Israfel gestured for submission, cutting off any more thoughts of revenge.
“You are perfect,” Brendan said, his lips trembling with the words. “All of you. Just like in the pictures, the paintings . . . but”—he regarded Rakir again, careful—“these angels are different from you—I can sense it.”
Rakir closed his eyes, opened them, battling with his opposing lust and anger. He beseeched Israfel one more time, and much like his sister, received no permission to end his torment.
“Rakir and Nunkir,” Israfel said, “have been my guardians since their days as chicks. Although what you see isn’t even close to their true form. It’s merely a derivative, made to be more pleasing to the eye.”
And they were exceedingly pleasing, especially considering their rank and station. Though most Thrones were cursed with deformities of one kind or another, Rakir and his sister had been created with a flaw that merely made them more appealing—almost complete silence. Israfel could settle for no less than the best of the litter, deliberately choosing a brother and sister whose bond made them ten times more lethal. If pressed, he would admit Rakir was probably his favorite. Strong, but also abnormally tall and lean, his face was cut with perfect angles, his green eyes painfully endearing.
“Patience,” he mouthed to him gently.
Rakir’s wing bones began to tremor, but he remained obedient, gazing into nothing, barely repressed.
“Now tell me why you’re here,” Israfel repeated, setting down his instrument, swinging his legs so that they hung over the chair rail. “Especially after I told you I wished to be alone. You mentioned another human . . .”
Brendan fixated on the scales covering Israfel’s feet and at last tempted fate, clasping him by the ankles, imprisoning him with his hands. Nunkir watched with murder behind her eyes, her lips pressing together so tightly they began to turn blue. “I need your help.” His face paled slightly. “There’s a witch in Luz and I want her burned at the stake.”
“A witch?” Israfel observed the storm through the holes near the ceiling, watching black tufts appear and disappear amid a haze of water. “Whatever does that mean?”
“She’s threatened to kill me, and I believe her. Stephanie pretends to be a normal woman, but in reality she’s capable of anything.”
“She was your lover?”
“Not just mine.” Brendan kissed the side of Israfel’s foot, begging the worst. “She was also with another man in my seminarian group. He’s untouchable. But I’d be doing everyone a favor getting rid of her and that damned sorority. She thought my words today were just a show, for spite, but finally she’s going to suffer like she’s made other people suffer.”
Israfel allowed the quiet to enfold them, listening to Rakir’s occasional sigh of protest as Brendan continued his caresses. The Throne’s fingers twitched, straining to hurt.
“Your kind,” Israfel finally said, “aren’t so different from us, in the end. I had a sister, you know. And she treated me much like your lover treated you. Cruelly and indifferently.”
“What did you do?” Brendan said, catching his breath as Rakir turned back to him.
Israfel swung his legs to the ground and stood from his chair, reeling for a second as the world spun. Colorful specks dotted his vision, and he sensed himself beginning to dream, slipping away into the sweet drunkenness of the drug. He blinked, and Raziel seemed to appear in front of him, so beautiful and perfect that he put Rakir to shame, his figure all blood-red feathers, blue eyes, and gentleness. “I sent her to Hell,” Israfel said, sighing out his illusion. “And she’s been there ever since, chained, rotting. Chained and rotting just like me. How much I hated her—hate her—for what she did.”
“And what did she do?” Brendan tugged at the buttons closing off his shirt. Rakir whimpered at Israfel, pleading now, but his salvation wasn’t about to appear just yet. The Throne panted, desperate to restrain himself. “Something that deserved Hell, I’m sure.”
“She took from me what I loved most—” Israfel said, feeling Raziel’s hand cup his cheek.
No. It was only Nunkir, concerned.
“—and violated him right in front of me. And she laughed the entire time, like it was a game to take my heart and crush it underfoot. My heart. I never thought she’d dare . . .”
“What was her name?” Brendan absently touched his own skin, playing with his neck and collarbone. With or without his sister, Rakir would murder him, or at least that much was obvious from the way his lower jaw shivered. If the obsession growing inside of Brendan didn’t destroy him from the inside out, then in a day or so, the Throne would rip him in half.
Israfel’s lips trembled. “Lucifel.”
Brendan froze, his eyes widening, too shocked to remember his caution anymore. “He’s—a woman . . . but that can’t be—”
“Yes, a woman.”
Lucifel was a woman. One who had forced her subjects to call her “Prince” out of envy. But she wasn’t—and couldn’t be—like Israfel no matter how she dressed or spoke or cut her feathered hair. Because Israfel was a natural enigma, his true self known to a very privileged few, most of whom had never lived to tell about it. They’d exchanged an evening of intimacy for their lives. “A woman who gave birth to two abominations that resemble her, and with the very person I loved most.”
“Then, she’s the Ruin.” Brendan sounded triumphant. “You said she’s in Hell. But we believe that she’s coming to Earth for revenge. The public aren’t allowed to read the official prophecies; they’re told about the red hair she possesses so that they send qualifying children to the Academy.”
Nunkir was shaking, so deeply had Lucifel’s name upset her. Yes, it brought back terrible memories for them all. Israfel knelt down, dizzy, but took her head against his lap, letting her hear the hope moving inside of his slender stomach.
She relaxed, though her concern for Rakir continued. Her eyes had narrowed to green slits, and still, Brendan continued to gaze openly at Israfel, teasing her brother until it bordered on cruelty. The crimson stripes flaring on Rakir’s wrists and hands said that he was aroused, but the feeling was far from deliberate. Red stripes of rage blushed across his cheekbones as well.
“The Archon,” Israfel’s words began to slur again, “whom you ignorantly call the Ruin is not Lucifel.”
Brendan was too enamored to be aware of his company anymore. He barely noticed Rakir step nearer to him, the angel’s tall shadow darkening their faces. “Well, thank God.”
“The Father has nothing to do with it.” He couldn’t even if he tried.
Israfel had seen to that.
He slipped away from Nunkir, stroking her shoulders and hair. Slowly, he approached her twin, distracting Rakir with a soft touch until the Throne’s eyes closed once more, and he relaxed into the tenderness of Israfel’s gesture, grateful. He had certainly suffered enough. Israfel took his hand and brought him nearer to Brendan. “Come,” he said, hot with the fire of the Father’s blood in his veins.
Brendan groaned, turning to escape this sudden temptation.
Israfel lifted a finger, and the human froze, invisible chains of ether locking him into place.
“Poor thing,” Israfel said, clutching Rakir close so that they stood tightly together. “I should reward you for your self-control.”
Nunkir smiled at Brendan, gloating over his lesson for the day.
It was one she’d learned long ago: possessiveness had its price.
“Please,” Brendan said, his slightly muscled arms already shaking underneath the tension. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“You mean punishing your ex-girlfriend?” Israfel said, teasing. He pulled Rakir down for a kiss.
Brendan gasped. “God . . .”
“Oh, but he would punish you.”
“Israfel,” Brendan pushed, hardly understanding the situation in which he was entangling himself, “come with me tomorrow, to the All Saints’ Day ceremony. Stephanie will be at the ceremony with
the other members of the sorority. They have to attend in order to keep up appearances. Once you show up, the priests will listen to you—they’ll have to—and then she’ll be officially tried as a witch and”—his voice lowered, softer—“burned.”
Israfel broke away from the honey of Rakir’s mouth. “How barbaric.”
“It’s justice,” Brendan said, lunging forward violently. “It’s what she deserves.”
“But what will I receive in return for such an immense favor?” Israfel said, slipping off his coat, savoring the breeze. His slim, androgynous lines seemed to make Brendan’s mouth water. “What could you possibly give me in exchange for that kind of generosity?”
Brendan looked from him to Rakir, possibly imagining all sorts of wonders that could take place between them. And as they waited, Rakir’s wings rustling as they folded tightly against his back, Brendan decided on the choice of fools and hedonists. “My soul.”
Nunkir’s smile was perhaps even deadlier than before.
“If you need it, I’ll sign a contract—”
“I am no demon,” Israfel whispered. “The desire is enough.”
“Then—it’s official?” Brendan’s voice was low and full of manhood, but his choices were anything but. He wanted to be a slave, for all Israfel’s remaining eons—and there would be very many if all went according to plan—merely to satiate his appetite for another human’s destruction. Oh, the possibilities. The endless entertainment of forcing him into one body after the next, using him until he perished only to begin the process anew. “You will have me? Because I want”—he stopped hiding the lust in his voice—“to be yours. I think I’ve been dreaming of you since I entered the seminary. My angel.”
That was highly doubtful. He’d been dreaming of sin.
“Then so be it. Now—” Israfel pulled Rakir down, murmuring in his ear. He couldn’t help relishing the words. “Satisfy yourself.”
Rakir smiled, kissing the glove on Israfel’s hand. Israfel smiled back at him, hallucinating someone else. Like Lucifel, Brendan would learn about possessiveness the hard way.
The human would have no chance at freedom.
Israfel had bound him tight, and he would keep him bound until long after the night was over. He left Rakir, returning to his seat with slow, drunken steps, settling into his temporary throne like he had once, long ago, in the pride and beauty of Heaven. Rakir would be absolutely brutal tonight, and Israfel’s oversight would be necessary to keep Brendan alive. The bruises on his arms would look like scratches in comparison to what was coming. The human was already shuddering, his broad shoulders tensed as Rakir came closer, treading with doom.
Israfel closed his eyes, imagining the Archon held tight in his arms—there was a strong possibility she might be at the feast day rituals. Then he began to sing, miring himself in memory and passion, all his self poured into each verse.
How long it had been since he and Raziel’s duet?
Brendan’s screams mixed with the refrain.
Twelve
If they desire something of us, rest assured, it is never in our best interests.
—BROTHER FRANCIS, Encyclopedia of the Realms
Stephanie paused outside the door, her hand on the knob.
Turn it. She had to turn it.
But no matter how often she welcomed this hour, whenever it arrived, she always second-guessed herself—like she was entering a nightmare where something could go wrong any second—and the more Stephanie broke the holy laws that kept certain creatures apart, the more she feared doing it again. At least here, in the middle of the sweat, the alcohol, and the haze of drugs, she fully understood what she faced, despite how bad for her it might be. Humans had a comforting kind of predictability to them.
Music continued to throb inside the Bell Chapel, shivering into her like one tiny earthquake after another, nearly drowning out the suggestive laughter to her right.
She glanced toward it, peering through the shadows.
Two people were making out next to a private dressing room, their bodies tangled and sweaty beneath a painted pentagram. Through the door behind them, the sounds of other people enjoying themselves erupted, muffled and somehow awkward. They were probably in a group. Stephanie could handle the drunkenness, but the sex still bothered her, and she turned away quickly, knowing not to show it on her face. Her candle flickered, spitting more of its pathetic gold into the darkness.
“All right. You’re going to keep an eye on things for a little while.”
Lyrica’s mouth settled into a line, her face pale. She’d kept her cloak’s hood up for disguise, probably hoping to avoid a student who’d taken advantage of her during the last sorority party. Luckily, she’d been smart enough to stay away from the drinks this time. They were for the idiot worshippers, not real sorority members who knew better. “Are you going to be very long?” she whispered, wide-eyed. “Is she upset?”
“Make sure it doesn’t get too loud out here.”
“I can make them play something different—”
“The party has to continue until shortly before I get out. When it’s over, I want anyone who’s not a member gone, even the drunks.”
Lyrica gestured at the other door, unable to express herself audibly.
“They can finish screwing each other somewhere else.”
The girl regarded her with horror. “Why does it have to be me who goes in there and—”
“Because . . .” Stephanie yanked her in close enough for a kiss. But her mouth was on her cheek, and her voice was thick with warnings and nothing else. Just enough intimacy to keep down suspicion. Just enough forcefulness to keep up appearances. “You spoke out of turn yesterday, and we both know how bad that looks to the other members. Besides, I shouldn’t have to remind you, she can hear you whine. So if you can’t handle what’s coming next, close your eyes. That’s what I’ve learned to do.” She let Lyrica go. “Otherwise, she’ll break you in the hard way.”
Lyrica stumbled backward, brushing the spit off her chin.
Then she dashed away, her shoes tapping through spilled wine, her fists clenched at her sides.
The couple at Stephanie’s right paused as she finally opened the door, stepping beyond the threshold. Before the latch clicked, she caught a final glimpse of a trashed university girl, bending down to lick the wine off the stone.
Inside, the music faded to a dull pulse. Stephanie stood alone with her nervous stomach, the stale smell of alcohol, and the fumes of illegal weed clinging to her clothes. Her ears rang, tormented by the sudden silence.
She turned the lock, forcing herself to relax.
Naamah sat in the middle of what used to be an office connected to the chapel, her chair little more than a sad piece of furniture sewn and patched to a mockery. Most of the room was a chaotic mess, overloaded with collapsed brick, stone, and shards of broken stained glass. Wooden boards had been nailed over the open windows, but grimy curtains still suffered from whatever wind entered, snapping their fabric like miniature whips. Thunder rumbled from the sea as the storm moved swiftly inland.
“That girl is more annoying than a cockroach,” Naamah said. “You’d think she’d have adjusted to this boring shit by now.”
Blood fanned out from her bare toes, leaking from a pigeon whose upturned feet snatched at the air. The walls were covered in crimson pentagrams, all of them remnants of portals Naamah used to communicate with demons Stephanie wasn’t important enough to meet. Strangely, though, there was no cloying smell; solid evidence that Naamah often sucked out whatever life remained in that blood, forcing the odor to vanish with it.
Everywhere Stephanie looked the repeating star pattern burned at her eyes. “Did the report go well for you tonight?” she said quietly.
She set the candleholder on a mound of broken stone, its flame licking at the gloom.
The blackness was like an aura. Alive. Listening. Absorbing the light.
Something was wrong. Usually, all of Stephanie’s worrie
s melted away once she and Naamah were face-to-face. That included the fear of being in the demon’s presence, of making her angry, and of asking for services that always required a higher and higher price.
Yet this time the heavy feeling in her stomach hadn’t gone away.
Naamah kicked at the pigeon, still examining her nails. “No.” She looked up through her braids, her eyes like dark stars. “We need some results tonight. I can’t keep making excuses for you.”
Stephanie stepped closer, half in a daze, her mind turning in circles.
That last word sounded too harsh to be real.
“I can handle this. From what I read about Angela Mathers, she’s gifted, but nothing special. Tonight will be the end of it all.”
“She sees angels in her dreams.” Naamah cradled her own chin with a hand, leaning on an elbow. “That’s hard to ignore.”
“You’re losing faith in me. Just say it.” Her voice cracked, and all of a sudden her blinding confidence shattered and revealed her frustration. “You think I’ve wasted your time. Don’t you?” God, she sounded so stupid, so needy. Like a child begging Mommy to kiss her wounds. She wandered closer, barely aware of the blood on the floor as she knelt beneath the demon, laying her head on her lap. Naamah had her own smell: like ash and vinegar, harsh but somehow infinitely familiar and consoling. Unlike so many details in Stephanie’s life, it had always been there when she needed it. Or had the bravery to want it. “But I know I’m the Archon. I—I—”
Naamah waited, eyebrows raised.
“Mother.” Stephanie turned to her. “I’m worried about that Jinn-rat ruining tonight’s ceremony. I thought we’d have found it by now, taken care of things.”
“No. You’re worried about that priest’s feelings for you. Like a typical, weak, human female.”
Stephanie caught the tears before they fell. Outbursts of emotion were never welcome, and when she looked up again, Naamah’s face remained hard and impassive. Stephanie’s vision had glazed over, yet she could still see there was no real sympathy to be found, just like the archbishop had warned. Until Naamah gently brushed back some of Stephanie’s bangs, and she found the courage to hold on to the demon’s hand, rubbing the bloodied fingertips against her cheek.
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