The Demoness of Waking Dreams (7 page)

Luciana realized she had made a grave error. Her hands bound in the darkness, he hauled her back down the Street of Assassins.

She could feel the blood dripping down her back.

Every soul stopped to look. Every motion in the street stilled. Not a single being moved, not a goblin or a ghost. They cowered in his presence. It was as if they believed he was too powerful to touch.

And then they swung back into action.

This man was no rookie. The energy pulsing from him made her weak, and it sent a signal to every soul on this street:
don’t dare to cross me.
She reeled from that power, feeling her own energy sapped, draining away. She stumbled in the street as her heel caught a cobblestone, fell to her knees as the asshole angel dragged her along.

He looked down, merciless.

“You brought this on yourself,” he said.

“Stronzo di merda,”
she whispered, biting her lip against the pain.
I will not cry. I will not cry.
“Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo.”

“What?”

“‘Ugly bastard son of a whore’—”

“I get the drift,” he said. “Next time I won’t bother asking for a translation.”

“I am a baroness and a noble daughter of Venice. Do you have any idea who I am?”

He knelt, brushed her hair back, his hand wet with blood, hers or his, it no longer mattered. In her ear he whispered, “I know exactly who you are. And I know exactly what you’ve done.”

A wave of shame washed over her; shame like nausea, rocking her to the core.

Or was it the pain from the glass embedded in her back? She could no longer tell.

He hoisted her up, heaved her over his shoulder like a laborer hauling a beam of wood in the Arsenale. Her body screamed. She didn’t have the energy to fight anymore.

He spoke her thoughts aloud. “You can scream all you want. The creatures here won’t help you. They’re too chickenshit. Any human would be completely ineffectual. Nobody here can do anything for you.”

He was right.

Not because anyone or any
thing
here knew who or what he was.

Simply because they could sense his power.

She would have to think of a way out of this herself.

She would get herself out of this situation.

Just as she had always gotten herself out of every situation in the past.

And once I have, I will make him pay.

Chapter Four

W
hen he set her on her feet again, they were standing in front of a shabby pensione
.
Luciana looked up at the weathered awning, and then her eye caught the relief carved into the stone on the wall beside the door.

San Giorgio slaying his dragon.

Just another martyr in this city carved full of them,
she thought viciously.

According to legend, Saint George had killed the dragon that would have devoured a village. All over Venice, there were statues and images of him. His was an image that the angels sometimes used to communicate with each other, marking doorways and buildings.

Here, she knew exactly what it meant.

The angel had brought her to the Company safe house.

Talk of this place had existed amongst the demons of Venice for centuries. Stories of a hideous old guesthouse with such a carving by the doorway—she’d heard them all, but had never seen it or known its location.

A laugh escaped her now as she looked at the crumbling figure. “That’s how you see yourselves, isn’t it? You Guardians think you’re all dragon slayers. Kill the monster and save the village. I have news for you,
mio caro.
The world has changed. The village no longer wants to be saved,” she told him. “The monster is too much fun to have around.”

He said nothing, but hefted her over his shoulder again. From her upside-down position, she saw the faded carpet, the worn furnishings in the cramped foyer.

Brandon exchanged a few words with the concierge, took a key that was handed to him. From behind the simple counter, the man also passed him a duffel bag and a bottle of vodka.

Up the rickety elevator, into a hotel room.

He pushed her inside.

The room was shabby and spare, barely more than a backpackers’ hostel. There was a narrow bed that would barely fit two people. A doorless space with a curtainless shower served as a bathroom. He dragged her over to the bed, unlocked one of her wrists—only to relock it so that she was secured to the cheap wrought-iron frame with her wrists bound together. Double-checking the cuffs, he ensured that her wrists had enough circulation. Then he stepped away, apparently satisfied.

He left her in this position, with her arms locked behind her, sitting at the top of the bed.

“It’s no surprise that the Company of Amateurs would favor such a run-down dive of a pensione,” she said. “There are palaces all over Venice. The streets are literally lined with palazzos. And this is the place you choose. Tell me, why do you angels always choose such dingy accommodations? You all seem to think there’s something noble about living in poverty.”

He eyed her up. “Deal with it,
principessa.
”

She jerked so hard that the metal cuffs clanged against the gilded curlicue of the bedframe.

“Don’t ever call me that again,” she said. “You have no idea what you’re playing with. You have no idea who I am. And whatever they told you, those angels of yours…whatever Julian Ascher told you is a pack of lies.”

“Whatever.”

She said coyly, “Are you going to punish me?”

“It’s not my job to punish you,” he said evenly. “I told you in the church—I merely came to collect you.”

“Too bad,” she pouted. “You’re missing all the fun.”

He whipped the shawl off her back.

She flinched, but willed herself,
Do not cry.

“If you’re planning on raping me, you’ll never get away with it,” she said sullenly.

“Believe me, I would never do that. That’s not how I operate. But I will gag you if necessary. And for that, all I’ve got are old socks,” he said, mildly amused. “So I’d keep my voice down, if I were you.”

Without speaking, he inspected her wounds. He touched a spot.

Don’t cry,
she told herself.

“What is this, some kind of divinely charged handcuff?” she grumbled, twisting to stare down at the curved metal and willing the tears not to fall from her eyes.

“No, ma’am, just plain steel. I like to do things the old-fashioned way.”

“Old-fashioned,” she said. “You have no idea what that means. Aren’t you worried that I might dematerialize?”

“If you were capable of that, you would have done it by now. You’re bound to your physical body.”

“Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”

She jerked against the cuffs again, shaking the bed. He looked down at her, bored. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’re just going to injure yourself further.”

She glared back at him, letting the hatred flash in her eyes. So she was at the mercy of this lout.
She had never been in such a position before.

A position of total vulnerability.

She had negotiated, surely, had bartered her body to gain advantage in countless situations. But handcuffed and held against her will?

Never.

It infuriated her, as nothing had before. She had gotten herself into—and out of—many situations before. But she had never allowed a man to render her so completely helpless, a
s this one had.

She watched him as he moved around the room, digging through his bag for a clean change of clothes.

He went into the doorless bathroom. She wondered if the unmannered American barbarian was going to open his fly and piss right in front of her. Instead, he went to the dingy sink and began to wash the blood off his forearms. His gray gaze stayed trained on her, ensuring she remained chained to the bed.

He examined his wounds, whipping his bloodied, torn shirt over his head and checking himself over for major damage.

Brandon had the body of a warrior, tattooed like a man who had seen many battles—each one had been etched on his skin, the story of his bravery mapped out in dark ink.

Right over his heart was a tribal design, a swirling dragon whose body extended to his biceps. From there, at the top of his left arm, the design continued with a tree of life, the branches stylized in a Celtic pattern with four interlocking corners. On the other arm, an ancient Mayan sunburst. Continuing down the sleeve of that arm were bands of tribal designs and different types of animals, some real and some mythical. Lions, snakes and eagles intermingled with griffins and phoenixes. So many different creatures and symbols, all of them rendered in monochromatic shades of black and gray ink, creating an impressive aesthetic harmony on the canvas of his skin.

He turned, bending to inspect the cut she’d inflicted on his abdomen. Giving her a full view of the most impressive tattoo of all.

The huge tattoo stretching across his back was a massive angel rendered in black and gray. Feathered wings extended from the lines of a human body, the wing tips of the tattoo outspread along each of Brandon’s shoulder blades.

A tattoo that might simply be a decoration on any other man.

On him, the tattoo was like the divine staring her in the face.

She had always known this day was coming, the day of her reckoning. After all the crimes she had committed, she supposed she deserved it. What a strange manner of capture, though, to end up strapped to a bed in a cheap hotel.

She turned her gaze away, unable to look.

“Oh, Dio.”
Oh, God.

The words slipped off her tongue, not a prayer, but a profanity.

“Those aren’t just ordinary tattoos, are they?” she said.

He didn’t answer, just looked at her with those dark gray eyes of his, as dark and foreboding as the ink on his body.

“What do they represent?”

“Assignments.”

He didn’t bother to elaborate, and she didn’t ask. The explanation was clear enough. The ink sprawling over his skin told the stories of the people he had rescued. People he had helped.

“What happens when you run out of skin? Will you stop getting tattoos?”

“I don’t
get
them in the ordinary way. Not from a tattoo parlor or a tattoo artist.”

“Where do they come from, then?”

Looking into his gray eyes was like looking into the depths of the ocean. “They just appear. Each one appears after I’ve finished an assignment.”

“And if you don’t finish?”

He shrugged, the taut muscles of his shoulders contracting. “Hasn’t happened.”

“Were you sent to get rid of me?” she blurted, almost hysterical, wondering exactly what would appear on the canvas of his skin after he had dealt with her.

“Like I said, I was sent to collect you. That’s all,” Brandon said. “Violence isn’t my preferred working method.”

“What the hell does that mean?” she asked quietly.

“It means I have no present intention of harming you,” he said, equally quiet. “If you cooperate, you’ll spare yourself further injury.”

He moved around the room, unpacking his duffel bag. She could not help but gawk at his tattoos, her eyes flickering furtively over the intricate maze of ink and flesh, reading the story marked on his body, the symbols that proclaimed who and what he was.

That was when she realized there was no point in fighting him.

She would have to use other means to get what she wanted.

* * *

He pulled a clean shirt over his head, grateful he’d sent his bag here from the airport. He felt Luciana’s gaze travel along the lines of his body. Gave her a long, hard stare just to warn her. She sat at the top of the bed looking ever the princess who had been captured.

She’s a demoness,
he reminded himself.
It doesn’t matter how beautiful she is. She is evil. She is extremely dangerous.

“Whatever Arielle told you about me is completely untrue,” the demoness said smoothly. Something in her tone had shifted, as though an idea had clicked in her head. He turned to glance casually at her, and he saw it in her eyes, too. The wheels were turning in that dangerous mind of hers. “Especially if she’s getting her information from Julian Ascher these days. I heard he’s one of you now.”

“Why are you so hell-bent on revenge against Julian?” he asked.

“Haven’t you ever wanted revenge on someone who hurt you? I injured you,” she said softly. Her entire demeanor had shifted now, her tone placating with a vulnerability that
must
be calculated. “Don’t you want vengeance?”

Brandon gave her a hard look. “You ask a lot of questions. I already told you, I’m just here to do my job. There’s nothing personal about it. So, no, I don’t want to avenge myself.”

“Everything is personal. You can’t haul me into a room, lock me to a bed and say there’s nothing personal about it.”

“Absolutely. Given those cuts on your back, I wouldn’t say you got off easy. Let’s call it even.”

She gave a vicious yank on the cuffs, her temper flaring again. “We are far from even. You will unlock these vile things. You will let me go. Then we will be even.”

He said nothing, but turned his attention to her back.

“We should get this broken glass out of you.”

“It will heal,” she ground out.

They both knew that was true. Immortal bodies of angels and demons healed quickly, but not instantaneously.

“If we don’t take care of it now, the wounds will take longer to heal,” he said.

He unlocked the cuffs, readjusting her hands so that they were bound in front of her.

He dug in his shaving kit, got out a pair of tweezers. Poured vodka over them.

When he eased away the fabric of her dress, the rose silk was crimson with blood. Even he winced at the sight. Her back was slashed with multicolored fragments of glass embedded in her skin.

“This will sting.”

With a facecloth, he dabbed some of the vodka on her.

He felt her body react.

“I’ve burned in everlasting hellfires. You think this is anything in comparison?” she said. She was bluffing. He could hear the bravado in her voice. Finally, she said, “Give me some of that vodka.”

He found a glass. Poured her a shot. Tipped it into her mouth as she tilted her head back.

“Give me another one.” She downed that one, too.

He sat down behind her and cut away the silk of her dress where it was soaked with blood.

And started digging the shards of glass out of her back.

Piece by piece, he placed them all in the little tumbler on the nightstand. Until that little glass was full of jagged shards, covered with her blood.