Ronnie opened her eyes wide in shock, every inch of her screaming in pain. She struggled to catch her breath, but she couldn’t gasp, despite her need for air. Sit up. She had to sit up. Except she couldn’t do that either. Her body wasn’t responding to her instructions.
“Wow. That must suck.” Her own voice drifted to her ears. But she hadn’t said anything.
“You’re a bit slow on the uptake, aren’t you?” Ronnie’s voice said.
“Metatron?”
“Suddenly I’m not the voice anymore? Tell me, how does it feel to be the one stuck on the inside? Oh wait, you can’t talk. Ha.”
Ronnie needed to wake up. Knock herself out of this dream. Get back control of herself.
“Not necessary, not happening, and fuck you.”
Her body was moving—rolling out of bed, tugging on a pair of shorts, wandering into the kitchen for coffee—it was all familiar. But she wasn’t doing any of it. She watched as someone else drove her. She didn’t know how Metatron gained control. Was it because Ronnie let her guard down to sleep? Because she was distracted by the dream?
“What should I do today?” Metatron mused aloud in Ronnie’s voice. “Maybe watch a little TV, have some tea, devour your soul.”
“What the hell?”
A laugh rumbled through her. It shook her chest, made her smirk, but emotionally, Ronnie wasn’t amused. “I’m kidding, of course. I know you’re a coffee girl.”
Fuck this. Ronnie didn’t care how Metatron wrested control. Apparently, whatever she’d struggled to hold back for the past few days was more serious than she realized. There was no way she was surrendering her life to a disembodied voice with some long-dead angel’s name. Ronnie’s determination rolled under Metatron’s wicked amusement.
“You’ve lost your say in this matter.” Ronnie’s fingers flicked on the stereo. She closed her eyes as the rhythm flowed through her, and the carpet caressed the soles of her feet as she danced.
Something flickered behind her eyelids. It was a visual of the electric web filling her body. Ronnie wasn’t sure how she knew, but she was certain the power wasn’t hers. There was a good chance it belonged to Metatron, and while it was a shot, Ronnie hoped it connected the two of them. Either way, it was going to go. She would’ve smiled if she could.
“Stop.” Metatron said.
“No.” Ronnie was taking her body back.
“Oh, come on. Really? Who says it’s yours?”
Ronnie was done negotiating with the stowaway. She focused inward on the black strands, the way she extracted a cherub from a human. It might not be the right thing to do, but her knowledge was limited, so she went with what she knew.
The pieces Ronnie thought of as the voice ran far and deep in her veins. Shit. She’d never dealt with cherub so integrated with a human host. She grasped at loose wisps and pulled them toward the center of her being. She tugged mentally, and searing pain rippled through her. As the invading threads receded, invisible razors sliced across her back and legs.
The pain snapped Ronnie from the excruciating ritual. Metatron’s presence raced back in, chasing away the oppressive pain. Metatron’s threatening electricity rocked Ronnie’s entire frame.
“Mine,” Metatron taunted her. Ronnie knew what cherubs did to their hosts; training said the host persona eventually ceased to exist. If Metatron was a cherub—and really, what else could she be—was Ronnie about to lose herself forever, inside her own head?
“For the last time, I’m not a fucking cherub.”
No. Ronnie wasn’t going to let that happen. Anger fueled the vow. Whatever Metatron was, Ronnie wasn’t going to let her glide in here and steal what little life she remembered.
Whether it was Metatron’s temper tantrum or something else, Ronnie anticipated the pain this time. She focused on the wisps threatening her.
She grasped the strands weaving through her body and mentally yanked.
Agony sliced her, and her entire body felt as if it was shredded an inch at a time. Heavy breathing reached her ears. Panting, but she didn’t feel it. And then she did. Breathlessness accompanied the pain. She gritted her teeth, and her jaw responded, enamel grinding on enamel. Ronnie was winning.
“Please don’t. I’ll be good. I’ll behave. I’ll let you stay in control. Please?”
The begging made it easier to stick to her decision, and not hearing someone else use her voice pushed her past the mounting agony. She wasn’t going to lose herself to a hitchhiker…or whatever she was. She steadied her breathing and pictured the web as it tangled with who she was.
She grasped the last bits of Metatron, fighting back a scream as the ethereal pain threatened to consume her. She wound the foreign strands into a ball, and then boxed it into a back corner of her mind.
“Please don’t. Please. I can’t.”
A soft sobbing echoed in her head. She reined in the voice. Metatron’s crying grew into panicked hiccups, making her wince. Why did Ronnie feel so bad about fighting her back? Was the entity already that integrated with her? She didn’t know how much time passed, but the eviction left her drained.
Ronnie dropped back against the nearest wall and slid to the floor. She opened her eyes, forcing herself to recognize the apartment around her—the battered kitchenette, the orange easy chair, the mattress on the floor. She held her arms stretched out in front of her. How did they look so clear when they were on fire? Right. It wasn’t real.
She should do something about the pain. She should… Her mind didn’t work. A portion of it was ripped away. What should she do? Go out. That made sense. If the pain was in her apartment, she’d go somewhere else. Donuts. She liked those. She’d go get donuts.
She slipped on a pair of sandals and phased out of her apartment. Milliseconds later she landed in front of the convenience store.
The doors slid open, and artificial air rushed over her skin. She nodded at the clerk but didn’t make eye contact. It took concentration to remember who she was and what she was doing while maintaining some picture of sanity. The donut case was empty. Despair pricked her eyelids, and she blinked back the abrupt and irrational desire to cry. They were just pastries, not worth getting worked up over.
“Prepackaged works in a pinch.”
She nudged the taunt aside, wishing she could eliminate the pain with a simple thought as well. She refused to hear Metatron mocking her failure, or experience her glee at her minor victory. She grabbed a plastic-wrapped package of something frosted and cream-filled. Her throat ached, and her eyes burned with unshed tears she couldn’t explain as she made her way back to the counter. She swallowed and forced a smile while she paid.
“Miss, are you all right?” The cashier’s question was distant compared to the chaos assaulting her mind.
“Let me out.”
Violent sparks pulsed in time with the demand. Shaking her head, Ronnie phased out of the store. She barely found the presence of mind to cloud the cashier’s thoughts and make her disappearance seem inconsequential as she vanished. She didn’t know where she was going, but she couldn’t stay there. Fuck. Where was I going?
The nothingness of being intangible soothed her burning flesh in a way she wasn’t used to, filling the invisible cuts. She needed this to stop now.
It only took a second of deliberation to settle on a destination. Hell.
“No.” Metatron’s command rang in Ronnie’s ears and rattled her skull.
“Shut up.”
Ronnie appeared in the ethereal realm and wrapped herself in the soothing energy. Too bad she wouldn’t be there long. Lucifer would drag her somewhere they wouldn’t be overheard, to drown her in a lecture disguised as sympathy, and things would go back to normal.
“At least you’re realistic.”
“Shut up.” She told herself the voice wasn’t there. Metatron didn’t exist.
Unlike Earth, a physical place, hell was ethereal at its core. The plane of existence didn’t have any shape or form outside what its inhabitant
s assigned it. A lot of the older demons kept a permanent home there, even if they were allowed to spend their time on Earth, because it was easier to bend things to their will. Rumors suggested some of them shaped their corners of hell into beautiful places with forest groves, sweeping fields surrounded by mountains, and glorious castles.
Ronnie didn’t know if it was true—or at least she didn’t remember—but any of those spots must be better than the sterility of the main offices. Tile stretched as far as the eye could see, meeting off-white walls broken up by the occasional door.
At least that made it easy to find Lucifer’s office. She had no idea where the other doors led, but unlike the rest of the flat, beige boredom, his door was textured, stained a rich maple color, and sported a gorgeous tree carved into the oak. No other like it in the endless hallway. She knocked on the worn wood and waited. She tapped her toes on the tile, and drummed her fingers against her leg. Nothing. She knocked louder, and irritation crept over the tentative calm settled around her.
She growled at the lack of response. She needed answers. Now in hell, the comfortable power pouring over her helped her clear her head and wrap her thoughts around what happened.
She didn’t know what caused Metatron’s takeover, but sleep kept Ronnie from actively trying to block Metatron from her mind. Could the odd dream be related? Whether that was the case or not, she didn’t dare sleep until she figured things out. If there was a chance of it happening again—
The door in front of her swung open, and she jumped in surprise.
“Ronnie?” Lucifer studied her, brow furrowed. “It’s the middle of the night in Nashville.”
“I know, but I had this dream, and then the voice…” She clamped her mouth shut. He didn’t know what happened over the past few days. If she wanted to appear sane at all, especially since she was about to complain about problems with the voice in her head, she should at least try to be coherent. “I couldn’t sleep. The details could take a while to explain.”
“Let’s go get coffee, and you can tell me about it.”
Her neck loosened at the concern in his tone, and some of her tension ebbed. “I want to, but no.” Ronnie hovered in the doorway. She wanted to be in his office surrounded by the familiar. He told her once that before she became a full-fledged demon—before he gave her the name and the job that allowed her to manifest physically—she served him exclusively. She spent a lot of time hanging out in this small room. He said her loyalty was why he gave her special attention. Her paranoia, courtesy of Metatron, wondered if that was the whole truth. “Can we just stay here?”
He stepped aside. “Of course.”
She was still on edge, distressed from the dream and waking up possessed—she didn’t know what else to call it—but the pain of snatching control of her body from Metatron was fading. She must have imagined Lucifer brushing her off the last time she was here. His greeting tonight was more like what she was used to. She settled into the chair across from his desk and tucked her legs underneath her.
He stayed on her side of the desk and leaned back against it. “What’s going on?”
“I had this dream.” The memory rushed back, and images lit her skin on fire with lust and pain. Honesty was one thing, but there might be bits of the dream she didn’t need to get explicit about. “It was nice and peaceful and serene, and then Michael ran me through with a sword.”
The twitch in Lucifer’s expression was so slight, she might have imagined it. The way his eyes narrowed, the purse of his lips. “Are you having trouble with the new management at work?”
It was a reasonable question from someone who didn’t know the details of her life over the last few days. So why did she feel as if he should have asked something else?
“Because you’re more observant than you like to admit.”
And she was back. “Not really. I still hate Raphael. But I’m pretty sure that’s not related.”
“No, that sounds pretty status quo.” The corner of his mouth tugged up.
His smile beat back any sneaking reservations she had. “But there’s more. Remember last time I was here I said I’d heard a voice?”
“Yes…”
She shook away her suspicion at his measured response. He was waiting for her to explain, that was all. “When I woke up after the dream, I wasn’t in control of my body. It was.”
He crossed his arms. “I see.”
Shit. He thought she was crazy. She never should have told him. Was it too late to say just kidding?
“Probably.”
Stupid non-existent voice she was ignoring. “That’s it? I just told you I’m hearing a voice, and it’s making me do things against my will.” She couldn’t help the desperation that crept into her tone.
“I’m still processing. It’s got to be terrifying for you. I’m sorry. Does she call herself anything?” He unfolded himself and rubbed her arm, his tone kind.
The question made her grind her teeth, and she wasn’t sure why. Maybe because up to this point, she hoped the nuisance was some kind of cherub, and those didn’t have names. Did this mean her problem was common after all? That wasn’t reassuring. “Do most voices call themselves specific names?”
“I don’t know about most. It happens.”
“And do a significant percentage of them claim to be a destroyed and dishonored angel? Like, say, Metatron?”
His shoulders stiffened “And she took control of your body.”
“That’s what I said, yes.” Ronnie couldn’t read his body language enough to know what it meant, but she knew it wasn’t the comforting encouragement he exuded when she arrived. Did he think she was crazy? Was he upset? Was it because of the name?
“Or maybe, it’s because he misses me, and he’s sad you’re here instead.”
“Not cool.”
He shoved away from the desk, raking his fingers through his hair, no longer meeting her gaze. “But you could still think.”
Did he sound disappointed or was the lack of sleep making her paranoid? She wanted to believe it was the latter, but his behavior over the past few days told her he hid as much as he said. “Yes. That’s how I got control back. I’m okay, right?” She didn’t want to whine, but she couldn’t help it.
“Do you still hear her now?”
“Notice how he doesn’t call me it?”
Ronnie had, and that sent ants crawling over her skin. And why wasn’t he answering her question? She wanted reassurance, not redirection. “Yes.”
“Are you ever confused about which thoughts are the voice and which are you?”
“I’m not insane.” Ronnie barked out the retort before she could consider how it sounded. She bit the inside of her cheek and ducked her head. “Tell me you know what’s going on, please? That I’m all right.”
He kneeled in front of her. “You’re fine. And you will be…fine.”
She wanted to be comforted. Needed it so bad, but she couldn’t ignore the hitch in his voice. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s lying.”
“Why are you so certain?”
“Prince of Lies. Also, experience.”
Ronnie needed to believe Lucifer. He was her link to answers. To home. “You promise you’ll tell me if you find out anything?” she practically begged. She didn’t like this helplessness.
He rose then moved to the seat across from her. “Go home, get some sleep. And make sure you let me know if things change.”
She swallowed hard as she realized he avoided her question again. Fuck. Metatron was right. “Sure. Okay.”
“You have to be at work in a little bit. You can sleep here on the couch if you want.” He sifted through a stack of paperwork in front of him, not looking at her.
Once upon a time, the offer would have tempted her. Half an hour ago, she probably would have said yes without hesitation. But she couldn’t shake the feeling he was lying to her. She just couldn’t vocalize her intuition enough to call him on it
. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for seeing me.”
If Lucifer was going to keep things from her, she’d find someone else to answer her questions.
“Gabe.”
If Ronnie thought Lucifer was being vague, Gabe made him look like an encyclopedia. “Someone who shares the answers they have.”
“Good luck with that.”
An image flashed through her mind, distinct and almost-tangible, of leaning into him. A pleasant shiver ran through her at the thought of his warm breath on the back of her neck. Now conscious, she realized it wasn’t her reaction. Physically, she wanted his hands roaming her body. Mentally? There was no connection.
She phased back to Earth, a few blocks from her apartment. It was still late. Or was it early now? The traffic, while thick, progressed at a decent clip. A blanket of velvet blocked the sun, but light peeked around the edges of the skyline.
Shops filled the older buildings—consignment clothing, coffee, art, a bakery she discovered when she first moved in.
Even if Izzy was still out of town, the chapel would be open. His janitor kept an eye on the place while he was gone, so people could congregate without him. Ronnie hoped he was back. He saw something in her when she visited the other day, and she needed to know more. Besides, in the few short months she’d known Izzy, she never found a reason to doubt him. He didn’t stare at her like a curiosity or tell her everything would be fine when it wouldn’t or make promises he didn’t intend to keep.
And his taste in men was wicked good.
She nudged the glass door, and it swung aside and then closed behind her without a sound. Silence swooped in and wrapped her in comfort. It felt wrong to do anything but tiptoe. She climbed the stairs to knock on his door.
Nothing.
She checked her phone. Almost six. Izzy liked insanely early hours. Maybe he was in the church? He was probably still in Fiji, but desperation and the need for a friend nudged her toward the chapel anyway.
She stepped through the doors. Two sections of pews stretched in front of her, one on either side. A pulpit stood at the head of the room. Izzy normally took the bench in front of it; he was more of a conversationalist than a preacher. The benches were worn like the walls outside, but clean and polished. The energy in the air was unique. Soft, sweet, and like satin against her bare arms.
Uriel's Descent (Ubiquity #1) Page 7
