Seduced By Shadows

by Slade, Jessa

  She shook off her uncertainty and stepped forward. His hand touched her forehead. She couldn’t help herself; she closed her eyes.

  And staggered back as the choir launched into another bombastic hymn, the bass cabinets under the stage thudding in her chest.

  “Be healed,” the preacher cried, “of all that afflicts you.”

  Since she didn’t want to add ruptured eardrums to the list, she reeled away. But not before she’d looked hard into the blank, gold eyes of the angel-ridden woman.

  A few-dozen people advanced up the aisle. Sera threaded between them out the back door to cool her head, which spun with possibilities.

  The clouds had consumed the last of the day’s sun. In the charcoal light, she rubbed her eyes, as if she could smear away the violet tint she knew was there.

  The revival carried on into the night. Finally, the crowd trickled out, all smiles and eyes reddened with human tears. Sera slipped back inside.

  The angel woman stood next to the preacher. Gold light still glimmered, now closer around her, as if the evening’s work had sapped her. But when he put an arm around her and kissed her forehead, the glow brightened.

  A call from the other side of the stage drew him away, and the woman looked up to meet Sera’s gaze. They met at the front of the stage.

  The woman fumbled in her pocket. “Have you come for your money back?”

  Sera shook her head. “Why would I want my money back?”

  “Since we couldn’t heal you. Your soul is still divided.”

  “As was noted earlier in this very spot, isn’t it always?”

  “Sometimes more than others,” the woman murmured. “A complicated philosophical point I don’t feel like arguing right now.”

  Sera took a leap. “So I take it your husband doesn’t know you are angel-ridden.”

  The woman touched the wedding band on her finger. “We call it hosting.”

  “Does sound less invasive that way,” Sera agreed.

  The woman smiled faintly. She sat and patted the chair beside her. “I’m Nanette, and I don’t want a crick in my neck. Unlike the teshuva, my angel won’t mend every bump and bruise.”

  She sounded more envious than condemning, so Sera joined her. “I’m Sera, and I apparently had a crick in my soul. How long have you hosted an angel?”

  “Since my miraculous recovery from leukemia at age seven.” The woman wrinkled her nose. “When my aunts talked about angels watching over me, they had no idea.” She studied Sera. “You haven’t had yours long. I see remnants of hell still popping off you like sparks from a firecracker.”

  “Tell me I don’t stink of brimstone.”

  Nanette smiled. “No. But you shouldn’t look anyone in the eye when the demon is active. The purple is too intense even for colored contacts, although people will try to explain it that way.”

  Sera remembered the glint in Archer’s eyes when he confronted her on the bridge before the demon had come to her. She’d thought it beautiful.

  “I’ve never seen your kind here before,” Nanette said.

  “Maybe they’re smart enough to hide.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed them. They just don’t come. Neither do the angel hosts. Most possessed think they’ve learned enough about the battle between good and evil.”

  “But you’ve stayed connected with . . .” Sera thought a moment. “I was going to say the real world. Maybe I should just say oblivious.”

  Nanette gave her a ghost of a smile. “I was young when I married Daniel. He was a good man, for no reason other than goodness’ sake. I needed that.”

  Sera frowned. “He doesn’t know what you are, but he’s taking credit for your work.”

  Nanette bristled. “I bet we help more people with our after-school program and soup kitchen than you with all your demon slaying.”

  Sera held up one hand. “I’m not criticizing what you have.” A job she loved. A man who loved her. To smooth the other woman’s ire, she added, “My father was a pastor. He’s why I came tonight when I saw your flyer.”

  Nanette nodded, still a little stiff. “I don’t mean to be defensive. Honestly, the angel hosts are more judgmental than you. As if the war can only be fought with flaming swords.”

  “Your swords flame?” Sera smiled. “I bet that’s tidier, not to mention way cool.”

  Nanette smiled back. “Wouldn’t know. They apparently only issue weapons in the ‘Soldier of God’ swag bag, not the ‘church mouse’ parting gift.”

  Sera hesitated, reluctant to offend again. “Do you really heal people?”

  “The power comes and goes. Yesterday at the convenience store, I was counting out change when it hit. The cashier got excited because he could pick up all the coins I dropped. Said his copper bracelets were finally working on his arthritis.” Nanette held out her hands. “People seem happier, anyway, after they’ve been here.”

  “That’s good.” Sera’s thoughts raced ahead to possibilities she was almost afraid to contemplate.

  “I’m surprised to see a woman possessed,” Nanette said. “Demons seem to gravitate toward large, scary-looking males.”

  Sera grimaced. “Yeah, those large, scary-looking males were pretty surprised too. I take it angels aren’t so sexist.”

  “They choose all ages, physical types, mental capacities. Angel hosts can sicken, grow old, and die as other humans.”

  “I suppose angels have nothing to prove.”

  Nanette eyed her. “Did you? Is that how the demon tempted you?”

  No wonder the talyan had squirmed when Zane talked of his possession. Archer was right. Sera didn’t want to reveal the weakness that made her an agreeable victim to the demon. That was probably why they said pride often went-eth before a fall.

  She shrugged. That was all the answer she was going to give.

  Nanette folded her hands on her lap. “So why did you wait for me?”

  “If I need to understand this war you all say we’re fighting, maybe I just wanted to meet our only ally.”

  “Angels don’t fight alongside the teshuva. In fact, beware of those who think the only good demon is a hell-bound demon. They’d kill you and leave your teshuva to repent on its own.”

  Sera rolled her eyes. “How very pious of them.”

  “Don’t scoff. The hosts to mighty angels would not be stopped by the doubts of a church mouse like me.”

  “Maybe a demon-backed slap upside the head would make them less inclined to judge.”

  “Your eyes are purple,” Nanette said.

  Sera let her irritation over a hypothetical encounter fade. “You’d think they’d appreciate the help. Says something about the opposition that our two armies fighting on separate fronts still haven’t met in the middle.”

  “It says that the battle will never be won.”

  Sera sat back. How could an angel echo Archer’s pessimism?

  Nanette lifted both hands, palms up, as if revealing something obvious. “How could you ever win?”

  “Drain every malice. Butcher every feralis. Lock this realm against every invading djinni.”

  “But you can’t go where the real battles are.”

  “The demon realm?” Sera’s pulse sped, ramping toward demon double time. “I’ve been there, during my possession. And I had another glimpse when Archer and I—”

  “Not the tenebraeternum.” A glint of gold brightened Nanette’s eyes. “Where the true war between good and evil is fought every day. In the human heart.”

  Sera blinked. “Oh. That.”

  The gold glint morphed into simple amusement. “Yes, that. Why do you think angels and demons don’t war outright? Their only battlefield is in us. As long as there is one of us tempted by evil, the war continues.”

  Sera pursed her lips. “That does complicate things.”

  “Salvation is a path, not a stake with a feralis impaled on it.”

  “With a couple candles in their eyeless skulls, they’d make lovely tiki torches along the
path.” Sera sighed. “I hear you.”

  “You just don’t agree.”

  “Your interpretation dooms me to an eternity of fighting without victory.” Sera pictured the hard edges of Archer’s face, etched by pain and weariness sharper than his blades. Her heart ached for him, but she felt a flare of wonder at his endurance. He would never falter.

  Nanette shook her head. “Eternity itself is too short to make a difference.”

  Sera was silent a moment. “Then why?”

  “Because to do otherwise is unquestionably a defeat.”

  “The angels teach you that?”

  “My aunts. I thank God for them every day.” When her name was called across the room, Nanette stood. “Will you come back so we can talk more?”

  Sera stood also, not answering. She glanced across the room to where the preacher was waving. “He’s lucky, to have an angel for a wife.”

  “Oh, he prays every day too. Mostly for the strength to put up with my lousy housekeeping.” Nanette smiled, a dimple in her cheek. “He loves me. I love him.”

  She said nothing more, as if that were enough.

  When Sera held out her hand, Nanette ignored it and hugged her. “You will come again?”

  “There’s so much I want to know. Like, since demons and angels should be matter and antimatter, why aren’t we exploding right now?”

  Nanette drew back. “I’m glad you didn’t say that before I hugged you. We’ll add you to our prayers.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll never be a housekeeper.”

  “I think we should aim for something a little more significant anyway.”

  “A flaming sword?”

  Nanette wrinkled her nose. “Peace.”

  Daniel walked toward them, stage smile forming. Sera spun on her heel. She didn’t want to make small talk with a man so unaware of the dangers around him, however pure his intentions.

  It would be too hard to decide whether she more pit ied him . . . or envied him.

  CHAPTER 15

  Corvus Valerius stared at the crow. So many shades of black, touched with prismatic color. For all the bird’s commonness, its insignificance and transience, the demon realm had nothing to compare to those delicate layers of light and shadow.

  He closed his hand gently around it, savoring the warmth that suffused his palm despite the unrelenting chill of the ring around his finger.

  He dashed it to the ground.

  Shards of glass flew—which was more than he could say for the lamp-work bird.

  In the filigree cage, the living crow flapped its wings.

  “Flawed,” Corvus hissed. Under their black markings, his arms ached with the memory of old pain.

  The glass bird would never fly, of course. But it should look as if it perched on his windowsill only because it had not yet taken the notion to flee.

  His latest work, despite its glistening transparency, felt leaden, dead. He should slag it down as an ashtray.

  The crow stuck its beak between the bars, angling toward one of the chunks of glass that had landed nearby. It purled to itself when it couldn’t quite reach.

  Corvus turned his glare on the living bird, snatched a velvet cape from his desk, and draped it over the cage. “Sleep well,” he growled. “I have night work, but tomorrow . . .”

  Darklings gathered around him in a greedy tide as he made his way through the city. He did not slow to indulge their begging whispers for a sundered soul. Not much longer and then they would feast to satiate them for all eternity.

  The darklings followed him up a shallow flight of steps, past a stylized dragon, and under a set of paper lanterns that swung fitfully in the wind. He opened the door, and they boiled through after him.

  The hostess recoiled, eyes wide. For a moment, Corvus thought she was one of the rare humans who saw the darklings clearly. But her gaze fixed on his face, and he realized his own hungry expression caused her unease.

  He smoothed his features, as much as possible. “Good evening. I believe my friends are already here.”

  She didn’t answer, just bowed as he passed. He made his way to a booth near the back where two men waited.

  One, clutching a bottle of sake, stared across a huge platter of sushi at the man opposite him. “Geoff, how can you gorge like that?”

  “I eat when I’m hungry. You should try it.”

  “You’re always hungry these days.”

  “So I am, Matty, m’ boy. So I am. You going to drink all that yourself?”

  Corvus, noting the blotched aura flaking off Geoffrey, wasn’t surprised at the man’s gluttony. Shedding his soul like gangrenous skin, he probably felt empty all the time. The drug dealer on the corner had more substance than this one.

  “Gentlemen.” He pulled up an extra chair at the end of the booth. “I’m late. Forgive me.”

  Geoffrey waved his chopsticks, scattering blistered flecks of his soul. The darklings swarmed close. But rather than attacking, they flinched back in a smoky wave.

  “Thank you for coming.” Matthew sat stiffly, knuckles white around the sake bottle. “I know it’s late.”

  The darklings milled around Geoffrey—crawling under the table, climbing the back of the booth, clinging to the red globe lantern hanging over them. The chorus of their aggrieved hissing raised a chill draft that set the votive candle dancing.

  Matthew let go of the sake to wrap his arms around himself. “I called you both here to tell you first.” He took a breath. “There’s a board meeting tomorrow, and I’m going to recommend pulling the plug on Solacin.”

  Geoffrey dropped his chopsticks, sputtering. A gob-bet of his soul spewed from his mouth as he cleared his throat. The darkling on the lamp lunged for the morsel . . . then dropped it with a psychic shriek that spi derwebbed the candleholder with fine cracks. It fled, its shady brethren close behind.

  Corvus raised his eyebrows. “And why would you abandon such a wonderfully effective discovery as Solacin?”

  “When it’s going to make us all a shitload of money,” Geoffrey growled.

  Matthew glared across the table. “You must’ve heard. The cops and public health are screaming about this new addiction. They’re calling it solvo.” He sloshed sake into his thin-walled cup. “Solvo? Solacin? Get it? It’s ours. Somehow, it’s on the street.” He tossed back the drink, then looked at them, inviting them to share his horror.

  They stared back at him. After a moment, Geoffrey returned to his sushi.

  Matthew lowered his cup, wide eyes glistening. “You already know,” he whispered. “Did you know it’s killing people? They say it feels great, makes all the pain go away, just like we hoped. But then they say you stop feeling anything; you go numb. They say you turn into a fucking zombie.”

  “Zombie? Oh please,” Geoffrey said testily. “Not at therapeutic dosage levels. At least, not in the same numbers they’re getting among recreational users.”

  “Not the same . . . You’re saying you’ve had fatalities in the clinical trials?”

  Geoffrey shrugged. “Nothing we can’t pass off. And not fatalities. Not exactly.”

  Matthew reeled. “Our psychiatric pharmaceuticals are supposed to help people!”

  “We are helping.” Corvus put his hand on Matthew’s clenched fist. His ring glinted in the crazed light from the broken votive holder. “Sometimes you have to hurt to help. And not everyone can be helped. Sometimes it’s better to let those people—”

  “No.” Matthew pulled away. “When you brought us the Solacin formula and helped Geoff find a way to manufacture it in bulk, you didn’t mention all these caveats and fine print.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Geoffrey said. “We make drugs. Of course there’s fine print. Anyway, life comes with even finer print. Why do you want to bother people with the gory details?”

  Corvus slanted him a curious glance. “Were the details starting to bother you, Geoffrey? Is that why you’re taking Solacin?”

  Geoffrey startled. “I’m fine. You can s
ee I’m not a zombie.”

  Considering how the darklings had fled from the moldering wreckage of his leaking soul . . . Corvus pursed his lips. The Worm hadn’t mentioned this side effect of the chemical desolator numinis—leaving the soul tainted beyond even the ferocious hunger of the darklings. Geoffrey’s shriveled and sour soul had been no feast before, but the stone in the ring would’ve left it intact. Not that the disposal of the souls mattered. Corvus needed only the leftover bodies, emptied of their resolve and troublesome morality, pliant to any suggestion that promised to fill the aching void within them.

  Matthew smacked his palm on the table. “This is completely unethical. You’re probably sneaking Solacin out the back door and pushing it on the corner as solvo yourself.”

  “No,” Geoffrey said. “But he is.” He smirked at Corvus, payback for the revelation of his addiction.

  Corvus sighed. He’d regretted the need to bring in outsiders for mass production. He preferred the personal touch, his ringed hand hovering in benediction over a suffering soul. No true priest, as the corner drug dealer had named him, guaranteed such effortless salvation as a tablet on the tongue.

  But he’d needed more followers emptied of their souls than he alone could convert. Only that accumulated weight of impious blanks would complete the destruction of the Veil.

  “Jesus,” Matthew moaned. “You’re both insane. Solacin was supposed to release thousands imprisoned by depression, PTSD, phobias—”

  “You gonna read the ads back to me?” Geoffrey snarled.

  “Do not fret, dear Matthew,” Corvus said.“The weight of their souls will be lifted, that at least is true. And with their sacrifice, we all will be freed from our chains.”

  Matthew stood. “The board will hear about this. It ends, now.” He strode away, his righteous wrath a shining shield around him.

  Geoffrey reached for the abandoned sake bottle. “Well, that’s that.”

  Corvus grimaced. The problem with zombies, of course, was that for all their many useful qualities, they lacked initiative. But Geoffrey had already served his purpose. Matthew, however, could still be a problem.