Broken Angel

by Amanda Jones

  Keir had tasked him with infecting each of the fallen with Satan’s blood. The infection would take some time to move through their bodies and take over their souls, but once it did they would become permanent loyal servants of Satan. There was no cure for the infection in the human realm, nor in the heavens. The only cure was stored in the bowels of Satan’s castle in Halja. Originally, the plan had been to pick them off one by one, killing them outright, but being in Satan’s service for the rest of time seemed like a much more fitting punishment to Keir.

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the worn stone staircase. As the shape shifter stashed the vial in the pocket of his jeans, Yetarel poked his head around the corner and gave the shape shifter a friendly smile.

  “Hey, my man. How’s it going?” Yetarel asked tentatively. “You keeping it together all right?”

  The shape shifter looked up at him and felt the usual flashes of memory and emotion that came through the connection he’d made when he’d transformed into B. This was Yetarel. B and the fallen angel had a deep history together, a history that involved torture and survival, shame and humiliation. He saw flashes of blood and pain.

  “Yeah, I think I’m doing okay for now.” He added a note of hesitation to his voice. “Thanks for checking up on me.”

  “You’re looking way calmer than I thought you’d be after going through something like that again. I’d have lost my shit for sure.” Yetarel let out a nervous laugh. “I guess you’re actually tighter in the head than I am after all.”

  “Was there ever any doubt?” The shape shifter replied in his cockiest B impression.

  Yetarel laughed. “I don’t know, buddy. I was pretty sure we were neck and neck on the crazy meter.”

  “Oh, come on! Why’d you stop flattering me with my supposed sanity? It was stroking my ego.” The shape shifter joked. He was really getting B’s attitude down. “Hey, can you give me a hand to get up here? I’m not quite back to one hundred percent, but I’ve gotta drain the lizard.” He held his hand out to Yetarel.

  Yetarel reached down and grasped his buddy’s hand, yanking him to his feet. “Anytime, dude. I’d never want to stand in the way of a much-needed piss.”

  “Thanks, man.” The shape shifter clapped Yetarel on the shoulder and reached into his pocket, grasping the vial and slowly easing the top off.

  He had been about to draw the open vial out to infect Yetarel when footfalls pounded on the stone stairs. Sam’s voice echoed throughout the chamber as he shouted out a hello. The shape shifter contained his annoyed growl, popping the top back onto the vial and withdrawing his hand from his pocket. He gave Sam a wave as he moved carefully past him toward the stairs, faking stiffness.

  “See you guys in a few.” He tossed back over his shoulder as he made his way up the stairs to the tavern. He really did need to take a leak, and while he was at it he’d have to come up with a plan to get one of these bastards separated from the group so he could start infecting them.

  Chapter Twenty

  Bataryal

  He was losing his mind. He knew it, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do to stop it. He’d been left alone for what seemed like eternity. Intellectually, he knew it wasn’t that long, but his mind was playing tricks on him, and it was getting hard to distinguish between fantasy and reality. He saw the images of his friends on the magic screen Keir had left him, but the silence had given way to a soundtrack of screams from his past, and what seemed like a dubbed voice-over of conversations from the present. He watched his friends, but heard past conversations, new conversations about letting him rot in hell, and Mara talking about how weak he was and what a loser he was. Part of him knew that none of this was real, but the longer it went on, the more real it became. When he’d first been left alone, he had struggled against his bonds in a weak attempt to free himself. He knew the Wolframite was unbreakable and there was nothing he could do to get out of this on his own. Yet again he was too weak to save himself.

  B’s heart shredded as he watched his doppelgänger make out with Mara. He hadn’t even kissed her yet, and here was the freaking shape shifter jamming his tongue down her throat. This evil son-of-a-bitch was out-B-ing him. He dropped his head back down to his knees and hoped that maybe if he folded himself up as tightly as possible he might be able to disappear. Disappearing would be better than to lose his mind and have his friends find him chained to the wall in Keir’s basement as a drooling mess. His captor knew exactly how to push his buttons. He wasn’t being beaten or abused; the simple fact that he was chained and unable to leave this place was enough to put him into a tailspin.

  The clicking of high heels coming down the basement stairs caught B’s ear. He lifted his head up to see what fresh new hell his brain was concocting for him. His eyes connected with a pair of blood red sky-high designer shoes. His eyes travelled up a pair of long, pale, toned legs that disappeared under a skin-tight, black body-con dress. Blond ringlets cascaded down to cover what must have been a fabulous set of boobs, an elegant neck, delicate features, and beautiful cornflower blue eyes. Oh Shit.

  “Do you like the dress? It’s new.” Nyx gave B a saucy wink. “I think it does wonders for my tits.” She grasped her boobs and gave them a good lift and squeeze.

  “Are you real?” B asked, squinting at her.

  He didn’t see it coming, but his head whipped to the side, his neck cracking and his cheek was on fire. B lifted his manacled arm to put pressure on his quickly-swelling face.

  “Was that real enough for you, sweet cheeks?” the woman said with a saccharine smile.

  “Ouch.” B cracked his jaw back into position. “Nice to see you again, Nyx.”

  “Whatever,” she said, flipping back her hair. “This isn’t a social call, buttercup.”

  Nyx clicked her way across the cement floor and grabbed a metal folding chair leaning against the far wall. She carried it back across the room and flicked it open in front of B, clanging it down on the floor a few feet away from him. She sauntered around the chair, swinging her hips suggestively, and sat down; crossing her legs a la “Basic Instinct.” She may be Evil’s little sister, and sex on a stick, but for the first time since he’d been locked up here, B was happy. She had reconnected him to the present, putting his addled mind back into his skin.

  “So what can I do for you, Nyx?” he asked, raising his chained arms into her line of view. “I’m not much use at the moment.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said as she examined her nails. “You may still have a use or two.”

  B raised his eyebrows in question.

  “Your friend, the handsome one. I want you to tell me about him.” She shot him a pouty duck-face that would have made for a perfect Kardashian-style selfie.

  “I’m sorry. What?” B was thoroughly confused.

  Nyx huffed in frustration. “Don’t make me hit you again. It’s hardly fun when you’re chained to a wall and can’t fight back.”

  “I’d rather you not hit me again either, but I’m not quite sure who you’re talking about?” B raised his hands in defeat, the chains attached to his manacles clinking metal on metal.

  “The Angel of Death — the one called Samael. Tell me about him,” Nyx said with a roll of her eyes.

  “We used to work for your brother; you must already know everything about him.” B raised an eyebrow in question. “Anything specific you’re looking for here?”

  “What do you think of him?” she asked, careful to keep her expression neutral.

  B didn’t quite know what to think of this line of questioning. “I think he’s a good guy…he’s a good friend, always has been, always will be.”

  “What does that mean?” Nyx’s forehead creased in confusion.

  “What does what mean?” B felt like this conversation was a snake that was about to eat its own tail.

  “Why is he a good guy?” She gave him a shrug. “I want to know what that means.”

  “I…okay…well…he’s always there for
us when we’re in trouble, even when we were working for your brother he did his best not to hurt anyone when he was given a choice.” B looked her dead in the eye. “No matter how hard your brother tried, he was never able to take away who Sam really was.” B felt emotions start to rise up and choke him.

  “Hunh.” Nyx considered B’s answer. “Sounds boring. What about his curse? Killing with a simple touch doesn’t exactly fit your definition of a good guy.”

  B smiled a half-smile as he thought of his friend. “Unless he was on a job for your brother, he wore gloves, long sleeves, and jeans — he never left any of his skin exposed. He didn’t want to hurt anyone that wasn’t on your brother’s hit list. So yeah, that does fit my idea of a good guy, at least, given the circumstances.”

  Nyx was clearly putting two and two together. “So, if he kept his skin covered at all times so he wouldn’t rip out souls…?”

  The non-question lingered in the air between them. B hesitated to answer. This was a very personal aspect of his friend’s life that wasn’t open to discussion with anybody, much less Satan’s sister. Sam had to be the world’s oldest living virgin, and that was not something he would appreciate having advertised to the entire Netherworld. He gave Nyx a pointed look and kept his mouth shut. Much to B’s surprise she didn’t push for an official answer, nor did she punch him in the face or stand up and give him a roundhouse kick to the side of the head. She just sat there quietly for a moment staring at him with a blank expression.

  Suddenly Nyx stood, straightening her skirt. “You’re boring me now. I imagine you’ll be dead soon. Enjoy your special TV show.” Turning on her heel, she sashayed out of the basement and up the stairs like she was walking in her own private runway show.

  B heard the door at the top of the stairs click shut. “Bye.” He whispered.

  He sat there on the floor, alone, staring at the soundless play-by-play of Mara and his friends interacting with each other and the imposter. He felt pathetic. Unless his archenemy’s sister hadn’t come to have the strangest conversation in the history of the world, he would have succumbed to the demons that had plagued him for centuries. For all of his coping mechanisms, the man-whoring and acting like a cocky bastard, he was a total mess and he had to face it or his friends would suffer for his cowardice. B thought about Luc and how he managed to overcome what seemed like insurmountable odds to finally piece his life together. Lucifer Morningstar had done what none of the fallen angels had been able to in all their years of servitude to Satan. He’d managed to reconnect with the Heavens in order to gain forgiveness for his past transgressions.

  B closed his eyes and turned all of his concentration toward the home he’d been banished from all those years ago. “Metatron?” He whispered. “Are you still listening?” He waited, but no response came. “I need your help. Are any angels listening? I need you…” There was still no response. He continued to beg and pray. His “what would Luc do” idea not panning out quite like he thought it would. B felt cheated. Why had Metatron answered Luc’s plea, but not his? They were willing to assist the angel that had led the revolution, but not one of his generals? It seemed as though they had frozen him out completely. The only way he was going to get out of this and get back to Mara and the guys was if he pulled off his own impossible feat and saved himself.

  He looked back up at the screen and saw Mara with the shape shifter and his decision was made easily. Casting his eyes back down, he examined the unbreakable Wolframite cuffs that surrounded both of his hands and his ankles. There was no way out of these shackles without Keir’s key. The metal was charmed, the situation hopeless. He’d spent years chained up in the exact same manner at the hands of the demons that’d snatched him after his fall. He took a deep breath and glanced around, his eyes lighting on a sledgehammer that was propped up against the wall a few feet away. B chuckled. Keir must have it there to use on him in some creative torture scenario later. He got onto his hands and knees and crawled as far as his chains would allow, stretching out full length on the floor to grab the base of the sledgehammer with the tips of his fingers. With one last stretch he was able to get enough purchase to tip it over, sending the wooden handle crashing down to the floor. He clutched the wooden handle and dragged it over, pulling himself up into a sitting position.

  B stretched one of his legs out straight in front of himself and bent it slightly. This was really going to suck. He got a good strong grip on the handle of the sledgehammer and took a deep breath. Before he could talk himself out of it, he lifted it and slammed it down hard on his right foot. The searing pain tore through his body and the breath whooshed out of his lungs. He was so breathless he wasn’t even able to scream. B dropped the sledgehammer and slammed his head back against the wall as sweat broke out on his brow. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe through the pain. Numbness began to break through the pain…shock really was a wonderful thing. Opening his eyes, he took a look down at the mangled mess of his foot and ankle. It seemed as though he’d met with success, every bone looked like it was well and truly broken. With another shuddering breath he reached down and cranked his mangled foot into position, sweat pouring down his neck and back from the renewed screaming pain. He huffed out a couple more breaths, and then slid the manacle down over his crushed foot and ankle. The cuff clinked as it hit the floor. B stared down at the mess of his leg and broke out into hysterical laughter. The agony was excruciating, but it was starting to give way to a strange exhilaration. It was as though the pain was washing away his past and giving him the strength to do the impossible.

  Before he could lose his nerve, B took care of his other ankle, again slipping out of the unbreakable Wolframite. His eyes were practically crossing now from a combination of agony and the burning sweat running down his face. Two more manacles to go and he’d be free. This was going to be a bit trickier. Two hands, one sledgehammer. Turning towards the wall, he placed one hand flat on its surface and struck. Every nerve ending in his body was screaming to the point where he dry heaved. The sledgehammer clanged down on the floor as he turned his attention to sliding off the first wrist manacle. As it hit the floor, B turned his pain-addled mind towards the Houdini act he’d have to pull off next in order to get free. Twisting around, he placed his only uninjured limb up against the wall. He turned his head towards the magic screen and saw an image of Mara. She was sitting alone, staring straight ahead as though she were looking through time and space directly into his eyes. With a silent prayer to the heavens that had stopped listening, he slammed his shoulder into his hand over and over until he heard a multitude of snaps and pops. The feral scream that tore from his lungs blew out his vocal chords as his now ruined hand dropped down into his lap, the final manacle clinking to the floor as it slipped off his crushed appendage.

  B had been in pain before. He’d been shot, had his throat slit, and had his wings sliced off, but nothing compared to what he was going through at that very moment. He fought hard against the encroaching darkness that threatened to take him into unconsciousness. He was too close to quit now.

  Step one — escape the inescapable manacles and chains. Step two — escape his basement dungeon. Step three — get back to The Advocate and save Mara and his crew. It was time to get going on step two before it was lights out. He flipped himself over onto his knees and forearms and crawled slowly towards the staircase that would lead him to freedom. Every stair he dragged himself up was like a fresh kind of hell. When he reached the door he realized there was no way he was going to be turning any doorknobs with his crushed hands. Heaving himself to his knees he threw all his weight into the heavy wooden door shoulder first. With a snap the doorframe gave way under his supernatural strength. His body fell through the open doorway, landing in an awkward heap of fresh misery.

  B squinted around the main floor and spied a large window behind a couch in the adjoining room. He planted an image of Mara in his mind and began the slow, painful crawl towards freedom. He glanced back at the trail of blood
he’d left in his wake and sighed. It would really rock if he could manage to keep the stuff in his body for a while at some point in the near future. He eyed the expensive looking antique piece and hoped there was a good upholsterer around because when he was done with it, it was going to look like a crime scene. He dragged his bleeding body up onto the couch and peered out the window. The sky was dark and the street was wholly unfamiliar. With one last deep breath, B heaved his body towards the glass. The window shattered under his weight, shards of glass flying outward as his broken body tumbled over the ledge and landed in a flowerbed on the other side.

  B lay there for a moment letting the fresh, cool night air wash over him. Step three — crawl back to The Advocate with broken limbs and glass shards embedded in his skin. B closed his eyes and cringed. Step three was really going to suck.

  Chapter Twenty One

  The Doppelgänger

  Time was running out. He’d felt it start a few hours ago but hadn’t wanted to admit it. There was no doubt in his mind now, he was fading fast and he knew it. He had to get back to the safe house. He looked down at his arm and saw the damage. A patch of his skin flickered and calmed intermittently, a sure sign the transformation was wearing off. The shape shifter knew he must get back to B so he could re-up his magic or he would start shifting uncontrollably and eventually, unless he found a new host, die. The fallen and their little vampire cohorts stuck together like friggin crazy glue. How in Sheol was he supposed to get one of them away from the group long enough to infect them? He had to find a way to access at least one of them before returning to Keir’s place or he’d be at risk of losing his head. Keir was not the epitome of mental stability.