Revelation (25 page)

He adjusted himself, wincing. Once this was over, he’d do something about it, find himself one of those cute giggling angel girls Trillium knew, who thought it was hot to play games with the bad boys.

But the idea didn’t interest him. Other girls didn’t have her brave, self-flagellating intelligence, her wit, her iron strength. They didn’t make him burn to shelter and possess and consume them. Other girls didn’t make him long to be better so he could deserve them. Only Morgan would do.

As if he should have expected anything else. Fate was fate. If Morgan was the one, then she was, and not a fucking thing he could do about it.

He tugged his sweaty hair hard in frustration. But he couldn’t drag his eyes away from her. She was too much. In a moment, he’d forget his manners and jump on her while she was sleeping. He couldn’t stay here alone.

He pulled out his phone, unease rippling his feathers. Twice, they’d been attacked by imps who seemed to know exactly where to look. The starvewraiths had even known who Morgan was. It could be coincidence, but Lune knew that coincidence was bullshit. The imps could’ve followed him and Morgan all along, watching them. But imps were mere helldirt, not fit to challenge a full-blood angel, even a Tainted one. Someone must have put them on his trail.

The first time, at the morgue, only Dashiel knew Lune’s whereabouts. The second time, Lune called Japheth. Hard to believe either would pass information to hellspawn. But the world was going to hell. Anything was possible.

Lune gritted his teeth, bitterness scorching sick. It couldn’t be true. But he couldn’t take any chances, not with Morgan. Who else knew about her? Trillium and Jadzia were at his aerie, too, and might’ve heard where they were going. Count them out for helpers. Ariel was out of town, and in any case didn’t exactly approve of humans. That left only one.

Luniel turned away, keeping Morgan just visible. He hid the glowing screen so as not to wake her, and called.

Outside the window, Zuul beetled over the brick wall, claws digging into the cracks, and peered through a gap in the blinds.

Ah, the angel’s human slut, her pretty face relaxed in sleep, those ripe lips easing apart as she breathed. Her thickheaded honey licker hunkered in the corner, obviously paying more attention to his hard-on than the task at hand. The candy-rich scent of Lune’s desire made Zuul gag. He could have crept right in and dived down her throat, and the stupid hunk of heavenmeat wouldn’t have noticed.

To be fair, Zuul was invisible, a transparent shadow bathed in warm dawn, his telltale hellscent sloughed away with the sunlight. He was good at hiding.

His unseen hair tumbled over his forehead as he licked hate-bitter lips. He’d floated like stardust as his starvewraiths attacked Lune in flight, and his blood had burned in anticipation when the woman fell. To taste her anguish as she plummeted to her doom, the sick agony of her bowels releasing, the stabbing pain in her heart as it exploded, the lovely wet crunch of living meat slamming into earth…He’d nearly snapped to flesh himself and fallen with her, just so he could be there.

But the Tainted slime had ruined it. Saved her. Dragged her from the air and brought her here, and now he didn’t even have the courtesy to grind her face into the floor and fuck her until she bled so Zuul could get off.

But there’d be time for that, oh, yes. The pretty Prince of Poison had spoken truly, and Zuul laughed, scattering ash. Luniel’s obsession made this human more intriguing by the minute. Imagine the pain when Zuul took her. Raped her, tore her skin, cracked her bones, taught her what it meant to hurt—and made
all the better by the angel’s anguish. He might even let Lune thrash him a bit, just to give it a real edge.

The poison prince had promised him pain. Zuul’s mouth watered just thinking about it. Azaroth would be pleased, also. Anything that tortured an angel made Azaroth smile, and when Azaroth smiled, the world suffered.

Softly, he tossed a handful of ash, a poisoned dream. It shimmered through the glass like fine snow, drifting over Morgan’s face. The specks glistened on her skin, and dissolved, and she whimpered, curling up for comfort in the chilly clutches of a nightmare.

Zuul grinned, hungry.
Not long, my pretty. Soon, you’ll be ours. Your blood will wash my skin, and I’ll taste your salty screams. And will your Tainted angel chase you to hell, in a doomed attempt to rescue your soul?

I think he might.

Satisfied, Zuul drifted away into hot sunlight.

When Morgan awoke, the clock showed 6:35 p.m., and the remnants of some fevered dream itched at memory’s edge. Dark clouds, thunder, sultry storms clogging her breath. Caresses she didn’t want, warm twisted flesh forcing inside her, horrid unwanted pleasure, a raw scream thrashing up her throat. She’d cried for help, but got only silence and darkness…

She shivered, and climbed out of bed, blinking the dream away.

Her bedroom was empty, sweet with her angel’s lingering scent. All was quiet. Her mouth twisted. If he’d left without her, she’d kick his holy ass.

She padded out into the living room, rubbing her eyes. Someone had opened her blinds, and evening sun streamed in. The rich scent of coffee tempted her. “Luniel, are you—oh.”

An angel perched on the kitchenette bench, legs crossed, dark eyes sweeping a magazine’s pages. But it wasn’t Luniel.

The woman looked up, and smiled. Her sleek black wings shimmered, iridescent with a gorgeous patina of emerald and rose. Her shining hair was the same magical color, cut long and sharp with a saucy flick at the ends. Her long legs stretched taut and muscled in tight black pants and boots. Tiny waist, flaring
hips, full breasts under her curved silver plating. Her beautiful face shone, pale and flawless, luminous like Morgan had come to expect. Dark, slanted green eyes, warm with tempting secrets. Her heart-shaped lips tweaked into an artful smile.

Morgan fidgeted. She wanted to fix her hair, tidy her face. She’d thought Jadzia, the blond one, was cool and beautiful. This woman was…sultry. Sexy. Effortlessly gorgeous. The bitch at the party who all the guys couldn’t take their eyes off.

Shit. Don’t tell me Lune lied about that girlfriend, because you just got outclassed, Morgan old thing.

Not that she cared, of course. Lune could do what he liked. Right?

She straightened, determined not to be bitchy. “Um. Hi.”

“Hi,” Ms. Gorgeous said, jumping down and laying her magazine aside. She’d helped herself to coffee, the espresso machine still gurgling. A silver crossbow lay on the bench, with a quiver of wicked-looking spikes. “I’m Iria. Lune called, said he needed a hand. He flashed home for a shower.” Her eyes glinted golden. “Boys. They’re so vain. And you are more than pretty, Morgan Sterling. I can see why he’s so uptight.”

Awesome.
Pretty
was right up there with
nice
. She offered her hand. “Uh, thanks for coming, I guess.”

Iria shook it. She smelled of perfume, a spicy cocktail of patchouli and Chanel No. 5, and her voice was a husky contralto. “You’re a doctor, right? You cut up dead people?”

They were all so fascinated with that. “Yeah. Assistant medical examiner. Autopsies ‘R’ Us.”

“Cool. Smart, and skillful, too. I approve. I cut ’em up, too, you know,” Iria confided, leaning closer. “I just do it before they’re dead.”

Morgan laughed, uneasy. “Someone’s gotta do the dirty jobs, right?”

But Iria sniffed at her, and frowned. “You have any bad dreams last night?”

“Huh?” Fragmented images flashed. Icy fingers shackling her wrists, holding her down. Cruel laughter, burning hands caressing her naked skin, teasing her, torturing her, opening her. Someone—some
thing
—fucking her. Raping her. She’d fought and screamed, alone.

Iria sniffed Morgan’s hair, wrinkling her lovely straight
nose. “I can smell ash. Demon mind poison. You sure you didn’t dream?”

“Um. Maybe. I don’t really remember.” Morgan swallowed. “It was dark, I was…lying down. Someone…touched me, and I tried to get away, but…”

“Demons can visit you in dreams. It’s one way they seed temptation.”

Morgan squirmed. “Yeah? Well, this guy’s planting the wrong seeds, let me tell you.”

“Don’t be so sure. You feel all right now?”

“I guess so. I just woke up.”

“Come here.” Iria touched two fingers to Morgan’s forehead.

Light sparkled down her body, power scintillating in her flesh. Hot, tingling, like pleasure, only…alien. The flesh between her legs throbbed, not altogether nice.

Iria frowned, oblivious. “Hmm. Don’t see anything left—”

“Don’t see what?”

Morgan jumped back. She hadn’t heard Luniel come in.

He’d showered, just as Iria said. Dressed the same, silver armor and black leather, his skin shining. His damp midnight hair tangled, tiny droplets shining on his wings like he’d returned in a hurry. He’d look gorgeous in the shower, water like quicksilver through his hair, down his back, over his muscled chest, feathers glossy and wet…

“I see you two have met. What’s up?” Lune gazed at her, smoldering.

With a warm shiver, she remembered she wasn’t wearing anything but a t-shirt and panties. “Umm…”

“Nothing,” cut in Iria brusquely. She glided to face him, hips swaying. “Just chatting. Listen, are you sure about this imp business? I mean, I can check it out, but do you really think Dash and Jae are ratting you out?”

Lune’s wings arched. “You tell me.”

Iria sliced the air with her hand, an angry but graceful denial. “I don’t believe it. Not Dash. And Japheth’s an ice-hearted monster, we all know that, but I can’t believe he’d spit on us like that.”

Morgan squirmed. She hadn’t met Japheth. But Dashiel seemed…genuine. Truthful. Like he gave a shit.

“Neither can I.” Lune folded his arms, brutal muscles swelling. “But I don’t know what else to think. Jaz and Trill were there, too. You’re the only one I can trust.”

“Trillium’s heart is golden,” Iria insisted, eyes gleaming. “He’d never betray us. And Jaz is just a kid. She worships you—”

“Someone told them where to look for us, Iria.” Luniel’s expression darkened, stormy. “I know it wasn’t you, and that’s all I know.”

Morgan bit her lip. Lune obviously trusted Iria. But Iria hadn’t told Lune about the dream. Was she hiding something? Why?

But Iria just nodded. “Okay. I’ll check it out, but you might not like what I find.”

Luniel shrugged. “Fate’s a bitch.” He turned to Morgan, and everything about him…eased up. Not
softened
, exactly. But calm silver light rippled his feathers, and vanished, and she sensed his temper cooling, like he didn’t want to scare her.

“You ready?” he asked. Calm, soft, reassuring. But his gaze still stormed, dark, and she remembered his shattered reaction last night when she’d fallen. Was he guilty? Embarrassed? Afraid she hadn’t forgiven him? He didn’t need to worry. She was fine.

She forced a smile. He deserved that much, even if she still didn’t trust him. “Yep. Zombies to hunt, demon ass to kick. Give me five minutes.”

She hurried to the bathroom, and swiftly she showered, dried, and dressed in clean jeans (pale this time) and a black t-shirt. Emotions stirred a cocktail in her guts, tension with a dash of fear, but lashings of excitement, too. She wanted to fight this plague demon, she realized. Put an end to the horror once and for all. And if the disease was a person, not a mindless virus? All the sweeter.

She brushed her teeth and clipped her hair at the nape, studying herself in the full-length mirror. Her eyes shone, their honey color unusual enough to be striking. They were her best feature. Nice face, even if she wasn’t exactly a supermodel. She was fit. Strong. Trim waist. Big butt, but not
too
big. And her boobs looked mighty good in this t-shirt. She thought he liked them. Perhaps she should put on some makeup, a swish of lipstick and something sultry around her eyes…

She laughed.
Nice one, Morgan. Very modern. About to get eaten by zombies, and all you care about is what some guy you’ve known for one day thinks of your look.

Some guy. Right. A hot-blooded, beautiful, shockingly unhuman guy. Who spent his life surrounded by sexy, tough-as-iron warrior women like Iria. And Morgan was just a talentless human doctor, who didn’t even have the guts to believe in a God who’d scorned her.

She smoothed her t-shirt, determined. She was who she was. And if Luniel thought himself above her, that was his problem.

She strapped on the silver knife in its sheath—it sighed, wriggling in her hand as if it, too, was just waking up—and walked into the living room.

Luniel and Iria were talking, close, in low voices. His hand lay on her shoulder, and her blue-green wingtip curled around his. At Morgan’s footstep, they looked up and fell silent.

She swallowed, cheeks afire. “Oh. Sorry.”

Iria murmured something, gave a little smile. Lune nodded, and they embraced. Kissed, the corners of their mouths touching. Maybe more than the corners. Morgan squirmed, itching. Damn it. Why was she itching?

Iria flipped her a wave, and vanished in a white flash. Another thing Morgan couldn’t do.

Jealous much?
She yanked open the fridge and grabbed a bottle of sliced peaches. She shoved in a spoon and munched, not trusting herself to speak. This was ridiculous. If she didn’t care for Luniel’s opinion, why did seeing him with Iria make her want to hide under the bed?

Luniel’s sooty feathers twitched. “What? What’s wrong?”

She shrugged, stuffing in another slice. “Dunno what you mean,” she managed, muffled.

“C’mon, Morgan. You smell angry. It’s all warm and prickly like sherbet.”

“No, I’m not.” Juice dripped on her chin. “And who said you were allowed to smell me?”

He stalked closer, sniffing, a teasing flare in his wings. “Yes, you are. Most definitely Sherbet Girl. But…wait. No.” His eyes glinted, a flash of green surprise. “Morgan…are you jealous? Of Iria?”

Her guts wrenched tight. “No, of course not. Why would I be?”

He laughed. “Hell, I don’t know. Because she’s smart and gorgeous and kick-ass and perfect in about eight million other ways? C’mon. You are. Admit it.”