Redemption (A NOVEL OF THE SEVEN SIGNS) (3 page)

Dead. Skewered on demonsteel. Meat for the rats.

Rose ripped her knife free, sick but satisfied. Just as her demon master ordered. This was the fourth angel she’d lured to his end this week. They were easy targets. Stupid things weren’t even smart enough to come to the Village in full armor.

Killing them wasn’t a nice job. But when you were a demon’s slave, you did as you were told.

The angel’s corpse slumped to the pavement, face-first, a pile of limbs and stained feathers. At the smell of his cooling flesh, Rose’s guts rumbled. Her fangs pressed at her lips, demanding that she feed. But angels’ blood was poison to a vampire. She’d have to wait.

She yanked a bloodstained white feather from his wing and stuck it into her braid with the others. Her hair singed in protest, but only weakly. The dead angel’s glory was already fading. Idiot flyboys. Always so superior, with their false tales of salvation.

Oh, their God was real, all right. That wasn’t the issue. It was the
love
and
forgiveness
part she had a problem with. She’d seen precious little of those, and now, apparently, God was flushing the world down the john like an unwanted stash, and everyone who wasn’t in his club was going to hell. The Apocalypse was happening. The End was now. It was too damn late to be saved.

So much for love and forgiveness. Rose slipped her knife away in its thigh holster and stalked away into the dark.

In her vampire night sight, the street glittered like it was encrusted with evil rubies. Dark doorways jewel-edged, barred windows glinting, neon signs flashing broken. A damp fragrant vine brushed her face as she turned the corner. Deserted, shadows dancing like ghosts. Firelight flickered, crackling an eerie melody, and heat hung thick and gritty. Like half of the West Village, the place was burning.

Her sturdy boot heels clunked on the broken sidewalk. She didn’t bother to mask the sound. Sure, she was being hunted. She’d refused allegiance to the West Village vampire coven master—what a whackjob he was, with his barbed-wire piercings and sadistic pleasure games. His bloodthirsty ways made her retch, and saying
no
to him had made her fair game for his most devoted minions.

So yeah, Rose was a wanted woman among the creatures of darkness. But the night was hers, too, humming in her blood, licking her muscles to tingling strength.

Bad luck for any dumb-ass vampire who tried to jump her.

She wiped bloody hands on her jeans, wincing as the burns on her palms scraped raw. Angel on demonspawn always burned. No matter. It’d heal overnight, slowly but still faster than a human. There were a few upsides, if you could call them that, to being tricked into servitude by a demon. Hell possessed vast power, and now it was at her fingertips. All she had to do was surrender to the dark.

She flexed her strong thighs. All those hard years of dance rehearsal—in her previous life, and how long ago that seemed—had made her flexible, agile, stronger than she looked. Now, she was lethal. She was Chosen, the first rank of vampires, made not by fleeting infection from another vampire, but by the demon Prince of Thirst himself.

She was condemned forever. One step from hell. But sometimes, it felt damn good to be powerful.

The hour was growing late. Time to find a place to hole up. Again her belly growled, an unwelcome reminder of what she needed. Demon-haunted moonlight cast reddish shadows across silent brick apartments. Smoke drifted, the crackle of flames from an upstairs window. A cat scampered across her path, twitching its black tail.

She searched the sky warily for dawn’s pale tinge. Nothing yet. Sunlight didn’t burn her, or any Count Dracula shit like that. But it itched, deep inside where the demon’s curse coiled and muttered like a hungry slug. Morning would sting her eyes, make her achy and weak, like a flu. And it’d only get worse, each day she lived with the curse.

She used to love the sunrise. Now, it just made her cringe and hide. One more thing lost, among so many…

On Greenwich Avenue, lamps cast bright halos over empty shops and cafés. Village Square lay deserted, eerie, lit orange by a burning pile of garbage. She crossed over to Ninth Street. No sensible human walked abroad at night in the West Village, not since the vampires moved in. But the neighborhood rustled and murmured, unseen, every sound distinct in Rose’s preternatural ears. Late-night traffic from Sixth Avenue, thumping car stereos, a siren’s distant wail. Whispers from locked apartments, sobbing, sighs of despair or pleasure. Stinging sweat, pain’s bright static, the hot poison tang of a kiss.

Terrifying, when she’d first been made, the cacophony of human existence. Now, her rich senses exhilarated her. Was it wrong, to enjoy that part of it, when so much else about her vampire life was revolting?

Sweat trickled in her hair, and she swiped it away. Sultry summer closed in around her, the sickly stench of blood and
angel sweat still strong…and her stomach still grumbled, demanding. Speaking of revolting…she needed to feed.

Her throat tightened, reluctant. Killing angels was one thing, those princes of bullshit and false promises. They deserved it. Once, she’d thought it possible that their God cared about her. Now, she knew it was just another lie.

But feeding on people was another thing entirely. She’d have to crunch her jagged teeth on flesh, feel that awful liquid fire splashing into her mouth, down her throat, the horrid salty tang of human terror…

She shivered. The first time she’d fed, weeks ago, she’d choked it right back up, disgusted. She was clumsy, newly made, and the guy had died, of course, just a skinny kid wearing eyeliner and bruises, desperate for cash. He hadn’t deserved the dumb, lonely death of prey…

But it wasn’t the boy’s tears that sickened her the most. Not even her guilty flush of excitement.

It was the banality. So easy, to drain his life away. Such a stupid, fleeting gift. Fire had thundered in her veins, triumph, exultation. Her first kill.

Actually, no. Her second…

Horrible images raped her, stark and flash-lit like a crime-scene tableaux. The night she was made, a ravenous fever-drenched nightmare. Twisted wet sheets on the bed, a gore-streaked teddy bear, a wet blond hank torn out by the roots…

Rose swallowed, sweating. That night, the demon prince’s curse had made her a monster. He’d tricked her. She’d discovered his true purpose too late. Surely, that counted for something? She’d screamed aloud to heaven, begging for absolution. Just one mistake. One little mistake, and now Bridie was gone forever. Brown-eyed Bridie, six years old, who liked apple cakes and hide-and-seek. Who called her Auntie Rosie, and had mostly (but not altogether) stopped asking when Mommy was coming home.

But silence had greeted Rose’s prayer.

Silence, and dark eternity as a demon’s slave. Never be free. Never enjoy the sun. Never sate this terrible thirst…

Defiance burned like poison in Rose’s hell-cursed heart.
She’d pleaded for forgiveness, and been denied. Praying was useless. There were no second chances. Heaven had abandoned her.

So she’d become the Angel Slayer, her demon master’s lethal weapon. The online news feeds followed her exploits with ghoulish fascination. Her tally had reached twelve. She wore the bloodstained feathers in her hair to prove it. And it wasn’t like she’d had a choice. Her demon master demanded tribute, and the trail of heavenly bodies amused him. If she killed enough, then maybe he’d let her stay out of hell.

Her own personal, nightmarish hell. Where a little murdered girl lived, full of hatred and black vengeance…

Her ears pricked.

Footsteps. Just around the corner. Sure, and almost silent.

She paused, beyond the streetlamp’s dim halo. Listened harder. Light breathing, the spritz of male sweat…and blood.

Fresh, coppery, delicious, disgusting blood.

Her mouth watered in spite of her reluctance. Prey. A human, abroad late at night in the Village, alone…

Then, the dry stink of altar smoke made her gag. Ew. How had she missed it? Feathers zapping electric, bright steel like salt, the ozone tang of heavenspells.

Angel.

But this one smelled different.

She inhaled deeper. Mmm. Sweeter, somehow. Fresher, the reek of heaven worn thin. Almost…human.

Her fangs crunched out, famished, and she forced them back in. Drinking angel blood was like swallowing acid. She’d tried it in ignorance, when she first slew an angel, and it blistered her mouth raw. A demon’s curse and an angel’s glory didn’t mix.

But
this
angel’s glory sure smelled good.

The footsteps whispered closer. Rose murmured a poisoned wish, and around her, the darkness thickened. Warm magical shadows wrapped her body, caressing her. She crouched, thighs tingling. Two in one night. All the better to please her master. She’d stab this prince of bullshit through his lying heart and watch him die.

And tomorrow, she’d hunt down another. And another. And more, until her demon prince was contented and her thirst for retribution was satisfied—yet she knew with hell-black certainty that no matter how many she killed, it’d never be enough.

Before the curse, like any ignorant beast, she’d pondered the meaning of life. Whether she had a higher purpose. If there really was a God.

Now, she knew.

Her sins would never be forgiven. Her life meant less than nothing. This bleak existence of desolation and disgusting things was no more than she deserved for what she’d done to Bridie. And her purpose was to kill every lying, self-righteous asshole of an angel she could find.

Because God was real, all right. And It loathed her.

*   *   *

Japheth paused, feathers twitching.

There it was again. The faint reek of demon corruption…but with the added coppery stench of stale human blood.

Vampires. Maybe the Angel Slayer.

Cold satisfaction tingled his tongue. The shadowy vigilante had killed eleven, that they knew of, and Michael was pissed. Everyone was pissed, even the Tainted Host. Word was, the Slayer must be a higher-level demon, maybe even a new prince.

Japheth blotted sweat from his eyes with one forearm. Demon, hell. Sure, the Slayer was inhumanly strong and swift. But it wasn’t a demon’s style. Demons were like terrorists. They gloated. Wanted everyone to know who was responsible for their dirty deeds. They valued infamy over safety, a twisted breed of courage.

This craven Slayer, now, just stabbed you in the heart and flitted off into the dark. Japheth’s mouth soured. A killer with no principles, just random malice. Worse: a coward.

Yeah, the Angel Slayer was definitely on Japheth’s list.

But a few more vampires? They’d do sweetly, too.

He inhaled, relishing the power flooding his body. Since he’d been cast to earth, black rage frosted inside him, a monster
who hungered to devour every hot, sweet, aching thing it couldn’t have…and only the blood of the damned could satisfy it.

Only killing hellspawn sprang the glory alive. A hot sweet rush, better than sex or uneasy chemical oblivion. It reminded him there was a heaven, and that one day he’d go back there…

Keep it frosty, angel.
Michael’s advice, from some ancient battlefield before Japheth fell.
Save your hard-on for the enemy. They’re sure as shit saving theirs for us.

But it was more than that. Japheth was Tainted, banished to earth with his soul held to ransom. Just one stumble away from hell. If he screwed up again, he’d never be redeemed.

And unlike Dashiel, Japheth hadn’t given up on redemption. To bask in heaven’s liquid golden sunlight again, away from the ugly temptation of earthly things…

Japheth sniffed, tasting rich summer air. The dirty scent was thickening. Silently, he lighted upwards, and drifted around the corner.

Fragrant leaves brushed his face. Red neon letters crackled, casting a hellish glow. Sweat slicked his golden hair. He floated into the shadows, searching with his magical angelsight for the telltale auras of living souls…and then his nerves wrenched at the sound of a woman sobbing.

There. His sharp gaze pinpointed her. Crouched against the wall, hugging her knees in tight. Bloodstained jeans, tangled dark hair in a braid. He couldn’t see her face, but she was long legged, lithe, with a glimpse of smooth skin showing where her t-shirt rode up over her hip.

Japheth stared, his heartbeat quickening. So…delicate. Vulnerable. And smeared in blood, both vampire and human. Had she been attacked? Live or die, it was lose-lose. A bloodsucker’s bite drove them mad, boiled their minds in screaming nightmares until they starved, or bled to death from self-inflicted wounds…or else they mastered the curse, and lived on as vampires.

He should kill her now, while she was still herself.

“Get away!” The woman scrambled back, hugging those long legs tighter in an effort to make herself small. She was sniffling. Trying not to cry.

Japheth bit back a bad word. He’d seen countless humans suffer at demon hands over the centuries. His indignation was blunted, the sorrow dulled. But the idea of some sniggering hellshit wiping its foul sticky fingers on this woman… Cold rage made his head ache. He had a job to do. Flash his knife, and slit her pretty throat…

The vampire behind him chuckled.

He whirled, and grabbed the slavering monster by the neck.

Crunch!
He held the thing at arm’s length, fingers digging in. Just a young man, tiny fangs dripping, demon-spelled hunger lighting his eyes.

Close call. He’d lost concentration. Curse her.

The boy squirmed. “Don’t kill me, I didn’t do nothin’…”

Japheth’s palm sizzled. He squeezed harder. He didn’t mind pain. Pain was manageable. It reminded him what was important. “Tell me something I don’t know about the Angel Slayer. You’ve got five seconds.”

“Don’t know nothin’!” Blood trickled down the boy’s chin. Only a few days made, still mad with thirst.
Three… Four
…“I ain’t never seen—ugh!”

Five.
Japheth flashed his sword left-handed, and stabbed the vampire through the heart. Blue flames exploded, and the body withered to a pile of stinking ash. He vanished the sword, and his burned hand healed with a swift blue sparkle.