Bride of Lucifer: Book 1: Hell on Earth, page 9
Steady, Astraea. It sounds eerily like Abaddon’s voice inside my head. He’s taken me under his wing all these years, so to speak. I giggle. My guardian angel. The hovercar may be slower, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. One wrong move, the barest flick of a wingtip or a muscle tweaking at the worst moment, a ninety-mile-an-hour wind could still batter me against these walls and pulverize me to a bloody angel pulp fit for a monster’s stew.
Taking a deep breath through my nose as all my brothers have trained me, I study the placement of the platforms. How far apart they are. How wide and how high they are. How fast the bubble car is rushing.
I thrust my chest out, spring from the hovercar, contort my wings within a second, tumble into a seamless somersault, and use the platform as a launchpad.
Another thrilling trill of jubilation scrambles up my throat until something iron-hard slams into my body, battering me against the wall. Knocking the wind out of me. Bones crack. My breath wheezes. Ears hollow out. My mouth opens in a silent howl from the pain, and I swear something slams against my rib cage walls. The coppery taste of blood engulfs my mouth. Tears burn in my eyes. I spit the viscous fluid. And a tooth.
Head pounding, vision dizzy, I struggle to get up. Can’t stay down. Down is where it’s dark, where it’s cold, where I can’t breathe from the dark shade magic of reapers and soul hunters. A whimper leaves my mouth as I swipe at my lips, discovering three blurry fingers that remind me of twisted, gnarly branches. While on my knees, dark, winged figures approach me.
“Fuck, my King!” a familiar voice bellows as I struggle to get to my feet. The voice of a pretty beast I have heard before. “I could have stopped her without such violence. Astraea, Astraea, dear!”
Bile churns in my belly. Nausea migrates in the wrong direction until I retch my guts onto the platform. Acidic pain sears my throat.
A heated hand bearing claws as long as daggers but deadlier and sharper touches my face. I wince, registering the legion of bruises on my body. The cracked ribs. Bloody mouth. Hours at least to heal. Massive warm wings, raven wings, fold around my body. The giant serpent tail and the wolf teeth define him.
“Aamon,” I whisper the name that soothes, that calms my mind.
“I have better things to do with my time than chase this little daredevil with a death wish all over the Ninth Circle,” snarls Lucifer from the opposite side. I shake my head because the blurs impede my vision grow, turning dark. Oh shit.
“Daredevil,” I mutter, holding on tighter than ever to my sarcasm and spit, splattering blood upon the ends of Lucifer’s long, black robe, projecting a couple of chunks of vomit for good measure. “What, what, what I wonder may be the dare from the Devil?”
“She’s in shock,” Aamon deepens his voice, but it sounds like desperation, like panic. “I have to get her to a med-room. Now. Or the damage to her wings could be permanent.”
Permanent. I can’t contrive what the word means. But I know it’s wrong. My eyes roll to their ceilings.
“Go on then. Bring the little hummingbird to the closest med-room.”
Lucifer’s final words are wronger. Worse than the Unconsecrated Crater. But it’s too late for me to protest. I’m already passing out.
Hundreds of thousands of tiny prickles stinging my skin wake me. My eyes fly open, panic spreading them all the more: I can’t move one fucking muscle. And I’m naked, lying on a cold, metallic table with my wings splayed out on each side and a gem-stitcher above my head.
“Relax, bitch. It’s nearly finished,” a familiar tenor resounds from a speaker above my head.
Camio. I clench my teeth. Around me, the walls hum with gem energy, the fluorescent lights flooding all of me as if I’m a fucking bug under a microscope. A warm wave streams across my body in a slow pass-over, retrieving what I assume are the microscopic gem-bots programmed to repair any broken bones and flesh and restore the fabric of my wings. Nowhere near as effective as our star pools in the Celestial Mountains, these gem-bots could never hope to edit or sequence angel DNA or genes. All they do is manipulate my cells to swifter healing.
As soon as a final wave pulses and the prickling sensation is gone, the numbness subsides, and the feeling returns to my quivering muscles. Chin lifting high, I face the large one-way mirror opposite the table, giving it my best angel-with-a-dirty-face glare, followed by my middle finger.
“Now, that was quite rude,” Aamon’s voice flows through the speakers, and I wish it weren’t so gods-damned tranquilizing. Understandable why he earned the title of the Demon of Reconciliation. “Robes off to your left, Astraea.”
No time wasted, I climb off the table, my knees wobbly. While approaching the robes, I raise my wings, ruffle the feathers, flutter them, and do a slight wingbeat, satisfied by the range of motion. No feathers missing, so I lower my shoulders, heaving a deep sigh of gratitude at their healing.
At least my thong was preserved. After shrugging into the panties and the silky black robe, I tie the sash tight and sweep my curls out from the robe’s inside to ripple down my shoulders. A door swings forward into the med-room, nearly clocking me in the head. Camio hauls me into an attached observatory room and swings me into his arms. I wheeze when he hugs me so tight, it cuts off my air.
“I’m so sorry I got you into this mess, Astraea,” he apologizes and cups my cheeks as Aamon glides toward us upon that massive serpent tail glimmering like liquid sapphires—a contrast to his black feathered raven wings. One curves around Camio’s shoulder, tapping his arm in a soothing gesture that radiates an encouraging warmth into my body.
“Cami has been beside himself ever since your aerobatic display at the Gala: gemming me every five minutes,” he indicates to his gem-plant, “and paying Ninth Circle security to learn where Lucifer summoned you. He even arranged a private transport to help you escape.”
A vein in my neck twitches, and I wrinkle my nose, eyeing my human friend. “Could’ve given me a heads up, Cam. Hell, I’d have taken a toenail’s up before Lucifer royally rattled my bones.” I don’t remember much from the incident, but after our time in the suite, I know what Lucifer’s body feels like when it slams against mine. The sharp masculinity of his armored muscles, the powerful sinew of his wings, his thighs roped with solid muscle. I stop myself and replace the memories of my legs wrapped around his hips with the one of me kneeing him in the balls in midair and sending him crashing to the suite floor.
“Couldn’t risk gemming you or anything else, love. Once you were on Lucifer’s radar, the gem-plant was compromised.”
I guess that makes sense. Camio touches my upper back, sliding it around my shoulder in a one-armed hug. Hard to believe the world’s first murderer turned reformed cinnamon roll cares about me this much when a mere twenty-four years spans our relationship: an eye blink of time for the immortal human. If I had a heart, it would sputter a bit. My blood warms when Camio rubs his lips on the side of my head, stirring heat to my cheeks. I hug my chest and flick my eyes to Aamon, who smiles, revealing his predatory teeth.
“So, I take it he contacted you instead?” I throw the prince a side smirk and lower my hands to my hips, knowing he will have his hands full with the demon legions he commands.
“You should know by now, Astraea, if push comes to shove, and I must choose between calming and reconciling Camio or the hundreds of demons within my care, it will always be Camio.”
Warmth floods my chest cavity as the demon slides his tail around my immortal friend, drawing him close for a kiss on the cheek. Camio waves a casual hand, but I love how hot and bothered he gets from Aamon’s public displays of affection.
“Oh, come now, Aamon, you’ll make me blush.”
I beam at the two of them. At heart, Camio is an attention man whore—so adorable when he pecks the demon’s cheek and starts playing with the ends of his flirty serpent tail.
A chill slithers up my spine when I remember the unfortunate circumstances that necessitated Aamon’s interference. Exhaling with my wings drooping ever so subtly, I glance at the demon prince whispering sweet nothings into Camio’s ear to turn the human’s cheeks even redder. I dart my eyes between them, admiring the contrast of Camio’s dark skin against the demon’s deep blue sky. On the rare occasion that Aamon blushes, his cheeks turn a lovely shade of violet.
A twinge of guilt knots my stomach lining because the last thing I wanted was for either of them to get involved in this—at least nothing beyond Camio using his slush fund and resources for the gem-plant and mask.
I imagine I’ll be sent back to the Celestial City with my tail between my legs in no time. But if Lucifer does anything to my boys, I won’t stop until I’ve personally dragged Abaddon to wreak havoc on his ass. As long as I get to mount it on my wall afterward.
“Humph,” I snort after the observatory room entrance door opens, revealing multiple fallen angels girded in black gem-tech armor. Far lighter and more effective than body armor since it must be strong enough to take a blow from a centaur’s hoof to vampire claws to demon fists. I recognize their rank insignias: blood and fire but with a gray background vs. the black that signifies the military. No, these are Ninth Circle conveyors, but I prefer the term “escorts”. Makes it easier to imagine them in high heels, hoop earrings, and leopard print. Not that there’s anything wrong with—oh, forget it.
My chest tightens, and I return to crossing my arms, tensing my wings at the fallen ones approaching me. They don’t speak, but my gem-plant does, conjuring a holo-feed of a woman who resembles more of an escort—except a high-ranking, classy type with thousand hell-credit heels, fresh-caught pearl earrings, and potentially leopard legs. Like a daemon.
“Astraea Malak, Lucifer Morningson, Dawn-Bringer, High Lo—” I shut down the feed and roll my eyes before it continues its long-winded titled summons.
Heaving a sigh, I turn to Aamon and Camio and shrug. “Guess I’m going to the principal’s office before I head home.” I advance toward the conveyors with their lips pressed into a tightly-sealed seam. Their job is to escort, not talk.
“Astraea,” Camio’s concerned voice stops me in my tracks as does his hand on my shoulder. I pinch my eyes, puzzled when he squeezes my shoulder and scrubs a hand down his face. “I know your ultimate reason for coming here. But if you have one infinitesimal speck of respect for his authority and power within his domain, please don’t…” he trails off, swallowing far too much as if he’s already predicting a poor end for me.
“Camio, you know I’m Abaddon’s bond-keep, right?” I have no shame for falling back on my guardian. Not when he’s shown me the most respect. Not with how he found my newborn self flying around the heights of the Celestial City like a crazy, little cupid. Not with the deep bond we share—a bond beyond blood.
Camio drops his hand, averting his eyes and shuffling his shoes backward until he huddles into Aamon’s arms. The skin around his eyes doesn’t stop creasing, triggering my stomach to churn. But I shake my head and harden whatever whirlpools in my stomach to solid ice—cold, brutal, and bitter. All I will ever feel for the one responsible for my greatest loss, for the scars Abaddon and I bear. And with the Devil’s too-personal history with my guardian, the last thing he wants to do is piss him off.
With that knowledge, I glide on my bare feet into the center of the conveyors. Guess Lucifer doesn’t care much for decorum. I glance down at my robe and shiver. My halo is restless, testing my skin with fine nerve tingles, eager for action.
“You know they say silence is golden, not black, right?” I mock their wing color once they surround me inside the elevator. Not one blink or clenched jaw.
One angel taps his insignia, and the elevator rolls upward, which surprises me. If it leads me to the surface level, all I need is a wing’s gap of distance to fly out of here like a bat out of hell.
Flexing my fingers, I study the two wings on each side of me, protecting the slit of a gap in their armor. Despite how they’re not military, they’re still trained. The higher the Circle, the better the security for any threats to Lucifer.
“Ve haf vays of making you talk,” I slip into the poor accent, a misplaced lightness in my chest that must come from surviving a battle with Lucifer and a near-brush with death.
I narrow my eyes. At their belts are black-iron swords, sheathed, but judging by their straight-backs, squared shoulders, and muscles brimming with tension, it wouldn’t take them much time to retrieve them.
I snicker to myself. Bet I could do it faster. Ugh! Psycho Astraea rears her head at the personal challenge—the one I call the devil on my shoulder who baits my proud angel. Not like it takes much since the angel became her bitch long ago. All I have left is Abaddon’s voice of conscience commanding me not to do anything stupid, bide my time, and be patient. But Asmodel is the Angel of Patience. Not me. I shed my celestial title when I was sixteen and went into heat for the first time, sweating it out in Jack’s mansion and fucking on Mount Yvos. I’d rather have free will than a purity title.
The elevator pitches to a stop. My inner psycho slaps a collar on her angel bitch while roaring loud enough to smother Abaddon’s chastisements.
As soon as the doors slide open, and the fallen one to my left moves his gem-armored boot by a mere inch, I act. I lunge, gripping the sword hilt and swinging it around to clash with the alpha hole behind me as predicted. Thrusting it away, I duck under the swing of another sword and jam the hilt into one’s balls. I don’t get to revel in how I made one do more than simply talk. Pulse elated, my insides vibrating from the action, and wings quivering, eager for freedom, I bring the heavy sword up and plunge it through the slit in the nearest fallen one. Blood pools on the floor. The fallen angel falls—I don’t have time to quip on that either—and I leap through the gap his body made.
No sooner than I do, something presses to the side of my neck, burning my skin and freezing my muscles. The sword drops from my hand while my body crashes to the floor. Even my wings lock up. Nothing like the med-room paralysis. This is electrical current pulsing into my skin, lightning playing my nerves like a fucking fiddle.
And a deep and husky and unfortunately too-familiar voice croons, “That will be quite enough. Valiant effort, but you won’t escape me again, sweetheart. I trust you’ve received the message?”
He removes the device from my neck. The lightning ebbs instantaneously. No trace of the current under my skin or wrecking my nerves. This simmering burn will soon fade.
Tossing the curls covering my face onto my shoulder, I glare up at those blood moon eyes and grit my teeth to say, “Clear as crystal.”
After traveling to a separate Ninth Circle elevator with Lucifer leading the conveyors, we pass through a series of back hallways of what reminds me of an elite, multi-billion-dollar corporate office high-rise. I snivel at the boring décor of black, white, and red aesthetics broken by the impressionistic serpent and skull motifs.
More than once, I consider another escape attempt. But after my last, Lucifer vowed that any more would result in more burns—and no more robe. As thrilling as the notion of exhibitionism is, and despite the honor I’d pay any observers, I’m quite attached to the silky robe. When I leave, I fully intend on taking it with me. With its breathable silk, flowy sleeves, and sweeping silhouette, I feel like an angel swaddled in a cocoon of clouds.
Better to get this over with.
We progress down another hall that expands. On one side, tall, rectangular glass holders filled with fresh diabolicus orchids—named for their devil’s head reproductive structure and claw-like petals—line the walls. On the other side are sleek black office chairs bearing the insignia of the double serpent tattoos on Lucifer’s skin.
I wrinkle my nose when I consider how his chest pressed to mine, how the heat buds between my thighs even now. I stare too long at the muscles rippling along his back, visible beyond his thin robe. His wings are lethal weapons in their own right. Like mine, well-earned sinew ropes the framework from chronic training or battles while the edges and points may turn sharp as dragon fangs. However, while mine bear an angel’s pride and sensuality bred into their fabric, Lucifer’s are dark and musculature. I frown, fingers fidgeting. In Lucifer’s case, those dark wings bear the imprint of the Unconsecrated Crater. Fallen angel wings. Demon wings.
If I held the powers of a seraph, I wouldn’t rest until I’d found a way to destroy that evil cavity responsible for the death of billions of souls.
The promise of power exudes from Lucifer’s being as he leads me to a set of double-arched doors formed of Diablo ore. Never once does he glance back as if he knows I won’t risk running anymore. I touch the fading burn mark on my neck. Veins slither along his wings and neck, kindled with eternal hellfire. I clutch my arms, gripping the elbows and willing away the sudden heaviness in my body. He didn’t specify gem-taser burns. He had no qualms about breaking my bones. Perma-burns from his hellfire wouldn’t be much of a stretch. I chew my bottom lip and remember his power electrifying my blood with pleasure and stealing my breath with pain.
My gut clenches. I press my lips into a frown. The Devil is, first and foremost, a deceiver. Why should I be surprised by his machinations and schemes? Or his violence? Too bad he isn’t an ordinary half-breed. My imagination conjures all sorts of dirty scenarios of that VIP room with my back against the wall. Until today, I didn’t believe it was possible to loathe myself more, but life is full of surprises. Is there enough time to make it to Mount Onys above the Celestial City? One petal from the forget-me plant will erase hours from my memory.
Camio’s reminder invades my mind, pricking the psycho inside me. For once, it gives her cause to pause. He might be right about keeping my mouth shut. The quicker I get this over with, the better.
