Rebel Angels: The Complete Series

by Rosemary A Johns

  I would never let a single one of them go.

  Despite Sablo’s agonized whines, I smiled at Gabriel.

  Lucifer and Rahab had once had pets and boys. Yet although they’d trained them, they’d loved them in their own twisted way. For Istafil, however, it was about power alone: The Beloveds were reduced to toys and each one could be crushed underfoot on her path to becoming Empress.

  Gabriel pulled me closer as he whispered, “Please, sister, Istafil has dominion here. Do not talk to her, unless spoken to, never touch a Beloved, and remember not to spill an Imperial Favorite’s blood. She has my father’s love over all…even his own sons.” He rubbed his forehead against mine. “By His holy face, Istafil is charged with breaking the toys. They are harshest who were once the lowest and fear losing their status. If my father were ever to choose a new Favored One, Istafil’s fall back to Beloved would be hard indeed. Imagine what she’ll do to avoid such a fall…?”

  From Fire Shadow feared over her kingdom, to naked sex slave hated by every Beloved, who’d be itching for serious payback? It’d be like a prison governor arrested for abusing the prisoners and slammed up in the same prison.

  No wonder Istafil fought so hard to remain the top bitch.

  Quinn shook us both, before backing away.

  I straightened my shoulders, even though my pulse pounded, as Istafil soared towards us on flaming wings. She circled Gabriel and me, before her ribbons smoothed over my uniform. I fought the urge to recoil at their invasive inspection.

  “Gabriel, my little lamb, this role suits you much better than the false costume of Firstborn.” Istafil tapped him on the shoulder.

  When Gabriel didn’t reply, she turned his head with her ribbon. “Don’t you think?”

  Gabriel clenched his jaw. “Yes, Favored One.”

  “And what a pretty knight you make, dear heart,” the smug edge to Istafil’s taunt made me want to curb stamp her pretty head. “It appears that you can be well trained.”

  Not a question, so not answering…

  My fangs shot out, and I bit my own tongue. I couldn’t contain the yelp, whilst sucking on my tangy blood for comfort.

  Istafil prowled silently across the Forbidden Court towards its sunken rose center. Then she met my gaze with a lifted brow, before she clapped her hands. “And where’s my newest toy?”

  The roof blossomed open, and spools of scarlet silk cascaded down like blood changed into the showy artifice of the harem. And tied in knots of silk, displayed on show — naked — was Rebel.

  I gasped, shaking with the anguish, shame, and pain that slammed through Rebel’s bond. Yet also a forced lust that burned.

  I ached to shoot love and comfort back through the bond but with Ash’s blood still aromatic on my tongue, how could I risk violating Rebel in that way, even to let him know that I was here and hadn’t abandoned him? Because Istafil had blindfolded Rebel, casting him into the dark.

  Before I could launch myself forward, Quinn’s butterfly wings wrapped themselves around me. Then he rested his head on my shoulder, raising his finger, which glowed olive, to silence me.

  Reluctantly, I nodded.

  Flame red silk, which matched his hair, held up Rebel, spreading his wings like he was pinned on a wall by a collector; it cut across the paleness of his skin that was sheened in sweat. I hated that Istafil must’ve taken off his collar.

  Rebel trembled, and his prick stood as stiffly on attention as me.

  What the hell was the Mongrel Witch doing to him?

  Istafil slid her hand down his chest, rubbing over his nipple. Rebel arched away from her touch and then into it. She smiled, tracing her fingers down his back, before twisting his pink nub viciously; Rebel whined.

  “What was that, my Irish lamb?” Istafil purred. “Did I just hear you beg your Favored One for more?”

  “No, plea—” Rebel bit his lip hard enough to bead blood to stop himself begging for real. He was still battling her: I couldn’t help the flash of pride that he wouldn’t submit to her, as he would to me.

  “Beg, then you shall have pleasure, as well as pain.”

  “Not a chance, Mongrel Witch,” Rebel’s voice shook with strain, but he still managed a crooked smirk. “Get off on my pain if that’s your kink, but you’re madder than a box of frogs if you think that I’d get any pleasure from being touched by the likes of you.”

  Only Quinn’s hand slammed over my mouth contained the snigger.

  Then I noticed how Istafil had blanched, and the wildness of her flaming ribbons: hell.

  “You do not relish my touching?” Istafil twisted Rebel spinning in the silk, until I could see the back of his neck and the pearl that’d been sunk over my Mark.

  Violet rose up in a snarling wave of horrified possessiveness that Istafil had dared touch my Mark, desecrating it. I vibrated with the need to taste Rebel’s candy blood and see him on his knees before me…

  Mine…mine…mine…

  I struggled against Quinn, panting with the effort of holding in the static, which was building up and down my arms.

  Rebel’s lips pursed in confusion. “Violet…?” He whispered like a prayer.

  Istafil twisted the pearl, and Rebel’s back bowed, as he grunted.

  “Are you ready to beg yet, Irish lamb?” Istafil stroked a sweaty strand of hair behind Rebel’s ear, before her ribbons thwapped out, wrapping around his hard prick; Rebel quivered at their silky strokes. “The Pleasure Pearl is resonating whatever I wish throughout your entire body. If you’d only begged…I might’ve allowed release. But now, your pleasure belongs to the Fire God alone, and if you release, you’ll be punished.”

  When Istafil touched Rebel’s wingtips, his prick pulsed, desperate.

  The bitch was setting him up to fail, and by the way that she didn’t look away from me, this whole demonstration was for my benefit: a claiming.

  You said no sacrifices, but there are battles you can win…and ones where your for the gods arse will be turned into chunky salsa.

  Guess which one this is?

  Rebel knows that I’m here.

  How can I stand by and watch him be tortured? His Mark be violated? See him be possessed by another Glory?

  You don’t think that I love him too? But what’s more important, Feathery-kiss? Your punk bitch angel or a realm of gods?

  I knew that it was true: J loved Rebel as well. But J always schemed and planned the fate of worlds… If he wanted to know what was most important to me: this realm or Rebel…?

  Rebel had become everything to me.

  Istafil pressed harder on the pearl, at the same time as her ribbons tightened around Rebel’s prick. Rebel sobbed, as a translucent arc striped his stomach.

  Istafil tutted, in mock disappointment. “What did I say about release? Now ask me nicely for punishment.”

  Flames burst out across my skin; Gabriel hissed, letting go.

  Immediately, I lunged for Istafil, blasting a firebolt at her in my release that was equally orgasmic. Istafil shrieked, stumbling backwards, before blinking invisible.

  Sneaky bitch.

  I dived to Rebel, not understanding the way that Gabriel and Quinn hung back. I pressed my lips to Rebel’s in a reclaiming that was equal possession and craving. I licked up the copper candy of his torn lip, until he tentatively kissed back.

  “Violet?” He whispered, this time with more certainty than vain hope. “Blessed Mary, tell me that you’re real, woman.”

  “I’m real, pretty boy.” I ripped off his blindfold, prying off the Pleasure Pearl with my steel nails. He blinked at me through the light; his eyes were smudged with kohl, whilst his eyelashes had been darkened. I licked over the Mark in desperate joy that it was undamaged underneath the pearl. “Good try to get off my List of Asses to Kick.”

  “Get on with you, how am I still on it? All the saints above…”

  I couldn’t help my lips curling into a smile. I cut off his indignant response with a kiss. “You’re right, though:
I do love you.” I sliced the ribbons holding Rebel up, and he tumbled to the floor. Yet when I turned to Gabriel, he only stared back at me, whilst his lips thinned. “Why’d you look like I have wraiths on my arse?”

  Suddenly, my back seared with blisters.

  I screamed, as Istafil materialized, clinging to my shoulders in shadow form. She twisted me, hurling me into the hanging silk ribbons, which hissed and tangled around my arms, even whilst I slashed at them with my nails. Rebel rushed at Istafil, but she flared flames across his naked chest.

  I choked; the ribbons wound higher around my throat. Is this what it’d been like for Rebel? How had he fought back against this helplessness?

  I quivered with rage that the other knights hadn’t fought with me. But then, they didn’t know or love Rebel. Maybe they had my back, but could I truly ask them to risk their arses for an angel that they didn’t know?

  Risk an entire revolution?

  Rebel dropped to his knees before Istafil. I clenched my jaw, whilst inside my ancient powers surged in grief that Rebel would kneel for anyone besides me.

  Yet every time that my powers attempted to break out, the ribbons heated, searing my throat in warning.

  “Please, don’t punish her; punish me.” Rebel bowed his head.

  “Now you beg?” Istafil sneered. “Bad toy.”

  When Rebel looked up at her, his eyes sparked with righteous wrath. “I thought that I was bad for a long time. Here’s the thing of it: someone convinced me that I could be something more.”

  My chest was tight: hell, I loved Rebel.

  Istafil traced her nail delicately under Rebel’s chin. “Oh, my Irish lamb, you’ll be bad for me. I’ll teach you such wicked things.”

  “This is our first day as knights,” Gabriel burst out, marching to Istafil. “You truly would self-combust to grant any one leniency or compassion.”

  Then Gabriel’s eyes widened, as if his mind had just caught up with his mouth.

  I’d been wrong that he wouldn’t fight for me.

  “Compassion?” Istafil asked, dangerously low. “I could demand your sister’s hand for daring to touch a Beloved. Is it not compassion that I do not?”

  Gabriel nodded, carefully.

  “Then why are you not also on your knees in gratitude?”

  Gabriel’s gaze slid to mine; it burned with fury. I paled: What had I just set him up for? “My apologies, Favored One. Thank you for your benevolence.”

  “But you don’t know what you’re thanking me for yet, do you?” Istafil strolled towards an empty alcove. The other Beloveds watched with dark and frightened eyes. Istafil clicked her fingers at a wooden structure with an iron lever that hovered after her back into the center of the court next to Gabriel. I swallowed: never bastard good. “Thank me for breaking you.”

  Gabriel blinked. “I’m not a toy.”

  “Thank me.”

  Gabriel took a deep, steadying breath. Then he growled, “Thank you.”

  Istafil smiled. “For what?”

  Gabriel clutched his hands together tightly on his lap. “Thank you for breaking me, Favored One.”

  Istafil nodded, before snapping her fingers at Quinn. “Here.”

  “No, no, no…breaking me, not…” Gabriel swung around in panic. “By His holy wing, Quinn tried to stop my sister… He has no fault—”

  “He’s your sponsor.” Istafil studied me. I swallowed with difficulty around the ribbon collar. When I’d thought that I was risking no one but myself, I’d forgotten that I’d been risking my fae superior in the Knights of the Seraphim. By punishing one of us, Istafil could punish us all. “If one of you fails, he takes the punishment. Or shall I refer this to the Emperor?”

  Gabriel let out a shaky breath as he shook his head. “My father need not know our failings.”

  “Then take the position, Chief.”

  Quinn’s shoulders straightened, whilst he trooped towards the wooden device. He pointedly didn’t look at me, as he lay next to Gabriel, allowing Istafil to roughly push his butterfly wing inside the box. When he winced, Gabriel snatched his hand and held it to his face. Rebel stared at his knees, unable to look up.

  What the hell was that contraption?

  “Pull the lever, there’s a good boy.” Istafil’s stare at Gabriel was predatory.

  Gabriel leaned over Quinn, readjusting the golden pin in Quinn’s hair; his tenderness broke through me in a devastating wave like he could save Quinn from the brutality by at least making him look his best.

  “Not me…” Gabriel muttered. “Don’t make me…”

  “Are you broken yet?” Istafil crowed.

  “I am a god.” Gabriel knelt back on his heels; his eyes swirled with silver. I shivered at his strength. “I don’t break.”

  Then he pulled the iron lever.

  Wooden rods burst up through the box, tearing through Quinn’s wing.

  Quinn screamed, arching in agony, whilst tears chased down his cheeks. Gabriel kissed Quinn’s cheeks desperately, lapping at the wet, whilst chanting a litany of sorry, sorry, sorry…

  Istafil waltzed towards Rebel — ignoring Quinn’s torture — seizing a handful of Rebel’s spiked hair and dragging him to my feet. “My Irish lamb’s not a god: he’s already broken. He weeps every time that I take away the light.” Istafil pressed her lips to mine, before whispering, “Yet you’ve given him too much resistance to please the Emperor. Shall I crush his damaged wing and ensure that he never flies again? How prettily do you think he shall beg then?”

  I nutted the bitch.

  Istafil howled, staggering backwards. She held her broken nose, swiping at it with her fingers, whilst her flame ribbons whipped around in outrage.

  Then she held up her crimson fingertips. “Blood,” she murmured, stunned. “No one causes the Favorite to spill blood.” The freaky smile that crawled across her face chilled me worse than any of the horrors in the Forbidden Court. “Now you get to choose, my Flame, do you suffer alone willingly for this crime, or do all your family suffer through Guilt by Association?”

  I shuddered. I should’ve remembered the reason that Gabriel hadn’t moved to back me up: the ruthless system that meant he couldn’t fight for me, whilst also protecting Diniel. “That’s not even a question: cuff me.”

  “Now the Head Poisoner shall break you in her Citadel in Court Five. You think that I lack compassion? I let toys remain who they once were, but the Head Poisoner takes you apart and molds you as she wishes. Say goodbye to those you love, dear heart, because these are the last moments that you’ll ever be you.”

  I could hear Rebel and Gabriel’s terrified pleading, but it was drowned out by the pulse thrashing in my ears.

  If I had nothing else, I’d always been Violet Feathers; I’d rather die than forget my loved ones, like a Phoenix.

  Yet who would I become if the Head Poisoner broke me?

  15

  I’d never expected to be poisoned with such delicate precision that my mind was stripped layer by layer, whilst I was strapped onto a throne of feathers and bones — nope, not missing the irony — in a Citadel of polished obsidian, which forced me to witness my shattering in mirrored glory.

  Or that the poison would be presented in crystal cocktail glasses with encrusted rims, which smelled of tequila.

  I sniffed at the latest poison, which bubbled in swirling salmon with a deeper curl of sienna, whilst underneath the mask of tequila burned the whiff of sulfur.

  I gagged, holding the hissing glass further away from me, whilst wriggling my ankles against the bone fingers that clasped my ankles into place on the throne. I pouted, thrusting the drink back at the Amitiel, the Head Poisoner.

  Amitiel sprawled elegantly on the only other piece of furniture in the obsidian room: a silver throne opposite mine that was set up to watch the show. Her hair wound in a spiral on top of her head like a sleeping cobra, just as she curled in the chair: dangerous but waiting to strike. Her ebony skin melted into the dark, along with her oily
black dress, until she was nothing but piercing eyes, scrutinizing me in the dark.

  Taking me apart.

  I licked out my tongue; a drop of poison leapt from the glass — there’s always one overeager bastard. It was hot this time and it burned.

  Why couldn’t Amitiel force me? Why always this ritual of willing sufferer?

  J, should I drink…?

  I don’t even know what it’ll do it to me. What I’ll lose this time. If I’ve already lost…me. The ancient powers or…?

  Who I am…?

  Please, J, are you still even bastard there?

  Silence.

  I trembled; the glass shook in my hand.

  J hadn’t answered since I’d drunk the last cocktail.

  Had I lost him forever?

  I bit down the sob. How long had I even been locked in this never-ending darkness?

  Take the drink… Drink it… Then wait for something new and terrible to happen… Take the drink. Drink it. Then wait for something new and terrible to happen…

  How many times had I repeated the cycle and not even known?

  The edges of my mind blurred. How could I lose more? I raised the glass. “Cheers, bitch, but where’s the umbrella and slice of lime?”

  Amitiel’s serpentine wings swept around her. “You don’t approve of your latest drink?”

  I hesitated.

  I’d been given intoxicants, stimulants, and hallucinogens. Poisons that took control of you piece by piece. I never knew what was in each one or what it’d do before I drank.

  And rejecting it wasn’t an option.

  I knew that because at the start, I’d smashed the pretty glasses, hurled them against the sparkling walls, and spat bubbling mouthfuls into Amitiel’s shocked face.

  It’d been worth it…until the moment that the Official Taster had been dragged in to drink in my place: Purah.

  Purah had knelt, whilst Amitiel had stroked his hair with a familiar tenderness that’d torn at me, tipping him onto his back and feeding him the poison that’d been meant for me, even though I’d hollered that I’d drink.

  I’d been too late.