Coldest Fire (Dominion series)

by Juliette Cross

  The room was decorated with giant round marble columns, gold filigree, and dozens of sparkling crystal chandeliers. At first glance, it appeared the place was full of well-dressed theatergoers. But once you looked closer, you’d see a demon with horns protruding from his hair, a woman dressed in a gown that exposed her nipples, or the demon who tossed his head back laughing, flashing canines sharp enough to shred steel.

  “Master Yorick, this is Svetlana and…her champion.”

  The high demon Yorick wasn’t at all what I’d expected. Pale skin, fine bone structure, and lean build, he glided toward us, his golden hair gleaming under the crystalline light. When he smiled, stepping away from his small group of finely dressed men and women, there was no hint of sharp canines, no claws protruding on his fingers. Instead, his nails were immaculately manicured, which I could see clearly from where he held up his champagne glass. His charming smile and feminine demeanor reminded me of what they called a fop in the 1700s.

  “Oh, Ludvik! What have we here!” he practically gushed, his eyes dancing from Nadya to me, then back to her and to me again. “I can’t decide who is more fascinating.” He laughed, a throaty, high-pitched sound. His sycophants laughed with him. “Oh, darling,” he said, taking Nadya’s hand. “Skaal didn’t tell you about our dress attire. How naughty of him not to warn you.”

  “No, my lord,” she said, as was proper to call the high demon of any region. “He failed to give me that protocol. I hope I won’t offend in my street clothes.”

  He laughed in a sexually sinister way, dipping his head close to hers. Was he wearing makeup?

  “You, my beautiful girl, will offend no one just as you are.” He turned back to his party. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

  They cooed in agreement, the women smiling catty smiles, the men lascivious ones.

  “And what do you think, Ludvik? I know you think our Svetlana is the absolute breathtaking vision that she is.”

  “She is that,” agreed Ludvik, his crimson eyes sweeping down her long-limbed body.

  My knuckles cracked where I fisted my hands at my sides. At least that brought Yorick’s attention to me. He arched a waxed brow and shook his head back and forth.

  “My, my, my, my, my.” He breathed out, placing a soft hand on my shoulder and sweeping down my bare arm, skimming over the weapon strapped there. The man actually giggled, but it was throaty and deep. “You are going to bring the house down tonight, angel.” He winked.

  It was obvious the way his lusty gleam glanced from me to Nadya that Yorick enjoyed both men and women in his bed. But he’d better get those black eyes off Nadya or I was going to snap my leash. I needed to get onto that stage. I needed to shed blood and break bones to relieve this tension, and to get us the hell out of here as soon as possible.

  The strains of an orchestra warming up in the pit at the foot of the stage dragged my attention down below. The stage was pristine wood gleaming under the warm light, obviously used for symphony performances and ballets in the age before this war began. A prick of sadness stung behind my rib cage.

  “Well then!” cooed Yorick, speaking to Nadya, while his eyes roamed over me. “There will be three bouts. A fifteen-minute intermission between each so that our warrior can rest.” Then he lowered his voice conspiratorially to Nadya. “Presuming he lasts beyond the first and the second.”

  He laughed hysterically. His party behind us joined him. Nadya paled significantly. I eased closer to her from behind, pressing the tips of my fingers to the middle of her back, needing to comfort her any way that I could.

  “The intermissions won’t be necessary.”

  His dark eyes swiveled to me. “You might want to rethink—”

  “No breaks,” I commanded, cutting him off abruptly and earning me a narrowed look and a tension-filled silence.

  Ludvik took a step closer, but Yorick raised his hand to keep him from doing whatever he thought he was going to do. Good thing for Ludvik’s sake, because I would’ve taken off his arm if he tried to touch me at that moment. My body was primed for violence, so ready to wreak havoc on the first person who threatened me…or Nadya.

  “Trust me, my lord,” I said in the most placating tone I could manage, which still somehow sounded like an order. “What you’re about to see will make your venue the most popular in the demonic realm.”

  That brought back the sparkle to his black eyes. “Raise your glasses,” he said, raising his own along with his followers. “Let’s toast to Svetlana’s champion, the archangel…?”

  Nadya stiffened, obviously not knowing what fake name I’d planned on using. I stroked my fingers up and down her spine soothingly.

  “Uriel,” I said. “Archangel Uriel.”

  I wanted everyone to know who I was. But, most importantly, I wanted Vladek to get word and to know I was coming for him. For there was no mistaking that once he found out I was in the circuit he’d know what my endgame was. Getting to him.

  Nadya flipped her head over her shoulder so fast, her long hair whipped against my chest armor. I caught her worried gaze and gave her a smile. What I wanted to do was bend down and press my lips to hers, to soothe her angst and pain, to wash away all her worries.

  “To Uriel!” Some clinking of glasses sounded from the murmuring gaggle of Yorick’s people. “Ludvik, you can lead him down to the stage now.”

  “Not necessary,” I said, finally breaking my gaze with Nadya. Squeezing her hip reassuringly, I stepped away. “I can make my own way down.”

  With two sprinting leaps, I whipped open my wings, the steel plates zinging as I soared over the crowd below. People gasped and one woman even screeched, probably thinking they were under attack. Within seconds, I landed on the stage with a resounding thud, quieting even the orchestra down in their pit. Taking my position on one side of the stage, I waited. But I didn’t have to wait long.

  Within minutes, the house lights dimmed and the demonic horde of theatergoers settled in their seats, eyes gleaming with bloodlust and glee. They were ready for a show, and I planned to give them one. A few had pulled out their cell phones and were taking pictures or videos. I was glad of it tonight. The sooner word reached Vladek, the better.

  The maestro—a bespectacled human, probably forced to serve Yorick in exchange for protection—tapped his thin baton on the podium three times. A hush fell over the crowd, then Ludvik walked out onto the stage with a monstrous beast following behind him. He could’ve been Ludvik’s giant, demonic brother. Shaved bald with full-sleeve tattoos of barbaric, bloody scenes I took one second’s notice of before looking away, he wore black leather pants and boots, but no shirt. His bare muscular torso and bulging biceps were meant to intimidate. As was the spiked club he carried at his side.

  Ludvik took my wrist in one hand and my opponent’s wrist in the other before announcing the standard, “Only body and blades in the ring. Fight till you die. Or survive.”

  The voice of Yorick echoing through the speakers of the hall crooned over the masses. “Tonight, we have a special guest. To challenge our champion Mastok the Marauder, we have Uriel the Archangel!”

  Sudden raucous yells erupted from the audience. I heard what I’d expected from some of the jeering crowd.

  “Kill the angel!”

  “Break his wings!”

  “Take off his pretty head!” one demoness in the front row yelled with spittle flying.

  Fuel to the fire, my friends. They had no idea what had been building inside of me since the day I’d been taken captive by Vladek and restrained by his putrid essence and by Lisabette’s blood rites and black magic. It would all be unleashed tonight.

  “Let the games begin!” shouted Yorick, then the maestro waved his arms.

  The orchestra swelled suddenly, joined by a chorus in the left balcony that I hadn’t noticed. A few of them were seraphs, but mostly humans. Throat collars with chains binding
them one to the other kept them in place. All slaves to this bastard, Yorick.

  “To the death,” grunted Ludvik, smirking at me before letting our wrists go.

  The behemoth circled away from me, but I stood perfectly still.

  I recognized the music building with spine-chilling accuracy. “O Fortuna” from the cantata Carmina Burana. The Latin voices and strings rang with staccato perfection. The haunting lyrics vibrated straight to my soul, opening it wide for the words to take on new meaning. Words penned by defrocked monks now long dead sang straight to my heart. Oh, yes. Lady Fortune had been undeservingly cruel, blasting me with one disaster after another, enslaving my soul with despair, bringing me to my knees and expelling me out of hell so that I could stand on this stage and take my revenge.

  As my soon-to-be first kill continued to circle me like a menacing predator, his sinister grin having zero effect, I glanced one more time up to the top balcony, capturing her look of mingling worry and fear and another heady emotion no woman had ever held in her eyes for me. I pressed it all inside my chest and turned to the monster crouching for a strike.

  Let it all begin.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nadya

  My God, he was beautiful.

  The word seemed paltry, not enough to describe the sight of him with white wings spread, armored in steel, standing feet apart and calm as ever, as if he weren’t about to battle that gigantic monster readying to beat him bloody with a spiked club. The spikes were easily as long as my fingers, and I could imagine were razor-sharp. Even a graze of the weapon could cut him bone-deep.

  My heart in my throat, he looked up at me with the same unreadable expression he’d worn since I met him. Except his time, there was no ice in his eyes, but a raging inferno.

  The hulking demon bent his legs then leaped across the stage, swinging his club in a wild circle over his head. The audience cheered and roared at the spectacle he made, launching himself headfirst toward Uriel who hadn’t moved a muscle.

  “Move,” I whispered to myself. “Move, dammit.”

  “I’m sure he will, darling,” cooed Yorick in the seat next to me. “He—”

  Uriel crouched low and shot straight into the air, whipping his wings wide, unsheathing a long knife from the scabbard strapped to his calf in one fluid motion. The beast changed trajectory, swinging his club upward to try and clip him on the way down. But Uriel defied physics in his supernatural speed and flip-dive back down, spinning backward so that he landed directly behind Mastok, slicing the tendons in his bulky forearm holding the club, then buried his blade straight down into the top of his skull. The demon hit the floor a split second before Uriel’s booted feet straddled his twitching body.

  A hush fell. Uriel put a foot on his neck, bent over and removed his blade with a slick crunch, slinging black blood in an arc across the polished wood floor. He stood and faced the side where Ludvik must be waiting, wiping the blood on the skirt of his tunic over his thick thigh.

  “Let’s meet number two, Ludvik,” he said with all the command of a legion general or a demon king.

  In that moment, he became more than an archangel, more than a wielder of justice against the evil in this apocalyptic world. He became my hero. My everything.

  The audience broke out into jeers and laughter, many applauding the surprising defeat of Mastok the Marauder. Others hissed and booed, but still yelled for more. Yorick swiveled his fiendish gaze at me. I was expecting fury or confusion in his expression, not the gleeful grin he spread wide.

  Turning back to Uriel, his readiness for another kill screaming up to the rafters, I couldn’t take my eyes from him. His sideways glance at the audience was chilling. The fire burning behind his eyes belied his calm facade.

  “Your man will make this the event of all events tonight, my darling.”

  I gulped, watching two bare-chested demons dragging the body of Mastok off the stage, leaving a black trail behind them.

  “I believe so, my lord. I’m happy that my…my champion will bring you popularity.”

  “Popularity? Ha!” He raised his champagne glass and waited for the liveried server, a pretty human man, to fill it to the brim. “This will bring me fame beyond the European territories. I must send Skaal something special for my appreciation. For providing such a magnificent opponent to my ring.”

  “He is magnificent, isn’t he?” I couldn’t pull my eyes from him, standing there in stoic concentration, staring off to the wings of the stage and waiting for the next opponent.

  Yorick chuckled darkly. “I imagine all that aggressive force is glorious in bed. Yes, Svetlana?”

  Ludvik stepped out onto the stage and announced, “Second bout. The Butcher, Heinrich.” No fanfare this time, but the mention of the new fighter received a roar of applause.

  Then Ludvik disappeared beyond the curtain as another bulky figure strode onto the stage bearing two axes. He twisted his wrists, spinning both his weapons in a circle. My stomach tightened into a ball, and I couldn’t breathe again. Grinning like a fiend, the Butcher twirled his axes in a mighty display, circling like the other one had until he faced Uriel with his back to the audience.

  Just as before, perhaps even quicker, Uriel crossed his arms over his chest as if he was about to strike a relaxed pose, but then pulled two needle-like blades from the scabbards strapped to his biceps and launched them viper-swift at his opponent. The Butcher raised both arms, his axes swinging high, then froze. Uriel hadn’t moved, simply stood there watching as the demon stumbled, then fell backward with a powerful thud on his back, the blades protruding from his eye sockets.

  “They’re no match for him,” whispered Yorick. “Not even close.”

  I wanted to agree but was afraid to stoke Yorick’s anger. He seemed amiable for a high demon. The fact he preferred the glamour of a genteel and civilized world as opposed to the bloody chaos most high demons liked to wallow around in told me he might not overreact at this swift defeat. But then again, I’d learned to beware the hidden beast within these fallen angels. The monster always lurked close to the surface.

  As guards dragged off the dead Butcher, smearing another black-blood line across the stage, Ludvik stalked forward and announced with force, “The Garrote!”

  Yorick leaned close, whispering with some venom, “Your champion is too swift for brawn. Let’s see how well he does with cunning and skill.”

  A black-clad demon walked onstage with a smooth gait, a length of looped wire hanging loosely in one hand. His movements were slow and measured, his dark-haired head tilted disarmingly toward Uriel. Deception. A shiver shot down my spine. This one was lethal.

  Not that I underestimated Uriel. He had shown in two all-too-short bouts his swift skill in taking down these demon warriors. The interesting part was that I hadn’t sensed a rise in his archangel power as I expected to. He hadn’t used any that I could tell. He apparently didn’t need any for Mastok and Heinrich. But this one…he seemed quite skilled in the art of strangulation with that thin wire dangling in his hand.

  “Careful,” I whispered as if Uriel could hear me from here.

  A chuckle next to me. “Yes, darling. He’d better be.”

  Some of the crowd below were on their feet, yelling obscenities and cheering the Garrote. Just as I swept my eyes away, a thin, gaunt figure caught my eye beside a pillar on the edge of the seating.

  No. I sucked in a breath, my pulse tripping faster, then I leaned back, afraid he might see me up here in the balcony. But he wasn’t looking up here. His beady eyes were fixed on the stage. Uriel hadn’t noticed him. His attention was fully focused on his opponent who had stopped across from him, closer than the others had come before their launching attack. But the gaunt demon near the pillar was standing as still as Uriel, just watching, perhaps waiting for something. Then he pulled a cell phone from his tuxedo jacket pocket and snapped some pictures.
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br />   Unable to keep from glancing at the slimy demon who had been servant and advisor to my sister, Lisabette, back in Estonia, I wondered who he was gathering intel for. It must be Vladek.

  Why had Uriel given his real name? Not that it would matter once they came face to face, but giving Vladek any kind of time to prepare was a risky move.

  “A dumb move,” I mumbled.

  “What’s that, dear?” asked Yorick, riveted to the stage.

  “Nothing.”

  Lightning-fast, the Garrote sped toward Uriel who was armed and ready with the two needle-like blades that had dispatched Heinrich a few moments before. Three yards away, the Garrote dropped and slid on his knees, a dagger I hadn’t seen in the hand not holding the wire drawn back. He struck true, stabbing straight into the top of Uriel’s thigh.

  Uriel grunted like it was a minor blow, but it took him down to one knee. One of his blades clattered to the floor. At first, I thought he dropped it, but realized he actually threw it to free up his hand. The Garotte’s stab in the leg was a distraction so that he could slide behind Uriel and up between his wings to loop his noose around his neck, exactly as he’d just done.

  “No,” I hissed.

  Then I saw that Uriel had inserted a hand, palm outwards, before the noose was cinched, blocking the wire from cutting directly into his throat.

  “Bloody hell, he’s good,” said Yorick, sounding more irritated than before.

  My chest felt tight, then I realized I’d been holding my breath. The black-eyed Garrote was whispering in Uriel’s ear, squeezing his wire tighter and tighter. Blood dripped from Uriel’s palm, slicing open with every second of Garrote’s tightening grip.

  I clamped my hands over my mouth to hold back the scream trying to crawl up my throat. The horde chanted Garrote’s name, the cacophony of lewd and foul words almost eclipsing the orchestra and chorus belting out Latin verses with quickening tempo.

  Uriel closed his eyes, whispering something as well. Was he talking back to his attacker who still had him on his knees, cutting through the flesh of his palm? God, could he cut all the way through his bone and finish him just like this?