by J. D. Brown
Lyn’s sword hand twitched. She wished she had Channing, even though she knew the blade would get her in trouble with so many witnesses all around them. It would look like she had killed a human man. But she did have another trick up her sleeve ...
Lyn tilted her head and smiled sweetly. “Sorry, but I’m spoken for. And my guy can definitely take your bug-ass straight back to Hell.”
The demon’s irises glowed ruby red. Darkness swallowed her as though all the flashing bar lights had simultaneously turned away. The temperature dropped several degrees and a chill shivered down her spine. Mist rode her breath as she exhaled.
The handsome human disguise faded away completely, leaving nothing but demon.
Oh crap.
“My dear girl …,” The demon’s mouth didn’t move. Instead, his slithery voice seemed to come from every direction, penetrating her skin, “… I’m counting on it.”
Lyn glanced past him, taking stock of her surroundings. She needed to make a run for it. Sam wouldn’t hear her screaming over the music. Her gaze went to the table where he and Angie talked—
“Be still. We wouldn’t want to spoil the show.”
Her heart pounded. Everything in her told her to run. Run now! Go! But she couldn’t move. Her legs were frozen, her feet rooted to the floor. She couldn’t even lift her arms; they felt like lead weights. She drew a breath to scream, but her mouth wouldn’t open.
“Be not afraid,” said the demon.
Something in Lyn’s mind broke. It felt tiny, like snapping a thin twig, no pain nor fear accompanied it. She was just aware of it, like when a knuckle cracks. Lyn met the demon’s blood-red gaze.
His disgusting maggot-infested mouth curved into a sly grin. “Good girl. Now come with me.”
Lyn waited for the demon to move so she could follow, but he didn’t go anywhere. Instead, her surroundings sped past them like a video on fast-forward. The surreal motion made her vision spin and she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she stood in a cement room with no windows or doors. Possibly, they stood in a basement, but Lyn had the strangest feeling they weren’t underground.
Or in Paradise.
The large space had no furniture, no nickknacks, no fixtures. Nothing. Just a lot of gray. After the blaring dance music at Tryst, Lyn felt numb in the silent nothingness. She tried to move but couldn’t; still paralyzed from the demon’s command to be still.
The creature waved a clawed hand, and her jaw fell open, gasping in deep breathes.
“Where are we?” she asked, somewhat relieved to have her voice back.
“We are in the space between.” His raspy tone reminded her of the sound a rattlesnake makes before it strikes.
The space between? Where the heck is that? I should be scared, she thought vaguely. But she wasn’t. “Why am I here?”
“Too many questions,” said the demon. “Let’s play a game instead.”
Memories flooded her mind in quick, sharp succession as if they were being ripped from her brain …
Gran lay in bed with the fat salamander demon coiled around her heart, draining her life. Lyn’s mother’s coffin came into view next, moments before they lowered it into the ground. Then came a door; one Lyn would recognize anywhere.
Her chest heaved and she gasped out loud. This was the memory that haunted her—the one she spent years trying to forget. It still woke her in the dead of night. Normally, when the memory began to slip to the surface, Lyn would take a breath and squash it deep, deep down into a proverbial box buried under a graveyard of substance abuse, sporadic therapy sessions, and good old-fashioned denial. But this time was different. She was not afraid. Lyn watched numbly as the memory unfolded before her eyes …
A fourteen-year-old version of herself unlocked the front door of Lyn’s childhood home. Only two days before Christmas, a thin layer of ice coated the brass doorknob. The cold stung her small hands, but she didn’t think anything of it. Her gloves were always mysteriously disappearing, along with most of her left socks.
Sugar and peppermint stained her lips, and the charm bracelet Angie gave her the night before dangled from her wrist. Inside, the house was warm, and Lyn kicked off her snow boots. The tree lights twinkled in the living room and the kitchen smelled of gingerbread, but the house was quiet and dark. Something didn’t feel right. She climbed the stairs in the foyer to the second-floor landing and her chest tightened. “Dad?”
Lyn’s room was closest to the stairs. She took off her jacket and knit cap and tossed them inside before going to the guest room. “Andrew? Aaron? Anyone home?” She knocked on the door. “Hello?”
When no one answered, Lyn turned the knob and pushed the door open. The room was dark, but it was the smell that alarmed her. She covered her nose and tried not to gag while flicking on the bedroom lights. A terror she had never known before seized her lungs. Uncle Tommy, Aunt Ruby, and her little cousins lay in pools of their own blood. They had been butchered, their cavities shredded to ribbons, the down comforters still dripping.
Lyn retched into the carpet and then screamed. “Dad! Dad, please help!”
No one came. After what felt like hours, Lyn managed to pull herself to her feet. She went to her father’s room, turned on the light, and felt her world spin out of control. Her father’s head rested at her toes, his vacant eyes staring up at her. His body hung off the side of the bed—some five or more feet away.
Lyn felt a sickly pang in her stomach. She’d spent so much time and energy trying to forget the clarity of her father’s severed spinal cord, of the blood dampening the carpet, of the ichor staining the silver letter opener in her father’s fist. Somehow, reliving the memory was more shocking than when it had actually happened.
“Enough.” Lyn shook her head free of the memories. She was vaguely aware that she should be wetting her pants with fear, but she wasn’t. Her heart ached for the family she lost, and her stomach twisted at the carnage, but all the years spent living in constant fear of demons—of the murderous beast who took her family from her—wasn’t there. She felt lighter, somehow. Lighter and careless. This isn’t right.
Fear was healthy. Fear kept people alive.
“That it does,” said the demon. “But fear can also harm.”
Lyn drew a deep breath. “The mighty Dantalion, I presume? Bender of thoughts and all that.”
The demon placed a clawed hand on his chest and then did a low-sweeping bow.
“The Duke of Knowledge,” he said by way of introduction. “It is an honor to meet a Daughter of Eve.”
“Knowledge?” said Lyn. She would’ve expected the Duke of Death or the Duke of Chaos, or even the Duke of Suicide after what he did to those poor girls he murdered, but the Duke of Knowledge?
“Oh yes, knowledge. I know the thoughts of every man and woman who has ever lived, thus I know all that has ever been. Finding you was a simple errand.” Dantalion tilted his head to the side and looked at her with a confidence Lyn supposed only a pompous demon who knew everything could muster. “I can even predict the future. It’s a simple mathematical equation. Such is the greatness of the power of knowledge. Would you like to know your future, Daughter of Eve?”
Lyn couldn’t tell if the Duke was trying to impress her, or just messing with her. Either way, she didn’t care. “Let me guess; you’re going to say I die in some horrible catastrophic way unless I do whatever you want, right? I’ve seen the movies. Side note; blackmail only works when we humans are afraid of the consequences, but you turned off my fear, so I really couldn’t care less.” She meant to shrug for effect, but her arms were still paralyzed.
The demon scowled. “The Commander said not to kill you, but he said nothing about having a little fun. You like fun.” Dantalion waved his hand and more memories filled Lyn’s mind. This time the memories were about Sam and they flashed by quickly …
The moment she first saw him, the moment she saved his life; Sam explaining that they were bound and what it meant; Sam looking crestfallen
as he washed the blood from his battered body in her bathtub.
“Interesting,” said the demon as he sifted through some of Lyn’s more recent memories …
All her teasing quips, the back-and-forth banter and stolen glances, the way his shower gel smelled; the way he appeared at the cemetery to ward off the Gressil demon, how he waited outside Gran’s door after Lyn discovered she was possessed, as if he knew Lyn needed him; the way he felt against her when they danced at Tryst.
Lyn squeezed her eyes shut. She felt violated. “Stop it. I do not have a crush on Sam.”
“I never said you did,” said the demon. “But, would you like to know how the Blind God feels about you?”
Blind God? Lyn scoffed. “Be my guest. What do I care?”
“Excellent!” Dantalion clapped his clawed hands like an excited child. He took a step back and one of the bone-white studs over his left shoulder began to grow. The inky black scales of his flesh tore open and ichor leaked over his arm as the horn rose in height. When the bone stood about twelve inches long, Dantalion gripped the base in his right hand and broke the horn from his body.
Lyn winced as he extended his fist in her direction. He turned his hand palm-side up and opened his clawed fingers. The horn balanced flatly on his hand, then began to shift. It transformed into a double-edged ivory knife.
“Take it,” he ordered.
Lyn’s arms were suddenly free. She lifted her hands slowly, testing them. Her fingers were cold and clammy, but she wasn’t in any pain.
“Take it,” he said again, “and flay yourself.”
Lyn looked at him. The inner voice that told her she should be frightened fluttered through her mind, but was quickly snuffed out. She took the knife, holding the handle as expertly as she would a sword. She pressed the razor-sharp edge of the white blade to her opposite wrist—
“Not so fast,” warned the Duke. “We mustn’t let you bleed out.”
Lyn paused a moment, and then lifted the blade to her bicep.
“Very good. Proceed.”
She dragged the blade across her skin. Lyn whimpered as a sharp pain burned through her. Blood seeped from the incision, warm and red, but not too rapidly. It streaked the length of her arm in a single thin ribbon, stopping at her elbow, where it dripped to the floor and splattered the cement. Tears blurred her vision as she struggled to continue. She might not have been afraid, but her nervous system still worked, and the pain was enough to make her chest heave. Still, she couldn’t stop.
Lyn pushed the knife in the other direction, sawing through her own flesh. She cried out at the searing agony, gnashed her teeth together, and then dragged the blade back towards her. An inch of skin peeled away from her body and her legs wobbled. Her tears flowed as freely as her blood, and her lungs panted hard, knocking against her ribs. Fire burned through her entire arm. She wanted to stop. Why was she doing this? It was insane. It was—
Chaos.
Of course. Demons lived for chaos. What was more chaotic than being forced to flay yourself? What was more mind-boggling than suffering the pain, but not fearing its consequence? She didn’t want to hurt herself, but she wasn’t in control. It was like a bad dream; one she couldn’t wake up from no matter how hard her pulse raced or how loudly her will screamed. Thanks to the Duke’s influence, Lyn wasn’t afraid of bleeding out and dying. In fact, she welcomed it. Death would be a mercy; a respite as she flayed another inch of skin from her own flesh. But she wasn’t going to die. Dantalion said the Commander forbade it. She was going to suffer.
The Duke laughed.
17
Something Worse
S am burst through the door and raced around the building. The silence of the night seemed to swallow him with a cold, deaf indifference compared to the blaring music inside. The click-clack of women’s shoes punctured the dank pavement as Angie rushed after him.
“Where are you going?” asked the angel. “She’s probably in the bathroom or something.”
“If she was anywhere in the vicinity, I’d feel her. She’s gone.”
“Then I’ll call her.”
Sam paid no attention to the Guardian’s drivel. He crossed the parking lot quickly but came up short when he found Lyn’s car exactly where they’d left it. She hadn’t driven away, which meant she either walked away of her own free will, or she was taken. Sam touched a hand to his chest and feared the latter. Her absence was too absolute to be anything but bad.
He marched up to the back-passenger window and punched his fist through the glass.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”
Sam turned on the angel. “Is she answering?”
Angie stood with her phone pressed to her ear and pursed her lips. “No.”
“Then we do this my way.” He knocked the remainder of the broken glass away from the metal frame and then reached inside and grabbed the katana. “Come on.” He ran down a narrow backroad until he reached a secluded spot behind some kind of convenience store. It was late enough that even the gas stations were closed, no one around.
Angie panted beside him. She pressed one hand against the store wall and used the other to remove her shoes. “Now what?”
“Did Lyn show you the sigil?”
Her brow arched as though mildly surprised. “You mean the Duke’s medallion?”
Sam nodded. “Can you draw it?”
“Maybe,” said Angie. “Why?”
“You’re going to summon Dantalion.”
“What? I can’t summon a demon.”
“You— Ahhh!” Sam clutched his upper arm as a searing pain sliced through him. A deep incision tore across the flesh over his bicep. Sam gnashed his jaw together as the laceration continued down the length of his arm. Slowly, agonizingly, the skin peeled away and he bled. Sam fell to his knees, dropping the sword.
“What’s happening?” asked Angie.
“He’s torturing her.” Sam growled as blood seeped through his fingers, warm and red. His chest heaved with Hellfire. The demon at his core raged at the pain, wanting to lash out and kill the creature causing it. “He’s killing us. Please, save her.”
“I can’t.
“Angie!”
“You don’t understand. I can’t summon anything. I was reborn in this realm. That’s why Lyn doesn’t know what I am. She can’t see my true form because there’s nothing to see. I’m as good as human.”
“What? Ugh!” Sam howled as another two inches of skin curled away from his muscles. He doubled over, landing on his palms.
“You’re going to have to do it.” Angie dropped to her knees on his uninjured side and grabbed his wrist. She lifted his hand to the ether. “Call the veil. I’ll draw.”
Sam squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. He shoved the burning pain aside, drew a deep breath to quell his rage, and then focused on the fabric of this realm, making it tangible. Time and space fluttered beneath his palm like the soft ripple of tissue paper.
“Now,” he grunted.
Angie moved his hand, drawing the sigil as one complicated unbroken line. He felt the bitter darkness creep forth as she finished. Sam opened his eyes, and the Guardian released him. Angie wrapped her fist around the hilt of the katana and slowly pushed to her feet. She unsheathed the blade and took a calculated step back.
Sam drew his attention to the sigil. It glimmered red and black like rubies reflecting both shadow and light. He exhaled and his breath misted in front of him. A shadow blotted out the sky and the nearby streetlights blinked out, turning the alley pitch black. Sam pushed to his feet and scanned the darkness. “Show yourself, Dantalion. I know you have her.”
“Traitor,” said a deep voice.
Sam recognized the smooth baritone and his spine tensed. They had not summoned the Duke.
“Lucifer,” he growled.
Angie looked at Sam and her jaw fell open.
“Show yourself,” he challenged.
“You stand with the enemy.”
“The Guardian
is here for her charge. That’s all. Give her the Daughter, and you and I can talk about the rest.”
Lucifer chuckled.
Sam searched the shadows for its source, but The Commander would not be seen unless he willed it.
“I admired you for walking away from my brother. I thought you were brave. Now I see you are only wicked. A traitor to the core; loyal to no one. You wanted to be a demon, Samael, but even demons know loyalty. There is nothing righteous left in you. No soul to speak of. No heart. Just hatred and selfishness.”
“Lucifer …” Sam clenched his fists. The Commander wasn’t supposed to come to Earth yet. It was too soon. Too risky. But then, their plans had gone awry the moment Sam failed to overtake the Gate. He knew he should’ve gone back and reported the failure—but even the lowest demons would sense a change in him. Being bound made him too vulnerable to his enemies. He should have taken Lyn and gotten as far away from Paradise as possible from the beginning.
“Fear not, Samael. The Daughter will live as long as you remain obedient.”
“No,” said Sam. “You can’t keep her prisoner. She is vulnerable in a cage. We have too many enemies. The Princes—”
“The Princes are on my side. My success is their success. The girl will be well-guarded until she is old and gray.”
“You can’t trust the Princes. They told us her line was dead, yet Lyn and her great-grandmother are both alive. You think I’m a traitor? The Princes are worse and you know it.”
“Then I suggest you work quickly to achieve our goal.”
Sam growled. “Even if I wanted to, it won’t work. Her emotions—”
“You are exhausting my patience, Samael. Even a Lesser demon understands a death threat. Continue as previously planned or perish.”
“I feel everything she does!” he shouted to the void. “Even now; you left Dantalion to guard her. Look what he’s doing.” Sam pointed to the open wound on his bicep. “Her pain, her wounds, her suffering; I share it all. It will cripple me on the battlefield. If you keep her, I will be useless.”
“Figure it out. You are immortal for one mortal lifetime. Use it to finish what we started, or perish now. Your choice.”
