Archon (13 page)

That was highly doubtful. He’d been dreaming of sin.

“Then so be it. Now—” Israfel pulled Rakir down, murmuring in his ear. He couldn’t help relishing the words. “Satisfy yourself.”

Rakir smiled, kissing the glove on Israfel’s hand. Israfel smiled back at him, hallucinating someone else. Like Lucifel, Brendan would learn about possessiveness the hard way.

The human would have no chance at freedom.

Israfel had bound him tight, and he would keep him bound until long after the night was over. He left Rakir, returning to his seat with slow, drunken steps, settling into his temporary throne like he had once, long ago, in the pride and beauty of Heaven. Rakir would be absolutely brutal tonight, and Israfel’s oversight would be necessary to keep Brendan alive. The bruises on his arms would look like scratches in comparison to what was coming. The human was already shuddering, his broad shoulders tensed as Rakir came closer, treading with doom.

Israfel closed his eyes, imagining the Archon held tight in his arms—there was a strong possibility she might be at the feast day rituals. Then he began to sing, miring himself in memory and passion, all his self poured into each verse.

How long it had been since he and Raziel’s duet?

Brendan’s screams mixed with the refrain.

Twelve

If they desire something of us, rest assured, it is never in our best interests.

—
B
ROTHER
F
RANCIS,
Encyclopedia of the Realms

S
tephanie paused outside the door, her hand on the knob.

Turn it. She had to turn it.

But no matter how often she welcomed this hour, whenever it arrived, she always second-guessed herself—like she was entering a nightmare where something could go wrong any second—and the more Stephanie broke the holy laws that kept certain creatures apart, the more she feared doing it again. At least here, in the middle of the sweat, the alcohol, and the haze of drugs, she fully understood what she faced, despite how bad for her it might be. Humans had a comforting kind of predictability to them.

Music continued to throb inside the Bell Chapel, shivering into her like one tiny earthquake after another, nearly drowning out the suggestive laughter to her right.

She glanced toward it, peering through the shadows.

Two people were making out next to a private dressing room, their bodies tangled and sweaty beneath a painted pentagram. Through the door behind them, the sounds of other people enjoying themselves erupted, muffled and somehow awkward. They were probably in a group. Stephanie could handle the drunkenness, but the sex still bothered her, and she turned away quickly, knowing not to show it on her face. Her candle flickered, spitting more of its pathetic gold into the darkness.

“All right. You’re going to keep an eye on things for a little while.”

Lyrica’s mouth settled into a line, her face pale. She’d kept her cloak’s hood up for disguise, probably hoping to avoid a student who’d taken advantage of her during the last sorority party. Luckily, she’d been smart enough to stay away from the drinks this time. They were for the idiot worshippers, not real sorority members who knew better. “Are you going to be very long?” she whispered, wide-eyed. “Is she upset?”

“Make sure it doesn’t get too loud out here.”

“I can make them play something different—”

“The party has to continue until shortly before I get out. When it’s over, I want anyone who’s not a member gone, even the drunks.”

Lyrica gestured at the other door, unable to express herself audibly.

“They can finish screwing each other somewhere else.”

The girl regarded her with horror. “Why does it have to be me who goes in there and—”

“Because . . .” Stephanie yanked her in close enough for a kiss. But her mouth was on her cheek, and her voice was thick with warnings and nothing else. Just enough intimacy to keep down suspicion. Just enough forcefulness to keep up appearances. “You spoke out of turn yesterday, and we both know how bad that looks to the other members. Besides, I shouldn’t have to remind you,
she
can hear you whine. So if you can’t handle what’s coming next, close your eyes. That’s what I’ve learned to do.” She let Lyrica go. “Otherwise, she’ll break you in the hard way.”

Lyrica stumbled backward, brushing the spit off her chin.

Then she dashed away, her shoes tapping through spilled wine, her fists clenched at her sides.

The couple at Stephanie’s right paused as she finally opened the door, stepping beyond the threshold. Before the latch clicked, she caught a final glimpse of a trashed university girl, bending down to lick the wine off the stone.

Inside, the music faded to a dull pulse. Stephanie stood alone with her nervous stomach, the stale smell of alcohol, and the fumes of illegal weed clinging to her clothes. Her ears rang, tormented by the sudden silence.

She turned the lock, forcing herself to relax.

Naamah sat in the middle of what used to be an office connected to the chapel, her chair little more than a sad piece of furniture sewn and patched to a mockery. Most of the room was a chaotic mess, overloaded with collapsed brick, stone, and shards of broken stained glass. Wooden boards had been nailed over the open windows, but grimy curtains still suffered from whatever wind entered, snapping their fabric like miniature whips. Thunder rumbled from the sea as the storm moved swiftly inland.

“That girl is more annoying than a cockroach,” Naamah said. “You’d think she’d have adjusted to this boring shit by now.”

Blood fanned out from her bare toes, leaking from a pigeon whose upturned feet snatched at the air. The walls were covered in crimson pentagrams, all of them remnants of portals Naamah used to communicate with demons Stephanie wasn’t important enough to meet. Strangely, though, there was no cloying smell; solid evidence that Naamah often sucked out whatever life remained in that blood, forcing the odor to vanish with it.

Everywhere Stephanie looked the repeating star pattern burned at her eyes. “Did the report go well for you tonight?” she said quietly.

She set the candleholder on a mound of broken stone, its flame licking at the gloom.

The blackness was like an aura. Alive. Listening. Absorbing the light.

Something was wrong. Usually, all of Stephanie’s worries melted away once she and Naamah were face-to-face. That included the fear of being in the demon’s presence, of making her angry, and of asking for services that always required a higher and higher price.

Yet this time the heavy feeling in her stomach hadn’t gone away.

Naamah kicked at the pigeon, still examining her nails. “No.” She looked up through her braids, her eyes like dark stars. “We need some results tonight. I can’t keep making excuses for
you
.”

Stephanie stepped closer, half in a daze, her mind turning in circles.

That last word sounded too harsh to be real.

“I can handle this. From what I read about Angela Mathers, she’s gifted, but nothing special. Tonight will be the end of it all.”

“She sees angels in her dreams.” Naamah cradled her own chin with a hand, leaning on an elbow. “That’s hard to ignore.”

“You’re losing faith in me. Just say it.” Her voice cracked, and all of a sudden her blinding confidence shattered and revealed her frustration. “You think I’ve wasted your time. Don’t you?” God, she sounded so stupid, so needy. Like a child begging Mommy to kiss her wounds. She wandered closer, barely aware of the blood on the floor as she knelt beneath the demon, laying her head on her lap. Naamah had her own smell: like ash and vinegar, harsh but somehow infinitely familiar and consoling. Unlike so many details in Stephanie’s life, it had always been there when she needed it. Or had the bravery to want it. “But I know I’m the Archon. I—I—”

Naamah waited, eyebrows raised.

“Mother.” Stephanie turned to her. “I’m worried about that Jinn-rat ruining tonight’s ceremony. I thought we’d have found it by now, taken care of things.”

“No. You’re worried about that priest’s feelings for you. Like a typical, weak, human female.”

Stephanie caught the tears before they fell. Outbursts of emotion were never welcome, and when she looked up again, Naamah’s face remained hard and impassive. Stephanie’s vision had glazed over, yet she could still see there was no real sympathy to be found, just like the archbishop had warned. Until Naamah gently brushed back some of Stephanie’s bangs, and she found the courage to hold on to the demon’s hand, rubbing the bloodied fingertips against her cheek.

No, that arrogant priest was wrong.

Naamah thought of her as a daughter, not a cockroach.

The muscles in Naamah’s palm tensed. “I knew I should have killed the novice when I had the chance. He’s using you, you little fool. And it’s infuriating to watch.”

Stephanie choked on her words, holding on desperately. “No, Mother. I’ll be the one to do it, if that’s the case. To kill him. If he chooses Angela over me,
it’s his loss
.”

“Of course.” Naamah sighed, briefly petting her on the head.

“Most people deserve to die anyway.” Stephanie’s tone hardened, hurtful. “Even Brendan.
Especially
a weak moron like him. You told me the whole world needs a new finger on its pulse, but I’ve been thinking, why not just stop it for good? How much easier that would be.”

“True.” The demon’s own voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s the same world that abandoned you, after all. My little Stephanie. Your witch mother sold you to me like a piece of meat, orphaned you, leaving her little cursed blood head for dead—and I thanked her for you by draining her like a pigeon. But then—I have the means for that, don’t I?” Naamah laughed, and the rolling muscles of her hand hinted at the blades buried beneath her skin. “You should take pride in the fact that you’ve been mine at all. I taught you everything you know, even the ideals of the Prince herself. If you happen to be the Archon, well, that’s a deserved bonus on my part. But—”

Stephanie stiffened. “But?”

Naamah’s reminders were just like her blades. The demon had mentioned Stephanie’s birth mother to make a point: Stephanie’s bitterness was a part of her now, important to them both, the reason for so much of her happiness and the spur toward her future.

She could barely remember the facts of her past, mostly relying on Naamah’s word. But all she’d ever held on to was the idea that her mother had sold her to a demon in exchange for one night of meaningless sex. Unfortunately for her mother, even demons sometimes delivered justice where it was due.

Stephanie had been all of three years old. Filthy, starving, and utterly alone.

Naamah had been the angel who’d saved her, or so she’d thought.

“Story time.” Naamah lifted Stephanie’s head by the chin, forcing them to look at each other, much like she had when Stephanie was small. Her adoptive mother’s black eyes were large and mesmerizing, hypnotic. But her red eye shadow resembled the blood on the walls, and it was difficult to stare at that contrast for long without withering beneath it. “When I was a chick, I had a brother.”

“A brother.”

Why did that sound so awkward when Naamah said it?

“Yes. And I guess you could say, I loved him. However, the Second War arrived when we were still young, and my mother was obligated to make a sacrifice in Lucifel’s service. You see, our Prince has always survived on the essence of others, but those sources must be replenished. Her only”—Naamah lifted a finger—“weakness. At the time, we were low on hostages, prisoners of war, and criminals. That left children—chicks. Unlike adults, we were relatively useless, and when it came down to it, my brother possessed none of my admittedly meager talents or accomplishments. And so my mother readily offered him as the sacrifice, consoled by the simple fact she could always bring another chick into the world to take his place.”

Naamah smiled down at her, teeth blazingly white.

“In the end, he was of more use to us dead than alive. Though that never changed my feelings for him. Or my mother’s.”

Stephanie’s breath felt like it had stopped. Terror pounded inside of her, aching to burst out. “Are you—are you saying that if I’m not the Archon—you’ll kill me?”

The demon only stared back at her.

Beneath Stephanie, the pigeon twitched in the mess of its own feathers, aching for someone to put it out of its misery.

“Think carefully about what you want,” Naamah continued at last, her tone abnormally soft. “You want to be the Archon. And if you are the Archon, and you take the path of Ruin, I will stand by your side, of course. Yet there are many demons loyal to Lucifel who will also try to kill you—and in the most certain and painful way possible—long before you ever set a toe on her Throne. And that’s only if you manage to open the Book without risking your sanity. Ask yourself if the sacrifice is worth the cost, daughter of mine. Ask yourself if you can stare into the eyes of death and not regret your desires. Before it’s too late for us both.”

“Regrets,” Stephanie said in a numb echo. She slid out of Naamah’s embrace and picked up the dying pigeon. The bird was gasping for air like a little fish. Exactly like she had felt seconds ago. “You just want to protect me from being disappointed.”

“That’s one way of seeing it.”

Naamah allowed her words to sink in heavily.

“
The human way
.”

But Stephanie
was
the Archon. In all of history, no blood head had shown Stephanie’s supernatural promise, her ability to learn and grow in the ways of the other Realms, and none could compete with her either. Why would Angela Mathers be any different? The best thing that girl could hope for would be for Kim to use her and throw her to the side. Something he’d never tried with Stephanie, tellingly enough, even if sex alone held them together.

Fate always had a reason for working out one way or another.

There was a reason she and Kim were so much alike. There was a reason Naamah had become her mother. And there was a reason Stephanie had taught herself to kill so easily. Now, it was time to upgrade—the Archon had to be as ruthless as the Devil herself. To choose the path of Ruin, you needed the conscience of a killer.