ONCE A WEEK, Araxiel attended a Wednesday evening service to feed his inner demon. His full moon visits with the Master drained him however, and his need for that special sustenance deepened. This morning he would be attending a Sunday Mass.
He downshifted as he crossed the Rickenbacker Causeway. This reduced speed allowed his gaze to linger on the Miami skyline. He loved this city. This place in time.
Moving up the timeframe to take Ivan was his only option to balance his desire and his Master’s. A few things needed to be attended to first, but he would start with an announcement at today’s meeting with his men.
That was another reason for attending the Mass.
He parked on the sidewalk in front of the doors for the Ermita de la Caridad. The church was built like a circle within a circle. The outermost consisted of white, inward sloped walls. The innermost rose high and was capped with a dark, cross-topped cone.
Araxiel opened the church door with a gloved hand. He could touch things in a holy building, but he knew sick people came to church for healing and he wanted none of their germs. At this point in time he couldn’t afford for his host body to get sick.
Inside, his nose wrinkled and he gave a wide berth to the basin of holy water. He strolled into the sanctuary where the priest made eye contact and stammered over the next words before continuing to prattle out the Mass. The pews were simple and reasonably filled. He sat in the back. After removing his gloves, his long fingers smoothed over his salon-trimmed salt-and-pepper waves before he shifted into a relaxing stretch that ended with his arms extended along the back of the pew palms up.
Thusly posed, he savored his gnawing inhuman hunger. This body had learned what constituted sustenance for a demon and it reacted, salivating like Pavlov’s dog. He had to swallow repeatedly.
The Ermita was his favorite stop-in because it was not like the Gothic, rectangular churches with their fancy rib-vaulted ceilings, flying buttresses, phallic pinnacles and lancet windows. Those giant churches presupposed that if they were vertical enough to challenge the horizon, permanent enough to minister to generations, and iconic enough in the message of their interior and exterior art, they would achieve sacrosanctity.
Such ideologies never stopped him from entering.
But here in this simplistic round church, the energy gathered and swirled as it rose into the funnel where it channeled up toward their deity. It was easier to steal flowing energy than it was to partake of what bounced around the divided ribs of a vaulted ceiling.
He’d missed the opening prayers. It would be a while before the ones. This body kept salivating. Pulling his wallet from his jacket pocket, he counted out ten hundred dollar bills and fanned them in his grip before lifting his arm high.
The priest announced that God had just moved him to pray.
Araxiel remained seated when the people of the church slid onto their knees. While their heads were down, the priest sent an altar boy to the back row with the offering plate. Araxiel dropped the cash onto the tray one bill at a time.
The congregation’s murmuring voices thrummed as they mimicked the priest’s words and, under his guidance, their inner spark glistened and released that special energy called eis, meant for their God Who resided far, far away in Heaven.
But Araxiel was going to take a cut.
His head dipped back and his mouth opened too wide. As these unaware mortals worshipped, he stole that imperceptible sustenance bursting from them.
When the prayer ended and the people reclaimed their seats, his rapturous sigh carried. Across the pews, heads turned toward him. He smiled and sat back to await the next prayer. He intended to glut himself today.
AFTER THE MASS, Araxiel drove to the restaurant where his men regularly met and handed the keys to an overjoyed valet.
Passing the waiters who knew not to question him or his men, he approached the private rear dining room. When he opened the frosted glass pocket doors, silence fell and five thugs arose to speak respectful greetings.
A lovely waitress promptly entered and placed her cleavage tantalizingly before his eyes as she served his usual selection of slow roasted lamb and caramelized seasonal vegetables. She bent a fraction more as she placed his glass of wine. He watched her ass as she departed, and then began to feed his physical body while his men gave their reports.
The oldest, a seasoned car thief new to their Sunday reports, was named Billy or Barry or Benny. Araxiel noticed the man was having the thirty-two-ounce porter house steak. An appetite like that slowed men down.
“One shipment has been sent to our foreign partners,” the man said as he carved his next bite, “and the other is waiting for auction on Tuesday.”
“Waiting for auction?” Araxiel asked. “The second shipment is to be delivered on Friday.”
“My men strip the cars, store the parts. The vehicle gets picked up and processed by police. Then it goes on the auction block. We buy it back for pennies on the dollar and the VIN gets listed as a salvaged vehicle. My men reassemble it and sell it at full price. The profit is high.”
But it creates minimal suffering. “That sounds almost legal.”
The man smiled as if Araxiel’s words complimented him. “It’s your ‘protection’ from the eyes of the law that gets you half of that profit.”
Convincing Billy or Barry or Benny to forget his profit margin and work dirtier would not be easy. He was old enough to appreciate the ease and lower risk, and tired enough to share the wealth.
Araxiel now understood how he looked to Lucifer.
He pointed at the balding Chinese man sitting closest to him. “You. Chan.”
After divulging details about the training being conducted for pre-arranged automobile accidents and the people lined up to be witnesses, Chan handed the report off to a brawny man. Darren mono-toned the finer points of recruiting a new chiropractic center for the car accident scam, and cursed a certain police team while glaring accusingly at the next thug, Ivan.
Half-listening, Araxiel considered this sophisticated crime. It meant the victims were corporations with much deeper pockets than the average local diner. For organized crime, his men were the best, but he needed human beings in misery. He would start by making these men suffer; he’d have to kill them all anyway. Except Ivan. He’d bring in younger men who were more cruel and ambitious, men who thrived on the thrill and malice as much as the profit.
As Darren and Ivan fell into arguing about police on the take, Araxiel’s focus returned. In spite of his grooming efforts, Ivan wasn’t standing up to Darren as boldly as he should have.
It disappointed Araxiel. When he made Ivan his new host, he’d have to fight the likes of Darren to show his superiority.
“Shut the Hell up.” Both men fell silent. The intensity of his pointed glance shifted the report to the last man, Georgie. When the reports were finished and his meal consumed, Araxiel pointed at Ivan. “You bleed this week.”
Ivan came forward, hands extended.
Someone getting cut each week was the lesser of the two mainstays that made up Araxiel’s freakish reputation. This part ensured the strength and fortitude of the members of his inner court and, because it was no secret, this practice struck fear into those his men dealt with. It brought out the morbid curiosity in some, an unintended side-effect, but it kept the riff-raff from climbing too high on the mobster ladder.
Araxiel studied Ivan’s hands and chose the one with the fewest scars. “Left.”
Hand flat on the table, palm down, Ivan waited.
This was going to be more than a cut. It would be a brutish and crafted precursor to his announcement, but Araxiel went through the usual motions. He reached into his pants pocket and brought out a rolled-up cloth about four inches long. He unrolled it next to his empty plate and considered the seven cutting utensils ranging from a sleek scalpel to a dirty box cutter. “Short blade, wide blade, or serrated, today?” he mumbled.
Ivan drew a breath to make his choice. Before he could speak, Araxiel snatched his fork and stabbed it onto the man’s pinky, piercing the nail and feeling the bone break as metal tines jammed into the table underneath.
Probably because any sound meant a second cut, Ivan choked on his scream even as Araxiel stood and shoved his cloth napkin deep into the man’s mouth. Holding out his hand, Chan threw another napkin in it. Araxiel dropped it over Ivan’s hand to cover the spreading blood stain.
While the thugs gaped and Ivan squirmed in anguish, Araxiel began the ritual that was the foundation of his reputation. He chanted in a harsh language full of staccato syllables. In seconds, the temperature in the room dropped.
The geist were here.
Eyes shut, Araxiel continued his chant while the ghosts, unseen by his men, fed on the blood. Because his men could see and hear him, but not the geist, he asked what was new in his original, malign language, “Mīnu essu šū ūmu?”
“Rumors of a fledgling abhadhon in San Francisco.”
Araxiel’s eyes opened and he glared into the corner at the geist who dared mention the creatures whose sole purpose were to kill demons like him. “I care nothing for the matters of the abhadhim.”
“But you do care where your Master’s watchful eyes are focused.”
Araxiel planned to enact his gritty new policy today… but if the Master’s gaze was elsewhere, He wouldn’t even notice the efforts. “Why should a fledgling abhadhon garner His interest?”
“This one called on old magic during her test.”
His eyes widened. Such a thing was unheard of. “And yet Elohim transformed her?”
All the geist nodded.
“Xūlu.” He commanded the geist to leave. Grabbing the napkin and fork as one, Araxiel jerked them up and away. The gathered men marveled at the disappearance of the blood from the table even as fresh blood welled up from Ivan’s wounded finger.
He glowered at each man in turn, and then left without making the announcement.
IT WAS LATE afternoon when Araxiel zipped up the suit bag and shoved shoes and toiletries into a small tote.
He was not fleeing. Though Lucifer may not be watching, whenever His attention sought Araxiel, it would find him.
He reasoned there were two ways to assure his continued existence. One, he could stay here and take the brutal actions he hoped would prove his worth, actions that depended on mortals to cooperate, when they often stupidly didn’t. Or two, he could dare more.
Before, following Lucifer’s orders on a modified basis skirted the Master’s wrath while seeking to obey. Now, this was closer to blatant disregard for instructions, which was suicide. But he had a plan. Leaving Miami would draw the Master’s attention and invite His wrath. But, in the face of that wrath, he would have a single chance to gain the Master’s indulgence.
Because this abhadhon had used magic, he knew what Lucifer suspected, why He watched her. If she was what He thought her to be, what Araxiel had to admit was only logical, then he had to make contact. Exposing himself to an abhadhon was also suicidal but…goddamn, he couldn’t wait to meet her.
San Francisco, California
JOVIENNE AWOKE ON the warehouse floor and smiled, caressing the down of her wings as she uncurled them from around her. The smile faded when she discovered a second khaki green duffel bag lying directly beneath the torn roof.
There was work to be done before the sun set.
She’d have to get something to eat, locate a place suitable to live, and learn to dematerialize the wings.
She rose and stretched, guessed it to be early afternoon by the angle of the light piercing the room, and then noticed a Styrofoam container beside the bag. Written on the top was: First abhadhon breakfast is on me. She flipped it open.
Scrambled eggs, steak strips, toast, and a plastic fork. Though cold now, she ate a few bites and moved on to the bag.
Topmost inside was a pair of leather short-shorts.
Lifting them in her right hand, her nose wrinkled. She sat aside the food. Dropping the shorts, she dug into the bag and discovered a halter top with metal plates riveted in an overlapping pattern. This was practical for wings and would leave her arms unrestricted for fighting, but it was ridiculous.
She hadn’t meant this when she’d said ‘less.’
Leaving the new items atop the duffel, she retrieved the clothes given to her yesterday and put them on. She added the gauntlets, after slicing the finger portions from the gloves. She shadowboxed for several minutes, improvising scratching motions to utilize the spikes on the back.
It became obvious she didn’t need the amount of warm-up she once did. However, adding the element of the wings made the routine fresh as she learned to accommodate their weight.
Bolstered, she felt ready to try dematerializing her wings though she didn’t like the thought of being without them.
Creating a bird’s eye image of reality in her mind’s eye, she found something she didn’t imagine. A bluish light shone as if her core radiated light through her skin.
It was not her intention to envision that. Making the mental effort to remove it changed nothing. After toying with this without success, she let it be and returned her focus to the wings. Establishing a mental link to the command ‘dematerialize’ meant grounding a thought-action with the theory that they were never absent from her body, but transformed into energy that floated in her aura to be recalled at a moment’s notice. This in itself was nothing new; the quintanumin worked in this manner. She triggered the new command and the wings burst into scraps of nothingness, fading like trails of ink diluting into water.
Her back tingled. She rolled her shoulders.
That had been easier than expected.
Standing without them, she missed them terribly. To combat her growing urgency, she reversed the visualization.
Air thickened and converged behind her. Substance and weight latched onto her flesh. New muscles burrowed under her skin and wrapped around bones she’d always had and some she hadn’t.
A sharp cold pain sliced through her, stinging like alcohol poured on a deep scratch. Veins tunneled through flesh like worms. Nerves crawled, stabbing into her spinal cord. Her heart skipped a beat then began to pound. Her teeth clenched to lock down a pained cry.
Then it was over.
Despite the momentary pain, she released and reformed the wings a few more times to ensure her confidence.
With two of the three things on her to-do list accomplished, she had only to find a new place to stay.
As she crossed the distance of the upper room, however, she realized that, while every bit as filthy as an abandoned building should be, in the light of day the Hyde Depository’s interior wasn’t terrible. Open enough for sparring. Private enough that her presence should go unnoticed. And not having to feel guilty about being a slob was certainly a perk.
The downside was, she’d rather forget the memories she’d made here. Stopping at the spot where she’d put her blade through her mother’s—no, the demon’s—chest, she stared at the gouge where her sword tip had hit the flooring. It was the only physical evidence that remained.
Her chin lifted, but her downcast gaze remained locked on the blackened floor steps away from where she’d beheaded the demon.
A monster would burrow into bad memories and make it home.
In the far-right corner, she forced the elevator doors open. Surprisingly, the empty lift was on the second floor. Being an industrial elevator, it was large enough to hold a loaded tow-motor. Without electricity, it wouldn’t be moving from this raised position.
It was acceptably securable. With the doors shut, it would be warmer than the wide-open space with broken windows. This would be her bedroom.
The damaged vinyl couch became her bed. A pair of two-drawer filing cabinets and an office door became a table. An upside down five-gallon bucket would serve as a seat.
Standing between the half-closed elevator doors, she surveyed the room she’d created. She had a place to lie down and a table. Her few needs were met, but it didn’t feel like home.
It needed a pillow and blanket. It needed books. It needed her angel snow globe, a present from Gramma who had ‘fallen’ down the steps not long afterward.
But she was not going home.
She didn’t care if she never saw Andrei again.
He’d come in her hour of need as she lay orphaned and recovering in the hospital. For that rescue, she’d chosen to see him as her hero. But her hero placed a weapon in her hands and left her to face what fate she would carve out for herself.
That was his job, and the job was done.
That’s all I ever was. A job.
That would explain why saying goodbye wasn’t important and why he kept her at arm’s length. No one would shackle a person they truly cared for to a killing life like this.
She sank onto the couch. Pushing her fingers through her hair, she brushed the scar on her temple. Andrei had an exact duplicate. He said it marked where the quintanumin went in.
Twice she had been altered. First, unknowingly after the crash. But this time, she’d been conscious. She’d said no. Well, not aloud because she couldn’t, but that didn’t matter. God knew what was in her heart, right? That’s what they told her in the Sunday school that her father required the family to attend.
If that was true, then God knew she didn’t want this and He did it to her anyway.
Overwhelmed by a sudden urge to lock all the doors, seal the holes, and secure the exits, she hurried to the enclosed roof-access stairway in the left corner. It bore a single door and the hinges needed a good oiling. No one could use it without squeaks alerting her to their presence. Even so, she stabbed daggers into the floor at the base to hinder it from being opened. The doors to the lower level got the same treatment.
The right door had a quarter inch of give, so she held it fully closed with her shoulder. Jabbing the next dagger into place she sliced her finger.
Blood welled up and she sucked air through her teeth. Smelling the coppery cinnamon aroma of it, she squeezed the wound tightly and paced away, considering where to get something to wrap it with. Everything here was filthy. But it didn’t hurt anymore.
Blessed weapons.
She checked the injury again and smeared blood across unbroken skin. After wiping it on her leg, she re-checked. There was no cut.
Returning to the doors, she stabbed the last dagger into position on the floor and checked her work. To conclude the makeshift security system, she slid a two-by-four into the looped handles. No one would get through without her knowing.
Except Eitan.
Her gaze rose to the gaping hole in the roof. She needed to fly. Better to work on that part of her future than wallow in the past.
Revisiting the meditative technique, she visualized the wings reforming, moving, folding and extending them to mimic her intent. Growing more assured with each successful movement, she flapped them hard enough to stir dust and her body lifted from the ground. The dirty air made her cough and she stilled, feet plopping onto the floor.
Despite the grit, she grinned. Her heart pounded, exhilarated and intimidated by a moment of being airborne. Deciding it was a good idea to master the movement of them with her feet on the ground before she tried taking to the air again, she ran through her exercises with the wings attached.
The weight didn’t affect running, but the bulk created a bit of drag if not held to minimize air resistance. Next, she incorporated a sword, this time focused on adding wing movements to enhance the power of her swing.
“You didn’t approve of the new gear, either?” Eitan stood just under the hole in the roof. He pushed at the pile of clothes with his toe.
I’ve got to figure out how to secure the roof.
Jovienne pushed sweat-soaked tendrils behind her ear and stomped over to him, sword in hand. “Am I supposed to wow the demons or destroy them?”
“Destroy them of course. You said you wanted less. Did you not intend to use your body as a distraction?”
She squinted, irritated. “Gee, Eitan, you’re only wearing those thin low-rise pants. Should I assume by your minimalist attire that you intend to use your body as a distraction?” She didn’t think his spine could get any straighter. His chin leveled and he glared. She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh! Did I make you feel like I was impugning your ability or your moral character because of how you present yourself?”
He crossed his arms.
She ignored his trademark pose and met his icy gaze unflinchingly. “I don’t need to subvert my prey to destroy it.”
“Excellent.” His tone was bland. “Have you flown?”
“You think I could keep my feet on the ground for long?” It wasn’t technically a lie.
“Good.” His aura began to shimmer like sunlight on moving water. “Make yourself invisible.”
Demanding how was her first impulse, but she held her tongue and studied the shining around him again. Considering that he remained visible to her, she assumed he already made himself invisible somehow. Then it clicked: the inner light.
Recalling the light that she’d seen glowing within herself, she willed that glow to expand and envelope her. In a blink, the warehouse interior was cast in a shade of pale blue.
Eitan masked his surprise quickly and gave her an appreciative nod. “Follow me.” He leapt through the hole.
Damn, damn, damn.
Jovienne leapt to the roof and saw Eitan standing near the edge. In the evening’s fading light, she noted copper streaks in his brown braid. His wings seemed to blaze.
When she stepped beside him, he pointed to the Transamerica Pyramid. “I will see you there.” He leapt from the roof and soared low across the lot, caught a draft, and gained altitude.
Jovienne peered over the edge of the building. Neither the jump nor the height bothered her. Leaping outstretched, unprepared to land, and unsure of flying, did. With wings spread and teeth clamped against a scream, she leapt.
Though she dropped fast, the wings angled and she skimmed the ground. One knee dragged. She arched her back and willed the wings to flap. The tips brushed the blacktop, but she lifted higher. Each time the wings pushed down, she gained altitude.
Glancing back as she soared over the fence, she saw dirt devils swirling along the unused parking area behind her. Above the sparse traffic, she tested her capabilities, diving here, angling there, flying over San Francisco’s streets and waving at drivers who could not see her. She laughed, circling buildings and peering in office windows.
This was actually fun.
A coppery glow soared above her.
Determined to make a good show, she pumped her wings and pursued Eitan. They wound around building tops, angled directly for the Pyramid, increasing altitude.
Jovienne meant to win this race.
Gaining, she worked the wings hard and came alongside him, then pushed ahead. As her shoulders inched ahead of his, he rocketed onward in a copper streak.
Recognizing the burst of speed as a flying adaptation of the speedy aspect of the quintanumin, she tried quickening for a few short bursts and took her time getting acclimated to the feel of it.
He paced along the topmost walkway of the Pyramid as she landed in front of him. Though it was not as light-footed as she would have liked, it was not so different than leaping from a taller building onto a shorter one.
“Nice first landing. Not weak-kneed at all.”
“Heights don’t bother me.”
“Good. You’re smart and you catch on fast, I’ll give you that. In-flight quickening with the quintanumin is even easier than accelerating your body while running on the ground because there are no worries of terrain like when you run. Just understand, the more you use this ability, the more you’ll need to eat.”
Bracing against the wind, she crossed her arms, taking his pose before he did. “Any other tricks you want me to work on?”
He frowned. “The abilities afforded you by the quintanumin are not tricks.”
Jovienne snorted.
“Fine.” He cocked a brow. “How about honesty? You said you had flown, but you hadn’t.”
“I did not say I had flown. I simply asked if you thought I could keep my feet on the ground, which you should know, I hadn’t. The rest you assumed, as incorrectly as you did with my gear. Whose fault is that?” She fixed him with a cold look. “If you want to talk about honesty, let’s talk about the quintanumin being forced into my mind.” She unfolded one arm to tap the scar on her temple. “Binding a child of nine to this killing fate. It was done to me without my understanding or my consent. And you have the nerve to scold me over a skillfully worded misdirection?”
Eitan’s eyes hardened into a flat glare.
Her gaze shifting to the city, she added nonchalantly, “If He wanted another mindless sheep in this destructive flock, He shouldn’t have picked me. I think.” She faced him again. “And I remember.”
She dove into the wind and flew away.