She sliced through front-and-center type maneuvers that kept the edge away from her wings. Breathless from the activity, and acknowledging this could be an opportunity to gain a measure of this angel’s respect, she asked, “Do you spar?”
Horror flickered across his features, but he covered it swiftly and shook his head. “I only make the weapons. Wielding them is your job.”
Jovienne’s newly kindled fire died. She swung the sword into an underhand grasp as she stalked past him and returned the blade to its scabbard. She crouched and searched through the duffel. Grasping a falchion, she sliced her finger on a stray dagger in the process. She sucked air through her teeth.
“Did I mention they’re sharp?”
She stuck the finger in her mouth to suck at the wound. She tasted the copper and cinnamon of her blood, but it didn’t hurt. She pulled it out to look at it. The cut was gone. “What the—”
“You have been blessed with a measure of angelic power. You are mostly immortal and cannot be permanently damaged by a sacred blade. Any injury inflicted upon you by such weaponry will instantly heal. Wounds made by demons, however, will not heal instantly. They will hurt. Immensely.”
“Good to know.” She gripped the falchion again. The one-handed sword was purposefully heavy to convey the power of an ax, while being wielded with all the versatility of a sword. Still crouched, she used its tip to sift through the other weapons in the duffel. “It all seems adequate.”
“Adequate?”
At his sharp tone, she noted the hardness of his expression. She hadn’t meant to insult him, but saying so wouldn’t have stopped his ensuing tirade.
“The tools I create have only one purpose: destroying evil. For that task, they are more than adequate.” He looked down his nose again. “As long as you are.”
Nodding, Jovienne stood. “I’ll add a rule to my list.”
“A rule?”
“Don’t piss off the guy who makes the armor that protects you.”
Eitan’s arms crossed over his broad chest and his chin ratcheted up another notch. “If ever you fail it will not be because my armor was defective.”
“I’ll make sure to put that on the list, too.”
“What is this list you’re referring to?”
“Rules my pedagogue taught me.”
“I am not a pedagogue, but as long as you are keeping such a list there are a few additional things you need to know. Things a pedagogue could not have taught you.”
“Such as?” She mirrored his stance. If it irritated him further, he kept it from showing.
“Your quintanumin now offers you more advantages than before and taxes your physical form much less. Also, you are the abhadhon in San Francisco. From the San Mateo Bridge to the Half Moon Bay. North of 92 is yours to protect. South of it isn’t.”
“And what if a demon flees south of 92?”
“That means you’re not doing your job and your neighbor will be very displeased.”
“So, there’s another abhadhon to the south.”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?” As she asked, she began swinging the falchion through a practice routine.
“Occasionally, there is a qa-vats…we gather. The summons for Ascension is a song. You will know when you hear it.” He paused until she came to a point where she held a pose at the end of the sequence. “Are you good at visualization?”
“Meditation is part of my daily routine.”
“Good. Develop a method to dematerialize your wings when you need to pass as a mortal and rematerialize them when you don’t. You need to be able to do this instantaneously. Practice until you have mastered the ability.”
Conveying boredom, she asked, “Is that all?” and began the routine again.
“There is one more thing. The contemptuous behavior and attitude will not win you any friends.”
“Friends? Why would I want any friends?” She spun, sword tip raised. She was surprised at how cold the words sounded. “I was raised and trained without friends. What makes you think I need any now?”
He turned on his heel, walked toward the hole in the roof and leapt. One pump of the brown feathers stirred the dust and lifted him through the gaping hole.
Jovienne lowered her sword. She wanted to leave this forsaken place, too. She wanted to wash the grit from her skin. She wanted to feel clean and whole…but that was unlikely.
Worse, her own words began to sting. More than they had stung Eitan. Because she couldn’t go home. She didn’t have a friend there.
She hurled the falchion away and wished all her feelings for Andrei could be as easily castoff.
Within reach lay the breastplate she’d discarded.
She lifted it. Perhaps, concealed beneath this abhadhon armor, her broken heart would harden and she’d stop giving a damn.
SIX
Sunday
Miami, Florida
ONCE A WEEK, Araxiel attended a Wednesday evening service to feed his inner demon. His full moon visits with the Master drained him however, and his need for that special sustenance deepened. This morning he would be attending a Sunday Mass.
He downshifted as he crossed the Rickenbacker Causeway. This reduced speed allowed his gaze to linger on the Miami skyline. He loved this city. This place in time.
Moving up the timeframe to take Ivan was his only option to balance his desire and his Master’s. A few things needed to be attended to first, but he would start with an announcement at today’s meeting with his men.
That was another reason for attending the Mass.
He parked on the sidewalk in front of the doors for the Ermita de la Caridad. The church was built like a circle within a circle. The outermost consisted of white, inward sloped walls. The innermost rose high and was capped with a dark, cross-topped cone.
Araxiel opened the church door with a gloved hand. He could touch things in a holy building, but he knew sick people came to church for healing and he wanted none of their germs. At this point in time he couldn’t afford for his host body to get sick.
Inside, his nose wrinkled and he gave a wide berth to the basin of holy water. He strolled into the sanctuary where the priest made eye contact and stammered over the next words before continuing to prattle out the Mass. The pews were simple and reasonably filled. He sat in the back. After removing his gloves, his long fingers smoothed over his salon-trimmed salt-and-pepper waves before he shifted into a relaxing stretch that ended with his arms extended along the back of the pew palms up.
Thusly posed, he savored his gnawing inhuman hunger. This body had learned what constituted sustenance for a demon and it reacted, salivating like Pavlov’s dog. He had to swallow repeatedly.
The Ermita was his favorite stop-in because it was not like the Gothic, rectangular churches with their fancy rib-vaulted ceilings, flying buttresses, phallic pinnacles and lancet windows. Those giant churches presupposed that if they were vertical enough to challenge the horizon, permanent enough to minister to generations, and iconic enough in the message of their interior and exterior art, they would achieve sacrosanctity.
Such ideologies never stopped him from entering.
But here in this simplistic round church, the energy gathered and swirled as it rose into the funnel where it channeled up toward their deity. It was easier to steal flowing energy than it was to partake of what bounced around the divided ribs of a vaulted ceiling.
He’d missed the opening prayers. It would be a while before the ones. This body kept salivating. Pulling his wallet from his jacket pocket, he counted out ten hundred dollar bills and fanned them in his grip before lifting his arm high.
The priest announced that God had just moved him to pray.
Araxiel remained seated when the people of the church slid onto their knees. While their heads were down, the priest sent an altar boy to the back row with the offering plate. Araxiel dropped the cash onto the tray one bill at a time.
The congregation’s murmuring voices thrummed as they m
imicked the priest’s words and, under his guidance, their inner spark glistened and released that special energy called eis, meant for their God Who resided far, far away in Heaven.
But Araxiel was going to take a cut.
His head dipped back and his mouth opened too wide. As these unaware mortals worshipped, he stole that imperceptible sustenance bursting from them.
When the prayer ended and the people reclaimed their seats, his rapturous sigh carried. Across the pews, heads turned toward him. He smiled and sat back to await the next prayer. He intended to glut himself today.
AFTER THE MASS, Araxiel drove to the restaurant where his men regularly met and handed the keys to an overjoyed valet.
Passing the waiters who knew not to question him or his men, he approached the private rear dining room. When he opened the frosted glass pocket doors, silence fell and five thugs arose to speak respectful greetings.
A lovely waitress promptly entered and placed her cleavage tantalizingly before his eyes as she served his usual selection of slow roasted lamb and caramelized seasonal vegetables. She bent a fraction more as she placed his glass of wine. He watched her ass as she departed, and then began to feed his physical body while his men gave their reports.
The oldest, a seasoned car thief new to their Sunday reports, was named Billy or Barry or Benny. Araxiel noticed the man was having the thirty-two-ounce porter house steak. An appetite like that slowed men down.
“One shipment has been sent to our foreign partners,” the man said as he carved his next bite, “and the other is waiting for auction on Tuesday.”
“Waiting for auction?” Araxiel asked. “The second shipment is to be delivered on Friday.”
“My men strip the cars, store the parts. The vehicle gets picked up and processed by police. Then it goes on the auction block. We buy it back for pennies on the dollar and the VIN gets listed as a salvaged vehicle. My men reassemble it and sell it at full price. The profit is high.”
But it creates minimal suffering. “That sounds almost legal.”
The man smiled as if Araxiel’s words complimented him. “It’s your ‘protection’ from the eyes of the law that gets you half of that profit.”
Convincing Billy or Barry or Benny to forget his profit margin and work dirtier would not be easy. He was old enough to appreciate the ease and lower risk, and tired enough to share the wealth.
Araxiel now understood how he looked to Lucifer.
He pointed at the balding Chinese man sitting closest to him. “You. Chan.”
After divulging details about the training being conducted for pre-arranged automobile accidents and the people lined up to be witnesses, Chan handed the report off to a brawny man. Darren mono-toned the finer points of recruiting a new chiropractic center for the car accident scam, and cursed a certain police team while glaring accusingly at the next thug, Ivan.
Half-listening, Araxiel considered this sophisticated crime. It meant the victims were corporations with much deeper pockets than the average local diner. For organized crime, his men were the best, but he needed human beings in misery. He would start by making these men suffer; he’d have to kill them all anyway. Except Ivan. He’d bring in younger men who were more cruel and ambitious, men who thrived on the thrill and malice as much as the profit.
As Darren and Ivan fell into arguing about police on the take, Araxiel’s focus returned. In spite of his grooming efforts, Ivan wasn’t standing up to Darren as boldly as he should have.
It disappointed Araxiel. When he made Ivan his new host, he’d have to fight the likes of Darren to show his superiority.
“Shut the Hell up.” Both men fell silent. The intensity of his pointed glance shifted the report to the last man, Georgie. When the reports were finished and his meal consumed, Araxiel pointed at Ivan. “You bleed this week.”
Ivan came forward, hands extended.
Someone getting cut each week was the lesser of the two mainstays that made up Araxiel’s freakish reputation. This part ensured the strength and fortitude of the members of his inner court and, because it was no secret, this practice struck fear into those his men dealt with. It brought out the morbid curiosity in some, an unintended side-effect, but it kept the riff-raff from climbing too high on the mobster ladder.
Araxiel studied Ivan’s hands and chose the one with the fewest scars. “Left.”
Hand flat on the table, palm down, Ivan waited.
This was going to be more than a cut. It would be a brutish and crafted precursor to his announcement, but Araxiel went through the usual motions. He reached into his pants pocket and brought out a rolled-up cloth about four inches long. He unrolled it next to his empty plate and considered the seven cutting utensils ranging from a sleek scalpel to a dirty box cutter. “Short blade, wide blade, or serrated, today?” he mumbled.
Ivan drew a breath to make his choice. Before he could speak, Araxiel snatched his fork and stabbed it onto the man’s pinky, piercing the nail and feeling the bone break as metal tines jammed into the table underneath.
Probably because any sound meant a second cut, Ivan choked on his scream even as Araxiel stood and shoved his cloth napkin deep into the man’s mouth. Holding out his hand, Chan threw another napkin in it. Araxiel dropped it over Ivan’s hand to cover the spreading blood stain.
While the thugs gaped and Ivan squirmed in anguish, Araxiel began the ritual that was the foundation of his reputation. He chanted in a harsh language full of staccato syllables. In seconds, the temperature in the room dropped.
The geist were here.
Eyes shut, Araxiel continued his chant while the ghosts, unseen by his men, fed on the blood. Because his men could see and hear him, but not the geist, he asked what was new in his original, malign language, “Mīnu essu šū ūmu?”
“Rumors of a fledgling abhadhon in San Francisco.”
Araxiel’s eyes opened and he glared into the corner at the geist who dared mention the creatures whose sole purpose were to kill demons like him. “I care nothing for the matters of the abhadhim.”
“But you do care where your Master’s watchful eyes are focused.”
Araxiel planned to enact his gritty new policy today… but if the Master’s gaze was elsewhere, He wouldn’t even notice the efforts. “Why should a fledgling abhadhon garner His interest?”
“This one called on old magic during her test.”
His eyes widened. Such a thing was unheard of. “And yet Elohim transformed her?”
All the geist nodded.
“Xūlu.” He commanded the geist to leave. Grabbing the napkin and fork as one, Araxiel jerked them up and away. The gathered men marveled at the disappearance of the blood from the table even as fresh blood welled up from Ivan’s wounded finger.
He glowered at each man in turn, and then left without making the announcement.
IT WAS LATE afternoon when Araxiel zipped up the suit bag and shoved shoes and toiletries into a small tote.
He was not fleeing. Though Lucifer may not be watching, whenever His attention sought Araxiel, it would find him.
He reasoned there were two ways to assure his continued existence. One, he could stay here and take the brutal actions he hoped would prove his worth, actions that depended on mortals to cooperate, when they often stupidly didn’t. Or two, he could dare more.
Before, following Lucifer’s orders on a modified basis skirted the Master’s wrath while seeking to obey. Now, this was closer to blatant disregard for instructions, which was suicide. But he had a plan. Leaving Miami would draw the Master’s attention and invite His wrath. But, in the face of that wrath, he would have a single chance to gain the Master’s indulgence.
Because this abhadhon had used magic, he knew what Lucifer suspected, why He watched her. If she was what He thought her to be, what Araxiel had to admit was only logical, then he had to make contact. Exposing himself to an abhadhon was also suicidal but…goddamn, he couldn’t wait to meet her.
San Francisco, California
>
JOVIENNE AWOKE ON the warehouse floor and smiled, caressing the down of her wings as she uncurled them from around her. The smile faded when she discovered a second khaki green duffel bag lying directly beneath the torn roof.
There was work to be done before the sun set.
She’d have to get something to eat, locate a place suitable to live, and learn to dematerialize the wings.
She rose and stretched, guessed it to be early afternoon by the angle of the light piercing the room, and then noticed a Styrofoam container beside the bag. Written on the top was: First abhadhon breakfast is on me. She flipped it open.
Scrambled eggs, steak strips, toast, and a plastic fork. Though cold now, she ate a few bites and moved on to the bag.
Topmost inside was a pair of leather short-shorts.
Lifting them in her right hand, her nose wrinkled. She sat aside the food. Dropping the shorts, she dug into the bag and discovered a halter top with metal plates riveted in an overlapping pattern. This was practical for wings and would leave her arms unrestricted for fighting, but it was ridiculous.
She hadn’t meant this when she’d said ‘less.’
Leaving the new items atop the duffel, she retrieved the clothes given to her yesterday and put them on. She added the gauntlets, after slicing the finger portions from the gloves. She shadowboxed for several minutes, improvising scratching motions to utilize the spikes on the back.
It became obvious she didn’t need the amount of warm-up she once did. However, adding the element of the wings made the routine fresh as she learned to accommodate their weight.
Bolstered, she felt ready to try dematerializing her wings though she didn’t like the thought of being without them.
Creating a bird’s eye image of reality in her mind’s eye, she found something she didn’t imagine. A bluish light shone as if her core radiated light through her skin.
It was not her intention to envision that. Making the mental effort to remove it changed nothing. After toying with this without success, she let it be and returned her focus to the wings. Establishing a mental link to the command ‘dematerialize’ meant grounding a thought-action with the theory that they were never absent from her body, but transformed into energy that floated in her aura to be recalled at a moment’s notice. This in itself was nothing new; the quintanumin worked in this manner. She triggered the new command and the wings burst into scraps of nothingness, fading like trails of ink diluting into water.
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