JOVIENNE SCANNED THE assemblage. As if on cue, laughter drew her attention to a group not far ahead. They stood holding hands. In their middle, the scarlet angel laughed, and then they all laughed. Damnzel was reporting their run-ins to this adoring group.
A vibration trilled along the light ahead, charging the air with glory, filtering it into this place and filling it with palpable divine power that hovered over their heads. Damnzel and her friends silenced. All of the abhadhim raised their arms, hands up, reaching for that glory. As the ray neared Jovienne, her arms remained at her sides.
When that holy power fell, she held her breath, determined not to partake. But that hallowed air crawled up her nose and got inside her. Like the drums that beckoned her to dance, this wanted her to sing. She resisted, but it pulled a song from her lips anyway, a song she’d never heard, yet sang unfalteringly.
Webs of emotion condensed on her skin like silken teardrops and those smooth fibers seeped into her pores. Elation radiated into every nerve ending, infusing her until it became a part of her being. She not only felt joy, she was joy.
But this wasn’t real. Not for her.
In her mind, a voice said:
Be mindful of liars and the hypocrisy of their tongues for there is evil on their lips. Do not listen when false prophets speak for they disguise the doctrine of demons in gracious words and they hide hate in false praise. The worker of deceit loves evil more than good, and falsehood more than truth. The wicked tongue of the deceitful spirit will devour a perfect creation, spewing abominations and treachery into the ears of the innocent. Beware doubletalk, lies, and untruth.
Without warning, she was separated from the brilliant glory like a curtain had fallen. She gasped and regained her feet before anyone else. Her eyes locked on Damnzel’s bright red wings.
Having twisted to look at Jovienne, Damnzel said, “Guess the Big Guy knows about Zaebos, too! He’s talkin’ to you, sweetie, you know that, right? And like a good sport He let us all listen in.”
Everyone fell away into surroundings gone white. Jovienne heard nothing but the howl of a hurricane gale in her ears as she plummeted through the air.
Cold in the absence of that glory, its effects faded. Eased muscles grew tense again. Her stomach tightened. Her brow furrowed.
She had been mindful. She hadn’t listened to Zaebos. She didn’t need a warning after the fact.
Moisture enveloped her as she passed through a rain cloud. Opening her wings slowed her speed and when nearing the tallest buildings, she angled them to spiral toward home.
Dropping into the warehouse, she paced out of the rain, and then made a wide circuit of the upper floor, arms stiff at her sides. She bit her lip.
She wasn’t sure if she was more worried because Lucifer might retaliate for her killing a Grand Duke or whatever Damnzel had called it, or because there was darkblood in her veins.
The stiffness in her neck and shoulders begged for the release of the heavy wings, but the tension didn’t abate once the feathers were gone. She discarded the forearm sheaths and massaged her neck. Still unable to find any ease, she wanted out of the uniform. She removed the dagger sheaths and reached for the belt scabbard only to remember Zaebos had snapped her sword in two.
The pieces were under the ashes.
She couldn’t leave them there. She’d have to give them to Eitan to re-forge it.
Eager for something active besides pacing, Jovienne stepped under the hole in the roof and called the wings. She crouched, ready to leap, but when her wings snapped out to the sides, the sound and the feel was wrong.
Her eyes widened and all thoughts of flying disappeared. Her crouch slowly evolved into a stiff-legged stance.
Her wings remained black, but where her feathers had been…now it was a bare length of inky flesh. She raised the appendages higher, stretching the skin taut. Veins snaked through the wing-skin like tributaries on a dark map.
Her lungs ached for air, but she could not breathe.
These were the wings of the demon slain in her test. Dark. Leathery. Bat-like. A shiver racked her spine and forced a sudden gasp as her lips parted to chant, “No, no, no, no, no!” She folded these vile things in front of her and reached out. Her fingertips met with cool, smooth skin.
This couldn’t be right.
She dematerialized the wings and called them back. Again, they formed without feathers.
“No!” she screamed.
More than ever before, Jovienne wanted to cry. Since becoming an abhadhon, the wings were the only part she truly liked about her new self.
The infusion of darkblood did this.
If Damnzel, or even Eitan, saw these, it would reveal something had gone very wrong. It would confirm that she was the failed fledgling Damnzel longed for her to be.
No way was she going to accept this.
If I cut them off and burn them, then I can’t do my job. God will have to free me. Or kill me.
She jerked the serrated dagger from its sheath on the floor, wishing she still had the sword. Sawing off a wing would surely hurt more than a clean swipe would.
Her fist tightened around the hilt. Zaebos died too quickly. Bug-face should have suffered much longer for what it stole from her. She’d rather be flightless, grounded—
Grounded.
She held her breath. The seraph implied a punishment. No, the timing was more indicative. It happened after the darkblood got inside her. Wait…the Ascension. What if God did this?
Of course. He wanted her to kneel and cower as broken as her sword.
Her arm relaxed and the dagger slipped from her fingers. Her chin lifted.
He’ll find this slave will not break so easily.
She reassessed the new wings, determined to find something to like. Black scales glistened on the tapering bone-supports and the thumb-like extension at the upper joint. They were sleeker in design. There would surely be some aerial advantages to them.
She would find out. She still had pieces of a sword to reclaim. And a blanket and pillow to find. She wasn’t going to sleep wrapped up in these.
Hell
“PLEASE, MASTER! PLEASE! Allow me to explain!”
The magma rolled and writhed like a tentacle above Araxiel’s body. A drop fell from the tip. His every instinct told him to move, but experience kept him in place. There would be more than a drop if he showed weakness, and strength was the one thing that might ensure the Master listened.
The drop hit his ear. The sting lasted but an instant. The ache that replaced it would last much longer.
He breathed hard but kept still, all his focus on doing this right. He had one chance…
Having been brought here like this, however, without a circle to protect his host body and without blood and death to open the conduit, his body above was in seizure. If his host died, there would be no direct line to go back.
The tentacle circled him, coiling to enclose him in a tower of magma built upon the metallic bits that formed the beach. It grew until it was twice as tall as he. “If your words displease me, I will drown you in pain for an eon.”
Recovering as much as he could, Araxiel spoke fast. “Geist told me of an abhadhon able to access the ancient doorways. It was immediately clear to me that I must make contact with her on Your behalf.”
Hundreds of hands pierced through the wall of magma and clenched and unclenched as the Master said, “She destroyed Zaebos before he could make an offer. What makes you think you’ll do better?”
“Because, Master, of all your servants, my long experience on her natural plane gives me an advantage that will secure her conversion to your service.”
“You did not ask for this task!” The Master bellowed. “You did not present yourself with your offer. You made a grave choice without my consent.”
All of Araxiel’s plans hinged on this one fact: The Master’s jealousy of the free will that came with a host’s body was the most contentious aspect between Him and His possessor demons.
“Master, I know what I have done. More than any other demon, I need to earn Your favor and there is but one way to accomplish that. I must succeed in giving You the one thing You want right now. Of all Your minions, I am the best prepared to deliver into Your service the abhadhon who can make an interminable doorway for You.”
San Francisco, California
THE GOOD NEWS was the bat wings were faster. Once airborne, anyway. Jovienne found the feathers provided more lift, but created a small amount of drag as well. The bare skin enabled tighter, swifter turns, and more agile movements.
The bad news was the rain had made a thick paste of Zaebos’s ashes. Jovienne didn’t want to ruin the sheath, so she glided into Ghirardelli Square and rinsed the sword and her hands in the fountain. She could have cleaned them in the Bay, but she knew that here she could find a blanket and a pillow.
She recalled hearing her mother talk of the imported lambs-wool blankets sold at the Square. Invisible, she planned to slip inside and steal one. Thievery didn’t make her feel proud, but she told herself this touristy store would recover the loss.
By the time she had determined which of the shops had the blankets, entered, and made her selection, the employees had locked up. They were doing paperwork, and would leave in a few minutes, so she moved around the darkened store and found a pillow she’d like too.
Detecting voices heading for the service entrance, she hurried to join the trio of women as they exited.
“All the stations are covering it live,” a woman fumbling with keys said as Jovienne tiptoed right up to stand within a few feet of them.
“It could have happened here,” another woman muttered.
“Those poor people,” the third woman said. “I can’t believe it. What are the police doing? Will Jonathan be on?”
“No. He’s not allowed to talk to reporters.” The woman with the keys scanned the parking lot nervously, opened the door, and held it as the others walked through. Jovienne slipped out last, but she didn’t leave. She listened as the woman locked the door. “They’ve evacuated the rest of the galleria, but it’s a standoff. The terrorists made no demands. They ran in with guns and backpacks and herded people into the men’s department.”
“They’re going to die…I just know it.”
The women walked away in a tight knot.
Snared by the conversation, Jovienne wondered if another demon came through while she was distracted by the ugly bug. She followed the women as they angled towards their vehicles.
“If they were going to blow it up, they would have already, right?”
“Maybe that’s not the point. Maybe there’s something else. Like airborne germs that spread—”
“Oh, Julie! Stop!”
A helicopter passed in the distance. The identifier on the craft was the logo for Channel 4.
Still clinging to her blanket and pillow, Jovienne leapt to the air. The news helicopter led her right to the mall in danger.
Still invisible, she deposited the bedding behind some bushes, then flew to the roof where a SWAT team was already utilizing the ventilation system. She released the wings and followed them in. At the first opportunity, she turned in a different direction. Using the ghost hands, she avoided other people and dropped down into a fitting room in the ladies’ section. From there, she walked through the store and stopped fifty feet from the mass of people.
Confined in a small area of the main aisle, each hostage sat on the floor. Each had duct tape over their mouths and around their wrists. A third piece of duct tape fastened small squares to their backs. Wires ran from both sides of each square, connecting each person.
Bombs.
Extending her hands to sense energy via her palms, everything felt different, like searching for a needle in a few feet of mud. She wanted to attribute it to the weight of so many strong emotions, and believe that tension, fear, and great sadness could thicken the energies, but she wondered if the darkblood would hamper energy detection.
There was no time to doubt and test her abilities right now, but neither could she afford to be wrong. She checked everyone twice more before she risked alerting a demon to her presence. No one reacted when she activated the quintanumin and did a quick sweep with the ghost hands.
There was no sensation of burning or malign heat.
Whether or not the bat wings were a punishment, it still remained that the darkblood might impact the quintanumin. She tested her enhanced sight as a reference and found it worked perfectly. All her information indicated there was no evil residing within these men, but that was not an acceptable answer.
She tried combining her talents. Using the ghost hands, while inciting that other perception in her palm, Jovienne searched the men with guns and backpacks. They felt slimy and oozed a piousness that choked the voice of their conscience. This was especially true of the man leaning against the wall between two tables laden with fancy silk ties.
Squeezing this man, she felt his hate like a clot immobilizing his heart. He would not be swayed. The detonator was in his hand. He was ready and eager to die.
But there was no demon here.
Bug face’s words echoed through her mind: A man’s evil is forgivable…
“No,” she whispered. She disconnected her ghost hands from that man, but she couldn’t resist assessing the hostages. Most were clerks and businessmen who’d been in this department when the terrorists arrived. She intuited their thoughts with little effort. A salesman thought of his wife. A pastor prayed for his congregation. A single dad thought of his daughter’s upcoming wedding; she’d walk the aisle without him. A grandfather wept openly, mourning that he would not get to see the newborn grandson who bore his name.
Throat tight and eyes burning, Jovienne jerked her ghost hands back. There were good people here. And they were all going to be forced into death for someone else’s senseless notions. She yearned to act, but Andrei’s words haunted her: Your duty is to destroy demons, not save mortals.
Evil deserved her attack and required swift action, but a mortal breaking the law was off limits. It was her onus to let these terrorists do as they willed.
Her gaze slid to the blonde clerk, curled in a ball and shaking uncontrollably. This woman’s daughter was barely eight years old. Her thoughts were all for the girl. They had no one, no family. Her fear was not for her own certain death, but for her child being thrust into a foster system and towards an uncertain fate. One maybe not unlike her own.
Jovienne could not let another orphan be made, could not risk another soul being forced into the slavery she now knew. She could go invisibly, take the detonator, and subdue the man. She could end this.
She would.
She stood up.
A terrible thunder rumbled and the world lit up in a white-hot explosion, followed by billowing orange under black smoke.
THE SOUND OF distant sirens reached Jovienne’s ears. As she clawed around, she discovered she was buried under a mound of clothing and racks, some of which were burning.
She crawled and dug her way free. The air, hot and thick with smoke, hurt her lungs. Though the fire glowed bright, she could see less than two feet in any direction.
Checking that she remained invisible, and then calling the ghost hands to guide her steps, she rushed toward the spot where the people had been. Maybe someone survived.
Jovienne was rigid as she made a circuit of the area. The carnage was sickening.
Ahead, the air began to swirl. A gentle vortex of wind pulled smoke into a slow-spinning funnel. Then a dark figure, ten—no, twelve—feet tall, stepped out from that tornado.
Retreating two steps, Jovienne stared as the darkness wafted away from that figure to reveal a birch bark cloak. The hood slipped back to expose hair like autumn leaves framing a pale face with dark eyes. The figure stood at the edge of the space where the hostages had been sitting. Wearing a calm and reassuring expression, the being made a visual search of the area.
Jovienne reclaimed the two steps she’d retreated, moving into view, but the being gave Jovienne no notice.
Small lights flickered in the smoke drifting along the floor. Each of these soft glimmering orbs blinked a few times and became a steady, warm glow. They floated toward the figure, growing larger.
Geist?
Arms extending, they reached up to this entity like children wishing to be held.
Souls.
The being lifted each in turn and even reached deep within the still-burning fire to gather some, picking them like wildflowers and nestling the bouquet to her breast.
Is this the Angel of Death?
Did her mother reach for this strange angel the same way? Did she glance back at Jovienne, the one left behind, the one who couldn’t follow, the one doomed to stay alive?
Arms full, the entity flowed backwards. The smoke behind it swirled into a funnel again. Jovienne hurried forward. “Wait!” she called.
The entity slowed, gaze locked on her.
“Take me.” Jovienne lifted her arms.
It did not reach for her. Jovienne’s hands shook, insistent in her desire to be held. “Please,” she whispered. Her fingers strained to span that distance, yet she knew the angel could not touch her. She would be an abhadhon forever, or she would be taken by the demons and tortured forever, but peaceful rest would never be hers.
The entity did not look away, but it darkened as the tornado swirled forth to encompass it. A moment later, it was gone.