by Lexi Ostrow
The clock humans called Big Ben sounded into the night, rattling through her because she was lying directly next to the thundering tower clock.
A shudder passed through her, and she pushed off the cold ground. Pure Angels were demons, just the same as any other, but they occupied a section of Hell that wasn’t truly in Hell. Pure Angels could not enter in and out of Hell unless they were unconscious. They did, however, need to access their little pocket of life just next to any of the entrances to Hell.
Seraphina had tried and failed over the past three days. When it would not unlock, she had grasped at her feathers, tugging them out in handfuls, trying to ensure that they were still white. That she was still pure, despite all she had done. Each time, the feathers had laid in her hand, as glistening and white as a fresh snowfall, but the door would not unlock. So she was forced to take shelter on the streets of London, using her powers of compulsion to keep the men and authorities away each time they came near. She had felt nothing for days, even when she’d worried she had Fallen.
With Demetrious dead, her link to him was severed, sliced as effortlessly as a limb lost in battle. Numbness overtook her, except when she dreamt. When she dreamt, all she could see was the blood trickling from her lover's midsection, or feel the sharp stab of the glass bottle. Sleep kept coming, though, and she kept waking up in cold sweats, with retching not far behind.
She wanted to save him. There were rumors that the soul did not die, not with the mortal passing of life. Demetrious had left the physical plane, but his soul had to be alive and well in whatever section of Hell the Pure fell to when they were laid to rest. There was no way to know if she could reach him, how she could possibly overcome the ward against Pure Angels in Hell, but she’d wanted to. Desperate as she was, she wasn’t foolish. Pure Angels in Hell would be a target, and she needed her brethren sect to save their leader with her. Only, she was forbidden to enter the only place she could reach them. All she could do was run away, let the grief consume her and make certain she never helped another human.
“I can sense her. I’ve found her, Layel. She’s here,” a feminine voice shouted.
Seraphina tried to stand, slipped and leaned helplessly against the dirty wall. Muriel was coming. Layel was coming. All at once, the numbness tracing through her body evaporated, and hope blossomed in its place. If they were coming, they could help her. Demetrious wouldn’t be lost after all.
Energy poured over her, renewing her, and she pushed off the wall and, finally, was able to stand.
“I am here. Around this way. Oh, thank the Angels you thought to look for me.” Her voice was louder than it should have been, but she didn’t care. Seraphina forced herself to begin to walk in the direction Muriel’s voice had come from.
“Seraphina, please remain quiet,” Layel’s voice was a harsh whisper.
Elation deflated the moment she reached the end of the street and saw the pair. Their wings were tucked in, hiding what they truly were, but they still carried large blades and somber looks. Her heart seemed to slow to nary a beat per second as she realized what was to come. She was marked Fallen in their eyes, and they were to take her down. Her own sect, her own family.
“No.” She tripped backwards as she tried to turn and run back down the street from which she came.
“Seraphina, you must stop. Do not make this more than it has to be. Please.” Layel’s voice held all the command a leader’s voice should, and all the remorse of a being not content in what they were about to do.
Sucking in a deep breath, she lifted her gaze and looked between the two. Layel’s face was etched with small lines of guilt, and Muriel’s was a hard line—stony and cold, just like the Angel herself. Izazal rounded the corner, his long dark hair flowing freely around his shoulders, and Seraphina felt ill. Izazal and Muriel were lovers, but seeing him there truly meant she was being met by her death. Izazal was the sect enforcer, the one to instill lessons in them, should any of them break their codes and begin to fall.
“I will not fight you. If my death brings me to Demetrious’ soul, I welcome it with open arms. I have no purpose here if I have begun to fall and no way into Hell to rescue his soul. At least, if you dispatch me from my mortal form, I can seek him out that way. I have lived without him, and I warn you, never create a blood link. You will not understand where to go once it is broken.” She felt the warm slide of tears down her cheeks as she closed her eyes, and she took a step closer to the trio, bending on her knee to ask for death.
Layel’s hand wrapped around her wrist and jerked her up forcefully enough to cause her neck to snap backwards. She gasped at the pain and opened her eyes. His bright eyes held no emotion, and his mouth was so close, if she moved a hair, their lips would touch. Something he must have realized because he pulled back before speaking.
“You are speaking nonsense, Seraphina. You are to be punished, as in accordance with our ways. But your wings are still white, you have not fallen, and we do not kill our own. Even at their behest.”
Her next words were out before she had a moment to think on them. “Then you will help me save Demetrious after? To return his soul to another’s body and let him live again? Lead us again?”
“Blaspheme,” Izazal growled low and lifted his curved blade as if he wasn’t going to follow Layel’s orders. “We answer to the Purest of us all. We answer to Layel, and you are lucky he does not wish your death.”
Layel flinched at the recognition of his title. She could see every feather in his wings bristle, even though there was no wind. His eyes were a deadly black as he turned to face Izazal, and the other man had the good sense to shrink back a notch.
“As you have said, you answer to he who rules the Pure, you answer to me.” His head turned back to look at Seraphina, and the blackness slipped out of his eyes as he spoke to her. “I know what you are dreaming of, and it cannot be. Redeeming and rescuing souls is a myth—as are we. Though while we are true, the myth is not. There is no rescuing Demetrious, Seraphina. While I wish I had insisted on leading a battle sect, I did not. It is my fault that he has passed, but there is no bringing him back.”
The small ribbon of hope fell from her grasp as a flicker of anger stirred within her. Layel was correct. As leader of the Pure, he should have been the commander, yet he allowed Demetrious to do it because her lover had requested the permission. Had Layel refused, perhaps the order the other eve would have differed, perhaps it would be Layel dead and gone. She felt her eyes narrow into slits, and she hissed at him.
“You cannot know until you try. You are powerful. You are the oldest of us. You have seen things I certainly have not in my three hundred years. However, I do not believe you.” She turned her head to Muriel, hoping that she could compel a reaction, woman-to-woman. “Think if it were Izazal. Think how you would want the help to break free and save his soul. To reunite with him.”
A flicker of something, not quite compassion but concern, flashed in Muriel’s blue eyes. The other Angel’s gaze narrowed and all emotion fled. “We follow Layel. If he deems this to be a fool’s errand, then he is correct. Come Seraphina, come home with us. Izazal will be as gentle as he can be. He is not a monster, and I should hope, if I were killed, he would lose his control as you did. Leave this foolishness behind and return to your home. Return to being Pure.”
She growled, not even realizing that the noise had emanated from her until Izazal stepped forwards, scimitar out. “None of you will help me then? None of you wish to bring him home?” venom dripped from her words.
“Seraphina, he is not missing to be brought back. Do not disrupt the order of things. Fallen Angels play with souls, and that should be enough reason for you to stay away from them. Calm your ire and return with us. Muriel is correct, I have it within my power to see to it that your punishment is fulfilled, but not cruel.” Layel outstretched his hand.
His words served no purpose other than to provoke her. Demetrious had been a good leader to them. A kind one, and they showed no res
pect for his death. No care or concern to save his soul.
She didn’t need them then.
Seraphina raked her sharpened nails across Layel’s flesh, drawing blood. He cursed and drew his hand to his cloak, determined not to let the toxic ichor that runs within all Angels drip out. Her blood, however, slipped down her chin as her fangs sliced into her lower lip. She watched it fall and lunged, slicing her hand across Izazal’s cheek and grabbing his weapon before he could react to anything but making certain his blood did not taint the ground.
“If you will not help me, I will get him myself.”
Frantically, she grabbed her right wing and jerked it up as high as she could and sliced the sword through the feathers. She screamed in pain, despite not having reached the root feather. They would re-grow if she did not cut it out. She heard shouts, and Muriel dared to touch her. Seraphina swung the blade in a long arc and sliced the female’s arm.
“Izazal! Get her out of here. I will deal with Seraphina,” Layel shouted.
Seraphina hastily grabbed her left wing and repeated the action. Pain as hot as a branding iron shot through her. Tears dripped down her face, and she felt her stomach heave. But she was not done.
“Seraphina, I beg you. Cease. You cannot undo this once it is done.” Layel’s voice was soft, pleading, and his hands were outstretched, reaching for her.
“There is nothing that will stop me.” Her voice was so full of rage, she didn’t recognize it.
Arching her back, she stabbed the point straight down into her back. Her cry was so loud that it rang in her ears. Bile rose in her throat, and she swallowed it down, ignoring the bitter taste and the vile burn as she did. She heard Layel’s roar and felt the gust of wind he created as he fled, leaving her and her blood alone in the street. Closing her eyes and clamping down on the inside of her right cheek, she began to carve out her flesh and the root feather. She could not feel anything except the bite of the metal as pain and nausea compounded her every action. She did not stop, could not stop. If she were to reach Demetrious, she had to fall.
The root feather fell from her body with a wet sound as it crashed onto the street. The world spun and tipped as the wound became impossible to ignore. Seraphina forced herself to suck in three deep breaths before summoning up the last of her energy and flashing to a spot known for Fallen Angels in Whitechapel.
She crashed into the street, pouring more of her blood out over the cobblestone and dirt path. She needed a Fallen to heal her, and to take her away before she died. Moments before, she had welcomed the sweet kiss of death, but now, she wanted to live.
Off twenty yards and hidden almost entirely, sat a Fallen, black wings spread wide and a grin on her face. Seraphina crawled to the Angel, unable to stand upright from the pain and loss of blood.
“Please, take me to Hell. I need to go to Hell. I must find Demetrious. I must find his soul.”
Seraphina saw the wicked curve of a smile on the female’s lips, and then nothing at all.
“Seraphina, oh my sweet Angel, what have they done to you?” a soft voice practically purred as gentle fingers stroked the curve of her face. “Wake up, my sweet Angel. Please.”
Her eyes snapped open. Demetrious. She leaned into the hand that was caressing her, and immediately, she knew it, she had found him. That bloody-fucking-wonderful Fallen had brought Seraphina to him.
“Demetrious!” she shouted and tried to launch herself up.
Her vision blurred, and she felt queasy as she did so, but it did not stop her lips from meeting his. Ecstasy flared through her body, and while it did not quell the pain, it sent a pulse of need through her that she could not deny. Her hands ran over the top of his head and trailed down his neck as her lips followed suit. Without warning, her weight shifted, a spark of pain shot through her, and she pulled back with a cry.
“Shh, my Angel, lie back down.” He forced her head to his lap as he spoke and cradled it there.
“How are you able to touch me?”
He smiled down at her and placed the barest of kisses to her forehead. “In Hell, I am as much a physical being as if I were alive. Though, should I die, it will be the end for me.” He shifted her head in his lap and continued. “What was done to you? Who took your beautiful wings?”
She grimaced as a feather-light touch traced over the flesh of her back. She assumed the Fallen had also healed her. Tearing out wings to cause a fall was highly regarded by the Fallen. They appeared to have respect for anyone brave enough to fall by choice instead of accident. It seemed strange that he didn’t understand, did not realize she had done so to find him.
“I fell to bring you home,” her admission was bold, loud, and she held no fear or disgust for her actions in her voice.
The same was not true for Demetrious. Utter revulsion shone out of his dark brown eyes, and he jerked away from her, letting her head crash into the strange floor beneath them. She winced, and when her eyes refocused, she saw him standing paces away from her, lip pulled back in a snarl.
“Tell me I did not hear your words correctly.”
She pushed herself to a seated position and tried to stop the tears from falling. This was not how it was to be. “I fell. I carved my wings from my body so that I might fall to find you. So that I could save your soul and return topside with you. We could be free of foolish attempts to save humans. We could live together, in peace.”
Demetrious spat at her. A thick, wet glob of disgust that landed on her lips. She forced back a gag and swept her fingers over her mouth to remove it.
“You are an abomination. What you have done, it is unforgivable. You are Fallen, and I will not touch you knowing that you did so to yourself. I am a Pure Angel, and I will never flee from my death. I will accept where my fate has taken me.”
“You do not understand,” she said as she reached out and tried to grasp his forearms, but he pulled away.
“There is naught to understand. We are a glorious demon race, Seraphina, and now you are a bloodied mess of what you once were. I will not be tainted in my afterlife with your mistakes.” He was taking steps away from her with every word, slowly turning his body, giving her his back.
A back that she had spent centuries caressing, kissing and raking her nails down as they’d made love. His wings were unfurled, and a part of her yearned to trail her fingers over every firm muscle, but another part of her was so angry, she saw red. She was unable to stop herself as she closed the space betwixt them and tenderly placed her hand between his wings. He simply could not mean the things he said, she could not blame him for his anger at her actions, but surely he would not be angry forever.
“You are scorning me? After all, I have given up to find you? All I have forsaken?”
Jerking his shoulder away from her touch, Demetrious stepped just outside her reach. The action felt as if she’d slipped into a pool of ice and was drowning. His disgust ate away at her, clawed at her neck and squeezed around her throat, diminishing her ability to breathe.
He did not even bother to look over his shoulder at her, nor did his shoulders sag as if his words upset him. “Yes, Seraphina. You are no longer Pure. You are a monster, and I will have no part of it. You have disgraced yourself, disgraced our love and I would gladly sit in Hell, rather than allow our souls to touch once more.”
She let out a gasp at his words. It was as if they had flipped something on in her. Tears slipped steadily down her cheeks, and she let them fall. Her hand closed around the Angelic dagger she kept tied around her waist. Her fingers shook as they closed around the wooden hilt. She sucked in a deep breath of air and moved to close the space he’d put betwixt them once more.
“You cannot mean that, Demetrious. I can understand your upset with me. I fell without consulting with anyone, but it was the only way to save you. And here, I have come. We must put this behind us and start anew. I can help you fall if you should like, I would not wish for you to lose your wings.”
Demetrious turned, lightening fast. His fan
gs gleamed in the dim firelight, and his eyes were solid black. “Do not touch me again, abomination,” he sneered and raised his hand as if to strike her across the face.
He never got the opportunity.
In a flash, she tore the dagger free from its binding about her waist. Without a thought, she slashed it across Demetrious’ dark chest. Once, twice, three times. He roared, and she flashed behind him. Launching herself, she landed on his back and dragged the blade across his throat. The fourth slash was the end. While they’d been able to touch, he was not a body, just a soul, and it exploded into nothingness, sending Seraphina slamming into the ground.
Her entire being shook with grief, remorse and anger. Sucking in a deep breath of air through her nose, she gave into the sobs threatening to consume her. She had torn her wings from flesh and bone to save the man she had just murdered.
The tears came for days, and when they were done, Seraphina knew only one thing. Revenge.
Three
1740
Seraphina raked her nails across the abdomen of the nearest guard. There was a throaty sounding gurgle, and then the demon dropped to the floor, his blood pooling around him. With a flick of her wrist, a steel dagger flew into the throat of the second guard, his body collapsing with a satisfying drop. Carelessly, she stepped a heeled shoe onto the dead creature and walked over him. Throwing her arms wide, she opened the doors to the central area in Hell, where Lucifer had claimed his throne. Slipping her hand into the front of her dress, she slid the dagger free and stepped inside the room. Flames leapt up from copper pots the moment the doors were flung wide, and she walked past them, unperplexed.
Her icy blue-grey eyes were locked onto the Incubus Demon who ruled them all. Lucifer’s cocky gaze brightened, and his lips curved into a smirk when he saw her entering. He didn’t notice the way one hand was tucked behind her back, or if he did, he was not reacting. His dark black hair hung in loose waves to his waist, and even from a distance, she could smell his demonic presence beginning to weaken her resolve. Her body thrummed with a familiar longing, and she almost paused in her stride to reach him. Almost.