Revelation (18 page)

She jerked, startled, and Shax’s finger brushed her cheek.

His naked touch didn’t burn. It just tingled, warm and dangerous.

Jadzia stared, trapped fast by that wit-melting smile.
Never trust a demon.
Her heart somersaulted. And she whirled on quivering hot wings, and fled.

Morgan shivered in the hostile heat as she strode beside her angel through the darkened housing development. The setting moon slanted sinister red light through the tall buildings. The trees shivered in the threatening hot breeze, and in the spray-painted playground, a twisted iron seesaw creaked up and down, ghostly. In a few windows, flames flickered, a campfire or a cigarette lighter. People still lived here.

“You okay?” Luniel murmured. His wings threw monstrous shadows on the walls.

“Yeah.” Damn it. He saw everything. Like he was watching her, making her think he was looking out for her. Just like a lying, manipulative son of a bitch would.

Sweat glued her t-shirt to her belly. She tugged it, but only made it more uncomfortable. The air stung rank with sour flesh and sickness. The darkness slithered and hissed at her like a living creature, and every sound made her pulse jerk hot.

She swallowed. This was crazy. Plague. Zombies. Homicidal muties. Demons, even.
What the hell am I doing? I’m a doctor, not a kick-ass vigilante.
She touched the sheathed weapon at her thigh, trying to take comfort from being armed with an angel’s enchanted knife.

It didn’t make her feel better.

And neither did Luniel, stalking dark and silent beside her, the bag of water bottles slung over his shoulder. He hadn’t bothered to don human guise. Far stranger things than angels lurked in this neighborhood.

She sucked in a deep breath, trying to relax. Even though the authorities repeatedly explained on the internet and TV news that Manhattan virus wasn’t airborne, some people still feared the air, and wore paper face masks. But she knew you needed fluid contact from an infected person to catch it, and she’d make sure that didn’t happen.

They weren’t zombies, after all. Not horror movie cannon fodder. They were sick people. Patients. And she intended to treat them like patients.

Luniel could hunt his mythical demon prince, if he liked, and good luck to him. She’d be searching for signs of how the disease started. Infectious waste. A carrier animal, if the virus was zoonotic. Some diseases lived harmlessly for years in animal hosts, before transferring to humans, usually by accident, and wreaking havoc. And exotic animal smuggling was rife in the illicit markets of Harlem, rare and endangered creatures sold for pets, or for the manufacture of silly traditional medicines that didn’t work.

The source must be here somewhere. Diseases didn’t materialize from thin air.

Don’t they?
a doubting voice whispered in her head.
What if Lune’s right? What if it really is a vial of God’s wrath? What will you do then?

She wiped stray hair from her eyes, determined. Angels were real? Fine. That didn’t mean everything Luniel said was true. If she could confirm he was right about the holy wrath? She’d accept the evidence, and deal with it. Until then, she’d hunt for a cure.

They rounded a corner, a narrow alley leading deeper into the project. A crow croaked, mournful. A starving stray dog skittered away as they approached. Broken window edges glinted, the glass long since torn away for weapons, and rotted plastic swung slowly in the window frames, an ominous breeze.

At the alley’s end, where the next shabby apartment block loomed, a foursome of slobbering muties crouched, craning
their misshapen heads to stare. They wore ripped t-shirts and jeans. One waved a saw blade, blood already splashing, and infection’s rich stink crawled up Morgan’s nose like a fat wet worm, making her gag.

Luniel halted her beside him. “Slice off their heads, stab ’em through the heart. They’re the only reliable ways once the curse is on them. If they’re infected, the holy water will burn them, slow them up a bit. I want you to take some of these…Morgan, look at me.” He touched her chin, forcing her head up.

Her stomach prickled with anger. “That’s all you know, isn’t it? Killing! They’re not monsters, okay, and they’re not cursed. They’re sick people. They can be cured!”

“No, they can’t. Don’t you get it? There is no cure. This isn’t just a disease. It’s the wrath of God, twisted to a demon prince’s will—”

“I don’t believe that!” She spun away, distraught.

He caught her wrist. “Morgan, stop.”

“Let me go,” she insisted. She didn’t want him touching her. It was too distracting. His warm sweet scent was hard enough to take. “I’ll find my own way.”

His eyes flashed neon blue. “Don’t be ridiculous. They’ll kill you.” His tight jaw brooked no argument.

She bristled. “And they won’t kill you, is that it? Angelflesh not tasty enough?”

“Morgan, use your brain. Think! You’ve seen me and demons. My flesh heals.”

“Not outside my morgue, it didn’t. What about your crazy blood-drinking spell? You gonna do that every time?”

“That was because I took on your injury!” He dragged his hair tight with a big hand. “Jesus. For a smart woman, you don’t pay very much attention.”

“Well, thank you
very
much…” She stopped, her indignation blunted. She remembered his feverish eyes, his slurring words, his skin searing her fingertips. The demon’s claw marks festering on his beautiful cheek. The blood—his own blood—dripping on his chin as he swallowed from the cup.

He’d done that to himself for her? To heal
her
injury?

Whatever. It didn’t mean anything.

At the alley’s end, the infected muties caroused, waving their arms in a gruesome come-hither. She shuddered. What could she do if they attacked? If they ran for her? Touched her. Bit her,
scratched her skin. They looked beyond reason, beyond a calming word and a doctor’s cool touch. Maybe Luniel’s way was the only one…

She shook her head, stubborn. “We’ll take another route—”

Luniel pressed his finger to her lips, shocking her to silence. “Listen to me. This can’t be stopped. That vial of wrath? Its damage is done. Those things will die and go to hell, and there’s nothing you or I or anyone else can do about it.”

His tone shivered her bones. “But—”

“Shh,” he said, deathly calm. “All we can do is put them out of their misery. Make sure they don’t infect anyone else. And then hunt down the demon scumsucker who did this to them, and rip off body parts one by one, until he tells us who sent him and where his friends are.”

She stared, trembling. “But…we can’t just give up.”

He caressed her cheekbone with his thumb, and his eyes darkened to indigo, anger or sorrow. “There’s nothing to give up on.”

“So what, we’ll just kill them all?”

“As many as we must to find Quuzaat. We can’t save them, Morgan. But we can maybe save the world.”

Her guts coiled, and she pulled away. “Sacrifice the few for the good of the many? How original. And then we’ll kill all the gay people, or all the anarchists, or some other poor suckers we decide we don’t like. Screw you, angel.”

He laughed, short. “Grow up, Dr. Sterling. That’s how it works, okay? Salt a city, torch a civilization to ashes, drown the world and start again. Didn’t you read the Book? Not everyone makes it to the End.”

Her mind reeled. He’d been there. This creature really was immortal. But her nerves screwed tight. “Will you listen to yourself? You are not God!”

“No, I’m not.” Lune’s eyes burned, dangerously bright. “But last I heard, He wants us to work for what we’ve got. You wanna live your life in a safe little bubble and whine when things get tough? Fine. But someone’s gotta step up and do the shitty jobs. Either we do what’s necessary, or we all go down together. Now, are you in, or are you out?”

She took a breath to tell him to go to hell.

A raucous shriek ripped the air ragged, and the manic muties sprinted for them.

Luniel pushed her behind him, his sword springing aflame into his hand.

Morgan stumbled, her heart racing. The muties hurtled closer, leaping and running up the walls on all fours like huge cockroaches. Luniel darted and chopped one’s head off, and its body tumbled, limp. The one brandishing the saw blade landed in a crouch and locked eyes with her.

He was young, dark, scrawny. Spit dribbled onto his stubbled chin, and he twanged his saw, his gaze alight with scarlet malice. “You got some tasty meat on you,
puta
. Gimme.”

She gulped, horrified. Diseased rot clogged his voice, but he could still talk. Still think. Still decide for himself that he’d like to eat her.

The magical knife ripped from its sheath and slapped into her hand.

She didn’t think. She just threw.

The glittering knife whistled a deadly arc, and the blade embedded itself in the mutie’s scrawny throat.

Blood spurted, thick with dead flesh. The mutie choked and dropped his saw, clutching at the gaping hole with six-fingered hands, and Luniel sliced his head off.

The other two moaned and gnashed stained teeth, too far gone for reason. One rushed her, matted hair flying in its eyes. She shrieked, startled, and the knife whipped itself from the headless corpse and found her outstretched fingers. The mutie bore down on her. Its fevered fingers reached for her. She slashed, falling back against jagged bricks.

“Get off her, hellshit.” Luniel yanked the mutie’s arm. The joint popped, and the arm tore away. Rotten blood gushed. Pulled off balance, the mutie fell into the path of Luniel’s burning blade. Blue light flashed as its smoking corpse hit the ground.

The last mutie howled, shoved its rotting hand deep into its mouth and bit it off. Luniel broke its neck with a stab of his elbow. The decomposing flesh tore, and the head fell off all by itself. The body crumpled.

Morgan fell against the wall, panting. The poisoned corpse stench frothed bile into her mouth. Her knife slipped, sweaty, but instead of falling, it flipped over and slotted neatly back into its sheath.

Luniel flashed to her side and lifted her chin, sharp eyes scanning for cuts. “You okay? Did it touch you?”

“That was about the grossest thing I’ve ever seen,” she croaked.

“Yeah, it was up there.” Grudging admiration fired his gaze. “You fight tough, my lady. We’ll make a warrior of you yet.”

Her heart fluttered, dizzying. He was flattering her. Without him, she’d be dead, and they both knew it. “I’d rather be a doctor, thanks.”

“No rule says doctors can’t kick ass.” He smoothed her hair, tender, and then abruptly averted his eyes and let her go. Like she’d disconcerted him.

Like he’d changed his mind.

He unslung the rucksack. “Here,” he said coldly, staring at some spot a few inches from her face. “Throw these instead. They’ll keep the fuckers away from you a few seconds longer.”

She took the sack, confused. One minute, he was so intense and intimate, his presence caressing her like warm silk. The next they felt like chilly strangers, and losing him made her feel…empty. Lost. Like she didn’t matter.

How infuriating.

He stuffed a few jars into his pockets, leaving her with the rest. “You ready for more?”

She stuffed a couple in her own pockets, shouldered the sack and stood straight, her chin high. Maybe he was right, and the sick could only die. But she wouldn’t let him shame her into giving up. “Can’t wait.”

“Good,” he replied, brutal. “Because there’ll be more. A lot more.”

“Well, screw me raw,” muttered Dashiel, “he’s not here.”

Japheth slashed the last sniggering hatewraith’s head off, his sword blazing blue. The corpse splattered to the basement floor, and Jae wiped blood from his face with his bare forearm. “And a big thank you to Captain Obvious.”

Dash flipped him the bird, and Japheth grinned, catching his breath. Dashiel was right. The Prince of Blood wasn’t here. This half-refurbished office building reeked with wraiths and shrieking underclass imps, and the angels had killed them all, but the
sacrificial vat still lay empty, the human captives dead or fled. Body parts littered the floor, and it stank of demonslime, that curious mixture of sulfur, rotting meat and shit.

Japheth licked his lips, disgusted but invigorated. Reminded him of the old days. Kicking heads and taking names. Whipping cruel demon butt for heaven, back when honor and the color of the blood on your sword still mattered more than a few careless ideas.

Before Michael shunned him, for daring to aim for better things. Or something.

Dashiel vanished his sword, flicking demon brains from his armor. “Oh, well. We got to wipe out a few zillion of his minions, and the humans got away.” He clapped Japheth’s shoulder, a familiar gesture that never failed to irritate. “Guess that’s something, eh?”

“Yeah.” Japheth forced a smile. Dash was happy enough wiping out hellscum. Give him a fight to win and a party to crash afterwards, and Dash was content.

But it wasn’t enough, not for Japheth. Sure, he liked a good demon slaughter as much as the next Tainted angel of vengeance. But what mattered were results. If he could do enough—win enough, kill enough, save enough souls—he might earn his redemption.

But impressing Michael wasn’t easy. Not these days. Not the way the archangel taunted him, teased him to break his vow of sinlessness.

Call me,
he’d said. As if they could take up where they’d left off. His number was in Japheth’s phone. He should delete it. But somehow, he never did.

Like Michael hadn’t already tortured him enough.
Thou shalt have no other gods but me,
the Book said. Japheth snorted. Likely Moses never had to resist a petulant, brilliant, more-beautiful-than-sin archangel.

Thinking of Michael made Japheth’s heart ache, but the pain only invigorated him, and he tried to shake off holy euphoria. Coming down after a fight was always treacherous, glory tingling through his body, his blood pumping hard and hot, all those pleasure chemicals urging him to sin. He wanted to fly, scream, howl at the moon, find himself a willing woman and pour his body into hers until they both sighed in release.