Something inexplicably sharp and dark sparkled in the green depths of the woman’s gaze.
“Here is the girl. Just the way you prefer them—young and innocent,” said Massimo as he held her loosely at the elbow.
“What’s your name, child?” the woman asked, her voice lilting, mesmerizing.
“Violetta.”
The woman peered closer, grasping Violetta by the chin and tilting her face to and fro. “I know you from somewhere. You are…” Her lips pressed together in recognition. “I’ve heard you sing at La Fenice. You’re a soprano. You sang the role of Tosca last season.”
“Yes, that was me,” Violetta said defiantly.
“You were quite good, for a singer so young,” said the woman. “Quite a rising star if I’m not mistaken.”
Violetta said nothing. She would not thank this woman, in whose house she had suffered such indignities. Who held her captive, who clearly intended to kill her.
“What is she doing here?” The woman looked not at Violetta, but turned her attention to Massimo, waiting for an answer. “What did you do to her?”
Silence.
Violetta could not bring herself to voice the things they had done to her. She had shut those things away in a little box, deep inside herself. To open the lid of that box would unleash a whirl of shame, rage, torment.
“How have you been torturing this girl, Massimo?” said the woman, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at him. “Normally I would never ask what you Gatekeepers do on your own time. But this is different. It’s quite rare to find such talent.”
“I did not take part,” he said quietly.
Violetta turned to glare at him and thought, But you allowed it to happen. You stood by as the others did what they wanted. You did not prevent them.
“Let me go,” Violetta demanded.
“That’s not a possibility,” said the woman.
“Then kill me,” said Violetta, surprised at the fierceness that came out of her own mouth. “If you’re going to do it, do it quickly. Don’t stand around talking about it.”
“You want to die?”
“I cannot remain alive in this house,” she said. “And if you will not release me, I would rather die and take my chances in death. At least then I might find some relief.”
“The soul does not die, child,” said the woman. “Death is not the end.”
Violetta lifted her chin high. Stared the woman in the eyes. “Then I will find out for myself. The devil cannot hold a soul who does not deserve to be held. ”
The woman hesitated, staring deep into Violetta’s eyes.
Then, after a long moment, she said, “Unfortunately for you, my dear, that’s not always true.”
She picked up a knife from a nearby table.
Violetta saw the tightening of the woman’s throat, the pause.
Felt the blade tremble, the point of it sticking at her throat.
Felt the razor-sharp tip of it, slicing into her skin.
Felt herself melt toward the floor, supported by the woman’s arms.
She wanted to scream. But she clenched her teeth, willing herself not to make a sound.
I will not give them the satisfaction of hearing me suffer. Not this time.
A thousand feelings, a thousand images rushed through her mind as she began to die.
Anguish. Regret. Sorrow.
The faces of her family, of her mother, father, grandfather, flashed before her…images of her smiling friends, her voice teachers, fellow singers in the opera company…all the scales she had ever sung, all the arpeggios and solfeggios and arias…all the hours spent practicing in her room at home…all the lessons she had ever had in little rooms in conservatories…endless rehearsals and performances on stages in theaters all over Italy…the desperate desire to cling to all of these people and experiences was what she felt in the final moments of her life.
With her last, choked breath, she thought, If only I could go on forever.
And in the next instant, there was an immeasurable pause, a single moment in which she knew, I will.
Violetta Ravello flung herself into death with all the fervor of a burning monk or a martyred saint shot through with arrows. In the name of all that was divine, she placed herself in the hands of a greater power and trusted in what was on the other side.
In the moment of her death, she heard a single, high note, the sweetest music she had ever heard, sustained like a beacon of light at the end of a tunnel built of pure sound.
The noise was sickening as Luciana slid the knife into Violetta’s lamb-soft skin, throat slitting open like butter. With one quick, deep stroke, she cut through the girl’s jugular and trachea. Blood rushed out of the girl, streaming in a massive pool of scarlet that spread across the marble floor.
Luciana wanted to weep for this poor, fragile human girl.
Why, she did not know. She had done this before, so many times. Countless times.
Had slaughtered so many victims without a single moment of remorse. Had consecrated so many innocent souls to the devil.
For such an emotion to plague her at this moment was absolutely nonsensical.
She held the dying girl’s head as Violetta closed her eyes for the last time. Stroked the soft brown hair that streamed down to the floor, the ends now wet with crimson. And whispered into her ear, “Rest in peace, my dear. Or as close to it as you can find.”
“She’s going so peacefully,” Massimo commented. “Not like the ones who fight it.”
Not like the ones who thrashed. Who cried and scream at the end. Who begged for mercy.
Luciana had seen it all, watched the death of each of her many victims. Big, small. Powerful, weak. Famous celebrities and reclusive hermits. Captains of industry and street sweepers. Of all the deaths she had seen, this young girl had died with perhaps the most dignity she had ever witnessed.
Perhaps it was the right thing, after all, Luciana thought.
In death, the girl was beautiful. Even more beautiful than she had been alive.
Young. Tender. Innocent. Preserved forever in the glorious, innocent state of youth.
Violetta, lucky girl, would be spared the agony of life. Spared the continued abuse and torture at the hands of the Gatekeepers. But also, spared the agony of making impossible decisions and ridiculous sacrifices.
“You, child, are dying in your prime, at the pinnacle of your talent, with the world laid open like an oyster before you. You will never know the decline of your beauty or your potential,” she said to the shell of the girl, almost emptied of life.
Yet, Luciana felt a tremor of regret.
Perhaps because the girl’s potential would never be realized to its fullest.
Perhaps because in the afterlife, Violetta would most certainly continue to suffer.
The demoness laid a hand on the girl’s forehead, comforting her as she eased into the final stages of death. The most vulnerable point, as the soul separated from the body.
“Now,” Luciana said to Massimo, putting her good hand out.
He placed a syringe into it. Luciana inserted the needle into the dying girl. She removed a length of blood, drawing out enough to fill the plastic tube.
“This must be done quickly. Just as the soul is releasing from the body. This is the vital ingredient I have been collecting for my poison,” she said.
Massimo looked at her, brow furrowed. “Blood?”
“What I gather from my victims is much more than just blood,” she told him.
“How?” he puzzled.
“It is the essence of death itself.”
The rare kind of terror that arose only during a person’s last moments on earth.
Even if Violetta’s death was a quiet one, Luciana knew the feelings coursing through her. Even if she did not scream and thrash, beneath those closed eyelids, in the girl’s mind, the fear of the great unknown would spin until she reached oblivion.
I know because I remember that myself, Luciana thought.
> She held up the syringe, bright red in the dimness, as the girl lay fading on the floor. Trapped in the scarlet liquid, the essence of death would be distilled into Luciana’s concoction later.
“Take this upstairs and put it in the workroom. Then take the body, and go out to the requisite meeting place. There is a chance that the conditions for this year’s hunt might still be satisfied, even though I am late,” she told him. “And get the others to clean up this mess.”
There was a glint in his eye, deeper and more powerful than she had ever seen before.
“Out of curiosity, why didn’t you poison her?” he asked.
“Poison is an art. There’s a time for subtlety. Then there’s a time to get the job done.”
“It takes a brave woman to kill like that, baronessa. The girl would have suffered, otherwise,” he said.
“Killing has nothing to do with bravery,” Luciana told him tersely. “Especially not killing like this.”
Fury burned through her. How the Gatekeepers could have kept such a person in the house without her approval—well, it galled her. But she would deal with them later, when she had the luxury of time to do it properly. Not now.
“Of course, baronessa,” was all Massimo said.
She followed him up the stairs. But while he headed to the workroom, she retired to her bedroom. In her private bath, she ran the water in the huge marble tub for herself. Rummaged in the drawer and found a bandage to bind her crushed hand.
When that was finally done, she removed the lipstick tube from her pocket. How that had survived the evening intact, she didn’t know. She set it on the countertop of the marble vanity. She stripped off her bloody, ruined dress, tossing it on the floor. Then she sank into the warm bathwater, wincing slightly as it lapped over the gashes on her back.
The residual pain was fading, even if her memory of the angel’s touch was not.
Thank God the night was finally over.
Why did it all go so wrong?
She had killed countless young girls, many of them younger than Violetta Ravello. Had always enjoyed the process. The draining of the blood. In the past, she had felt no guilt. She had felt nothing. Exactly as she had explained earlier this evening, she knew that death was not the end. Pain was fleeting.
And she, Luciana, had fared so much better as a demoness than as a human.
In her afterlife, she had gained power that she had never imagined before.
She had reveled in the deaths of the innocent, as if somehow it could profane the name of God. While she had drained their bodies and bathed in their blood, she imagined that she was giving these girls the same opportunities that she, Luciana, had achieved through death.
But this time, thinking about the child who lay dead downstairs, Luciana wanted to retch.
Perhaps because she knew that Violetta should be on her way to heaven. Instead, the girl was headed in a different direction entirely.
At the slight creak of the old door, Luciana called, “Is that you, Massimo? I told you never to interrupt my baths. If there’s some problem, I’ll be down in a moment.”
At the soft laugh behind her, she froze.
She looked in the mirror. The person she saw reflected there was not Massimo.
His amber eyes glowed in the dim lighting of the bathroom, the steam rising around him as though he had risen freshly from hell itself. His blond hair was as immaculate as ever, his face as classically handsome as ever, but his Nordic good looks put a chill through her.
Even in the heat of the bathwater, she shivered.
Corbin Ranulfson had come out to play.
He was one of the most powerful Archdemons in America. Arguably the most powerful demon on earth, before Julian Ascher had knocked him down a few rungs on the demon hierarchy. And she had used him. Luciana had endured Corbin’s companionship and his perverse sexual tastes for months as she schemed to get closer to Julian Ascher.
Whatever Corbin was doing here, his arrival did not bode well.
“No, my dear. Massimo’s not back yet,” he said, coming to loom over the bath. He dipped his hand in the water, swirling it as he perused her body beneath the clear surface where the bubbles separated. “Plain water this time? I thought you preferred to bathe in blood. The blood of young girls, like Elizabeth Bathory. If I understand correctly, there was one downstairs that might have served nicely.”
Admittedly, she had previously made a practice of bathing in blood. It was something she had done from time to time, partly to keep up her reputation. Especially when one traveled in circles with the likes of Corbin, terrifying behavior was necessary to avert the bloodlust of other demons. To keep them from attacking oneself.
However, right now, all she wanted was to cleanse herself of blood, not cover herself in it.
“I heard about your little encounter in the glass gallery on the Street of Assassins. I would have come sooner, but I was detained elsewhere,” he said, and she knew what that meant.
Detained by their boss, in the bowels of hell.
“I was released only on the promise that I would accomplish a certain task,” he said. “My task is to keep you on track. As of midnight, you failed to deliver your promised sacrifice.”
She swallowed, wondering what he had been sent to do.
In the past, Corbin had done barbaric things in front of her. She had seen him dismember a human woman and sink his teeth into her flesh as she was still alive. It had terrified Luciana then, but she hadn’t said anything.
And now…
“The Company of Angels sent a Guardian after me,” she said quickly. “I was unable to complete the hunt. But the problem has already been solved. The Gatekeepers had a girl here and we…I dispensed with her.”
“Oh, my dear Luciana, that doesn’t come close to the penalty you’re going to pay.”
“Fine,” she said, swallowing down her fear. “If you want another sacrifice, I’ll deliver a second victim.”
“Not just any victim,” he said. “Satan wants the angel.”
“Impossible.” She sat up then, covering her breasts with her hands. The water churned around her. The bath was so full that it threatened to slosh over the edge from the sudden movement. “No Rogue demon has ever killed a Guardian.”
“You underrate your capabilities, my dear. I have faith in you. It will be easy. Here’s what you’re going to do. Let him believe you’re interested in negotiating. Convince him you’ve had enough of your whoring, lying ways. Lure him into your home. And then…”
She swallowed down fear. “What?”
His hand shot into the water, seized the wrist of her broken hand. “Don’t play the fool with me, Luciana. I know you. You’re an experienced and heartless killer. You have an entire laboratory full of toys just down the hall. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
He squeezed the bandaged hand, pressing the broken bone so that it snapped out of place again. When she cried out in pain, he released her, letting her wrist fall back into the bath. This time, the hand began to bleed, seeping crimson into the water.
“You have one week,” he said.
“You must be out of your mind,” she said, cradling her hand, trying to stop the bleeding.
“Serena St. Clair reformed Julian Ascher in one week. He has utterly abandoned the demon hierarchy and has completely changed his ways, unfortunately for us. This task should be infinitely easier. We’re not asking you to change this man’s allegiance. We’re asking you to kill him. Where is your precious poison? You can use that to get rid of him.”
Her mind flickered toward the gold lipstick tube sitting on the marble vanity.
Don’t look toward it, she willed herself.
“Gone,” she said.
He sauntered over to the vanity, picked up the tube. “You mean it’s not in here?”
He pocketed the lipstick, walked back over to the bath.
Then he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Don’t forget that I know all your tricks.”
&
nbsp; Then he pushed her head under water, holding her there as she thrashed. She tried to hold her breath until it was useless. Water flooded into her lungs, into her stomach. She started to black out, slipping to the edge of consciousness.
Only then did he let her up.
He bent down and murmured softly, “Don’t ever forget.”
“Wait,” she said miserably, coughing out warm water. “I have no more of that poison. How am I supposed to kill the Guardian?”
“You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
Then the Archdemon swept out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him as he went.
Leaving her alone.
A pawn of men.
Exactly what she hated being. Had slaved for centuries to get out of.
She laid her head against the side of the bath, soaked in the unwashable filth of that feeling, and she vowed to herself that she would do whatever it took—she would one day get revenge on them all.
* * *
Luciana is still sexy, even if she’s a manipulative bitch, Corbin ruminated as he left her palazzo. However, she’s not the only whore in town.
And then he went to discover what Venice had to offer.
In this city of excess, so much of what Corbin loved was so close at hand.
The night was not yet over. And there were infinite possibilities to explore.
* * *
Out in the middle of the San Marco Basin in front of the Redentore Church, Massimo and Giancarlo waited in the boat. In the bottom of the vessel, the dead body of the girl lay, wrapped neatly in a large swathe of black cloth.
“This is the appointed spot,” Massimo said, “but we have never attempted a delivery so late. The baronessa usually sacrifices her victims well before the toll of midnight. She’s a very efficient hunter.”
“Not this year,” Giancarlo said grimly.
“It was not her fault,” Massimo said.
“I never said it was,” the other Gatekeeper said quickly, his furtive gaze sliding to Massimo. “Don’t tell her I suggested it might be.”
They waited.
There was no sign of the black funerary gondola, no sign of the dark-hooded figure.
“Satan is not coming to collect,” said Giancarlo.
The Demoness of Waking Dreams (Company of Angels) Page 8