Jovienne Page 6

  “See what?” The demand boiled to the surface, exploding from bursting bubbles.

  Araxiel’s physical body, far above, thrummed with fear. He could feel those palms sweating. “I live to serve the Mighty and Enduring Angel of Gehinnom with the entirety of the knowledge I have gained during my long time above.”

  “You represent Me. You are the instrument of My plans. You have no plans that are not Mine and I know no caution. Step outside your need for safety. Show Me your reach. Show Me how many lives you can wilt with your touch.”

  He nodded. “With the new body, I will extend my hand and wipe destruction across their lives.”

  “Do not wait for the exchange! I want My Tomb to resound with their pain. I want the surface of My Prison to shake with their suffering. These pitiful mortals have suckled on the divinity stolen from Me! Let them fall mad with misery as they succumb to ultimate despair.”

  “I swear it will be done.”

  “Give Me what I want, no matter what body you’re in, or your illusion of freedom ends and I bring you fully to reside here…beside Me.”

  Araxiel ascended at nauseating speed. When he rejoined with his host body, he was thrown backwards in the dirt circle. He twisted onto his stomach and vomited in the road.

  Born in Hell like all demons, he’d crawled up a Hellgate. But unlike his brethren who were crazed by sex, drugs, alcohol and the thrill of murdering fragile mortals, he came in search of something worth more than momentary pleasures.

  Freedom. The chance to live a life and exert free will… that was what the Master craved most, yet Araxiel had achieved a fare measure of it for himself. He’d disguised it as a desire for power. Even in his infancy to this world, he understood that power would bring pleasures later and sustain them. And all the while, damn near every choice was his own to make.

  So, he’d tended his host body with care, learning to deceive and maneuver this world before taking full control of the man. Using the geist that eavesdropped all around the city, he acquired many secrets. Manipulating people to his advantage, he guided his host into the world of organized crime.

  Now, he was in a position to rule Florida. As it was, he did little more than dictate what these humans would do for him. Fear of his uncanny knowledge kept his minions from mutiny and earned him the nickname “the Psychic.”

  He’d worked thirty years to create this chance. Fought punks, thugs, and local gangs to climb the ladder high enough to be noticed by the bosses. He’d killed to be among them. He’d outwitted and outmaneuvered them until he came to lead them. And now, on the edge of his transition to a younger man, Lucifer wanted to shake things up?

  Fuck that.

  The Master was jealous and exerting His power because He could.

  Araxiel would not let all that he painstakingly built get destroyed.

  When he ceased shaking, he stood and returned to the Bugatti where he used the water from the bottles to rinse the goat blood and dirt from his body and the towel to dry off.

  He dressed, kicking into his pant legs before yanking up the zipper. He stomped into his shoes, and punched into his sleeves. For all the aggression in those actions, he adjusted his tie calmly, ending with a tilt of his head and the sound of adjusting vertebrae clicking in his ears.

  He’d find a way to give Lucifer what He wanted without sacrificing his own plans.

  How’s that for free will?

  San Francisco, California

  THE HEAD PLOPPED and rolled. The body crumbled.

  Heart pounding, Jovienne sagged forward under the weight of the sword. She let the tip touch the floor and she panted, waiting for the body to dissolve into sludge.

  It will dissolve.

  Seconds ticked by.

  It was the demon. It must be!

  Jovienne sucked in a breath. A sob grew in her chest.

  I can’t have killed Andrei.

  I can’t.

  Lightning slammed into the rooftop with all the wrath of an angry god. Thunder punched into the depository, decibels pummeling her as the metal split overhead and arcs of sky-fallen electricity crawled along the underside of the roof. Instincts demanded that she run but she couldn’t move. She could only watch as clouds flickered and flashed, threatening to drop the whole storm inside.

  A bright narrow beam fell around her. The brilliance of it forced her eyes shut, but it wasn’t hot. Something soft and feathery brushed her cheek. She smelled gardenias.

  Overcome with exhaustion, her knees gave, yet she did not fall. Instead, she was lifted, back arched and limbs dangling. That feathery something urged her face toward the radiance.

  “You caught and released the bat.” A voice filtered through the illumination and resonated on her skin. “Proof of agility and benevolence.” She could not tell if that mellifluous voice was male or female for every vibrant inflection was both at once and neither. “From the multitude, you chose the evil spirit and attacked. Proof of ability to discern evil, competence wielding the quintanumin, and bravery.”

  The voice paused and she longed for its return.

  “You overcame all the creature’s wiles and struck against it, attesting to your unflinching willingness to destroy evil.”

  But what about Andrei? Was it him? She couldn’t speak.

  “You have earned your wings, Jovienne.”

  The spotlight gleamed red and she smelled cinnamon. Though the air now shimmered with heat, she found she could open her eyes. Storm clouds billowed around her. A flash of prickly heat scissored downward and her clothing dropped away.

  No! Stop this!

  But it did not stop. She was at the mercy of a deity who’d made her slay everyone she ever cared about.

  She tried to break the hold on her, but there was no escape.

  Hot vapor enveloped her. Afraid to breathe but suffocating, the cinnamon steam flowed up her nostrils. It scorched her lungs and scrubbed along her insides. Her blood boiled. Her flesh bubbled and reformed. Though she felt the shriek in her throat and the air leaving her lungs, no sound except static met her ears.

  Another flicker and that scalding heat radiated deep into the marrow of her bones. Red lightning jolted her. Tears burst upon her simmering skin. She welcomed what cooling streams those drops would make, but they were stolen from her eyes and converted to steam as they emerged.

  Surely this was death. A cinnamon death. Life would be no more.

  The red light faded.

  In darkness, she plummeted. Dumped on the floor, numb, she panted in the cold, welcome night. Then, another light, pale and blue, dawned slowly around her. She tensed.

  A cool mist drifted over her. While this light wasn’t accompanied by an inescapable sense of awe, it soothed her sore and reconditioned muscles.

  She tried to look herself over and realized her senses didn’t work. Her vision was a blur. She croaked a sound of surprise but her ears seemed stuffed with clay. Distressed, she lifted her hands to feel her head, but the move made her aware that strange things, tight things, covered her body. She half-rolled and half-crawled to attain a sitting position.

  Looking up at the light and blinking repeatedly assured her that her vision was improving, so she checked her hands. Her focus zoomed in on silver spikes then zoomed out again. Her stomach heaved and she threw her head back in response to the dizzying experience.

  For long a moment, she held her stomach, breathing deep and slow. Her ears remained plugged and every breath whooshed loudly in her ears. Little by little the sound returned to the near silence of normalcy. With this sense restored, she dared to open her eyes again.

  Gauntlets of black leather topped with short silver studs covered her hands and forearms. She poked at one. Even through the finger of the glove, she could tell the points were sharp.

  Steel-edged pauldrons topped her shoulders. A tooled breastplate sat heavily across her chest. A shirt of leather rose to encase her neck.

  She stood, unbalanced, and found every move was a stretch.

&nb
sp; Silver-tipped layers of leather formed protection for her hips. Over leather pants, cuisses did the same for her thighs. Empty dagger sheaths were built into the outer sides. Greaves topped boots.

  The soft blue light around her filled with shadows.

  Instinctively, she spun and looked up even as she reached over her shoulder for a sword that wasn’t there. Tips of blue-black wings arched behind her. They had caused the shadows.

  The blue light faded to white, growing brighter and intensifying. From within that glow, the voice called out and rattled the windows in a manner even the thunder before could not match. “Behold! Abhadhon Jovienne!”

  The light was crisp for a heartbeat, and then disappeared. Cold rain, previously held back by the beam, drizzled on her head like an anointing. In the absence of the sacred light, her strength waned and her knees gave, thudding against the floor. Swaying forward, she barely reacted in time to catch herself with the heels of gauntleted hands. Something fell from atop her head and clattered to the floor.

  Her nostrils flared with each sharp inhalation. Tremors claimed her arms and she locked her elbows to keep her face off the floor. All the while, cold rain washed over her face and dripped from her lashes like tears.

  Her mind raced and threads of thoughts collided. Don’t do this to me. Mother. Andrei. She lifted her head and scanned through a soaking web of dark hair. There was no body.

  It must have been the demon. The body had dissolved.

  But her old clothing and weapons were gone, too. Whoever or whatever removed those could have taken a body. And this rain was washing away what blood or ooze might have been left behind.

  Her fingers curled into fists. Above her, the black wings bent in a response not unlike the ghostly hands. Gaze drawn upward, her concerns for Andrei were forgotten.

  I’m an angel.

  She marveled at the wings—her wings—and sat up to stroke the feathers so similar to the one that saved her life. The wings stretched down and around her. Her hands ran all over them. These weren’t part of a uniform. They were glorious.

  Considering the tight, achy feeling in her back, she tried to move muscles she’d never possessed until now. Rocking onto her haunches, balance was difficult to find with the unfamiliar weight of the wings. Once achieved, though, she spread her arms wide and the wings copied the move.

  To fold them up she brought her hands to her thighs. The wings relaxed, hanging lower and dipping forward. Soon, she was able to bend the elbow of the wing, pivot the shoulder, and tuck the wings behind her, and then go into a full extension without using her hands. Her head fell back and she sat mesmerized by this new part of herself she hadn’t known was missing.

  Then came a gut-wrenching flashback of stabbing the gladius into her mother’s chest. Another followed: lobbing off Andrei’s head.

  A monster’s monster.

  Tearing the gauntlets off, she stared at her trembling hands, wrists twisting to show her the backs, then the palms again. They looked like they always did. But she was different. Beautiful wings couldn’t erase the truth inside.

  Suddenly, all this armor was smothering her. This was the damned uniform. She wanted nothing to do with it. Any of it. She unfastened the buckles, stripped everything off, and flung the pieces across the room with a growl.

  She fumbled with the clasps on the breastplate. After a barrage of curses, it slid loose on one side, but the back plate required more work to remove around the wings. When it was free, she hurled the back plate into the growing puddle.

  Backing away, her boot heel struck something and knocked it skittering a few feet. The thing that slipped from my head earlier. Jovienne retrieved the item and discovered it was a silver circlet crown with points around the top. Her mind flashed on her father’s face saying, ‘You’ll be my pretty little fuck-princess now.’

  With a scream, she flung the crown like a Frisbee.

  “You do not like your armor?”

  She spun and assumed a ready stance, aware she was weaponless. “Who’s there?”

  She heard no footsteps and caught only glimpses of movement in the shadows.

  “You may call me Eitan.”

  Locating him, her vision zoomed in like a camera’s lens. It happened so swiftly it created a sense of falling. She threw her arms out and took a wild step to balance herself. Her wings flapped outward, too.

  He laughed.

  Heat rose to her cheeks.

  “Your quintanumin have been upgraded. You can now willfully control the focus and dilation of your pupil. Think about widening it to allow more light in so you can see despite the dark.”

  Since he knew about her abilities, she concentrated as he’d suggested. In seconds, the surface of her eyes dried and felt colder, but the lens focused. The shapeless dark assumed distinct forms.

  Eitan was also an angel. Tall and muscular, he wore only loose, pale trousers that flowed like silk as he walked. This was no place to go barefoot, even for the sake of a stealthy approach. “What do you want?” she asked.

  “To bring you this.” A duffel bag appeared in his grip. He tossed it. The cloth sack landed at her feet with a thump. He stopped and gave her the once over. “What is your problem with the armor?”

  She held herself rigidly and assessed him back.

  His wings were fawn-brown like his hair. His body was a landscape defined by shadows. Thick arms. Broad shoulders. A sculpture made of flesh. His square jaw established an intensely serious persona reinforced by the stern gaze and flat-line of a mouth that probably never smiled.

  “Answer me.”

  “A crown isn’t armor,” she snapped. The complaint sounded weak even to her, but he didn’t need to know why she was truly averse to it.

  Eitan reached into the air. The crown leapt into his grip from across the room. “These points make it a weapon.” He cast it to her feet.

  “It’s not something I would use.”

  “That may be your ignorant choice or lack of skill, but it is not a fault of the piece. It has a purpose.”

  “Fine,” she growled, “but I’m no princess and I won’t be wearing a crown.” She counted Eitan’s confounded expression as a little victory.

  “And the rest?”

  “Pauldrons, cuisses, and greaves? They’re bulky and awkward.”

  He shrugged. “Then go face demons without them.”

  She stepped over the crown and duffel bag to close the distance between them. “I’m not stupid, Eitan. I want protection, but I want something I can move in.”

  “Those,” he pointed to where the cuisses lay, “were not restrictive. In fact, all of this offers full range of movement, but I don’t think you wore them long enough to find that out.”

  “They’re cumbersome. Stifling.” She pulled at the leather neck of her new shirt. “I want less.”

  “You’re a fledgling.” He leaned toward her, emphasizing his height. “You’ve slain one demon. One.”

  She didn’t back down.

  Relaxing, he rolled his eyes heavenward. “I can make you something ‘less.’”

  “Make? What do you mean? Are you my tailor or something?”

  “Or something.” With a shallow bow, he said, “I am your amora. That is taken from the Hebrew word and not a variant of European languages. It means that I am your spokesman. I make your ka-vod… your weapons and your gear. I am also your mal-akh, I deliver messages, offer you general guidance, and answer questions.”

  “Good. Did I kill my pedagogue or was that a demon at the end of my test?”

  Eitan regarded her silently for a few heartbeats.

  “Answer me, mal-akh.”

  He obviously didn’t like the command and delayed answering. She kept her expression neutral.

  “It was a demon.”

  He’s alive. Before Jovienne could even react to her relief, lightning flashed outside. She screamed in pain and threw her arms up to hide her face.

  “Pupils open wide makes bright lights unbearable,” he sai
d. “Always be ready to release it. I usually recommend it for caves or blacked out subway tunnels.”

  She blinked and hoped she hid her relief in that reaction. Looking to her left, she could better ‘see’ what was before her. Eitan circled her, examining her body.

  Her vision recovered. She hoped all her quintanumin could now restore as quickly.

  Eitan looked down his thin nose at her. “I have some things that will fit if you deign them preferable.”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “Weapons.”

  At that, her brows rose in anticipation. Unfortunately, her wings flexed too.

  Eitan snickered.

  Her cheeks flamed and she cast a scowl over her shoulder, concentrating hard to make the feathered appendages fold down without the obvious gesture that would invite more ridicule.

  “You will master the wings soon,” he said, amusement fading. “Once you learn to fly, you’ll wonder how it ever seemed so difficult.”

  Jovienne ground her teeth as she crouched beside the duffel bag and pulled the zipper. The assortment of knives inside slid over each other like silver serpents, some loose, some in sheaths. A falchion, spatha, and long-sword. Dozens of daggers.

  “All of those weapons were created of blessed steel forged in sacred fires and cooled with hallowed water,” he said, solemn snobbery suffusing his voice. “Consecrated and detailed with holy symbols, you will notice even the long-sword’s blood groove has scripture tooled along its length.”

  “I’m best with a short-sword. A wakizashi, to be exact.”

  “I am aware of this.” He sighed. “Are you going to reject my weapons as well?”

  Jovienne removed several daggers and tested the balance. Wanting to assure him that she did possess some skill, she flipped the short blades high into the air. Still crouching, she focused on Eitan’s expression of boredom as the daggers’ upward momentum ended. When they fell, she expertly caught the weapons in succession and replaced them in the bag.

  Drawing the length of the long-sword from its scabbard, she arose. A two-handed weapon with a double-edged blade four feet from pommel to tip, she marveled at the light weight and shook it as if expecting the cross guard to rattle like a toy. It didn’t. In fact, this weapon felt so solid in her grip she couldn’t resist wielding it.