The Demoness of Waking Dreams (Company of Angels)

by Stephanie Chong

  Michael switched the image back to the live video stream.

  “Luciana Rossetti,” Michael said, “is no ordinary demoness. She’s fiercely independent and fiendishly clever, like all Rogues. But she is much more than that. She is a poisoner par excellence and a Mata Hari of the demon world. She escaped from the Company a few days ago. She’s dangerous in her own right, but she has risen to the top of the Company’s Most Wanted List because she has created a poison with which she killed another demon.”

  If it can kill a demon…

  It can kill an angel.

  Every angel in both Los Angeles and Chicago fell silent.

  Michael continued, “We need to catch Luciana before she uses this poison again—on our kind. Or worse, before she manufactures another batch of it and distributes it among the demons. She has the ability to unleash a weapon of unparalleled power. It would give them an edge over us. An edge from which we might never recover.”

  Both units were still for a moment, as though the earth had stopped its rotation and for a brief moment the world seemed to come to a halt. Every one of the angels was thinking the same thing, Brandon was certain.

  If that poison got into the wrong hands, it could mean the end of our kind.

  “Furthermore, we have also received word that Archdemon Corbin Ranulfson is planning to retaliate,” Michael continued. “Some of you may not know, but Corbin was recently defeated by the Company and lost his empire’s flagship hotel. If Corbin strikes at us, he will strike to destroy. He is one of the most powerful demons in America. We believe that he was weakened in the last attack, but may be seeking to recover some of his lost powers. Three days ago, Corbin was sighted in hell, but word on the street is that he has been seen again, on the surface. We have every reason to believe that Corbin will search out Luciana. For the poison.”

  “Is he connected with her?” Brandon asked.

  “She’s his lover,” said Michael. “Luciana is our only link to Corbin. And we believe she has returned to Venice. We must bring her back to America.”

  “We’ve got to find out what she’s done with the poison,” Arielle said, “and pump her for whatever information is inside that evil head of hers. I think this is a case for disposal.”

  Disposal.

  The word sent another hush through the conference rooms.

  “Disposal is the term we sometimes use in the Company when an individual is to be returned to the divine,” Arielle had told Brandon, back when he was a fledgling angel, training under her. “Technically, the soul never dies. Energy is neither created nor destroyed. But a disposal means that a person no longer has a distinct identity.”

  Luciana would cease to exist.

  As a rule, Brandon didn’t agree with disposal. Normally, Arielle didn’t, either. If she was so set on disposal in this case, he wanted to know why. But there was no time for that right now. First, he needed to catch the demoness and bring her back to America.

  “Michael, please email me the rest of the file via secure transfer,” Brandon said. “I’ll go to Venice myself. And I’ll finish briefing myself on the plane.”

  “Why you?” Arielle ground out.

  “I can get the job done,” he said.

  Not a single one among the sixty angels disagreed with him. He disliked being arrogant in any way. But time was of the essence, and in the past he had found that it paid to be up front with Arielle.

  Michael nodded.

  Arielle shook her head, clearly frustrated. “Fine, do it your way. Of course, you’ll work with members of my team. We were the last ones who saw her, and—”

  “I work alone,” Brandon stated.

  Every angel in the Chicago unit knew that.

  “As a supervisor, I’m a leader and a team player,” Brandon explained. “I foster an environment of trust, so much so that my unit virtually runs itself. There is rarely dissent among my team. We all consider ourselves equals. I’m available for mentoring when the younger angels need guidance. I manage, but I don’t micromanage.” He paused, cleared his throat. “But in the field, it’s a different story.”

  When Brandon Clarkson worked, he was a lone wolf.

  He went undercover alone, and he never took anyone with him. After the trauma of his human death, he would not put another angel at risk the way he risked himself. He would never allow anyone to suffer as he had suffered.

  “I’m going in alone,” he said.

  Arielle blinked rapidly, her mouth pressing into a line so flat it almost disappeared. Then she said, “This matter is far too important. You’ll need backup. Won’t he, Michael?”

  Brandon crossed his arms and stared at the video screen as intensely as he would have done if they were standing in the same room. “Arielle, if I have to clean up your mistakes, I’m doing it on my own terms.”

  “There are rules in the battle between angels and demons,” Arielle shot back. “Rules that cannot be—”

  “Broken?” Brandon finished. “My ass. Rules are made to be broken.”

  “Stop!” Michael ordered. “The Company must remain strong. There is no point in bickering amongst ourselves.”

  “At least call Infusino, our contact in the Venetian unit,” said Arielle. “He can help.”

  “I don’t need help,” Brandon said. “I will handle this alone.”

  Arielle’s eyes flickered with determination, and he knew she was about to launch into an extended rebuttal. He had been the victim of Arielle’s long-winded speeches in the past. He wasn’t going to sit through another one tonight.

  He cut her off at the pass, pushing the button to cut off video feed from the L.A. unit.

  One-third of the screen went black. He shouted into the speaker, “Sorry, Arielle. Technical glitch. Michael, I’ll talk to you when I’m back on American soil.”

  “Wait,” said a male voice Brandon did not recognize. “I’m Julian Ascher, the newest member of the L.A. unit.”

  Around the table of the Chicago unit, the Guardians looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Julian Ascher, former Archdemon, had just been converted into the Company after almost two hundred and fifty years. He had been brought in by one of Arielle’s underlings, a neophyte angel whose innocence and naïveté were unmatched in the Company. Not everyone had agreed with Arielle’s tactics, and her scheme had been the subject of debate within the Company lately.

  Don’t judge, Brandon reminded himself. It’s not your job to judge.

  “Just listen for a second,” Julian said. “Although I’m not proud of it, I was once Luciana Rossetti’s lover. I have certain information about her that will help you track her down.”

  “Let’s hear it,” said Brandon, listening.

  “Luciana has a deal with the devil that keeps her out of hell. Every year, she has to provide a human sacrifice to pacify the Prince of Darkness. She’ll be at the Redentore Church tomorrow night, at seven o’clock in the evening. Without fail, she selects her victim from that church. You’ll find her there. But be careful. Luciana is extremely skilled at using men to get what she wants. She will stop at nothing”

  “Duly noted,” Brandon said. “Thanks for the advice.”

  “Bring Luciana back as quickly as you can,” said Michael. “And don’t be afraid to call for backup if you need it.”

  “Good luck,” said Arielle as coldly as the last time they’d spoken.

  Brandon was intimately familiar with exactly how cold Arielle could be. But in any case, he had no time to worry about Arielle and her moods right now.

  Right now, I’ve got a job to do.

  * * *

  To Luciana, walking into Ca’ Rossetti was like walking into a jewel box.

  In the high-ceilinged piano nobile, the main floor of Ca’ Rossetti, her staff of Gatekeepers scrambled to assemble to welcome the demoness home. The heels of her shoes clicked on the marble floor as she inspected the condition of the palazzo. Every surface sparkled, from the intricate mosaic floors to the Murano chandeliers. The walls wer
e adorned with rich swathes of silk damask and lavish murals. Every square inch of floor, every gilded table, every lacquered cabinet and crystal vase, every cornice and curlicue was polished and shining.

  “You’ve done your job well in my absence,” she noted, casting a particular eye over the sprawling interior.

  The Gatekeepers snapped into a neat row, identically clad in their working uniform: jeans and snug black T-shirts. Each taller, darker and more handsome than the last. There in the main hall, she nodded.

  “Giancarlo, Antonio, Federico, Cesare, Salvatore, Massimo,” she greeted them each as she inspected the line. “Thank you all. You may return to your duties, and I must return to mine. There is precious little time left today, as I must prepare for tonight’s hunt.”

  She turned, ready to ascend the staircase to the second floor.

  Just then, a female scream from the rear of the palazzo pierced the congenial atmosphere. The suffering in that sound was palpable; it was like an animal keening in pain. Luciana stopped. Her gaze tracked downward, to the bloody footprints glistening on the marble floor hidden behind one of the Gatekeepers. To the gray-skinned goblin the size of a small dog skittering along the edge of the wall, cackling to itself and dragging a woman’s shoe. More blood seeped from the heel of that shoe, trailing a thin, scarlet line across the otherwise-immaculate floor.

  Not a muscle twitched among her staff.

  Not a single eye blinked.

  They were hiding something. Or more precisely, someone.

  Luciana maintained her smile.

  “Whatever—or more precisely whomever—you’ve got back there,” she said, waving a hand in the direction of the scream, “just make sure you clean up the mess. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Come, Massimo. I need you to unlock my workroom.”

  He dutifully followed along behind her as she mounted the stairway, the white marble overlaid with rich red carpet cushioning her footsteps.

  “Did you happen to conclude your business with Julian Ascher while you were in America, baronessa?”

  She closed her eyes briefly, fingertips skating along the carved stone balustrade of the curved staircase. The stairs teetered beneath her momentarily, the world tilting on its side. Every muscle in her body contracted. Her jaw tightened and her stomach threatened to expel the meal she’d just consumed.

  “Don’t speak that name in my presence again,” she hissed, unable to contain her fury.

  “Yes, of course, baronessa. I’m so sorry, I…”

  She was held together so tightly it ached; she felt the pressure of her gritted teeth and wondered if they would break. Then she turned back to face Massimo and said, “If you must know, Julian has joined the angels.”

  “Do you mean he died?” Masssimo wondered.

  “No,” she said, pivoting to glare at him. She pressed her lips together for a long moment. “He was—” she paused before sneering out the word “—redeemed and joined the Company of Angels.”

  The Gatekeeper kept his own mouth shut, knowing better than to ask more questions.

  She turned and continued up the stairs. Tried not to think about him, although that was impossible.

  “Would you like to lie down for a few hours, baronessa? Perhaps you should rest.”

  She had work to do before tonight. She touched the little vial hanging around her neck.

  “There’s no rest for the wicked, Massimo.”

  All over Venice, people were preparing.

  Luciana had her own preparations to make. Her own offering to procure. Her own homage to pay.

  And it was not to the Redeemer.

  On the third floor of Ca’ Rossetti, Luciana strode the length of the hallway to a small room at the end.

  Despite its size, it remained one of the demoness’s favorite rooms.

  The windows overlooked the Grand Canal, and the eastern sunlight poured in during the late mornings. Outside, passersby floated along the canal in gondolas and vaporetti, on transport barges and fishing boats, completely unaware of what went on within. What had been going on for centuries.

  The fine art of poison.

  “You’ve kept everything in the prescribed conditions, as I instructed?” Luciana asked Massimo as he unlocked the workroom door.

  “Yes, baronessa,” the Gatekeeper nodded.

  “Thank you, Massimo. You may return later.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, baronessa, I’ll stay to assist you.”

  She suspected he wanted to stay to keep an eye on her, but after her ordeal, she needed solitude to clear her head. To think. “I’m fine. I’ll call for you if I need assistance.”

  She gestured for him to leave with a wave of her hand.

  He hesitated, but bowed a little and retreated.

  She cast an eye around the tidy little room. Yes, the Gatekeepers had done their job maintaining her work space. Dried flowers and plants, belladonna flowers and narcissus bulbs hung from a ceiling rack, awaiting her return. A glass flask and burner set up for distillation stood on one side of the worktable. On the other side was a carefully organized and labeled stand of bottles and vials: scorpion, tarantula, black-widow spider.

  “Buongiorno, bambini,” she called, bending down to peer into a sectioned glass terrarium, where a pair of green mambas slithered. Two pairs of beady green eyes fixed on their mistress, forked tongues darting out in greeting.

  Among other toxins, the mambas’ venom had contributed to the contents of the tiny glass vial around her neck. The liquid in this little vial had taken her months to distill, the rarest of poisons in a perfect combination that had already proven it could kill a demon. Its first victim, a low-ranking demon who had worked as a bellboy in Las Vegas, had gone down quite nicely.

  The contents of this vial, administered to a human victim, would quite literally be overkill. Unclasping the chain from her neck, she transferred the vial of poison into the hollowed-out bottom of a gold lipstick tube, which she slipped into her pocket.

  That poison must be saved for another purpose.

  A purpose that would make everything worthwhile in the end. All the hard work and suffering. All the humiliation, the pain she had endured. All the risks she had taken, the waiting games she had played.

  Her enemies, old and new, would perish screaming her name.

  Her name would echo in their minds as they burned in the depths of hell forever.

  “Soon,” she cooed to the snakes, “but not tonight.”

  She prided herself in choosing precisely the correct poison for every occasion, and distilled them herself. Through poison, one could achieve results that could not be accomplished through other means. The legacy of poison in Italy’s noble houses—the Borgias, the Medici family—was almost an art, too valuable to ignore.

  She perused her choices amongst the rows of bottles and vials.

  White arsenic. The poison of choice for the Borgias. Too slow acting. She would need something faster tonight.

  Hemlock. The poison that had killed Socrates. But it was positively antiquated.

  Strychnine. Entirely too melodramatic. It caused a good deal of unnecessary thrashing and convulsing. Sometimes she enjoyed that, but she could do with something a little simpler for this evening’s purposes.

  Luciana picked up a clear bottle of liquid, held it up to the light.

  Cyanide.

  Perfetto. The perfect poison for the occasion. Clean, effective and incredibly fast acting. Timeless and classic, the Chanel perfume of poisons.

  She decanted a small amount of the cyanide into a second glass vial. And just like perfume, she thought as she strung the second vial on the gold chain around her neck, a little goes a long way.

  * * *

  Brandon watched the lights of Chicago recede beneath him as the 747 lifted off from the ground, several hundred tons of metal, passengers and cargo rising into the air.

  Every act of flight requires a leap of faith, he knew.

  A bird, every time it flies, mu
st leap. Must commit itself to the air and trust that its wings will carry it aloft. The same with a plane, barreling along the runway to launch itself airborne. And just like flying, every mission required a leap of faith.

  Leap, and have faith that the divine will guide you where you need to go.

  He had been operating along that principle for the duration of his existence.

  And now, as he sat in his seat with the big plane shaking beneath him, the familiar anxiety niggled in the back of his mind. Fear of falling asleep. He reviled sleeping in public places, in the open where his inevitable nightmare might leave him vulnerable to prying eyes.

  Still, he had no choice.

  When the plane reached cruising altitude, he perused Luciana’s file on his laptop, browsing through the documents relating to her case.

  Now Brandon studied the series of low-resolution photographs. He found himself staring at her pale skin and vivid green eyes, mesmerized by the beauty of her face despite the expression of displeasure she consistently wore.

  “Beauty can be deceptive.” That was one of the first lessons Brandon had ever learned as an angel. Arielle had taught it to him. Despite her continual annoyance with him…despite his disagreement with her management style…at the heart of it, Arielle knew what she was doing. She had told him, “Don’t equate beauty with goodness, even though it may seem angelic. Demons can also take the form of beauty. They like to mimic the divine. And demons are drawn to beauty. They love to defile it.”

  Luciana was no ordinary beauty. She was exceptional. And apparently, she also loved to destroy exceptional beauty.

  According to the file, her human life had been remarkably sad, scarred by family tragedies and betrayal. But reading through her lengthy history of misfortune, he felt nothing but disgust for her. She had been plagued by hardship, yes. But the choices she had made had been consistently bad. Tracing the steps of her biography, the more he read, the more horrified he became by the details of her grisly sacrifices, overwhelmed by the catalog of atrocities. He skimmed through a note in the file, marked History of the Redentore Festival: