by Joy Nash
Gabriel cleared his throat and bravely ventured into the fray. “With all due respect, Raphael. It was bound to happen at some point anyway. The human race is a collection of sinful sots.”
“That,” Raphael snapped, “is neither here nor there. Certain events have been preordained by the Almighty. A hellfiend invasion is not one of those events. Demons streaming in the sky, blotting out the sun. Nephilim running amok.” He gave up pacing, in favor of glaring daggers at Michael. “What in Heaven’s name were you thinking, pulling Arthur from the wreckage of his own villainous folly?”
Michael’s chin jerked up. “Um...you saw that?”
“I did.” His brother’s voice was cold enough to freeze the fires of the Eternal Inferno. “Explain, please. If you can. Which I doubt.”
“I...um...” He stiffened his spine. “The Druid Merlin gave his life in that cave, in defense of humanity. He—”
“Merlin caused the portal to be opened in the first place,” Raphael pointed out. “And he only died there because I sealed him in.”
“Yes. Well. That’s all true enough, I suppose. But that doesn’t negate the fact that Merlin killed Nimue and used his staff to send the hellfiends back through the portal. Arthur is Merlin’s heir, and he—”
“Has unleashed calamity a second time. Even worse than before.”
Blessed Heaven. Michael had had it up to here with Raphael’s one-note, bigoted bias against the Nephilim.
“Would you please stop interrupting?” he snapped. “If you want a conversation with yourself, go find a mirror.”
Raphael’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword. “Why you insolent—”
“You want to fight?” Michael flicked his wrist, dropping his knife into his palm and springing the blade, all at once. “All right, I’ll give you a—”
“Boys!” Gabriel sprang up between them, hands upraised. “Please. Fighting amongst ourselves is no solution.”
“Maybe not,” Michael muttered, “but I’m not averse to giving it a try.”
Gabriel glared at him. “We’re all on the same side here. I suggest we act like it.”
He was right, of course. Michael sighed and slipped his switchblade up his sleeve.
Gabriel’s head swung toward Raphael. “And you?”
Raphael made a show of sheathing his Sword of Righteous Vengeance. He straightened his robes, turned his back, and let out an irritated huff.
“Maybe,” Gabriel said cautiously, “it’s time to wake the Almighty.”
“I already suggested that,” Michael said.
“Wake the Almighty?” Raphael’s head whipped around. “Wake the Almighty? Are you out of your blessed mind?”
“Raphael,” Gabriel pleaded. “Be reasonable. Hell is open. Earth is a mess. Our options are limited. The Almighty is, by definition, all mighty. He can fix this with a snap of his fingers.”
Raphael’s voice vibrated with terrible force. “The Almighty entrusted me with humanity’s welfare. Me. There is no way—no blessed way—I’m going to wake Him up and tell him I’ve mishandled the assignment.”
“They say confession is good for the soul,” Michael said in a low voice.
Raphael spun about. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“None of this would have happened,” Raphael said dangerously, “if not for the Nephilim.”
Cybele’s face appeared, uninvited, in Michael’s brain. “It’s not really the Nephilim’s fault,” he told his brother. “They’re just living their lives.”
Raphael’s golden eyebrows lowered. “Living their cursed lives. What do you mean, not their fault? Everything is their fault.”
“But is it really fair that their lives are cursed?” Michael asked. “The current Nephilim, I mean. The sin was committed by their ancestors. They had nothing to do with it.”
“Have you gone insane?” his brother exclaimed. “The Nephilim are unnatural, hybrid creatures. They shouldn’t exist. That is why they’re cursed. Their lives of sin only prove the curse was valid.”
“Um...that seems awful self-prophetic, don’t you think? If they weren’t born cursed, they might not grow up to embrace vice and evil. Maybe Heaven has made them into what they are.”
“What?” Raphael was regarding him with such a horrified expression that Michael wondered if his head had suddenly sprouted a mass of serpents. “What kind of logic is that?”
“I believe,” Gabriel offered, “that on Earth it’s called ‘political correctness.’”
“Well here in Heaven, we call it blasphemy! Nephilim are cursed, end of story.” Raphael’s gaze narrowed on Michael. “You would do well to remember it.”
“Fine,” Michael said, shooting Gabriel an annoyed glance. “But philosophy aside, the current mess on Earth needs a solution. If we’re not going to disturb the Almighty, just how are we going to save humanity? Or at the least, keep the human race alive and reasonably unpossessed until He wakes on His own?”
Gabriel buffed his fingernails on his lapel, and then inspected them one by one. “I suspect our elder brother has a plan,” he said. “As usual.”
“Quite so.” Raphael climbed the three steps to his throne and seated himself with a flourish of golden robes. He opened his mouth to speak.
When he finished—some three human hours later, Michael estimated—it was with a firm nod of self-approval. The plan was a good one, he said. Practically foolproof, he said. The Earth was sure to be saved.
Michael wasn’t so optimistic. Sure, Raphael had a plan. That didn’t mean it was going to work.
There were bound to be loopholes.
***
Mab was in Houston.
Luc flew toward his alpha, his thrall collar straining toward the hand that had created it. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to fly in the opposite direction. But even if he could somehow break the collar’s compulsion and flee, the victory would be fleeting. And if Mab had to come after him, her fury would know no bounds.
He landed on the sidewalk in front of Club Tartarus. It was mid-afternoon. Too late for the lunch crowd, too early for clients seeking evening delights. A knock at the door was quickly answered, however. The bouncer—a human male named Carter—seemed to expect Luc’s arrival. He nodded with a touch of respect, as well as a hint of pity in his eyes.
“The Mistress is in Circle 9,” he said.
In other words, in the lowest circle of Hell. Club Tartarus was filled with fantasy rooms, available to the clientele for varying fees. The rates rose as the elevator descended. Only the richest and most...adventurous...of Mab’s clients entered Circle 9. There, attended by the most skilled of Mab’s male and female sex workers, their darkest and most daring fantasies sprang to life. The fee was enormous. Satisfaction and inviolable anonymity were guaranteed.
Luc was intimately acquainted with the tortures of Circle 9. Just thinking about the place made his brow break out in sweat and his hands go cold. His stomach heaved. He very nearly vomited on the spot, all over Carter’s expensive cowboy boots. As if to mock his fear, at that precise moment, the ruby in his thrall collar flashed so hotly, he could smell his own burning flesh. How he made it to the elevator, he had no idea. When he came back to himself he was inside it, alone, heading down.
He stepped out into a nightmare. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a line of snapping, gas-fired sconces. Hissing steam spurted from nozzles hidden in the floor, ceiling, and walls. The audio system speakers were hidden as well. Clanking chains and the snap of a whip mingled with cries of pain and moans of sexual bliss.
He moved slowly, his eyes scanning the room. At first it appeared deserted. Then a ball of crimson hellfire blazed to life high up near the ceiling. A shaft of light cast a tight circle on a figure below.
Mab, seated on a rope sling, swung gently. A shining vinyl unitard encased her lush body. Spike-heeled leather boots covered her legs to mid-thigh. Her hellfire whip handle twirled lazily in her fingers. Its stolen gems sparkled.
Mab’s touchstone shone blood red in the valley of her cleavage. “Luc.” Her voice was soft and silky, like languid sex. “You have come back to me.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
She tapped the butt of the whip handle against the opposite palm. “Why?”
“Because...” He licked dry lips. “Because I am yours, Mistress.”
“A fine answer that would be,” she said, swinging her long legs to the ground. “If it were true.” She walked toward him, heels clicking on the floor. Steam caressed her body as she prowled through the dark. “You ran from me, Luc. With the help of that little brat. She sprang you from the cellar.”
Zephyr. Luc’s blood went cold. “What have you done to her?”
The thin line of Mab’s plucked brows rose high above her cold blue eyes. “Why, nothing, Luc. Yet.” She stalked closer. “Put her out of your mind.”
“Please, ma’am, don’t punish Zephyr. She made a mistake, opening the cellar door. I should’ve sent her away. I’m the one who’s to blame.”
Mab’s sudden smile was, perhaps, even more threatening than her darkest expression. “Ah, the truth. At last. Yes, Luc. You are to blame. Are you very sorry for your sin?” He opened his mouth to respond. She halted his words with an upraised hand. “Do not lie to me, Luc. I’ll know if you do.”
He met her gaze squarely. “No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m not sorry.”
“See? The truth isn’t difficult. You’re not sorry. Of course you aren’t.” She spun the whip handle between her fingers. “But you will be, sugar. You will be.”
She circled a finger and said a word. A dozen or more sconces set high on the walls sprung to life. Waving, licking light flooded the far end of the room, falling upon a sort of low stage. Luc swallowed thickly. A long table against the wall held all manner of instruments. Manacles. Floggers, ropes, candles. A ball gag. Butt plugs. A massive strap-on dildo.
And suddenly...wasps. Thousands of wasps, swarming amid the paraphernalia. A low, sinister buzz filled his ears. Illusion? Or illusion-turned-to-reality? There was no way to know.
His stomach rolled. His gaze darted right and left, as if looking for a means of escape. There was none. He knew that.
“I searched for y’all,” Mab drawled. “I couldn’t find your sister or her lover. I couldn’t even find you, though you wear my thrall collar.” She moved closer. “Your sins didn’t begin there, sugar. It was bad of you, very bad, not to tell me Cybele and Arthur were fucking behind my back. And what about Cybele’s magic? No dormant should be powerful enough to give me the slip. But Cybele did. And you knew it.” She pursed her red lips. “You have no idea, Luc. No idea how angry all this makes me.”
A single wasp detached itself from the swarm. Lazily, it bobbed across the room, drifting ever closer. Cold sweat trickled down Luc’s forehead, stinging his eyes. The insect alighted on his head and began a slow crawl through his hair.
Mab had advanced, too. She was within reach of him now. Every muscle in Luc’s body clenched. “But you will know it,” she whispered. “Oh, you will. Remove your shirt.”
It took a long moment before his muscles unlocked enough to comply. He shucked off the shirt and let it drop to the floor. The wasp, dislodged from Luc’s hair, buzzed angrily in his ear.
A long red fingernail touched the center of his naked chest. It scored a light line downward, stopping an inch above his belt buckle. “You knew about Cybele. About Arthur,” Mab murmured. “And you did not tell me.”
Luc stared straight ahead, eyes focusing on the flickering gaslight. Mab’s nail circled once, around his navel. The wasp alighted on the back of his neck. His stomach clenched.
“I suspect they’re together,” she said. “I suspect y’all have been together these past two days.”
“Yes.”
“They are hidden by strong magic.”
“Yes.”
She drew back, her red lips twisting. “So many disturbing events.” She tapped the butt of her whip handle against her palm. “Arthur gone rogue. Surviving his Ordeal without a guide. A horde of hellfiends streaming out of one of the places Merlin was supposed to have died.” A dozen or more wasps separated from the swarm and flew in his direction.
“Tell me, Luc. Did Arthur find Merlin’s cave? Did he free those hellfiends?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He ignored the sensation of the insects alighting on his arms, his shoulders, his chest. “With Merlin’s staff. He’s found it. Its power belongs to Arthur now.”
Mab went still at this pronouncement. Shock, however brief, showed in her dark eyes. Luc couldn’t suppress a rush of satisfaction.
“Arthur gave me a message for you,” he said.
“Message? What message?”
“The heir of Merlin issues a challenge. A duel to the death for the position of alpha and the right to lead the Druid clan. He awaits you at Tŷ’r Cythraul.”
For a long moment, Mab remained silent. Then she smiled and spread her hand on Luc’s chest. One of the wasps was trapped beneath it. Its stinger sunk into Luc’s flesh.
Mab’s voice was dangerously soft. “And does Arthur believe he can defeat me?”
“Yes. Yes, he does believe it.” It was not, precisely, a lie. Arthur believed there was a chance he could defeat Mab. A slim one, yes, but a chance, nonetheless.
She smiled. “If he doesn’t win, and I succeed in keeping him alive, I will collar him. He’ll be my thrall.”
“Yes.” Luc swallowed. “He knows that.”
He couldn’t let Mab realize how likely that scenario was. If she knew how unstable Arthur’s magic was, she’d be off to England like a shot. Arthur needed every hour, every minute, Luc could give him.
“He’s willing to take that risk,” Luc said. “That should give you an idea of how powerful he is.”
“Should it? Perhaps.” Mab tapped a finger against her full lower lip. “But somehow, I’m not convinced. The truth is never so simple. There are always secrets.”
She moved closer and pressed her body against him. Her lips whispered hotly against his ear. “Tell me, Luc. Tell me Arthur’s secrets.”
He didn’t move, didn’t speak.
She stepped back, her voice no longer teasing. “I can take the knowledge from you. You are my thrall. When the pain I inflict on your body is broad enough, and deep enough, your brain will turn soft. But then you know that, don’t you? You remember your Ordeal.”
With a snapping sound, a lash of hellfire snaked from her whip handle. As if called by the magic, the entire swarm of wasps rose into the air. A writhing, buzzing mass of dread curdled in Luc’s stomach.
“Did you enjoy your Ordeal, sugar?”
Luc forced his reply past dry lips and tongue. “No, ma’am. I did not.”
“No? I did. I enjoyed it so very much.” Mab gazed at the swarming cloud of wasps, and past it, to her tools of pain and humiliation. “Now I’m fixing to enjoy myself again.”
Luc knew his mistress spoke the truth.
TWENTY-SIX
Lightning flashed.
Arthur directed the jagged energy toward a boulder on the moor, a target he’d chosen in advance. The bolt hit precisely in the center. Shards of rock and grit exploded with satisfying fury. Feeling marginally more hopeful than he had in days, he flew back to the garden at Tŷ’r Cythraul where Cybele sat waiting under the heavy clouds. Real clouds this time. The hellfiend cloud had finally dissipated, leaving Arthur a clear sky in which to practice the weather-calling skills he’d gleaned from his ancestors’ memories.
Cybele’s shirt was wet from his rain, plastered to her chest. Her nipples were hard. He tried not to stare.
“It’s getting easier,” he told her. He sat beside her on the bench. Closing his eyes, he envisioned the clouds above them moving away. The rain stopped.
“Nice,” Cybele said. “I think you have weather down. Your illusions are complex, too. Much more convincing than anything I can conju
re.”
“Maybe,” he allowed. “But Mab’s not going to be fooled by a glamour. At least not for long.” He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his spread legs. “How can I fight her? I can’t go past illusion. I can’t manipulate reality. She can.”
He’d tried, over and over, until he thought his brain would explode. He hadn’t succeeded in bringing so much as a speck of dust out of illusion and into the material world.
Cybele shoved a hank of wet hair out of her eyes. “It’ll come. It’s only been a day and a half since we left London.”
“That’s more time than we thought I’d have.” How the hell had Luc managed to keep Mab away this long? Abruptly, he buried the thought. It didn’t bear contemplation. He could tell Cybele’s thoughts were traveling the same disturbing path. She shivered, her shoulders hunching as she wrapped her arms around her torso.
“You’re cold,” he said, though he knew that wasn’t the problem at all. It was a warm April night. “I’ve done enough for now. Let’s go in.”
He folded his wings into nothingness. In the kitchen, he pulled on a shirt. They set out food they didn’t feel like eating.
“At least the hellfiends are finally out of the sky,” Cybele said, shoving her sandwich to the center of the table.
“Out of the sky,” Arthur said, “but not gone.”
His father’s old battery-powered radio provided news from the human point of view. The volcanic eruption had ceased. The Welsh authorities were clearing debris and counting the dead. Air traffic and train service had resumed on a limited schedule. Most people were back at their jobs.
Concurrently, there’d been a disturbing spike in street violence. In the last twenty-four hours, eighteen people had been murdered in London—a count fifty-four times the normal rate. Assault and rape were rampant. London wasn’t unique—other cities in the UK and around the world reported similar crime surges. Global trouble spots were boiling over.
“The fiends did less harm in the sky,” Arthur said. “Now that they’re interacting with humans...”
He pushed away from the table and crossed the room to retrieve the staff, propped on the wall by the door. For about the thousandth time, he rotated the shaft in his hands, feeling for a spark, a vibration, for anything that might indicate the wood wasn’t dead or the touchstone permanently dark.