A Devil Named Desire (19 page)

“He kidnapped you?”

“Only because I was stupid enough to let him,” Charity answered sourly. “I think he might’ve put something in my drink, though he never admitted to it. After two or three days of sitting by myself in the dark, no food or water, thinking I was going to die, he came and let me out.”

She fell silent, while Hope waited, letting her sister find the words for what happened next.

“He had four guys with him,” Charity said softly, “and I didn’t have the strength to fight them. Tony let me shower, gave me something to eat, and then gave me some pills, to make it easier, he said.”

That bastard.
Rage, cold and hard, lodged itself in Hope’s throat, making her want to vomit.

“When it was over, I didn’t really care what happened to me,” Charity said simply. “He kept giving me the pills, and I kept taking them, because he was right, it really
was
easier that way. He kept me in a locked room with no windows. The guys kept coming, and Tony would show up every night and make me feel better, help me get through the next day. I can’t really explain it, but after a week, maybe two—I don’t know—it felt like Tony was the only friend I had in the whole world.”

What about me?
her heart cried, but she left the words unsaid, for she couldn’t imagine the horrors her sister must’ve gone through.

“I thought I was going to die, but I didn’t,” she said simply. “I begged him to let me call you, but he wouldn’t let me. He told me I was used goods, and that nobody would ever love me except him.” Charity shrugged. “In some crazy, insane way, I believed him, and after a while I just stopped asking.”

“What a scumbag,” Hope murmured, giving her sister a squeeze. “He’s going to burn in Hell for what he’s done.”

“Yeah,” Charity said softly. “He is.”

“What about now? I mean, are you still . . .”

“Still what? Taking the drugs? Seeing the guys?” It was hard to ignore the sense of hopelessness in Charity’s voice. “No. Once Tony had me where he wanted me, he stopped giving me the pills. Took me out of that hellhole and put me up in an apartment, made me get clean, even when I didn’t want to. Told me it was ruining my looks, and that I had to earn my keep working at Straight Up.” The pitch black surrounding them seemed to make it easier for her to talk about it. “I dance, I make a ton of money in tips, but all of it goes to Tony, and in return, he puts a roof over my head, buys my food, my clothes . . .”

Hope closed her eyes, fighting back the old, familiar sense of guilt. The thoughts that if she’d just fought harder to keep Charity with her when they’d gone into foster care, just been more understanding of a teenage Charity when they’d been reunited, even though she’d been barely out of her teens herself . . .

“Hope?” Charity seemed to have run out of steam, slumping against her. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Of course I can,” she murmured, wondering if she could ever forgive herself.

They sat there for a while in silence, taking what comfort they could in just being together. Hope’s mind was racing, worrying about Gabriel, about what was going to happen to them, where they were, if anyone would ever find them. Maybe they’d just be left to rot, or maybe Tony would do to her what he’d done to Charity. Either way, she was pretty sure she’d never see Gabriel again, and it was her own damn fault. If she’d left him alone, he’d still be an angel, doing what he did best, instead of a human, and most likely dead in a ditch somewhere.

Unable to hold back the pain of that thought, she gave an involuntary moan.

“Are you okay?” Charity shifted, sitting up. “Did they hurt you?”

“No.” Hope hated how wimpy her voice sounded. “I’m okay.” She needed to be strong for Charity, who gripped her hand, hard.

“You’re not okay,” her sister said, putting both her hands over hers. “You’re worried about your boyfriend, aren’t you?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Hope said automatically, and then burst into tears. Once begun, they wouldn’t stop, and she drew up her knees, pressing her face into them as she cried and cried, both for what she’d lost, and for what she’d never had.

Charity moved, putting both arms around her and resting her head between Hope’s shoulder blades. It felt strange to be the one receiving comfort instead of giving it, but Hope took it all in, unable to do anything else. And finally, when the tears became a trickle and the sobs became hiccups, she began to tell her sister about the man she loved.

“His name is Gabriel,” she told her. “And he’s the kindest, sweetest man I’ve ever met. I’ve caused him a lot of trouble, and cost him . . . well, I’ve cost him more than I can ever repay. And still, despite everything, he protected me and helped me find you.” More tears threatened, but Hope shoved them down, wanting to tell Charity everything, but unsure of how. It sounded fantastic: she’d tried to kill herself and been saved by the Devil himself, then made an unholy deal with him to get her sister back. She’d been given an ancient text on how to control demons, had tried to use it for her own benefit and almost gotten herself killed, then was saved by the angel who wrote it. Then she’d corrupted the angel, simply because she couldn’t keep her hands off him, and now he was dead, and they were going to die, too.

“You love him,” Charity said simply.

Hope didn’t deny it. “I love him.”

Her sister shifted, lifting her head but keeping her arm around her as she settled them both more comfortably against the wall. “How did you meet?”

“I thought he was a mugger, and I drenched him with lavender oil.”

Charity laughed, the sound of which was so incongruous with their surroundings and their situation that it made Hope laugh, too.

“Now
there’s
a story to tell your grandchildren,” Charity said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “He must love you, too, if he’s still around after that.”

Hope didn’t answer, because the possibility of such a thing happening was too painfully bittersweet to consider.

“What else? Tell me more about him.”

“He’s strong, and brave, and he likes cats. Sherlock follows him around like a puppy.”

“Sherlock?” The skepticism in Charity’s voice was completely understandable. “That furry little snot?” Then she sighed, and murmured, “I miss the little furball.”

“He misses you, too,” Hope told her. “He still sits by the window and watches, like he’s waiting for you to come home.”

“He’s just watching for birds and squirrels,” she said, but Hope could tell she was pleased by the thought. “What else?”

Knowing her sister was just trying to keep her mind off bad things by focusing on good ones, Hope kept talking.

“Gabriel’s not like anyone I’ve ever met,” she said slowly. “He’s . . . um . . . he’s very
spiritual
.”

Charity made a noise of approval. “I’m glad. You could use a little help in that area.”

The remark surprised her, considering the source. “What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

Another comforting shoulder squeeze made it hard to take offense. “You’re just so
serious
all the time, sis. You work so hard, as though you have to do everything yourself or it won’t get done. It’s like you see everything in black and white, with no shades of gray, no room for fate, or chance, or luck.” Charity rested her head against hers in the darkness. “You have a hard time trusting in anyone or anything except yourself, Hope. Sometimes you need to put your faith in something bigger than yourself.”

An unexpected lump in her throat rendered her silent.

“You probably won’t believe this, but I pray a lot, and even if I don’t always get what I want, I know someone hears me,” Charity murmured. “I’m not sure what His name is, whether it’s God or Allah or Buddha or what—”

He has many names
, thought Hope,
most of them unpronounceable, but Gabe knows them all.

“—but I know He’s there. Despite everything bad that’s happened to you and me both, I know He’s there.”

Hope lowered her head, ashamed that after all she’d been through, all she’d seen, she still hesitated to rely on anyone but herself.

“When Mom and Dad died, and we went into foster care, I prayed all the time that you would come and get me, and you did. When Tony . . .” She hesitated, then went on. “When I found myself with Tony, doing what I was doing, I thought I’d probably never see you again—that it was probably better if I didn’t, so I wouldn’t have to look you in the eye—but I prayed I would anyway.” Charity surprised her even more by planting a quick kiss on her hair. “And here you are.”

“I missed you, Char.”

“I missed you, too.”

The sound of key turning in a lock made them both jump, but Hope was almost glad. If they were going to die, and if the God both Charity and Gabriel believed in actually existed, He might have just the teeniest bit of mercy on her and let her see the man she loved, one final time.

Chapter Twenty

O
nce Hope and Charity were taken from the bar, the Ravenai who’d overcome Gabriel had lost the appearance of humans and become their true selves—ruddy-skinned and leathery, with razor-sharp teeth, ridged backs, and hunched postures. Tony had beaten a hasty retreat, disappearing into his office, leaving the dead bodies of his men on the floor.

The Ravenai had cackled gleefully among themselves as they’d bound Gabe roughly with leather straps, straps that would never have held him if he’d been in angelic form. The body that had known so much pleasure with Hope became a torture chamber, for he couldn’t free himself, no matter how he struggled. Frantic with worry for her, he kicked and fought as best he could, so much so that one of the Ravenai, losing patience, had struck him hard in the back of the head, causing him to lose consciousness. When he awoke he was still bound, this time to a chair, sitting in a room he’d never been in before.

Before him was a large mirror, and in it he saw himself, beaten and bound, dried blood on the side of his face and in his hair. His body ached, an unfamiliar sensation, as was the dizziness that assailed him. It passed quickly, however, leaving room for reason to return. With reason came worry, for he’d lost Hope, and had no idea where she might be.

Around him, the room darkened, and as it did, the mirror before him became transparent, slowly revealing the flicker of flames. As his eyes adjusted, Gabe realized he was looking down at a large chamber with a sunken floor, filled with candles, eerily lit in all four corners with torches. The candles were in the hands of people, all of them wearing hooded black robes. He could see no faces, for none of them was looking up toward where he sat. Their collective attention was on a rectangular black table in the center of the room, a coffin-sized island of darkness within a sea of flickering flames.

The walls above the torches were stained with soot, and marked with arcane symbols that made Gabriel’s heart sink to his toes, for there he saw the symbol of Asmodeus, the Destroyer, and that of Behemoth, Demon of Indulgence. There, too, was the sigil of Baal, Commander of Earthly Legions, which left no doubt as to this gathering’s purpose. On the table, which he now knew to be an altar, lay a gleaming silver athame, an ornate dagger used for sacrifice.

The gathering seemed to be taking place in total silence. If not for the movements of one man, who wove his way throughout the room, lighting candles as he went, Gabe would’ve thought the black-robed figures mannequins, so still did they appear.

A door opened at the far end of the room, and another black-robed figure came in, carrying a large, leather-bound book. He was followed by three others, one holding a large silver chalice, the other two holding gleaming golden censers from which smoke rose like steam.

The two with the censers split in opposite directions, each making a full, slow circle of the room, crossing in the middle, while the ones with the book and the chalice moved to stand at the head of the altar.

Smoke rose, and silence reigned, as Gabriel once again struggled ineffectually at his bonds. The man with the book laid it upon a lectern, opened it, and began to read. His words echoed tinnily through speakers mounted near the ceiling in the room where Gabriel was confined.

“ ‘Come ye, O Angel of Darkness; come hither before this assembly and accept our tribute. Come ye, O Chagadel, servants of the Lord of Flies, and feast upon our offerings. Come ye, O Satriel, servants of Lucifer, and behold the signs of power, which move the Earth and makes the heavens tremble. Come ye, O Gamichoth, who knows the corruption which lies within the breasts of women!’ ”

The door opened again, and Gabriel gasped in dismay as Charity was brought struggling into the room, long hair flung about her head as she thrashed in the hold of her captors.

“Let me go, you bastards,” she shrieked, “let me go!”

The man reading from the book reached out and picked up the athame, ignoring Charity’s shrieks. There was a rustling from the black-robed figures who’d gathered, still holding their candles, and one man stepped forward with a length of black cloth. He stepped behind Charity, and despite her struggles, gagged her quickly and mercilessly, drawing the cloth tight and knotting it behind her head, muffling her cries.

“ ‘Come ye, O Ravens of Death, servants of Baal.’ ” The man reading from the book held the dagger high, candlelight gleaming upon its razor-sharp surface.

“ ‘Come ye, O Anakim, servants of Nahema.’ ”

Charity was borne to the altar and thrust upon it, kicking and fighting. No one came to her aid, though black-robed figures swarmed over her like crows, pinning her arms and legs.

“ ‘Come ye, O Tagarim, servants of Behemoth,’ ” the man shouted, still reading from the book.

Gabriel watched, struggling fruitlessly, as Charity was bound to the altar with leather straps, just like the ones that held him. He rocked from side to side, trying to kick over the chair in which he was bound, but it was apparently bolted to the floor, for it didn’t move.

“ ‘Come ye, O Golab, servants of Asmodeus, also known as Samael the Black!’ ”

Through the open door came still more black-robed figures, this time holding by the arms—though she kicked and screamed as much as her sister—his heart’s desire, his one and only love, Hope.

Gabriel threw back his head and howled his former brother’s name, impotent with fury, but no one heard him, for the room he was in was apparently soundproof. Maddened, he realized that he could shout until his throat was raw, but not be heard; he could watch as unholy obscenities took place before his eyes, but do nothing.

Hope’s wrists were red with blood, her cuts having clearly opened during her struggles, and the sight made his Gabe’s fingers itch for his sword. If Samael had been within his reach, he would’ve killed him with his bare hands, but such mercy was not to be granted him.

“ ‘May this sacrifice which we find it proper to offer unto ye be agreeable and pleasing in your sight, O Prince of Darkness. Come ye, come ye, come ye.’ ”

The black-robed figures took up the chant, beginning to sway in unison. “Come ye, come ye, come ye,” they chanted, their voices rising in unholy communion, growing louder and louder.

Hope looked absolutely terrified, tears running down her cheeks. Charity, upon the altar, had finally given up her struggles, and lay trembling, eyes tightly shut.

Finally a black-robed figure wearing a goat mask, fantastically horned, appeared in the doorway. The bravest man’s heart would’ve run cold at the sight, but Gabriel was not a man in the true sense of the word, and his heart ran red with righteous wrath, for he knew full well whose face was hidden behind the mask.

“Samael!” he shouted again. “Samael, don’t do this!”

The man in the goat mask seemed to hear him, for he tilted his head upward, looking toward the glass behind which Gabriel was confined. The expression on the mask was set in a permanent inhuman leer, a leer that was then turned on Hope, still struggling in the hands of the two men who held her. She recoiled, but couldn’t escape as the goat man came closer. She tried to kick, but the men holding her jerked her back so that her kicks fell short.

His attention on Hope, the man in the goat mask held up a hand toward the room full of chanting, black-robed figures. Like magic, the chanting stopped.

In the resultant silence, Gabe could clearly hear the frightened breathing of the two women. Closing his eyes, he began to pray as he’d never prayed in his life, desperate for help that had yet to appear.

The silence grew, as did the tension. Unable to concentrate on his prayers because of it, Gabriel opened his eyes so that he could once again rest them on his beloved’s face.

Hope took a deep breath, still staring into the eyes of the man in the goat mask. “Let my sister go,” she cried. “She’s been through enough. Let her go!”

The man in the goat mask tilted his head, as though considering. Then he turned, and walked toward the head of the altar. The man holding the dagger offered it to him, and he took it.

“No!” Hope shrieked, “Leave her alone. Take me! Take me instead!”

Gabe moaned in despair, his mortal heart breaking. That Hope would sacrifice herself for her sister didn’t surprise him, for hadn’t she sacrificed everything else for Charity already? Her happiness, her self-esteem, her very life had been offered to the Darkness because of what she considered her greatest failure: not keeping her sister safe.

“You can save her, Gabriel.”

Gabe whipped his head toward the sound of the voice and saw Sammy, leaning against the wall. He glanced quickly down at the Mass taking place at his feet; the man in the goat mask was still there.

“You can save them both,” Sammy said. He was clad all in black, his light hair like a beacon in the dimness. “But only if you do something for me in return.”

Rage clouded Gabe’s vision, turning it red. “It’s not her fault she didn’t keep her end of the bargain, it’s mine!” he shouted.

Sammy, his face in shadow, replied, “It doesn’t matter whose fault it was. You know that.”

“You wanted me to suffer, didn’t you? Look at me, see how I suffer! You won, you bastard, you won!” Frantic to be free, desperate to say anything that might save Hope, Gabe was not above begging. “Please, Samael, please don’t do this.”

“Do you love her?” Samael the Black asked the question softly, and this time, Gabe didn’t have to think about the answer.

“Of course I love her!”

“Then what will you do for her?”

Chest heaving, head throbbing, Gabe stared at the man he’d once considered his brother.

“Will you lay down your life for her, as she does for her sister?”

Gabe glanced toward the black-robed figures again, seeing the gleam of candlelight play along the edge of the sacrificial dagger. The man in the goat mask was staring up at him, two reddened eyes looking directly into his. Charity was sobbing behind her gag, Hope pale with fear.

Lowering his head, Gabe surrendered to the inevitable.

“I will,” he said.

W
hen the man in the goat mask moved toward Charity again, Hope screamed, long and loud, but it did no good. The knife flashed as he held it high in both hands. He seemed to be looking upward at some point she couldn’t see. Robed figures clustered around the altar, blocking her view of her sister. She screamed again as the goat man brought the knife down, her knees giving way. If it weren’t for the men on either side of her, she would’ve collapsed under the weight of her terror.

There was a choked sound, then gasps and mutterings from the black-robed figures around the altar. Hope squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the urge to faint, as sparkles exploded behind her closed lids. The men holding her fell back, taking her with them, and she opened her eyes to see the man who’d been reading from the book stumble backward, the hilt of the dagger protruding from his throat.

Shocked murmurs arose, but no one moved to help him. His head fell back, and with it the hood of his robe, revealing his face, wide-eyed and gasping.

It was Tony. Stunned, Hope watched as he grabbed the dagger and drew it out, blood spurting from the hole in his neck. Some of it sprayed over those standing closest to him, including the man in the goat mask.

“The master accepts your sacrifice,” said the goat man, in a deep, raspy voice.

The dagger fell from Tony’s nerveless hand to hit the floor with a clatter. Through the cluster of black-robed figures, she could see Charity on the altar, eyes wide with terror, her chest rising and falling rapidly with her breath.

“That was not the plan!” one of the cowled men protested, stepping forward.

It was the last thing he ever said, for the goat man bent, picked up the knife, and as he rose he slashed, strong and true. The protestor fell back, clutching his own throat, his fingers rapidly turning red with blood. He, too, fell to the floor, twitching and gurgling. In moments he, too, lay still, as blood formed an ever-widening pool around him.

A circle opened around the man in the goat mask as those closest to him stepped back. To Hope, it looked like a scene from a horror movie: a fantastically horned figure in a black robe, backlit by candles and torches, holding a knife that dripped blood. He moved toward the altar again, but she had no breath left to scream, no strength left to fight. This time, when the knife flashed, it cut the leather straps that bound Charity to the altar. She rolled off in a flash, falling to the floor. Hope met her eyes, wide with panic, as Charity scrabbled toward her, still gagged.

“Let the women go,” rasped the goat man, and the men who held her let go of her arms. Hope reached out to Charity, the two of them clutching each other frantically as Hope did her best to help her sister to stand.

“Go,” rasped the man in the goat mask, pointing with his bloody knife toward the open door.

Not waiting to be told twice, Hope did as she was told, dragging a very wobbly Charity with her. They found themselves in a long hallway and started to run, images of the scene she’d just witnessed flashing through her mind. Charity, still gagged, had a death grip on her hand. Together they came to the end of the corridor and went the only way they could, both of them desperate to find a way out. Yet another turn, and then they both skidded to a stop, frozen in terror, as they came face-to-face with a strange woman, ornately dressed in a glittering gold gown, covered with spangles.