Redeemers (The Devil's Roses Book 8)

by Tara Brown

  “They seem to be popping up everywhere. The whole blood bag thing is getting out of hand.”

  I give her a look. “The whole ‘evil will reign the world for seven years’ thing is kind of helping them out.” Blake has a point. We aren’t focusing hard enough on this. Seventeen months and we’ve accomplished nothing. Nothing I recall anyway.

  “I know. I’m just saying it’s crazy how they are everywhere we look.” She glances at her nails, an act I have NEVER seen her do. “Okay, let’s go ‘cause I just want to go to Miami with everyone tonight, not kill slutty vamp whores.”

  Her comment is way off base. I don't even have a response to it. The blood bags aren’t whores. They’re slaves. She used to see it that way. She’s pissing me off, a lot more than the vampires are.

  I wink to the blood house, landing in the far corner of the compound and take a picture with my cell phone. I text it to them and they both wink to me instantly.

  Ari flashes a wicked grin on her face. “Who is hungry?”

  Blake looks confused when he says, “Not me. I just want to go home. Try not to make this too fancy.”

  She grins wider. “Try to keep up.” She sprints across the dusty compound to the house, ripping a door off its hinges and taking a spray of machine gun bullets to the chest. She walks down the hallway as the bullets drop to the marble floor, not exactly bouncing off of her but not totally wounding her either.

  She’s a savage. The blood lust vampires have is similar to what we have all been feeling more and more. Enjoying the kill more.

  A man pulls a sword from his belt, pointing at her. She waves her fingers at him, taunting him to come for her. He runs, screaming and oblivious to the fact he cannot hurt her. Not the way he wants to. She winks behind him, snapping his neck with one hand as she spins him and kisses his soul away.

  Blake winks past her, killing the next man. But I run past both of them, winking to the hallway full of rooms. Each one is the same, it always is. A girl or guy chained to a bed, reeking of sex and blood and drugs. They are always young and attractive, my real age perhaps but more fragile.

  Where once I would have saved them—I would have freed them and cleaned them and taken them home—I now kill them.

  The world is populated so heavily that my job is not to save anyone. My job is to free them in a different way and let God decide where they shall land for I am His weapon and His angel of mercy.

  The instinct to save them is gone. I do not even contemplate it as I suck each sweet soul from the chapped and desperate lips of each victim.

  Judgment Day has come and I am the hand of God.

  Chapter One

  Who wants a werewolf sandwich?

  The woman in front of me walks down the alley, sashaying her ass hypnotically, nearly putting me into a trance. I can imagine she has walked this way a hundred times and never given her safety a single thought.

  She’s beautiful in a way that makes me forget why I’m even here or what day it is. When she stumbles slightly, I wince. Her long, tanned legs and silky hair have me convinced she’s flawless, the way Giselle is. I almost lift off to get a better angle of her face. I can just imagine how her lips pout, no doubt doused in gloss.

  She’s clearly an idiot, whoever she is. No one that sexy strolls an alley at night, not that confidently anyway.

  Of course she can’t sense the things I can. Being me is helpful in alleys where the truly bad things of the world tend to hang out, waiting for bimbos like her.

  It isn’t until the beast from the shadows has her on the ground and is draining her of her vital life source—blood, that I realize I’m not watching TV. It’s real and the perfect girl is actually dying in front of me. I pause, too long of course, no longer watching her. It wasn't ever her I was after. She was the bait from the start. I guess I could have told her that.

  I close my eyes, waiting for the sound of him being done.

  I can feel it, the way he’s gulping her back like a Slurpee from one of the fat straws at 7-Eleven. The second he licks his lips, I wink.

  He doesn't sense the air shift behind him. He’s drunk off the blood. He doesn't realize I can smell his Walmart shampoo wafting from his dark hair and floating about in the warm air. It stings my nose actually. He doesn't see me until it’s too late. He turns and I smile, like the lion that waited for the hyena to finish its meal before eating it.

  He tastes extra dirty when I grip his face and pull him free.

  He crumples to the floor like he’s a bundle of clothing and not a man at all.

  I turn, leaving the two of them and wink to the rooftop again.

  Satisfied the cool night air is clean, I turn to leave but my eyes drag to the dead people below. They are like a Chinese symbol for me; a character that represents all of the things dying off inside of me. The way their arms and legs intercept and sprawl, I almost feel like I can read the symbol.

  I don't like the changes in me.

  The changes are like watching light bulbs burn out in a house. As each one dies off and it gets darker, I forget how big the house is. I am left with just a small corner of light to huddle in. The small corner is my humanity.

  It’s hanging on by a thread.

  There is a terrible feeling inside of me that everything is changing, and soon I will forget who I ever was.

  Lorri must have forgotten that part of the speech. Not that there had really been a speech or anything was actually explained when she changed us. She fought for one thing—the survival of God’s planet. We were just the way. Casualties of a war fought for too long.

  Now we are stuck this way, slowly losing the very reasons and traits she chose us for in the first place.

  I know one thing. I once believed that forming a habit was the way to kill a human.

  Drugs, alcohol, sex, smoking, overeating. That was my opinion—habits killed people. But thus far it has been my habits that I believe have saved me.

  Every time I feel myself slipping away, instinctively I reach into my pocket and pull it out, dragging it across my lips like it were his mouth meeting mine, and not a feather at all. Touching the last thing he ever gave me, makes me remember him in ways that light me up again. So far, he is the only way for me to remain. The part of me that wants him stays and fights, while everything else slowly gets lost or cut off. Sort of like the way Blake goes to see Alise. I notice he’s like the others until he sees her and then suddenly he remembers who he is.

  I think love is the only thing we can grip to.

  I run my fingers across the white feather and close my eyes. The second I do, Dorian is there, floating past me and saying filthy shit that makes me smile as a single tear drips from my eye. I touch the tear, collecting it on the tip of my finger. The ball of liquid sitting on my finger is all of my humanity in one tiny puddle. The little bit of me that’s left clings to the feather, desperate to stay human.

  My phone vibrating in my pocket interrupts my melancholy moment.

  When I pull it out, the glow of the picture Sam has sent me makes me smile.

  Time to party.

  I have learned some things recently about myself that I never knew before. Or rather, I have become so altered I am not the same girl I once was, and the new me likes things the old me never would have.

  For starters, I like to wear revealing clothing when I am kicking ass. I think it’s insane that when faced with death, a man will still let his eyes fall to my pathetic attempt at cleavage. He will literally die still pondering what’s beneath that tightly worn shirt.

  Insane.

  Also, I like to dance. I judged and slut-shamed my sister for her desire to throw her hands into the air and wave them about like she just didn’t care. Apparently, I was wrong, not that I’m ever going to tell Alise that. Wings or not, I am still her sister. It is my God-given duty to torture her with wit and sarcasm, the only weapons I have against her.

  But back to dancing. It’s a freeing feeling. My hair whips around me and my arms sway, as the
beat of the music becomes part of me. I can feel it inside of me, vibrating and inspiring me.

  The fact I am getting short on things like that these days makes me all the more appreciative of the feeling.

  The flashing of the club lights and the energy of the people around is overwhelming, but that's the part I love about it all. I don’t even know if I ever feel anything as strongly as that anymore. Apart from my moments with the feather each day.

  What I don’t love—grabby piece-of-shit humans. That, I could live without. It’s not even just the men, the women are grabby too. Drives me round the bend.

  When arms wrap around my waist and hands slide up my torso, I lose the happy vibe I have worked so hard for. If there is one surefire way to piss me off, it’s to take away the only bit of good in my entire week.

  I don’t think it’s an angel thing. I think it’s a common sense, decency thing. Of course I am obligated to grab hold of the wrist and flash as fast as I can from the dance floor to the roof above. From there I can send the idiot to meet our maker if he or she doesn’t apologize promptly.

  I wink to the club, instantly enjoying the feel of the energy and the intoxicated fun that washes over me with the waves of the music. I don't know where my friends are. I don't think I even care. My arms lift the second I get into the crowd and my body starts to jerk and sway.

  When I look up, the flashing lights and disco-ball reflections attempt to hypnotize me as the music bursts through me. I have a glisten of sweat. We don't sweat like we used to. But the glow of the sweat gives me the illusion of being human.

  The wafting odor of depravity and evil brings with it the reality that I am not human. But I don't care. Not right this second. This second is for joy and release and illusions.

  Reality is overrated.

  Sam is there suddenly, shouting at me, “Hey!”

  “Hey!” I smile, dancing and nodding to the music.

  He cups my face. His dark eyes are lit up and sparkling with the lights in the club, like I can see fireworks reflecting in his stare. He presses his lips against mine. The smell of him draws a moan from me as his tongue slips between our caressing lips. His hands touch up my back, sliding against my skin and creating intense heat everywhere.

  I pull back, dazed and uncertain of the last time I was kissed like that. He cocks an eyebrow and a grin that makes my knees weak. “Wanna go back to the house and finish this conversation?”

  I do. Sweet God, I do. But my hand slips into my pocket and the reality of it all crashes on me. “SAM!”

  He looks confused. I still want to devour him but I step back, just for safety’s sake. “What are you doing? Where’s Hanna?”

  He bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “Aimes, it’s free-love time. We don't have to live by the same rules as these sheep,” he shouts, making the people near us shout with him. “We are free to live how we want, no restrictions.” He steps back in, grazing my cheeks with his teeth. “Let me love you, Aimee.”

  I almost collapse, desperate for his touch and the pleasure I know will be attached to it.

  But my heart tells my head this is wrong. “No. This is wrong. Where are Hanna and Aleks?”

  He steps back again. His smile is broken. I don't think he knows it, but I can see it. He winks and he’s gone, leaving me shivering with want.

  Until arms slip up my torso, caressing my naked skin beneath my tee shirt. I wink and spin, holding a man in the air by his throat as the warm wind brushes against me. He gives me a drugged-out smile but smells nothing like evil. Sam has me jittery.

  The air turns cool as something or someone whips past me, dragging a hand across my butt. I drop the man, turning quickly to find the smug face of Marcus. True love has not cured his annoying traits or twisted idea of what’s funny. He’s still a sarcastic prick of a vampire. He winks at me. “You’ve got quite the ass on you, Aimes. Really solid for such a skinny white girl.” We have become like teenagers who have snuck into the club, most times drunk off the energy.

  “Where’s Lorelei?” She is the one thing that keeps him in check since he’s the biggest kid of all. She’s the head of the Roses in Europe and deadly powerful for a witchy vampire. We get along like me and Lorri did. Lorelei is the sweet and Southern version of Lorri.

  He saunters over, tauntingly. “She’s in London. Something about a plague. Like I care.” He runs a finger down my bare arm, sending chills up my spine. “Wanna help keep me busy?”

  I slap hard but he’s already gone. So I shout across the rooftop, “Chicken shit!” I know he doesn't mean it, he’s just a pest. He’s worse than Ben and Sam combined.

  I think he likes the fact we angels are a hot mess most of the time.

  The wind returns to normal as I look back at the man trembling on the ground where I dropped him. I forget why he’s there with me. He’s here, on the roof of the club, so he must have done something. But he doesn't smell evil. I nod at the door to the stairs. “If I see you again, you’re dead.” The words feel dirty, like they aren’t something I should say, but I do anyway. A small part of me thinks I should just end him, but Dorian’s feather in my hand reminds me I once had compassion.

  The man makes no sound, just scrambles to his feet and runs from the rooftop.

  In the silence I can still hear Marcus laughing. He’s such a shit. He doesn't like to act like his entire world is run by Lorelei, but it is. And we all know it.

  I glance around, wondering where I am. It’s as if a fog is sitting in my head, desperately trying to make everything a short-term memory. I don't know what I did yesterday. I don't know when I ate or slept last. I don't know anything but that my heart hurts.

  I turn to search the roof for the door since I can’t recall how I got here, but I freeze.

  Something terrible is lurking in the corner, hiding in the shadows, where a dark deed such as it should be.

  I don't fully comprehend it right away. It takes a whole minute to soak in.

  In the darkest shadows, Ben, one of my best friends, is making out with a girl while his brother, Lucas, watches. There is something about his handsome face that bothers me. I suppose it is the hungry look in his eyes. Lucas reaches forward, sliding his hand up into the hair of the girl and lowers his face to her neck.

  Words stumble from my parted and trembling lips, “What the hell?”

  “Hey! I didn't see you there.” Lucas turns, beaming. “You want to join in, Aimes?”

  My stomach aches as anger trickles through me, tiptoeing as if it’s not sure why it’s there. “What? No!”

  He shrugs and goes back to kissing the young woman’s neck as Ben dips his hands into her shorts. The very act is uncharacteristic of them both.

  I cover my eyes, rubbing tightly and then look again. But they’re still here, doing something I know in my soul is wrong. My brain just can’t remember why it’s wrong, not fully. My grip on the feather tightens. “Where is everyone else?”

  Ben grins at me as the young woman moans into Lucas’ shoulder. Ben moves his hand faster, making her screams louder. “Why? Who cares? We all agreed to meet up here tonight. They’ll be by soon enough. Come have fun, Aimes.”

  I am completely stunned by what’s actually happening and right in front of me to boot. I pocket my feather and wink, shoving both men, and then wink again.

  Suddenly, me and the girl are standing on a hillside outside of Eastern Washington, in the desert. She shivers from the cold air. “How did you do that? Where are we?”

  I don't want to talk to her. I don't want to know anything about her. But I do have one question. “How did you meet him—them?”

  “Some girl with black eyes and dark hair dragged me over to them. She told me she had lost a bet and I was the prize. I think they did the flashy thing you did because I don’t remember how we got to the rooftop.” The blonde girl has a pretty face and lush lips. My attraction to her bothers me.

  She smiles at me, like she isn’t even aware of the fact I’m holding her by
the throat. Her pupils look like she’s seconds away from OD’-ing and the lazy smile on her lips is familiar. Alise and Giselle used to have it when they did ecstasy.

  I pull her into me, pressing her soft lips against mine and kiss, pulling her soul from her thin body. I have cut off completely from my emotions. I don't see her as anything beyond one of them, a thing detached from me and maybe even a lesser species.

  I drop her, letting her small corpse slump into the sagebrush next to me. I don't even know why I killed her or why in my brain it has come to be called freeing. I freed her and I don't know why. I have to assume it was because she was high or my attraction to her bothered me enough to do it. Or had I done it for Ari?

  Do I do anything for Ari? I don't even know the last time I spoke to her. I swear in my memories it feels like it was only a moment ago, but how long is a moment now? I don't know that either. I’m sure, at the most, it’s been days since I saw her, but it might have been months. It might have been years. They are slipping away from me like a riverbank. Everything has become one fluid mess, and I don't know how to escape it. It feels like the more I struggle, the worse it gets.

  My fingers claw at the sides of my leg, crawling into my pocket where it lies. I drag it out, running the soft white feather across my lips.

  I say his name. “Dorian.” I whisper it to the feather, wondering if he can hear me, like it’s a one-sided radio and he has the earpiece and I have the microphone. “Dorian. Come back and help me.” Saying it makes me shake.

  I glance down at her as the reality of what I have needlessly done slips into my mind and heart. I take an uneasy step back, wishing I didn't see her dead body, but knowing it will be all I see for days . . . or seconds, depending which is longer lately.

  I wink like not even a heartbeat has passed since I was last in the club, and look around me. The air is again filled with sweaty excitement and artificial elation. It is the Band-Aid I require. I kiss the feather, relaxing into the feel of the club again as I place it back into my pocket. I don't remember why I came. Was I meeting someone? A name sits on my lips but I can’t recall whose it is.