Were they gifts from Lucifer, his sugar daddy…?
Either way, this bunker was Ash’s heaven. If Ash could see past the angel whore label, Mischief was his geek mate.
Tears pricked, as I shoved myself up.
… Furling my wings around myself, as the roaring wall of flame hit… Violet shooting out to shield my wings but just too late… Screaming…scorching…stumbling…and then silence…
Cool fingers cupped my cheek; gentle wings wrapped around me.
“Your half of the tracker melted,” Mischief’s voice had lost its usually hard edge like ice chipped smooth. “There’s no guilt in being outwitted. Your father knew that you wouldn’t be able to sense Ash…”
I yanked away from Mischief’s hold. “How many new toys does my dad give you to whisper his praises into my ear?”
Mischief bristled, pulling himself up as tall as he could. “None. With his ego, the king hardly believes that he needs my word on his genius.” Then he bit his lip, glancing at the shut door of the bunker, as if Lucifer’s spies could hear him even through that and report him. “I’ll burn for you,” he hissed, “as certainly as your Brigadier shall.”
With a growl, I snatched a thin piece of wood, backing Mischief into the corner, as I held it to his chest.
Mischief raised an eyebrow. “Should I be arching in excruciating agony? Oh wait, you haven’t cast the imaginary spell yet.”
I blinked at him, before staring down at the wood in my hand: Hermione’s wand. I blushed, then shrugged, whipping it across Mischief’s cheek, and he yelped. “Can you feel the magic yet?”
“A little tingle,” Mischief seethed. “It fizzled out. Now true magic…”
Crack — the wand snapped in a shower of sparks and splinters, soaring across his cell that masqueraded as a bunker and smacking against the far wall.
Why had he been hiding that level of power?
“You could blow me to itty pieces,” I breathed, staring at where I’d been holding the wand.
“And give up trading insults? Death threats. Blows to the head…?” Mischief rubbed at his cheek. “Still so beastly, I see.”
“Track Ash.” I pushed my nails into my palms hard enough to cut the soft flesh; my own voice sounded too loud in my ears. “Look, he’s done nothing to you.”
“The Fallen’s done nothing for me,” Mischief gave a moue of distaste. “But that’s hardly the point. The thugs took out the tracker in his neck. Maybe not so thuggish after all.”
In my despair, I howled, ramming Mischief against the wall. “You are one word away from becoming a fried Gandalf.”
“Lair,” Mischief turned up his aristocratic nose, “my one word. What type of leader do you wish to become? Because this was always about sacrifice. Are you protector of one or all? The king chooses his words as carefully as one picks up a snake: rescued from a hunter’s lair. Not saved from requiring the assistance of a Guide Dog. You almost lost the test because of your mawkish heart.” I tried to slap him, but he caught my wrist. “Please, always with the violence. Are you trying to prove me right or wrong about the beast inside?”
“I don’t sacrifice fam.”
“Yet you have.” Mischief tilted his head; his hair veiled his face. “Is all this sound and fury because someone has finally bested you, Champion? And a human at that. Truth slips in the soft parts of us and pulls us to pieces.”
I staggered back, breathing harshly. How hadn’t I realized how dangerous Mischief was? “This was always your plan. Did you know that I’d fail?”
Mischief twirled, falling with the elegance of a fairy dancer and the air of a prince, into a PVC computer chair. “Have you failed? Surely that’s your choice? I’m many things but I don’t claim to be all-knowing.”
“But you are Falling?” When I plucked a gray feather from his wing, Mischief winced, curling around himself. “And your gamble is to Blood Bond with my dad. I guess that makes me Snow White stepdaughter in the way of your wicked stepmother?”
“What would you have me do? I survive, and freedom is earned.” Mischief gripped the chair’s armrests so hard that they squeaked. His gaze was anguished. “There are more ways to earn it than through fighting.”
Fury and grief raged in a swirling maelstrom; my fingers twitched.
“I’d have you offer up your arse as my sacrifice.” I rapped his knuckles. “I’ll find this gang, and when you Fall, I’ll exchange you for Ash.”
I didn’t mean it, but Mischief didn’t know that. I could be clever too.
Mischief paled; he gave me a searching look. “Hold that thought…”
He rummaged amongst his pile of gadgets, pulling out an iPad. Then he swiped it to a clip on YouTube, which stuttered my heart. My head jerked back, as I gasped. My fingers clutched Mischief’s knuckles, so tightly that he gasped.
Please…hell…no…don’t…bastard…please…
Ash: he sprawled in arched pain. His wings were furled around himself, as if he could hide from the camera.
He’d been chained on an elegant sofa, which was covered in faded pictures of the Garden of Eden, as the trophy. Three hooded figures stood behind him: the hunters after the safari.
And they’d bagged their wild cat.
“When…? What…?” I whispered, reaching out for the screen.
Mischief pulled it away from me. “Did you think that I’d given up on your boy? That I fail? This is the humans’ moment of triumph. Of course they’d trumpet if online. Watch.”
“In one hour, we — the Para Gang — will show the world the truth.” Para Number One’s voice boomed, gleeful as a bloke who’d discovered wanking. His two minions gripped Ash’s wings, stretching them out; Ash whined. “This is for all those who’ve disrespected and the unbelievers…” What was this: a warped Justin Bieber concert? “We’re the real deal. Hunters, yeah? In an hour, you come correct, ready to watch all the ways to hurt and kill a vampire. We’ll be making history, brothers and sisters.”
When he spun a wooden stake dramatically over Ash’s chest, I tensed. It couldn’t kill Ash, but it’d hurt like a bitch.
Just as it did, when the hunter plunged it into Ash’s guts.
The video cut out on Ash’s howl.
Smash — I flipped the iPad to the floor.
“Constructive,” Mischief muttered.
“How long ago was it posted?” I shook as I stood over Mischief; furious waves of my vampiric power howled as loudly as Ash had to lift this angel from his seat and break him as I had in the Cage. “Do you get off when I go medieval on your unicorn arse? Tell me that you only just found out…?”
“Twenty-six minutes ago…” Mischief scrambled back off his chair, holding out his hand to ward me off. “And I didn’t tell you until talk turned to hostage exchange because it’s evidently a trap.”
I took a deep breath, unclenching my hands. “One sentence, bro, before I violet up your arse.”
He pulled a face. “Unpleasant. Anyway, the Seducer knew the risks; he didn’t expect you to rescue him.”
Fire sparked along my arms. “Wrong answer.”
Yet then I remembered the way that Ash had known the hunters, what was coming, and still had accepted it. How he’d told me that he loved me and not to forget.
Ash had sacrificed himself for me, and I hadn’t even realized.
I shook that Mischief had understood Ash better than I had. Yet I also knew that I was never going to abandon Ash, no matter whether he’d chosen to sacrifice himself or not.
I met Mischief’s steady gaze. “Does this look like a bitch who gives a flying fairy toss whether it’s a trap, or Ash has come over all martyr? This is my test, and I’ll take it.”
Mischief sighed. “How will we discover where they are?”
I stared at the screen, which was frozen at a shot of Ash silent in his agony. “Animals,” I muttered.
“Quite. That’s a George III tapestry sofa that he’s bleeding all over.”
I froze.
You
lived twenty-one years on these streets, Violet-honey, your daddy’s testing your knowledge of the human world.
Ask yourself why Lucifer’s shining a light on the humans…? If he’s testing whether you still rule them, then you better believe that he has a shady ass reason.
I peered at the screen again: marble floors, soft lighting, and that sofa…
What the hell type of gang had lairs like that?
Only one that I’d ever heard of…
“Here’s a London story for you: a Russian oligarch buys up a rundown block of houses. Then he has them built up as a mansion that he only visits once in a blue moon. And a creepy-arsed trio squats there, making snuff films.” I shuddered. “I guess that they were practicing.” I took a final look at Ash on the screen. “How long…?”
“Half an hour. You’ll need me to come with you to the surface and teleport—”
“Then move your arse. But only I go in because if this is a trap…it’s for me alone. Cheers, for not giving up on Ash…” When I pressed a kiss to Mischief’s high cheekbone, he pinked.
Then I dived out of Mischief’s cell.
Thirty minutes to save Ash. Thirty minutes to run into a trap. Thirty minutes to take on the human hunters.
The hunters hadn’t been expecting me to boot through the line of salt or swagger through the Devil’s Traps hidden on the crystal-embedded ceilings and daubed over the black-and-white chessboard floor of the mansion’s deserted hallway.
These were kids playing out warped fantasies. But this time, they’d invited in a real monster.
They’d even switched off the security system. Eager little bastards.
Four minutes, Violet-cheeks, until the Hackney Paranormal Slayers start with the torture games.
I crept through the hallway, which blazed with light from the chandelier that hung in its center, towards the spiral staircase.
It stank of damp.
Creak — the chandelier swayed like a giant pendulum.
I glanced upwards, only for my eyes to widen, as the gleaming lights hurtled down.
I flung myself to the side.
Crash.
The chandelier smashed against the marble, catching my ankle. I hissed, hugging my knee to my chest.
Bastard booby traps…. Wait…weren’t they rigged up to trigger each other…?
Squirt — liquid shot out of blasters that’d popped out of a cabinet.
I scrunched up my face against the acid or…?
I licked my lips, savoring the garlic water, as my hair dripped into my eyes. I’d always wondered whether holy water tasted holier. I didn’t feel any saintlier. And if that was the worst weapon that they had…?
Three minutes…
I wiped my face, swooping for the staircase.
Slam — a giant steel cross sprang out of the wall, Indiana Jones style.
The cross swung, ramming into my shoulder with a thud. I yelped, as I was pinned to the plaster: a butterfly trapped by its wing.
Then the steel began to heat.
14
In Jerusalem Children’s Home we hadn’t believed in fairy tales. Magic had been stolen by the ugly truth of an adult world forced on us before most kids had stopped searching for fairies.
Vampires? Devils? Monsters?
They already came to our beds at night in the guise of our carers or beat us in jeering crowds in the playground for being orphan freaks.
Yet here was the irony of being the outcast: even when you didn’t believe in fairy tales, you spent your life searching for a fantasy, in which to lose yourself.
Because anything is better than being alone with harsh reality.
The steel cross burnt across my left wing, pinning it to the wall of the mansion.
I panted, shoving at it with my palms, even as they blistered; lights danced firework across my vision. I took deep breaths through my nostrils, which were still coated with garlic-laced holy water. In the stinking haze, my skin blackened, as my boots gouged the plaster, pushing in frantic scrabbles.
Two minutes…
Enough with the nuclear countdown, J, I’m being melted by a cross.
This is me asking—
For my fabulousness’ help? Why? You drank the angel blood; you have the power.
What is this, Her-Woman, the Most Feminist Woman in London?
It’s the Bone Princess realizing that her Blood Lover has granted her more strength than she ever dreamed.
I braced myself against the wall, slowing my breathing.
Was J’s sassy arse right? Had Rebel’s blood strengthened me?
I pushed: nothing.
I shrank from the scorching heat. Then I closed my eyes, sinking down into my new Blood Lover bond. I reached out, throwing a single forceful thought across to Rebel: push.
Instantly, my hands jerked, doubled in strength. Rebel was in me, through my blood, Mark, and Blood Bond. He was enslaved even through thought; I stole his power.
And I pushed.
Creak — inch by inch, the cross edged backwards.
I slipped out my wing, dropping the white-hot metal again with a clang.
One minute…
Tremoring with rage, I stalked up the staircase: the beast arrived to rescue Beauty.
Inside my mind, the Devil’s Trident sang: “Fight, win, kill…”
I booted in the door at the top of the staircase in a spray of splinters, high kicking the camera that perched on a tripod to record the trio’s next snuff film. The cream carpet had been covered in black sheeting: the bastards were pro psychos.
Ash was laid naked in the middle of the sheeting, and his clothes were neatly stacked to the side. The trio had scarves over their faces like they deserved to be anonymous, whilst Ash had been stripped of all dignity.
Ash’s body was already a map of the hunters’ torture. Their machetes and baseball bats rested over his body, as if he was a blow-up doll at a bachelor’s party waiting to be passed around.
As Ash turned to the doorway at the sound, my breath hitched: his eyelids were swollen by chemical burns, his pupils were too large, and a cloudy film whited over his eyes. He twisted this way and that sniffing…
The humans had blinded him.
My knees buckled, but black rose up, coiling through me higher than it’d ever blazed before. It didn’t demand righteousness but vengeance.
“Feed me,” Devil hissed, “take them.”
With a whoop, the Para Gang drew their guns, grinning.
Para Number One barked, “Silver bullets, hell bitch.”
“I’m not a werewolf, bastard.” I dodged, as they shot, soaring over their heads.
Ash rose in panther glory, as his fangs and claws shot out.
The humans’ sweating fear was intoxicating. Their shooters nothing but toys.
I raised my hands, which crackled with furious fire. “I am a bitch though: The Bitch of Utopia.” My voice rumbled with flames; they erupted from my lips. “I’m Protector of these streets, and you’ll never bring violence to them again.”
Light, fiercer than my violet fire, blasted from me. It melted the hunters’ guns. Then it melted the humans, as they screamed, twisting like I had under the cross.
I was as lost as they were, however, lost to the beast inside.
When I slammed into my carriage room, dragging Ash stumbling after me, I still rode on the heady mix of fear and triumph: The Champion of the Devil’s test.
Hunter of hunters.
Even if my hair stank of melted flesh.
Rebel had been stretched out on the floor in a circle with the Bloods and familiars, each with a pile of poker cards and grapes in the place of cash. Blaze had just nosed in an extra grape, tapping his pile.
I blinked.
Then Rebel twirled around — towering killer angel bathed in righteousness — with the Bloods whipping scarlet out of their tattoos Medusa style at his heels. The fox brothers sniffed, before backing away and baring their fangs.
What the hell’s wrong
with them?
Here’s the satanic reality: what the hell’s wrong with you? You feed from death, then you can bet your breath stinks.
They had it coming.
The Trident wants you. And when the Devil comes calling? The answer’s: not tonight, darling, I have a headache.
I yanked Ash further into the room.
Rebel’s eyes widened, before narrowing dangerously at me.
“What? He’s a rescued Fallen.” I shrugged, flapping my burned wing for sympathy. “They fought dirty; I fought dirtier.”
Rebel stomped to Ash, guiding him to the seat, before kneeling in front of him as he scrutinized his cloudy eyes. Ash’s sisters whimpered, crawling onto Ash’s knee. He snuffled at them, before kissing their shoulders.
“You smell minging.” Blaze shook his head, as if to shake away the stench. “Who did you fry?”
Spark whined. “Killed, killed, killed—”
“Enough of the horror movie vibe.” I scowled. “I saved our fam. Saved Ash.”
“Not all of him,” Rebel’s voice shook. “Not his eyes.”
Blind: I forced myself to think it. But vampires and angels could regain their sight, couldn’t they?
I closed my own eyes, wringing my hands in my lap.
Bastard, please…
“Any reason that you’re giving me the finger, angel?” Ash’s amused voice broke across my pain. “I’d like to know why I’m breaking it.”
My eyes shot open.
“You can see!” Rebel’s middle finger was frozen between us just in front of Ash’s nose: not a known therapy method but it’d worked. “And get on with you, when did I need a reason to swear at my mortal enemy?”
“Point taken.” Yet Ash raised his hand, as if waiting for it to be clasped; Rebel linked their fingers. “And it’s more like: blurry, movement, turn off the lights because — ow — they hurt.”
“If you ever leave me like that again,” my breath hitched, and by the way Ash’s did as well, I knew that he understood what I meant, “I’ll make those hunters look like babies with bath toys.”
Rebel Angels: The Complete Series Page 64
