On Midnight Wings tms-5

by Adrian Phoenix

  Watching the white-capped waves, Lucien nodded. “I can understand that.”

  “I’ve only heard stories about her—Yahweh’s mother. She left Gehenna for the mortal world centuries before I was born.”

  “To hunt her son’s killer.”

  “You.” Hekate’s voice was soft, absent of accusation, simply stating a fact.

  “Me,” Lucien agreed. He drew in a deep breath of chilled, briny air. Underneath, he caught Hekate’s sweet scent—apple blossoms and cool, shaded water.

  “How have you managed to elude Leviathan all this time?”

  “I haven’t,” Lucien replied, shifting his attention from the sea back to Hekate’s lovely face. “She found me once, nearly ten years ago. After I summoned her.”

  “By all that’s holy, why would you do such a thing?”

  “Desperation. Fifteen years imprisoned within an aingeal trap will do that to you.”

  Hekate stared at him. “Imprisoned? Where? How?”

  Lucien shook his head and shifted his gaze back to the heaving dark waters below. “How? My own foolishness. Where? A tattoo shop on the Oregon coast. As to the question you didn’t ask—why—as Nightbringer, I often forced mortals to face the consequences of their own selfish actions and greed.”

  “I take it that you were those consequences?”

  “That I was.” A wry smile pulled at the corners of Lucien’s mouth. “Your mother used to accuse me of being judgmental and arrogant. She wasn’t wrong. Once I left Gehenna, I continued my work as Nightbringer. I continued very diligently, forcing the mortal world to face what I would not—God was dead. I left entire cities in ruin, the air choked with the ashes of the dead.”

  “All to forget Yahweh,” Hekate said slowly. “To forget what you had done. What you had to do.”

  “To escape,” Lucien corrected, old sorrow tightening his throat. “There was no forgetting.”

  Not the whispered sound of Yahweh’s weary voice: Let them have me, my calon-cyfaill. Let them bind me, chain me to their will. Let it be done before it’s too late. Let it finally be over.

  Nor the weight of Yahweh’s lifeless body in his arms.

  “And did it work?” Hekate asked softly.

  “It did. For centuries. Until I hunted down a woman who enjoyed scamming the bereaved out of their pensions and savings. She was to be the last before I began my new life in New Orleans.”

  “New life?” Hekate’s voice dropped into a husky, knowing murmur. “Ah. Dante’s mother. So that’s who reawakened your heart.”

  Lucien nodded. “Genevieve.” He studied the foam-tipped waves below. “My scammer turned out to be nephilim and not mortal. She’d also laid a trap for me—one I walked right into—and forced me to recount my own sins in detail for fifteen very long years.”

  Fifteen years—unaware that Genevieve was pregnant, unaware that she had been murdered after their son’s birth, leaving the newborn in the hands of monsters. A son Lucien had no idea even existed.

  “So you summoned Leviathan to free yourself.” Hekate’s voice was stunned. “Or was it atonement you sought, not freedom?”

  “Both, perhaps,” Lucien replied. In truth, he was no longer certain. Behind his eyes, memory stirred.

  Leviathan answers in a violent storm that shakes the cliff. She rises from the deep, a valley of endless folds and marine darkness and cascading water that never touches the sea or ground. Her wybrcathl, a furious subsonic bellow, shatters the tattoo shop’s windows and fractures the building itself.

  As sea spray washes away the sigils and angelic script encircling him, Lucien is freed. He battles Paloma and both are injured, but before he can finish the fight, Leviathan envelops them both in an undulating dark tide that slides over them like a bowl.

  Lucien realizes that he owes Leviathan the story that Paloma had demanded; the story of his murder of her only child—Yahweh. Standing in an oceanic night lit only by the phosphorescent flashes from bizarre creatures swimming within Leviathan, Lucien gives the transformed and fallen angel the last moments of her son’s life. And the reasons for his death.

  At the end of it, she asks,

 

 

  Leviathan pulls away, recedes, and returns to the seething sea, leaving Lucien untouched. Physically, at least.

  After he’d discovered Dante’s existence, Lucien had often wondered at Leviathan’s silence, eventually coming to believe that, with her long search for her son’s killer finally over, Leviathan slept in lightless ocean depths, hibernating beneath tons of watery pressure, and beyond the reach—so far—of Dante’s anhrefncathl. Or so Lucien hoped with each beat of his heart.

  A wind-chilled hand touched his shoulder, the fingers nearly cold as ice against his skin. He shivered.

  “Lucien, tell me the story from the beginning.”

  Turning his head to look at her, Lucien wrapped Hekate’s icy fingers in his, then lifted them to his lips. Kissed them. “It’s a long story, one for another time.”

  “I like long stories,” she murmured, stepping closer. The wind molded her moss-green gown against her curves, coaxed rosy color from her cheeks.

  “So do I,” a voice said from above them. “And I hear you have a good one.”

  Lucien looked up to see the Morningstar kiting down from the night sky, moonlight gleaming along his alabaster wings as they slashed through the brine-laden air. Giving Hekate’s fingers one more kiss, Lucien released her hand. He swiveled to face her father.

  “Good isn’t the word I’d use,” Lucien said. “Bad, with the potential for worse.”

  The Morningstar landed with ease, despite the wind. He folded his wings behind him with a graceful flutter. He was dressed for the sea weather in black plaid trousers over sturdy black boots. Regarding Lucien with golden eyes, he said, “Let’s hear it, then.”

  In a voice prickly with his own swallowed pride, Lucien obliged him.

  37

  NO LONGER THE ANCIENT WORLD

  FINISHED WITH HIS GRIM recitation, Lucien watched as the Morningstar paced along the cliff’s rocky edge in long, furious strides, pebbles gritting beneath his boots. The wind—heavy with the smell of impending rain—whipped through his short white hair and plucked at his trousers. Anger radiated from him in dry ice waves, scorching his bitter orange scent.

  “I knew Dante should’ve remained here,” the Morningstar growled.

  “He didn’t want to,” Lucien reminded. “And no one could’ve forced him without suddenly needing to adapt to additional or perhaps fewer body parts.”

  “Will you help or not?” Hekate asked. “You sealed the blood pledge, therefore you can use it to track Dante.”

  “Yes, I can,” the Morningstar agreed. He ceased his pacing and turned around to face them both, winter frost in his eyes. “But once I do, what shape will his sanity be in?”

  “What makes you question his sanity?” Hekate asked.

  The Morningstar waved a negligent hand. “We’ve all witnessed his seizures, his odd tumbles into a past he doesn’t seem to remember. He was already standing at the crumbling edge of the abyss. He might’ve already fallen.”

  Lucien shook his head. “You have no idea what Dante’s endured.”

  “I know more than you think. Much more. Mortal minds are so easy to read.”

  Lucien stared at the Morningstar, chilled to the bone.

  Mortal minds.

  Heather. Annie.

  If the Elohim should learn about Dante’s past, about Bad Seed, about what had been done to him—the programming implanted within their creawdwr, they would kill him before allowing a mortal agency to control him.

  “Dante’s stronger than you think,” Lucien said.

  “Dante may be strong, but he’s also exhausted. Even I could see that.”

  “So, are you saying it’s too late?” Hekate asked her father.
“That you won’t even try? We can’t just give up, we need—” Her words trailed away, her gaze turning inward as she received a sending. She blinked, frowning.

  Lucien glanced at the Morningstar and saw that he shared his daughter’s introspective expression and was most likely the source of the sending.

  Hekate blew out an exasperated breath. “Fine. I’ll give you ten minutes.”

  “For what?” Lucien asked.

  “A bit of privacy,” the Morningstar answered. “So we can discuss arrangements.”

  “Ah. Arrangements,” Lucien murmured. “Of course.”

  Lucien watched as Hekate stepped away to unfurl her creamy white wings. They glimmered ghost-pale in the darkness, their undersides the iridescent lavender of seashells. She rose into the night, then quickly flew out of sight.

  “Wise,” Lucien said. “Can’t have your daughter seeing you for who you really are.”

  The Morningstar laughed, genuine amusement in his voice. “The child is five centuries old. Trust me, she has no illusions on that score.”

  “No. I suppose not,” Lucien agreed, turning to face the Morningstar. “Let’s have it, then. How much is your help going to cost me?”

  “Now, now,” the Morningstar chided, his lips curving into a mocking smile. “My help is freely given.” He stepped forward until he’d narrowed the distance between them to a mere handspan. “It’s your failure—as a guardian, as a father—that will cost you.”

  Lucien’s hands knotted into fists. He barely felt the bite of his talons against his palms. Holding the Morningstar’s now gold-flecked gaze, he growled, “Name your price. But know this before you do—I’ll never agree to anything that negates Dante’s free will.”

  “Such as putting a mortal—like Annie—ahead of his well-being? That’s exactly what you did when you rescued her while your son was being stolen from inside the club.”

  Angelic power crackled electric along Lucien’s fingers, snapping the sharp smell of ozone into the briny air. “Consider your next words carefully,” he warned.

  An answering thrum of power vibrated from the Morningstar and into Lucien. Elohim challenge. The ozone scent thickened. Then the Morningstar’s expression shifted from anticipation to regret as he took a reluctant step back.

  “Before we play any Elohim games, we have a creawdwr to find.”

  Lucien exhaled, releasing his power. “We do.”

  “But we also need to discuss what we plan to do if his sanity has been broken. I know all about Bad Seed and what was done to Dante. And no,” the Morningstar added, giving Lucien a knowing look from beneath pale lashes, “I haven’t told anyone else.”

  “And you won’t,” Lucien stressed, holding the Morningstar’s wintery blue gaze.

  “Of all the many things I am, fool is not among them.”

  “Yet.”

  “Your faith in me is quite touching, brother,” the Morningstar said in a voice as dry as a desert wind. “Now, Dante—his sanity?”

  “Dante’s bond with Heather has kept him balanced. Once we’ve located him, we can keep him sedated and safe until we find her.”

  “And if we don’t find her?”

  “We will,” Lucien replied. Stepping to the cliff’s edge, he studied the whitecapped waves crashing against the rocks below. “We must.”

  “While I applaud your optimism, I don’t share it,” the Morningstar said. “Do you remember the device created by that nephilim scientist? The one designed to preserve what was left of Yahweh’s sanity, maybe even restore it?”

  “An Banna Cruach,” Lucien said slowly, as a memory awakened, one buried long centuries before. “The Steel Bond.”

  “The bond that cannot be severed, yes,” the Morningstar mused. “That’s it.”

  “It was an invention of pure desperation,” Lucien said, turning to look at the Morningstar, “a last ditch effort. An effort finished too late, at that.”

  “It was meant to be implanted within Yahweh, am I right?” the Morningstar asked. “To rechannel the creu tân in some fashion in order to safeguard his sanity?”

  “Yes, but it was never tested, so we’ll never know if it would’ve worked. It might not have,” Lucien replied, impatience sharpening his tone. “In any case, it was built with a full-blooded Elohim creawdwr in mind, not a mixed-blood Maker.”

  “If Dante’s sanity has broken and Heather isn’t found, we may have no other choice—aside from killing him, that is.”

  Lucien laughed. “You talk as if the damned thing still existed. Loki destroyed—”

  “No, he didn’t,” the Morningstar cut in. “He killed the nephilim who invented it, oh yes. Loki wanted Yahweh to become the Great Destroyer. He thought that would be fun beyond measure. But he never had a chance to destroy the Bond. Someone stole it from him before he could.”

  “And who was that?”

  A smile brushed the Morningstar’s lips. “Michael.”

  Hope sparked. If the Steel Bond still existed, it might save Dante when nothing else could. “And where is it now?”

  “Keeping Michael company inside his tomb—in theory, anyway. Besides, as you said, it may not even work on a True Blood–Fallen creawdwr at all. A creawdwr we still need to find.”

  “That we do,” Lucien agreed. “So name your damned price.”

  “Let’s think of it as a penalty, not a price. A penalty in two parts.”

  “You can call it whatever you want, just name it.”

  “First, I want Lilith back, restored once more to flesh.”

  Lucien nodded, surprised, but not unpleasantly so. For a deal with the devil, that particular request/penalty was more difficult than morally challenging. “I’ll do my best to convince Dante. But no guarantees. He’s stubborn under the best of circumstances.”

  “I’ve noticed,” the Morningstar said dryly.

  “And the second part?”

  “To ensure a lasting alliance between our houses, I want a hostage.”

  And there it was, the moral compromise, the true deal with the devil.

  Lucien regarded the Morningstar for a long, silent moment. He caught a flash of white in his peripheral vision, heard the rush of wings beneath the wind. Hekate.

  “Dante will never give up Heather,” Lucien warned.

  “Of course not,” the Morningstar said. “She’s bondmate and cydymaith both. I had no intention of asking for her.”

  “Who, then?”

  “Her sister, Annie. The mortal you were so busy rescuing.”

  “No. Impossible. She’s pregnant. Choose another. Choose me.”

  “Pregnant?” The Morningstar’s eyes shone with a speculative light. “Truly? Well, that changes everything. Annie no longer interests me as a hostage.”

  Relief flooded through Lucien. He was just about to offer himself again as hostage, when the Morningstar’s next words stole the air from his lungs.

  “I want the child in her womb, once born.”

  “Are you mad?” Lucien asked, voice flat, disbelieving. “This is no longer the ancient world. You can’t lay claim to newborns. No.”

  The Morningstar shrugged. “As you wish. I shall find and free Dante without you, then. And I will do whatever I deem necessary to stabilize his sanity.” His alabaster wings unfurled, sweeping through the air. He lifted into the brine-and storm-scented night.

  “Damn you, wait!”

  The Morningstar paused, hovering, his wings beating through the air. He tilted his head, regarding Lucien with shadowed eyes. “I’m waiting, but not for long. I have a creawdwr to salvage. And please keep in mind that any promise you make will be sealed in blood—unbreakable.”

  Lucien tasted something dark and bitter at the back of his throat. He knew Dante would never forgive him for the vow he was about to make. Suspected he would never forgive himself.

  I would lay the world to waste for my son. What is one mortal infant?

  Lucien realized in that moment that he and Leviathan weren’t so very different.r />
  For I shall claim your firstborn as my own—to kill or to love, as I deem fit.

  Eyes burning, Lucien slashed a talon across his palm. Blood welled up, dark and fragrant, binding him to the words he now spoke in a low voice. “The child shall be yours. Now take me to my son.”

  The Morningstar revealed his sharp teeth in a dark and wolfish grin. “With plea—”

  “Father!”

  Hekate landed on the cliff in a frantic flurry of wings. As she swiveled to face them, Lucien’s gut knotted at the panic and uncertainty he saw darkening her eyes and leaching color from her face. From above and all around, cries sounded through the rain-lashed night like frightened sea gulls. As Lucien listened, he closed his eyes, pulse pounding at his temples.

  “They’re gone,” the Morningstar said, voice stunned, a man learning his cancer is terminal. “The skygates have unraveled.”

  38

  WELCOME TO THE HORROR SHOW

  BATON ROUGE

  DOUCET-BAINBRIDGE SANITARIUM

  THE AIR REEKED OF blood and pissed-pants death.

  Blood glistened on the walls.

  Slicked the tile floor in long, dark smears.

  And on the alarm panel ripped from the wall beside the security desk—a bloody left handprint that Dante studied like a stark and mysterious paleolithic cave painting from where he lay sprawled on the floor. He lifted his bloodstained left hand. Compared.

  Probably mine.

  Lowering his hand, Dante wearily closed his eyes. His head pulsed with pain, a never-relenting, white-hot pressure as though his head was caught between tons of shifting rock. Trapped beneath the rubble of a cataclysmic internal earthquake, despite having escaped the shattered depths—for now, anyway—when a seizure had knocked S’s ass to the blood-smeared floor.

  Just taking a time-out. Catching my breath.

  Got a full schedule of killing ahead.

  A chill touched Dante soul-deep. He no longer knew if his thoughts were his alone or belonged to S. Figured it no longer mattered at this point. Words Lucien had said to him in the back of the Perv’s van popped into his aching head.