The Demoness of Waking Dreams (Company of Angels)

by Stephanie Chong

  Up the rickety elevator, into a hotel room.

  He pushed her inside.

  The room was shabby and spare, barely more than a backpackers’ hostel. There was a narrow bed that would barely fit two people. A doorless space with a curtainless shower served as a bathroom. He dragged her over to the bed, unlocked one of her wrists—only to relock it so that she was secured to the cheap wrought-iron frame with her wrists bound together. Double-checking the cuffs, he ensured that her wrists had enough circulation. Then he stepped away, apparently satisfied.

  He left her in this position, with her arms locked behind her, sitting at the top of the bed.

  “It’s no surprise that the Company of Amateurs would favor such a run-down dive of a pensione,” she said. “There are palaces all over Venice. The streets are literally lined with palazzos. And this is the place you choose. Tell me, why do you angels always choose such dingy accommodations? You all seem to think there’s something noble about living in poverty.”

  He eyed her up. “Deal with it, principessa.”

  She jerked so hard that the metal cuffs clanged against the gilded curlicue of the bedframe.

  “Don’t ever call me that again,” she said. “You have no idea what you’re playing with. You have no idea who I am. And whatever they told you, those angels of yours…whatever Julian Ascher told you is a pack of lies.”

  “Whatever.”

  She said coyly, “Are you going to punish me?”

  “It’s not my job to punish you,” he said evenly. “I told you in the church—I merely came to collect you.”

  “Too bad,” she pouted. “You’re missing all the fun.”

  He whipped the shawl off her back.

  She flinched, but willed herself, Do not cry.

  “If you’re planning on raping me, you’ll never get away with it,” she said sullenly.

  “Believe me, I would never do that. That’s not how I operate. But I will gag you if necessary. And for that, all I’ve got are old socks,” he said, mildly amused. “So I’d keep my voice down, if I were you.”

  Without speaking, he inspected her wounds. He touched a spot.

  Don’t cry, she told herself.

  “What is this, some kind of divinely charged handcuff?” she grumbled, twisting to stare down at the curved metal and willing the tears not to fall from her eyes.

  “No, ma’am, just plain steel. I like to do things the old-fashioned way.”

  “Old-fashioned,” she said. “You have no idea what that means. Aren’t you worried that I might dematerialize?”

  “If you were capable of that, you would have done it by now. You’re bound to your physical body.”

  “Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”

  She jerked against the cuffs again, shaking the bed. He looked down at her, bored. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’re just going to injure yourself further.”

  She glared back at him, letting the hatred flash in her eyes. So she was at the mercy of this lout. She had never been in such a position before.

  A position of total vulnerability.

  She had negotiated, surely, had bartered her body to gain advantage in countless situations. But handcuffed and held against her will?

  Never.

  It infuriated her, as nothing had before. She had gotten herself into—and out of—many situations before. But she had never allowed a man to render her so completely helpless, as this one had.

  She watched him as he moved around the room, digging through his bag for a clean change of clothes.

  He went into the doorless bathroom. She wondered if the unmannered American barbarian was going to open his fly and piss right in front of her. Instead, he went to the dingy sink and began to wash the blood off his forearms. His gray gaze stayed trained on her, ensuring she remained chained to the bed.

  He examined his wounds, whipping his bloodied, torn shirt over his head and checking himself over for major damage.

  Brandon had the body of a warrior, tattooed like a man who had seen many battles—each one had been etched on his skin, the story of his bravery mapped out in dark ink.

  Right over his heart was a tribal design, a swirling dragon whose body extended to his biceps. From there, at the top of his left arm, the design continued with a tree of life, the branches stylized in a Celtic pattern with four interlocking corners. On the other arm, an ancient Mayan sunburst. Continuing down the sleeve of that arm were bands of tribal designs and different types of animals, some real and some mythical. Lions, snakes and eagles intermingled with griffins and phoenixes. So many different creatures and symbols, all of them rendered in monochromatic shades of black and gray ink, creating an impressive aesthetic harmony on the canvas of his skin.

  He turned, bending to inspect the cut she’d inflicted on his abdomen. Giving her a full view of the most impressive tattoo of all.

  The huge tattoo stretching across his back was a massive angel rendered in black and gray. Feathered wings extended from the lines of a human body, the wing tips of the tattoo outspread along each of Brandon’s shoulder blades.

  A tattoo that might simply be a decoration on any other man.

  On him, the tattoo was like the divine staring her in the face.

  She had always known this day was coming, the day of her reckoning. After all the crimes she had committed, she supposed she deserved it. What a strange manner of capture, though, to end up strapped to a bed in a cheap hotel.

  She turned her gaze away, unable to look.

  “Oh, Dio.” Oh, God.

  The words slipped off her tongue, not a prayer, but a profanity.

  “Those aren’t just ordinary tattoos, are they?” she said.

  He didn’t answer, just looked at her with those dark gray eyes of his, as dark and foreboding as the ink on his body.

  “What do they represent?”

  “Assignments.”

  He didn’t bother to elaborate, and she didn’t ask. The explanation was clear enough. The ink sprawling over his skin told the stories of the people he had rescued. People he had helped.

  “What happens when you run out of skin? Will you stop getting tattoos?”

  “I don’t get them in the ordinary way. Not from a tattoo parlor or a tattoo artist.”

  “Where do they come from, then?”

  Looking into his gray eyes was like looking into the depths of the ocean. “They just appear. Each one appears after I’ve finished an assignment.”

  “And if you don’t finish?”

  He shrugged, the taut muscles of his shoulders contracting. “Hasn’t happened.”

  “Were you sent to get rid of me?” she blurted, almost hysterical, wondering exactly what would appear on the canvas of his skin after he had dealt with her.

  “Like I said, I was sent to collect you. That’s all,” Brandon said. “Violence isn’t my preferred working method.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” she asked quietly.

  “It means I have no present intention of harming you,” he said, equally quiet. “If you cooperate, you’ll spare yourself further injury.”

  He moved around the room, unpacking his duffel bag. She could not help but gawk at his tattoos, her eyes flickering furtively over the intricate maze of ink and flesh, reading the story marked on his body, the symbols that proclaimed who and what he was.

  That was when she realized there was no point in fighting him.

  She would have to use other means to get what she wanted.

  * * *

  He pulled a clean shirt over his head, grateful he’d sent his bag here from the airport. He felt Luciana’s gaze travel along the lines of his body. Gave her a long, hard stare just to warn her. She sat at the top of the bed looking ever the princess who had been captured.

  She’s a demoness, he reminded himself. It doesn’t matter how beautiful she is. She is evil. She is extremely dangerous.

  “Whatever Arielle told you about me is completely untrue,” the demones
s said smoothly. Something in her tone had shifted, as though an idea had clicked in her head. He turned to glance casually at her, and he saw it in her eyes, too. The wheels were turning in that dangerous mind of hers. “Especially if she’s getting her information from Julian Ascher these days. I heard he’s one of you now.”

  “Why are you so hell-bent on revenge against Julian?” he asked.

  “Haven’t you ever wanted revenge on someone who hurt you? I injured you,” she said softly. Her entire demeanor had shifted now, her tone placating with a vulnerability that must be calculated. “Don’t you want vengeance?”

  Brandon gave her a hard look. “You ask a lot of questions. I already told you, I’m just here to do my job. There’s nothing personal about it. So, no, I don’t want to avenge myself.”

  “Everything is personal. You can’t haul me into a room, lock me to a bed and say there’s nothing personal about it.”

  “Absolutely. Given those cuts on your back, I wouldn’t say you got off easy. Let’s call it even.”

  She gave a vicious yank on the cuffs, her temper flaring again. “We are far from even. You will unlock these vile things. You will let me go. Then we will be even.”

  He said nothing, but turned his attention to her back.

  “We should get this broken glass out of you.”

  “It will heal,” she ground out.

  They both knew that was true. Immortal bodies of angels and demons healed quickly, but not instantaneously.

  “If we don’t take care of it now, the wounds will take longer to heal,” he said.

  He unlocked the cuffs, readjusting her hands so that they were bound in front of her.

  He dug in his shaving kit, got out a pair of tweezers. Poured vodka over them.

  When he eased away the fabric of her dress, the rose silk was crimson with blood. Even he winced at the sight. Her back was slashed with multicolored fragments of glass embedded in her skin.

  “This will sting.”

  With a facecloth, he dabbed some of the vodka on her.

  He felt her body react.

  “I’ve burned in everlasting hellfires. You think this is anything in comparison?” she said. She was bluffing. He could hear the bravado in her voice. Finally, she said, “Give me some of that vodka.”

  He found a glass. Poured her a shot. Tipped it into her mouth as she tilted her head back.

  “Give me another one.” She downed that one, too.

  He sat down behind her and cut away the silk of her dress where it was soaked with blood.

  And started digging the shards of glass out of her back.

  Piece by piece, he placed them all in the little tumbler on the nightstand. Until that little glass was full of jagged shards, covered with her blood.

  He pressed the damp towel on her back. By the time he finished, the healing process had already started, the wounds beginning to close. Even when it came to demons, there were miracles to be had.

  Outside, a noise popped.

  The first firework shot into the air.

  A long whistle shot up through the buildings, followed by the boom of its detonation and a series of smaller blasts. From tinny radio speakers in neighboring windows, the sound track of the fireworks floated, the Italian opera music lush and rich despite the surroundings.

  “At least open the window,” she said softly. “This pensione might be cheap, but the location is good and it probably has a view.”

  Brandon went to the window and opened it.

  A panorama of red-brown terra-cotta rooftops spread out before him in the pale moonlight. In the buildings all around, Venetians hung from every balcony, every windowsill and rooftop. Below, the bay was crowded with boats of every shape and size. Each of those boats in turn was filled with cheering Venetians. And every single person craned up to look at the spectacle of light in the sky.

  Her face was upturned toward the dazzling night sky, her pale skin awash with the reflection of colors. A face that, even in her misery, was lovelier than the display of fireworks. More beautiful than this magnificent, decaying city.

  And he, her captor, wanted to wash her misery away.

  The fireworks blasted outside the window. For the second time that evening, color rained down. But this time the accompanying noise echoed in the sky, ricocheting inside his mind like the slowed-down gunfire.

  In the dark, he flinched. His back twitched, his breathing constricted for a moment, his body remembering its human wounds. Physically, he had healed. But the memory of the scars remained, triggered by the sound.

  She must have seen the pain pass over his face.

  “What’s wrong, il mio angelo? Did someone shoot you once?”

  He willed himself back to detachment, told himself to forget about the pain.

  But she pushed onward, pressing her way deeper into the wounds. “Is that how you died? My condolences. Death is a bitch, isn’t she? You know…I can take your pain away. I can make it feel better. In fact, there’s a whole world I could show you, if you let me.”

  He checked for the watch. His pocket was empty.

  I’m awake.

  He paused momentarily. God, she was beautiful. Temptation at its finest.

  “First, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Second, there is no pain,” he growled, pushing her hands away. “Don’t presume to know what goes on inside my head.”

  “Whatever you say, tesoro. Lie to yourself if you want. I can give you so much pleasure. I know you desire me.”

  With the colors exploding overhead, she tilted her face up toward him and her eyelids fluttered shut. Expecting him to kiss her.

  Looking down at her upturned face, a strange sense of peace washed over him. She was like a child playing at being bad, a little girl playing the villain’s role in a game of dress-up.

  No, wait, he told himself with a shake of his head. Make no mistake about it. This woman is dangerous.

  He did not kiss her, but instead reached down and stroked the curve of her cheek.

  Her eyes popped open, a shock of verdant brightness. She did not wince; her eyes darkened to a cold shade of green, their glitter a menace, hard and rare.

  “I’d seek pleasure with you when hell freezes over,” he said.

  “If you let me go, I’ll make it very worth your while,” she breathed in her sultriest voice, arching upward on the bed to give him a good view of her ample cleavage. “What is it you want, angel?”

  “Nothing,” he said, staring her down. “And there is no way you could tempt me into letting you go. I was sent to collect you, and I intend to complete my mission.”

  She smiled, lowered her eyes demurely, then raised them again to peer out at him through half-closed lids. Very coolly, she said, “I take that as a challenge.”

  Ignore her and keep your mouth shut, he told himself. Just do your job, Guardian.

  It wasn’t as if he had never heard the promises of demons before.

  Hell, it was practically par for the course in his line of work.

  So why was this one so compelling?

  Outside, shouts of appreciation and applause signaled the end of the fireworks. “Uno spettaculo!…Che bello!…Bellisimo!”

  “I could make all of your wildest fantasies come true,” she taunted from the bed. Ran her tongue over her top lip, suggesting what those fantasies might be. “Whatever you desire. However you desire it. Don’t tell me you haven’t imagined coming in my mouth. In my—”

  “Enough,” he ordered, cutting her off.

  Instead of finishing her thought, she laughed, and he realized maybe that was worse.

  Because when he heard that sound, he had an irresistible urge to jump on the bed and take advantage of her, chained there like a medieval maiden, offered to some dragon in order to placate its fiery appetites.

  Only she was not a maiden. Not the princess. She was the dragon.

  Not only that, but somewhere deep inside his gut, a flame was growing within him.

 
; Ignore it, he ordered himself. Just do your job and don’t let her get to you.

  “Am I seriously supposed to sleep like this?” she said, frowning up at him, her lips set in a pout. “Aren’t you going to let me go?”

  He did unlock her wrists, but only for an instant, to change her position.

  “I’m taking you back to America tomorrow,” he said. Then he ordered, “Lie down.”

  “Make me,” she said.

  He shook his head. “I really wish we could do this the easy way.”

  In two seconds flat, he had her lying on her side, with her hands bound over her head.

  “And where are you going to sleep?” she grumbled.

  He threw a pillow and a blanket on the floor. It wasn’t comfortable, but he’d slept on far worse before. From the floor, he could still see her, even if she was lying flat on the bed. He didn’t dare turn his back on her, but wished to God he could. Momentarily, he thought of turning her over to the concierge for the night. But there was no way he could delegate his responsibility for her. This was his mission. His obligation.

  “Be quiet and go to sleep,” he ordered.

  “No coglioni,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “No cajones. You Americans. All talk,” she said coolly, “and no action.”

  He would not let her bait him.

  She turned her back to him, the tumble of her dark curls on the white cotton bedsheet, the exposed curve of her neck so appealing, so irresistible—it seemed to call out touch me in the dim light—that he didn’t know how he would get through the night without reaching out to skim his fingers along it.

  He turned off the lights and lay down on the floor.

  “Good night, principessa,” he said mockingly.

  He heard her stir, felt her glaring at him in the darkness. “What is it they say in English? Oh, yes, I remember the phrase I was thinking of. I hope you burn in the fires of hell forever.”

  On the floor, he smiled. He had to hand it to her.

  The woman had coglioni.

  * * *

  Luciana stared out the tall windows of the shabby little hotel room, into the darkness. It was so late that it was early, the revelry of the party finally died down now. Nothing could be heard but the quiet sound of the canal waters lapping against the rotting brick of this crumbling pensione.