“What a pussy,” Axel muttered as he remembered the intense spirit of the man he’d spent so many years observing. “That will never be me.”
“Hello?” Desirée’s voice rang out in the room, she was looking around her, perplexed. “Mr. Brixton?” She got up and walked to an inter-leading door, turning the handle and popping her head through the doorway. The adjoining office was empty; she shook her head and shrugged, then headed back to her desk. He watched her movements, inhaling her scent. There was a hint of jasmine about her that made him think of spring and rebirth. He shook his head in an unconscious mirror of the movement she’d just made.
“You realize that Xander’s woman could see him because their paths were intertwined, right?” a rich masculine voice intruded into his thoughts, and Axel did a double-take.
“What the—” His mind reeled, and for a moment it felt as if he’d be sucked into a vortex. And then he was somewhere else.
◆◆◆
“Alaric, you ass! What the fuck are you doing?” Axel struggled to find his bearings. It still left him unsettled to find himself torn from one dimension to another. It also still left him unsettled to see the realms of Purgatory, which, for some reason, had taken the form of a sports bar. He flopped himself into an overstuffed chair and glared at the looming figure who had dragged his unwilling spirit back here.
“Thought you probably needed a reality check, kid,” Alaric replied. Hundreds of years of existence as an incubus hadn’t dimmed the humanness of the man. Perhaps because, unlike many of the others, he’d never opted to experiment with shape-shifting.
As denizens of the spirit world, it was well within their abilities to take any form they chose. When answering the call of a dream lover, there was no limit to how they would appear. Some would fit into the fantasy of the dreamer. Others would get a kick out of inhabiting dreams in the shape of animals, monsters, aliens, a best friend’s husband. History was filled with tales of women who had been impregnated by ‘gods’ who visited them as lions or bulls. Even in modern times, these stories were rife.
But not Alaric. He clung to his humanity as if it was the only thing keeping him from Hell. Maybe it was. Yet, of everyone in this place, he seemed the most honorable. If that was a word that could be used to describe a damned spirit.
‘Almost damned,’ Axel reminded himself silently. “You’re not in Hell yet,” he inadvertently said out loud.
“Still could happen, you ass,” growled Alaric, still looming over the other man. This didn’t make Axel a small man, by any means. Alaric was simply huge. A brute of a man, his warrior days may have been centuries gone, but he maintained an air of thinly veiled power. He stared down at Axel in a way that made him want to shrink back, jutting out his jaw instead.
“So, what the hell did you bring me back for? I was busy,” Axel muttered.
“You were busy talking yourself into being a dick again, boy,” Alaric’s deep baritone added an edge of drama to the words.
“What do you mean? I was checking out the chick, doing my job, man!” Axel fought to keep himself from sounding like a whiny adolescent, but it was hard to forget that in terms of years, he barely held a candle to the other man. Alaric had been a Visigoth warlord, responsible for the fall of Rome, while Axel had been revving bike motors just fifty years before, oblivious to the existence of this realm that was now his home. By spiritual standards, he was barely out of diapers.
“You saw how things worked out for our brother, Anaxandridas, did you not?” Alaric asked.
“Yeah, sure. The Spartan who sat here for thousands of years till he met a chick, got hooked, got himself outta this hole,” Axel snapped back. Alaric rolled his eyes, taking a wide stance before him and folding his arms across his massive chest.
“You surely didn’t miss the point so completely, biker!” he said. “He didn’t just get out of this hole. He redeemed himself. Wiped his slate clean of sin and got a chance to start afresh.” The man shook his head in frustration. “Are you ever going to learn what we are here for? What we must do to get…to wherever it is we must get to?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Axel muttered. “Score a chick, find absolution, go join the choirs of angels. A-okay.”
“Stop being a dick! It’s not about joining the choirs of angels. It’s about saving yourself from an eternity of hellfire and damnation,” Alaric boomed. “And you can’t just pick out any ‘chick’. There is a pure soul waiting for you. When you answer the call, it will be the beginning of your journey ‘outta this hole’. Don’t fuck it up!”
“I’m not fucking anything up,” Axel whipped back. “I just don’t see why I have to be pussy-whipped. That Spartan turned into a wet rag over that woman. Why should absolution be about losing your balls?”
“Because if you spend your life making your decisions with them, perhaps losing them is the only way to force you to use your brain, idiot,” any icy voice broke into their debate. Axel sat up straight.
“Your ladyship,” Alaric murmured as Lilith appeared beside them. The brittleness of her beauty was a little frightening. Axel still found himself stuttering when he spoke to her. He held his tongue now, rather than appear a fool yet again. Lilith inclined her head toward the Visigoth and then turned her eyes towards Axel.
“You are needed. Come with me,” she said. Before he had a chance to respond, he was whirling away yet again.
“Goddammit, I hate this shit!” he cursed.
Chapter 3
“You’ve had a call, biker,” the voice of Salazar echoed in the Council chamber. The room was unlike anything that Axel had ever encountered before coming here. Seemingly unconstrained by any walls he could see, he was still aware that he was within a confined space. The air around him shimmered with the energy of the Council members, who had gathered around him. He hated looking down because it was as if there was no floor beneath him. The whole earth seemed to be visible beneath his feet, dotted by pockets of wispy white clouds.
“Yeah, a…call, sure. Yeah,” Axel stuttered. He assumed they meant the pull of Desirée’s soul that he’d responded to.
“You are aware of what this means, do you not?” Lilith’s clipped tone broke in.
“Yeah…uh, right. I gotta go…make her happy, get in her dreams, that shi—…that stuff we do,” he mumbled in response. A peal of laughter circled around him, and he found himself facing Jezebel, who was invariably nearby when Lilith was in the area. Titian curls tumbled down over pale shoulders, and she shook her head, wagging her finger at him as if scolding a naughty child.
“Oh, darling, that’s hardly enough, don’t you think?” she purred. “That ‘stuff’ we do, isn’t merely about ‘making her happy’, though I’m sure you do that admirably.” Her emerald eyes trailed over him hotly.
“Precisely,” Salazar took over again. “That stuff we do is about keeping you out of Hell. If you have been called, it is a chance to set things right. Are you ready, biker? Are you ready to set things right?”
Axel cleared his throat. “I…uh, I guess…sure.” He fought a frown. He’d never battled with words until he met this bunch of weirdos. Now he could seldom string a sentence together when they were around. Probably had something to do with his introduction to this place.
It had been a shock to be dead.
To wake up in a spinning, invisible room, surrounded faces that didn’t appear to belong to anything human. He’d wanted to jump to his feet, but something told him his body was too broken. In fact, something told him his body was gone. Yet, he’d raised his hands and touched his chest, then stared down at his fingers, at the blood that dripped from them. There had been no words then either. Just the overwhelming sense of dread. A part of that sense had followed him ever since, although he’d clung to his badass attitude.
“Axel Armstrong, you lived a wasted life. Almost every decision you made was self-serving – and it never mattered to you that others might suffer because of your choices,” the spirit called Cato called out. Purgatory�
��s gatekeeper may not have been the most powerful of the Council, but he would invariably tally the final vote when it came to decisions. “You landed here because there were…anomalies in your path. Some of us,” he looked over at Lilith meaningfully, “feel that your behavior was justified.”
“Not justified, Lord Cato,” Lilith interrupted. “Criminal behavior, emotional abuse, hard drinking, drugs…these are never justified. Perhaps, ‘understandable’ would be a more accurate term.”
“Very well then,” Cato acknowledged. “Some of us feel that your behavior was understandable. This does not mean that any of it was forgivable. You are here to atone…to make amends for the mistakes you made, the hurt you caused.”
Axel nodded, wishing the guy would get to the point. Rolling his eyes would probably have been a bad idea.
“Axel, stop fucking around,” Salazar broke in, and Cato gave him a hard stare. Jezebel bit back a giggle. “You’re getting a chance to prove that your basic nature was pure but that things molded you into something you were not. Prove that we did not make a mistake by not sending you straight to Hell.”
Axel took a step back, at a loss for words for a moment. He shook his head. “Yeah, well, I’m not really angel material either, am I?” he responded.
A fairy fluttered into the center of the gathering. A bright shimmering little creature with twinkling wings and flowers woven into her hair. Calliope.
“Oh, pretty boy,” her voice tinkled like bells. “Never deny your potential for goodness.” She smiled and ran a silvery finger over his cheek. He clenched his jaw, cleared his throat gruffly. ‘Good’ was something that had never applied to him. Deep down, he didn’t think he was capable of it. But admitting that out loud, here, before these people who could see his soul burning forever. That scared him more than a little. Perhaps it was what he deserved. He wasn’t certain he could ever learn to make the ‘good’ choices. But he glanced at the fairy and gave a curt nod.
Imentet glanced over at Azazel, dark eyes glittering. She narrowed her eyes slightly, and he inclined his head in a barely perceptible nod.
‘This could be the one,’ she thought to herself. For a moment, it seemed as if the hiss of his voice joined hers in her head. ‘Yes, this could be the one.’
◆◆◆
“He looks like a likely prospect,” Imentet murmured as Azazel joined her later. They had learned to meet in the dark places on Earth. Places among the living that drew black spirits so that when slithering sounds emerged from their depths, it was less likely to draw the attention of the other Council members. Now, they sat in a filthy room, surrounded by spaced-out crackheads. Stumbling addicts ambled around them, oblivious to the strange couple in their midst. A pale girl slumped on a filthy mattress beside Azazel, and he took one of her lank curls between his thumb and forefinger and twirled it idly. The girl didn’t move.
“Yes,” he spoke as softly as Imentet, “I believe that you’re right. What have you planned?”
“Nothing yet, but he leaves a lot of scope for…creativity,” she smiled, her thin lips stretching cruelly. The gesture held all the warmth of a glacier in winter.
“Oh, you know how much I love…creativity,” Azazel chuckled, tucking the girl’s hair back behind her ear and trailing a fingertip down her pasty cheek. The girl sighed. It was the first sign of life she’d displayed since they’d been there.
“I’m thinking that it would be tremendously easy to sway him to our path,” Imentet went on. “And I suspect we could have a little fun while we’re at it. I’ve always had a weakness for motorcycles.” This time, when her lips moved, there was an actual hint of pleasure in her expression. Azazel smiled back at her, his fingertip still exploring the pale girl’s face.
The girl raised her arm, her other hand reaching feebly toward a syringe that hung limply from the crook of her elbow. Azazel took her forearm in his hand, grasped the syringe and slowly depressed the plunger. The girl took a sharp little breath; her eyes fluttered open briefly, staring up at the demon who sat at her side…then rolled back in her head. Azazel stroked the hair from her brow, tucked a filthy sheet up around her and then smiled, almost tenderly, as she released a hoarse, rattling breath.
“Oh, how I love their last moments,” he whispered. And left.
◆◆◆
Desirée was exhausted. The new wing at the convent was in its final stages, but the Board was at a crossroads. Funds were running low, and another charity drive was going to be necessary if they were to find a way to finish building. She and her boss, Alan Brixton, had spent the better part of the afternoon pouring over ledgers of previous donations, bouncing around ideas for new funding initiatives. There were new plans on the cards, but it had been a harrowing afternoon. With the sun setting through the windows of the little office block and six o’clock bearing down, her boss patted her on the shoulder and smiled. His expression was tired.
“Let’s call it a day, dear, we can carry on in the morning.”
Desirée nodded. “You’re probably right, Mr. Brixton.” She rolled tired shoulders. “I need to get home. Jules is probably waiting for me.” Her boss smiled at her, kindly. He’d grown fond of this earnest young woman who seemed so desperate for approval. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, he never seemed able to convince her that she was an asset to his team. Despite her intelligence and talent – not to mention her ethereal beauty – her sense of self-worth was almost non-existent.
They gathered their belongings and made for the parking area, where Alan watched as Desirée packed her small car and started the engine, then reversed out of the lot.
Arriving at home was more exhausting than being at work. After an unanswered greeting at the door, Desirée realized that Jules wasn’t back yet. She dropped her bag on the table in the hallway and cast an eye around the small sitting area. Empty beer bottles littered the coffee table in front of the television, and clothes and shoes were strewn around. She rubbed her eyes and sighed, making her way to the bedroom to change out of her work clothes. The bed was unmade, and coffee cups were set on the bedside tables, congealed liquid glued to the base of the mugs.
Jules had folded his dirty clothes in a neat pile on top of the wash-basket because he prided himself on being ‘a tidy person’. Still, there was a trail of muddy footprints to his side of the bed where he’d tracked dirt in with his shoes the night before. Some of the dirt was streaked across the bottom of the bed covers – he’d obviously kept his shoes on and lain on the bed for a while before getting undressed the night before.
She rubbed the back of her neck and sighed before stripping off the bedclothes and packing them into the washing basket, then headed to the cupboard to take out fresh bedding. She’d given up on expecting Jules to change a duvet cover or pillowcases without her assistance. It was apparently out of his range of abilities. At this stage, it was simply easier to do it herself and avoid an argument over asking him to help.
A pair of men’s underpants was draped over the small chair in front of her dressing table, and she unsnagged a pair of socks that had been abandoned on the way to the bathroom. It wasn’t much better in there. Soap and hair clogged the basin, and small hairs were scattered on the counter where he’d shaved earlier that morning.
Desirée retrieved a washrag and wiped down the surfaces. The toilet was something that would need the assistance of wine before she could face it. She poured a healthy helping of detergent around the rim, then left the room and headed to the kitchen for that much-needed wine.
“Oh, God, why did I think it would be better in here?” she sighed as she stepped into the little space. The room was a jumble of the previous night’s cooking pots and condiments. Jules had decided to concoct one of his ‘manly’ meals. It had been a good dinner, but the aftermath was not something she felt she could cope with after a day at the office. She turned a blind eye and headed for the kitchen cabinet that held their glassware, extracting an oversized wineglass and opening the refrigerator to retrieve the wine b
ottle she’d opened the previous days.
It wasn’t there.
She grimaced ruefully, remembering that she’d finished it. Thankfully there was another chilled bottle within reach. She opened it and poured a glass. A key turned in the lock, and she turned to look at the door to the apartment, glass still raised to her lips.
“Jules!” she said, a little surprised to see him home so soon. Although she’d told her boss he’d be waiting for her, she knew that wouldn’t be true. Usually, at this time of the week, he’d be out with his friends. Perhaps after his recent bender, he’d opted for a break. It was a topic she knew would be off-limits, and she didn’t have the nerve – or the energy – to raise it.
“Yoh, babe,” he responded, striding into the small apartment and tossing his keys and wallet onto a small table beside the couch that dominated the room. He flopped onto the couch a moment later, not taking the time to join her in the kitchen. “Wanna bring me a brewski? I got a thirst that could kill a bull.”
Desirée nodded silently, reaching into the refrigerator to extract a beer for him. She popped the lid, then brushed her lips to the mouth of the bottle in a tiny kiss before taking it to him. It was an odd little ritual they’d established at the start of their relationship, but she was pretty sure he didn’t notice she did it anymore.
He’d flicked on the television and was flipping through channels, stopping on a sports show. Two men were rolling around on an oversized mat while a pair of commentators excitedly described their gyrations. Jules grunted in satisfaction as one protagonist delivered a blow that drew blood. He raised his bottle and sucked down a healthy swig of beer.
“So…how was your day?” Desirée asked tentatively. She knew this was a good opener for conversation, and safe territory after their blow-up earlier this week. Jules loved to discuss his wheelings and dealings. He turned his head to her dispassionately.
Saving Her Page 2
