He wondered at Lily’s place in the daemon king’s plans. She was only a human woman in spite of her affinity. She was in great danger if the daemon king had involved himself in her fate. And if Lily was trying to influence Michael with her Kachina doll at the urgings of Ezekiel, she was playing with more fire than she could possibly imagine.
As water ran in rivulets over the scars that his daemon blood had caused on his human skin, Michael clenched his fists. He leaned his forehead against the tile on the wall. It was warm against the icy skin he’d managed to achieve.
He would protect Lily from all harm. Including the potential for harm he harbored in the daemon part of himself.
Chapter 13
Peter was healing. He sat on the bed of a filthy motel and examined his leg. Though bone still showed beneath torn skin, he could see knitting was taking place. Evidence that the taint in his blood from selling his soul to Rogues was a blessing. The motel by the side of a secondary road had once been located on a route to the less-visited West Rim of the Grand Canyon. Fewer tourists chose the West Rim as a destination, but its proximity to Las Vegas and the efforts of the Hualapai tribe to increase tourism by installing a glass skywalk over the canyon had increased visitors. A new highway had finally been completed to reach the skywalk and it had left the tiny motor inn built in the 1940s all but abandoned.
Peter’s room was small. The wallpaper was stained and yellowed by generations of nicotine and who knew what else. It wasn’t a glamorous place to plan a trap for Samuel’s daughter, but the Order had been a cruel and austere master. He’d endured worse as an acolyte. Much worse. He still bore the lash marks on his back and legs with pride. Only a psychologist would have attributed his constant anger and need for violence to the lashings he’d suffered as a child. He saw the Brimstone as an enhancement to his anger. His fury had joined with the Brimstone’s burn to set his breast alight.
Once he had rebound his leg with fresh bandages, he rose from the hard, musty mattress and left his room. The door required a forceful wrench of its loose knob to open, but he kept his curses to himself. Discipline was required in this place. He was surrounded by daemons.
The group of Rogues he’d joined had succeeded. Its leader, Abaddon, had increased his importance a hundredfold in the hierarchy of lesser daemons. Rogues were young compared to Loyalists. They had never walked in heaven.
But Abaddon had bargained with heaven for Lucifer’s wings and they were now in his possession. If the wings helped him reclaim hell, he would probably lead the new Rogue Council or he might even claim the throne for himself. Peter had been a disciple of Reynard, the Brother who had killed Samuel himself. He knew how to speak to a dangerous leader who could kill him for one wrongly placed word. He had a long lifetime of practice.
Nonetheless, his heart pounded hotly in his chest when he sought out an audience with Abaddon. Reynard had been powerful. Abaddon was nearly a god.
Lying in his room wasn’t an option even though his leg was still a gruesome version of its former self. Brimstone or not, the hellhound had left him with a permanent reminder that he wasn’t immortal. That more than anything sent him to ingratiate himself with a powerful Rogue. There was residual power in Lucifer’s wings. The closer he came to them the better.
Abaddon had taken over the lobby of the hotel. Its former occupant was nothing but a pile of ash left behind an abandoned Formica counter. The old manager had refused to kneel. Foolish. His punishment had been a slow and horrible immolation. Only Rogues, Peter and coyotes had heard his screams.
Peter stopped in awe when he saw the wings hung on the wall of the lobby. What should have looked ridiculous struck him with a shudder of wonder tinged with fear. Lucifer had boldly led a group of loyal Ancient Ones that had leaped from heaven to rule autonomously in hell. Any devoted member of the Order had been taught to abhor that level of independence. At best, a Brother could aspire to be the leading cog in a machine oiled by sweat and blood. It was his devotion to the Order that had brought him this far when they had been all but destroyed.
Abaddon sat beneath the wings on a worn armchair that managed to look throne-like because of his carriage and the aura of triumph that lit his features with daemonic light from his glowing eyes. Yet he hadn’t claimed the wings for himself. He hadn’t placed them on his own shoulders. There were still other powerful Rogues who stood in his way.
If he saw Peter enter the lobby or if he heard the incongruous twinkle of the copper bell above the door, he didn’t glance in Peter’s direction to confirm. In Rogue hierarchy, Peter was a human servant, worth only what he could offer. Before, he’d offered the possibility of catching Samuel’s daughter. He’d failed. This time he’d dragged himself before these Rogues with the knowledge that the daemon king’s prized ward was now accompanied by his prized heir. She could be expected to come for the wings with the prince...and the hellhound.
Peter’s leg throbbed at the thought, but he’d given Abaddon a valuable advantage with the information he’d offered. He’d also offered advice, very careful to phrase it as humbly as possible. Peter had seen Lily Santiago rain down fire in defense of the daemon king’s heir. His presence could be a liability to her rather than an asset if they took the half daemon and his hellhound by surprise. If they disarmed Samuel’s daughter before she could play her flute against them.
Dozens of Rogues came and went, receiving Abaddon’s attention while Peter waited. Sweat ran down his face as he stood with most of his weight on his good leg. Just as he felt as if he might collapse, Abaddon glanced toward him with a slight nod of his head. Peter nearly fell forward, but caught himself and forced a slow limp toward the Rogue. He was eager to help the future Rogue leader in order to establish his importance. Ingratiating himself with Rogues was one small step on his way toward leading the Order of Peter to ascendance.
Chapter 14
Michael had always healed more quickly than an ordinary man. He was stiff and sore, but no worse for wear after the horrible battle he’d fought against the Rogues who’d come for Lily thanks to Grim and his real father. For once, he didn’t regret his half-daemon heritage.
He also didn’t regret the Rogues he’d cut down.
In times like those, when he was protecting someone, his affinity was so perfectly in tune with his Brimstone that he felt whole. Not like he was running from his destiny, but embracing it.
Then he’d woken up to find Lily gone and Grim had led him to the hell dimension to find her. His grandfather’s ward. Michael had thought he was using Lily to help him find Lucifer’s wings. Now he wasn’t so sure if he wasn’t the one being used.
Her doll had his face, but worst of all it had black wings.
It was the wings that shook him more than the likeness. He didn’t like the idea that the doll had any sway over his future. Or that Lily was using her power to manipulate him just as the daemon king had tried to manipulate him his whole life.
He’d had to walk away. After their connection, the betrayal was too great.
He didn’t realize he was looking for Ezekiel until he found him.
The daemon king was alone in a hazily lit courtyard that Michael remembered. It was a training field. Ezekiel was shirtless and sweating, going through sword-fighting forms with a broadsword that looked as worn and battle-scarred as the man who wielded it. He didn’t stop when Michael walked onto the field. He did slow as if he was surprised. That, in itself, was a reward. It wasn’t often he surprised his grandfather.
Michael continued toward a weapons rack without greeting. His Brimstone was banked, but it scorched beneath his skin. He needed to work off some of his anger. Ezekiel wasn’t the best target. He was dangerous, at best. Deadly, at worst. But he was also more to blame for his current predicament than Lily.
If he had sent her into the desert to find and help Michael, then the daemon king was responsible f
or the danger she’d faced.
The very thought made Michael’s scars begin to glow.
“To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” Ezekiel asked. He hadn’t lowered his sword. He knew better. He didn’t brandish it, but he held it at the ready, prepared for Michael’s attack.
The clang of the weapons as Michael chose, spun and engaged his grandfather, metal blade against metal blade, rang out across the courtyard and jarred his recently healed injury. He grunted with pain, but he didn’t cry out. Rather, he swung again and again, driving the seasoned warrior king across the gray grass in retreat.
“You. Sent. Your. Ward. Out. Into. The. Desert. Where. She. Could. Have. Died,” Michael accused. Each word was punctuated by a swing of his sword and the clash of Ezekiel’s parry. He wasn’t fooled. He knew he was no match for a nearly immortal daemon warrior who had been sword fighting long before he was born. But each swing and parry released some of his heat so he wouldn’t explode.
“You need help to retrieve Lucifer’s wings,” Ezekiel said. Sweat ran down his brow and trailed over his hard, muscled chest in streaks. His scarred arms bulged as he held back Michael’s advance. But his eyes glittered as if he was pleased, not angry.
“Is it help you offer me? Or is there some other game you’re playing?” Michael asked.
His blade clashed with Ezekiel’s again, but this time they’d reached the edge of a stone wall that encircled the yard. The daemon king’s body didn’t yield. His arm turned to steel. His feet planted into the ground like tree trunks and Michael knew the retreat was over.
“You need each other,” Ezekiel said. He spoke softly as if he’d gone from warrior to diplomat following the last blow. Although their gazes locked over the swords between them, Michael knew the battle had been over before it began. He wasn’t free to fight the daemon king. His family was beholden to the creature who had helped them against Rogues and the Order of Samuel. He had made a deal with Ezekiel and a daemon deal couldn’t be broken.
“How do you know who or what we need? You’re the daemon king. You come and go with the ease of smoke, often leaving us scorched in your wake. What gives you the right to interfere in our lives?” Michael asked. The glow of Brimstone had left his scars. They were back to pale reminders of the pain he’d endured because of his blood. The potential for pain that he could unleash on others if he wasn’t strong enough. Control. Control. Control. He lowered his sword, allowing it to slide from Ezekiel’s blade with a protesting shriek, long and low.
Then he turned away from Ezekiel’s intense blue eyes.
He stabbed the tip of his borrowed sword into the ground and leaned against its hilt.
“The hell dimension is one of many worlds. You’ve traveled between worlds with Grim often enough to hear the whispers that also travel those dark pathways, but you’re too young to have listened to what they have to say,” Ezekiel said. He also lowered his sword, but he tossed it to the side as if it had been sullied by the conflict with his grandson. “I have had many, many years with nothing but those whispers for company. I listen. I heed. Time is fluid in the hell dimension, but even more so on the pathways between worlds. Wisdom from the past and foretelling from the future filter back to my ears.”
Michael watched the daemon king stand beside the sword he’d thrown onto the ground. He looked more mortal than he’d ever seemed. It wasn’t the sweat or the unusual furrows on his brow. It wasn’t the battle scars. It was the pain. His words dripped with pain. His eyes burned with it. His hands clenched against it.
“I carry the weight of experience and knowledge that comes from eons and more worlds than a mortal could count. I followed Lucifer out of heaven, but I never imagined that the hell I’d find would be one as intricate and demanding as this one. I never imagined Lucifer would be murdered and I’d have to assume the throne. When I ask you to embrace your heritage, it isn’t out of cruelty, Michael. It’s because I won’t always be able to do this alone,” Ezekiel said.
“She’s in terrible danger,” Michael said. He had forced the sword deeper into the ground. He straightened without its support. Ezekiel nodded.
“Your birthday will be dangerous for us all. We need the power in Lucifer’s wings to survive the transition and the threats that are rising. I never would have allowed her to leave the palace if it wasn’t necessary,” Ezekiel said.
“We will retrieve the wings. I can’t promise more than that,” Michael said. “Don’t ask her for more than she can give, either. I won’t let her burn herself out for you and I won’t be manipulated into burning out of control.”
“At one time or another we all burn, Michael. At best we can try to determine where and when,” Ezekiel replied. “I’m glad you’ve both survived thus far, but there are worse challenges ahead.”
“That’s the only reason I’m not walking away. I won’t leave her to face this alone,” Michael said. He left the sword as a punctuation mark on the field. He didn’t bid his grandfather goodbye. He just walked away.
“I never imagined you would abandon her. Your desire to protect is your greatest strength. Your father’s devotion lives on in you,” Ezekiel said to his back. Michael paused, but he didn’t look back as the words seemed to settle heavily on his shoulders—like heavy black wings.
* * *
Grim was no longer reluctant to take her on the pathways he traversed between worlds. She didn’t point out the hellhound’s trust to his master. Michael was distant, untouchable. His Brimstone tamped down to a glow she could barely detect. He’d left her room after his shower, telling her to wait until he came back. It had been the longest wait in a life spent waiting. Grim had been the one who’d come to retrieve her. She’d found her father’s sword where Michael had left it and she’d shrugged into her pack and followed the beast into the familiar corridors, wondering where his master had been for such a long time.
When they met Michael outside the entrance of the palace, she’d been too afraid to ask. All around the palace, the craggy mountains of the hell dimension were as familiar as the palace itself. It was a dark world, but its darkness was filled with natural beauty that belied some of its war-scarred history. She hadn’t run from this majestic scenery or even the palace with its haunted walls. She had run away to fulfill her mother’s request to help Ezekiel, but also to leave the heart that was too scarred and full for her behind. How different would life in hell be if it had been possible for her to be Michael’s queen without forcing him to marry her? If he had been free to join with her out of love and without obligation?
She would never know. The affinity was a part of her she could never escape. She couldn’t prevent its power from influencing Michael.
“There’s no need to speak. Grim will understand where you need him to lead us. Hold him here and think about what your spirits shared with you,” Michael instructed. He demonstrated by grabbing a handful of the hellhound’s ruff at his neck. The gesture was rough but affectionate. Grim’s tongue lolled happily in response to his master’s touch.
Lily stepped forward and reached for Grim’s ruff. She moved too quickly. Michael didn’t have time to move away. Perhaps his body betrayed him. His hand was still in the way when her hand burrowed into the hellhound’s fur. Their fingers touched and when they did, Grim’s hair turned to smoke trailing up and away from their hands. Michael jerked away. Lily grabbed for purchase and Grim’s fur obliged by solidifying once more, but not before her heart leaped and pounded in her chest as if she’d been about to fall.
Michael ran his hand through his own hair, mussing it and looking pained. She could feel the fight. His Brimstone had flared when their hands had touched. It took him a long moment to tamp it back down. Her affinity felt like adrenaline beneath her skin. And they were no longer sheltered behind palace walls. Even Loyalists could be affected by her lure. Though they tried to resist. It was time for Grim to lead them away.
“The Colorado River, Grim. On the West Rim of the Grand Canyon,” Lily said. Michael had told her she didn’t need to talk, but she spoke to dispel her reaction to his touch. She also closed her eyes and envisioned the trail of the river that had been shown in the floor of Michael’s earth-bermed home. She saw it and the map they had perused on the hood of Michael’s Firebird. She saw the two come together as one, spirit guidance and cartography.
Grim’s muscles gathered beneath her hand. She allowed him to slip from her fingers. He walked away on decisive legs that slowly disappeared into vaporous smoke as she watched until nothing was left but a wisp of gray from the tip of his tail.
“Come on. He’s never very patient with those of us who only have two legs,” Michael urged.
His voice was strained, but Lily followed him. It was the first step in a journey that would take her away from the only home she’d ever known and the only man she’d thought might love her in return if there weren’t so many daemon manipulations getting in the way. But her legs responded when she forced them. One stride and then another. She’d enjoyed the respite. She could only hope the memories of her time in Michael’s arms would live on in her dreams.
* * *
They materialized four thousand feet above the Colorado River suspended on a glass walk that enabled Lily to see the yawning chasm beneath them and the glorious canyon all around. She gasped and clutched for the metal railing that was also rimmed with glass, providing unobstructed views. Heavy winds buffeted her body and dark clouds converged in the distance. The weather explained why the horseshoe-shaped bridge was deserted.
“Damn it, Grim. A little warning,” Michael said. He also held the rail, but in less of a death grip than she did. No doubt he was used to the hellhound materializing in precarious situations. His monstrous companion only clicked along the walkway, disregarding the scratches his claws must be leaving in the glass. He led them to the outer curve of the skywalk. Lily followed with superhuman effort. The wind was hard to walk against. But worse than the wind was the feeling that nothing substantial was between her and the fall.
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