Demon Forsaken

by Jenn Stark

  The archangel smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile. “Not something good. I can tell at least that much by the Fallen’s decision to command demons to achieve his goals. It puts him at risk for discovery, so there must be a purpose for it. He wants something, something he can’t get at directly. He’s circling close, but he’s not quite there. Which gives you your opportunity.”

  Finn heard what the archangel was saying, but the words simply wouldn’t come together in any way that made sense. “It does?”

  At the far end of the conference room, a door slid open and two figures emerged. Finn glanced their way, then stiffened his spine. He hated looking weak in front of humans, even ones at the tippy top of the psychic pyramid.

  Death and Stefan turned as well, both of them seeming far more satisfied with the new arrivals. “Sara, Nikki,” Death said. Stefan merely glinted at them. It was what he did.

  “Yo.” Nikki Dawes, as usual, spoke first, though her best friend Sara Wilde was far more psychically gifted than she was. What she lacked in psychic ability, however, Nikki made up for in sheer attitude. Today, the six-foot-four bombshell had added three inches to her height, and she was dressed like…well, a superhero, Finn decided. He took in the skintight red bodysuit, black thigh high boots and elbow-length gloves, and the sweep of bouffant red hair. The costume’s bright red fabric was interrupted only by a brilliant yellow-and-black shield stretched over Nikki’s ample chest, highlighting the letter “i.” He blinked rapidly, forcing himself to look away, but not before she gave him a knowing grin.

  Nikki turned to Death and the archangel. “You gave us the heads-up to shoot over, but as we speak, there’s a Christmas cosplay contest going on at the Mirage that Elastigirl here is totally going to rock, so make it snappy. Whaddya need?”

  Beside her, Sara smiled, looking a little weary around the edges. She was deceptively slight, maybe only five foot seven, with her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and her body encased in a scuffed leather biker’s jacket, tank top, and dark jeans.

  “Hey, Finn,” she said, her gaze lighting on him with concern. He felt the impact of that gaze immediately. Of all the psychic humans he’d ever encountered, or Connecteds, as they were called, Sara was the strongest. He suspected she didn’t even know how strong.

  “Hey.” He thought about raising a hand, decided against it.

  “What happened to you? You look like a demon popsicle.” She edged forward, and he let her come. Sara Wilde had a way of getting in your personal space without setting you off, and he was so damned cold…

  The archangel folded his arms, watching Sara approach. “I didn’t invite you.”

  “I did,” Death said. “She can help. She certainly knows artifacts better than Finn does.”

  That stopped Sara. A brief, avaricious gleam lit her eyes. “Artifacts?”

  The archangel flicked his gaze again to Finn. “Your mind picked up the thoughts of the woman. She held an artifact that shouldn’t have been where she was.” He gestured, and an image appeared between them, a chunk of stone carved to depict a line of men with wings, several of them carrying objects—a large ring, a wand, a feather.

  “The Anunnaki,” Sara said, sounding surprised. “That’s a nice relic. How’d I miss it?”

  Beside her, Nikki snorted. “You’ve been a little busy, dollface.”

  “And this was—where you were?” Sara continued. “It couldn’t have been someplace that cold unless, what, were you in Tibet?”

  “Canada,” Finn said. “Very northern Canada. Definitely not Tibet.”

  “No way.” Sara shook her head emphatically, cocking her gaze at Death. “That kind of artwork has never been found intact anywhere outside Mesopotamia, at least not in that condition. I don’t care how much crazy the ice melt is revealing, there’s no way that intact rock would ever have made it that far north on its own.”

  The archangel ignored them, focusing on Finn. “Who sent the woman to recover the artifact?”

  Finn answered without hesitation—he’d picked up the human’s thoughts easily. It was what demons did. “Her uncle. Lester Morrow. He’s the one who sent her on the assignment. He’s her boss in some way. Or she thinks of him that way.” He paused, another detail coming to him, shimmering in his memory. “Her name is Dana Griffin.”

  “The wolves, what were they there for? To claim the artifact, or to kill the woman? Is she psychic?” Michael gestured dismissively. “One of the Connected?”

  Finn’s eyes widened. He hadn’t realized he’d captured the thoughts of the wolves he was dispatching as well…but once again, the answer was right in front of him. “No,” he said. “No, she’s not Connected, not psychic. And the wolves weren’t supposed to kill her. Merely incapacitate her until she could be taken. She was supposed to be bait. The artifact…that was a lure too. To get the woman out in the open, exposed. She…she’s the quickest route.”

  “To what?” the archangel pressed. “What did the Fallen seek?”

  “Wait, what?” Sara interjected. “We have Fallen running around too?” She swiveled her gaze to Nikki, then to Death. “Shouldn’t I know this?”

  “Focus,” the archangel intoned, staring at Finn. “What was the desire behind the order? What was the—”

  Pain burst through Finn’s mind, but incredibly, the word was there. How is that possible? How can I connect so closely with a Fallen? It didn’t matter. The archangel said something else, and the word was driven out of Finn on a spike of agony.

  “The list!” he gasped. “A list her uncle has. Of something. I don’t know what. There was only that thought. Only that. The rest…” He swayed on his feet. “Merely jabbering. Take the human holding the stone, get the list from Lester Morrow. Then a lot of wolf-flavored screeching-wailing-gibbertyjack. That’s all.”

  “The list…” the archangel said thoughtfully. “Why not go directly to this Lester Morrow for it?”

  “No idea.” Finn waved vaguely at Sara as another wave of pain washed over him, the echoes of the dire wolves chanting in his head. “You want to find something, send your flunky out for it.”

  “Watch it, Winter Warlock,” Sara retorted, though her tone was wry. Among her many skills, finding things was totally her jam. “You’re a little frosty to be calling anyone names.”

  The archangel shook his head. “Not Sara. You. You’ll go after the woman, find her uncle. And get this list.”

  Finn thought about arguing, decided against it. “The list, not the stone?”

  The archangel snorted. “Not the stone. The stone is worthless.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sara interjected again. “I want the stone. That’s the best execution of an Anunnaki ceremonial ritual I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a truckload of them.”

  Michael kept his gaze pinned on Finn. “I want the list. And you’re going to get it for me. Consider it your test. If you succeed, the next step in the Syx’s path to redemption will be secured.”

  Finn swallowed. The Syx were being granted a chance for permanent residence on Earth…but each of them had to do their part to secure it. Even the one who had shit for memories. “And if I don’t?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Michael said, though his face had taken on a faraway, distracted expression. “But to have even the chance at success, you need to be on an even playing field with the rogue Fallen. Anywhere he can go, you must be able to. Anything he can do, you must be able to do as well.”

  That at least sounded interesting. Finn squinted at the archangel. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you will—temporarily—become a Fallen.” The archangel hesitated for only the barest of moments. “You should enjoy that, I think.”

  “Become a Fallen,” Finn said flatly. He had no idea what that meant. “Uh, sure. But why me?”

  Michael shrugged. “Apparently, God has a sense of humor.”

  Ass. “And what’s this list about?”

  “Also unimportant. Your task
is to recover it, not understand it.”

  “Uh-huh.” For a list that was so unimportant, both Michael and this mysterious Fallen guy were awfully interested. “So why do you want it so bad?”

  Michael narrowed his pale blue eyes. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “It’s part of my charm.” Something else was nagging at Finn, though. “Why now? You said the Fallen—a guy who’s been lurking in the shadows since Atlantis deep-sixed—was only acting now, and in such a way that he could totally get caught. Why? There was a lot of urgency in those wolves, for all that I took them out. They fought back. Hard.”

  That made the archangel pause. He turned away, stared down at the city. “It’s Christmas Eve,” he murmured.

  “Well, not quite,” Nikki put in. “It’s technically still Christmas Eve Eve. Which means I have only a few more minutes to get to my costume contest, so choppity choppity.”

  The angel refocused on Finn. “You want answers? I’ll give you this one: your assignment has a deadline. You have only twenty-four hours to be a Fallen and accomplish your mission. Then, at midnight on Christmas Eve, if you have done what I’ve asked, if you’ve earned your redemption, then perhaps you will be given an additional gift.” His lips twitched into another brittle smile. “A Christmas bonus, if you will.”

  Finn’s brows shot up. “Wait, was that another joke? Did you seriously—”

  But Michael was no longer there. Not so much as a feather floated in the empty space in front of Finn as he sagged forward a faltering step. “Um, what just happened?”

  “Hang on there, buddy,” Suddenly, Sara was at his side, her hand on his shoulder. “I suspect Death wanted me here for reasons other than my crack archaeological instincts.” She squeezed. It took only a second for a river of healing warmth to pour through every inch of Finn, making his knees go weak.

  “Whoa,” he managed, the word little more than a groan.

  Sara grinned and gave his shoulder another pat. “You’re welcome. But, you know, if you happen to see it lying around anywhere, you could maybe get me that Anunnaki carving…”

  Finn nodded, slightly dazed, feeling better than he had in longer than he could remember. “I—I’ll try.”

  After a round of goodbyes—and a complicated hand lock with Stefan they’d been perfecting for the past three hundred years or so—Nikki, Sara, and Stefan left. Finn knew he might as well stay where he was. If the archangel was giving him only twenty-four hours to get this job done, Finn would be spinning through the sky soon enough, en route to wherever he’d find this Dana Griffin person. Hopefully, she was somewhere warm.

  To his surprise, however, Death remained beside him. After a long moment, she spoke as well.

  “So, to answer the question Michael conveniently ignored,” she began almost casually. “The timing of this is important. Midnight on Christmas Eve is a moment of remarkable power. Power for this Fallen, and, it should be said, power for you.”

  Finn stared at her. “What kind of power?”

  “For a Fallen? Only this: at midnight on Christmas Eve, whatever you ask for…you get.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You mean like from Santa?”

  Death quirked her lips, but her eyes remained serious. “There’s a reason why certain superstitions have endured through the centuries. But no, not because of Santa, this time. All you need to know is, because of what you were—what you are—when the clock strikes midnight, you’ll have the chance to ask for anything.”

  Finn glanced away, not wanting Death to guess at the thoughts running through his mind. What did he want? His memory, most definitely. But also, if he was honest, understanding…and restitution, maybe. A chance to be forgiven for a sin he couldn’t remember committing.

  A chance to return.

  Finn’s thoughts ground to a halt, and he realized his heart was racing, his hands sweating. Would it…could it be possible? He licked lips that suddenly had gone dry and met Death’s stare. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “I’m not.” Death’s expression was unreadable, but her eyes remained intent. She leaned in close, her gaze not leaving his. “So whatever you do, Finn of the Syx, if you do get that chance…be careful what you wish for.”

  Chapter Three

  Ritz Carlton Ballroom

  Cleveland, Ohio

  12:27 a.m., Dec. 24

  “You’ve got five minutes, Margaret. Then I’m breaking out of this stupid cage myself.”

  “Now, dear, you don’t need to look like you’re really in prison,” Margaret Pettiman said breezily in reply as she waved her thick ring of rhinestone-studded keys in the air for emphasis. “It’s all in good fun and for a wonderful cause, so why not make the effort to appear as if you’re having, you know, fun?”

  “Who put you up to this, specifically?” Dana asked, narrowing her eyes. “Mom or Uncle Lester?”

  “Between the attention you’ll receive in here and your company providing security for the event, you should garner several new business opportunities!” Margaret beamed in apparent excitement, her skin tensing up in brief alarm at what would have been a wrinkle-inducing movement on any other face.

  Not Margaret’s, though. Platinum-haired and carefully preserved, the chairwoman of the Founder’s Circle Charity Ball had been nipped, tucked, lifted, and lasered in nearly every way imaginable, to the point that the rest of her skin knew better than to crease or fold without express permission. “Your mother will be so pleased you agreed to your uncle’s suggestion to participate in this little fund-raiser. And again, it’s so much fun.”

  “Right.” Dana grimaced, trying to regain her patience. Mrs. Pettiman was her mother’s oldest and dearest friend, and that counted for something with Dana. “So where is Mom, anyway? I’ve been trying to talk with her all night.”

  “She offered to see the mayor’s wife home. Didn’t she tell you?” Margaret turned back to Dana, her delicately arched eyebrows caught in a permanent state of mild surprise. “She said she planned on coming directly back.”

  “Uh-huh,” Dana said. “Holding my breath. Starting now.”

  If it was one thing Claire Griffin was good at, it was avoiding her daughter. Especially these days. Since Dana’s injury on Halloween night, it was her mother who’d officially ghosted. Most of the time, she didn’t care—it wasn’t as if the two of them had ever been close. But between the nightmares and the pain and Dana’s own debilitating doubts…a little motherly attention would have been nice. But, apparently, not going to happen, not even on Christmas Eve.

  “Now, Dana, enough with the grim expression. You should smile! Enjoy your moment in the limelight.” Margaret fluttered her gloved hands. “With both your mother and your uncle in such prominent roles tonight, you’ll truly be living the Founder’s Circle motto: ‘With a strong family, you can save the world.’”

  “Right.” But who’ll save me from them?

  As Margaret leaned over to air-kiss an eighty-year-old man in a sixty-year-old tuxedo, Dana shifted back away from the bars, her knee sending up a bolt of annoyance at the sudden movement. Dammit. Her fifty-yard dash to reach the snowcat in Alert had earned her high marks with the RCAF captain, but she’d been paying for her enthusiasm since the moment her adrenaline had drained away. The weather station crew had been beside themselves at the unexpected wolf attack, and no one could figure out what’d happened to scare off the creatures.

  But something had scared them, thank God.

  The pain in her knee grounded her, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. Biting back the string of foul language that would definitely not earn her high marks as a charity prize, Dana brushed her hip to convince herself her gun was there, then turned her attention to the world outside her cage.

  Glittering pinpoint lights dripped from graceful chandeliers, illuminating a dozen fully decorated trees that stretched above the crowd like proud ballroom sentinels. A silver-haired band looked ready to belt out every Christ
mas standard from the last seventy years, and everything seemed appropriately merry and bright. She even caught sight of Max determinedly weaving his way through the crowd, technically operating as security detail—never mind that the most vicious attacker he’d ever dispatched was a computer virus. Still, it was good to have him here. He’d been with her since she’d opened Griffin Security with its dual focus on tech security and on-the-ground protection, and that mattered too.

  Almost unconsciously, Dana raised her hand to her lapel, touching the heavy pin that Lester had given her the year before. Her uncle had a habit of acquiring bright and shiny things—especially if they were old and bright and shiny. And he never denied her anything, if she was truly honest.

  Dana leaned against the bars, guilt stealing through her. She needed to talk with Lester, finally. She knew she should’ve told him about the wolves in Canada showing up out of nowhere, then suddenly running away—but she hadn’t. And she didn’t know why. Ever since the attack they’d both sustained in October, she couldn’t shake her uneasiness about her uncle. She hated that. She hated even more that she hadn’t been able to get her mom alone long enough to finally ask her questions about Lester either.

  She sighed. She’d had such a noble plan in place for tonight too. She’d show support for her mother’s favorite charity. She’d convince Lester that she was a hundred percent healed from her injuries, so he would stop with the twenty-four seven questions about her recovery process. She’d reach out to her mom again.

  But now she was here, and her mother was AWOL. Again.

  “Ladies and gentlemen…” Dana jerked upright as Pettiman’s voice wheedled out over the AV system, and she glanced to the front of the room, her hand falling back to her side. “It appears that Dana Griffin, one of Cleveland’s rising young entrepreneurs, has gotten herself in a bit of trouble. We owe it to her to set her free, don’t we?”

  Dana inwardly winced as Margaret directed the audience to stare at her standing in her makeshift cage. Dutifully, she gave a little wave and what she hoped was a charity-worthy smile. Lester is so going to pay for this. Her uncle might be her firm’s number one client, but this kind of public humiliation went way beyond her usual rates.