Jovienne

by Linda Robertson

  It wasn’t the darkblood keeping her from sharing the adoration these other abhadhim displayed. They had something she lacked: trust. Though she accepted the existence of God and Lucifer, angels and demons as much as she accepted the existence of Andrei, neither God—nor any of them for that matter—had her trust.

  Santa Monica, California

  ARAXIEL TREATED HIMSELF to a stay at the Shutters on the Beach hotel in Santa Monica. It was out of the way, but he’d never been to the West Coast. Plus, the ocean view king suite promised a jetted tub and a pillow top mattress. He even made a morning appointment with a masseuse.

  He intended to arrive in San Francisco rested, relaxed, and ready.

  After soaking in a hot bath, he wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the double doors to the balcony. There, he listened to the ocean, breathing the salty air and letting his skin cool in the night breeze.

  Before he could sleep, however, he wanted to find out what was going on with the abhadhon. He needed as much information as he could get.

  Blood and pain would bring geist to him, but he didn’t want to cut this body he’d taken such good care of. He could find someone else to bleed.

  Doing so, however, would reduce his rest time. Also, that course of action had the potential to draw unnecessary attention.

  He must cut this body.

  He re-entered the room, shut the doors behind him and retrieved his pocket knife. Standing by the bed, blade at his wrist, he hesitated.

  A wrist wound, and the subsequent scar, would indicate suicidal tendencies. It would damage credibility with his peers if they ever saw it. He didn’t want to have to hide under sleeves for the rest of his life.

  But many people had gall bladder surgery, or appendectomies.

  He shrugged off the robe and stood naked with the blade against his abdomen. Pressing, sucking air through his teeth, he made a slice as deep as he dared and two inches long. The pain was terrific. Blood dripped down his thigh.

  Dropping the knife to the floor, he spread his arms wide and chanted while the geist filled the room, eager for the blood of one that carried a demon within. When they finished feeding, Araxiel asked in the staccato syllables of his wicked dialect, “What gossip of the new abhadhon?”

  Geist closed in, pale faces crowding to the forefront. They had much to say and trembled with excitement and fear. Some whispered. Some shouted. Their myriad voices created a cacophony of layered languages and tone.

  One surged forward, shouting, “The abhadhon opened a Hellhatch!”

  “No, it was more. It was a Hellgate!”

  Araxiel was stunned. He had not anticipated she would dare to do that so soon.

  “Lucifer sent Zaebos to make the new abhadhon an offer.”

  His core grew cold. If Zaebos beat him to her—

  “Zaebos is dead,” the geist sang. “Zaebos is dead.”

  This news hurt. Zaebos had been his friend. “Why is Zaebos dead?”

  Many geist spoke at once. “The abhadhon murdered Zaebos!”

  “She stabbed Zaebos!”

  “Decapitated—”

  “Detailed Zaebos!”

  “He didn’t even fight back!”

  A new geist passed through his hotel door, glowing brighter than those already here. The others fell silent.

  “I was there,” it whispered. “I fed on Zaebos’s darkblood.”

  The geist gave a collective sigh.

  “You were in San Francisco?” Araxiel didn’t hide his disbelief.

  “Yes. Then I heard your summons.”

  “From so far away?”

  The geist put his arms out and threw his head back as he began a slow spin. “Zaebos’s darkblood was so good I can almost feel again. I can almost…remember who I was.” That brought another round of sighs from the others. “I heard your chant. It was in my—” the geist snorted, “I want to say in my mind, but my mind is gone. Your chant was in my being. I raced to come to you. I had to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” Araxiel had never seen a geist exhibit this much cognitive thinking. They were drawn by instinct and kept their communication short.

  “I saw something terrible.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Feed me and I will tell you.”

  Araxiel gestured to his wound. “Come.”

  The geist did not need to be fed, but ingesting a few drops of Araxiel’s blood was a perfunctory part of the exchange. The geist rose up nose-to-nose with him and whispered, “Zaebos was not like you, a shifter within a body. Zaebos arrived in his own body, manifested and mighty! And…”

  “And?”

  “He bled into her.”

  Araxiel asked, “What do you mean ‘into her’?”

  “His darkblood entered her wound, but it did not burn through.” His ghostly hands grabbed Araxiel by the face. “Drops gave me knowledge. Awareness. Thoughts like I haven’t known in so long, but she, oh, she absorbed the darkblood. She took it into her living veins!” His hands slipped away and the geist floated backward. “What will it do for her?”

  Araxiel stood and paced, his thoughts a whirlwind, wondering if it would make it easier to sway her to his plans. “What was the offer Zaebos was making for Lucifer?”

  “The offer was never spoken.”

  His chest filled and he nearly breathed a sigh of relief, but he shouted it out instead. “Begone! All of you!”

  When the room emptied, he washed his wound. There were no complimentary bandages lying around, but there was a small sewing kit. Once the incision was stitched, he opened the doors again and sank onto the luxurious bed to let the waves outside stir his thoughts.

  Abhadhim were capable killers. That was where the description should have ended. Yet with the knowledge and ability to access the old doorways and her willingness to bleed them open, this one was much more.

  Especially infused with Zaebos’s darkblood. She was moving too fast to be subtle about her intentions. But why would she take his blood and kill him without hearing the offer? If she wanted to make an impression, killing Zaebos did that. She was betting that Lucifer would send another to impart the offer, but Zaebos…poor Zaebos. Lucifer was just as likely to send someone to kill her for the insult.

  The sensation of falling overwhelmed him and his hands clutched at the covers even as his spirit was dragged down.

  Oh, fuck no, no, no!

  Forced from his host by the power of his Master, Araxiel landed on his back on the heated shore. A wave of magma crested over his head, flowing and swirling, yet not crashing down on him. Yet.

  “You aren’t in Miami.”

  FOURTEEN

  Third Heaven

  JOVIENNE SCANNED THE assemblage. As if on cue, laughter drew her attention to a group not far ahead. They stood holding hands. In their middle, the scarlet angel laughed, and then they all laughed. Damnzel was reporting their run-ins to this adoring group.

  A vibration trilled along the light ahead, charging the air with glory, filtering it into this place and filling it with palpable divine power that hovered over their heads. Damnzel and her friends silenced. All of the abhadhim raised their arms, hands up, reaching for that glory. As the ray neared Jovienne, her arms remained at her sides.

  When that holy power fell, she held her breath, determined not to partake. But that hallowed air crawled up her nose and got inside her. Like the drums that beckoned her to dance, this wanted her to sing. She resisted, but it pulled a song from her lips anyway, a song she’d never heard, yet sang unfalteringly.

  Webs of emotion condensed on her skin like silken teardrops and those smooth fibers seeped into her pores. Elation radiated into every nerve ending, infusing her until it became a part of her being. She not only felt joy, she was joy.

  But this wasn’t real. Not for her.

  In her mind, a voice said:

  Be mindful of liars and the hypocrisy of their tongues for there is evil on their lips. Do not listen when false prophets speak for they disguis
e the doctrine of demons in gracious words and they hide hate in false praise. The worker of deceit loves evil more than good, and falsehood more than truth. The wicked tongue of the deceitful spirit will devour a perfect creation, spewing abominations and treachery into the ears of the innocent. Beware doubletalk, lies, and untruth.

  Without warning, she was separated from the brilliant glory like a curtain had fallen. She gasped and regained her feet before anyone else. Her eyes locked on Damnzel’s bright red wings.

  Having twisted to look at Jovienne, Damnzel said, “Guess the Big Guy knows about Zaebos, too! He’s talkin’ to you, sweetie, you know that, right? And like a good sport He let us all listen in.”

  Everyone fell away into surroundings gone white. Jovienne heard nothing but the howl of a hurricane gale in her ears as she plummeted through the air.

  Cold in the absence of that glory, its effects faded. Eased muscles grew tense again. Her stomach tightened. Her brow furrowed.

  She had been mindful. She hadn’t listened to Zaebos. She didn’t need a warning after the fact.

  Moisture enveloped her as she passed through a rain cloud. Opening her wings slowed her speed and when nearing the tallest buildings, she angled them to spiral toward home.

  Dropping into the warehouse, she paced out of the rain, and then made a wide circuit of the upper floor, arms stiff at her sides. She bit her lip.

  She wasn’t sure if she was more worried because Lucifer might retaliate for her killing a Grand Duke or whatever Damnzel had called it, or because there was darkblood in her veins.

  The stiffness in her neck and shoulders begged for the release of the heavy wings, but the tension didn’t abate once the feathers were gone. She discarded the forearm sheaths and massaged her neck. Still unable to find any ease, she wanted out of the uniform. She removed the dagger sheaths and reached for the belt scabbard only to remember Zaebos had snapped her sword in two.

  The pieces were under the ashes.

  She couldn’t leave them there. She’d have to give them to Eitan to re-forge it.

  Eager for something active besides pacing, Jovienne stepped under the hole in the roof and called the wings. She crouched, ready to leap, but when her wings snapped out to the sides, the sound and the feel was wrong.

  Her eyes widened and all thoughts of flying disappeared. Her crouch slowly evolved into a stiff-legged stance.

  Her wings remained black, but where her feathers had been…now it was a bare length of inky flesh. She raised the appendages higher, stretching the skin taut. Veins snaked through the wing-skin like tributaries on a dark map.

  Her lungs ached for air, but she could not breathe.

  These were the wings of the demon slain in her test. Dark. Leathery. Bat-like. A shiver racked her spine and forced a sudden gasp as her lips parted to chant, “No, no, no, no, no!” She folded these vile things in front of her and reached out. Her fingertips met with cool, smooth skin.

  This couldn’t be right.

  She dematerialized the wings and called them back. Again, they formed without feathers.

  “No!” she screamed.

  More than ever before, Jovienne wanted to cry. Since becoming an abhadhon, the wings were the only part she truly liked about her new self.

  The infusion of darkblood did this.

  If Damnzel, or even Eitan, saw these, it would reveal something had gone very wrong. It would confirm that she was the failed fledgling Damnzel longed for her to be.

  No way was she going to accept this.

  If I cut them off and burn them, then I can’t do my job. God will have to free me. Or kill me.

  She jerked the serrated dagger from its sheath on the floor, wishing she still had the sword. Sawing off a wing would surely hurt more than a clean swipe would.

  Her fist tightened around the hilt. Zaebos died too quickly. Bug-face should have suffered much longer for what it stole from her. She’d rather be flightless, grounded—

  Grounded.

  She held her breath. The seraph implied a punishment. No, the timing was more indicative. It happened after the darkblood got inside her. Wait…the Ascension. What if God did this?

  Of course. He wanted her to kneel and cower as broken as her sword.

  Her arm relaxed and the dagger slipped from her fingers. Her chin lifted.

  He’ll find this slave will not break so easily.

  She reassessed the new wings, determined to find something to like. Black scales glistened on the tapering bone-supports and the thumb-like extension at the upper joint. They were sleeker in design. There would surely be some aerial advantages to them.

  She would find out. She still had pieces of a sword to reclaim. And a blanket and pillow to find. She wasn’t going to sleep wrapped up in these.

  Hell

  “PLEASE, MASTER! PLEASE! Allow me to explain!”

  The magma rolled and writhed like a tentacle above Araxiel’s body. A drop fell from the tip. His every instinct told him to move, but experience kept him in place. There would be more than a drop if he showed weakness, and strength was the one thing that might ensure the Master listened.

  The drop hit his ear. The sting lasted but an instant. The ache that replaced it would last much longer.

  He breathed hard but kept still, all his focus on doing this right. He had one chance…

  Having been brought here like this, however, without a circle to protect his host body and without blood and death to open the conduit, his body above was in seizure. If his host died, there would be no direct line to go back.

  The tentacle circled him, coiling to enclose him in a tower of magma built upon the metallic bits that formed the beach. It grew until it was twice as tall as he. “If your words displease me, I will drown you in pain for an eon.”

  Recovering as much as he could, Araxiel spoke fast. “Geist told me of an abhadhon able to access the ancient doorways. It was immediately clear to me that I must make contact with her on Your behalf.”

  Hundreds of hands pierced through the wall of magma and clenched and unclenched as the Master said, “She destroyed Zaebos before he could make an offer. What makes you think you’ll do better?”

  “Because, Master, of all your servants, my long experience on her natural plane gives me an advantage that will secure her conversion to your service.”

  “You did not ask for this task!” The Master bellowed. “You did not present yourself with your offer. You made a grave choice without my consent.”

  All of Araxiel’s plans hinged on this one fact: The Master’s jealousy of the free will that came with a host’s body was the most contentious aspect between Him and His possessor demons.

  “Master, I know what I have done. More than any other demon, I need to earn Your favor and there is but one way to accomplish that. I must succeed in giving You the one thing You want right now. Of all Your minions, I am the best prepared to deliver into Your service the abhadhon who can make an interminable doorway for You.”

  San Francisco, California

  THE GOOD NEWS was the bat wings were faster. Once airborne, anyway. Jovienne found the feathers provided more lift, but created a small amount of drag as well. The bare skin enabled tighter, swifter turns, and more agile movements.

  The bad news was the rain had made a thick paste of Zaebos’s ashes. Jovienne didn’t want to ruin the sheath, so she glided into Ghirardelli Square and rinsed the sword and her hands in the fountain. She could have cleaned them in the Bay, but she knew that here she could find a blanket and a pillow.

  She recalled hearing her mother talk of the imported lambs-wool blankets sold at the Square. Invisible, she planned to slip inside and steal one. Thievery didn’t make her feel proud, but she told herself this touristy store would recover the loss.

  By the time she had determined which of the shops had the blankets, entered, and made her selection, the employees had locked up. They were doing paperwork, and would leave in a few minutes, so she moved around the darkened store and found a p
illow she’d like too.

  Detecting voices heading for the service entrance, she hurried to join the trio of women as they exited.

  “All the stations are covering it live,” a woman fumbling with keys said as Jovienne tiptoed right up to stand within a few feet of them.

  “It could have happened here,” another woman muttered.

  “Those poor people,” the third woman said. “I can’t believe it. What are the police doing? Will Jonathan be on?”

  “No. He’s not allowed to talk to reporters.” The woman with the keys scanned the parking lot nervously, opened the door, and held it as the others walked through. Jovienne slipped out last, but she didn’t leave. She listened as the woman locked the door. “They’ve evacuated the rest of the galleria, but it’s a standoff. The terrorists made no demands. They ran in with guns and backpacks and herded people into the men’s department.”

  “They’re going to die…I just know it.”

  The women walked away in a tight knot.

  Snared by the conversation, Jovienne wondered if another demon came through while she was distracted by the ugly bug. She followed the women as they angled towards their vehicles.

  “If they were going to blow it up, they would have already, right?”

  “Maybe that’s not the point. Maybe there’s something else. Like airborne germs that spread—”

  “Oh, Julie! Stop!”

  A helicopter passed in the distance. The identifier on the craft was the logo for Channel 4.

  Still clinging to her blanket and pillow, Jovienne leapt to the air. The news helicopter led her right to the mall in danger.

  Still invisible, she deposited the bedding behind some bushes, then flew to the roof where a SWAT team was already utilizing the ventilation system. She released the wings and followed them in. At the first opportunity, she turned in a different direction. Using the ghost hands, she avoided other people and dropped down into a fitting room in the ladies’ section. From there, she walked through the store and stopped fifty feet from the mass of people.

  Confined in a small area of the main aisle, each hostage sat on the floor. Each had duct tape over their mouths and around their wrists. A third piece of duct tape fastened small squares to their backs. Wires ran from both sides of each square, connecting each person.