Coldest Fire (Dominion series)

by Juliette Cross

  I took one more drag, enjoying the zing of the brimstone, before stubbing it out on the railing. “She might. But it’s more complicated than that. She’s…scared.”

  “It’ll hurt her more—hell, it’ll hurt you both if you just ignore it and let it go.”

  “So what do I do?” And how the hell did I find myself asking for relationship advice from this damn demon of all people?

  “Easy.” He shrugged. “You find out why she’s scared, and you make it go away.”

  “Easy,” I repeated on a disbelieving huff. “Yeah.”

  Anya sifted beside us with a crackling snap of power, her katana gripped in her right hand at her side.

  “Well, that was easier than expected.” She smiled.

  Dommiel eyed her like she was dessert. “Yeah. I’d say we’re done here. Let’s get home.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Let’s check in with Maximus first. Make sure he doesn’t need help.”

  “I think you all can manage from here,” I said, eager to get back to Nadya. Even though I planned to keep my distance, I needed to be near her.

  “You’ll let us know if you two need anything,” said Anya, her black hair whipping in the wind.

  “I will.” I gave her a nod, then Dommiel. “Thanks.”

  “Just remember what I said. Take care of it.”

  I huffed out a laugh. “Yeah.”

  Make her fear go away. Easy, right?

  With that, I sifted out through the Void, blurring through time and space before snapping out in the woods next to Circe. She barely opened her slit eyes at me even though I’d stirred up a tornado of snow.

  “All quiet here, girl?”

  Circe stared at the cottage and huffed out a puff of gray smoke.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  The cottage was pristine, a square of yellow light coming from the window, a wisp of wood-smoke swirling out of the chimney. I could picture her inside, wearing that thin, white gown, looking so beautiful it made my heart hurt. I gulped hard and patted Circe.

  I’d give her some space for now and focus on the fight in Zigor’s pit that was coming. For now. But one thing about myself had never changed. When I wanted something, I didn’t give up. I only hoped Nadya was ready for my kind of perseverance. Because claiming her and making her mine was quickly eclipsing all other goals in my life. I hoped Dommiel was right and she wanted me half as much as I wanted her.

  “Dommiel says it’s easy, girl.” I smoothed a palm over Circe’s scales. “But I don’t know exactly what it is she’s afraid of.”

  Circe grunted out a disinterested growl.

  “I guess I’ll just have to figure it out.”

  Or die trying.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nadya

  Uriel stayed close, but not too close, over the next two days. I thought he was avoiding me, spending time strengthening the wards in a wide perimeter around my cottage. Spending time in the woods with his pet dragon. He’d sifted away to speak to Dommiel and Anya. Likely others, but he kept our conversation light when we were together. He also kept his distance. But right when I thought for sure he was regretting the bridge we’d almost crossed the other night, he’d pull me to him and hold me close, curling his wings inward, and I was certain I knew what heaven was like.

  He was giving me space. The problem was it wasn’t my body or my heart that was keeping him at bay. It was the shame of what he’d think of me when my clothes were finally off. I couldn’t look into those beautiful eyes and see pity, or worse, disgust. It was enough that I couldn’t even look at myself naked in the mirror.

  My internal wounds had healed fine after many months away from Vladek. But the exterior…well, he left an eternal reminder of that nightmare. And no matter how badly I wanted Uriel, I couldn’t let him see my shame.

  A rap at the door. “It’s time,” he said from the other side.

  Covered once again in a long-sleeved black shirt and brown suede pants, I grabbed my black hoodie, wanting to hide myself a little more tonight. No matter what Uriel said, I was sure Vladek would send Gibbon or some other lackey again to watch the spectacle.

  Pulling up my hood, I swung open the door. “I’m ready.”

  Tonight he wore rough-hewn dark leather pants, leaving his chest bare. He said he’d had a message from Skaal through Axel that Zigor didn’t allow body armor in his pit. He’d said nothing about wing armor, so I’d helped him slide the steel plates back into place. I didn’t ask why he wasn’t wearing a shirt, because I was stunned stupid at his sculpted torso and was glad to get a good look at his body. Even if I was still unwilling to show mine.

  He took my hand and led me out of the cottage, walking beside me with his wing brushing my back. I’d come to realize this was a protective or perhaps affectionate gesture of his. It was enough to make me want to forget all my reservations and just drag him back to my bed.

  “No need to worry,” he said quietly as we walked toward Skaal waiting on the other side of the road.

  “About what?”

  “Whatever has your heart rate speeding like mad.” He smiled down at me, so calm right before he would be pitted up against who knows what. “It’ll be all right.”

  Squeezing his hand, I exhaled a deep breath as we finally joined Skaal. His gaze flicked to where we held hands, but I wouldn’t hide my feelings for Uriel. Not until I had to, anyway.

  “When we get there,” said Skaal, “I’ll take Nadya to meet Zigor. You’ll go directly to the fighting pit.”

  Uriel’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of pit is this?”

  “She won’t be far. Not even out of sight. But I need you away from her in case Vladek has scouts come to see the show. They’ll be more interested in you than whoever brought you to the table. That’s my hope, anyway.”

  Uriel nodded.

  “This one is a lot less civilized than Yorick’s,” Skaal added.

  I blew out a breath. “I can’t imagine any pit being less civilized than Yorick’s.”

  “Also, just a note,” he told Uriel. “There are no wards here. You can sift in and out anytime you like.”

  Uriel smiled, glancing down at me with a knowing look. “That’s awfully nice of them.”

  “Yeah. Zigor is a piece of work. He actually likes when demons sift in and out of his fights. He likes the chaos. Of course,” he looked at me, “you still have to present him to Zigor and represent as his domina.”

  Uriel squeezed my hand, the pleasant warmth radiating up my body and into my chest. Still, something about calling me his domina got me excited. And not about the fight pits.

  “Well, that’s convenient,” I said.

  Skaal’s expression remained serious. “It’s customary for the champion to join the after party, but if it appears dangerous, I can get Nadya out of there.”

  “No worries on that score,” said Uriel. “Nadya can get herself out of there if she needs to.”

  I aimed a concerned look at Skaal. “I thought it wasn’t wise for you to be affiliated with Uriel.”

  “It’s not,” he heaved out. “I can pretend to be a spectator. There are other high demons interested in Uriel now that the video has gone wide of his appearance on Yorick’s stage. I’ll sift us out nearby and make myself scarce.”

  “How will I know which one is Zigor?” I asked.

  He chuckled darkly. “You can’t miss him. He’ll be the one wearing the ringmaster’s outfit.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Afraid not.”

  “And where is Zigor’s ring?”

  “Fisherman’s Bastion in Budapest.” Skaal held out his hands and we took them. “Let’s get this show started.”

  Skaal led the sift, bringing us out onto a stone walkway next to the Danube River. In a split second, he disappeared and reappeared about fifty yar
ds ahead of us in the middle of a gathering crowd all headed toward the torch-lit terrace of Fisherman’s Bastion.

  My grandmother had brought me here for my sixteenth birthday. Lisabette had long since left us, popping in on occasion, usually around my birthday. Grandmother didn’t like her visits anymore, having watched my sister fall further and further into the black arts. So she always took me on a trip when it was about time for her to make her annual visit home. Budapest was a beautiful city. We’d spent the day wandering the Great Market and the boutiques along the streets, but Fisherman’s Bastion was the highlight of the trip.

  A tiered Romanesque terrace swept up from the Danube River like a beacon of Gothic beauty, captivating the eye from all over the city. And the views from the top levels were breathtaking. It wasn’t a surprise that this eccentric high demon named Zigor had taken it as his base for his fighting ring.

  “Don’t worry,” said Uriel, tugging me forward.

  Skaal glanced over his shoulder at us then lit a brimstone cigarette and waved to a friend, a tall lanky guy with jet black hair who fell in step beside him toward the terrace.

  I kept pace, eager to get there and get this over with.

  “Hello, handsome,” said an angel with red wings next to us, sauntering by in a pink latex minidress.

  Her friend, a red-eyed demon, giggled over her shoulder, her fangs showing. “I’d like to take a bite out of him.”

  “Let’s see if he wins the fight first,” said the angel. “Then maybe we both can.”

  The two laughed, arm in arm, shaking their asses as they marched ahead of us. I was fuming. Yes, I knew some angels had recently fallen from grace, deciding to party the apocalypse away down on earth instead of battle against the evil hordes. But if she and that harpy thought they’d get within biting distance of him after the fight, they had another thing coming.

  Uriel chuckled and slowed me to a stop.

  “What is it?” I glared up at him.

  His hand wrapped my throat, his thumb brushing my pulse. “They’re nothing. These angels and demons. Of absolutely zero consequence. Don’t let them under your skin.”

  “I don’t like them saying things about you. Like you’re some kind of—” I ground my teeth together.

  “Look at me.”

  Knowing I was overreacting, but fuming anyway, I glared at another demon couple walking by who were both admiring Uriel’s bare chest and armored wings with lusty looks.

  He gripped me tighter and said, “Look at me, my love.”

  That got my attention. The way he said it. Like he meant it. That I was his love. Could he mean it?

  “Demons play and taunt. That’s what they do. We’re here to do business. Then we’re out of here and back home.”

  I bit my lip before repeating, “Home.”

  He pressed a searing kiss to my lips, barely stroking his tongue inside before he pulled away and dropped his hand.

  “Now lead the way, domina. Zigor is waiting.”

  He was right. So I stepped out in front of him and followed the stream of fallen angels, humans, and demons toward the multi-tiered terrace. Music blared from somewhere up above. I slowed my steps at the chords of “Snuff” by Slipknot, a favorite band of Vladek’s. My pulse raced.

  He wouldn’t be here, I reminded myself. Uriel was right. And if for some insane reason he lowered himself to appear at a fighting pit outside his own castle, I’d sift away in a second. I was safe. I glanced over my shoulder, finding Uriel’s gentle gaze on me and filled with so much adoration I couldn’t breathe.

  When had this happened? How had this happened? And how could he be so calm amid all of this insanity around us? This man, this archangel. I needed him like the earth needed rain. I was so thirsty for what he could give me, for all the pain he could wash away with those eyes, those hands, that mouth. His heart. I knew that if I was brave enough, he’d cleanse me of the past for good and finally quench this endless craving.

  Climbing the steps toward the noise and the crowd, I noticed it wasn’t a speaker system blasting the music but a band atop one of the Gothic battlements overlooking a wide empty terrace that was roped off. The band was unfortunately not Axel and his crew. These guys were tattooed, shirtless, and pierced in a number of places. The singer belted out the dark melody with a raspy voice.

  The crowd parted for us. I steeled my spine, seeking out the ringmaster and not needing to look far. Skaal stood only three feet away, being entertained by a brunette in a leather catsuit held together by safety pins from her ribs to her ankles. He glanced at me inconspicuously, pretending to listen to his companion.

  Zigor—for it could be no one else—wore black latex pants that seemed awfully uncomfortable for his man parts. But from the double row of brow piercings and the many studs on his bottom lip, he seemed to enjoy pain. Shirtless, his tattooed chest bore odd geometric designs, a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors that made no sense but was mesmerizing all the same. His top hat over long black hair and sleeveless red ringmaster’s jacket with gold buttons set him apart. When I met his black gaze, he was smiling at me.

  Ignoring the gawking at Uriel, for there was far more than we’d experienced down below along the river, I stepped up to Zigor.

  “My lord, I bring my champion Uriel the Archangel tonight.”

  “So you do,” he said, in a gravelly deep voice that reminded me of a chronic smoker or someone who screamed too much. He looked at Uriel as if he was a steak dinner. “I saw his recent performance at Yorick’s. Not live, but secondhand. I’m dying to see what he can do in the flesh.”

  “That’s what we’re here for,” I said, trying not to sound so caustic, but failing.

  Zigor chuckled, revealing two rows of serrated teeth. Jesus. “I’ve never met you before.” He narrowed his eyes. “A German accent. Who’s your high demon?”

  Of course he’d ask me this. All demons lived in territories run by a high demon lord. Except I wasn’t really a demon. I was a demon witch, pretending to be one of them.

  “I live off the grid.” I held his gaze, refusing to look away, even as he stared with far too much interest.

  “Well, aren’t you an original?”

  “I’m a domina with a champion who will annihilate yours. That’s all you need to know.”

  He eased closer. I refused to back away, tilting my chin higher. “I’m dying to see what your slave can do, Svetlana.” He’d gotten my name from Yorick, of course.

  “How many champions must he fight?”

  “One.”

  “Just one?” I’d thought it would be several like at Yorick’s.

  Zigor grinned. “If he can beat the one I have for him, then he’s ready for Carpathia.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  Zigor nodded at two brawny demons to the right. They murmured to Uriel who followed them toward the roped-off area.

  “Why don’t we take our seats, domina?” he suggested, offering his arm.

  The last thing I wanted to do was touch this menacing high demon, but I took his arm and followed as he led us up another staircase to the columned terrace overlooking the fighting pit. Onlookers watched from balconies and atop open archways, dangling legs over battlements, some moving to the beat of the band who’d lapsed into a rendition of “Cold” by Crossfade.

  There was a row of black velvet chairs lined against the balcony railing; one was purple velvet with a taller back and gold filigree edging. He set me next to the purple one then took his Gothic throne. I scanned the crowd, thankfully recognizing no one. My hood was yanked down off my head. I jerked to look at Zigor.

  “Get comfortable, beautiful.” He grinned. His fanged smile was more unnerving than his watchful black eyes. “You look nervous.” He leaned closer on the arm of his throne. I didn’t back away. “Do I make you nervous?”

  “No.” And that was the
truth. “I’ve dealt with far scarier creatures than you.”

  He laughed, tapping my chin with a black-painted nail and winked. “I like you. Stick around for the party afterward.”

  That wasn’t going to happen. I turned back to the ring, finding Uriel standing in the shadows beneath an arch that led into the circle terrace. Zigor pulled a cell phone from his inside pocket and texted someone. I wanted to peer over his shoulder but refrained. Two seconds after he sent the text, the band stopped playing.

  The band was staged at the top tier above us and to the right, so we had a perfect view of them, close to the arch where Uriel stood beneath in patient stillness. The singer stepped up to the mic, his guitar hanging loose.

  “We’ve got something special for you tonight, Zigorians,” he growled deep.

  The crowd went wild, hooting and cheering from their scattered perches. Some sat right on the stone floor at the edge of the ropes like kids scooting close for a bedtime story. Only this crowd was a twisted macabre crew, many of their crimson eyes glowing orange in the torchlight cast from dozens of tripod braziers set up every few feet. The flickering light cast eerie shadows in the niches of Romanesque arches and columns.

  “Before we get to our feature presentation, let’s hear it for our Z-girls.”

  I leaned toward Zigor, concerned we weren’t starting with the fight. “What’s this?”

  “No worries, lovie. Just my pre-fight entertainment to prime the crowd. Always gets them wet and ready.” He winked.

  The band launched into the gritty version of “Bad Company” by Five Finger Death Punch as six women wearing spandex dark purple body suits stepped lightly in bare feet onto the ring, walking the circle to the whistles of the crowd before stopping in a line before us. Before Zigor. They varied in shape and race—a willowy blonde with the sharp features of women of my homeland, a slender Asian, a well-toned African, a buxom redhead, an olive-skinned, curvy brunette similar in appearance to the Italians I’d met in my travels with Grandmother, and finally a stunningly gorgeous woman who’d dyed her hair purple. I couldn’t quite decipher her heritage, but she bore the waifish confidence of supermodels on a runway.