicating smile. “Tell me your name.”

Her throat dried. Time stopped. And in a black flash, she was back in that stinking tunnel, fingers wrapped around steel bars, the starving demon’s tears streaking her palm.

Compassion pierced her heart, sharp like ice. She’d been touched, yes. Horrified. Moved to sympathy. But she wasn’t a coward. No matter how Michael judged her. And she wouldn’t back down now.

She swallowed on a rough lump in her throat. “It’s Jadzia.”

Shax dipped his sleek dark head, but his gaze never left hers.
“Jadzia,” he repeated, and the feel of his beautiful lips wrapping around her name made her shiver and sweat. “I’m humbled, lady.”

She swallowed. Temptation. That’s all it was. Demon lies. Not connection. Not…attraction.

They stayed like that, gazes locked, for a long time.

Jadzia trembled. “You’re not as I expected, de—Shax.”

“Likewise. Perhaps that understanding of ours is stronger than you suppose. Now,” he added with a sweet dark smile, “tell me what can
I
do for
you
.” And the demon reached out, and stroked one fingertip through a loose lock of her hair.