Demon

by Kristina Douglas

  He slid the knife through the ropes. He looked out the empty frame of the window and could see them approaching. He would be no defense against so many, and he could simply stand there, wait for the monsters to take both of them.

  There was no time to find the key to the lock that held her chains. He yanked, shredding the chains, pulled her out of the chair, and shot upward into the night sky, the howls of the Nephilim following them into the darkness.

  HE LANDED LIGHTLY ON THE deserted highway, her body limp in his arms. The car was where he’d left it, the metal roof peeled back as if a firecracker had exploded inside. He angled her into the backseat and quickly ripped away the shackles he hadn’t managed to unlock. Her slender wrists and ankles were raw and bleeding—she must have struggled after he left her. It wouldn’t have done her any good—he’d used iron chains on purpose. Only iron could chain a demon, and she would have been helpless.

  But supposedly she didn’t know that. She claimed she knew nothing about who and what she was, and the torn and bleeding flesh almost seemed proof of that. He closed his hands around her ankles, so delicate that he easily encircled them. He released her, and they were smooth and unmarred once more.

  He paused. There’d been times in history, when women wore layers upon layers of clothing, that ankles had been considered one of the most erotic parts of a woman’s body. Nowadays, when everything was on display, one forgot about ankles, but hers were well shaped and surprisingly arousing.

  This was the Lilith, he reminded himself, reaching for her bloody wrists. She was the original siren, luring men to their doom.

  The warm, earthy scent of her blood hit him then. He pulled back, leaving her wrists healed, and squatted down, staring at her limp body, absently licking his fingers. And then he realized what he was doing.

  He jumped away, spitting, gagging, trying to drive the taste and the smell and the lure of her blood from his body. He struggled to the ditch beside the road and threw up.

  It hurt. His body fought him, craving the soothing balm of her; but he had always been in control of this strange human flesh of his, and he emptied himself of every trace of her. And then he rose, wiping his mouth, and went back to her.

  He had no idea whether the Grace of forgetting would work on a demon, but he put his hand over her face, not touching her, and let it sink in. There was dried blood on his long fingers, her blood, and he cursed.

  He shoved her all the way in and closed the door, then climbed into the front seat. He grabbed his bottle of water, swished his mouth out, and spat again, then poured the rest of it over his hands, rubbing away every trace of her blood. It wasn’t his fault that he could still feel it there.

  The car started easily enough, ignoring its ill treatment, and he pulled onto the road again. He could hear the muted noise of the Nephilim, screaming with rage at being denied their prey. They would follow, and he couldn’t afford to linger. He could always move faster than they could, but having her with him would slow him down. He needed bright lights; he needed people.

  But most of all he needed time and space to figure out why the fuck he’d just made the most stupid mistake of thousands of years of his endless life.

  I HEARD THE SCREAM. IT tore from my throat as I was slammed into consciousness, the sound deafening, and I wanted to stop, I did, but I couldn’t. Only for a moment, to suck in a deep, rasping gasp of breath, and then I screamed again, the sound sickening in the pure terror that had infused my very bones.

  And then it stopped, this involuntary anguish, by his voice simply saying, “Stop.”

  For a moment I didn’t move. I was lying stretched out on the seat of a moving vehicle. Logic dictated that it was the car Azazel had used to drive me out into the bush, but this one had a moonroof, and the stars overhead were oddly calming. I wondered if he’d frozen me as he had in the restaurant, but I found I could move, slowly, carefully, as if my bones might shake apart. I managed to pull myself into a sitting position.

  It was almost full dark. I rubbed my tender wrists, but they were whole, no marks left by those damned ropes, which shocked me. I’d struggled like a madwoman when he left me in the muffled darkness, and I thought I’d felt the wetness of blood. I reached down to my ankles, but they were smooth and undamaged as well.

  I had no idea whether he was going to let me talk or not, but I had to try.

  “Why did you come back?” I didn’t mean for my voice to sound accusing. He’d changed his mind about killing me, for God’s sake. Why should I complain?

  He didn’t glance back at me. Fresh air came from the open roof, blowing his hair away from the elegant bone structure of his cold, emotionless face. “I have no idea,” he said finally. “If I were you, I wouldn’t question it. I may recover my sanity long enough to take you back there and dump you, so I suggest you just sit back and keep quiet.”

  I was smart enough to do just that. I was so cold, after the blisteringly hot day, and I shivered. I remembered the howls coming closer, the horrible smell that had assailed my nostrils, and I felt my body tremble almost imperceptibly. I decided to push my luck.

  “Could you close the moonroof? I’m freezing. It must get very cold once the sun sets.”

  He hesitated. “It isn’t that cold,” he said finally.

  “But I’m—”

  “Deal with it.”

  Okay. I wrapped my arms around me, trying to get warm. He was probably right—it was just as likely shock and fear as anything else. I wanted to ask him where he was taking me, but he’d warned me not to ask questions, and I didn’t want him changing his mind. I curled my legs up under me and huddled in the corner of the seat, as far from the open roof as I could get. The stars were very bright in the inky black sky overhead, and I realized I would probably be able to see the Southern Cross for the first time in my life. I had always had a secret weakness for astronomy, for the stars and constellations and the way they seemed to rotate in the sky. This might be my only chance to actually see the Southern Cross, and I hoped the sky stayed clear for as long as we were here. Unless he planned to abandon me here, which would suit me very well indeed. I could disappear into a new name and new identity here as easily as in the Northern Hemisphere. I’d had lots of practice.

  I could tell by the dimming of the stars that we were approaching what looked like a small city. The electric lights were warring with nature, and electricity was winning. Light pollution, they called it. I thought I’d grown used to it, but that brief period without it had simply reminded me how much I loved the vast, endless sky.

  I could smell the sea, which surprised me. I’d assumed we’d spent the day driving directly inland, so the proximity of the ocean was disturbing. I hated the ocean. It terrified me, the waves, the swells, the ebb and flow. I forced myself to take a deep breath of the rich salt smell, licking the taste off my mouth. Then I realized he was watching me in the rearview mirror, his gaze fastened on my mouth, and his deep-blue eyes were burning.

  I ducked back into the darkness, unnerved. Remembering that I had reached out to touch him when he’d been chaining me up to die. I could feel that look in the pit of my stomach, between my legs, like a rough caress, and my face was suddenly hot. I turned toward the window, shutting him out, and concentrated on the port city we were driving through. A working city, not a resort, I could tell immediately. Not sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.

  When he pulled over and parked, I looked around in surprise. We were in a narrow alleyway, deserted except for a few parked cars, and he slid from the front seat, slamming the door behind him before pulling mine open.

  I considered staying put, but I knew he’d climb in and get me without hesitation, and he wouldn’t be kind. I moved, landing on slightly unsteady legs. “Aren’t you going to close the roof?” I looked up at him. I’d forgotten he was so tall.

  “I am leaving the car. And the roof doesn’t close.”

  Both those statements mystified me, until I looked more closely at the car. The meta
l had been peeled back over the driver’s seat, as if a can of soda had exploded from the heat. What the hell had been strong enough to do that? “You can just ditch cars?” I said. “You must be very well paid.”

  “It wasn’t mine in the first place.”

  “Well, whoever you borrowed it from isn’t going to be too happy with that hole in the middle of the roof.”

  “Possibly not.” He paused, looking at me, and I wished I could even begin to guess what was going through his mind. “You are everything that is evil. I should have left you to the Nephilim.”

  I was leaning back against the car, my legs still a bit unsteady, a strange, churning feeling inside me, in my breasts, between my legs, feelings that were totally foreign to me. He was standing too close to me, but I couldn’t tell him to move away. I didn’t want to.

  “Why didn’t you?” My voice was almost a whisper, as if I knew what he was going to do and I was afraid to startle him. Distract him. Stop him. I knew what he wanted, and God help me, I wanted it too.

  His deep-blue eyes were shadowed, and I thought I could see a streak of blood on his mouth. Whose blood? “Because I am a fool and a half,” he whispered as well, the night air all around us. “Because I know who and what you are, and I want you anyway.”

  And he kissed me. His mouth was rough, pushing mine open as his hard body pressed me back against the car, and I felt heat, desire, sweep through me, not knowing if it was his or mine. He was hard against me, I was wet just feeling his mouth on mine, and if he’d stripped off my clothes and taken me there by the docks I wouldn’t have protested.

  I put my arms around his neck, kissing him back, my tongue sliding against his, and he pulled me up, up against him. I wrapped my legs around his hips, trying to get closer, shutting out my mind and my doubts, sinking into the hot wet cloud of need that enveloped us both.

  Common sense hit him first. He pulled his mouth away, and I lowered my legs to the ground, letting them slide against his, slowly. He reached up and pulled my arms from his neck, stepping back, his eyes hooded, his expression as cool and unyielding as if the last few moments hadn’t existed.

  “I’m letting you go,” he said in a voice only slightly roughened by what we’d been doing. “I would suggest you run before I change my mind.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. It was as if the kiss had never happened. Maybe I’d dreamed it. In the end, it didn’t matter—what mattered was he was letting me go. “Just like that?” I said.

  “Just like that,” he said. “I have decided killing you is more trouble than you’re worth.”

  I could happily agree with that. But I couldn’t move. I still felt that strange, magnetic draw, still wanted to put my hands on him, to feel his body tight against mine, his skin sliding against me. I stayed motionless until his voice lashed out: “I told you to run.”

  And then I ran. Into the midnight-dark streets. No purse, no money, no passport. No name, no past, and no future. I didn’t care. I was alive, and I was free. I’d figure out the rest later.

  T HE D ARK C ITY

  C HAPTER F OUR

  AZAZEL PERCHED ON THE EDGE of the cliff, looking out over the roiling ocean, letting the cool sea breeze blow his overlong hair away from his face. He closed his eyes, drinking in the feel of it. In an empty existence, the feel of the wind, the smell of the sea, were among the few pleasures he could experience.

  He opened his eyes again, sensing Raziel’s approach. In the year and a half since Azazel had rejoined the Fallen, Raziel had repeatedly tried to hand the leadership of Sheol back to him, and he’d steadfastly refused. Raziel as the Alpha and his unconventional wife made a good ruling pair. Raziel had more compassion than Azazel was capable of feeling, and his wife, even though she’d shaken things up a bit, was proving to be a warm and caring Source.

  He could look at her now without wanting to kill her, even hold short conversations with her. Because Sarah had liked her. He suspected his wife had known her death was coming—Sarah had often had unexpected visions—and she had already set the stage for Allegra Watson to take her place. If Sarah approved of her, he couldn’t very well despise her.

  Everyone had left him alone since he’d returned from his self-imposed exile, knowing that when he was ready to fully rejoin the ranks of the Fallen, he’d tell them. In the meantime, he’d spent the days poring over the old texts, searching for some hint, some clue, to Lucifer’s whereabouts.

  The first of them, the Bringer of Light, the most favored of God’s angels, had been the first to be punished, imprisoned somewhere deep below the earth in an unending silence. Until they found him, they were helpless against the tyranny of the only archangel never to have been tempted. Uriel, bloody, ruthless, and completely without mercy, had been left in charge when the Supreme Being had given the human race free will and then withdrawn, leaving them on their own. Uriel had been charged with watching over things, but he’d followed through on the most horrific of the Supreme Being’s punishments. Plagues that wiped out two-thirds of the world’s populations—the Spanish influenza, smallpox, cholera—were successive gifts for the unrighteous. Uriel’s particular favorites were syphilis and AIDS. The punishment for sin was death, and fornication was the worst sin of all in Uriel’s eyes.

  And no one could touch him, no one could stop him, as scourge followed scourge and mankind fell into wars and famine. Only the Fallen had any chance of halting his inexorable march toward human extermination, and time was growing shorter as Uriel’s power grew.

  Raziel settled beside Azazel, folding his wings about him as he stared out at the sea. “You have to go after her, you know.”

  “No.” One didn’t refuse the Alpha when he made a request or issued an order, but Azazel didn’t hesitate.

  He and Raziel had been the next to fall after Lucifer, with Tamlel and twenty others, and had been damned for eternity for the crime of loving human women. Neither humans nor angels, they were simply the Fallen, cursed to live out eternity with an unstoppable need for blood. The wretched Nephilim were the flesh-eaters, the darker side, the creatures of filth and decay.

  “You were the one who found the link in the old texts,” Raziel said in his calm, patient voice. “You can’t deny that she alone holds the key. We’re just lucky you didn’t let the Nephilim destroy her before you found the connection.”

  “She remembers nothing,” he said stubbornly. “It would have made no difference.”

  “Did you bestow the Grace …?”

  “It would have failed. I could do very little with her. I could read her, just a bit, but it was all confusion. She didn’t know who or what she was; she had no memory of her past life. If she cannot even recognize that she’s the Lilith, how will she remember some minor bit of information that we’ve only just discovered could lead us to Lucifer?”

  “We don’t have any other choice. His voice is growing fainter, Uriel is growing stronger, and it won’t be long before he finally abandons restraint and comes after us. We must find Lucifer, and I would consort with the foulest creatures in existence, even the remaining Nephilim, if it would help us.”

  He knew Raziel was right. He’d known the moment he’d come across that obscure reference: The She-Demon who devours men and infants and lies with the Filth shall be entombed near the Bringer of Light, and bring forth the means of his deliverance. Of course, it was only one line in a relatively obscure text, and its provenance was questionable. And it didn’t begin to say how she might help them find Lucifer, only that she’d show them the way to do it. Which did them no good when she couldn’t remember anything.

  He thought back to the demon. The demon with the shape and smell and feel of a woman, who had only to look at him to stir feelings that should have been dead. He’d kissed her. That kiss had been burned into his body and his brain, tormenting him. What insanity had made him reach for her? No one else had managed to touch him in the nearly seven years since Sarah died, further proving just how dangerous the Lilith was. If she could
arouse his dead soul, then she had strong powers indeed.

  “I haven’t kept track of her,” he said, only half a lie. He’d stopped looking after her six months ago, once she’d gotten in bed with the young doctor. But he had little doubt she was still in Brisbane, still in that strange apartment that looked out over the Brisbane River. It would take him very little time to collect her.

  But he would have to touch her, hold her, carry her. Breathe in the seductive scent of her skin. He would have to bring her into the safety and protection of Sheol. The very last place he wanted her.

  For that one line from an obscure text that hinted she held the answer to Lucifer, there were dozens of other references to Lilith, queen of demons, and her marriage to the king of the Fallen. It didn’t matter that Raziel now ruled the Fallen as the Alpha. Azazel had led them in their disastrous fall; Azazel was decreed to mate with the Lilith and reign over hell with her by his side.

  Of course, those same sources equated the Fallen with a mythical Satan, a force of evil as powerful as God. In Azazel’s endless experience, the only creature who came close to that description was Uriel, the one remaining archangel.

  “You know where she is,” Raziel said, unmoved.

  “She cannot belong in Sheol. She is a demon.” Was there a tinge of desperation in his voice? No, he simply sounded pigheaded.

  “I know she doesn’t. I know the prophecies. If you won’t bring her here, you can take her to the Dark City and find the Truth Breakers. If there are answers to be found, they are the ones to do it.”

  He froze. He’d barely managed to survive his time with the brutal Truth Breakers long ago. And he was a lot stronger than the body the Lilith had taken. “Why me? Michael could—” He stopped. Michael had brute strength, the ultimate warrior. He would destroy her, whether by accident or design.

  Which would solve his problem, but bring them no closer to Lucifer. He racked his mind for anyone else among the Fallen who could take on the task, disposing of the demon once the information was garnered. There was no one. The strong ones would kill her; the gentle ones would be in danger once she regained her true self. He was the only one who knew enough to confine her without killing her. At least before her usefulness was past.