The dealer boggled at him. Corvus sighed. “It’s the hot new shit, man. Everybody’s doing it.”
The dealer plunged his hand into the satchel. Glass clinked when he lifted out a slim vial. Even in the smol dering light of the dying cinders, the small tablets reflected a lunar glow like unstrung pearls. “You got sol?”
“Like you would not believe.” Corvus plucked the vial from the dealer’s grasp and returned it to the pouch. “Don’t set the price too high. Impatience and greed, my friend, will be the death of you.” Already had been, in fact.
He steered the dealer’s still-animate body through the pool of indifferent darklings. They already had what they wanted.
The dealer squinted at Corvus with vague suspicion. “What do I owe you, Jack?”
“Nothing. Do you know what a corvus is? No, why would you? It was an ancient naval weapon, like a gangplank with a sharp tooth on the end. The Romans dropped the corvus on enemy ships, which allowed their soldiers to rush across the bridge.” At the dealer’s silent confusion, Corvus rubbed wearily at his eyes. “I am a bridge, my friend.”
The dealer nodded. “You giving everybody a free taste, then they come to you.”
“A taste of freedom, yes, then they will come to me.”
The dealer looked crafty. “If you’re just the bridge for
sol, what’re your masters gonna want at the other end? I ain’t paying twice.”
Corvus smiled thinly. “You are wiser than I thought. Let us just say, the masters have more pressing concerns. But you, my friend, needn’t pay them anything more. And I will take my reward in the hereafter.”
“You sure sound like a priest.”
Corvus inclined his head. “Perhaps in a manner of speaking.”
He sent the dealer away on a drifting tide of weakness like a plague ship. Corvus patted the remaining satchels. Two more vessels yet to be launched into the night.
In all his centuries, only recently had enough devotees of doom perceived the freedom he had sought for so long. The Worm thought his formula was the catalyst. But the hunger had come first. That emptiness had drawn the demon through the Veil, leaving the wound through which the rest would follow. And that craving would never be assuaged until the world’s isolation was ended, until heaven and hell collided.
At the mouth of an alley, a few misshapen hulks, lured by their smaller brethren’s littered feast of soul, drew back to let Corvus pass.
“Peace,” he whispered. “There will be more soon. Many more.”
Awareness crept back like dawn’s faint light. Sera smelled leather and wool and something wilder. Once again, the dream hadn’t quite gotten to the point where she had sex with Archer since they were interrupted by . . .
As if someone had booted the sun in the ass, consciousness came blazing back. Sera jolted upright on the unfamiliar couch.
Across from her, Archer straddled a hard-backed chair. “Back with the living.”
She remembered the eerie wail, the black monstrosity, Archer’s lips on hers. It seemed more like a dream than life.
“Where are we?” She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “What was that thing?”
“We’re at a safe house. And that thing was a feralis. A lesser demon from the horde-tenebrae.”
“If that was less, I’d hate to see more.”
He made a noncommittal noise and pushed to his feet, spinning the chair to face her properly, as if he no longer needed its shield.
She shook her head at the strange fancy. She’d been unconscious. Why would he need a shield from her?
She tracked his path across the industrial warehouse- cum-upscale loft—spare and unpolished, just like him. “This is your place, isn’t it?”
“It’s both. Safe and mine.” In the foyer, he tapped at the keypad. Lamps came on around the room, though the disconnected pools of light hardly brightened the darkness.
She pictured vignettes of his life in the isolated circles. The low couch of leather and steel where she was still half reclining under a wool blanket. A computer workstation against one brick wall. A weight bench on the only rug softening the concrete floor. A kitchenette with one white coffee cup turned upside down on the rack beside the sink. Shielding the bed, a freestanding accordion of white plantation shutters, as if a chunk of destroyed Tara had landed in Chicago.
She slanted a glance at him. “So I take it demon-ridden don’t have girlfriends. Or interior decorators.”
He gazed impassively around the room. “Do I need one?”
“Decorator? Or girlfriend?”
“You tell me.”
Suddenly, lying unconscious in a strange place seemed
safer than sparring with him—definitely safer than remembering that kiss, the rough silk of his mouth, and the raw grind of his body. . . .
She swung her feet to the bare floor. He crossed his arms, making no attempt to stop her, so she rose and edged away to one of the mullioned windows.
She flattened her hand against the glass. The daylight was gone, the street empty. “Why did you bring me here?”
“To give you a chance.” He stood just outside the circle of lamplight, where his black shirt and jeans melted into the darkness. The lit half of his face was hard, his jaw set so she almost felt the strain in his muscles.
When he’d pushed her against the wall, that tension had run all through him, ratcheting up with every stroke of tongue. She forced away the thought. “I feel like maybe I’ve run out of chances in my life,” she admitted.
He let his arms fall slack at his sides. “Where there’s life, there’s—”
“Hope?”
“Another chance to die.”
She choked on a laugh. “No girlfriend. No decorator. And not a whole lot of party invitations either, I’d bet.”
“Stalking demons all night cuts into my calendar.”
She restrained a shiver. “That’s what I have to look forward to? Becoming a night stalker?”
“There are worse things.”
“Worse than fighting monsters like that?”
“Being one.” He crossed to the kitchen to fill the coffee cup from a kettle on the stove. He approached her with the mug out.
She took the cup, sniffed. “Demons drink green tea?”
“I drink green tea.”
“You’re a demon.”
“No.” He left her standing by the window and went
to the couch, where he pushed the blanket aside. “I’m possessed, not a demon myself.”
“Right. The thing that attacked us . . .”
“Feralis. Rather than possessing humans, ferales manifest physically—very physically, as you noticed—by consuming animal substance from this realm.” He rubbed at his shoulder. “You’ve had several following you, drawn to your demon ascending.”
Where he rubbed his shoulder, the black shirt gaped, revealing paler skin. Her breath caught on a silent intake. “It got you.”
He fingered the edges of the gash. “Guess so. Unless that was you.”
She opened her mouth to deny . . . and couldn’t speak. She had attacked him, after all. Twice, if she counted that violent kiss. Embarrassed heat rushed through her.
The corner of his mouth twisted up. “Demons have shitty tempers. Probably what got them kicked out of paradise in the first place.”
“I didn’t mean what I said.” When he lifted one eyebrow, she clarified. “About killing you.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t just you talking. But you can understand why you need to be separated from the good folk of our fair city.”
The demon. How could she believe? How could she
not
believe after what she’d seen, what she’d done?
She leaned against the cold window. “What is happening to me?”
He sat back in the couch. “As the demon aligns with you, the resonating energy spikes. Your strength and quickness will increase, along with the ability to integrate sensory data. You’ll heal from everything except an instantly fatal blow.” His voice was clipped, as if he read from a brochure:
The Perks of Possession
. “The coldness and killing rage will get worse too, until you reach an equilibrium with the demon.”
“What if I don’t find a balance?” The glowing orange
eye flashed in her memory. “Will I become one of those ferales?”
He tipped his head back. “Worse.”
She wrapped her hands tighter around her mug and pulled away from the chill at the window. “What’s worse?”
“A demon is ascending from the depths of your soul. The question is, which of the two demonic strains chose you? A djinni, devoted to evil? Or a teshuva, a repentant demon?”
She paced across the room. “Good demons? Who knew?” She’d always fancied herself sensitive to the unknown, but a secret pitched battle had been raging with no one the wiser. What else had she been missing?
Archer rolled his head against the cushion to look at her. “Did you think good and evil were black and white?”
“Well, sort of, by definition. In the movies, you get a white hat or a black one.”
A smile flickered across his lips. “The teshuva wear gray hats. Teshuva are trying to atone for their wicked ways, to earn their way back into grace. The djinn . . . aren’t.”
She wandered toward the weight bench. The loaded bar held more iron disks than seemed possible. “How can they atone? Why do they need us?”
His relaxed sprawl never changed, but the sudden intensity of his dark gaze speared her. She realized for the first time she’d voluntarily included herself in their little nightmare for two. But after encountering a feralis, she definitely didn’t want to be alone in this madness.
“To make amends,” he said, “the teshuva cleanse this realm of accumulated weaker demonic emanations like ferales and malice. The djinn rile up the lesser demons to make our realm a little more like their hell. Kind of a spiritual terra forming. But neither teshuva nor djinn
can manifest fully in this realm. So they need a weapon. Us.”
Speaking of weapons . . . On the back wall, her reflection broke over steel blades of all shapes and sizes. Regular honing had left faint whorls that scattered the light, the designs as intricate and menacing as the
reven
on Archer’s arm.
And still nothing looked as wicked as the grotesque beast’s claws. “I would think six-shooters blazing would be better.”
“Attracts the wrong sort of attention, useless for close-quarters combat. And unreliable.” His hand, stretched out on the back of the couch, tightened into a fist. “More importantly, our demons have to get up close to do the dirty work. It’s harder to damn from a distance.”
Beside the weapons, another shelf held a collection of small statues. She recoiled at the toy factory massacre. Beanbag animals had been dismembered, limbs replaced with baby-doll or action figure parts. Long blond hair and a shapely plastic leg were crudely nailed to a fast-food toy from a cartoon monster movie, while a grinning, strong-jawed manly face was stapled into the belly of a stuffed pterodactyl. Dozens of the dolls slumped against one another like half-slaughtered soldiers.
“Um,” she said. “Ferales dolls?”
“Our fearless leader decided the league needed to recognize our many years of service. He made Ecco—you remember him from the town car—our morale officer. That is the result.”
She eyed the carnage. “How . . . sweet?”
“Not really.”
She turned her focus to the lounging male, more deadpan than the dolls. Yet for all his outward indifference, he’d kept the trinkets. “So how many ferales corpses does it take to build a ladder over the gates of heaven?”
If she’d hoped for a lightbulb joke, she was disappointed.
“I’ll let you know when I get them piled high enough.”
Judging from the well-honed blades, the trail of dispatched demons might reach around the world. Apparently that wasn’t enough. “What do we get out of this unholy alliance? Besides the opportunity to fight forever.”
“Die in battle, and you get back what’s left of your demon-mottled soul.”
She grimaced. “Sounds like we’re getting the short end of the stick.”
“Just make sure the ferales get the pointy end. And take what pleasure you can in destruction, because you’re saving the world along with your soul.”
She shook her head. “Nobody even noticed. A half dozen town houses overlooked the alley.”
“If anybody looked down, they saw some street people Dumpster diving. Or maybe a nice couple walking their bad dog.” At her incredulous huff, he grinned, with a sudden flash of white teeth. “A very bad dog. People see what they think they’ll see, what they want to see. And gray hats are easy to forget.”
She had to admit, she might have justified away the horror. If it hadn’t been drooling all over her. But willful blindness had only ever ended with her walking into walls.
She turned away from the blades. “I want to live.”
“I’m told such a desire is a useful first step.”
“And the next?”
“Listen to me.”
She tried to keep her expression unreadable, but he cocked his head. “Why is it so hard for you to obey?”
She glared. “You ask that with a lot of arrogance for someone standing so far from his weapons.”
“Even when we kissed, you would not be still under my lips.”
“Excuse me,” she sputtered. That was one question
she kept sliding away from. Why had she clung to him in the alley as if he were her last chance? She wished the answer were simple lust.
“It has been a while since I kissed—”
“Since the 1950s, apparently.”
He shook his head. “Longer than that, I think.”
“Probably never with that ‘obey’ crap.”
“Oh, I have loved.”
Even across the room, she felt the weight of his gaze on her mouth. Betrayed by the phantom sensation, she licked her lips. Could she blame the demon for that?
He closed his eyes. “You can’t let even the dying go quietly, but must point and give directions. Fate’s crossing guard.”
She stiffened. “You make me sound like a monster.”
He shook his head. “I’ve seen such monsters as feed on death. I don’t think you’re one of those.”