Redemption (A NOVEL OF THE SEVEN SIGNS) (9 page)

Michael shoved Esther with one foot. “Get up. You’re a good minion, Esther. Don’t make me kill you. Just do as I say, and it’ll all be giggles.”

“As you say, Seraph.”

“As I say. Now get out of my sight, before I forget my manners and hurt you.”

“Yes, Seraph.” Hastily, Esther flashed out.

Michael cracked his knuckles, pleased. This twisted Apocalypse was a pain in the ass, sure. Stopping demons from overrunning the world was probably a good thing, and if Michael ever got his hands on Azaroth, there’d be demon entrails from here to Jerusalem before he was through.

But what was the hurry, with power still for the taking? Vials brimming with wrath to be had? Sure, the Book said that angels were supposed to spill the seven vials, set off the chain of signs that led to the End. Whatever. Demons, angels, the result would be the same: Satan, sprung from his shackles, roaming the earth.

Where Michael could eviscerate the selfish little motherfucker, like he should have done the first time.

And who’d stepped in his way, hmm? Which smug, silver-assed brown-noser had stolen Michael’s glory? Counseled
mercy? Whispered to Himself of eternal bondage and torment, when all Michael wanted was bloody vengeance?

Fucking Gabriel, that’s who. And no one—not even Gabriel—stole Michael’s glory and died smiling.

He flexed hungry muscles, itching. The final battle? Bring that bad boy on. This time, Michael would get his way. Lucifer—the prick’s angelic name still hacked blunt razors into his nerves—Satan would die screaming on Michael’s sword. Ultimate glory.

Even if it meant a few billion monkeys died. There were too many of the greasy little bastards anyway. You only had to sniff their filthy polluted air, or sip their foul poison-laced water to know that. Hell, this was the Apocalypse, not a garden party.

But first, he had to keep up appearances with Gabriel. Otherwise, the job of stopping the demons would be taken away from him—and who did Gabe think would take over? When did Gabe last hold a sword, or feel the burning splash of demon blood on his face?

Michael laughed, brittle. Tempting, to let the stupid bastard try.

No, he had to keep control of the war effort. Make sure Azaroth and his scum-licking friends played ball…without getting his own hands too dirty.

And that was what the Tainted Host were for. Heavenly angels like Esther might be fine for honest soldier work like killing, fighting and punishing disobedient servants, but they were worthless in matters like this. Bound by heaven’s rules, strict codes of behavior forbidding useful things like cheating and lying and fucking your enemy over. But the Tainted? Their souls were his. Everything to lose, no choice but to obey.

And so far, it’d worked. Ariel had done Michael’s bidding with typical kick-ass efficiency. Vial number four was within reach…

But Ariel was too rebellious to keep his mouth shut, and possessed irritating loyalty to Dashiel that Michael had never quite thrashed out of him. He scowled. Dashiel, too bloody noble for his own good. If anyone would dare betray Michael’s plans to Gabriel…

No. That would never do. Besides, Ariel was too lethal a warrior to waste. Michael needed someone more…pliable, who wouldn’t ask too many questions.

Someone expendable.

He flipped out his phone, and called. No answer. He called again, impatient. Voice mail.
Hi, this is Jadzia. Leave a message. Or not.

Where the hell was the stupid girl? “Jaz, darling,” he said smoothly, “when you’ve got a moment.” He ended the call, wondering if he should take someone else. He didn’t have all day…

“Can’t find your Tainted slave girl? You should keep that bitch on a leash.”

Michael tore his sword from the ether and stabbed for the demon’s throat.

Zuul grinned, lifting skinny hands in surrender. He backed up against the broken bricks, crimson hair falling over his studded leather armor. “Ooh, careful what you skewer, big guy. A demon could get the wrong idea.”

“How long have you been skulking there?” Michael’s sword point pricked Zuul’s neck, above his spiked dog collar. The skin sizzled, smoking, but the fetish-y bastard just giggled. Zuul was a demon of pain. He liked torturing himself—or better still, he liked Michael torturing him. He’d spent months in a thrall cage in Michael’s basement, humiliating himself.

Such fraternizations with demons were forbidden, of course, on pain of damnation, but Michael had never been one for rules. Still, Gabriel would roast his ass over a slow fire.

Michael snorted. He’d like to see the crusty old bastard try.

Zuul’s hell-black eyes glinted, wicked and utterly insane. “Saw you bickering with your boyfriend, if that’s what you mean. Or, should I say,
ex
-boyfriend. Did Blondie dump you for a chick again? Dude, it is so
humiliating
when that happens—”

“Shall I gut you now, or are you planning to say something interesting?”

“Just popping in to see how you’re doing. Heard you’re in trouble with big brother. So sad.”

“You filthy snotbag, you’re breaking my heart.” He should kill this grotty demonslime. Slit his throat and bathe in his stinking blood…but Zuul amused him, and sometimes told tales on Azaroth. Ambitious, this skinny kid with pain-thirsty eyes. If the reward was tempting enough, he’d do anything. Too valuable to kill.

“Don’t be like that. I’m just the messenger. Azaroth said to say…” Zuul frowned. “What was it again? Something about ramming a hell-spiced pitchfork up your ass? No, wait, my mistake…”

“Five seconds, shitball.” But a smile quirked Michael’s lips. Gutsy little prick.

“Okay, fine, don’t get your dick in a twist.” Zuul folded his arms, lounging, careless of the blade. “It’s about this fourth vial. In Bhutan? Azaroth said to say he’s sending his favorite new prince to fetch it. The Prince of Fire, I’m told, some frothing lunatic named Luuceat. Should be a nice bloody time for you.”

Luu-ce-at.
Ch
for the
c
, like the Latin for
shine
. One of Azaroth’s psychopathic cronies, no doubt. The Demon King liked to promote the insane ones. He wanted maximum chaos.

Michael licked eager lips. Chaos, there’d surely be. This plague was gonna be good.
And the fourth angel poured out his vial upon the sun, and power was given to him to scorch men with fire
…

“Oh, there’ll be blood,” he agreed silkily, shifting his blade crosswise so it sliced under Zuul’s chin. Crimson oozed, steaming. “Shall I demonstrate on you?”

“Baby, please.” Zuul rolled his eyes in mock ecstasy, enjoying himself. “Like you give a feathered fuck about that vial, Mikey.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m a pain demon, not a bloody idiot. You let us get away with that last one, didn’t you? Using your Tainted fuck buddies instead of the heavenly host? If you’d squared things with Gabriel, you could’ve waltzed in with the entire holy crew and flattened Vorvian and Quuzaat anytime you wanted.”

“Now you’re just stroking my ego.” Michael’s fingers tightened around his flaming sword grip.

“Kind of difficult to stop the Apocalypse when the vials are already empty, isn’t it? That’s Fluvium down in the West Village, in case you hadn’t noticed. He of the sawtooth blades and the body-part jewelry?”

“So?”

“So, Vorvian and Quuzaat were sane compared to this freak show, and you send Blondie? Anyone would think you were on our side.”

“Don’t underestimate him.” A mistake he’d made, once. He laughed, poisonous, and in the street, trees wilted. “Japheth has flayed more demons alive than you’ve had jerk-off parties. I’ve seen him cut down a host of hell’s aristos single-handed.”

“And then you Tainted him for it, didn’t you?” Zuul giggled. “Spare me, lover boy. He drinks tonic water, for fuck’s sake. You could at least
pretend
you’re trying to win—”

“How about painting the ground with your guts? Convincing enough?”

Zuul chuckled. “Just looks guilty to me.”

Michael flung Zuul to the ground, a savage crunch of bone. Zuul howled, his bleeding face alight with bliss. “Azaroth never sent you.” Michael kicked him, and he doubled over, groaning. “The cringing worm wouldn’t show his hand to me. Why, Zuul? What’s in it for you?”

Zuul laughed, coughing up blood. “You’re the archangel,” he gasped, struggling to his knees. “You figure it out.”

Michael cursed, blistering ice-blue fire, and flashed out.

*   *   *

Zuul sprawled bleeding on the rough pavement, and laughed until his guts tore.

Satan’s hairy balls, tormenting Michael was fun. His cracked skull felt so damn good he groaned, hot and hard. Zuul was a pain demon. Pain nourished him, gave him life, and Michael was never shy about doling out agony.

For a while, he’d been in Michael’s thrall. He still missed the beatings, the bloody power games. Michael had an insatiable appetite for sex and violence, preferably at the same time. Zuul squirmed at the memory…but the handsome archangel was just an amusing trick. His true master of torment
still awaited him. Satan, lurking in the pit, ready to burst out and excruciate the world. Oh, yes.

Too soon, his skull bones shifted, and healed, a stinging curl of hellsmoke. He stumbled up, his vision a pleasant blur. Maybe he’d visit one of his favorite underground torture clubs—enough of them in Babylon, what with the End of Days craze—and get the living crap beaten out of himself…

“Zuul.”

His guts watered with cold sweet dread. He shivered, his blood cooling rapidly. Nothing like a visit from the Demon King to wilt a perfectly good hard-on.

“My king.” He bowed, trembling, though he saw no one. Satan was the Lord of Torment, promising eternities of ecstatic agony. But Azaroth, Lord of Emptiness and Despair, was…something else. Zuul gibbered, terrified. Oblivion. No sensation, no pain, no feeling at all. Just numbness, and darkness, and eternal silence…

He groveled on the cracked sidewalk. “Forgive me, my king. I swear I meant no treason. Michael, he…”

Icy breeze caressed his crimson hair, corking his throat with frigid black silence. “Don’t be afraid, Zuul. You’ve done well.”

His lungs convulsed. He couldn’t breathe. Azaroth would throttle him right here… He choked, forcing up black acid that ate at his lips. “Thank you, my king,” he gasped. “I won’t forget your mercy—”

“A wise vow.” Sweet amusement, stroking his cheek like an icy claw. “Don’t worry about Michael. He flirts ever closer with darkness. Necessary, Zuul. All part of my plan.”

“It is?” Excitement warmed his chilled blood. He’d impressed the king with his mayhem during the zombie plague. Azaroth had promised reward…

“Naturally. Michael defeated Satan once. I won’t let him do it again.” Wind swirled, furious, and shiny ice crackled up the brick wall. “Michael’s power makes them mighty. I want them weak and running for their lives. Michael must fall, Zuul, and you’re going to make it happen.”

Ohhh
…Dark lust scorched Zuul’s flesh, and with an abrupt, heated groan, he spilled himself, aching. Sweet Satan’s
blood. He wanted to laugh, dance, rake at his skin until it bled under his nails. Michael, so long his master, soon to be hell’s slave…

“My king,” he panted, shuddering still. “I… I don’t know what to say. I won’t fail you!”

“Oh, I know you won’t.” Agony spiked Zuul’s skull, knocking him almost senseless with delight. “Luuceat and Fluvium have their rewards. But the fifth vial is still unclaimed. Win Michael for me, and it’s yours.”

Zuul licked bleeding lips, scarcely believing his luck. He’d lure Michael to the dark side if he had to chew the archangel’s deceitful heart out. And then he, Zuul—imagine it!—would be a prince of hell. Slaves aplenty, minions waiting to do his bidding. Second only to Azaroth himself. Satan would surely reward him most excruciatingly…

But Michael was…well, Michael was a fucking god. A powerful spellworker, twice Zuul’s size, the finest warrior heaven ever spawned. Tricking him wouldn’t be easy.

Not without inside help.

Zuul’s mind twisted, devious. Michael’s heavenly angels—that frigid bitch Esther, for instance—were sycophants and cock lickers, bound to Michael by ambition and terror. Trying to turn them traitor would lead only to blood and screaming, all very enjoyable, but getting Zuul nowhere. The Tainted Host, now…

He recalled Japheth, that golden-feathered princess, seething with defiant rage, and hot inspiration spiked his skin. Michael and Japheth, already at odds for centuries. So set them against each other. Feed the fire of discontent. Pick a fight or two, shatter a few illusions…

He felt like laughing. Besides, last time they’d met, Japheth had crushed Zuul’s skull. Without asking. Presumptuous little asshole. Nothing like revenge on ice to spice things up. “I will obey, my king—”

“Fail me, and I’ll swallow you.” A sweep of frigid wind sent him reeling. Azaroth was gone.

Evil delight shivered Zuul’s bones. He bowed deeply to the empty silence, just in case. “Thank you, my king.”

*   *   *

Six thousand miles away, on a deserted midnight beach, Jadzia’s phone chimed.

Michael again.

The screen glared, a dazzling blue accusation. Jadzia hovered her finger over the glass…and tapped Reject. The ring tone cut off.

She slipped the phone away, uneasy breeze ruffling her creamy feathers. Three times tonight, her archangel had called. Three times she’d ignored it. Waves whispered over her bare feet, tiny bubbles frothing on the sand. Her wings shed a soft white halo. Frangipani sweetened the salty air and, across the broad beach, shadowy palm trees lined the shore. Gossamer clouds misted over the moon, and huge tropical stars sparkled, broken diamonds on black satin sky.

Sultry breeze played with her loose blond hair, toyed with her flimsy skirt. She shivered, feathers prickling despite the heat. She felt weird, out of armor and leather battle trousers. She should be in Babylon, fighting demons with Dashiel and the rest of the Tainted Host.

Instead, here she stood. On a beach, in Tahiti. With perfume on. Wearing a dress, for heaven’s sake.

Her friend Iria would laugh. But Iria was world-weary, cynical, nine hundred years Tainted with a string of sexual conquests to match. Jadzia, on the other hand…