Eve of Destruction (34 page)

Reed smiled wryly. “She’s probably jealous. You’re smokin’ hot. Makes me hard just to smell you.”

“Eww.” Eve smacked him. “Don’t be crude.”

They paused at the end of the alley where Molenaar had been killed. The Mark was long gone. Since he’d been drained of blood before being pinned to the wall, there was very little left behind to proclaim that a soldier of God had died here. A couple of holes in the wall, that’s it. Two men and two women occupied the narrow space. Two in black—Raguel’s guards—and two in navy blue jumpsuits with the initials E.P.D. on
the back—the investigators from the Exceptional Projects Department.

A female guard caught sight of him first. “Abel.”

“Draw any conclusions?” he asked, leading Eve closer with a hand at her back.

The nearest investigator glanced up. He had a lanky frame, gray hair, and intelligent green eyes. “We’re still collecting evidence, but the jaggedness of the wound edges suggests that the head was severed with a physically wielded blade.”

“Because magic would have left a clean slice, like a laser, right?” Eve asked.

“Right. There are also contusions on the wrists and ankles. Our attacker was hands-on with this killing. But preliminary tests show no signs of Infernal blood. Usually in knife attacks, the assailants injure themselves. The hilt becomes slippery with blood and their grip slips.”

Reed smiled, remembering Eve saying something similar earlier.

“How do you test for Infernal blood?” Eve queried.

“By spritzing the area with holy water. Even the smallest trace will sizzle and steam. It doesn’t have the wow factor of luminol,” he said dryly, “but it works the same.”

“I have a question,” she said. “When we first discovered the masking agent, we learned that it was Charles’s in-laws—a mage and a witch—who had cast the spell that helped create the Infernal mask. Hank said it was the combination of mage and witch,
male and female that allowed the mask to work on all Infernals, regardless of classification or sex.”

“Right.”

She pointed at Reed. “He killed the mage, but we never found the witch. Could she have found a new partner, someone who could alter the spell sufficiently to make it longer lasting?”

The investigator scratched his head. “Doubtful. I think it’s more likely that the intimate relationship between the original pairing made the spell potent to begin with. Unless she’s fallen madly in love with another mage or wizard, any other combination would lack that edge.”

“I agree.”

The voice came from behind Reed, forcing him to turn his head to see who was speaking. Hovering at eye level was a tiny blonde pixie in a minuscule green dress. Bernard. In a Tinker Bell glamour.

Reed scowled.

Eve leaned forward to look around him. “Hi, Bernard.”

“Hey, toots. What a day, eh?”

“Has it only been a day?” she asked, weariness evident in her tone. “Seems like an eternity.”

“Let’s take a closer look,” Reed said, dismissing the Infernal.

She shook her head. “No, thanks. I saw enough earlier. I’ll just hang out here with Bernard.”

“I thought the whole point of coming to Anytown was to check things out.”

“I wanted to guesstimate the time it would take to
get from the video store—where Claire last saw Molenaar—to here. When you’re done, we’ll walk the various routes and see if we can get an average timeline.”

“We’d appreciate it,” the investigator said. “When we were called out here, it was for one scene, not two. We’re understaffed.”

Reed looked at Eve. “Give me a second, then we’ll go.”

She winked at him, a playful gesture that rocked him back on his heels. She took hits, but kept on trucking. That trait made him admire her, and that admiration was leading them both into dangerous territory. Especially now that Cain had apparently stepped aside.

He’d traversed half the distance between Eve and the murder site when his cell phone vibrated. He pulled it out and looked at the caller ID.

Unavailable.

He turned the power off and shoved it back into his pocket.

Prolonged exposure to darkness destroyed minds. Prisoners who were sent to “the hole” in prisons usually emerged disoriented and senseless. Even
He Who Inflicts Punishment on the World and the Luminaries
felt claustrophobic dementia flirting with the edges of his mind, and he had only been in the belly of the beast for a few hours at most. But then a prison “hole” would be preferable to the gore he was presently stewing in.

If he was forced to fight now, Raguel would be at an undeniable disadvantage. He’d been cramped into the fetal position for hours, cocooned in his wings to protect his flesh from acid, lacking water and sitting in a waist-deep pool of Mark blood. The beast purred and cavorted gaily, inundating him with noise and nauseating jostling. Raguel definitely wasn’t at the top of his game, and that would worsen the more time passed.

But Sammael would make him suffer for as long as possible. Not only for retaliation purposes, but because his freedom would come at a steep price.

By the time the vessel within which he waited finally cried out its agony and collapsed, Raguel was ready to claw his way out. Light pierced into the obsidian darkness with a sword’s blade. It seeped in while the blood poured out, the exchange courtesy of the downward slice through the beast’s torso.

Raguel was borne into the depths of Hell in a gush of crimson, his body emerging through the widening gap in the Infernal’s gutted belly. He skidded along the hot stone floor, until the blood pool became too shallow to carry him further.

“Brother,” Sammael greeted, his deep purring voice laced with malice and fury. “You owe me a dog.”

Raguel rolled to his belly, then pushed up onto his hands and knees. His brother came at him in a blur of red wings and black velvet, kicking him in the gut and wringing a cry of pain past his lips. Raguel was returned to his back, gasping, but when the next attack came he was ready. He yanked his
body to the side when Sammael’s cloven foot stomped down toward his face. Raguel’s wings burst free, spraying blood and launching him upward. He didn’t achieve sufficient height to fly, but he did regain his footing.

Facing his brother with scarlet-stained feathers, Raguel struggled to stay upright without swaying. The air was sweltering, the stench of decaying souls cloying when mingled with the Mark blood seeping from the freshly killed Infernal.

They seemed to be alone in a vast receiving room. The appointments were impressive—the vaulted ceiling with a replica of Michelangelo’s
Fall of Man,
the mosaic stone floor, the white marble walls, Corinthian columns, and the massive throne positioned beneath a chandelier that levitated and moved with Sammael. Statues of various historical figures—such as the Marquis de Sade, Hitler, and Stalin—decorated symmetrically placed alcoves that lined the walls. The room was the size of a football field, yet the Prince of Hell did not appear dwarfed by it. In contrast, Raguel felt small and helpless.

He studied Sammael carefully, looking for any sign of the brother he had once known. Possessed of awe-inspiring beauty, Sammael had hair dark as ink, golden skin, eyes a brilliant green, and a mouth designed to lure the faithful to sin. The Angel of Death. He had once been the most favored archangel, trusted with the meting of punishments and the overseer of two million
mal’akhs
. Raguel had once admired and envied Sammael. Like Cain and Abel, Sammael did
everything wrong while Raguel did everything right, yet Sammael had been loved in a way the other archangels had not.

“A clever way to get what you wanted.” Sammael gestured to the fallen hellhound with a graceful wave of his hand.

“Desperate is more apt.”

“How did you know Havoc could only die by an Infernal’s hand?”

“I did not know.”

Sammael’s smile was icy. “You took a chance hoping I would save you rather than let you die and spark the war. Patience is not one of my virtues. Perhaps I am ready for Armageddon.”

“I had no choice. Your beast was set on killing hundreds of mortals.” Raguel widened his stance for better balance and shook out his wings.

Sammael smiled . . . and circled him. “With your blood-soaked wings you resemble me now, brother. Perhaps you will consider staying. I would love to have you.”

Raguel laughed without humor, sidestepping to maintain the gap between them. He kept his gaze on his opponent, but he was always completely aware of his surroundings. Demons never played fair; they didn’t see the point. Winning was all, so an ambush was not only likely, but expected. A sudden apparition or a trapdoor. “Perhaps
you
will come home with
me.
”

“Impossible. Father and I have fundamental differences in our views.”

“Creation versus destruction,” Raguel murmured.

“Coddling versus challenging.”

“Generosity versus selfishness.”

Sammael snorted. “Arrogance versus acceptance. We complete each other. Yin and yang.”

“Up and down.”

“It is not so bad here, is it?” A warm, seductive chuckle rumbled up from Sammael’s chest. “You look so disappointed. Did you think I was pining for His good graces? Did you believe the mere chance of begging, groveling, and giving up all autonomy would have me crying in relief?”

“I am autonomous.” Raguel coughed, choking from the heated air.

“Within the limits of a system I created here on earth. Where would you be without me?”

It was a testament to Sammael’s charisma and powers of persuasion that Raguel could almost believe that his brother was happy in this mire he’d created for himself. But Raguel couldn’t shake the memories of the man Sammael had once been. A man like Cain—capable of dark acts, but for a just cause. “I am certain that I have yet to see the best of your hospitality.”

“True. But we can rectify that,” his brother purred, his eyes sparking with malevolence.

Raguel carefully extended claws from his fingertips, keeping his hands tucked behind his thighs. He couldn’t kill his brother. Not because he was restrained by sentimental reasons, but because Sammael had powers that terrified him. Still, he would
not go down without a fight. “Why set the trap you did today?”

Sammael
tsked
softly, twice as horrifying because his magnetism was enough to lure even the most frightened of souls like moths to a flame. Even a painful death was no deterrent. “Does that seem like my style to you, Raguel? Do you remember so little about me?”

“Nothing stays the same. Change is inevitable.”

“Not for Father. He never learns. Never grows.”

They were circling each other, each move perfectly gauged. Sammael could be fully human in appearance, but he chose to wear hooves for effect. Each clopping step he took was like a gunshot in the quiet. There was no doubt that he was the predator and Raguel was the prey.

“Why?” Raguel asked again, wondering why his brother seemed unconcerned about the death of his pet. Fact was, Havoc had been an unmitigated success, and if it was true that it was vulnerable only to an Infernal’s hand, then its loss should be a lamentable one to him.

“It was a transgression, a show of cockiness by a lower-level demon flush with his first successes.”

“Are you losing control of your domain?”

“Never.” The word was spoken with such vehemence it reverberated through the room around them.

The door at the far end of the chamber opened and Azazel entered. The archdemon had been Sammael’s lieutenant forever. He bowed before his ruler and waited to be acknowledged.

“You will see for yourself,” Sammael said, his focus still on Raguel, “since you will not be leaving. I cannot kill you . . .
yet,
my brother, but I can keep you. And I shall.”

“My liege,” Azazel murmured. “Forgive the intrusion. I bring news of importance.”

Sammael’s growl echoed through the vast space. He turned his back to Raguel and stormed away, his form changing as he moved into that of a fully realized man in Tudor-era hose with waistcoat, doublet, jerkin, and gown. His hair was long, past his shoulder blades, and it moved as a separate entity. Lifting and shifting as if caressed by a breeze. But the air was sulfuric and stagnant here. Oppressive.

The Prince of Hell took his throne, lounging with long legs extended and arms draped over the thick, carved wooden armrests. He was majestic, and as graceful as a feline. “What is it?”

Azazel approached. Aside from similar height and build, he was as opposite from Sammael as opposite could be. His hair and eyes were white, his skin like ivory. Dressed in breeches and doublet of silver and blue, he looked as cool as the snow . . . in a place as hot as Hell. “Cain has been advanced to archangel and placed as head of the North American firm.”

Raguel stumbled, the room suddenly spinning around him. He had been gone only hours . . .

His gaze shifted wildly, his brain struggling to catch up with the ramifications. He saw the dead beast on the floor; its massive body lying on its side, its opened
gut still oozing gore. Its legs were sprawled, its male genitalia clearly visible.