“Hey,” Kingsley said, looking concerned. He slung a friendly arm around her shoulder and pulled her toward him.
“C’mon now. I was just kidding around. You all right?”
She nodded. “I just need some air. It’s hot in here.”
“No kidding.” Kingsley walked her back to her table.
“Where are you staying in town?”
Mimi shrugged. “I don’t know.” She hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“Go see my man at the Duke’s Arms. He’ll give you guys a nice room. make sure Hazard-Perry over there doesn’t get targeted by the trolls—or worse, by the Hellhounds,” Kingsley said, writing an address on the back of a calling card and handing it to her.
“What’d he say?” Oliver asked, when Kingsley left.
“To stay in a hotel,” Mimi said, again feeling the absurdity of the current situation. She’d risked everything for him, and now…
“So what do we do, boss?” Oliver asked.
Mimi fingered the card. Her head ached. She had journeyed all the way down. She wasn’t about to give up now. She had to find out how Kingsley felt about her. If he wanted her the way she wanted him—and not just for a one-night stand or a meaningless, loveless affair. The real thing. The love that had eluded her all her immortal life in her years with Jack.
If Kingsley didn’t want her around, he wouldn’t have asked her to stay, would he? Boys. Even in the underworld it was hard to decipher their intentions. She thought of the way they had moved together, what it felt like. There had to be more than just physical attraction between them. It had to mean something, didn’t it? She thought of how she had laughed at girls who thought just because a guy slept with them it meant that he loved them. Now she was one of those needy, clingy girls. How ridiculous to find that her heart was so much more vulnerable than she had ever imagined it could be. How the hell had she allowed herself to fall in love with someone like Kingsley martin? It was infuriating. He was like a shooting star you tried to catch with your hands. She would only get burned.
But she was made of sterner stuff than that. Mimi would play the game. She would stay until he told her she had to leave. Until he told her the truth of what was in his heart.
She noted the address and put the card in her purse. “I guess we should get settled. Looks like we’ll be here for a while.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
The Dovecote
Allegra’s favorite time of the day was just before sunset.
That summer in Napa, almost a year since she’d left New York, the days were so long that it would be nine o’clock by the time darkness descended on the valley. The heat of the day would dissipate in the late afternoon, and a rustling breeze would blow through the trees. The rolling hills were covered in a warm russet glow, in an ephemeral, timeless beauty. The vineyard’s tasting rooms and cellars would be joyously empty.
The tourists and wine lovers had gone, along with the field hands and vintners who’d become their friends and col-leagues, and it was just the two of them. Ben would shuffle in from his studio, and Allegra would open a bottle of their newest Chardonnay, and they would eat their dinner under the trees, watching the hummingbirds flit from flower to flower.
Life could not be sweeter.
“Aren’t we lucky your family bought this place,” Allegra said, dipping a piece of crusty French bread into their homemade olive oil. “It’s like a dream.”
They had moved to the vineyard ostensibly to help prepare for the fall harvest, when the grapes would be plump and bursting with juice. Ben’s father had bought the whole spread on a whim one afternoon a few years ago, when he’d stopped by for a drink at his favorite enoteca only to discover that his usual glass of Syrah was no longer available, as the vineyard was closing due to bankruptcy. It was something his parents did often, Ben explained—they bought things that they enjoyed in order to keep them in existence. Their hobbies and interests had led them to assume ownership of a Greek diner in New York that still served egg creams, and a whole French cosmetics line. They were preservationists and traditionalists.
One of the great benefits of being so privileged was their ability to keep the beautiful things in the world they loved from going extinct and disappearing forever.
The question of where Allegra and Ben would live was answered when Allegra happened to mention that she had some knowledge of winemaking. Right then it was decided that they would not settle in the Bay Area, but instead would move up north to help run the winery.
Allegra had left her life that afternoon when she had taken a walk in Riverside Park, and had never returned. She had not left a note of explanation, and had cut off the telepathic communication she shared with Charles, even going so far as to cloak her glom signature. She had taken the extreme pre-caution to make sure he would never find her. She was certain that Charles could send an army of investigators and Venators after her and never even come close to finding her true location. He would never forgive her for this—for walking out on him on their bonding day—and she did not want to think of the pain she was causing. All she knew was that something inside her could no longer stomach the life she had been living; and even though every fiber in her blood and her immortal being told her she was making a huge mistake, her heart was steadfast in its resolution.
It had been madness, really, to walk out of her life with nothing. She was still in her bonding dress when she jumped into a taxicab with Ben. She brought nothing with her: not a toothbrush or a change of clothes, not even enough money for a bus ticket.
No matter. money was no object, as Ben had arranged it all. They had left the city that evening, and she was whisked away on his jet—the family plane—directly to Napa. Now they were both hiding in the dovecote, Allegra thought. Two lovebirds.
During the day, Ben painted in a small cottage on the property. The room had good light, and from the picture windows he could see vines growing on the hillside. Allegra ran the shop: she had an instinctive feeling for the vintner’s trade, and enjoyed every part of it—from pruning and nurturing the vines to designing the labels; from testing the barrels to see how they were fermenting to selling the vintages in the little tasting room. She had gotten a dark tan from working in the fields, and she was known in the small farm community for her cheese and bread. She had invited children from the neighborhood for the annual crush at the end of the season, as theirs was one of the last vineyards to keep to the tradition of stomping the grapes after harvest. Their vintner, a world-renowned winemaker, had named their latest Chardonnay after her. golden girl, it read on the label.
The sun finally set that evening, and they brought in their plates and empty bottles. After cleaning up, Ben said he wanted to work a little more, and Allegra joined him in his studio.
She curled up on the rickety couch covered in canvas and watched him paint. He was working on a more abstract series these days, and she knew it was good. He was going to be famous, and not only because of his family, but because of his talent. Ben turned around and cleaned his brushes into the turpentine.
“How do you feel about another portrait?” he said.
“Do you think it’s wise?” she teased, flirting a little.
“Might bring back old memories.”
“Precisely.” He grinned.
He was so beautiful, she thought, towheaded and tan, with his generous laugh. She loved the way he made her feel: light-headed, joyful. The way they were together: easy, laughing. She felt human with him. She did not think of the future or what was in store for them. She had walked away from all of that. Here, in the heart of the sleepy Napa valley, she was not Gabrielle the Uncorrupted, no vampire queen, but merely Allegra Van Alen, a former New York girl who had moved to the country to make wine.
She moved to the sheet on the platform and slowly peeled off her clothing. The overalls she unhooked and let fall to the ground, the old T-shirt that she wore on the days she worked in the fields and not in the store. She twisted her torso and asked, “Is thi
s good?”
Ben nodded slowly.
Allegra held her pose. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She could feel him watching her, memorizing every line, every curve of her body for his work.
There was no sound for the remainder of the hour but that of the quiet taps and soft strokes of a paintbrush on canvas.
“Good,” he said, meaning she could release the pose.
She wrapped herself in a robe and walked over to look at his painting. “Best one yet.”
Ben put away his brushes and pulled her onto his lap.
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” she said, sinking into his arms. She traced the veins on his neck. Then sank her fangs deep into his skin and began to drink deeply.
Ben leaned back, and soon the robe fell away and they were together.
It was the happiest she had ever felt.
Allegra could almost convince herself that they would be able to live here together for the rest of their lives.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The Brides of Lucifer
Theyweredeepunderground,onapathbeneaththenecro-polis leading to a subterranean stairway. Schuyler stumbled on a rock and cut her ankle. It was hard to keep balance as the men alternately pulled and carried her to their destination.
Their attackers had blindfolded them after they’d fallen through the void, and while she knew they were in the underworld, she wasn’t sure how far down they had taken her. Were they through the gate already? Had her plan worked? But if they had breached the Gate of Promise, where was its keeper?
And what did they do now that Jack and the rest of the team had no idea where they had gone? Did they fight? Did they wait? Schuyler decided to wait. Finally the marching stopped, and her blindfold was removed. Schuyler looked around. She was in some sort of waiting room, and she did not see Deming or Dehua anywhere. She was alone with her captors, two swarthy men who looked at her appraisingly. The Red Blood by her side slobbered over her. “Our masters will reward us. You’re a pretty one.”
Schuyler’s stomach tightened, and she comforted herself with the knowledge that she had Gabrielle’s sword hidden in her robe. When the time was right, she would be able to fight her way out of here.
The door opened, and a female demon entered. Schuyler had never seen one before. Jack had told her about the different creatures of the underworld, of the demons that lived in Helheim, who’d been made from the darkness and breathed the Black Fire.
“What did you bring in?” she asked. “We got twins in the other room. Nice one. Lads will like that. What’ve we got here?”
Schuyler’s attackers pushed her forward. “Worth the top bride price, this one is.”
“Take off your hijab,” the demon barked. “I want to see what we’re buying. Go on, now.”
Schuyler slipped the garment over her head, pocketing Gabrielle’s sword, which had collapsed into a small knife in her fist. She stood in her slip and crossed her arms before her chest.
The demon leaned forward and sniffed her. “What have you got in your hand, missy?”
Before Schuyler could react, the demon’s hand clamped down on her wrist and squeezed tightly.
Schuyler’s knees buckled from the pain, and she had no choice but to open her hand and give up her weapon.
The demon picked it up, and the knife transformed into a long gleaming saber. “Just as I thought. This is a sword of the Fallen. Have Baal take a look at it. And warn the others—they might be just like her.” She put her meaty hands on her thighs and smiled. “Thanks, boys, you did well. The bosses will find some angels in their beds tonight.” She smiled. “Go on now, out with you. The trolls will pay you at the till.”
The men shuffled out, and the demon studied Schuyler.
“This is an interesting proposition. You’re not exactly what we asked for, but I think we’ll find someone who’ll like you just the way you are.” She left the room, banging the door behind her.
Once Schuyler was alone, she paced the entire length of it, trying to find an exit, as the door was locked with an invisible spell and the walls were made of solid rock. She tried everything, but no incantation even moved the rock an inch.
She tried to quell the panic that threatened to wash over her, and forced herself to think. She’d lost her sword, but surely she could find something else to defend herself with before it was too late. Yet before she could form even the bare bones of an escape plan, the demon returned, and this time she was not alone.
It was a Croatan, a silver-haired angel—beautiful but with hard, flat crimson eyes, and scars on his face that marked him as one of Lucifer’s own. The Corrupted leered at her, and Schuyler could smell its lust as a physical assault, as he sent her images that she could not escape from. She could not close her eyes, as the thoughts had penetrated her mind, and she saw exactly what was in store for her if she did not get away.
She felt her courage begin to wane. She was trapped here—disarmed, vulnerable—but she raised her chin and her eyes flashed with rage. She would fight with every ounce of her body and soul.
“She’ll do,” the Croatan said. His voice was low and melodious but frosted with malice. “Get her ready.” He held her by the chin with his hand. “The boys were right. You are a pretty one. But I’m not paying the bride price for her. The Fallen won’t be able to bear me the children I need.”
“But look at that hair, those eyes—she’s the spitting image of Gabrielle,” the demon protested. “Surely—”
“No negotiation. You’re lucky I’m taking her off your hands,” he said, and stroked Schuyler’s cheek one last time before leaving.
“Well, you heard the fool. Let’s go,” the demon grumbled.
“Come on, let’s get you to zani’s house.”
“Zani?” Schuyler asked. “You mean the priestess of the temple of Anubis?” She felt her heart beat faster at the prospect of finding the woman who might be Catherine of Siena.
“What are you talking about, child?” The demon clucked her tongue. “Down here, the zaniyat Babel is what we call a cathouse. The Whores of Babylon. Lucifer’s brides. ’Course, not everyone gets chosen by the Dark Prince. You’ll be wed to Danel, for instance. Lucky you, he’s quite the looker, don’t you think?”
Schuyler swallowed her shock to digest the information.
“Zani” was no priestess. It was a code word for this operation—taking human brides for demons.
No. The zaniyat Babel was no holy woman. She would not find Catherine of Siena here. “Zaniyat” was an ancient name, all right. There had been many names for the women who had been taken by the Croatan over the centuries: Deming had told her the Nephilim had called his mother “The mistress.”
Satan’s mistresses. Whores of Babylon. It was all the same.
The mistress of Florence must have been the first to birth a human-demon hybrid, but since then, there had been many to take her place, and now Schuyler would be one of them.
The demon led her down another underground passageway, and when they emerged out of it they were standing in the middle of a small-town bazaar, ringed by dusty buildings that did not look very different from the marketplaces of Cairo. Schuyler’s captor rapped on the door of one of the buildings, and after a few minutes they were ushered inside.
A group of scantily clad heavily made-up human matrons greeted them in the entryway. Schuyler thought the presence of the Red Bloods meant that they must be in Limbo, the first circle of Hell, just beyond the living glom. Humans could not survive too long much deeper in the underworld.
“Danel wants her ready for the bonding in a few hours,”
the demon told them. “And he doesn’t want her drugged.”
The matrons nodded, and two of them led Schuyler to a small boudoir with a dressing room. They pushed her down on the cushioned stool in front of a vanity mirror.
“Let’s see what we got here,” the fatter, older, and darker lady said, jangling her gold bracelets.
“
Too thin,” her companion said. “We’ll have to use the cutlets.”
“Danel always picks the young ones.”
Schuyler sat on the stool and glared at them. “Let me go,”
she ordered, but either the powers of compulsion were dif-fused in the underworld, or the humans had learned how to protect their minds from it. It was useless. The ladies merely laughed.
She couldn’t believe how casual they were about what they were doing. “You give your daughters to these demons,”
she said to them. “You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
The Red Blood madam slapped her across the face.
“Speak to me like that again and you will lose your tongue.”
“Stop!” her companion warned. “You’re going to give her a fat lip. The boss doesn’t like it when they’re beaten up. Remember, we’ve got to make her look pretty.”
TWENTY-NINE
River Palace
The Duke’s Arms turned out not to be a hotel.
Instead it was a palace, a veritable castle in the sky, a lavish fourplex penthouse in a grand skyscraper located at the far edge of town near the river Styx. The building was gaudy and gilded and frightfully ugly and tacky, with soaring pink columns, golden cherubim, leering gargoyles, decorated in nouveau riche flamboyance, Mimi thought. A real expensive eyesore. She didn’t think it was Kingsley’s fault: the place probably always looked like this no matter who was installed as consigliere. She noticed it was in a better part of town, though; the air along the river wasn’t as gray or smoggy.
The doorman told them they were expected, and ushered them into the elevator.
When the doors opened, Mimi and Oliver found themselves standing in the foyer of a magnificent apartment with a curved, three-story staircase. A group of troll servants dressed in uniform stood in a row: butlers and footmen in livery, the maids and cooks in black dresses with starched aprons. All of them were wearing silver chokers with the sigil of the house engraved on the front.
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