Death is a Bitch
Page 9
A chuckle burst out. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.” Or where to end, before it sent the priest into madness.
Benevolence oozed from the priest. “Do you know who is following you? Why they mean you harm?”
Oh, this was too much. “Yes.”
“I’d be happy to help you sort things out.”
Unable to resist, Damien scooted forward in his seat. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“Because I do need someone of your…ilk.” Even the benign word curdled on Damien’s forked tongue. His eye twitched in revulsion. Asking a priest for help? Unheard of.
“Tell me what I can do.”
Like inviting a rabid dog to bite. Damien rose slowly, turning away to gather his senses. And failing. “First, to level the playing field, you know, tell me your worst sin.”
Sputtering, the priest blinked. “I don’t see how—”
Damien leaned his knuckles on the desk top, glaring beneath furrowed brows. “Tell me.”
Dazed, the priest spoke in a monotone. “I lusted for my neighbor. Every night, I watched her undress. Her bedroom window sat directly opposite mine. I couldn’t help it.”
“Oh, but you could have. Couldn’t you?” Likely no more than he could help imagining Death naked, writhing beneath him.
The priest nodded.
“What else?” There had to be more. There always was.
“I masturbated,” the priest choked out.
Yawn. Damien rocked the chair back. “Tell me the last time you beat off your wanker.”
“Last month.”
Not for weeks? The man was a saint. “And did you imagine your neighbor? Or someone else?” Damien instilled visions of naked wanton females in the priest’s mind.
“Oh.” The priest shuddered.
“Now you understand my dilemma. My uncontrollable desire. For a bitch who could care less.” He shared with the priest his imagining of Death in a dom suit, whipping his bare ass. Damien grabbing the cat o’nine tails. Her gasp as he ripped her leather corset, her purr as he trailed his fingers along her inner thigh, then flicked the whip at her delicious ass.
Drool collected along the priest’s bottom lip as he stared, open-mouthed.
Damien sucked air through his teeth. “Such a tease. I’d do anything to fuck her. To feel her long legs wrapped around me. Pumping me dry. I’ve been fucking my way through every woman in my path to get to her, but it does no good. I still want her so bad it hurts.” And of course only made his imaginings more vivid. Her mounded titties with suckable pert nipples. Her arched back as she bent over those long legs, her stance wide open for him. Begging him to let her have it. Oh yeah. He’d pound her relentlessly. Make her scream for relief. Or for more. Now that would be as close to Heaven as he’d ever get.
A tremulous sigh sounded. “No.” The priest covered his eyes with his hands. “Stop.”
“If only I could. Then I wouldn’t have Heaven and Hell out to get me.”
Mopping his forehead with a handkerchief, the priest sounded shaky. “I’m sure it feels that way.”
“It is that way.” Damien revealed his true self to the priest, who grew more horrified as the demon’s skin charred, the stench of rotted flesh filling the small room. Damien’s nostrils flared above a malicious smile, eyes blazing like a fiery kaleidoscope.
The priest hastily made the sign of the cross, grabbed a wooden one from the wall and held it in front of him like a shield. “Back to Hell where you belong, unclean spirit.”
Damien laughed. “You first.” He let his split tongue loll past his chin in his best Kiss impression.
Hands splayed, the priest dropped the crucifix and scurried out, his scream fading down the hall. The distant slam of the door signaled his final exit.
Damien heaved a breath. “So, sanctuary’s a limited time offer.” With a shrug, he darted out, pausing long enough to glance left, right and up. No angels. Wait, one. Of course they’d left a sentry atop the lowest spire of the cathedral, resting his chin in his hand like the gargoyle he stood beside. Such a cute pair.
Of assholes.
So much for Paris. He’d miss the wineries, the women. But it was all too refined for him. He needed some raunch. Some heat, both in the air and in the females.
Rio, here I come. Ready or not.
Chapter Ten
By chance, Azrael caught sight of Death at the Gate. Shame caused him to hesitate. His failure would disappoint her. Supremely. He ducked behind Raphael’s wide girth.
Raphael clasped his shoulder. “How goes the search?”
Azrael cringed at his booming voice. Never use an archangel for cover. Before Azrael could answer, Death appeared at Raphael’s side.
“Yes, how goes it?” Her dark eyes searched his.
Time for confession. “I found Damien in Paris.”
Hope lit Death’s eyes. “You found him?”
“And lost him. Despite a full garrison of angels. I summoned the gargoyles of Notre Dame, but he invoked Sanctuary.”
“Oh, bad luck. You’ll catch him next time.” Raphael waved to Uriel, and sped after his fellow archangel.
Death stared as if she had no idea who Azrael was. A stranger. An imposter. A traitor.
Azrael ground his teeth. “I take full responsibility.”
“Yes.”
“I will capture him next time, I swear.”
She stumbled backward, the smallest gurgle in her throat the only clue she doubted him.
Tiel flew in, glancing from one to the other. “Pardon, but I have news of Sisyphus.”
Like a tigress, Death lunged, fire in her eyes. “You’ve seen him?”
Tiel pinned his chin to his chest. “Not I, Mistress Death. Vadriel.”
Azrael knew well the ruling angel of the ninth hour of the day, a meticulous sort. Vadriel’s report meant he’d spotted Sisyphus on his watch. “Where?”
“In New York City.” Tiel’s quick bow indicated nervousness.
Death looked to Earth, half-enshrouded in shadow. “So by their time, eleven hours have passed.”
And untold opportunities lost. Azrael caught Death’s glance, fierce yet vulnerable. It melted his heart and steeled his resolve. “We will gather seven legions of angels. Summon the warriors as well as the Grigori. Sisyphus will not escape. He and Damien must suffer for their treachery.” Maybe then he and Death could return to their previous work relationship. No chance. Despite Damien’s claims, her cold receptions left him with deeper yearning after each encounter.
She gave a stiff nod, her beautiful lips set in a grim line. Oh how he missed those lips, those arms, those legs enfolding him. Her hair spread beneath her like a carpet of black silk.
Her glare sent a chill through him.
“We’re wasting time.” Her raw tone made the words an accusation.
“Hasten, Tiel. Rally the others to follow. Death and I will leave now.” He waited for her confirmation.
Brief surprise disappeared beneath the mask of calm Death visibly assembled. “Let’s go.”
Sorrow pierced his heart. “I’m ready.”
To battle for her, not with her. He welcomed the rush of air as they took flight. When they neared the great city and passed from light into darkness, it seemed a bad omen. From the set of her mouth, the hardness of her features, Death appeared determined to triumph.
She’d suffered much mental anguish during her capture, he reminded himself. For now, he had to focus on the task at hand. “Let’s begin our search in Times Square. I believe Sisyphus will take cover in a crowd.”
Azrael scanned the throng below. “Sisyphus’s downfall is his pride. A king is never able to think like a common man once he’s used to the weight of the crown.”
Death flew beside him. Her lack of argument worried him. She’d never shied away from offering her opinion before.
He tried to shrug off his worries and focus on the task at hand. “Smart of him to stay in New York City.”
“Dam
ien’s doing, I’ll wager.”
Of course. The demon’s devious streak had led them here. “Why didn’t Damien stay, too?” Azrael wondered aloud.
“Likely because he thought we’d find Sisyphus first, and he didn’t want to make it easy for us to find him.”
“Right. He distracted the guards we posted at Notre Dame and slipped past. He’s probably in another hemisphere by now.” Shame prevented him from revealing that his angels fell for Damien’s setup, two street urchins injured by a passing auto. The urchins morphed into demon children.
Again, surprise showed in Death’s wide-eyed glance, but this time, tempered by warmth. A glimmer of trust. Did she truly believe he’d sabotaged the capture of Damien? Had her mind shattered in prison as well as her heart? “Death….”
“There.” She pointed, all attention on the ground.
A man resembling Sisyphus shuffled along, head hung low, muttering much the same as Sisyphus had while hoisting the boulder. Fast as light, they swarmed through the people milling on the street, animated billboards flashing, store signs blazing.
Death slowed before they’d reached the man. “Not him.” Fists clenched, she heaved a frustrated sigh before streaking down street after street, avenue after avenue.
The legions of angels they’d summoned descended on the city, rifling the areas he and Death hadn’t covered. Azrael glimpsed them skimming high buildings from top to ground and up again to peer within, or speeding above traffic. One of them would find the traitor. They had to.
Azrael struggled to keep Death in view while searching for Sisyphus. As a mortal, Sisyphus gave no telltale extrasensory signals of his whereabouts. Azrael had no idea how Death could travel like lightning and expect to locate him.
Near Soho, he nearly tumbled into her mid-flight when she abruptly hovered, and stifled a grunt. “What’s wrong?”
Stone still, Death stared at a bakery where customers filed in and out with regularity. Wraithlike, she swept in front of the wide glass wall.
Her intensity drew Azrael along. He forgot all else at the sight of Sisyphus behind the counter, waiting on a customer in his usual churlish manner. “I don’t believe it.” Incredible that the king would stoop to work like a commoner. Almost as baffling as the local notoriety he apparently had garnered as a grumpy baker who made extraordinary wares. Every person who left the shop exclaimed it worth the unpleasant encounter.
A printed sign taped to the window warned customers to remember their manners or, “No muffins for you!” with the caricature of a glaring Sisyphus.
Sad, that humans had turned surliness into a marketing tool. What next?
After handing coins to a woman, Sisyphus waved her on. He happened to look up and froze.
Definitely the criminal from Tartarus. No one else could see the two immortals hovering outside the shop, though the patrons turned to see what had caused such a fright for the baker king. The next moment, Sisyphus scrambled for the back exit.
Death swooped to the rear of the building. “You’re mine, fool.”
Arms extended, Sisyphus ran, glancing back often. Metal clanged as he stumbled over trash cans, and nearly slammed into the brick wall of the alley.
From the recesses of the shadows, demons swarmed like a pestilence of insects, shrieking. The slide of Azrael’s ancient sword from its sheath produced a kind of metallic music, one that gave the demons pause long enough for Death to ensnare dozens in her charm, and for Azrael to catch dozens more off guard for the final time. Inky blood flowed as his blade severed heads from necks, limbs from torsos. The few remaining scrambled into the thickening darkness and disappeared.
In an instant, so did Death. Azrael sheathed his sword and hastened after her. Damien must have enlisted these lesser demons to guard Sisyphus. Weak opponents, the demons fell easily, but took away precious time, allowing Sisyphus to escape. No fool, Damien had suspected how it would play out, but Azrael feared he’d also devised more cunning and dangerous traps.
Fearless, Death crashed through the night, slashing at anything unfortunate enough to land in her path.
He had to ensure her safety this time. He’d never forgive himself if any harm came to her again.
***
Fury blanked Death’s brain but for one thought: get Sisyphus. Teeth clenched, she tore through the air, his distinct scent leaving a trail for her to follow. Cinnamon, freshly baked bread, sweet icings—Sisyphus had traded the stench of Tartarus for such pleasantness, and deserved none of it.
She, who had abided by every law since time began and carried out her duty regardless of personal desires, deserved so much more than tasty pastries. A freaking vacation, pampering, love—that’s what she needed, but never could take the time. Even now, her tattoo weighed heavier by the hour, but she wouldn’t risk losing Sisyphus.
To ease the weight, she flicked the remote harvester as if it were second nature, almost without thought. When an inkling of shame niggled, she ignored it. Ignored the cold of the silver, as cold as her compassion. Right now, it’s necessary. I’ll do my job better after I return Sisyphus to his rightful place, and Damien to a judge.
Sensing Azrael following several lengths behind her should have given her comfort. Instead, she heightened her guard both forward and rear. She could no longer rely on instinct to know whether Azrael might betray her. She fervently wished it impossible, but the memory of being trapped in her old bracelet kept her defenses high.
At the edge of Central Park, a pushcart with hot pretzels confused the scent, but Death caught sight of Sisyphus disappearing down a wooded path. Caution slowed her pursuit. Damien might have instructed the king to hide there, but not without first making some assurances his pursuers would find nasty surprises.
Azrael flew to her side. “This place reeks of the Underworld.”
“You don’t like the atmosphere?” she asked wryly. But neither did she. “Maybe you should invite some friends.”
When she glanced over, he’d already made the signal. The glow emitted by his sword rallied a legion or more of angels closing in fast, assorted swords, knives, and throwing stars in hand.
Azrael’s action eased some of her tension, but left her nerves jangling. Now’s not the time to lose it. If he’d wanted to put her off guard, that was the best way and he knew it. She’d reserve praise until later. It would depend on him how much later, though if she found herself once again abandoned in some forsaken corner of the universe, he’d receive zero kudos. A polite way of saying if she ever saw him again she’d rip him a new one, right before she plucked him featherless and snatched a lightning bolt to cauterize his bare wings so they’d never grow new down. When she was through, he’d envy a chicken going into the pot.
But no, she wouldn’t let that happen. Any of it. “Let’s finish this.” The sooner they started, the sooner it would end and she could get back to her old existence. Business as usual. The wistful sigh escaping puzzled her. I want to get back to work. Don’t I?
Mottled shadows shifted against the trees. Oh no. I knew it. One thing, she couldn’t have one easy thing. She drifted back as angels charged past. Leaves assembled themselves into masks of evil, deep holes where eyes and sneering mouths should have been. What at first appeared to be squirrels, blackbirds, salamanders on tree branches soon grew ominous. Too fluid in their movements, they snarled and snapped with long teeth at the approach of Azrael’s guard, which meant that Sisyphus definitely hid nearby. Let the angels do their work. She’d finish hers. Cinnamon and vanilla sweetness wafted on the breeze. Careful to avoid their reach, she sidestepped the creatures, though much of it proved shadowplay, a favorite of Damien’s, the old smoke and mirrors. ‘Keep ‘em guessing’, he used to tell her. Then, he meant mortals. Now, the smoke he made threatened to erupt into fire, and it was sure to burn him eventually.
She glided deeper into the woods, and the chaos she’d left behind echoed like a bad dream. The stillness of the trees exuded calm, and she breathed it in. Finally. Peace.
Bastard! She jerked her arms but the bindings only tightened. Panic swelled in her chest. You son of a hellhound! No, that would make him laugh. The worst insult to Damien would be to call him a nice guy. Yeah, like that would ever happen.
“Death?”
At Azrael’s voice, she jerked up her head. Her muscles went lax. “Stay away. This forest is full of traps.”
He drew his sword with a scowl. “I won’t leave you.” The silver blade gleamed in the dim light, hacking at the tentacles to free her. Their retreat turned the ground into a seething, hissing mass. The earth smoothed over, leaving no trace of disruption. Azrael sheathed his sword, but gripped its hilt, ready for a renewed attack.
To disguise her trembling, Death smoothed her gown. “My gratitude.”
“It’s not your gratitude I crave.” Azrael reached for her.
A movement in the shadows caught her eye. For a better view, she stepped past him.
“What is it?” Hoarseness edged his tone.
“Maybe nothing.” Maybe everything. At the very least, a diversion from their awkward moment.
“Let’s find out.” He brushed ahead, then halted to wait for her.
Guilt filled her for the hard look on his face, hiding the confusion and hurt beneath. Hitching her skirt, she caught up to him. “This way.” Trace elements, the same since discovering Sisyphus, led her to a wide tree.
“Here?” Azrael glanced around as if she’d made a mistake.
“Yes, here.” The scent still permeated the air. “He must be hiding.”
The steely blue of Azrael’s eyes pierced hers, then he focused on the gnarled tree. “Is this a seam?” He ran his hand above the thinnest line, almost invisible within the rough bark.