Demon

by Kristina Douglas

  Demon

  Kristina Douglas

  “Your bedroom is at the end of the hall,” he reminded her.

  He needed her gone. The scent of her was maddening, elusive, bewitching.

  She moved into the formal parlor, taking a seat and looking at him out of those warm brown eyes. “I want to know what Beloch meant. What kind of test is he expecting you to perform?”

  He knew what Beloch wanted. He was supposed to fuck her and then prove he could walk away from her, turn her over to the shattering destructiveness of the Truth Breakers and then celebrate the destruction of one more demon.

  He looked at her and his body stirred, and he despised her—and himself. He could tell himself it was simply her wiles, her powers, that were doing this to him. But he wasn’t asleep, he wasn’t drugged.

  And he wasn’t going to do it. Not tonight, when need vibrated through his body and he wanted to shove her up against a wall and take her. By tomorrow he’d be back in control.

  “Go to bed,” he said gruffly. “Or you’ll wish you had.”

  She simply raised an eyebrow, the foolish creature. It was unwise to underestimate him. He could squeeze the life out of her in a moment, end her as he’d come so close to doing, more times than he could remember.

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “You should be,” he said. And before she knew what was happening, he shoved her up against the door and slammed his mouth down on hers.

  ALSO BY KRISTINA DOUGLAS

  Raziel

  Available from Pocket Books

  Pocket Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Pocket Books paperback edition June 2011

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  Designed by Jacquelynne Hudson

  Cover design by Lisa Litwack

  Cover illustration by Craig White

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-9193-4

  ISBN 978-1-4391-9195-8 (ebook)

  Contents

  Beginnings: The Real WorldChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeThe Dark CityChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenSheolChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourIn The BeginningChapter One

  For Sally,

  because she likes world-building

  ON THE SUBJECT OF ANGELS

  THE WORLD OF THE FALLEN is my own creation, based on Apocryphal works like the Book of Enoch and other obscure texts that didn’t make it into the current Old Testament. Being a new age liberal Christian, I’ve always been fascinated by the inexplicable behavior of the Old Testament God and his tendency to use the smite key on his celestial computer at random. It’s easy enough to do a little Internet research to find references to all the less than charitable things that God supposedly did, and I wanted to come up with a world that explained the difference between a just and loving God and the big old meanie from the past. Hence the world of the Fallen and the Archangel Uriel.

  I took bits and pieces of mythology and changed them to suit my story—the Nephilim are generally considered to be the offspring of the fallen angels, but I decided to make them the next wave. There are countless references in the Bible that argue against the “eating of blood,” so it seemed an obvious curse. And fallen angels are so much more interesting than the ones who are still supposedly perfect.

  So you need to take it all in the spirit in which it’s intended. Most of the Old Testament is open for debate, anyway. I just shifted things the way it worked best for my fallen angels.

  B EGINNINGS:

  T HE R EAL W ORLD

  C HAPTER O NE

  HE WAS FOLLOWING ME AGAIN. I knew it instinctively, even though I hadn’t actually seen him. He was just beyond my vision, on the outer edges of my sight, hiding in shadows. Skulking.

  Not stalking. There might be huge gaps in my memory, but I had a mirror and absolutely no delusions about my totally resistible charms. I was determinedly average—average height, average weight, give or take ten pounds. I had short hair, the muddy brown you get when you dye it too often, and my eyes were a plain brown. My skin was olive-tinged, my bone structure unremarkable, and there was no clue to who or what I was.

  Here’s what I knew: My name was Rachel. My current last name was Fitzpatrick, but before that it was Brown, and the next time it might be Montgomery. Average names with Anglo-Saxon antecedents. I didn’t know why, I just went with it.

  I’d been Rachel Fitzpatrick for almost two years now, and it felt as if it had been longer than usual, this comfortable life I’d built up. I was living in a big industrial city in the Midwest, working for a newspaper that, like most of its kind, was on its last legs. I had a great apartment on the top floor of an old Victorian house; I had an unexciting car I could rely on; I had good friends I could turn to in an emergency and have fun with when times were good. I was even godmother to my coworker Julie’s newborn baby girl. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  It was November, and I thought that probably I had never liked November. The trees were bare, the wind was biting, and darkness closed around the city like a shroud. And someone was watching me.

  I didn’t know how long he’d been there—it had taken me a while to realize he was back again. I’d never gotten much of a look at him; he kept to the shadows, a tall, narrow figure of undeniable menace. I had no wish to see him any better.

  I was very careful. I didn’t go out alone after dark, I kept away from secluded places, and I was always on my guard. I had never mentioned him to my friends, even Julie. I told myself I didn’t want them to worry. But I didn’t go to the police either, and it was their job to worry.

  I spun any number of possibilities out of the big gray blank that was my memory. Maybe he was my abusive husband, watching me, and I’d run away from him, the trauma of his brutality wiping my mind clean.

  Maybe I had been in the witness protection program and I’d gone through some kind of horror, and the mob was after me.

  But it didn’t explain why he hadn’t come any closer. No matter how careful I was, if someone wanted to hurt me, to kill me, there was probably no way to stop him short of … well, there probably was no way to stop him. So my watcher presumably didn’t want me dead.

  I was working late on a cold, rainy Thursday, trying to get a bunch of obituaries formatted. Yup, doing obituaries late at night was not my favorite thing; but with the Courier on its last legs, we all put in overtime whenever asked and worked on anything that was needed, though I drew the line at sports. I was ostensibly home and health editor, editor being a glorified term for the only reporter on the beat, but I generally enjoyed my work. With obituaries, n
ot so much. It was the babies that got to me. Stillbirths, crib deaths, miscarriages. They made me feel like crying, though oddly enough I never cried. If I could, I would weep for those babies, weep for days and weeks and years.

  I didn’t wonder whether I’d lost a child myself. Instinct told me I hadn’t, and besides, grieving for lost babies was a logical, human reaction. Who wouldn’t feel sorrow at the loss of a brand-new life?

  The wind had picked up, howling through the city and shaking the sealed windows of the new building the Courier had unwisely built less than three years ago, and I logged off my computer, finished for the night. I glanced at the clock; it was after ten, and the office was deserted. My car was in the parking garage—there had to be someone there. I would have my keys out, make a dash for my reliable old Subaru, and lock myself in if anything loomed out of the darkness.

  I could always call Julie and see if her husband could come and escort me home. While I hadn’t told them about my watcher, I had explained that I was extremely skittish about personal safety, and Bob had come to the rescue on a number of occasions. But they had a brand-new baby, and I didn’t want to bother them. I’d be fine.

  I grabbed my coat and was heading for the elevator when the phone at my desk rang. I hesitated, then ignored it. Whoever it was, whatever they wanted, I was too tired to provide it. All I wanted was to get home through this blasted wind and curl up in my nice warm bed.

  The elevator was taking its own sweet time, considering the entire building was practically deserted. My desk phone stopped ringing and my cell phone started. I cursed, reaching into my pocket and flipping it open just as the elevator arrived.

  It was Julie, sounding panicked. “Rachel, I need you,” she said in a tear-filled voice.

  Something bad had happened. My stomach knotted. “What’s wrong?” And like a fool, I stepped into the elevator.

  “It’s the baby. She’s—”

  As the door closed and the elevator began to descend, I lost the signal.

  “Shit,” I said, very loudly. My office was on the twenty-second floor, and I’d pushed the button for the second level of parking, but I quickly hit a lower-level floor to stop the descent. The doors slid open on the dark and empty eighth floor and I jumped out. I pushed my phone’s call-back button as the doors slid closed, abandoning me in the darkness, and a shiver ran over me, one I tried to ignore. I had nerves of steel, but I was never foolhardy, and there was no reason to feel uneasy. I’d been in this building alone on numerous occasions.

  But I’d never felt so odd before.

  Julie answered on the first ring. “Where did you go?” she said, her voice frantic and accusing.

  “Lost the signal,” I said briefly. “What’s wrong with the baby?”

  “I’m at the hospital. She couldn’t breathe, and I called an ambulance. They’ve got her in the emergency room and they kicked me out, and I need you here for moral support. I’m terrified, Rachel!” Her voice was thick with tears.

  “Where’s Bob?” I said, trying to be practical.

  “With me. You know how helpless men are. He just paces and looks grim, and I need someone to give me encouragement. I need my best friend. I need you. How soon can you make it?”

  Strange how we could become such good friends in so short a time. It had felt like an enduring bond, not an office friendship, almost as if I’d known her in another life. But she had no more clue about my past than I did. “Which hospital?”

  “St. Uriel’s. We’re in the emergency waiting room. Come now, Rachel! Please!”

  St. Uriel’s, I thought. That’s wrong, isn’t it? Was Uriel a saint? But I made soothing noises anyway. “I’ll be right there,” I said. And knew I lied.

  I flipped the phone shut, mentally reviewing the contents of my desk. Nothing much—a copy of House Beautiful, the latest Laurell K. Hamilton, and the Bible, which was admittedly weird. I didn’t understand why I had it—maybe I’d been part of some fundamentalist cult before I’d run away. God knew. I only knew I needed to have a Bible with me.

  I would find another, as soon as I checked into a hotel. There was no need to go back. I traveled light, and left as little impression behind as I could. They’d find no clues about me if they searched my desk. Particularly since I had no clues about myself.

  My apartment was only slightly less secure. There were no letters, no signs of a personal life at all. I had a number of cheap Pre-Raphaelite prints on the wall, plus a large framed poster of a fog-shrouded section of the Northwest coast that spoke to me. I hated to leave it behind, but I needed to move fast. I’d have to ditch the car in the next day or two, buy another. It would take Julie that long to realize I’d gone missing. She’d be too busy hovering over baby Amanda, watching each struggling breath with anxious eyes.

  But Amanda wouldn’t die. She’d start to get better, as would all of the other newborns that I knew were filling the hospitals as I lingered. All I had to do was get far enough away and they’d recover. I knew it instinctively, though I didn’t know why.

  I pushed the elevator button, then paced the darkened hallway restlessly. Nothing happened, and I pushed it again, then pressed my ear to the door, listening for some sign that the cars were moving. Nothing but silence.

  “Shit,” I said again. There was no help for it—I’d have to take the stairs.

  I didn’t stop to think about it. The time had come to leave, as it always did, and thinking did no good. I had no idea how I knew these things, why I had to run. I only knew that I did.

  It wasn’t until the door to the stairs closed behind me that I remembered my watcher, and for a moment I freaked, grabbing the door handle. It was already locked, of course. I had no choice. If I was going to get out of town in time, I had to keep moving, so I started down the stairs.

  In time for what? I had no clear idea. But baby Amanda wouldn’t survive for long if I didn’t move it.

  I tripped on the next landing and went sprawling, slamming my shin against the railing. I struggled to my feet, and froze. Someone was in the stairwell with me. I sensed him, closer than he’d ever been before, and there was nothing, no one, between him and me. No buffer, no safety. Time was running out.

  I had no weapon. I was an idiot—you could carry concealed weapons in this state, and a really small gun could blow a really big hole in whoever was following me. Or a knife, something sharp. Hell, hadn’t I heard you could jab your keys into an attacker’s eyes?

  I didn’t know whether he was above me or below me, but the only doors that opened from the stairwell were the ones on the parking level. If I went up, I’d be trapped.

  I started down the next flight, moving as quietly as I could, listening for any matching footsteps. There were none. Whoever he was, he made no sound.

  Maybe he was a figment of my paranoid imagination. I had no concrete reasons to do the things I did, acting on instinct alone. I could be crazy as a bedbug, imagining all this power. Why in the world should small, insignificant Rachel Fitzpatrick have anything to do with the well-being of a baby? Of a number of babies? Why did I have to keep changing my name, changing who I was? If someone was following me, why hadn’t he caught up yet?

  What would happen if I simply drove home and stayed there? Joined Julie at the hospital?

  Amanda would die. I had no choice. I had to run.

  AZAZEL MOVED DOWN THE STAIRS after the demon, silent, scarcely breathing. He could sense its panic, and he knew it was going to run again. He had taken longer to find it this time—it must be getting better at coming up with new identities. If the demon vanished once more, he had no idea how long it would take him to find it again. The longer it roamed the earth, the more destruction it could wreak.

  It was time to make his move. He didn’t know why he’d hesitated, why he’d watched it without doing anything. His hatred for the creature was so powerful it would have frightened him, if he were capable of feeling fear. He was incapable of feeling anything but his hatred for the monster. That must be
what had stayed his hand. Once he killed it, he would feel nothing at all.

  How difficult would the demon be to kill? It looked like a normal female, but he felt its seductive power even from a distance. It didn’t need any of the obvious feminine wiles to lure him. It didn’t wear makeup, didn’t flaunt itself in revealing clothes. It tended to dress in dark colors, in loose-fitting T-shirts and baggy pants. There was nothing to make a man think of sex; yet every time he looked at her—at it—he thought about lust. He must never underestimate her.

  It. Part of the demon’s power was to make him forget that it was merely a thing, not the vulnerable female it appeared to be. So easy to slip, to think of it as a woman. A woman he would have to kill. Maybe it had been female once, but not anymore. Now it was simply a repository of all the seductive female force in creation, channeled into a demon that looked like a soft, vulnerable woman.

  He could catch her in the parking garage, break her neck, and then fly up high and fling her body into the sun. He could bury her deep beneath the earth in the belly of a volcano. He sensed he would need fire to eradicate her completely, her and her evil powers. Only when she was dead would the threat dissolve.

  The threat to newborn babies. The threat to vulnerable men who dreamed of sex and woke to find only a demon possessing them.

  And the threat to him. Most of all he hated her for the connection that was foretold, with him of all people. And the only way to make certain that never happened was to destroy her.

  He was standing in the corner of the stairwell on the bottom floor, watching her. He’d pulled his wings around him, disappearing; though she searched her surroundings, she saw nothing, and moved on.