Jovienne

by Linda Robertson

  Magenta squeezed Jovienne’s ankle tighter and put all of its weight into pulling her closer. It reached higher, as if she were a rope it would climb. Worse, Magenta’s maw opened.

  Throwing a star to keep Red at bay, Jovienne jabbed the sword into Magenta’s arm. Recoiling from the blade, Magenta clawed a jagged slash across her leg and down the side of her knee to her boot.

  Jovienne’s wings carried her upward, but Magenta grappled and maintained its hold on her ankle. She threw the last dagger into Magenta’s shoulder and made a sideways dive to swipe with the spathe. Red backpedaled.

  Magenta howled and jerked backwards, stumbling. Its fall slammed Jovienne belly first onto the ground and twisted her leg, sending hot pain spiking through her. Red recovered from the retreat and threw itself at her.

  Jovienne saw it coming. If it pinned her down she was lost.

  While Magenta struggled to remove the dagger, Jovienne pushed herself onto her hands and one knee. Red was closing in and she lashed out with her wing and the thumb-like hook raked across the side of Red’s face. Jovienne chopped the spatha into Red’s lower leg, severing it.

  The demon roared and fell. Jovienne had an instant to get out of its path. She tucked her wings and rolled. Her leg twisted in Magenta’s grip.

  Screaming in pain, she felt her rage ignite. Wings spreading, she fought to rise up in the air again, and felt her leg bend where it should not bend.

  Her dagger was stuck in Magenta’s bone. The demon could not reach the dagger without weakening its hold on her, so it stretched its neck and brought its mouth close to the hilt. Biting down on the weapon, its lips steamed, burned by the blessed blade, but it jerked the weapon free and writhed around to stab it into Jovienne’s knee.

  She screamed again.

  Crawling, Red moved in. A wild sword swing cut another slice on Red’s chest. Magenta began reeling her in again.

  Armed with the spatha, Jovienne could stab Magenta’s heart, but doing so would leave her back unguarded and open to Red.

  If she didn’t get free, though, she would have no chance.

  She activated the ghost arms and thickened them to disguise her actions. Lifting her wings straight up to keep them out of the way and out of Red’s grip, she quickened to slow things down as she began dropping.

  Gripping the spatha for a downward strike, she screamed and bent her broken leg, using it as leverage to pull her closer to Magenta as she rammed the sword into the side of the demon’s neck. Even as she did this, she used her free hand to grasp the hilt of the dagger protruding from her knee. Pulling the blade free, she hurled it at Red, who had regenerated a leg and was closing in on her undefended back. The dagger slipped through the misty ghost arms and thumped into its chest.

  Magenta roared and released her.

  Free, Jovienne beat her wings, thus pulling the sword from Magenta as she soared up several feet. She then tucked her wings and descended on Red, kicking the dagger and, yet quickened, forcing it—hilt and all—into Red’s chest. The blow sent her backwards across the circle. She hit the wall and flopped to the ground, landing on her broken leg. Screaming, she released the quickening.

  Magenta stumbled left, then right, and flung itself forward onto Red.

  Jovienne lay panting, sure that both demons were dying, and welcomed the cool sting of healing in her leg. Her rage began to fade.

  Then she heard flesh tear and bones pop as Magenta ripped into Red’s chest and thrust its muzzle inside.

  No! The spatha hadn’t ruptured Magenta’s heart.

  She needed to keep this demon from eating and growing, but she also needed to allow healing time for her leg. If she could stall, Red would turn to sludge and leave little for Magenta to eat. Locating the nearest throwing weapon, she spied a star, and then rolled close enough to grab and launch it.

  The points stuck in Magenta’s hip.

  A growl bubbled up, muffled inside Red’s chest. Its muzzle lifted. Magma dripped and the smell of charcoal and ash filled the night. Black lips curled back from glistening teeth holding Red’s torn heart.

  Jovienne wanted it.

  Deep within, she hungered for the burning heart dangling before her. Her hands ached to snatch it away. These desires pushed at her concerns for what eating it would do to her.

  A growl rumbled through her throat.

  Magenta lunged to straddle the carcass as if to protect its feast, and then swallowed the heart in one gulp.

  Jovienne struggled onto her feet, the icy healing at its height within her.

  The demon sucked in a ragged breath and it began to shake all over. Bones elongated, splitting skin. Its body thickened. Scales pushed through flesh and lay down in overlapping rows of pearlescent magenta. Its spine lengthened and bowed, adding half-again its former length and extending its neck even more. Its four arms flexed and a thin tail twitched back and forth behind legs as long as Jovienne was tall.

  The demon had become a spindly dragon.

  AS SOON AS Araxiel grasped Nathan’s hand, he understood what he sensed about this young man: the Sanctus Spiritus, or the Holy Spirit. That entity wasn’t here now, but it had been recently. And that meant this young man was a stigmatic.

  A possessor like him could inhabit anyone who was not protected. Those protections came in many forms, such as blessed jewelry or partaking of the sacrament. Logically, a man who repeatedly but temporarily housed the Sanctus Spiritus should be protected, yet Araxiel sensed a flaw.

  The young man was an unwilling vessel and his soul was wounded.

  There was an opportunity here. One that offered Araxiel a means to survive an encounter with the abhadhon named Jovienne. But there was risk: he might be vanquished when the Sanctus Spiritus next came.

  And yet the very thing Lucifer admonished Araxiel for was the very thing that could make this work. Tainted by long exposure to a single soul, he could disguise himself. He could let go of his Miami crime lord, and hide within Nathan Marshall.

  Thirty meticulous years spent building toward a single goal, and just like that, with one handshake, he was willing to throw it all aside. Ivan could wait. This was going to be so much fun.

  He imagined the headlines, from the bland, Body Found on Fulton Street, to a more dramatic, Painted Ladies Witness a Horror. Suspected Miami Crime Lord Dies of Natural Causes, was the most direct he could hope to warrant, however.

  Araxiel slipped away from his host and like a cold breeze caressing and chilling Nathan’s hand, he slid under the younger man’s sleeve, across his chest and down, reaching for that place on Nathan’s side that opened as if a spear had stabbed him. That was where Araxiel entered Nathan Marshall.

  ANDREI ROUSED FROM his drunken slumber.

  Head pounding, he sat up and glared at the half-empty bottle of vodka. The marms had taught him mindless sedation as a means to cope, but he didn’t recall their injections leaving him hungover.

  Scanning the room, he realized it was rather dark, and checked the clock. The sun had set a half-hour ago.

  He couldn’t have slept through the cringe; his luck wasn’t that good. In all his years, there’d never been a night without it. He raked fingers through his hair. Nights with extra cringes, now nights without any. Jovienne deserved a night off, but he doubted that was the explanation.

  Rubbing his head, he climbed from the bed, stumbled into the bathroom, and undressed. Under the stream of hot water, beset by dry-heaves, he washed between rounds of his body punishing him. Once clean, he turned off the water. As he stepped out, the cringe dropped him to the shower floor. He shoved the towel into his mouth to muffle the screams of being flayed and roasted. Again, he watched his bare skin for signs of it darkening.

  Twice, a cringe had occurred when it shouldn’t have. Twice, the untimely and excruciating cringe brought his worst fears to the threshold of reality. It’s because of her.

  When this late cringe ended, he twisted and punched the bathroom wall, cracking the plastic. “No more,” he panted. “N
o more.” Experiencing this again was the last thing he wanted to do.

  And that meant the previous ‘last thing’ on that list just got bumped up.

  He knew what needed to be done. He would do it. Right now. He’d avoided it for too long.

  THE DRAGON WAS so big that it owned the center of the circle and only had to turn in place to keep facing Jovienne. Drawing up its long neck, it spat a ball of flame.

  She ducked and rolled, hit the barrier and recoiled from it. Her stars and daggers lay scattered, most amid the sludging remains of the other demons. There would be no retrieving them unless she got under the dragon. In the meantime, her only defense was the spatha.

  She retreated around the circle. The demon’s reptilian head adjusted in robotic snaps. When its head whipped down, she swung the sword, but the demon was fast. It got past the blade. She adjusted and slammed the pommel against the side of its snout.

  Sidestepping, she sliced the blade edge across the snout. The steel-like scales sent sparks showering.

  The dragon lunged away and immediately back, gaping jaws ready to close around her belly. Jovienne flapped her wings and activated the quickening as she rose. The demon sucked in a breath, preparing to spit again.

  Angling her wings, she dived to the side, feeling the heat of the fireball before it exploded on the circle’s edge just above her. Moving too fast, she crashed against the barrier on the other side. Bad idea, she thought as she flopped to the ground in a dazed tangle of legs and wings.

  The splattering of Hellfire hit her wing and disintegrated without effect, but the dragon’s mouth clamped around her ankle. Its fangs could not pierce the plating on the boot, but the pressure of its bite was excruciating. With a toss of its head, the dragon flipped her into the air.

  Jovienne’s wings spread to counteract the motion and the thumb-like protrusion on her wing raked the dragon’s eye. It screeched. She plummeted onto its back and slid off, landing behind one of its legs.

  The dragon lifted that foot to stomp her.

  Clutching the sword tight to her body, she rolled…right over the daggers and up against the dragon’s other leg. It shifted its weight and readied to stomp her with that foot. She scrabbled for the lion-headed dagger as she half-stood and tumbled toward its tail.

  She gained her feet as the whip-like tail smacked her between the wings. Jovienne pitched forward. She stumbled, but the wings kept her from falling.

  The dragon spun to face her. She held the spatha ready while working to unscrew the lion-headed cap on the welled dagger.

  Drawing the spatha back, she threw it high into the air, flipping end over end like an ax. As the dragon shuffled and ducked, wary of the hurled weapon, Jovienne darted past, flinging hallowed water across its abdomen. The dragon shrieked.

  The sword hit the barrier and fell amid sparks. Jovienne dived in, reaching for the hilt. As her grip claimed it, she rolled onto her back and launched the dagger at the dragon’s face. Four claws swatted at the new airborne threat, giving Jovienne time to climb to her feet. She raced in and, arms high, jammed the sword hilt-deep into the dragon.

  The beast roared. One of its arms swung and knocked her away. She hit the ground hard, limbs sprawled and hands empty. It swatted at the spathe. The dragon’s long legs quavered and it collapsed atop her. Jovienne kicked up, and lay pinned with the soles of her boots and the palms of her gloved hands pushing against the demon’s weight. Its arms held her wings down.

  Worse, the dragon’s back bowed so the spatha’s pommel pressed against her rib cage, constricting her to the shallowest of breaths. She tried to shift her grip, but the dragon was too big and she lost a fraction of an inch.

  In that instant, her breath escaped. She couldn’t refill her lungs. Her limbs shook with effort.

  Magma dripped down the pommel.

  She couldn’t breathe even to scream as the heat poured across her. The quintanumin had nothing that could aid her.

  She lay helpless as she had in the hospital, unable to move, incapable of screaming, and powerless to stop this terrible thing from happening to her.

  SEVENTEEN

  NORTH BEACH, SAN Francisco’s Little Italy, smelled delicious. The aroma of tomato sauces and garlic wafted on the night air and made Andrei hungry, but he wasn’t there to slake his appetite.

  He walked the sidewalks of a grand neighborhood and turned onto a narrow road between houses. It seemed little more than an alley, but what most people didn’t realize was a whole other set of homes were built onto the backsides of the grander ones that lined the block.

  Andrei arrived at a T-intersection. Back here, there was no consideration for curb appeal. Here, there was only cement, blacktop, and cinderblock.

  He turned left and walked until he stood before the long-abandoned fifth house. Long ago, someone painted the wide aluminum siding dove gray. Even in the moonlight, it was clear the paint had oxidized and left a chalky residue that made the house look filthy. The boarded-up door and windows matched the dilapidation. Between those weather-worn two-by-fours, the white trim was cracked and peeling.

  His original test site was just as he remembered it.

  JOVIENNE ROUNDED HER shoulder up from the ground in an effort to keep the magma on the leather and off her skin. Still, a drop spilled onto her collarbone. She jerked from the pain as it seared her flesh. Strength was leaving her.

  Just stop fighting. It’ll all be over.

  Her straining limbs abruptly thrust upward as the weight of the dragon disappeared, its body having turned into goo that plopped to the ground all around her. She twisted away, digging at the substance covering her face to make a hole. Sucking a lungful of air, she collapsed onto her belly, head on her shaking arms as she fought to breathe despite coughing and choking on air.

  Moments later, the sludge seeped into the earth and left her clean as if the goo had never touched her. She tore off the gloves to inspect the burn on her shoulder. The blister was thick and full and trailed from the edge of the vest around to the point where the magma had dripped to the ground.

  When she could stand, she found another broken sword before her. It must have snapped as the dragon swatted at it. She slid the spatha into the sheath and started collecting the stars and daggers as fast as she could. Leaving was a priority. The seraph would show up soon.

  Jovienne hadn’t retrieved all her weapons when a peculiar radiance appeared above. She dematerialized the bat-wings and sat cross-legged on the ground, a position from which it would be hard to force her to her knees.

  A familiar bright figure descended before her. Golden swirls of light floated into view. The overall effect was dimmer than their first encounter. She could even detect the bright inner core undulating like diaphanous fabric in a breeze.

  “You fought well, Jovienne, but it is known what you have done.”

  At the first syllable of the angel’s voice, the darkblood within her heated like a searing venom. “You’re to censure me again?”

  “I am.”

  Red lightning blasted into her, throwing her like a doll. She landed on her stomach twenty feet away. Fluid dripped from the broken blister and an ache settled into her bones like the pain of refusing the nightly Call. The pain eased and the darkness around her brightened as the angel floated closer. “You are commanded to repent.”

  Jovienne panted, fingers clawing at the ground.

  The glowing rays of light stretched closer. “Repent.”

  Heart pounding, darkblood rushing, she growled, “Fuck you.”

  Again, the pain of red lightning claimed her. It knotted her insides. It stole her breath. When it ended, the angel said, “Repent.”

  Jovienne dug her fingers into the stiff grass. “I’d rather die than beg the false mercy of God.”

  “You may get your death wish, Jovienne, but not tonight.”

  “I am an abhadhon, meant to slay demons and that is what I did. I will not ask forgiveness for that!”

  “You opened another Hellgat
e. You were commanded not to do this. Renounce the rage of your mortal father and absolve yourself of its influence.” The pain clutched her again and squeezed until she was screaming. The energy did not let up even as the seraph spoke. “You will blaspheme no more. His mercy is not false.”

  Jovienne could not suppress the swelling anger feeding on her pain. She needed to get this ache out of her, away from her. Her grip in the grass tightened, dirt pushed under her short nails, and just like Gramma taught her to transfer energy between stones, she funneled her pain into the ground, pushing it out with all the force she could muster.

  Around her, the grass blades undulated like whips, and little arcs of purple energy crackled from the tips. With each second, the phenomena moved farther and farther from her, creating a bigger and bigger circle of dancing grass. The little arcs latched onto other arcs, gathering together until they were big, bright arcs joined into one large bolt that shot upward and struck the seraph.

  Screeching, the angel flopped to the ground yards away. Enveloped in purple arcs, it bounced several times before the color faded and it returned to hovering the air. Blackened spots tarnished its glow.

  Jovienne sagged against the grass, overcome with a strange, empty feeling. But as the seconds passed, that emptiness abated as the stability of the element of earth seeped into her palms and deep into her core, equalizing her. Energizing her.

  She stood, shoulders square and arms at her sides, noting the spots on the seraph. “I was trained for this and had part of my free will stripped from me because you can’t do the work. Look at you.” She gestured at the seraph and it lurched to one side as if wary. “Just touching this world tarnishes you. But He sends you to censure me, so you come with your smug piety and strike me? Be warned, angel, I won’t bow my head and accept punishment for doing what I was altered against my will to do.” Palms open to the ground, she flexed her fingers and purple lightning arced up to caress her hands.

  Accepting all that she was, Jovienne called the wings.

  There was no face to read in the seraph’s glow, no change of expression to witness, but the pulsing diaphanous streaks suddenly rocketed into the sky and the seraph was gone.