Revelation (39 page)

Morgan yelled, struggling in Vorvian’s grip.
No. Not that. Anything but that…

But years of bitter guilt swamped her, cold and thick like floodwater, swirling over her, clogging her throat and dragging her down to the icy depths of certainty.

Her fault.
Just like she’d told Lune. If she and Mom hadn’t fought, if she’d listened, given Mom the time of day instead of weaving home drunk and smoking herself sick and giving herself to every sly-eyed boy who wanted a piece, just to get some attention…

Vorvian laughed, devilish. “Mommy’s love? That’s it? Satan’s balls, I’m puking over here. That’s pathetic, Morgan. Truly. Let me tell you a secret:
Mommy’s dead and in hell.
She’ll never love you! Ha ha!”

Anguish ripped her nerves raw. Hell had never been real. Just a story to frighten children. But now, she believed it. Torment, never ending, on and on, beyond world’s end and forever. And it made her want to scream her heart out.

“Oh, come, it’s not that serious. Breaking eggs for omelettes, all that. At least I’ll get to have some fun! Some things are worth giving your soul for, aren’t they?”

Hot temptation licked her, and she moaned, tossing in her fugue. “No,” she managed, her mouth full of cotton.
No surrender. Not until the last star burns out.

“You think not? How about…” Vorvian’s evil inspiration
pierced her skin, a thousand stinging needles. “How about
this
?”

And his vision rained over her, a handful of ash, glittering like a crystal-bright dream.

She saw herself, white coat and gloves, working in the lab. Tissue samples, assays, a team of assistants, human subjects in a barrage of trials, the sick hunger fading from their eyes. Meetings in a drug company’s sleek offices, talks with government officials in the laser-lit shadow of the Capitol. A new medicine, safe and easy and free for all.

She’d found a cure for the virus. A medical cure, no lies or trappings of faith. Just a drug. Just a disease.

Temptation flowered in Morgan’s belly like desire.

Living in a new apartment, fresh and modern. She was rich. Desired. Respected, a prize-winning virologist. A new boyfriend, clever and handsome, his own money and career but devoted to her. She’d never heard of angels or heaven or the end of the world. Luniel wasn’t even a memory.

And Mom…Mom wasn’t dead. No guilt. No bad memories. Just a middle-aged lady, face lined but still beautiful, and she prayed and went to church and it made her happy. No one tricked her or lied to her, and sometimes, they spent weekends together.

Morgan choked on hot tears.

Vorvian stroked her mind gently, coiling around her desires like a sleek serpent lover. “Mmm. Now that’s nice, huh? You’d like that.”

“No…” Morgan shook her head, wild, but her denial shattered and blew away like storm glass. She’d never wanted anything harder in her life.

For it all to go away. For everything Luniel said to be a lie. No heaven. No God. No fate.

And no soul-rotting memories of love lost. No screaming hole in her heart when she thought of her magnificent angel. No crushing fear of betrayal.

“A cure for the curse,” Vorvian crooned. “Think of the lives you’ll save. Millions of people will live because of you. And you’ll be happy. Don’t you deserve to be happy, Morgan?” His seductive ashen scent enfolded her, and his voice in her ear
wrapped rich temptation around her flesh and wouldn’t let go. “All you have to do is give me your soul.”

Her tongue swelled, throttling her voice. Flashes of Luniel, his doomed lady, how she’d given up her soul and torn the beating heart from his chest. He’d loved that girl, and she’d thrown it back at him for a demon’s falsehood.

But Luniel didn’t love Morgan. It was all a lie. And she could keep those people alive. The Manhattan virus gone, an end to all that suffering.

“Forget your angel,” whispered Vorvian. “He’s not here to protect you now. And forget faith. Heaven’s only hurt you, hasn’t it? I’ll give you everything you ever wanted. You’re a scientist, you’ve no use for your soul. Why not give it to me?”

An end to their suffering, yes.

But also an end to hers. Live in the real world. Deny eternity. No lies. Only harsh, icy truth.

Her bruised heart wailed, lost.
Luniel told you the truth, Morgan. You were just too scared to believe him.

But the demon’s cruel whispers wreathed her mind in despairing black smoke, and she shuddered and thrashed and gave in.

Deep in the steamy sabbat, Jadzia stared in disgust at Quuzaat, Prince of Blood.

Fat, ugly bastard.
Tall, but muscle running to fat, his greasy jowls wobbling under lank pond-slime hair. His pudgy butt swelled in tight leather pants, and his gut squeezed into a bulging vest that barely contained it. He lifted his arms, coalescing from hell in a shimmer of stinking ash.

Around him, the fight died down, as hellcreatures fawned and gibbered for his attention, genuflecting and scraping their faces into the ground.

Dash and Japheth still fought, whiplashing on taut wings, but the legion of creatures forced them backwards, towards the stinking vat of blood.

At Quuzaat’s feet, sniggering green imps dragged forward a struggling woman and gnawed her throat open. Blood fountained, and Quuzaat rinsed his face in the splash, licking his chops like a hungry dog. The woman’s soul struggled, a smoky
red cloud in Jadzia’s angelsight, but Quuzaat slurped the air hungrily, and the soul sucked up his nose like a wriggling red ghost and disappeared.

Jadzia’s guts squirmed. Quuzaat just belched, and rubbed his fat stomach, grinning. The green imps licked his boots clean, and he waved them away grandly.

“Hello, friends.” Quuzaat’s voice slid like a greased knife, cold and sticky as he addressed the crowd. He wiped blood back into his hair and licked his fingers with a slobbering flourish. Quite the showman, his sloppy grin wide. He brandished a gleaming golden bottle, wide at the bottom and narrowing to a long thin neck. It smoked in his hand, angry at the touch of demonflesh. “Are you ready for a party?”

Creatures screeched and wailed. Jaz swallowed, hot. The holy vial. The one he’d stolen and emptied, turning the ocean to blood.

Shax’s words chilled in her memory.
If he drinks cursed blood from it, Azaroth will ascend.

That didn’t sound good.

“Are you ready for something
wild
?” Quuzaat jigged about, his belly wobbling as he soaked up the cheers. He grabbed one of the homicidal green imps, and flung it into the vat. It splashed, and surfaced, gulping and glutting itself with glee.

Quuzaat waved flabby arms, encompassing the room. “You might have noticed,” he called, “that there’s a bad smell in here tonight. A
feathery
smell! A nectar-licking, toffee-sucking, god-fucking
stink
!” More excited roars from his audience. “Well, have I got a treat for you, my friends. We’re in for a visit from the Demon King himself! And I wouldn’t be surprised if he lets the best of you rip those shitty heavenfreaks limb from limb!”

A cacophonous cheer. “So let’s finish this, friends. Give me your rage, your hunger, your bloodlust. Show me what you’ve got. And when our lord Azaroth arrives, we’ll see who’s won his favor.” Quuzaat waddled to the makeshift cage beside the vat, grabbed a human by the legs and ripped him in half, brandishing the dripping pieces like a crazy-ass caveman. “Let the slaughter continue!”

The noise broke to deafening levels, and the fight exploded.

Something slashed Jaz’s leg with cold burning teeth. She struck at it blindly, heard flesh rip. Tore her sword free, crushed
a skull under her boot, grabbed a thing’s wing in her teeth and ripped it off. She spat, disgusted, burned lips and a bad taste in her mouth.

But her mind sprinted in crazy circles as she fought. Shax’s touch hadn’t burned her.
Make Quuzaat drink his own blood and see what happens,
he’d said. But was Shax tricking her? Tempting her? Leading her to chaos and misfortune?

Or did he truly mean to help her?

The dizzying pleasure of Shax’s kiss sneered in her memory.
Traitor. You kissed a demon. You wanted him, like a sin-sick slut. What’ll you do next? Betray your friends to hell?

She steeled herself, jumping over a slithering black snake-thing and crushing its spine with her boot. It wasn’t like that. Shax had felt for her. Connected with her. What they had was…sweet. Not evil.

Never trust a demon, Jadzia of the Tainted.
Michael’s chilly advice echoed through the decades.
It’ll only get you killed.

But if Azaroth ascended, they’d
all
be killed. Worse. They’d get tortured, then killed, after a very long time. If she died trying to stop Quuzaat—lost her soul to hell, even—it was worth it, to let her friends live on. To atone for the wrong she’d done, in that hellish cavern so long ago.

Already, Quuzaat leaned over the vat’s edge, hunger firing his beady red eyes. He dipped his face in and blew scarlet bubbles, laughing. Crimson gore gleamed on his fat face, and he gulped it down, gorging himself. “Ah. Very nice. Almost worth giving up the plague for.” And he jammed his hand inside his shirt, and came up with the golden vial. “Time for a royal visit, eh lads?”

Jaz spun her sword to loosen her wrist, and dived for the vat.

Already, Dashiel and Japheth fought with their backs jammed against the scarlet-dripped iron, and sleek black-winged Iria slashed her way towards them, firing her crossbow one-handed. Trillium darted and screeched like a red-green vulture above, slashing off heads with abandon.

Bloodstink made Jaz gag. She hit the ground and rolled, her wings smearing in filth. Her head clunked into the vat, dizzying her. Dash and Jae sparred with a skinny red-headed demon, and as Jaz shook herself, Dash sent the thing’s sword flying with a chilling crash of steel and flung him to the ground on a feral
heavencurse. Coldly, Japheth crushed the skinny demon’s skull with a stamp of his boot.

Jaz yelled, straining over the din. “Guys! Help me cut the prince!”

Iria dragged her up one-handed, skewering a three-armed hellspawn with the other. “What?” she shouted back, hoarse.

Already, Quuzaat filled the vial with blood, admiring the light gloating on the surface. Jaz jammed her lips against Iria’s ear. “That’s the vial in his hand! We have to cut him! Make him drink his own blood from it!”

Iria’s gaze flashed over her, sizing her up. Jaz flushed, but held her ground. “Okay,” Iria yelled at last. “Best plan I’ve heard so far. You grab, I’ll slash.”

“Okay!”

And together, they dived for the demon prince.

Iria’s head slammed into Quuzaat’s flabby side, and Jaz grabbed his legs and yanked hard.

He staggered, and the liquid spilled from the vial, missing his open mouth by inches. “Fucking angelscum!” he roared, and kicked at Iria’s face, landing a crunching blow.

But Jaz held on, and launched for his outstretched hand. Grabbed the vial. Tore it from his fingers on a rich heavencurse, reigniting the gold with a blue flash of holy rage. And Iria whiplashed, and fired her silver crossbow into Quuzaat’s throat from two feet away.

The shining bolt slammed home. Quuzaat roared and gurgled. Black blood splashed smoking into the vial Jadzia held, and ignited with shimmering blue fire. And she dragged Quuzaat’s head back by his lank slime-green hair, and emptied the vial into his mouth. “Swallow this, devildirt.”

Quuzaat choked, his eyes wide. Blue flame whistled from his mouth, his nose, his ears. He retched, trying to get rid of the heavencurse, but his newly toxic blood kept burning. His eyeballs melted and ran down his cheeks. He let out a hell-spiked howl that disappeared in a roar of holy flame, spurting from his mouth as he burned to death from the inside. His husk of a body crumpled, and fell to ash.

The flames hit Jadzia in the face, setting her hair alight with glory. It sizzled, delightful, energizing her muscles with fresh power. Around her, hellcreatures howled spitting fury at the
death of their prince. Some flashed to ash and disappeared. Others fought on, shouting defiance, and still others dived for the trapped humans, determined to slaughter as many as they could before the angels finished them off.

Jaz staggered, relief washing her like rain. It worked. Heaven hadn’t discarded her in disgust for kissing a demon.

Her mind speared to Shax, and her heart beat faster. He hadn’t lied. Where was he? Did he escape, or fight on?

Angrily, she dragged her thoughts away. She should join the others, end this, set the prisoners free. But glory rush and fatigue weakened her limbs to rubber, and she fell, everything flashing to white.

Lune’s feet hit charred concrete in the stink of rotting zombie flesh. Vorvian’s housing project, blackened walls and broken bricks. He dragged his wings upwards, flinging himself into sunlit air. He had to find Morgan.

The mid-morning sun flashed on the jagged skyline. He ducked one wing, wheeling on uplifting breeze. Below, zombies milled, yelling and waving their machetes at him. In his angelsight, the demon’s curse hovered around them all like a sour green aura.

No sympathy cooled his burning blood. If they’d hurt her, he’d burn them all to ash, even if it took every last drop of heaven’s favor…

There. In a stinking green mist of hellish lies. Snow-white hair. Fetish-clad Vorvian, crouched on the ground, holding a body…

Lune pulled his wings back and dived. The ground hurtled close, and he landed in a handspring, bones jarring. Flexed, glory sizzling blue. Smashed his boot into Vorvian’s face, and came up spitting fire.

Vorvian hurtled backwards, slamming into the pile of rubble. His bones splintered, an evil crunch. And Lune skidded to his knees in the dirt and gathered Morgan in his arms.

“Morgan. Wake up. Fight. Don’t let him…sweet heaven, no.” His sword clattered down, forgotten. She thrashed and moaned, eyes rolling in the grip of some horrid hellspell he couldn’t grasp. He touched her forehead, and glory flashed violet, a rich dark heavencurse to fight the evil.

But her skin only blistered like demonflesh under his palm. And Vorvian spluttered laughter and hauled himself from the rubble, his bones knitting in a puff of stinking black smoke.