“They’re for her protection. Not for your show.” I recognized the menace in my voice but couldn’t remove it if I tried. And I wasn’t fucking trying.
Unperturbed, he clapped his hands once together.
“Right. I’m sure you know the rules.” He aimed his comments at me. “Body and blades. That’s all that’s allowed in the arena.” His glacial gaze moved back to Anya. “Till the death, sweetheart.”
His tone actually softened. Yeah. Anya could do that to a man. Even to a high demon. Make his limbs go weak, make his alpha instincts melt, liquefying his entire being—body and soul—making him malleable to whatever whim she chose.
Not that Anya had whims. No. She moved and thought with purpose. The very reason she cut me to my knees when she offered herself so trustingly, allowing me to fill her with my essence. Dangerous. I could keep her, wield my darkness there, and hold her to me.
But I never would. Not Anya. My old friend temptation rose his ugly head again, reminding me who I was. What I was. A fallen angel for a reason. A demon lord who should take whatever he wanted. I’d committed countless sins over the centuries, all for my own gain. To fulfill my own selfish desires. But nothing could make me want to dim the light, the trust in her eyes. Nothing. Not even if it meant watching her walk away from me once this was over. For I knew, no matter what we pretended, there was no place for her in the demon haunts or dirty basements of my existence.
She belonged in the clouds. In the stars. Far from the likes of me.
“If she wins,” said Skaal, “we’ll leave for Lisabette’s at once following the fight.”
“When she wins,” I corrected.
“Thank you for your help,” said Nadya, approaching Skaal, laying a hand on his forearm. “I suppose I owe you twice now, old friend.”
He stared at her a second, then with a sharp shake of his head, replied, “You owe me nothing.” He glanced down at her hand on his sleeve. “You know that.”
Pulling away, he tapped Anya under the chin. “Give her hell, sweetheart.” Then winked before calling over his shoulder as he opened the door, “Five minutes.”
The deafening music invaded our semi-quiet space. Rob Zombie’s “Dragula” pounded through the place. Nadya gripped Anya by the shoulders.
“Your opponent can’t use anything illegal like demon magic or essence. But that doesn’t mean she won’t have help from the audience. Your opponent is Crusalla. She’s a favorite of this arena. The revelers may attempt some sort of aid. The only motto for the ring is ‘body and blades.’ So that’s what you enter with, but just be ready for surprises. You must win the crowd’s hearts.”
“They don’t have hearts,” I muttered.
“Right,” said Nadya. “Appeal to their base desires, then.”
To Anya’s credit, she didn’t flinch once. “I’m ready.”
Nadya smiled and embraced her, then left, closing the door behind her with a sympathetic look at me.
Five minutes. I had five minutes with her. I’d been working out how I was going to get her out of here if I saw the fight going the wrong way. I’d die a thousand deaths before I let her perish in that arena. But I couldn’t tell her that. She’d think I didn’t have faith in her to do her part if I was plotting to save her. Whisk her away like some knight. No shining armor here, though. But a dragon was ten times more capable of swooping in and stealing the maiden away than that prissy fuckstick, prince charming.
“What are you thinking?” she finally asked.
I closed the space between us, examining what Nadya had done with her hair. Tiny braids all over her head, cinched back in a tail.
With a grunt, “You look like Bone with this hair.”
I trailed a finger along a silken black braid that started at her temple and went all the way back.
“I’d like to meet this Bone one of these days.”
Something heavy and painful sank in my stomach. She’d never meet Bone. Our time was limited. I knew it. No time for that now.
“Sure,” I said. “One day.”
“Dommiel.”
“Hmm.”
“You’ve got the strangest look on your face.”
“How’s that?”
“Like someone killed your puppy.”
“I’d kill anyone who touched my puppy.”
She laughed, cupping my cheek with her hand. “Have a little faith.”
I chuckled. “She asks the faithless demon.”
“You’re not faithless,” she said with sweetness in her eyes.
“You don’t belong here.”
“And yet I am.”
“I don’t want you to—”
The rest wouldn’t come out, the words lodged in my throat as some hell-made fire burned in my chest. Pain. So much pain. And I know it’s all because I—well, god dammit, because I cared about her.
She cupped my face with both her hands and lifted her mouth close to mine. “I’m going to go into that arena. And no matter what kind of warrior this Crusalla is, I’m going to kill her and send her soul to hell. You know why I know this is going to happen?”
I shook my head with a sharp negative, still staring into her ungodly gorgeous eyes, which misted lightly with my essence. Swirls of gray clouded the blue-violet and it angered me more than I’d expected. I hadn’t used my will on her once, nor would I, but the fact that anything marred her perfection, even something that was a part of me, now struck me as…wrong.
“Because I’ve fought alongside the finest warriors on heaven and earth. And bested half of them on the battlefield. Because there is no possible way this demoness has fought and killed the kinds of creatures that I have. It takes a certain skill, which I’ve honed to perfection.” Then her voice softened. “And because it’s the only way I can get back to you.”
I crashed my mouth against hers on a groan, unable to even accept her words as real. Some kind of fantasy that was far too out of reach. But I wanted it. Wanted that fantasy so bad, it was ripping something open inside of me. The need was a violent creature, slashing my innards and crying out to be sated.
Her. Anya. She was all that could stop the pain, stem the blood flow from the wound she created herself.
For what felt entirely too short, I kissed her like a lover would, trying to say what I was too fucking afraid to say to her face. That she meant something. Everything. That I’d never stand by and watch, doing nothing. Stroking my tongue in one more lingering slide, I pulled apart on her moan, gripping her jaw too fiercely.
“If the worst happens. If you lose and she sends your soul to the netherworld, I’ll be coming after you.”
She smiled sweetly. “I know.”
Another rip and more bleeding inside of me.
Bang, bang, bang!
“It’s time!” growled a rough voice on the other side of the door, her escort to the ring.
I pulled out her daggers, laying the hilts in her open palms.
“Then cry havoc, baby. And let slip the fucking dogs of war.”
She pulled back, her expression shifting to the stoic warrior I met on the first day at Dartmoor. She always held a certain calm about her—a focus that ran so deep, no one could shove her off course. It gave me the confidence to finally open the door and let her walk into the corridor where two lower demon guards stood, pierced and tatted till nothing shone but the coal-black glint of their eyes. Shirtless but covered in leather and chains, they looked like steroid-jacked meatheads who’d stumbled out of a biker bar into a bodybuilding competition. Typical, though. High demons like Skaal chose brawny humans to feed with essence and keep under their thrall. I’d done the same once in New Orleans. That version of myself felt a million years ago.
The shaggy blond offered a nod of deference. “Owners sit up top, my lord.” He nodded toward the spiral stone stairwell.
With narrowed eyes, I watched them escort her toward the bone-rattling din—hard music melded with the dark laughter and shouts of demons. She walked with long, confident stride
s, her head straight, focused. That’s my girl.
Not wasting a second, I took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the niches of skulls and iron-sculpted dragonheads facing up with torches standing in their mouths.
This place. Could they be any more stereotypical? This fight pit was a compartment of the underground catacombs beneath the Kremlin. Probably dug by Ivan the Terrible himself and smeared with the blood of his victims. One of which was his own firstborn son, heir to his throne. The air reeked of menace.
In the black-walled balcony, set up high like Caesar at the gladiator games, sat Skaal on a center dais, more of his meatheads on guard, Nadya on the far right with an empty seat beside her, and three demons in denim and leather on the left. One of them was a high demon, the power pulsing off of him snapping in the air. A high demon with his beast at the fore.
A quick glance as I took the seat beside Nadya confirmed my suspicions. He bore fangs, top and bottom, his mouth cutting cruelty into his face. He narrowed snake-yellow eyes, a sad attempt to intimidate me.
I skull fucked him back, letting him know how I felt loud and clear without saying a word. Nobody intimidates me, motherfucker.
Only one thing scared me now.
With that gut-punching thought, the music clipped off. Skaal stood from his iron throne and stepped forward to speak to his amphitheater full of black-clad, half-nude, half-brained, fanged, horned, and damned party-demons. A roar erupted. Skaal was well loved by the heaven haters. And yet, he’d helped Nadya escape her enslavement with Lisabette, if she indeed had been a slave. She never really said, did she? And now he helped us, knowing full well our plans with Lisabette were nefarious.
Demons served themselves best, offering favors and information for hard payment. Skaal didn’t ask for anything in return. Nothing but the gratitude of the witch. I glanced to my right, her cool expression fixed on the dirt pit below. I’d thought myself an anomaly. The rare traitor who flipped his finger at hell, and lived with the degrading, lonely-as-fuck consequences. Nadya was another. And so was Skaal, though he was still in the game.
Leaning to the right, I mumbled, “You’re safe here?”
Her tranquil expression didn’t move. “I’m always safe here. Skaal rules with an iron fist.”
“You’re his woman, then.”
Her eyes flicked to her lap where she brushed nothing off her white cloak. “No. But he protects me still.”
Skaal’s voice boomed as he opened his arms. “Welcome, my horde.”
They responded like slavering dogs to their master, leaping from their seats in adoration, wishing he’d pet them. He raised a finger and they fell silent.
“Tonight, we have a special treat.”
He paused for effect. It worked. I could see them actually leaning forward, awaiting his every word.
“From the halls of our enemy, I give you the glorious…Anya. Angel of Mercy! And Goddess of Our Dreams!”
She stepped through the darkened archway, whipping open her magnificent wings and crossing the pit floor right up to the iron bars that ran from the floor up through the cave ceiling.
Christ. The horde went wild. Savage. Insane. Animals. Gyrating, screaming, hissing with hatred and lust.
She stood there and stared. So stunning in her stark beauty. Unmoved. Unaffected. Unflinching. She twirled her blades with a mirror flick of both wrists, tightening her fists on the hilts with purpose. Snapping her wings tight, she turned her back on them and stared at the second arch entrance. Turned her back like they didn’t matter. Like they were annoying insects buzzing over her shoulder. Not a blood-lusting demonic throng that craved to tear her flesh into tiny, minute pieces.
My God, I was in love with her.
I’d never loved anything or anyone in my whole life. Not since the Fall. Only a fool got attached to another creature in this bleak, callous world. After losing limb and eye and soul, you’d have thought I’d learned my lesson. But no, nothing could protect my sad little heart now. Not when this goddess stood below in that pit of hell, practically laughing at their fevered, spewing hatred, waiting for her chance to spill blood and show them what a warrior truly looked like.
No, Skaal was right. She was a goddess. My goddess.
“Mmmm,” came the grumbling purr from the high demon on the left side. “She looks too pretty to bludgeon and maim to death.”
“You’re so right, my lord,” said the sycophant next to him.
“You sure you want to go through with this?” His serpent gaze slid to me. “I’ll give you a hundred drakuls.” His tongue slithered out over his lip. “She’s too juicy to watch die by Crusalla’s hand. Bet that ass would feel good on my lap.”
“Not as good as my fist down your throat.”
Fury vibrated in my limbs. I knew better than to take the bait, but I couldn’t help from wanting to launch across the balcony and rip out his intestines. Nadya put a staying hand on my arm. Her aura of serenity immediately soothed my boiling blood.
“Look at Anya,” she whispered. “Not at him.”
My need to eviscerate something stirred with the turmoil of too many emotions. I itched to leap from my seat. But it would solve nothing. And she’d be down there with no protection if I acted on impulse and got my ass kicked out of here. Or worse.
The roar dimmed when Skaal finally raised his hands, his timbre rumbling in a slow build. “And from the torture dungeons of Erebus itself, from the darkest halls of hell, the terrifying, the unholy…Crusalla the Crusher!”
Deafening screams and cheers erupted as a beastly woman stepped out into the pit to the aggressive beat of “Jekyll and Hyde” by Five Finger Death Punch. Wearing breastless armor, her tits on full display, a leather G-string, spiked boots, her black hair shaved in a Mohawk accentuating the two curved horns twisting out of her skull, spiked cuffs at the wrists, and holding a razor-tipped flail, the ball and blades stained dark purple from its victims, she was a true monster. She stood a foot taller than Anya, her arms and thighs thick as a man’s, and when she smiled at Anya—if that’s what you could call it—her row of pointed teeth revealed she was not one of those demons who ever took on a human façade to blend in. She belonged in hell, and only crawled out of the gaping maw for entertainment, like beating someone into an unrecognizable mound of meat.
My whole body was a ball of tension, sprung tight with the sudden compulsion to race down the catacombs and into that pit to defend what was mine.
Then my angel turned her head, looking away from the monster like she didn’t matter, finding my face among the insane horde screaming for her blood. Emotion thick in my throat, she held my gaze…and smiled.
Chapter Twenty-One
Anya
I could feel it. The surge of Dommiel’s essence filling my limbs and expanding my chest with intense aggression, while a pinprick of Simian’s poison, a stinging barb, slid deeper into my body. One gave me strength, the other threatened to drown me in evil and pain. Ironically, both wanted my submission. I’d give that only to one man. One demon. His burning gaze warmed me through, firing my need to beat down this demoness and get back to him.
I still hadn’t told him that Simian may take me before we reached Uriel. Before Uriel could remove the poison threatening to envelop my heart and brain. As if in response, a shadow swept across my mind in the guise of the seductively wicked demon prince who was waiting for my final fall, when he could take me into his keeping. When I’d become his creature, to do whatever he wanted. He could make me kill children, innocents I’d fought to protect most of my immortal life. Just for his own pleasure. He could make me his lover or the plaything of his demon hordes. I’d become numb, unable to feel anything once he’d had his way with me. Once the poison swamped what was left of myself, I’d be his alone. And unable to stop or resist. The realization that my worst fear could quickly come to fruition snapped me from my daze. The end was near, yes, but we were also closer than ever to regaining Uriel and bringing him home.
Facing the creatu
re standing before me with an arrogant tilt of her fiendish head, I waited for her first move. She bared her sharklike teeth and swung her flail in a menacing circle over her head, I spun out of reach before her razor ball could swipe my face. But not before I could slice the tendons behind one knee. Her weight faltered as she stumbled left, the ball of her flail hitting the dirt floor with a dead thunk.
Quickly regaining herself, she spun to face where I stood. Her fans howled and jeered from the stadium seats.
“Get her, Crusalla!”
“Fuck her up!”
I was unaffected by her snarls and growls. Or those of her fans. There was only one way this fight would end. With me standing over her body. She was a creature who preyed on the damned, gaining pleasure from the torture of others. No matter if the damned deserved hell or not, a creature who thrived on inflicting unending pain deserved nothing but annihilation.
She swung forward again, moving with more caution this time. And a little bit of a limp, I was pleased to see. I parried away from her next circle of that bloodstained flail. But she was craftier, quicker, than I thought, altering her aim just enough to catch the lower edge of my right wing. A sharp pain and burst of blue feathers flew into the air, erupting with a chorus of demon cries.
Flames of fury licked up my spine when I glanced down at the damage. Opening and snapping my wings to their farthest breadth, the audience gasped in awe and grew silent, even as the music pounded on. I stared down Crusalla, daring her to come at me. Try for my wings again.
She snarled and hissed. The gorgon Medusa couldn’t have been more horrific in demeanor and appearance than this she-beast. I’d battled titans—dragons and giant monsters twenty, thirty times my size. I’d defeated furies, the muscle-clad, horned beasts who served as guardians for demonkind. I’d fought one demon prince, and though he’d gotten a bite into me first, I still escaped. I’d even fought evil men who preyed on innocent children, smiting them from this world and sending their souls to hell without a backward glance. This creature was not near as frightening as any of them. She spent her endless nights torturing chained victims. I’d spent mine fighting free beasts of the air, more malevolent and skilled in the arts of brutality than she could ever be.
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