Jovienne

by Linda Robertson

  When the report ended, Jovienne leapt onto the roof. For years, she spent every sunset atop this building. She’d surveyed San Francisco thousands of times. During the day, it was an expanse of dull-colored buildings standing like statues in precise rows along gray streets. But every dusk came with a unique sky and provided a fresh backdrop to the familiar horizon. The setting sun would paint the city with vibrant hues she adored. When San Francisco began to light up and the world began to dim, her gaze was drawn along the angles and she appreciated every line.

  She could not recall being here when dark was full. Although the cityscape stretching before her had the correct silhouette and the street lamps illuminated the stripes of road, it wasn’t the same. The icons of the day stood shrouded, their sad, mismatched squares of light weak. Their smaller counterparts crouched as if huddled against the night. Yet the pyramid’s point and Coit Tower glowed like beacons.

  Midnight drew close.

  Just as she stepped forward, ready to leap into the air, something moved under her boot. Inspecting, she saw her lapel dagger.

  She picked it up and examined it. Yes, this was her own, the very weapon she’d held at the demon-Andrei’s throat before beheading him.

  The memory was so crisp, her gut tightened and for the first time in her life, she felt embarrassed by what she had wanted with Andrei. She had slept beside him last night, like family. She’d let his mere presence be her comfort.

  Thinking of the demon she’d slain, the demon wearing a handsome face, her thoughts followed to Araxiel, who was as eloquent as he was handsome. But the face he wore was not his own.

  Even so, his questions infected her mind, luring out answers that confirmed God’s cruelty. Believing him was easy.

  But he was a demon. She shouldn’t believe anything he said.

  All her teachings said demons were cunning and devious tricksters. This one was certainly deceitful, but his skill lay in his patience, his expert locution, and the way he called to the darkblood within her.

  I will not be weak.

  I will be strong. I will walk the harder path because I can. Because what I want will not be easy to obtain. I will fight because I choose to.

  With that, she opened the pin-back and pressed it through her short jacket’s lapel, re-fastened it, and wore it like a badge proclaiming her strength.

  As she flew, she mentally reviewed her plan and circled Telegraph Hill before perching atop the golden-lit tower. Overhead, the moon, days past full, was still a bright silvery orb.

  The sound of footsteps drew her eyes down from the sky. A familiar face was climbing the Filbert Steps.

  Fanning her wings, Jovienne soared a descending spiral around the tower.

  ANDREI CHECKED THE apartment, found her still not returned and leapt once more to the roof. A geist appeared.

  It was glistening gray and wore the looks of an old man with thin white hair jutting from under a tweed golf cap. “You are the one seeking the new abhadhon?”

  “I am.”

  “I can tell you where she is. You will feed me for this information?”

  “Yes.”

  The old man lifted his chin. “Show me.”

  With his dagger, Andrei reopened the wound.

  The geist seized him with golf-gloved ethereal hands and its straw-like tongue licked twice.

  “Tell me!”

  Between licks it answered, “She’s at Coit Tower.”

  Andrei shifted, eager to go, but the geist was savoring every sip.

  ARAXIEL HAD BOUGHT a bouquet on his way here, confident she was going to accept the offer. They were a prop; he planned to up the stakes for her—or rather increase the gain for himself.

  He was approaching the Coit Tower entrance when suddenly the abhadhon landed in front of him. She’d glided silent, and he’d had only a fraction of a second’s notice to pull up. His stomach flopped and he stopped short, fearing the worst from her stealth.

  A quick once-over revealed the many weapons she wore. More weapons than at any other encounter. He held his concern in check and climbed another step, offering her the red roses he carried. “Good evening, Jovienne.”

  “Good evening, Araxiel.”

  Surprised at hearing her say his name, he misstepped. His recovery was less than graceful and a few petals fell from the flowers. He laughed nervously. “Geist?”

  She nodded.

  “It isn’t an endearing name. Too many syllables for that. I’d still rather have a pet name given by you.” He halted there, three steps from the top and more than a sword’s reach away. He met her eyes readily, hungrily, and offered the bouquet once again.

  She hesitated, but accepted the blossoms.

  “You picked a perfect meeting place,” he said, tone low and seductive. “Perfectly secluded for…well I’d like to say romance, but your weaponry suggests this isn’t going to be a passionate rendezvous.” His eyes danced over her again. The pants fit her perfectly. Though her short jacket was zipped up, it was tight. It didn’t hide her curves at all. “Well, Jovienne? Don’t keep me in suspense. Are we to henceforth be enemies?”

  Her chin leveled and she looked down at him regally. “Quite the opposite. I will take the sword and open the Hellgate for you.”

  “That’s fantastic news.” Araxiel’s crooked smile beamed, and then faded. “But the offer has changed a wee bit.”

  She lowered the flowers and one hand gripped the hilt of the sword belted on her hip.

  “Whoa. Hold on.” He lifted his hands in a show of non-aggression. “The terms of your benefit are unchanged, only an extra requirement is added.” He flashed the grin he knew she adored. “My Master is convinced that an offer as good as the one given you last night should be a no-brainer. I believe you’re sincere, but my Master is worried. These are very sensitive issues. So, to convince Him of your sincerity, I’m to ask you for something more, as reassurance.”

  “What more do you need?”

  “First, let me say that I’m personally delighted we will not be enemies.” He took two of the three steps that separated them. Slowly, he reached up to cup her cheek.

  She jerked away. “No. You don’t get to touch me. Remember?”

  “I fear this deal will not continue if that is the case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He took the last step and whispered, “I mean that you and I must become more than friends. As proof that we have each other’s trust.” Only inches separated their bodies. “I can see the longing in your eyes, taste it in the air you exhale. It beckons to me, Jovienne. Your desire draws me to you like a moth to flame.”

  She arched a single brow. “I think your analogy is backward.”

  “Perhaps here the flame seeks the beautiful moth.” His fingers found the short jacket’s zipper. “And perhaps you burn brighter than you realize.” Boldly, he pulled it until the coat fell open. His tongue flicked over his teeth in appreciation of what the vest didn’t cover. “Do not pretend this attraction is any different for you.”

  Her teeth clamped down and her jaw flexed.

  “Is the idea of earning my trust so terrible?” The fingers of his right hand threaded through those of her left hand. “Let me touch you. Explore you. Thrill you. Please, Jovienne.” He reached to touch her hair, but she retreated a step.

  She tried to pull her hand from his. “Stop.”

  “Why?” He squeezed her hand tighter. “You cannot deny that you lust for me.”

  He heard the flowers hit the ground and glanced down. With her right hand, she’d drawn four inches of her sword.

  “I cannot trade my sword for yours.”

  “I didn’t ask you to.” She moved her fingers down the pommel to clench the blade in her palm. “But I did ask you to stop.”

  “You didn’t ask me to let go.”

  “Let go.”

  “Oh, Jovienne. Your head wants me to, but your body doesn’t.”

  Sudden, intense pain erupted in his right hand. He roared as icy
pinpricks of blessed energy poured over his skin like so much holy water. She’d called the sanctified elements of that steel into her palm, absorbed it, and transferred that pure, Heaven-forged essence across her body and down her arm to him.

  He recoiled, opening and closing his hand. “You loathe Yahweh! Yet you consume His power to strike at me?” He thumped his chest and paced before her.

  “I said ‘stop’ and I said ‘let go’. You didn’t.” She shrugged. “You promise me whatever I want, and then act like my words mean nothing. Why am I even talking to you?” She spread her wings.

  “Because you want to be free! Your chances of that are decreasing with each second. You’re ungrateful! Why am I even talking to you?”

  Her cheeks rounded as a seductive smile curved her lips. “You’re talking to me because you need me to do things you can’t do yourself.”

  He laughed. It started out small, but grew. “Don’t act so high and mighty just yet, Jovienne. You don’t understand the secret that have been kept from you. You don’t even know what you are.” He paced again, now gleeful instead of stomping. “You know a few tricks. You’ve gotten lucky. But, essentially, you don’t even know.”

  She snapped her wings shut, conveying annoyance. “Enlighten me. Then, I may appreciate your concern.”

  “Enlighten?” He shook his head. “Funny you should use that word…when light has wrought all that is.” He stopped before her, an arm’s length away. “Yahweh created the rephaim to be the perfect go-between, able to move in Heaven and on Earth. Given a measure of flesh and free will, their purpose was to strengthen weak faith. As you can guess, having flesh meant they had desire, and Yahweh shut them out of Heaven. Abandoned on earth for their disobedience, they realized that when mortals say prayers an energy similar to eis is created.”

  He resumed pacing. “So, they stayed near mortals when they worshipped and the eis kept them from devolving like the angels cast out so long before. Though they were not all they had been, it was close. Because they were grateful, they taught mortals things Yahweh didn’t want them to know, and they took wives. Their half-blood children became giants, known as nephilim.”

  “You’re not going to tell me I’m nephilim, are you? I’m no giant.”

  “Enoch’s scrolls indicate that Yahweh wiped out the giants with the flood.” He shook his head slowly. “What matters is that Noah’s son married a daughter of nephilim, a woman who was one-quarter angel. She was on the Ark. The bloodline survived.”

  “Is there a family tree in this presentation?”

  “I don’t have to prove your pedigree. You have the power. And now you know that you are descended of a daughter of nephilim, that your people were rejected by Heaven because, like you, they saw something valuable in mortals, something they yearned to be part of, but essentially could never be.”

  Jovienne shifted her weight. “If that’s true, why would God make me an abhadhon?”

  “That’s the billion-dollar question.”

  Araxiel pulled the sword from within the peacoat and offered it to her. The naked blade gleamed golden and warmth radiated from it.

  Her hands rose instantly, and when she halted mid-move, Araxiel could tell she’d reached before she was conscious they were in motion.

  “I’ve told you everything I know. I’ve kept nothing from you. This is your last chance to decide your own Fate, Jovienne. Give me your precious proof that we are more than friends, and I will give you this sword.”

  Eyes aglow with the light of the blade, Jovienne spread her wings. She carried Araxiel upward, and landed on the tower’s observation deck.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  WHEN HE LIFTED the golden sword between them, Jovienne realized how real the danger had become. She hadn’t faced Araxiel in actual combat, but how they had fought and negotiated had been a battle in itself. He’d cunningly used that sword and his promises to get her to this moment where her consent was all that mattered.

  He was here for proof of her loyalty. He was here for proof of their mutual intent. He was here for his own pleasure. All of which meant this was not going to be an easy, affectionate event. It was every bit a test.

  But she’d been tested before.

  I am the monster’s monster.

  The voice of God had warned her to beware doubletalk, lies, and untruth. But she was uncertain if He meant Araxiel’s lies or her own. It might not make a difference anymore.

  Araxiel noticed her trembling. He probably recognized the doubt gleaming in her eyes.

  “There, there, my beauty. Be still.” His palm cupped her cheek adoringly. Slowly, his caress moved lower, fingertips gliding under her chin, down her neck, curling under the strap of her halter. He jerked once, barely moved at all, and the golden sword had severed the leather at her shoulder.

  It seemed a waste, to ruin Eitan’s handiwork so needlessly. “There was a zipper,” she complained, voice hollow.

  “This isn’t about practicality.” The tip of the scimitar skimmed along her collar bone and down her sternum. As the kiss of steel traced a heated line, she knew she hadn’t been cut. There was no sting, no warm wash of blood, although the barest shift of his wrist would have changed the angle and made it so.

  He scowled at the bejeweled little dagger pinned to the vest. He tore the leather away exposing her breasts. Her wings twitched into an arch as if she had the thought to cover herself, and then decided against it.

  Boldly contrary to the thread of fear warning her to flee, she was aroused. Dithering between uncertainty and dreamy curiosity about how this ache could be sated, her eyes closed.

  “Ah,” he sighed, fingers brushing down her arm. “Open your eyes, Jovienne. This isn’t something you go through blindly. Bear witness to how I look at you…how the sight of you arouses me.” He brought her hand to his groin.

  She didn’t understand, not exactly, what a man experienced with an erection, but the library’s romance books told her enough to know that hard was good. And he was very, very hard.

  More importantly, he wasn’t ashamed of it, wasn’t resisting or rejecting her.

  The chilled air, the thrill of exposure, and the heat of his hand on hers had a flicker of romance in it. Is that all I get to have? Even so, she wanted this to happen. She wanted to know. As much as she needed that sword.

  Araxiel inched closer and his fingers tucked into the top of her pants and pulled.

  “Don’t ruin them,” she said. “Let me take them off.”

  “This part isn’t about what you want,” he snapped. “This is where the give and take begins. You give me what I want and you get to take the sword. When you make the right sacrifice and open the perfect Hellgate, you get to take whatever you want next.”

  “Who is the right sacrifice?”

  “Tomorrow, or rather, later this morning…attend the dawn service at St. Timothy’s. You’ll know.” Hands deft, Araxiel tugged and sliced, rending the pants until all that remained were ragged strips hanging over the tops of her boots.

  She wanted to cry. She wanted to fight. But she had brought him up here.

  She grabbed his wrists. “Are the books lies?”

  “What books?”

  Embarrassment flamed on her cheeks. “Is romance real? Is it ever like the fairy tales?”

  “Some know love and tenderness,” he said. “But not us.”

  He stabbed the scimitar’s point into the floor where it stuck fast. His hands slid to her waist and explored her skin, slowly increasing his touch, caressing and kneading.

  “You’re cruel.”

  “I? I am not the one who read dirty books looking for reality in fiction. I am not the one who came up here secretly hoping to play pretend.” His hand cupped her, daring to feel between her legs. “No, my beauty. I laid bare my intentions, so don’t you dare curse me for being the one person in this whole Goddamned world who’s been honest with you.”

  She drew back her arm to strike him, but halted as a new, sweet sensation filled her. He wa
s doing more with his fingers.

  “If you force me to defend myself,” he whispered, “I’ll have to stop doing this.”

  A long moment passed as she sorted through the phenomenon she felt and found it too overwhelming to decipher.

  “You like this, don’t you?”

  Barely breathing, she gave the barest of nods.

  “I want to hold you closer. Release your wings. You won’t need to fly for a while.”

  The question blazed in her eyes.

  “Don’t fear me now. Don’t doubt me.”

  Electrified and entranced, she released the wings even as her hands wrapped around his upper arms. “Don’t stop.”

  “Passion and desire are so much more than love and tenderness…but there’s so much more to passion than this,” he pinched her nipple, “and this,” he pressed his finger against her clitoris and slid his hand away in one long stroke.

  Jovienne gasped a shaking breath.

  He wrenched free of her grip and retreated a step as he tore off his shirt. Panting, he looked her up and down. She recognized the rigid pose, the heavy exhalations, and his expression as signs of an enemy about to charge. When he came at her, he wasn’t swinging, but he did grip the sword’s hilt and yank the tip from the floor as he passed it.

  Without thinking, her hands rose up, reaching. Though he did not threaten her with the weapon, she wrapped her hand over his on its hilt to ensure he kept the sharp edge away from her skin. Almost holding it, her yearning owned her. She wanted that sword out of his grip. She wanted it all for her own. Even through this indirect contact, it sang to her, promising warmth and victory as each tidal crash of its power washed against her aura.

  While she was distracted by the power of the blade, Araxiel spun her like a dancer, reeling her into his arms until her back pressed to his chest and he held her in a tight embrace. Driving her forward, he shoved her against the wall where one of the arched openings decorated the dome.

  San Francisco sprawled before them, lights glittering like gems on a field of velvet.

  “Soon, this will be ours. All of it. This world. And we won’t have to hide what we are,” Araxiel said.