Eve of Destruction

by S. J. Day

  Raguel was borne into the depths of Hell in a gush of crimson, his body emerging through the widening gap in the Infernal’s gutted belly. He skidded along the hot stone floor, until the blood pool became too shallow to carry him further.

  “Brother,” Sammael greeted, his deep purring voice laced with malice and fury. “You owe me a dog.”

  Raguel rolled to his belly, then pushed up onto his hands and knees. His brother came at him in a blur of red wings and black velvet, kicking him in the gut and wringing a cry of pain past his lips. Raguel was returned to his back, gasping, but when the next attack came he was ready. He yanked his body to the side when Sammael’s cloven foot stomped down toward his face. Raguel’s wings burst free, spraying blood and launching him upward. He didn’t achieve sufficient height to fly, but he did regain his footing.

  Facing his brother with scarlet-stained feathers, Raguel struggled to stay upright without swaying. The air was sweltering, the stench of decaying souls cloying when mingled with the Mark blood seeping from the freshly killed Infernal.

  They seemed to be alone in a vast receiving room. The appointments were impressive—the vaulted ceiling with a replica of Michelangelo’s Fall of Man, the mosaic stone floor, the white marble walls, Corinthian columns, and the massive throne positioned beneath a chandelier that levitated and moved with Sammael. Statues of various historical figures—such as the Marquis de Sade, Hitler, and Stalin—decorated symmetrically placed alcoves that lined the walls. The room was the size of a football field, yet the Prince of Hell did not appear dwarfed by it. In contrast, Raguel felt small and helpless.

  He studied Sammael carefully, looking for any sign of the brother he had once known. Possessed of awe-inspiring beauty, Sammael had hair dark as ink, golden skin, eyes a brilliant green, and a mouth designed to lure the faithful to sin. The Angel of Death. He had once been the most favored archangel, trusted with the meting of punishments and the overseer of two million mal’akhs. Raguel had once admired and envied Sammael. Like Cain and Abel, Sammael did everything wrong while Raguel did everything right, yet Sammael had been loved in a way the other archangels had not.

  “A clever way to get what you wanted.” Sammael gestured to the fallen hellhound with a graceful wave of his hand.

  “Desperate is more apt.”

  “How did you know Havoc could only die by an Infernal’s hand?”

  “I did not know.”

  Sammael’s smile was icy. “You took a chance hoping I would save you rather than let you die and spark the war. Patience is not one of my virtues. Perhaps I am ready for Armageddon.”

  “I had no choice. Your beast was set on killing hundreds of mortals.” Raguel widened his stance for better balance and shook out his wings.

  Sammael smiled . . . and circled him. “With your blood-soaked wings you resemble me now, brother. Perhaps you will consider staying. I would love to have you.”

  Raguel laughed without humor, sidestepping to maintain the gap between them. He kept his gaze on his opponent, but he was always completely aware of his surroundings. Demons never played fair; they didn’t see the point. Winning was all, so an ambush was not only likely, but expected. A sudden apparition or a trapdoor. “Perhaps you will come home with me.”

  “Impossible. Father and I have fundamental differences in our views.”

  “Creation versus destruction,” Raguel murmured.

  “Coddling versus challenging.”

  “Generosity versus selfishness.”

  Sammael snorted. “Arrogance versus acceptance. We complete each other. Yin and yang.”

  “Up and down.”

  “It is not so bad here, is it?” A warm, seductive chuckle rumbled up from Sammael’s chest. “You look so disappointed. Did you think I was pining for His good graces? Did you believe the mere chance of begging, groveling, and giving up all autonomy would have me crying in relief?”

  “I am autonomous.” Raguel coughed, choking from the heated air.

  “Within the limits of a system I created here on earth. Where would you be without me?”

  It was a testament to Sammael’s charisma and powers of persuasion that Raguel could almost believe that his brother was happy in this mire he’d created for himself. But Raguel couldn’t shake the memories of the man Sammael had once been. A man like Cain—capable of dark acts, but for a just cause. “I am certain that I have yet to see the best of your hospitality.”

  “True. But we can rectify that,” his brother purred, his eyes sparking with malevolence.

  Raguel carefully extended claws from his fingertips, keeping his hands tucked behind his thighs. He couldn’t kill his brother. Not because he was restrained by sentimental reasons, but because Sammael had powers that terrified him. Still, he would not go down without a fight. “Why set the trap you did today?”

  Sammael tsked softly, twice as horrifying because his magnetism was enough to lure even the most frightened of souls like moths to a flame. Even a painful death was no deterrent. “Does that seem like my style to you, Raguel? Do you remember so little about me?”

  “Nothing stays the same. Change is inevitable.”

  “Not for Father. He never learns. Never grows.”

  They were circling each other, each move perfectly gauged. Sammael could be fully human in appearance, but he chose to wear hooves for effect. Each clopping step he took was like a gunshot in the quiet. There was no doubt that he was the predator and Raguel was the prey.

  “Why?” Raguel asked again, wondering why his brother seemed unconcerned about the death of his pet. Fact was, Havoc had been an unmitigated success, and if it was true that it was vulnerable only to an Infernal’s hand, then its loss should be a lamentable one to him.

  “It was a transgression, a show of cockiness by a lower-level demon flush with his first successes.”

  “Are you losing control of your domain?”

  “Never.” The word was spoken with such vehemence it reverberated through the room around them.

  The door at the far end of the chamber opened and Azazel entered. The archdemon had been Sammael’s lieutenant forever. He bowed before his ruler and waited to be acknowledged.

  “You will see for yourself,” Sammael said, his focus still on Raguel, “since you will not be leaving. I cannot kill you . . . yet, my brother, but I can keep you. And I shall.”

  “My liege,” Azazel murmured. “Forgive the intrusion. I bring news of importance.”

  Sammael’s growl echoed through the vast space. He turned his back to Raguel and stormed away, his form changing as he moved into that of a fully realized man in Tudor-era hose with waistcoat, doublet, jerkin, and gown. His hair was long, past his shoulder blades, and it moved as a separate entity. Lifting and shifting as if caressed by a breeze. But the air was sulfuric and stagnant here. Oppressive.

  The Prince of Hell took his throne, lounging with long legs extended and arms draped over the thick, carved wooden armrests. He was majestic, and as graceful as a feline. “What is it?”

  Azazel approached. Aside from similar height and build, he was as opposite from Sammael as opposite could be. His hair and eyes were white, his skin like ivory. Dressed in breeches and doublet of silver and blue, he looked as cool as the snow . . . in a place as hot as Hell. “Cain has been advanced to archangel and placed as head of the North American firm.”

  Raguel stumbled, the room suddenly spinning around him. He had been gone only hours . . .

  His gaze shifted wildly, his brain struggling to catch up with the ramifications. He saw the dead beast on the floor; its massive body lying on its side, its opened gut still oozing gore. Its legs were sprawled, its male genitalia clearly visible.

  He froze.

  Why have reproductive organs? Unless it had a mate . . . ?

  “See how easily you are replaced?” Sammael gloated with a triumphant smile lighting his darkly beautiful face. “Discarded and forgotten. Expendable. Where is the love and loyalty Father promised you all of your life?�
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  Raguel spread his wings for balance as the room began to spin. Did no one find and recognize the clues he’d left behind? Did they think he was dead to them . . . lost forever?

  Why Cain, of all the Marks? Once again, Jehovah favored one who was far less than perfect. Raguel would not have chosen him as his successor.

  “What are your orders?” Azazel asked.

  “Orders?” Sammael made a careless gesture with a flick of his wrist. “I have none.”

  “None?” The archdemon glanced at Raguel.

  “My brother’s presence does not hold my tongue. This is cause for celebration, not alarm. Cain is removed from the field. Raguel has learned how little he means in the grand scheme of things.” Sammael stroked his chin thoughtfully. “However, it does me little good to keep Raguel if it is believed that he is dead. The word of his capture can be spread, of course.”

  “And quickly,” Azazel added.

  “Yes. But I think it might be more effective to return him to a world in which he has lost importance. I will have to consider the matter further.” Sammael’s malice-laced smile was riveting. “You can always choose to stay of your own accord, brother. I welcome you with open arms.”

  “Never,” Raguel spat.

  Sammael snapped his fingers and Raguel found himself contained in a cage suspended over the fiery pits of Hell. Smoke, ash, and heat billowed upward and wrapped him a cocoon of torment. But what was worse was the dead space inside him that he hadn’t noticed while consumed by fear.

  For all of his life, his mind and heart had been filled with a steady influx of orders from the seraphim, reports from handlers and mentors, and the occasional comment from Jehovah himself—new assignments for his Marks, reports and receipts, commentary and encouragement. It had sounded like the faint buzzing of hundreds of flies, a steady hum that was the rhythm of his existence. The beat to which he marched, the tempo of his heart, the cadence of his life. The sudden awful silence within him was like a yawning black hole.

  Discarded. Forgotten. Expendable.

  Raguel sank to his knees and cried.

  Azazel approached his prince, his face schooled to impassivity so as not to give away his surprise. He would not have expected his liege to act so boldly in regards to the archangel Raguel. Terror and temptation were expected. Torture and imprisonment were not.

  He looked at the fallen hellhound and shook his head at the loss. “The boy is a loose cannon. He is a danger to us all.”

  Sammael smiled. “He thinks he is invincible and who can blame him? He was at ground zero in an explosion that took out an entire city block, yet he lives to cause more trouble.”

  “I request permission to kill him.”

  “Kill him? He walks among Marks as one of them. The glamour he wears is so perfect none suspect him. If he pulls this off, he will prove that we are being too cautious.”

  “He is an abomination,” Azazel said. “I would celebrate that fact, if he were not also an idiot.”

  “When his time comes, you may have him.” The prince stood. “In the meantime, we have many successes to relish. Our position has not been so favorable in a very long time.”

  Azazel shifted with unease. “Will you keep Raguel, then?”

  “No. I will hold him only long enough to despair and doubt his faith. The rest he will do to himself, because of jealousy and resentment. It is more fun that way.”

  “Cain’s advancement could be quite a coup for you,” the lieutenant agreed. “You might consider telling him the truth.”

  Sammael laughed. “I am still waiting for his mother to do the honors.”

  “After all these centuries? I doubt she intends to.”

  “The time will come,” Sammael said, his gaze dreamy and his thoughts on some future Azazel could not see. “When it does, all Hell will break loose. What a day that will be, my friend. What a day.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Alec didn’t shift directly into the Grimshaw compound. Instead, he paused at the convenience store across the street and studied the main entrance from a safe distance. He breathed with concentrated steadiness, willing his system to become accustomed to his long-repressed mal’akh power to shift from one location to another.

  From the exterior, the Charleston Estates gated residential community looked like many others. A fountain occupied the center of a circular drive. A guard station stood at the entrance. A tall stucco fence surrounded the entire perimeter, providing privacy for the homeowners inside. Mature trees dotted the winding streets, providing shade and an exterior appearance of tranquillity. While the developer’s brochure listed some upscale amenities—tennis courts, a helipad, and a concierge house—there was nothing to proclaim it as the domain of the Black Diamond Pack. But every single resident was a wolf under Charles’s command.

  It was ingenious, actually. An ideal way to keep tabs on his subordinates . . . and to ensure that secrets stayed secret.

  Like the Lebensborn-2 program.

  Thanks to Giselle, he had a fairly thorough map of the community in his mind. The Mare was frightened by his transformation to archangel and equally wary of what would happen if he were to be captured with the motel room key on his person. She would not fare well if Charles found her in the possession of Cain the Archangel. It wasn’t a risk she was willing to take, so he trusted that the map she drew him was as correct as she could make it.

  The question now was whether he should go to the kennel first and kill the hellhound pups, or whether it would be wiser to take out Charles, then deal with the Alpha’s mess. He glanced at his watch. It was quarter after two. Forty-five minutes until the conference call. This might have to be a reconnaissance mission. Get the lay of the land. Get out. Come back later.

  But he’d much prefer to strike during the day when the wolves least expected it, when they were at their laziest and most vulnerable. Maybe he would blow off the conference call instead. The other archangels weren’t expecting him. It might be better to allow them time to adjust to his new role.

  The sooner he finished this task, the sooner he could return to Eve. That was still his motivation, although it was a conscious decision rather than an emotional compulsion.

  He felt her. Tangibly. As if she stood beside him with her hand in his. But in reality it wasn’t his hand she was holding, it was Abel’s. He felt no personal response to that, a lack of reaction that made him feel like a stranger in his own skin. Worse yet, in lieu of his own feelings, he felt Abel’s—a brutal, covetous, consuming lust for Eve that fed off Alec’s connection to the hundreds of Infernals under Raguel’s command. The ties to the demons were thready, but what he did absorb was cool, dark, and very seductive.

  Alec could only conclude that just as the Novium found a loophole around the lack of physical response, his brain was finagling around the lack of emotional reaction. It was telling him that Abel’s feelings for Eve were his, not his brother’s.

  In short, he was screwed.

  Instead of the peaceful disassociation archangels enjoyed, he felt the frustration and lust that were Abel’s. Mixed with the confusion and heartbreak Eve was experiencing, Alec was suffering like a teenager with a megadose of pubescent hormones.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way; archangels were serene. But Eve’s Novium was throwing a wrench into everything, along with the fraternal bond between him and Abel, her affection for both of them, their pressing desire for her, and the triumvirate of mentor/Mark/handler. The whole morass was completely unique, creating an environment that fostered an anomalous connection that had to be addressed as soon as possible. With the overwhelming influx of information pouring into him from both the seraphim and Raguel’s Infernals, Alec didn’t have the energy left over for . . . angst. He felt as he suspected schizophrenics might, with hundreds of voices in his head telling him what to do and when to do it, while his own mind was telling him that Eve was still important to him no matter how he felt. Or didn’t feel, as the case may be.

  Archangels
weren’t supposed to experience romantic love. With everything else they dealt with, they weren’t equipped. They were kept detached by the hand of God, which is why they were discouraged from using their powers. The restriction was the most efficient way of cultivating the sympathy for mortals and Marks they would otherwise be incapable of feeling. But they had an advantage he lacked: they didn’t know what they were missing. It was easy to turn down something when you’d never had it. Far more difficult to resist something you were addicted to. While he didn’t feel the urge for a fix any longer, he still remembered what it felt like to be high and the sensations filtering in from Abel and Eve kept the memories potent.

  “Eve.”

  He wanted to reach out to her, but was afraid to. The connection to the Infernals had . . . awakened something. Like a hidden coiled serpent unwinding from its den and making its presence known. Alec was forced to feel Eve’s turmoil without the ability to comfort or explain.

  Until he finished here.

  Alec supposed he could assign a Mark to the task of killing Charles now that he was no longer a Mark himself, but he didn’t. Charles had killed Eve because of him. He would, therefore, be the one to avenge her.

  The kennel was where he decided to start. He could use the death of the pups as psychological warfare. Fear of Sammael’s retaliation would knock Charles off his game and give Alec another advantage. With luck, that would add a layer of unrest to Charles’s last day here on Earth and added torment when he returned to Hell.

  Alec shifted to the far side of the building, which was built off of the red-tile-roofed community center in the very heart of the compound. Children played in the nearby Olympic-size pool. Adults basked on white plastic loungers in the sun. It was a demon’s paradise and its existence was one of the reasons why Charles’s wolves were so loyal to him. It was also a warning to Alec—everything breathing within a two-mile radius wanted him dead with a vengeance.

  Reaching the rear double doors, which were made of reinforced steel, Alec attempted to shift inside and was prevented by a ward of some sort. He would have to get inside the old-fashioned way.