The Demoness of Waking Dreams (Company of Angels)

by Stephanie Chong

  The coldness of it shocked her. Not again. Never again.

  In that sliver of time, she fled down the nave of the church and slipped out the door. Weaving through the crowd of humans, Luciana realized she had made a mistake in thinking she was a match for this man. For when she came out of the church, she saw something totally unexpected.

  Massimo was not there waiting for her, as he should have been.

  Her boat sat empty, tethered at the edge of the fondamenta, bobbing in the canal.

  She glanced behind her.

  The big angel came barreling out of the church, bearing toward her like a freight train. His face was contracted not with anger, but with absolute focus. Sheer determination.

  The look of a man who would not let anything stand in his way.

  The ground shook as he thundered down the stairs toward her, a minor earthquake shaking the pavement beneath them. For a moment, she thought she might have imagined it, but the humans felt it, too, scattering in every direction and grabbing for the security of anything stationary: railings, statues, each other.

  Luciana looked around, but could not find a solid object to hold on to. So she did the next best thing.

  She ran.

  * * *

  Damn, she was fast. Faster than Brandon had anticipated.

  The Gatekeeper in the boat had not been such a problem at all. Although he was a big man, he was slow and easy to ditch. And likely still swimming his way back from the middle of the Adriatic where Brandon had dropped him.

  Luciana herself was a different story entirely.

  She glanced at him, looked at her empty boat, and in a quick shimmer of movement, she was gone.

  No time at all was how long it took the demoness to disappear into the crowd. Dissolving into the fading sunlight. Outside, in the golden light of early evening, Venetian families gathered in throngs. Picnic feasts spread on white-clothed tables lined the walkways beside the canal. More revelers flooded back across the pontoon bridge toward the main part of Venice.

  Amidst the rush of the celebrations, Brandon stood still.

  Closed his eyes, willed himself into quietness.

  Asked for guidance in order to track her.

  I must find her. Must not let her escape.

  He felt the movement of her dark vibration, deep in his bones, slightly to the west of himself. When he opened his eyes, he spotted her turned face in the distance, dark hair streaming in the wind as she crossed the pedestrian bridge.

  Without hesitation, he took off after her.

  She moved much faster than any human, slipping easily among the crowd with the lightness that might have belonged to a ghost. But she had a body. He was sure of that. Without even touching her, he had felt the pull of that body back there in the church, remembered the feel of her almost as if he had held her. Trailing her at a distance, fifty feet back, he could detect the dark energy of her, the density of her physical incarnation.

  She glanced back, searching for him, undoubtedly sensing him following. He ducked behind a pillar, waiting until he felt her attention pass over him. After a long pause, she moved onward, farther into the city.

  Luciana crossed the square in front of the basilica of St. Mark’s in a blink of an eye, moving rapidly through the dense gathering of tourists who stood gazing up at the famous domes. She wove into the streets behind the church, farther into the tangle of passageways that might as well have been another universe.

  Everywhere he turned, eroding stone angels and crumbling saints looked down. With their peeling gilt wings and chipped halos, they seemed to cheer him on, lending him strength as he pursued the fleeing demoness.

  How long she ran, he wasn’t sure.

  The sun disappeared, tucked into the sea as night settled over the celebrating city. Brandon lost track of time as she twisted and turned through the streets. He followed, focused only on her. On keeping the flicker of her hair, of her dress, in sight.

  On the dark pull of her, urging him onward.

  Turning the corner, he nearly lost her, the only clue to her a tiny corner of silk rippling, leaving empty air behind it.

  He pursued.

  Above, he read the street name stenciled in black on the cracked white cornerstone on the nearest building.

  Rio Tera dei Assassini.

  He stepped into it. And felt himself stepping into another realm.

  From doorways and cornices, tucked into the designs on the buildings, eyes watched. Dozens of eyes, glistening in the darkness. Lingering figures turned to stare. Not human. Not mortal. Not even demon. Merely goblins, skittering along like oversize rats, cackling to themselves, their wizened skins the color of dirty stone. And ghosts, flickering low in the dimness, their tenuous connection with the earth merely an imprint on the place where they had died. Lost souls, unable to leave the place of their death.

  Nobody had to tell him that people had been murdered here, or how many. He knew it in his gut, from the part of him that remembered what it was like to die. He saw it in those eyes. Felt the chill of death that permeated the cobblestones beneath his feet. Sensed the memory of traumas held within these streets.

  The dark souls who watched him now…not one of them even registered who or what he was. These creatures were simply too stuck in their own despair to register an angel in their midst. He saw that in the eyes glimmering in the darkness, glinting with moonlight and suffering.

  Keep moving, Guardian, he told himself. You can’t lose her now.

  At the end of the alleyway, he spotted her dress again, a fleeting wisp of pink.

  He followed, then paused at the mouth of an alleyway that led nowhere, a dead end that closed in on itself. He found himself standing in the light of a failing streetlamp, peering into the alley. Overhead, the view was obstructed by the buildings. He could not see the moon.

  At the end of that small, enclosed space, he could hear her, the sound of her heart thundering, her fear louder and more palpable than his.

  Focus, he told himself.

  Dead ahead of him, he could sense her, the vibration of her body and the emanation of dark energy pulsing from her. Of fear. He leaned toward it, barreling down the straight alleyway into darkness.

  The walls of the narrow buildings rose above him like a tall cage.

  For a moment, the cobbled passageway seemed to tilt beneath his feet, the darkness of these alleys too similar to the scene of his human death. A second of vertigo, the sensation of tightness escalating as the space between the walls seemed to constrict, the smell of urine and garbage filling his nostrils.

  His heart pounded from the physical exertion and from adrenaline.

  Panic shot into his bloodstream, his heartbeat escalating to a thunder.

  Venice was closing like a trap around him.

  He closed his eyes.

  Venice, he told himself. Not Detroit.

  She turned then.

  In his dream of death, there was no woman.

  Not a dream. Reality.

  She ran up a small flight of stairs leading to a weathered old door, the skirt of her rose silk dress fluttering. And he followed.

  * * *

  Luciana’s heart pounded and her feet screamed. How long had she been running?

  An hour? More?

  The angel tracked her through the maze of streets. Streets so familiar she could have navigated them with her eyes closed, drawn to her destination by the invisible pull of memory. Yet, never had she fled down these streets with such fear in her heart, pounding at every turn. Into the Street of Assassins. Into the one place in Venice where there would be others of her kind. Where she had the greatest chance of finding help.

  Behind her, a gale force gathered and drew her backward, like a tornado threatening to uproot a tree. Resisting that force, Luciana reached for the old brass doorknob in front of her. She stretched, her fingertips grazing the cool metal.

  Now, pulled by that unseen power, she turned to look back at the angel who had followed her into the
heart of demon territory.

  Light radiated from his body, illuminating the alleyway. Around him, an aura glowed unlike any she had seen before. She winced in the brightness of it, raising her arm to cover her eyes.

  Turning to look back had been a mistake.

  A last burst of energy pulsed from him. She felt herself propelled backward toward him.

  She made one last, desperate grab for the doorknob. This time, she closed her fingers around it. Twisted with every ounce of energy she had left in her. Yanked the door open.

  Stumbling into the shop, she looked for cover.

  Because she knew she only had moments before that force came in behind her.

  Relentless. Unstoppable. And about as easy to hide from as a heat-seeking missile.

  * * *

  The shop the demoness had entered was a glass studio.

  Lit by halogen lights, the window display illuminated the dark street. The colors of goblets and wine decanters, of ornaments and jewelry sparkled in the night.

  He pulled open the door and followed.

  Inside the dark gallery, shelves of more glassware sat in tranquility, moonlight from the front windows and the lit shop display spilling into the store. In the quiet space, not a soul moved.

  Where the hell is she?

  He stood, listening. Waiting.

  Edged deeper into the shop. His hand went automatically to the holster he no longer carried, touched the empty spot and felt only a wave of utter nakedness without a firearm.

  And then suddenly the air was full of flying glass. Objets d’art veered toward him in a spectrum of colors as the demoness began hurling items from the shelves. Broken shards rained down on him, their colors catching the moonlight in the seconds before he closed his eyes. He covered his face with his arms, boxer-style. Felt the first impact of glass against his skin, sharp edges slicing into his forearms as it shattered.

  The pain bit into his body. He kept moving through it. Toward it.

  Knowing he must push through this temporary torture to stop her.

  Forward, blindly stumbling. Beneath his shoes, the crunch of glass. Around him, the sound of smashing. He felt the blood dripping down his arms, the pain radiating from the shards slicing into his flesh.

  Then all motion stopped.

  Silence. Stillness.

  Around the shield of his own forearms, he hazarded a glance.

  There she was, backed into a corner. The shelves around her, empty. Eyes wild and gleaming, she fixed her gaze on him. Even in that moment of rage, he saw beneath it to her fear. She was like a cornered animal, defending herself.

  So dangerous, but so very vulnerable.

  She picked up the last object near her. She rushed at him then, her hand raised. In it, a long, thin silver blade glinted in the moonlight.

  A glass-handled knife, the kind you might use for cutting bread.

  She lunged forward with it. She missed, but the knife’s teeth slashed menacingly close to his skin. She made another pass. This time, he felt the serrated blade bite into his abdomen, slicing through his shirt, through a layer of skin to the muscle beneath.

  He grabbed past the knife, catching her wrist.

  Squeezed until she gasped and released the blade.

  With his other hand, he went for the pressure point at the side of her throat. Jammed two fingers into it. With the momentum of her own attack, he swung her body past him. Took her down cleanly in one broad sweep, as though they were partners in a dance, a tango dip. He held her suspended a foot above the floor.

  Poised above the broken glass.

  “If you’re nice, we can do this easily,” he said.

  “Nice girls finish last,” she said. “You have no idea who you’re messing with, but you’re about to find out. I’m going to send you straight to hell,” she hissed. Hauling in a breath, she screamed, “Diavolo! Prince of Darkness, aid me now!”

  There was an eerie silence into which Brandon smiled, looking down at her.

  “I guess he’s not coming,” he said.

  He felt the hard jab of her knee connect with his groin. Pain seared through him.

  He dropped her.

  She cried out as she hit the floor, the broken shards grinding into her back. Her hair spread on the floor, a dark halo around her, mixed with shards of glass catching the moonlight. Her eyes, bright and deadly, glittered like the glass scattered around her. A thousand times more mesmerizing.

  Glaring up at him, she gasped, wincing from the pain. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Nobody,” he said.

  “Tell me your name. You owe me that, at least.”

  “Brandon Clarkson.”

  “Well, Brandon,” she said. “You may have won this round, but I warn you that the fight is far from over.”

  Her curves were distracting. Her sensuality, lethal.

  Do your job, Guardian, he told himself.

  He hauled her to standing. The back of her dress was shredded from the broken glass. His arms, too, were bloodied from their fight. Still, she struggled.

  From his back pocket, he produced the handcuffs. Snapped them on her wrists.

  The hiss she let out was like the sound of a cat being skinned alive.

  He patted down her clothing, searching for concealed weapons. Slipped his hand into her pocket. Took out a credit card and a tube of lipstick, looked quickly at both and put them back. Ran his hands up her legs, under her dress. Tried to ignore what he felt there.

  “This is assault,” she said coolly. “I don’t know who you are, but you are violating my rights.”

  “Human rights are reserved for human beings. You forfeited them when you ceased to be mortal.”

  He held the glass vial dangling between her breasts. Yanked. The gold chain broke. He shoved the object in his pocket.

  He grabbed a silk shawl from a display stand at the front of the shop and wiped the blood from his forearms, then tossed it around her shoulders to hide the damage. Not that a human bystander’s opinion mattered at this point. But still. A bloody shawl was better than her back, shredded to ribbons by the glass.

  He tugged her along. “Come with me.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Somewhere you won’t make more trouble.”

  * * *

  Luciana realized she had made a grave error. Her hands bound in the darkness, he hauled her back down the Street of Assassins.

  She could feel the blood dripping down her back.

  Every soul stopped to look. Every motion in the street stilled. Not a single being moved, not a goblin or a ghost. They cowered in his presence. It was as if they believed he was too powerful to touch.

  And then they swung back into action.

  This man was no rookie. The energy pulsing from him made her weak, and it sent a signal to every soul on this street: don’t dare to cross me. She reeled from that power, feeling her own energy sapped, draining away. She stumbled in the street as her heel caught a cobblestone, fell to her knees as the asshole angel dragged her along.

  He looked down, merciless.

  “You brought this on yourself,” he said.

  “Stronzo di merda,” she whispered, biting her lip against the pain. I will not cry. I will not cry. “Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo.”

  “What?”

  “‘Ugly bastard son of a whore’—”

  “I get the drift,” he said. “Next time I won’t bother asking for a translation.”

  “I am a baroness and a noble daughter of Venice. Do you have any idea who I am?”

  He knelt, brushed her hair back, his hand wet with blood, hers or his, it no longer mattered. In her ear he whispered, “I know exactly who you are. And I know exactly what you’ve done.”

  A wave of shame washed over her; shame like nausea, rocking her to the core.

  Or was it the pain from the glass embedded in her back? She could no longer tell.

  He hoisted her up, heaved her over his shoulder like a laborer hauling a be
am of wood in the Arsenale. Her body screamed. She didn’t have the energy to fight anymore.

  He spoke her thoughts aloud. “You can scream all you want. The creatures here won’t help you. They’re too chickenshit. Any human would be completely ineffectual. Nobody here can do anything for you.”

  He was right.

  Not because anyone or anything here knew who or what he was.

  Simply because they could sense his power.

  She would have to think of a way out of this herself.

  She would get herself out of this situation.

  Just as she had always gotten herself out of every situation in the past.

  And once I have, I will make him pay.

  Chapter Four

  When he set her on her feet again, they were standing in front of a shabby pensione. Luciana looked up at the weathered awning, and then her eye caught the relief carved into the stone on the wall beside the door.

  San Giorgio slaying his dragon.

  Just another martyr in this city carved full of them, she thought viciously.

  According to legend, Saint George had killed the dragon that would have devoured a village. All over Venice, there were statues and images of him. His was an image that the angels sometimes used to communicate with each other, marking doorways and buildings.

  Here, she knew exactly what it meant.

  The angel had brought her to the Company safe house.

  Talk of this place had existed amongst the demons of Venice for centuries. Stories of a hideous old guesthouse with such a carving by the doorway—she’d heard them all, but had never seen it or known its location.

  A laugh escaped her now as she looked at the crumbling figure. “That’s how you see yourselves, isn’t it? You Guardians think you’re all dragon slayers. Kill the monster and save the village. I have news for you, mio caro. The world has changed. The village no longer wants to be saved,” she told him. “The monster is too much fun to have around.”

  He said nothing, but hefted her over his shoulder again. From her upside-down position, she saw the faded carpet, the worn furnishings in the cramped foyer.

  Brandon exchanged a few words with the concierge, took a key that was handed to him. From behind the simple counter, the man also passed him a duffel bag and a bottle of vodka.