Winter Wishes

by Vivian Arend, Vivi Andrews

  “You don’t have to. I get it, okay?” She whacked the cookie cutter onto the dough. She’d fallen for the flashes of bad boy, but had she only seen them because she wanted them to be there so much? Jay couldn’t even be a jerk long enough to break up with her properly. “We both know you’re too good for me.”

  “What?” Jay made a strangled noise that could have been a laugh. “That’s what you think this is about?”

  “You’re the nice one, the considerate one. And that’s great and all, but if you think I don’t get sick of being the big bad wolf in every argument, you can think again. There are times when I kind of hate dating Saint Jay, Prince Among Men—”

  “Sasha, baby, that’s really cute in an extremely delusional way, but would you please shut the fuck up and let me talk?”

  She turned away and shoved the full cookie sheet into the oven. Slamming it shut, she spun to face Jay and folded her arms across her stomach, pressing her back to the oven door. “Fine. You talk.”

  “First, you need to understand that I want nothing more than to be able to stay here. I haven’t been a hundred percent honest about some things, but you can trust that I want to be here, with you, more than anything.”

  That didn’t sound like a break-up speech. More like an I have three weeks to live speech. Had she been imagining the pre-break-up vibes? Anger retreated in the face of nervous concern.

  “I have to go. It’s not because I want to, but I can’t stay. I only had permission to be here temporarily—”

  “Like a green card?” Jay didn’t have an accent, but he did have kind of an odd way of speaking sometimes, like he’d been brought up using English differently. Deportation was definitely preferable to some scary terminal disease. Unless their relationship had been a ploy to stay in the country.

  Jay winced. “You could call it that—”

  “So you’re using me for citizenship?” And just like that, anger was back in command again. “Is this like a proposal? ’Cuz if it is, you suck at it.”

  “No. Sasha, can you just listen? This is hard enough without the interruptions.”

  She pressed her lips together, pinning back the questions she was itching to ask. For once he didn’t smile or tease her about the effort she had to exert not to interrupt him. Jay took a deep breath and Sasha wrapped her arms more tightly around herself. She had a feeling she wasn’t going to like what was coming next.

  “When I said I didn’t have any family in this world, that wasn’t a lie. Not really. But it wasn’t the whole truth either. I didn’t set out to lie to you. When we met, I thought you knew…that you could tell, I mean, some people can pick us out—”

  Was she supposed to be able to spot illegal immigrants? He could pass for Latino, but she’d never heard him speak Spanish and citizenship wasn’t exactly tattooed on people’s foreheads.

  “My father died before I was born and I came to L.A. to find out more about him, to see if I had family here on his side. I didn’t lie about that. But my mother—”

  A sound like timber splitting cracked through the kitchen.

  Sasha yelped in surprise at the fractured noise. Her hands flew up to shield her face as a seam ripped open in the fabric of space directly behind Jay, spilling blinding streams of hellfire and expelling a noxious wave of brimstone and sulfur.

  Sasha had worked on movies where they recreated Hell vortexes with special effects, but the reality burned away those pale replicas. The air in the room was instantly so hot it hurt her throat to breathe. Hellfire seared her retinas, but somehow she could still see every detail of Jay’s face—his dark eyes flaring wide, his mouth forming her name though all sound seemed to have been vacuumed out of the room.

  His body jerked back, flying toward the vortex as the portal snapped closed around him, sucked right out of his shoes and straight to Hell.

  Chapter Three

  How to Cope When Your Boyfriend is Abducted by the Prince of Darkness

  Sasha stood in the middle of her kitchen, gaping at the empty air. She could actually feel herself going into shock.

  The mixed scents of gingerbread and brimstone lingered in the apartment as Sasha stared at the dingy grey Adidas cross-trainers where her boyfriend used to be. An ashy taste lingered on her tongue. Bing crooned about a white Christmas from the stereo in the living room as the last of the residual puffs of sulfur from the Hell vortex evaporated.

  Her only semi-rational thought was to wonder if this meant she’d won the argument.

  Disappearance into another plane midsentence really ought to be grounds for forfeiture, but it wasn’t a very satisfying win. Wasn’t it just like Jay, to vanish into Hell before she could tell him to go there?

  Through a mental haze, she realized she ought to be screaming his name and clawing at the air where the Hell gate had been. In her defense, it wasn’t every day a girl’s fella was yanked into the Underworld just when she was starting to win an argument. Wailing and gnashing of teeth was undoubtedly called for in these situations, but Sasha just stared dumbly as her brain cells jibbered incoherently to one another.

  She hated those shoes.

  From time to time, she’d fantasized about burning them while Jay slept. Wasn’t it just her luck that the one thing left behind would be those smelly old sneakers?

  Clearly she needed help, but who were you supposed to call when your boyfriend was kidnapped by demons? Ghostbusters? Hysteria bubbled up inside her, spilling out of her mouth in a laugh she couldn’t stop.

  “Interesting. You’re taking this much better than I anticipated.”

  Sasha spun toward the voice, her laughter cutting off abruptly. The last rays of the setting sun had disappeared and shadows filled her living room. A hulking silhouette stood just outside the light spilling from the kitchen.

  The muted shrring of the carving knife sliding free of its block whistled in her ears before she registered the conscious decision to reach for the knife. She took a defensive stance, waving the cleaver warningly.

  “Who are you? What do you want? What did you do with Jay?”

  The figure shifted and hunched, like a large man trying to fit through a small doorway, before straightening into the light. His overcoat fell away. With a rustling snap, a pair of wings filled the narrow space between her cabinets.

  “Holy shit.” There’s an angel in my kitchen. Sasha’s breath caught and the knife slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor.

  Even jaded as she was, being in the company of an actual angel was majestic. She trembled, suddenly understanding why the words awe and awful were related.

  His wings were crisp, shining white but scarlet-veined, the tips a gleaming, darker red, as if they’d been recently dipped in blood. He stepped farther into the room, snapping them wider. When they shuddered and stretched, the red markings on the primaries became more noticeable, a blood-red spiderweb draped over the downy perfection of the feathers.

  The radiance of his presence would have filled the space, even without the pageantry of the blood-marked wings.

  Sasha had heard angels were tall and seen them towering over the common man in television reels, yet his height still startled her. He must have several inches on Jay’s six-three, but while Jay was Vin Diesel bulky, the angel’s physique was sleek. Muscular, with a trim, aerodynamic elegance.

  His hair seemed to change color in shifting light, even though the light wasn’t shifting. Platinum blond, silver-tipped white, white tinged with red, and back to blond again. He stood statue still, even his bright blue eyes unmoving.

  A silver breastplate, dented by use, molded to his chest and matching wrist bands circled his forearms. An elaborate contraption of a sword belt hung from his hips, complete with a massive sword that could have fallen right out of a sixteenth-century headsman’s hands, but otherwise his clothing was disturbingly human—jeans, snug black T-shirt and black cowboy boots.

  Sasha blinked. An angel in cowboy boots?

  “I am Zacharael, the remembrance
of Him,” he said in a ringing voice made powerful by its lack of emotion. “I did nothing to your Jay. I am come to deliver you unto your quest.”

  Sasha mentally scrolled through the familiar names of the angelic pantheon, trying to place Zacharael. He had the look of a warrior—the gigantic sword was kind of a giveaway—but lots of angels played soldier without being of the official warrior caste. He wasn’t an Arch, she knew that much, but “the remembrance of Him” didn’t give her much to go on. The Angel of Forgetfulness?

  “You have been chosen to represent Goodness and Virtue,” Zacharael continued mechanically.

  “Whoa, rewind a second.” Sasha held up her hands in the universal symbol for hold-the-fuck-on. “I didn’t sign up for any quest. You’ve got the wrong girl.”

  “You were chosen,” he repeated. “No other can replace you. If you refuse the commission, he remains below.”

  “He—you mean Jay? If I refuse you, Jay stays in Hell? No. Bring him back from wherever you sent him and go find someone else’s life to fuck with.” Sasha took an aggressive step toward the angel before she remembered the exact level of stupidity involved in threatening an immortal warrior.

  “It was not I who took him and only you can guide him back.”

  “Guide him…Don’t you guys ever just speak plainly?”

  “If you wish to spare him eternal damnation, you must venture into the Underworld and guide him out before the sun rises.”

  That was pretty plain. “You want me to go into Hell? The Hell? Are you insane?” She was a stunt double, not a commando.

  “You are the Champion of Virtue, representing the angels in a quest of redemption.”

  Sasha couldn’t hold in her disbelieving snort. “I hate to break it to you, buddy, but I’m not exactly the virtuous type.”

  The angel in her kitchen had been staring fixedly at the wall behind her head, but now his gaze shifted to lock on her. Sasha managed not to squirm under the impact. It occurred to her, rather belatedly, that a smart girl wouldn’t argue with divine entities, or call them buddy. Thou shalt not mouth off to angels was sort of an unwritten commandment—but she could always blame the shock. Demonic abduction had to count as an extenuating circumstance.

  It was freeing, in a way, giving herself permission to misbehave. She knew she was supposed to just salute and fall in line, but Sasha had never been very good at taking orders. Especially orders for insane suicide missions.

  “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m no one’s idea of an angelic champion. Trust me. My name has been on Santa’s naughty list since birth. You’ve got the wrong girl.”

  For a long, stretching second, the angel just stared at her. Then something softened around the glacial blue of Zacharael’s gaze, making him look almost paternal. “You are being given a rare opportunity, Sasha Christian,” he said, a gentleness entering his tone. “An opportunity to have a life with the one you love. But the price must be paid. From sunset to sunrise tonight, you are the Champion of Virtue, whether you wish to be or not. If you succeed in fighting back the cloak of darkness and guiding your lover from the depths of Hell, you will never be called upon by angels again.”

  “Why am I being called on now? Why me? Why Jay? What do you want with us?”

  “You have until dawn.”

  Blinding angelic light split the breastplate, bursting out from Zacharael’s chest. Sasha shied back, shielding her eyes. “Zacharael!” she shouted, but when the spots cleared from her vision, he was gone. In his place, steepled on the counter, were a pair of silver-plated .44 Magnum Desert Eagle handguns and a thick embossed envelope, the kind only used for wedding invitations and charity dinners.

  Anger rushed in to fill the hollow void shock had carved out in her chest. “Goddamn holier-than-thou sons of bitches,” she snarled, wishing she had a convenient angelic target to test out the aim of the Desert Eagles.

  She palmed one of the guns—just in case anyone else decided to open up a portal in her kitchen. The grip warmed to her touch, seeming to mold itself into her palm. She checked the clip and found it fully loaded, but the heft was off. She’d worked with Desert Eagles before—they were the most common guns on film sets so she’d fired more than her fair share—but this one felt somehow both lighter and more substantial. Maneuverable, if a gun could be such a thing, and natural, like it was an extension of her arm.

  Ignoring the tingling inching toward her elbow, Sasha broke the wax seal on the envelope one-handed.

  Mme. Sasha Raquel Christian, you are cordially invited to enter the domain of His Highness, the Prince of Darkness, Morning Star and ruler of the Multitudes of Hell. Please present this card to the Gatekeeper for admittance to the Underworld at The Catacombs, Our Lady of the Angels Cathedral, 555 W. Temple Street, Los Angeles, California.

  Well. Wasn’t that polite?

  The script glittered gold on the creamy parchment, disturbingly beautiful for an invitation into the pits of damnation.

  Sasha didn’t fool herself that her entire trip would be so civil. Hell. She was actually going to Hell.

  The scent of burnt gingerbread broke into the surreal haze surrounding her brain. “Shit.” She’d forgotten to set the damn timer.

  Sasha turned off the oven, grabbed a hot pad and yanked the charred gingerbread cinders out of the oven. The leg of one little man was actually on fire. Sasha stared at the ginger man, her stomach rolling over.

  Jay is in Hell.

  The reality of what she had to do slammed into her.

  She had a boyfriend to rescue. At least, she thought she had a boyfriend to rescue. She wasn’t entirely sure they weren’t broken up. Either way, she was getting Jay the hell out of Hell.

  But first, she had an armory to visit. The U.S. government didn’t have access to half the weapons a Hollywood stuntman used. Hell wouldn’t know what hit it.

  Chapter Four

  Waking the Dead

  Sasha shouldered through the crowds, smiling apologetically as she shoved her way toward the Cathedral doors. A knee-length jacket of brick-red leather protected against the light chill in the air—and helped her avoid shocking the parishioners with a stray glimpse of the hardware strapped to her body.

  The average devotee probably wouldn’t appreciate her crashing mass, armed to the teeth.

  The Desert Eagles had appeared complete with an Old-West-style holster which now slung low across her hips. She’d belted extra ammo clips around her waist along with a collection of throwing knives. More throwing knives filled her wrist sheathes, her favorite Walther automatics nestled in her shoulder holster and a modified katana pressed against her spine. Once you factored in the extendable blade tucked in her left boot and the Taser tucked into the inner pocket of her jacket, she was ready for whatever Hell threw at her.

  She hoped.

  The arsenal wasn’t quite the comfort she’d wished it would be. It was difficult to feel confident about victory when she didn’t know who—or what—she would be fighting. So little was known about Hell and its denizens. It wasn’t as if humans were invited to visit the demon realms on a regular basis. She’d heard of people questing into Hell, but the stories always had the air of myth or urban legend about them—more likely to be splashed on the front of a tabloid next to a story about alien abduction than the subject of gritty investigative journalism.

  Angelic quests made a popular action-movie motif, but so did CIA double agents—and she wasn’t being recruited by her government.

  Your mission, should you choose to accept it…But angels didn’t give you a choice. A commission from the angelic host wasn’t something a girl could turn down—even if it wouldn’t have damned her boyfriend to an eternity in Hell.

  Why her? Sasha couldn’t get past that question. What did the angels see in her that was so damn virtuous? Not that the winged bastards were as pure and holy as they liked to paint themselves.

  Angels had their pretty, public face—the blindingly beautiful Archangels making appearances at Christmas Eve mass
es around the world—but it didn’t take a Paradise Lost scholar to know there was more to the angelic army than a few hosannas. They had a bloody history. A history shrouded in contradictions and questions.

  And demons were no better. They were even more secretive than the angels in their own way. The demons didn’t have Arches acting as poster children. Sasha had always been inclined to think they’d just gotten the short end of the stick, PR-wise, in the Middle Ages, but they’d done nothing to correct their unwholesome public image since.

  She knew they could use demonic glamour to warp perceptions of reality. The popular belief was there were limitations about where and on whom the glamour could be used, but beyond that her knowledge of Hell was limited to Hollywood depictions—and she knew better than most exactly how much of that was complete bullshit.

  Knowledge was a tactical advantage—and in this case she had virtually none.

  Her game plan was woefully underdeveloped. Go in, find Jay, drag his sorry ass out of Hell, somehow managing to keep them both alive and whole on the way out. She didn’t think Jay would be much help there.

  He’d come to L.A. for a career development course in finance and business management. Somehow Sasha doubted her desk jockey boyfriend would be much of a warrior. He’d certainly never shown signs of a killer instinct in the six months she’d known him. It had been one of the most annoying things about him, that she could never get him to fight.

  Fight for her, fight against her, any flicker of a mercenary spirit would have been comforting to see. But she’d resigned herself to the fact that he wasn’t a fighter and decided to love him anyway. She wasn’t the kind of girl to try to turn the man she loved into the man she wanted him to be. Instead, she just obsessed over whether they were really right for each other. He seemed to like her combativeness, but was that enough?

  A heavyset man jostled her and Sasha twisted to avoid bumping into him pistol-first, reminded of the task at hand. She didn’t have time now to wallow in pointless relationship angst. Action first, agonize later. If she couldn’t get Jay out of Hell, none of her doubts would matter anyway.