by Inez Kelley
Her sneakers slid in the wet red and she crashed to her knees beside him. So much blood. The skin of his back was shredded, flapping open to expose the muscles beneath. The handprint between his shoulder blades looked like raw meat. He had blood in his hair, on his cheek, and she wanted to touch him but was afraid it would only bring him more pain.
“Oh my God, Erik.”
He pushed up to one elbow. “Get out of here, Lace!”
His strength faded, his arm giving way until his shoulder crashed down. She jumped to her feet and stalked to the bitch who’d hurt him, who stood even now with her whip tinged red. “How dare you!”
Sela didn’t flinch. “You are not welcome here.”
Whipping her finger to point at Erik, Lacy shrieked. “What did he do to deserve this? He cheated on me with you!”
When his boss said nothing, she whirled to his teammates. “He’s your friend. Why didn’t you stop her?”
Not a single man met her eye. Her cheeks trembled with the force of her barely held rage. Repulsion curled her lip. “You’re all cowards; sick, twisted, pathetic cowards.”
Erik struggled to all fours, his arms shaking. No one moved to help him. She whirled to go to him when Sela grabbed her arm. One powerful jerk spun Lacy to face her.
Something was wrong with her eyes. They weren’t normal. The gold swirled in them like a tornado. “Do you want to know what happened here tonight? Do you think you can handle the truth, you weak little girl?”
Every camel has a straw that breaks its back and, for Lacy, that was it. She drew her hand back and slapped Sela as hard as she could. The crack echoed in the vast room.
“Lacy, no!” Erik cried.
Sela merely smiled. “I’ll excuse that, for you have much to learn. Welcome to school.”
She waved her arm and air brushed along Lacy’s thighs. Lacy looked down with a gasp. Her clothes were gone. Now she wore a one-shouldered gown, a straight fall of black silk that skimmed the floor. Her fingers trembled over the material. It was so light, so cool, so glossy. Her brain spasmed.
What the hell?
Blinding bright light encased Sela. The whip disappeared. Her black hair shifted to a deep russet brown, her dress became a robe of shimmering gold. Pale brown wings stretched behind her as a radiant glow surrounded her entire frame. In her right hand, Sela gripped a sword of pure fire, the flames casting red and orange dancing shadows along her dress.
Lacy shrank back. Her knees gave way and she fell, scooting backward on her hands. Sela never blinked, her presence both beautiful and petrifying. Music chimed in Lacy’s ears, a chorus of multitudes and Sela was the soprano lead.
“Behold me, Lacy Nicole Cooper, as I was created at the dawn of time. I am Josiel, servant to the Creator of All, and these are my men who fight the usurpers of Paradise.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, wished the nightmare away, told herself she was having a severe hallucination. Nothing had changed when she peeled her eyes open.
“You’re an angel?”
“Men have named my kind as such, though we have many names. Some call us djinn or malak. Some say we are bodhisattva, still others claim we are devas. I am merely as He created me.”
I just slapped an angel? Holy shit.
The light dimmed until Lacy could see her clearly without squinting. Sela glided to Erik, who was still on all fours, his muscles quivering with the effort. She knelt, one hand reaching to stroke his hair with a gentle reverence that belied her earlier actions.
“Vike has risked all that he is to preserve your life.”
“What?”
Those swirling, mesmerizing eyes touched on her for one moment. The sword vanished from her hand and she held the empty palm to Lacy. It took every ounce of her willpower to make her arm rise, to place her hand against the glowing skin. Sela was warm, her flesh normal in texture, but the power that crackled along her bones stung like a static shock.
Sela bestowed a benevolent smile that was strangely soothing. A golden chair appeared and Sela led her to it, easing her down until Lacy sat, surveying the room like a queen.
“History is merely a collection of stories recorded by man. The victor paints the picture and shapes the telling according to his whims. Much of what you know to be truth is but one version of thousands. Will you listen now and make a choice for yourself what to believe?”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
Sela’s fingers brushed her cheek, a maternal comforting gesture. “Then listen with your heart, Lacy.”
Erik had pushed himself to his knees, sweat dripping down his face. His gaze was trained on the black hand cut into the marble. Sela ignored him, strolling before the golden seat, separating Lacy from the men who stood like sentries, none looking at her but over her head.
“The Creator of All designed both Heaven and this world and all who inhabit them. One, the first of His creations, grew prideful and arrogant. He challenged the Creator and drew others to his cause. While the battle raged, he came to the Earth and established his own realm of power. When those who had battled for him were cast out of Paradise, their number was one third of all Heaven’s warriors and as such, we call them the Third. They now hunt for you.”
Lacy forced her mind to function, to think. “So the Third who wants me dead are… demons?”
Sela canted her head. “No. Demon is a human word. They are merely rebuked Vangelus, or Angels as you call me. They’ve been stripped of their wings and cast out, banished from His Grace until they beg for forgiveness. The High Prince commands them and tries even now to overtake Paradise.”
“The High Prince? You mean the devil?”
A laugh rang out, like the tinkling of bells on a winter morning. “Some humans call him that, yes.”
Lacy fought a wave of deeply instilled fear, old childhood stories and nightmares bursting into memory. “Lucifer is real?”
“Lucifer was a star, named for a Babylonian king. Pay attention, Lacy. The evil you speak of, whom you identify as the devil, is the Ha-Satan and has but one name, Samael. He was the brightest and most beloved of all creation. But I’m straying from my story.”
Her gown trailed the marble with no sound, her bare feet moving with a dancer’s grace.
“To combat the threat against our celestial home, the Creator chose two warriors to lead the battle, one in Heaven and one here, on Earth. I am one of the two. To me was granted the power to choose from among all humanity, to find those warriors with the skills to defeat the greatest foe ever known.”
A fervor shone from Sela’s face. She spread her hands wide, encompassing her team with an elegant sweeping movement.
“Intelligence, bravery, and physical strength were not enough. I needed more. I chose each with care, with a specific talent needed to gain victory. Make no mistake, Samael is ruthless, without mercy, and would see the planet a charred hunk of rock to ensure his ultimate goal. I chose my men in the same fashion.”
Lacy dug her nails into the chair arms. “What do you mean chose them?”
Sela faced her with calm poise. “They lived as men. Were human. Were known for their prowess and their ruthlessness. History — that fickle, inaccurate record keeper — deemed them evil. They have their sins, as all men do, but the traits that cursed them in life are vital in this Holy War. After their natural deaths, I Awoke their souls and offered them a chance to repent and strive for a more lenient judgment come the End of Days.”
“They’re dead?” Lacy blinked, studying the men behind Sela. They looked alive to her, all robust and healthy, powerful and fierce. Even Erik, who hadn’t moved from his knees, was carved from solid rock, his muscles bulging with strength.
A full grin bowed Sela’s mouth. “They were and now they are not. First Death is merely the body. The soul sleeps and awaits Awakening. For most, that will come at the End of Days. For my chosen few, they were given a chance to use what man deemed wicked for a greater good. I Awoke them at their prime, the peak of their age, t
heir physical strength and their strategic best.”
Her smile faltered a bit, decreasing by half. “The number seventy-seven was given to me and I was so very selective, choosing only the best of the sinful. But the battle has raged for eons and many have fallen to Second Death at the hand of Samael’s followers. The six remaining are my finest, bravest and most beloved. Will you meet my warriors and judge them not as history has, on rumor and falsehood, but on what is in their hearts?”
No matter how many times she bit her cheek, blinked her eyes or wished it away, she couldn’t wake up. This was real. The torches stung her eyes with smoke and she could smell the thick copper of Erik’s blood mixed with the salt of his sweat. The silk that whispered against her thighs was real. Her mind shuddered in disbelief.
Sela crossed to Rex, her fingers stroking across his shoulders. “Cunning and an intimacy with politics drew me to this one. He possessed the nobility of lineage and the grit of a soldier. His entire life was a battle for survival shrouded in finery. Gaius Julius Augustus Germanicus was destined for greatness but became known as the mad, bad Emperor of Rome. His future was cut short and little remains of his name but ridicule over exaggerated exploits of his debauchery and incestuous relations with his sisters.”
She turned to Lacy with a saucy grin. “You would better know him as Caligula.”
Lacy’s gasp sucked in warm air. Rex lifted his face, refusing to acknowledge her shock. His gray-blue eyes sparkled, but he never once glanced at her. Ironically, she had no trouble imagining him as an Emperor of Rome. His snobbishness, his entitlement, his love of luxury all fit perfectly into that scenario. And she knew his sexual appetite was excessive but his sisters? That was just sick. Her stomach heaved.
She had to tear her focus away as Sela stepped to the next man. Myth towered over her, his almond-brown chest hard beneath her trailing finger. The snake on his skin shimmered in the torchlight until it looked like a living animal, embracing him in a deadly hug.
“A king, the greatest in the land of Uruk. He was never bested in battle, never lost a wager, never caved beneath social pressures. He waged war and the enemy crawled in fear for he spared no pity on the losers. Legend says so powerful was he that not one man interfered when he enacted his right of First Knowledge and raped the new brides of his generals. He dared to emulate the false gods of his time and seek eternal life. I granted his wish. His tale is one of the oldest epics recorded by history. School children are taught his name as Gilgamesh.”
Lacy’s heart pummeled her ribs. The ache spread until her breath came in short, hard pants. Sweat broke along her forehead and stuck the silk gown to her back. Myth was so eloquent, so refined, she had little trouble believing he’d been a king. But rape? She couldn’t process the incompatibility.
Omen lifted his head, his stubby tail wagging as Sela crossed to Nomad. His jaw thrust forward, a defiance that echoed in his spread-legged stance and crossed arms. The delicate fingers tripping over his biceps didn’t make them twitch.
“The first of my choices for my band of warriors, the first of many things. One of the most despised names in history. He built a city when the concept was unheard of, mastered the Earth and its bounty.” Her hand fell to Omen’s broad head. “The popular biblical accounts say he was cursed with a mark. A mistranslation of the word owth, actually. He was protected from death by an omen. In his time, his name was Qayin, but you would know him better as the Father of Murder, the first man who killed, Cain.”
Nomad’s livid glare nailed fast to her, pinning her with an almost physical hit. Lacy had grown up hearing the Bible stories but in her adult life assumed they were metaphors, allegories to teach a lesson. Now she sat not ten feet from the first murderer ever. Revulsion wrinkled her nose. She’d die for her sister, could not imagine ever deliberately hurting Annie.
Dray tilted his face into Sela’s palm, his eyes closing as she stroked his cheek. “The last of my chosen, the final precious gift I held until just the right warrior was born and had died. Thousands perished under his rule but he never wavered, never veered from what he believed in his heart was right. Mercy was unknown to him and for this, his name sparked terror in the hearts of an entire generation and beyond. Even today, few alive cannot tell you of the embellished exploits of Wladislaus Dragwlya. History calls him the Tepes, the Impaler, or more commonly Vlad Dracula.”
Dracula. He was real? Lacy shook her head, trying to erase all the movie images of fangs and bats and coffins. She knew Bram Stoker’s novel was supposedly based on a real prince, the real Vlad Dracula, but to have him standing in front of her, his dark green eyes hard and his mouth wedged tight was unfathomable. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that the man who devoured gummy worms by the pound was the same man who’d dined in a field of thousands of impaled enemies.
Clasping her hands over her racing heart, Lacy shook her head. This was too much, too horrific. These men who she’d cooked for and laughed with, trusted with her life, they were evil. It took all her willpower to lift her eyes as Sela walked to Zale.
She didn’t touch him, instead looking up into his face with an almost apologetic expression. Lacy braced for the unknown.
“My leader, the general to my warriors, my right hand in battle. He was created in perfection, gracing the streets of Paradise beside myself and other Vangelus, as the leader of the Seraphim Guard. He was cast out, cursed to the Earth and –”
“Satan!”
Lacy shrank back, her thighs digging into the golden seat. Now she knew where she’d seen the cruel perfection of Zale’s face, why it filled her with fear and dread. It had been captured in artists’ renditions throughout history. His dark, deliciously cool and handsome face only lacked the pointed goatee to be the classic embodiment of the Devil.
“No!” Zale spat.
Sela did touch him then, laying a restraining hand on his arm. “He was cast out, but not for fighting with the Third. A lie to protect his friend cost him his wings and as punishment, he is unable to voice another lie, not even to save his life. He never bowed before the Ha-Satan, not even when offered riches and wealth. For this, Samael, the master of trickery, adopted Zale’s countenance for over a century. It’s his face that has been portrayed as the human devil throughout history. In Paradise, he was called Azazael. On Earth, he was known by no name, just a title, one he gave himself, Ba‘al Zebûb… Beelzebub. He was called the Lord of Flies or The Death Bringer.”
Zale’s gaze dared her to mock him, to speak out. She had no words. Her stomach surged but there was nothing to expel and only a vile taste flooded her mouth. It was too much, too ugly to comprehend. They couldn’t be guilty of such cruelty, such despicableness. They were protecting her, made sure she felt welcomed and safe and had checked on her sister. Or was all that a lie as well?
There was only one man left to identify, one man she didn’t want to learn about.
Erik’s shoulders were pulled back, his chin lifted in defiant pride. Bloodied, beaten and braced for the worse, he wasn’t ashamed. He didn’t cower or shy away, looking straight ahead, prepared for whatever was handed to him. Fists knotted to white-knuckled hammers on his thighs, he struggled to pull himself to a stand.
Sela waited until he was on his feet then rested her hand on his shoulder, where no wound marred his skin. “My fierce Berserker. When violence was praised and conquerors ruled, he was a king. History and the Fagrskinna sagas claim his hunger for battle was overshadowed only by his lust for power. Latin texts calls him fratris interfector and state that, to ensure his throne, Eiríkr Haraldsson murdered nineteen of his twenty brothers. It earned him the title Eric Bloodaxe.”
The room spun. Dizziness descended and Lacy swayed in the chair, gripping the arms to keep herself upright. Nineteen. He’d killed nineteen brothers. All for power and position. It couldn’t be true. Not him. Not the man who protected her, made sweet love to her, smiled at her with that ‘I’m bad and you love it’ smile.
“Tell me it’s
a lie. Please, Erik. Tell me you didn’t kill your brothers.”
Erik closed his eyes. “I can’t tell you that, Lace.”
Lace.
Gripping the armrests, she levered herself out of the chair. Her eyes were gritty with tears. A weird numbness settled and she vaguely wondered if it was shock. Salt tinged her lips as she licked out. Something primal in her marrow urged her to move, to escape.
“I can’t think right now. I… I have to go.”
No one made a move to stop her as she stumbled toward the elevator. The magnificently simple and elegant silk gown disappeared in a blink, replaced with new, stiff jeans splattered with blood. Lacy’s eyes connected with Erik’s.
A plea lay buried under the steely gray but she couldn’t give him an answer. She jammed the Close button and let the doors slide shut.
His valkyrja had looked him in the eye and fled. Pain radiated through Vike’s back but the ache in his chest hurt worse. Their secrets had all been laid bare and she walked away. Love always hurt. He never learned.
More raw on the inside than his shredded skin, he took a step toward the elevator and his knees turned to water. Rex and Nomad caught him before he hit the marble. A hiss seeped from his lips as they lifted his arms, draping them over their shoulders. He leaned on his friends, as he had for centuries. These were the only people he could trust.
All but one. He caught Zale’s quiet stare. “I won’t forget you voted against her, Zale.”
The leader merely nodded, acknowledging his words. When the elevator doors opened, the trio limped inside but he heard Dray’s low question. “She knows now. What happens if she can’t accept who we are?”
Sela’s voice was soft but firm. “Then I will take care of her.”
Chapter Seventeen
Lacy stared at the elevator panel for a long moment. Her brain was numb, rapidly shutting down from emotional overload. The other part chanted to run, to hide, to keep herself safe. Safe from what? An angel and her wicked henchmen? In what fairytale did that shit make sense? Disney, Mother Goose and Hans Christian Andersen had missed a story or two. The Brothers’ Grimm, however, had a goldmine just waiting to be written.
