Revelation (5 page)

After five millennia, the archangel knew his own strength. He just didn’t care.

“Michael.” Japheth’s voice was soft, short.

Michael glanced around, diamond-blue eyes glowing with pleasure. His smile flashed, homicidal. “Just a sec,” he murmured, and in a few more hard thrusts, he came, sighing deeply. The girl writhed and shrieked, like she’d been burned, which she possibly had. Many things about Michael were deadlier than they looked.

The archangel lighted off her, and drifted gracefully over to them. His naked body glowed in hot moonbeams, moist and magnificent. Dash was totally straight, but he knew perfection when he saw it.

“Japheth, what a lovely surprise. You look stunning.” Michael pulled the golden-winged angel into a hug.

Japheth didn’t hug him back, Dash noticed. Just stood there, eyes closed, until Michael stepped away.

“And Dashiel,” Michael added, not so warm. “How nice. Shall we go inside?” He slipped a black silken wrap around his hips and led the way, feet barely brushing the tiles.

Inside, beyond wide glass doors, lay a dark living room, cool and scented with orange blossom. Bookshelves stuffed neatly, a television, bottles of spirits in rows. Not Michael’s things. Just some place he borrowed.

But a curled-iron birdcage hung from a stand, and a fat white cherub plopped on its ass inside, plump little legs
dangling outside the bars. On the floor sat another cage, and inside hunkered a pale, bruised hellcreature on an inward-spiked neck chain. His pointy head shone hairless, and finlike wings sprouted from his knobbly back. He muttered and chewed his fingers, ravenous.

Michael’s pets. The cherub was new. Mike tended to kill his playthings. But the knuckle-munching demon-thing was a favorite, apparently, and Dashiel’s stomach coiled as Michael wiggled affectionate fingers through the bars and dropped in a ragged-tendoned human bone. The thing scuttled over on all fours and grabbed it, gnawing with satisfaction.

A scrawny human minion in a white waiter’s uniform scrambled to pour iced water, and Michael flung himself onto the black velvet couch. “What?”

Dash sat opposite, tugging an unwilling Japheth beside him. He sipped his drink, relishing the chilled liquid, and sent the minion a blistering scowl, just in case it was the one who’d answered the phone. “What do you know about blood in Babylon Bay?”

“Nothing.” Michael didn’t hesitate. “What do you know about it?”

Dash glanced at Jae, who sighed and answered. “Luniel called us tonight. The bay is full of human blood. All the fish are dead or dying. You can imagine what we’re thinking.”

Michael pursed his lips, ice-blue eyes sharp.

Dash called up a news website on his phone, flipping the screen around so Michael could see. “Strike two. Manhattan virus. Rotting skin and munchies with a taste for human flesh. It’s all over Babylon County.”

Michael read, and waved his elegant hand, dismissive. “This is a sign, that’s a sign, my pumpkin looks like Jesus. We got up to the fifth sign back in the twenties. Turned out it was just coincidence, and some asshole in Nevada with a cloud seeder—”

“Ithiel’s missing, Michael,” interrupted Japheth coldly. “You and I both know what that means. His vial could be compromised. Are you seriously telling me you know nothing about this?”

Michael stared, and new ice crackled in his glass.

Dash’s drink froze solid, halfway through a sip. Icicles stung his tongue, and his feathers prickled in the sudden chill. “Well,
fuck you, too,” he whispered in Japheth’s ear. Little shit hadn’t told he knew Ithiel was a Guardian.

Japheth just shrugged. He and Michael still had issues, obviously. But how deep did it go?

Michael tossed away his frozen glass, and it smashed. “Phone,” he snapped, and the minion scrambled to deliver.

The archangel called a number, and listened impatiently. “Pick the fuck up, Ithiel.” But after several rings, he flung the phone onto the couch and cursed. Dash’s eyes stung, and a green fern in the corner withered and died. “Okay,” Michael snapped. “This goes no further than this room, hear me? Find the little bastard and bring him here.”

“Lune’s already on it.” But dismay slicked Dash’s nerves cold. If Michael truly knew nothing…“What if Ithiel’s dead, and the vial’s gone? What if…someone did this on purpose?”

“Then find me a demon with a vial in his trash that used to be full of the boss’s wrath, and gut me the son of a sinner.”

Dashiel gulped. Demons, stealing God’s wrath? Jesus in a fucking jam jar.

“What did you think, that it was an accident?” Michael scowled, frigid. “No, this has hell’s fingerprints all over it. Find me Ithiel. And figure out why there’s a zombie plague in Babylon. Find me proof, a demon sigil, anything. If those goat-fucking ashlickers are at it again, I want to know five minutes ago.”

The caged hell-thing giggled and scratched his scrawny belly with his bone. “Never fucked a goat.”

“Goats have higher standards.” Michael glared at it, and the cage bars glowed hot. The creature yelped, hopping on blistered feet. Michael sighed. “God’s warts, you’re so pathetic.”

“Can we please concentrate?” Japheth snapped. “Killing these demons won’t stop the chain of signs, not if they’ve already dispersed the holy wrath. What about the other Guardians? If they’re in danger, shouldn’t we warn them?”

“Easier said than done.” Michael gave him an eye-aching smile. “No one knows who they are. Not even I.”

Dash frowned. “But Ithiel—”

“Was like his brother: a charming idiot who couldn’t keep his mouth shut. The other Guardians are…more subtle.” Michael ruffled his shining hair with one wing. “No, it can’t be done. Not yet. Bring me proof that demons are doing this, and
I’ll take it upstairs. Until then, we deal with what we know. Off the books. Get me?”

Dash nodded, brusque, and stood, only half-satisfied. Michael could be cruel and capricious, but he was one hell of a leader when the shitstorm hit. Still, something didn’t sit right with Dash.

Like why Michael wouldn’t tell the boss right away. What was in it for him to delay? Even if they were wrong, surely…

Chill rippled Dash’s spine, a sharp threat, and Michael caught his gaze. “Don’t second-guess me, Dashiel,” the archangel said mildly, but his eyes glinted like icy shards, deadly. “I still own you. You’ll do as I say. Are we clear?”

Dash held his stare a few seconds, then dipped his head briefly. “Sure. No problem.”

“Good. Get to it. Oh, and Japheth?” Michael called as they turned to leave. Japheth looked back, and Michael grinned. “You’ve got my number, babe. Call me. Ibiza gets so boring this time of year.”

Michael lounged on the soft black couch and watched them vanish, his feathers twitching.

Fucking demon scum. This better not be true.

Rage flashed his ice-blue wings bright, and he grabbed his phone and hurled it at the window, glass splintering in flame. He’d slaughtered so many demons, his dreams were hip deep in blood, drenched in ragged screams. And it never. Ever. Stopped.

How many times had he throttled evil down to hell? And how many times had he watched it rise again?

It was enough to fucking tire you out. And after five thousand years, Michael was over it. Let the bloody world end, for all he cared. At least he’d get some rest.

Briefly, he debated calling Gabe and washing his hands of the whole mess.
You’re the Annunciator, big brother. Go fucking announce this, and let’s get it over with.

But doubt nagged, and he tugged his ice-blond hair into a thoughtful handful. He’d always told Gabriel that keeping those vials was a goddamn stupid idea. If the demon princes really were hijacking the Apocalypse—twisting Himself’s wrath to their own ends—someone better call the Kid and have him
resurrect St. John of Patmos, because there’d be some serious rewriting to do. Funhouse mirror Revelation. Not a pretty sight. Their eventual goal? To pervert the prophecy, of course. Satan’s victory at the End of Days. Hell, quite literally, on earth.

Well, screw that for a shitty idea. Michael had tangled with too many demons in his time to think he’d get off lightly if the hellmunchers won. He’d be first on Satan’s buttfuck-with-a-pitchfork list if the stinky little weasel ever broke out of prison and stayed out.

No, letting the demons have it all their own way would never do. And besides, in the good version, Michael got to hack Satan’s guts out at the end. After a few plagues, and so forth, but that was immaterial. The monkeys got the trouble, Michael got the glory.

And Michael had always craved glory.

Still, that didn’t mean a deal couldn’t be done to smooth things over for both sides. That was what he’d invented the Tainted Host for. Damning disobedient warrior angels was a waste of good talent. So the Tainted were neither damned nor saved—he just took their souls off them for a while, as incentive. They were no longer bound by heaven’s rules, and there was the added bonus of plausible deniability if they fucked up.

But Dashiel and his gang remained frustratingly honorable. Even Japheth had turned into a rebellious little snot lately. Still, the Tainted weren’t Michael’s only tools…

“Zuul,” he called softly. “You can come out now.”

The creature in the cage snuffled and fawned, big eyes wet. Michael cricked one finger, and the cage door lock sprang open.

The chained demon—for it was a demon, a sly middle-management hellskank he’d tricked into servitude—crawled out on skinned knees, and flattened its face into the carpet, shiny fins quivering.

“Get up,” Michael snapped. “And change yourself. You make me puke.”

It snorted, and changed to human form in a puff of bitter ashes. Crimson-haired boy, pale body slight in loose pants and an open shirt, spiked collar still drawing blood around his neck.

Zuul inclined his handsome head, dark eyes warm. “Master.”

“You heard all that?”

“Yes, Master.” Zuul bowed. Zuul always bowed. He was a demon of pain. He liked humiliating himself.

Michael tossed him a smile that made him cringe. “And what do you think of it?”

“Sounds delightful, Master.”

“You think so.”

Another bow, a glint of amusement. “Certainly, Master. Or…is Master afraid?”

Michael backhanded him, knocking him to the floor with blood spraying from his lips. Zuul groaned in a heap, his eyes glowing red with pleasure and pain.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Michael laughed, indulgent. “Afraid? Of Satan? Please. I’d back myself and a sharp flaming sword over that skanky he-trollop any day of the week. It’ll be the first decent fight I’ve had in years.” His wings flexed, aroused. “Bring it on.”

“Forgive me, Master.” Zuul crawled forwards, neck chain dragging, his face almost scraping the floor. “I thought…Master and the Lord of Lies are brothers?”

“That monkeyslime is
not
my brother.” Contempt soured Michael’s mouth, and he spat snowflakes. He and Lucifer had loathed each other since the beginning. Too alike.

“But—”

“It’s way above your pay scale, scumbag, so I don’t expect you to understand, but the whole Lucifer-thrown-out-of-heaven thing?” Michael scowled. “Trust me, Zuul. I was there, and it wasn’t romantic or tragic. Satan didn’t get evicted because he was proud or clever or questioned Himself’s will. Any angel worth his feathers does that every day.”

“If you say so, Master. Then…why?”

Michael relapsed onto the sofa, twitching his feathers to soothe them. Just remembering that fateful night itched his wrath trigger. He’d argued with the boss until his tongue bled razors, but He wouldn’t relent. “Satan got evicted, my precious hellbaby, because he’s a vicious, sadistic, selfish little motherfucker with shit for a conscience who wants it all for himself. My only regret about the whole sordid episode is that I didn’t get to eviscerate him on the spot.”

Zuul licked bleeding lips, hopeful. “Master is most wonderfully wrathful.”

“Am I? We’ll see.” Michael smiled, cold. “Enough chitchat. Here’s what you’ll do, Zuul. Take a leave pass. Get your whimpering ass to Babylon and find me whoever’s doing this. On the sly, you understand. Don’t tell him I want to talk to him. Just find out who it is, and report back to me.”

“Yes, Master.” Zuul bowed again, obedient, crimson hair nearly brushing his knees. “Your vaguest whim is my command.”

Whatever. Michael knew the psychopathic little bastard would run screeching to his demon lord the moment he got free. But that was okay. If the lords of hell interfered with Dashiel and his Tainted friends on their fact-finding mission, so much the better.

What Michael needed was time. Time to analyze, figure the best way forward. And he wouldn’t get it with Luniel chasing after Ithiel’s killer like a jealous lover. The demons would only accelerate their plans if Lune pissed them off.

Stopping a Dark Apocalypse was probably a good idea. Then again, what was the rush? So long as the right side won in the end, and Michael got his glory. Why wait around for God to pull the plug, when a bunch of demons would do the job for him?

He’d wait and see. Bait a few demon traps, see what crawled in. And if it meant a few Tainted angels got slaughtered, so be it. Dashiel, by choice. Too clever and uppity for his own good. And Dash already suspected something wasn’t right. If Dash interfered—went over Michael’s head and called Gabriel, for example…

Michael grimaced. That’d never do. Gabe always insisted on doing everything according to the Plan. Perhaps it was time Dash met with an unlucky accident.

He fidgeted, his blood stirring. He was getting antsy again. Using that girl’s body hadn’t calmed his nerves one whit. That was the downside of earth-shattering power and longevity that spanned the eons—everything was old news. Nothing quite hit the spot anymore. And when nothing truly sated your appetite, you were always hungry.

Always.

By the pool, no doubt the orgy still lingered on, but he’d been there, done that with all of them. A new club had just opened by the beach. Maybe he’d go cruising, enthrall some new disciples.
Party boys and girls liked the idea of fucking an angel, especially with their veins stuffed with drugs and their eyes glazed by his glory. Whether they liked the reality so much, once they’d seen how he liked to play…well, that wasn’t his problem.