Revelation (35 page)

But it didn’t soothe. Didn’t heal. Didn’t fix what he’d done.

Stiffly, he swooped to his loft. Fuck, the place still smelled of her, that honeyed woman scent he adored. The burned cushions still dipped from her weight, and a curling strand of her hair glimmered dark. He tugged his pants on, roughly, almost tearing the leather. He left the breastplate where it was. No point going after her. She’d only run from him.

The irony was fucking laughable. He’d finally proven to himself he could keep her safe, and now she wouldn’t let him. He loved her, and he’d made her hate him.

Nice work, Lune. Well thought out. You fucking idiot.

He dived down and landed with a thump in front of the dresser. Whiskey. Now. It took a lot of alcohol to feel anything. He’d drunk himself a little crazy that night with Jadzia. How far away that seemed. How…insignificant.

He poured a glass of Glenlivet, his fingers slipping on the bottle, and drank it down straight up. The harsh liquid burned his already stinging throat. No matter. No more than he deserved.

He downed another, his stomach slimy with self-hatred that squirmed and bit like a serpent.
Vorvian was right, shithead. Eleanor didn’t love you. How could she, when you couldn’t give her a life? And Morgan, holy Jesus, as if a glorious fire goddess like Morgan would ever want anything you’ve got.

He slumped against the wall, his wings crushing, and slammed his skull into the wood, twice. Heaven, he wanted oblivion. The ache in his heart to smother. The stupid hateful voices in his head to die in brutal silence. The torment of her accusing eyes to fade away, just for a few moments.

The hateworm in his guts sniggered.
But it’ll never fade, will it?
You broke her. It’s your fault. She’ll never stop haunting you.

Lune gritted his teeth. He’d see her always, seared into his heart like he’d looked too long into the sun and blinded himself.

Fuck the glass. He swigged from the bottle, draining half of it. His vision wobbled. At last, a reaction. He chugged the rest, whiskey trickling on his chin, and flung the bottle away to smash on the floor. His balance blurred, and in dark satisfaction he fumbled on the dresser for another bottle.

In his pocket, his phone rang.

He ignored it, ripping the wrapper from the screw top and twisting it open. Another bottle should do it. Getting drunk was vile. But he felt vile. Worse than flesh. Dirt. He’d drink himself to darkness, and then tomorrow, he’d wake up and deal.

Tomorrow.

The phone rang out. A second later, it rang again.

Persistent motherfucker. Lune took a swallow, and fumbled the phone out. Dash was calling. That was nice. “Dash, what the fuck…” He laughed, and stifled it with another mouthful.
Fuck her and get it over with,
Dash said. Wow. That worked so well.

“Lune? What the hell’s wrong with you?” A scuffle in the background, shouts, the silky song of sirens.

“Nothing, man.” Lune smothered another laugh. “Really. It’s all good. Never been better.”

“Whatever. Look, I’ve been meaning to tell y—motherfucker!” Steel clashed, a splat of bodies. “Shit. Sorry. Look, I’ve been trying to tell you. The Prince of Poison. It’s—”

“Vorvian. Yeah, I know. I saw him.” Lune’s voice echoed in his own ears, dull. Whiskey burned his mouth sour. “He…Fuck. It doesn’t matter.”

“Is everything okay?” Soft, sharp with concern.

“No. Yes. I mean…”

“Talk to me, Lune. Is Morgan—”

“She’s gone, Dash.” Lune’s eyes burned. “Vorvian got away. I fucked it. She’s gone.”

Dash sucked in a breath. “Jesus. Okay. Look, don’t sweat it, dude. Once this is over we’ll track the skanky hellshit down together and rip his guts out. Right?”

“Sure. Whatever.”

“I mean it, kid. It’s not your fault and I’ll tell ’em so. If we go down, we all go down together.”

Lune bit down a scream. He didn’t want forgiveness, or sympathy. Just pain, guilt, oblivion. “It’s really not—”

“Listen, I appreciate you’re preoccupied, but we could really use you down here. This bloodfest is getting hairy. Ugly hellspawn crawling down our throats. You up?”

Lune tilted his head back to chug more whiskey, and his guts wriggled, protesting the misuse. Fatigue ached his limbs. His fingers shook, weak. His blood burned sluggish. The alcohol sloshed in his wits, blurring dreams with cold reality, and glory
sparked weakly along his nerves, shedding no warmth. He’d never felt less like fighting.

So fuck it, then. Go down screaming. Why wait? What’s left to live for?

Crazy laughter rocked him, and he emptied the bottle and dropped it to smash at his feet. “Sure, Dash. What the hell. Save some of those sick motherfuckers for me.”

He ended, and stuffed the phone into his pocket. Dived unsteadily for his loft, dug out a fresh shirt and buckled on his silver. His fingers fumbled, drunk and thick on the leather.

Honey scent seduced his nostrils, and the bittersweet memory of Morgan tortured him. Coaxing his buckles open, her fingertips gliding over his chest…

His skin burned, desire and loss. She was gone. Alone. She’d never trust him to protect her. And without protection, she’d die alone.

Better start living with it.

Ruthless, Lune yanked the last strap tight, and flashed out.

Crouched in shadow beside the gleaming glass wall of a corporate lobby, Dashiel cursed, raw. Lune sounded all fucked up. If Vorvian had taken Morgan…

Shit. Lune was a good kid with rotten luck, and Morgan seemed like a decent woman. Life sucked.

But bigger fish to batter right now.

He adjusted his sword grip, sweaty hair sticking to his neck. The traffic barriers cast moonlit shadows on the concrete sidewalk, and heat shimmered thick with the stink of gore. The Prince of Blood’s fucked-up sacrifice party was somewhere near, and the place streamed with sniggering hellspawn, hungry for a bite.

Speaking of which…A shuffle from behind a shuttered-up newsstand pricked his ears sharp. Two fat imps hunkered, banging their knuckles like red-skinned apes. Their sharp teeth flashed under scything helicopter searchlights from above, and they swung spiked chains in circles, threatening.

Hot breeze dragged Dash’s hair back, the thud of the blades pumping his pulse harder. He flung himself horizontal, a stinging flash of glory dazzling from his palm. The red apes shrieked,
blood spilling from their eyes. He hacked them apart with twin slices of his sword and a blistering curse.

He landed, flaring his wings to a halt beside the glass lobby wall as the helicopter banked away. Glory fired his blood, a crimson seduction he couldn’t resist. It licked his throat with delicious thirst for slaughter, and his muscles exulted, quivering.

Heaven help him, but he loved it. Better than sex, or any weak human drug. All the mad-sweet impulses of fight and fuck and die, sprinting in his veins, pumping through his flesh, hot and glorious. His senses flashed bright, sharpened to raw predator’s instinct. He sniffed the air, hungry, as he unlocked the revolving door with a silvery flash of magic and stole through in search of prey. Only more death could release him. Only slaughter filled the screaming hole where his soul once lay…

A faint rustle stung his hypersensitive ears, and he whirled and struck.

Japheth parried, two-handed, steel clashing crosswise.
Fuck
. Dash checked his counterattack, inches from the kill. “Jesus,” he panted, struggling for control. “Watch who you creep up on.”

But Japheth just grinned, savage, and flung Dash backwards, his blade point driving unerringly for Dash’s throat.

Japheth held his sword steady, determination icing his veins. Holy steel could kill an angel, just as easily as a demon’s blade. One flick of his wrist, and it’d be done.

Dash backed up against the shiny steel wall, his feathers flaming darkly. “Watch it, kid—”

“Shut up.” Japheth steadied his sword arm, a cold flash of control, but the hot darkness clogged his feathers, crept inside his armor, licked him like a hungry demon lover. He wanted to hide, curl up in cold comforting denial and pretend this wasn’t happening.

Just like he pretended hunger and lust and desire didn’t happen. It was easier that way. Chilly. Unaffected. Remote.

But the guilt swelling inside him wasn’t chilly. It scorched like acid, melting through his ice-walled facade until it reached his heart and gorged itself, and he wanted to scream his culpability to heaven.

But heaven already knew.

Dash glared, poisonous, but didn’t strike back. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I can’t do this anymore.” Japheth’s hand trembled. “I can’t stay here. It’s killing me. I have to get home.”

“What the fuck’s that got to do with—” Dash’s face darkened. “Fuck me raw. Michael put you up to this, didn’t he? I told you to stay the hell away from him.”

Japheth flushed, bitter. Like resisting had made any difference. “I’m sorry, Dash. I have to do this.”

“Why?” Dash demanded. He vanished his sword, a snap of angry blue sparks. He could have flashed out. He didn’t. “Because he said so? Kill me and get redeemed? What’s wrong with this picture, Jae?”

“You’re wasting your breath.”

“Yeah, maybe I am. You’ve got a big fat blind spot, kid, and it’s shaped like a wiseass archangel who can’t keep his dick in his pants. Can’t you see how he plays you? Since when did slaughter win redemption?”

Japheth laughed, acidic. “That’s just beautiful, coming from you.”

“That’s different.” Dash’s tone was even. Calm. At ease with his addiction.

“The hell it is!” Japheth’s sword twitched, slicing an angry crimson line along Dash’s neck. “We all kill demons, don’t we? For heaven’s glory? How is this any worse?”

“Demons are evil. They deserve to die.”

“Do they?” Japheth wristed sweaty hair from his forehead, shaking. “What does
evil
mean anyway? We kill them, they kill us. What’s the difference?”

“The difference is that we give a fuck whether it’s right or wrong! Redemption is in the heart, Jae. Not in a list of rules.”

Japheth stared up into Dash’s burning eyes, and the last safe lick of frost over his heart melted.

Rage lit like magnesium. He slammed Dash hard against the wall, jabbing the blade point under his chin. “You think so, huh? After you’ve spent the last two thousand years acting like a bloodthirsty whore? Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“I know it’s so.” Dash gritted his teeth, the blade slicing
sharp. “Wanna go back upstairs? You’ve gotta forgive yourself for what you’ve done.”

“Right. That easy, is it?”

“No one said it w—”

“Screw you, okay?” Sweat trickled from Jae’s hair, and he shook it away angrily. “If it’s so damned simple, why don’t you just flit back off to heaven whenever you f—”

“Because I’ll never forgive myself!”

Japheth’s breath drained cold.

“Okay?” Dash’s dark eyes flamed scarlet with shame. “I can’t forgive the things I’ve done, or the way I feel. I’ve drowned my soul in blood and screams, and it felt so fucking good that I deserve to burn in hell. Forever.”

Guilt and sorrow scorched Japheth’s heart, a raging fire he couldn’t quench. He tried to pray, but the acid pain of a lie clawed his lungs, and the words dissolved into bitter ash in his throat.

Dash didn’t give him the mercy of looking away. “I’ll never be redeemed. I know that. I’m too far gone.”

Jae’s eyes ached. God, he wanted to stab, bleed, get this over with. He wanted to spring to wings and flee. “Dash—”

“But you aren’t.” Dash gazed down at him, inches away like a lover but infinitely more powerful. “You made a mistake, and Michael smacked you down for it. But you’ve got a good heart, Jae. Don’t let him spoil it. Don’t fall so far you can’t ever climb back.” His wings flashed a gold-glittered challenge. “Now. Either kill me, and get it over with. Or get your glory on, golden boy. We’ve got demons to hunt.”

Japheth clamped cruel teeth, an agony of decision. Holy fire tingled sweet seduction in his blood, and his fingers tightened on his sword.

Morgan blinked, and shook herself from a treacherous doze.

Whoa
. She teetered on her stool, the laboratory desk banging into her elbows. The digitally enhanced microscope image came into focus, and she scrabbled to stop her glass eyedropper slipping from her hand.

Shit. How long had she been drifting? The wall clock said
too long
. Nearly six in the morning, the fluorescent lights glaring gritty in her eyes. She’d been here for an hour, testing, making up slides, observing cellular mutations and deaths. The yellow infectious wastebin on her desk was packed with discarded samples, and a hot ache stabbed behind her eyes with ferocious vengeance she felt sure had only begun.

Nothing yet. But she had to keep trying.

She took a few deep breaths, trying to wake up. A concave glass sample dish still sat in the viewing slot, an infected skin sample. She dipped a clean dropper in her solution, the digital measuring scanner sucking up a precise quantity, and she bent to the stereoscopic viewer and delicately slotted the dropper’s point under the view screen.

Her tired hand spasmed, and the dropper broke with a crack.

Glass stabbed. She yelped, yanking her stinging hand back.
Blood sprayed from the cut. A tiny drop landed on the dish, and almost imperceptibly, it glowed.

Morgan gaped. Smoke wisped from the glass, so tiny she could barely see.

Holy shit on toast.
She peered at the screen, her throat tight. The blood had barely touched the edge of the cellular growth. But the infected cells were disintegrating…

No.
She gulped. They were
healing
. Regenerating. The corruption was reversing, the angry scarlet skin cells reverting to their original, pale, lenticular shape.

Her blood was killing the virus.

Her mind raced. How? She’d been sick, and now she was cured. Could her blood now contain antibodies that attacked the virus? Nothing showed on the slide. Virus cells themselves were too small. But the skin cells were springing back to life, like…