by J. Kenner
"Is this okay, Officer?" I asked, in my most innocent voice. And then, before he could answer, "How about this?"
I brushed my lips over his, moving my body in closer as I did so. He was tense at first, and I tried to relax. Tried to exude sex and pleasure and sensual allure. I've never been a flirt, much less a flirt with serious mojo, so trust me when I say that it was a new thing for me. But it worked. Somehow, I managed to pull it off. I know because he opened his mouth under mine. He sighed, and the hand left the gun to slide around my waist.
Success flowed through me, all warm and gooey, but I realized then that I didn't know what to do next. Yes, I'd managed to enthrall the man, but so what? I still needed to find Deacon. So what was I supposed to do with this guy in the meantime?
His tongue slid into my mouth, and he pulled me tight against him, his growing erection suggesting that he'd be open to pretty much whatever I suggested. Cars rolled by, slowing and honking. Undoubtedly there would be pictures of this cop kiss all over the Internet any second. I hoped the poor guy wouldn't get fired, but since my bigger goal was preventing the Apocalypse, his employment issues weren't my primary concern.
Getting on with finding Deacon was, though, and I gently pushed him away. "Someplace a little more private, maybe?"
"Please," he whispered, the sound low and guttural, with no indication that he was fighting. Nothing to suggest that he wasn't willingly going with the program.
A bitterness welled up in me, and I almost laughed. Weak-minded idiot. I frowned, not liking the direction of my thoughts. I was using this man, and I scorned him? What was wrong with me?
I almost broke the connection, but common sense prevailed. "Motel," I said. "The Dublin." I rattled off the name of a dive I knew on the other side of the bridge. The place was a hotbed of iniquity, and I'd done more than my share of product trafficking in the dimly lit lobby. At the very least, maybe this guy could bust someone and call the evening a success.
"Now," he said, sounding desperate.
"I'll follow you."
"Here," he said, pulling me closer, displaying a strength I wouldn't have guessed from the skinny frame. "Now."
O-kay...
Maybe I'd turned the charm on a little too high?
"Soon," I said, trying to ratchet back without cutting him off. "And with privacy."
"Screw privacy," he growled, then reached down to cup my crotch.
I jumped, because I totally wasn't expecting that, and when I did, the connection snapped. "What the fuck?" he said, and I took a step back, reaching for my knife as he reached for his gun.
I got to mine first, pressing the tip up under his chin. "Still," I said. "Don't fucking move."
Fury flared in his eyes, and for a moment I wondered whether he was going to survive this little encounter with Lily Carlyle, Über-chick. Because that look in his eyes sparked something in me, and I wanted him dead. I wanted him gone. I wanted his blood spilled on the asphalt, and I wanted to tilt my head back and revel in the scent of it.
Oh God . . .
I took a step back, disgusted with myself, and as I did, his hand closed over the gun. I drew in a sharp breath, my body bracing for the bullet's impact. But it didn't come. Instead, he let out a wail of pain so intense I thought it would burn up my soul.
Out of instinct, I jumped back, my knife tight in my hand, and I saw then the cause of his pain—a sharp blade protruding from his groin. And before I even had time to process that horror, the blade ripped upward, slicing the officer straight down the middle. The halves of his body fell away, revealing a wiry demon crouched behind him, his overlarge teeth forcing his mouth open in a perpetual sneer.
"Bitch," he growled, though I could barely hear him over the squeal of tires and the crunch of metal hitting metal as cars careened to a stop beside us.
"Holy shit—"
"What is that thing—"
"I'm going to be sick—"
"Call 911. Somebody call 911!"
The explosion of voices swirled around me, but I stayed focused on the creature that was lashing out at me with the long, lethal blade.
"Pretty neck on the pretty girl. Cut the neck, take what's around the neck. Take the head, too." Thick, green slime oozed from its mouth as it spoke, and even though I'm Über-girl with my powers and my chutzpah, I'll totally admit that I was scared shitless. Because this dude meant business.
And the really scary part? He had nothing to lose. Beneath the thin fur that covered his lanky, wolflike body, the mark of the Tri-Jal burned bright. A snake consuming its own tail.
The Tri-Jal were the worst of the worst. Demons who were little more than attack dogs serving their masters' bidding. So far, I'd only seen Tri-Jal demons with the mark hidden at the base of their neck, beneath a fall of hair. Tri-Jals that still had enough sense of self that they could move among humans.
But this demon . . . Well, it was nothing but a servant, and its master had branded it as such.
So I was wary, yeah.
But I'd be lying if I didn't say that I wanted it, too. Wanted the fight. And wanted to absorb the essence of one of the baddest of the bad.
I lunged, only to find myself immediately yanked backward. I yelped, then heard the leather of the sword scabbard snap. I was free, and I whipped around to find that the demon had brought his buddy to the party—a second snarling, wolflike creature was right behind me, an identical brand upon his chest.
Worse, the new addition to the party had my scabbard, not to mention my sword. Fuck.
Not thrilled by this turn of events, I dove to the ground—my left hand closing around the hilt of the gun dropped by the eviscerated officer. I rolled onto my back, and fired two shots in quick succession, managing to nail the new demon right in the gut. The force of the blast knocked him backward, and although I knew that a gunshot wasn't going to kill the demon, it was damn sure going to slow him down.
My first friend, however, wasn't slowed in the least by my attack, and he lashed out at me with his blade. I thrust up with my left hand, blocking it with the gun, the clang of metal against metal harsh against my ears and the force of the blow reverbing down my entire arm.
He thrust again, and I rolled to the side, the point of his blade landing so close to my ear I could feel the swoosh of air as the steel passed. "The key," he hissed. "Give me the key and keep your neck."
"Fuck you," I said, whipping my leg out so that he fell back. I hurled myself at him, wanting the fight. Wanting the power. And, yeah, wanting to nail the gnarly little beast who'd gone and made an already screwed-up day that much worse. I landed hard on his chest, then slammed the gun against the side of his face, relishing the sound and feel of the skull bones cracking under my blow. He howled, and as he did, I thrust my right hand—and my blade—straight into his heart.
Around me, I heard the cries of bystanders—Oh God, oh God, oh holy God—but they meant nothing to me. Though mere feet away, those people belonged to another world. Another world that didn't want this life and didn't need to see it. A world I told myself I wanted to return to, or at the very least wanted to protect, if not for myself, then for Rose.
Except right then I didn't.
Right then, I wanted the dark. The demonic essence. The blackness that had filled the beast, as thick and dark as the familiar black goo that oozed out of him.
And even as life ebbed from him, the dark filled me up. I tried to fight it, because this darkness was beyond anything I'd experienced before. The coarse pain of the Tri-Jal. The sweet pleasure of torment. The need to rip, to rend, to destroy utterly.
I tried to stand, tried to fight, but I couldn't. The world was red.
Raw.
It was pain and fury, and I wanted to lash out and kill. I wanted to fucking destroy, starting with the loudmouthed sheep who stood on the bridge bleating like useless little children. Run, I screamed in my head. Run from me. Run far; run fast.
I heard the wail of approaching police cars, and through my hazy vision I coul
d see the lights of the four approaching vehicles. An elderly woman in front of me thrust her hand out, pointing at my face, then opened her mouth and screamed loud enough to wake the dead.
And sure as hell loud enough to knock me out of my funk.
I wanted to tell her that I wasn't the scariest thing out there, but I honestly wasn't sure of that anymore. I looked normal, after all, but the dark was in me. And that was pretty damn scary.
The people beside her took up the cry, and, too late, I realized that it wasn't me to which they were pointing—it was what was behind me.
I whipped around and found myself face-to-face with the demon I'd shot. Needless to say, he was a bit ticked off, and was showing his displeasure by coming at me hard and fast with a sword identical to his buddy's.
My reflexes are pretty damn fast these days, but apparently they aren't fast enough. Because even though I thought I'd moved within a split second of seeing him coming, still the sword went straight through me, sliding in just under my rib cage on my left and emerging through the soft fleshy part at my waist on the right side. The demon was close, his stench nearly overpowering, and he wrapped his free arm around me, holding me tight, and pressing so hard against my knife hand that I couldn't move it.
I still had the gun, though, and as we were positioned, the muzzle was pressed hard against his belly. I pulled the trigger, anxious for those few seconds when he would flinch in pain and I could take advantage of his surprise to get free.
But absolutely nothing happened.
No bullet, no smell of gunpowder, no horrific eardrum-bursting blast.
Just one measly little click.
I was screwed.
More specifically, I was skewered. A human shish kebob entwined with a demon, unable to move, to run, or to fight.
Worse, I knew what was coming—the quick thrust upward with that lethally sharp blade. The same exact thing that had happened to the officer, who was moldering, dead, on the hard concrete surface.
Only me? I wouldn't be dead. Disemboweled. Doubled. Fucked-up for life and in constant, eternal, horrible pain.
But I wouldn't be dead.
And like the thought of burning forever in hell, that scared me even more than the monster holding the sword.
9
I tried to struggle, but it was useless, and when I felt the demon's muscles tense, I knew the end was coming. He was too strong, and I wasn't ready for this. Wasn't ready to be thrust into pain and torment and—
Swoosh!
Something hard and fast swooped through the air and tackled us, the force of the blow knocking the demon backward and wrenching his hand free. I collapsed to the ground—the sword still penetrating my flesh, the pain downright agonizing—but I was in one piece, and I figured that counted for a lot.
I rolled to my side, fighting the pain and determined to see my savior. And, yeah, to get the damn sword out of me so that I could fight the son of a bitch.
Of course, my mysterious flying blur of a savior was already down with the fight-the-son-of-a-bitch plan.
Deacon.
I smiled, the pain seeming to lessen simply by virtue of this one thing—one thing out of so many thousands—that had gone a little bit right.
Deacon had come to save me.
He was a man again, or at least mostly. He still had wings, thin yet strong, like the wings of an ancient beast or mythical monster. The rest of the monster was gone, though. At least physically. He might have Deacon's face and chest and coal black eyes, but the rage and fury—the pure intensity—that rolled off this new Deacon was ten times beyond anything I'd witnessed from him before.
He had no sword, and so he'd moved in close to the wolf-beast that had skewered me, tackling him, pummeling him—basically tormenting the creature even though slamming a blade through the beast would have easily done the trick. Deacon didn't want that, though—I could tell.
He wanted the fight. He wanted the fury.
He needed the brutality both to fuel and fight something dark that still grew within him. I understood that well enough; I'd been there myself.
At the moment Deacon could do whatever the hell he wanted because I was still stuck in place. That was an inconvenience I needed to remedy, and fast and so I held my breath, then grabbed onto the blade right where it entered my body. The metal was sharper than any advertised Ginsu knife, and it sliced my palms as I slowly drew it out, which had the added benefit of marking the blade as mine.
When I killed with it, the demons would stay dead.
I was so going to kill with it.
"Deacon," I yelled, as the Tri-Jal grabbed one of Deacon's wings, then thrust his fist through the thin, strong membrane that formed the actual wing. Deacon roared, low, furious, and full of pain and the promise of payback. I anticipated that he would exhale a gust of fire as he had with Penemue, but none came. Instead, he kicked out, thrusting the Tri-Jal backward before rising high into the air.
I didn't waste any time. I lunged forward, sliding the blade between the Tri-Jal's shoulder blades. It didn't die immediately, and I assumed I'd missed its heart
That simply wouldn't do.
Behind me, I heard the confused, horrified gasps from the crowd. I also heard the sirens and the voice of the police over the car's PA telling people to move along.
I thought that sounded like damn fine advice.
Then, of course, the voice shifted its attention from the crowd to me. "Drop the sword and step away, hands on your head."
I've never been one for following orders, and I wasn't inclined to start just then. At the same time, I wasn't keen on getting shot.
As I was a pedestrian on a bridge hundreds of feet over the Charles River, my options were limited. Plus, I wasn't keen on leaving the demon writhing on the end of my blade alive.
I told myself I didn't want him to hurt all those nice people. But that wasn't my sole motivation. It was that hit. The first Tri-Jal had freaked me, I'll admit. But having tasted it, I wanted it.
I wanted the demon to die, so I could have a taste of what was inside him.
And how fucked-up was that?
"Now!" the cop's voice boomed behind me.
But since "now" didn't work with my schedule, I did the next-best thing. I screamed for Deacon. A dangerous option with him balancing on the precipice between man and demon, but right then, I didn't think I had a choice.
For a moment, I feared he wouldn't come. Then he swooped down, his arms out, his body listing precariously to one side to favor the injured wing as he grabbed me and lifted, the movement pulling the sword free. I shouted in protest, urging Deacon back toward the demon. A risky move, since the eager officer had a better shot with us moving forward instead of up. Apparently the cop knew it, too, and he began firing off rounds. One grazed my hip, and from Deacon's sharp curse, I guessed that he'd been hit too. But for the most part, the shots went wild, a result that I supposed was to be expected under the circumstances. After all, the officer probably wasn't trained to fight pre-Apocalyptic demons. Considering the pudge around his waist, I think catching speeders was more his thing.
"Faster!" I shouted to Deacon, and soon we were going so fast that the world was a blur. I had only my instincts to go on, and so acted rather than analyzed, thrusting my blade out with the hope that this time it would land true, stabbing the beast through the heart. The kind of kill shot from which a demon doesn't recover.
I felt a quick jerk of resistance as the tip of the blade encountered the hard demon flesh. But after that, it slid in like butter. And, yeah, I got the bastard through the heart.
I knew, because I could see the black demonic goo.
More than that though, I knew because I felt it. That jolt. That delicious, welcome, horrific sense of power that welled within me. That was what I was. Power and strength, torment and fury. I was a goddamned force of nature and right then—when I had the power surging within me—that was exactly what I wanted to be.
Do you, Lily? Do you really?
I frowned, ignoring the voice in my head as Deacon carried me and my fast-dissolving cargo up, high enough so that we rose over the bridge's retaining wall and hovered over the Charles. I let the sword tilt downward then, and as a shocked gasp rose from the humans still freaked-out and watching, the body slid from my sword and fell into the choppy water.
I'd expected that would be the end of it.
I should have realized I was wrong.
Where the demon landed, the water seemed to bubble over. Deacon circled back, apparently as interested in the phenomenon as I was. And the folks on the bridge were pretty interested, too. I glanced in that direction and saw a whole crowd gathered against the concrete barrier, their heads bent over, their hands holding tight to cameras and video phones.
And far beneath us, a sight that I was certain would make the nightly news: bloodred water. All of the water.
I wasn't the only one who saw it; the confused murmur on the bridge made that clear enough, especially when a few choice words managed to break free of the din: Armageddon, the seven seals, portents, and though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no . . .
The last particularly caught my attention, not because of the words, but the tone. Strong and confident and not the least bit scared. I looked over and saw the priest's collar, and a knot of jealousy tightened in my stomach. He had faith, this man. He had faith that everything was going to turn out all right. That no matter what happened, in the end, he would be okay.
I wished I could share that belief. But I was on the front lines, and I knew there was no such clear-cut answer for me.
I wanted his faith. I truly did.
But I'd seen enough to know better.
Deacon swept us away through the Boston sky, finally tumbling to a halt on the roof of one of the bank buildings, his whole wing tucked closed at his back while the injured one remained open and lopsided. He stood looking at me, tall and stiff, muscles tight with barely controlled energy, his dark eyes flashing with fire.
