Holy, holy, holy!
Dante tried to close his mind to them, but there were so many—too many. Sweat beaded his forehead. He felt hollowed by hunger, his strength nearly gone. Exhaustion burned through his muscles.
“What part of Gehenna are we in?” Dante asked.
“The Royal Aerie,” the Morningstar replied. A smile twitched across his lips. “I have a feeling Gabriel won’t be too pleased about the gate you created within the palace.”
“Yeah? Like I give a fuck. Where’s Lucien?”
“I last saw him in the pit, so that’d be a good place to start,” the Morningstar said. “But since we’re here, wouldn’t you like to meet Gabriel?”
Dante felt a cold smile stretch his lips. “Oh, I’m gonna be paying the fucker a visit, all right, but I wanna get Lucien first.”
Heather grasped his hand again. “You’re dead on your feet,” she whispered. “So let’s grab Lucien and head back. Leave Gabriel for another time.”
“I can’t, catin. He’s gotta break the spell he placed on Lucien.” Dante laced his fingers through hers. “Keep close, I don’t wanna lose you.”
“Same here,” she said softly. She pulled her gun from inside her trench, held it down at her side.
“How far away’s the pit?” Dante asked.
“You can’t walk there,” the Morningstar said. “There are no streets in Gehenna, just landing terraces. We head for the nearest terrace, then I’ll fly you.”
“D’accord. Let’s move.”
Much as he didn’t like the idea of entrusting himself and Heather into the Morningstar’s embrace, Dante felt he had little choice. Not if he wanted to reach Lucien.
The Morningstar led the way down the sky blue marble corridor, past glowing lamps fragrant with sandalwood and hyacinth oils, and past fluted black columns flecked with gold.
As they walked, Dante caught glimpses of people ducking into shadows, then peering at him from around columns, their expressions a blend of wariness and hope. Several dropped to their knees as he passed and pressed their foreheads against the gleaming floor.
Dante wanted to tell them to get up and knock that shit off, but had a feeling it wouldn’t do any good. “Who are they?”
“Servants. Nephilim—mortal/Elohim half-bloods.”
“Servants, huh? Nice fucking system you got here.” Song wormed at Dante’s shields, pried at his mind, plucked at his heart.
Holy, holy, holy!
Welcome home! We shall love and serve you and you shall feed Gehenna.
Dissenting song slashed across the choir’s voice.
Only feed Gehenna if you desire, young Maker. You can begin a new age for all.
Threeintooneholytrinitythreeintoone …
Boy needs a lesson. Boy always needs a lesson.
Papa swings the shovel up …
Pain jabbed a cold spike behind Dante’s left eye. Heather’s fingers knitted tighter through his. She squeezed his hand. “Hold on,” she whispered. “Stay here.”
“Working on it,” Dante said, pushing the pain and the voices deeper below.
“Almost there,” the Morningstar said. He swung left into another corridor, striding toward a gold-columned archway. Hand-in-hand with Heather, Dante followed him through the archway and onto a wide balconied terrace open to the star-jeweled sky.
Dante saw figures flying through a night shimmering with intense blue and purple and green waves—streamers of aurora borealis color—their wings stroking through the air in powerful sweeps as they homed-in on the terrace.
“They gonna be trouble?” Dante asked.
The Morningstar frowned. “No, but they’ll delay you, try to chain you up in their songs and keep you here since you’re just a child in desperate need of care and guidance.”
“Child, huh?”
The Morningstar flashed Dante a knowing smile. “Most definitely. What are you? Twenty? You should still be in a playpen.”
“Twenty-three and fuck you.”
“Ah. And in desperate need of manners. Another thing your father neglected.”
Pain skewered Dante’s temples, flecking his vision with black.
Boy needs a lesson. Boy always needs a lesson.
“Again, you’re talking about shit you know nothing about,” Dante said, blinking to clear his vision. Hearing the sandal patter of multiple footsteps behind them, he swiveled around, unlinking his hand from Heather’s.
“Welcome, young Maker, I am thrilled that the Morningstar has guided you home,” the fallen angel said. Thick waist-length hair the color of good whiskey, a blood-red kilt, and confident—nah, make that smug—smile. Someone used to being in charge.
The Morningstar sighed. “Well, that’s Gabriel, and he isn’t going to be happy when you ignore him to go to the pit for your father.” He looped an arm around Dante’s waist. “Time for us to go.”
Gabriel. The fucking asshole who’d locked Lucien’s fate to that of a dying land.
“Hold on,” Dante said, slipping free of the Morning-star’s heated embrace.
Gabriel strode toward Dante, his golden wings folded at his back, moss green eyes gleaming. Other Fallen, guys and chicks, walked on either side of Gabriel, their faces lit, their wings—black and gold—fluttering with excitement.
Hunger sliced through Dante, carving at his thoughts. Song and voices and whispers battered his mind, inside and out. Beneath his skin, wasps droned. Above, the sky rustled. He started walking toward Gabriel.
“What are you doing?” the Morningstar asked, voice low.
“Changed my mind,” Dante said.
Gabriel’s stride slowed, then stopped as Dante approached. He stared at Dante, lips parting, his expression a familiar and irritating mix of surprise and lust. His scent—amber and pine and deep, dark earth—intensified.
“Beautiful little creawdwr,” Gabriel breathed. “Welcome—”
Dante moved. He slammed into the fallen angel, knocking him onto the slick floor, flesh squeaking against marble. He sat on Gabriel’s chest and jammed his knees into the fallen angel’s ribs. Shoving his head to one side, Dante slashed into Gabriel’s taut throat with his fangs.
And fed.
Blood, pomegranate-sweet and heady, poured between Dante’s lips and down his throat, strength threading into him with each ravenous swallow. Gabriel struggled underneath him and Dante burrowed deeper into his throat. Blue light flared behind his closed eyes, song, wild and demanding, pulsing with each beat of his heart. Energy tingled along his fingers.
Gabriel gasped, then went still. Voices cried out. But no one grabbed Dante.
No one dared.
Wybrcathl hammered at Dante’s thoughts, insisting he listen to its praise, its instruction.
Holy, holy, holy.
Quiet the song, young Maker.
Voices shoved and moshed through Dante’s mind, knocking his thoughts out of sync and out of time. Here and now slipped away.
My little night-bred beauty. You’ll survive anything I might do to you.
I’ll help you find them and their house-torching buddies, and I’ll stand beside you as you kill them.
Can I stop living after that?
Dante-angel, can I sleep with you? I’m cold.
Papa swings the shovel up, then down …
Pain raked along Dante’s back—molten claws ripping through flesh and into muscle, tearing into him bone-deep. The sharp scent of his own blood saturated the air. Fire scalded his spine and ashed the blood in his veins.
Dante lifted his head from Gabriel’s bleeding throat and screamed.
HEATHER RAN, PELTING THROUGH the terrace archway and down the corridor, Dante’s anguished scream reverberating in her mind. A fiery aura of blue fire blazed around him, glinting from the horrified faces of the Fallen surrounding him, and from the fallen angel shoving him aside and rolling out from underneath.
Gabriel scooted away, a hand clasped against his bloodied throat. He stared at Dante with stunned, dilated eyes.
“He’s already mad,” he whispered.
“No, he’s not,” Heather said, dropping to her knees beside Dante on the bruising marble floor.
On his knees, Dante had doubled over, his arms wrapped around himself. Sweat plastered tendrils of black hair to his face. Pain shut his eyes, bared his fangs, and strung his muscles wire-tight.
Dante hissed, the sound low and raw, a warning only a fool would ignore. Heather went still. Heat raged from him, heat so intense, her breath caught in her throat.
“What did you do to him?” Heather asked, snapping her gaze back to Gabriel.
“I … ? Nothing. I would never harm the creawdwr,” the fallen angel said. Then his gaze locked with Heather’s and indignation flared in his green eyes. “Who are you to question me, mortal?”
“She’s the Maker’s cydymaith,” the Morningstar replied. “I’d advise a tad more respect.”
“A mortal? He’ll find worthier cydymaiths among his own,” Gabriel said.
Heather tuned the fallen angel out and focused her attention on Dante. Blood soaked the back of his NIN T-shirt, glistening in the lamplight. His back rippled. Something poked up from beneath his shirt, stretching the fabric, then disappeared.
Heather stared, heart in her throat. What the hell?
Sucking in a pained breath through his teeth, Dante rocked forward, his fangs sinking into his bottom lip. Blood oozed down his chin.
Heather struggled with her urge to pull Dante into her arms, yank his shirt off and seek the source of his pain. But the blue light enveloping him kept her hands knotted on her leather-clad thighs.
“Baptiste, can you hear me?” she asked.
Dante’s back rippled again and this time something ripped through his shirt, dark and wet with blood. Heather’s thoughts came to a screeching halt as she took in what the something was: a wing tip crackling with blue sparks.
Dante cried out, the sound a ragged growl of mingled pain and rage, as his back undulated yet again. The other wing tip, gleaming with blood and blue flames, sliced through his shirt—shredding it. He fell forward onto his forearms and knees.
As if by reflex, Dante’s wings fanned open, flinging droplets of dark blood onto the marble floor and walls and across the staring Fallen. Hot blood spattered Heather’s face. She wiped at it with the backs of her trembling hands.
Black, Dante’s wings, and edged in deepest crimson, the undersides streaked with fire patterns of brilliant blue and purple.
A sense of déjà vu whirled through Heather, keeping pace with her racing pulse.
The never-ending Road. The Great Destroyer. Both or neither or only one.
But still Dante, still the man she loved—if she could anchor him in the here and now. His pain and burning thoughts scorched Heather’s thin shields. Voices melted through:
She trusted you, kid. I’d say she got what she deserved.
On your knees, p’tit, hands behind yo’ back.
It’s just a matter of time. You’re going to hurt her and hurt her bad.
What’s he screamin’?
“Kill me,” Dante whispered.
His words icing her spine, Heather said, “Stay here, Dante, stay with me.”
Dante staggered up to his feet. He stumbled, off-balanced by his wet and glistening wings. His red-streaked gaze locked on Gabriel. “Hey, Papa, your turn in the grave, yeah?”
Heart drumming hard and fast, Heather closed her eyes and imagined a lake surrounding her mind. Then, sucking in a deep breath, she dove into the storm raging inside Dante’s head.
DANTE WRENCHES THE SHOVEL from Papa’s hands and swings it whistling through the air. The blade slams into the fi’ de garce’s face, stoves it in with a crunch of bone. The pungent scent of fresh blood wafts into the night. Without a sound, Papa keels over into the dark and muddy grave.
Dante waits for the fucker to rise again, his fingers white-knuckled around the shovel’s smooth handle.
Furious wasps drone, stingers burning venom into his veins.
I’m scared, Dante-angel, but I’m glad I’m with you.
No escape for you, sweetie.
I’ll be your god and you’ll love me.
Ice shivs Dante’s heart. He whirls, too late. The shovel vanishes from his hand and he’s stretched-out and cuffed in the back of Perv’s van—hurtling through the night.
“Looks like you shoulda been worried about me, sexy, not Papa.” Elroy Jordan grins and drives a shiv into Dante’s chest. “Name the one you love.”
Pain punches the air from Dante’s lungs. “Still ain’t you,” he gasps.
A voice from another time, another place, whispers through Dante’s mind.
Imagine a key, little brother.
Lust scorches the Perv’s eyes nearly black. Another shiv arcs through the air.
A key of blue flame clicks into the keyhole of the handcuffs latched around Dante’s wrists. The cuffs fall away and Dante—grabbing two handfuls of the Perv’s shirt—falls with them, smacking shoulder-first into cold, stinking mud, the Perv on top of him; falls into a shallow grave lined with upright shovels, their blades buried in the sawgrass above.
Mud-slick, Dante slithers out from under the Perv and straddles him. Rips into the bastard’s throat with his nails. Blood fountains into the air and drenches him, hot and heady. The Perv’s sneaker heels thump and squish into the mud.
A shovel vanishes from the lip of the grave.
Where you think you’re going, p’tit? Think you’re walking away from me, you?
Silence descends into the shallow grave on white wings and curves around Dante, sheltering him within pale shadows as cool as winter rain.
It’s quiet when I’m with you. The noise stops.
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus.
I’ll help you stop it forever.
Everything hushes. Everything goes still.
The firestorm of pain in Dante’s head gutters beneath a wind smelling of rain-wet lilac and sage—gutters, but doesn’t go out.
A beautiful woman with red hair kneels at the grave’s edge and extends a hand.
His beautiful woman—all heart and steel.
Dante grasps Heather’s strong, warm hand and hauls himself up and out of the grave. Crouched on the sawgrass, he flicker-shifts from the muddy, blood-soaked teen and into himself.
Dante opened his eyes and looked into Heather’s deep blue gaze, feeling her promise inside of him, a sacrament of silence. “Je t’aime, chérie,” he said, his voice low and husky. The blue light dancing around his fingers shivered, then winked out.
Heather’s hands cupped his face. She brushed her lips against his. “I know,” she murmured. “A good thing too.” Releasing him, she studied him. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Happened?”
Heather nodded. “Your wings.”
Dante stared at her. “My … ?”
Pain throbbed at his back, between his shoulder blades, burning like spilled gasoline down his spine. His muscles twitched, spasming fresh pain along his nerves, and wings—his goddamned wings—rustled behind him.
Dante didn’t know if he’d accidentally transformed himself or if Gabriel’s blood had birthed something that had always been curled up inside of him, waiting. But he planned to find out when he had time.
“Holy fucking shit,” he muttered, pushing a hand through his hair.
“Exactly,” Heather agreed.
“Beautiful wings,” the Morningstar said. “Unlike any I’ve seen before. As you are unlike any creawdwr I’ve ever known.”
Dante looked past Heather to the Morningstar. Reflected light from his radiant face danced along the corridor’s polished walls, and from the decorations gleaming …
Dante’s heart kicked hard against his ribs as he realized just what he was looking at—not decorations, but blue-bladed shovels rooted to the marble walls on each side of the corridor.
Ready fo
r use.
Cold fingers latched around his heart. One night, one way or another, he would be free—his life, his own. But if this, shovels on the walls of a palace he’d punched a gate into, equaled the first step onto that path, then so fucking be it.
“Unlike any creawdwr, yes,” another voice said—Gabriel—a voice winding tighter and tighter with anger. “But also a misguided and naïve child. How could you allow him to chose a mortal for his first calon-cyfaill, Star?”
“She balanced him without even a touch,” the Morningstar replied. “That speaks for itself, don’t you think?”
“I’m right here. Talk to me, not about me, assholes.” Dante’s wings automatically fluttered, fanning the scent of burning leaves into the corridor. Pain rippled along his muscles.
Gabriel’s Fallen companions had dropped to their knees, their gazes fixed on the marble floor, all color drained from their faces.
“Y’all should stand up,” Dante said. “Don’t know why the fuck you’d kneel for anyone—unless it’s in the bedroom—otherwise it’s annoying as hell.”
One pair of eyes, golden and curious, darted a look up, then away again. The other Fallen remained motionless as if they’d already been turned to stone.
Dante sighed. Returning his attention to the Morning-star, he asked, “What’s a calon-cyfaill?”
“A bondmate,” the Morningstar said. “A heartmate. The strongest and most profound relationship among Elohim.”
“One that should never be shared with a mortal,” Gabriel grumbled.
Dante moved, but this time the fallen angel, adrenaline peppering his scent, leaped out of reach before Dante could snag him. But then he tripped over his kneeling companions and sprawled ass and elbows onto the hard floor.
Dante crouched beside him, his wings fanning, then closing, and nearly unbalancing him in the process. “I’ll share whatever I want, with whoever I want,” he said. “We clear?”
Sweat popped up along Gabriel’s hairline, but fury slashed across his face. “You’re too young to know what you want,” he said, pushing himself up onto his knees. “Or even to know what’s in your best interests. You can’t be bound to a mortal.”
“Why the hell not?”
“It isn’t done. Simply not possible.” Gabriel’s gaze flicked past Dante to Heather. “Or shouldn’t be, anyway.”
Maker's Song 3 Beneath the Skin Page 36