Benevolent Passion

by Amanda Pillar

  It’s some kind of clinic.

  Not like the clinic she’d run, but probably one more suited to Hell.

  The injured demon was transferred to the steel table, and then the gray-eyed Mortus placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder. The other women dispersed, leaving only one behind—the blonde from dinner.

  Peony took stock, then made for the door.

  The older woman glanced up. “Where are you going? I thought you could help.” Mockery dripped from her words.

  “I need to get my medical bag.” Then Peony was out the door, running back to her room. Her kit had taken up half the space in her suitcase, but she was glad she had brought it.

  The total trip only took a few minutes, but she was worried it might be a few minutes too long, considering the demon had a fractured skull and had been bleeding from a variety of wounds.

  She hurried back into the room, placed her kit on the gurney and opened it. Spotting a sink in the corner, she washed her hands and replaced her gloves with a disposable latex pair. Then she was back beside the patient.

  The swelling around her nose had already begun to recede, as had the bruising around her eyes.

  She’s a fast healer.

  That was a boon.

  “What is your name?” Peony asked the older demon.

  The blonde gasped from her position near the brazier, where she was soaking cloths in hot water. Had Peony just committed some extreme social faux pas?

  The woman let out a low chuckle, but it held no amusement. “You can call me Your Grace.”

  Peony glanced up from where she was examining the injured demon’s throat. Bruising the size and shape of hands marred the olive-green skin. “That’s your name?”

  “It’s a title,” the blonde demon explained. “Lady Eramine is the Duchess of Windmere. You address her using her title.”

  The duchess glared at the blonde, who promptly closed her mouth and returned to soaking cloths.

  Peony couldn’t help but like the chatty young demon—she didn’t feel evil, like Godric or his uncle. The Mortus are just like the members of the Halcyon Guild. Individual, with varying degrees of darkness on their souls.

  Peony stepped around the end of the metal table and almost slipped in a pool of fresh blood. Hurriedly, she cut the nightgown away and swore. “What the Hell did they do to her?”

  Rape. Rape is what happened.

  If Peony had seen this in the ER and told Selene about it, the attacker would never have lived to be reported to the human police. Her mom may not like demons or angels overly much, but she hated rapists even more.

  Peony propped the demon’s legs wide and swore again at the damage. She then pressed a cloth between the Mortus’ thighs to stem the flow of blood. “Please, hold this here,” she said to the blonde.

  Ripping off her gloves, she rifled through her kit and grabbed the gear she needed, then put a new set of gloves on and got to work.

  “What are you doing?” the blonde asked.

  “She has a third-degree tear,” Peony explained. “Something you would normally see in childbirth.” But that had clearly not been the cause of this injury. “I am going to stitch it back together.”

  Which she did, as quickly as she could, worried about the blood loss. She muttered while she worked, mostly curses at the disgusting asshole who had hurt this Mortus woman. Even demon species that healed quickly could die if they bled out too fast for their body to repair.

  With the sutures in, Peony made another thorough assessment of the demon’s injuries, pausing when she reached the girl’s head.

  The injured demon was recognizable now the bruising and swelling to her face had reduced.

  It was Milly.

  Peony’s gaze snapped to Lady Eramine’s.

  “She is a very fast healer...” Peony muttered. She wondered if the stitches had been a good idea. They would dissolve, but only in two to three days.

  She noticed Milly’s broken nose was also repaired, although no one had reset the bone—unless it had been done while she was retrieving her medical kit. Her fingers felt Milly’s scalp—no fracture.

  “We Mortus heal quickly,” the duchess said, her face drawn. “But not that quickly.”

  “Then how is she—?”

  “I am a natural healer.”

  Peony frowned. “I’d never heard of the Mortus having that ability.”

  “My mother was Pollus. I was born Mortus, but I had some of her traits.”

  When demons bred with other demons, one species always bred true. But it appeared that abilities from the other race were also inherited.

  Behind Lady Eramine, Peony could see the blonde demon’s mouth hanging open. Apparently, this was something of a revelation. And it explained a lot: Sylvester was a Pollus cambion, and he was able to heal most injuries without medical intervention.

  “Why didn’t you stop her bleeding?” Peony asked into the quiet that had descended.

  “My ability fixes the most severe injuries first. She had a fractured skull and fractured cervical vertebrae.”

  “From being beaten and choked.”

  The duchess tilted her head in acknowledgement.

  “How can you stand this?” Peony asked, ripping off her gloves and throwing them in the trash.

  There was no response, Lady Eramine’s eyes having gone stone cold at the question.

  The blonde bit her lip, then said quietly, “Because it is the way things are.”

  Not if I can help it.

  Chapter 26

  The door to the main hall in the guild slammed open. Trick’s attention was snared, but he kept his usual relaxed pose: one leg thrown over the arm of his throne, and a fist propping his chin up. Charcoal-colored smoke curled around the doorway, indicating that someone had teleported here, using a spell rather than an innate ability.

  There weren’t many people who would dare to burst into the Halcyon Guild, and he quickly ran through the list in his mind: Hades; Hades’ personal assistant, Asha Himm; and Dru. None of those folks needed a spell to teleport—well, Dru did, but she’d be likely to use a Devilsgate, since that was cheaper. That said, she was rich now after cashing in her loot from the Set’s castle, so who knew?

  Two people stepped into the hall, and Trick fought the urge to straighten to immediate attention. With deep green eyes, and hair the color of Tartarus’ sky at midnight, the woman was so beautiful she made supermodels look ugly. But it wasn’t her physical appearance that caught him; it was her power.

  She was a Nephilim.

  What the Hell—?

  “Where is she?” the woman demanded. Her green eyes were wild, and her cherry-red mouth was pressed into a thin line of rage.

  There was a man behind her, but Trick couldn’t make out his features. He could discern a stylish designer suit, complete with mandarin collar, but couldn’t tell the man’s skin tone or hair color.

  A sorcerer. And a powerful one at that.

  The other occupants of the hall had frozen at the newcomers’ arrival, and no one moved as the Nephilim stepped further into the room, her furious stare locked on Trick.

  “Where. Is. She?”

  Slowly, so as to appear like he didn’t have a care in Tartarus, he swung his leg to the front of the chair, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Where is who?”

  Trick had plenty of female assassins, any one of them might have irritated this powerful woman. Hell, Dru might have pissed her off accidentally; her people skills were that good.

  Trick fought to keep the frown from his face—he didn’t want to think about Dru, or the fact that she’d left him. Left the guild.

  Instead, he focused on this Nephilim, the rarest species of the rare. Half-demon, half-angel, they were slaughtered by Heaven’s armies whenever they were found. Demons didn’t tend to treat them much better: too powerful to let live, too alluring to kill.

  “Peony.”

  “You’re look
ing for a flower?”

  Someone snorted at his side and he flicked a glance at Sylvester, who glared at him with the full force of his disapproval. It turned out that most of the guild hadn’t approved of Trick selling Peony to the Mortus—he had had no idea how well-liked the cambion had been. It was an inexcusable error on his part, but he had had little choice. He’d do it again, even if it had cost him two free guild members already.

  “I am looking for my daughter.”

  Oh, shit.

  This was bad, this was so bad. Why hadn’t Peony ever mentioned that her mother was a freaking Nephilim?

  Sylvester cleared his throat, and Trick shot him a look that clearly said to shut the Hell up.

  Sylvester ignored him. “She’s with the Mortus.”

  Rage pulsed over the woman’s features, and every light in the room shorted out, electrical sparks flying over the occupants.

  “She’s what?”

  Chapter 27

  Two days had passed since the healing, and Z felt like he had spent most of it eating and sleeping. Truly, he doubted he’d ever consumed so much food before in his life. And it had all been so different to Heaven’s meals. It turned out that angels were vegans, not that he’d ever known there was a term for it, but here there were things like bacon and eggs, and sausages, and steak.

  And he really liked the taste of them.

  He supposed he should feel guilty, but he didn’t.

  He lay on the plush, cream-colored carpet of his room—it had basically become his bed—and stretched out his arms and wings then froze. Looking over his shoulder, he saw soft plumage arching over his back and onto the floor.

  His wings had grown back.

  Completely.

  Wonder and joy bubbled through him at the realization: he was whole again.

  No more would he be a burden on the Darts—he could save Peony, then with her help, they could use Odin’s Orb to find Dina and the remaining pieces of the Heart. After that, he would no longer be ashamed of his failure. And he would have repaid Peony for her care.

  You can show her the real you.

  Not the sick, weak version of himself that she’d been exposed to. He would prove to her that he was a grown male angel, and someone worthy of the respect and kindness she’d already shown him.

  Stretching a wing over his head, he stroked the soft feathers, then paused, his hand hanging in mid-air.

  They were pure white.

  Not a single strand of silver was to be found.

  I am no longer warrior class.

  His sense of happiness burst, and his eyes burned. So quickly his elation had soured. This was his punishment. He was no longer a warrior of Heaven—he was just a regular angel.

  Maybe this is the price you had to pay for your failure, and for using human and demon magic to cure your injuries.

  There was a knock; Azrael stood in the doorway, his dark hair jaw-length and framing his face. Before their fall, Azrael had never had a haircut that wasn’t military standard. Behind him, Dru appeared, her face so painfully familiar and yet so utterly alien that it jarred him back to reality.

  You are still an angel. Act like it.

  He shoved himself to his knees, his wings a graceful sweep behind him.

  Lucky I don’t sleep naked. He used to, back in Heaven, but he hadn’t liked the idea of dropping his trousers in Hell, nor here.

  “You’re looking much better,” Azrael said, coming into the room.

  Dru stared from the doorway, a thoughtful look on her face. “You’re skinny enough that Opal would approve of your physique. You need to eat more.”

  If he ate more, he’d need to buy shares in a supermarket chain.

  “Who is this Opal?” he asked. Peony had mentioned her as well.

  “She’s a Radiato demon. They think the skeletal look is hawt.”

  He looked down at himself, at his prominent ribs and concave stomach. “I will improve.”

  “Yes, but how quickly?” Dru asked. She was studying him like he was a bug on a specimen tray.

  He narrowed his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Dru closed the door behind her. “We need to go after Peony ASAP. I am worried the longer she’s there, the worse condition she will be in when she’s found.”

  Z stood and walked over to his closet, where he grabbed another of Azrael’s modified shirts and shrugged it on. The garment hung loosely on his frame, whereas once the two angels had been of similar musculature. He looped a belt around his waist as well, so that his trousers didn’t fall off his hips.

  “I am not sure I will be able to do much fighting, to be honest,” Z admitted. Even though he had his wings back, he was weak as a newborn babe. “One more day?”

  Not that he was sure an extra day would make a huge amount of difference, but he was recovering faster than he’d anticipated, courtesy of Dora’s healing.

  “We need a plan, anyway,” Dru said.

  Azrael quirked an eyebrow. “You said plans are for wimps.”

  “Your plans are for wimps. My plans rock. That’s how we managed to find Odin’s Orb.”

  Azrael coughed. “Your plan?”

  “Well, it certainly wasn’t Yael’s.”

  “On that, we agree.”

  A heated look passed between the pair, and then they focused on Z. He swallowed.

  “Come and get some breakfast,” Dru said, then left Azrael and Z alone.

  Clear blue eyes locked on the sweep of white behind Z’s shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

  Z choked back an involuntary sob. He would not cry; this was his punishment. He was far better off than Azrael; to act upset would only rub salt in his friend’s wound.

  “I deserve nothing less,” Z said, and looked at the ground.

  Azrael clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself. You were on guard with Dina, who is like a battalion of angels all on her own. The fact both of you got taken—it meant that it was one Hell of an attack.”

  Z raised his eyes to meet Azrael’s. “Being here has changed you,” he blurted.

  He nodded. “That and meeting Dru. She’s so alive—accepts who she is utterly: where’s she’s been, what she’s done. It makes you realize that pity won’t get you anywhere. I still think those archangels are asses for what they did to us, but provided you can stay free and keep your wings, that will keep me happy.”

  Azrael had changed more than Z realized, to want to thumb his nose at the most powerful angels among their kind.

  “Come on,” the dark-haired angel said. “Let’s go downstairs.”

  *

  They were in the library again, this time all of them together. Yael was still fuming over discovering a human at their mansion, despite the blood oaths that had been sworn. Dru had told him to go shove his head up his butt, and things had devolved into an argument Z had decided to ignore. The two of them appeared to have a hate-hate relationship, and he didn’t want to get involved in it.

  “Want some whiskey?” Raze asked.

  Z turned to the angel and stared at the amber liquid partially filling a cut-crystal class. He shook his head, the smell strong enough to make his stomach churn.

  There was a sound of wood slamming into plaster, a tense second of silence, and then everyone launched into action, bolting from the room. Lurching upright, Z followed as the others sprinted into the foyer.

  There, standing in the broken doorway, was a woman that made his every sense snap to life.

  He didn’t know what she was, just that she was lethal.

  A magical wind whipped her hair around her face, and her green eyes burned with an intensity that was almost frightening. Behind her, a man lingered in the shadows of the twilight evening, the fine tailoring of his suit all that was visible.

  The foyer smelled of green fields and woodsmoke.

  Dru skidded to a halt on the marble floor, a knife in each hand. “Selene?”

  Z
eyed the shocked expression on Dru’s face, and then the cold anger etched on the newcomer’s.

  Selene took a step forward. “Where is she?”

  Yael slid closer to the strange demon, only to be whipped back against a wall by an invisible hand. He grunted at the impact, and strained, but could not move. The gun in his hand dropped to the floor with a clatter.

  The others stood at the ready, but no one moved.

  “Where is Peony?” Dru asked, her voice almost hesitant.

  Why was this fearsome creature asking after his healer?

  Z didn’t like this at all. Peony would never be able to protect herself from such an individual—and he wasn’t strong enough to do so, either. May never have been, even when he’d been at full power.

  “Yes. That guild leader of yours told me he had sold her to the Mortus, but that is not possible.” Another gliding step forward. “Is it?”

  Dru winced and lowered her blades. “Trick isn’t my leader anymore, and he did do it.”

  Crystal burst in the chandelier above them, raining glittering shards down on their faces, shoulders and chests. He could feel cuts across his exposed skin. Light dimmed in the room, only to be replaced by glowing orbs of magical fire.

  He had to protect Peony from this woman.

  “How could you let this happen? She joined the guild because of you. You promised me you would protect her!” Rage filled the room, until it was an almost physical presence.

  “I was on a mission—which went wrong. I had managed to get enough treasure to buy our freedom, but by the time I returned, the Mortus had requested Peony, and Trick had sold her.” Fury met fury as Dru stared at Selene.

  Then suddenly, the room calmed, and Selene stood there, hands open, tears tracking down her cheeks. “My daughter is in the hands of the Mortus.”

  Her daughter?

  Z felt as if he had been punched in the gut. This woman was Peony’s mother? As powerful as she was, there would be no need for Z to save his healer.