A Devil Named Desire (3 page)

He drew closer, forcing her to look into his face: lean jaw, sharply chiseled cheekbones, coldly handsome in a way that only increased the terror in her heart. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Hand me the cup.”

Heart pounding, she played for time, and handed it to him without a word.

“Still you doubt me.” He shrugged. “No matter.” He cocked his head. “Allow me to prove it to you.”

From the corner behind him came a shadow, getting larger and larger, spreading like a stain across the wall, the floor, the very air itself. It twisted and roiled, turning in upon itself and back again. It rose, getting bigger and bigger, until it was looming over him. He had to know it was there—impossible not to know it was there, but he showed no reaction, no fear.

Hope gasped, scrabbling back against the pillows, but the door was behind him and there was nowhere to go. Horrified, she could only watch as the shadow grew larger.

Then, from the inky darkness itself, something stepped into the room, and her blood ran cold.

Two huge wings, black as night, a lump that coalesced into a head, tipped with horns as blackened and sharp as wickedness itself. Hope cried out when she saw its eyes, red as coals in the dark pit of what passed for the creature’s face.

“Meet Nyx,” the Devil said smoothly. “My right-hand man.”

The thing hissed in response, and Hope shrieked, long and loud, covering her face with her hands.

Silence answered her, a silence that frightened her more than anything else that had happened so far. She felt the bed dip and cringed away, keeping her face covered, too weak and shocked to do more. The scent of spices curled into her nostrils like smoke, telling her Sammy had come closer. His fingers gently encircled her injured wrists, pulling her hands away from her face.

“Yea, though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death, thou art with me,” he crooned to her softly, in a profane parody of biblical verse. “Nyx
is
the shadow in the valley of death. He is a soul eater, and he is hungry, as hungry as the Darkness from whence he came.”

Afraid to look in the direction of the monster, she trembled, and kept her eyes down.

“Look at me,” Sammy ordered.

Afraid not to, she raised her eyes to his face. His eyes were such a pale, pale blue; like ice on a frozen pond. Beautiful, but just like ice, there was death beneath the beauty.

“That’s it,” he murmured softly, mere inches away. “Look at me. Look into my eyes and listen to me carefully.”

Terrified, gasping, Hope didn’t move, feeling like a rabbit pinned by a fox.

“You gave yourself into my keeping when you slit these pretty wrists,” he told her. “Suicides belong to the Darkness, so you’re mine now, do you understand? Your soul is mine.”

The demon behind him shifted, just slightly, but it was more than enough to make her flinch in terror. Another tear slid down her cheek.

“It’s time to make a bargain, you and I.”

Almost against her will, she felt a faint stab of hope. “A ba-bargain?”

“I’m going to offer you a gift—a gift that will help you find your sister—but you must agree to do something for me in return.”

Biting her lip, Hope was cognizant of the strength of the fingers that held her bandaged wrists. He held them gently now, but one twist, and she’d be screaming in agony. This was no dream, no suicide-induced hallucination. This was a living, breathing nightmare: the beautiful, terrible Angel of Death and his own personal, eight-foot demon.

Gathering her courage, she swallowed hard, and asked, “How do I know that Charity’s still alive?”

Satan smiled, letting her go. He held out his hand, palm up, toward the demon, not bothering to look in the creature’s direction.

It stepped forward immediately, placing an object into its master’s hand. It was a polished disc of stone the size of a CD, black marble veined with white, perfectly flat and smooth. It was rimmed in gold, etched with a pattern of crosshatches.

Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, Sammy held it so Hope could see it clearly. “Look at it,” he told her. “Watch.”

Before her eyes, the veins of white within the stone began to move, all swirling in the same direction, blending together to forming a type of vortex. Frightened but fascinated, she watched as the vortex became larger, covering the entire surface of the disc.

“The Eye of Caradoc,” Satan murmured silkily. “Look deeper, and tell me what you see.”

To her shock, the swirling vortex within the stone began to change, revealing an image, misty and unformed. The image became clearer and she gasped; it was the face of a woman, fluffing her hair and putting on lipstick as though she were looking into a mirror, unaware she was being watched.

The honey blond hair, the hazel brown eyes . . . they were as familiar to Hope as her own reflection.
Charity.
Her sister.

Unable to stop herself, Hope cried out, reaching for the stone, but Sammy pulled it back, beyond her reach.

“Keep looking,” he told her coldly, and she did, transfixed by how the image grew sharper the longer she stared.

It was like looking through a camera lens. Behind Charity she could see tile walls, marked with lewd graffiti. A single stall, door open to reveal a dingy toilet. Charity kept glancing over her shoulder, appearing nervous as she applied yet another coat of garish pink lipstick. The door behind her opened, and a hulking figure filled it. Hope couldn’t make out his features, but it was clearly a man, one who gestured impatiently, saying something she couldn’t hear. Whatever it was made her sister’s shoulders slump, and her eyes fall. She turned from the mirror, tucked away her lipstick, and left the bathroom. The man followed a moment later, but before he did, he leaned in and took a quick look around the ladies’ room, as though assuring himself it was empty. His jacket gaped open, revealing a gun strapped to his chest.

“Your sister’s in trouble,” Sammy said, and lowered the stone. “Don’t you want to help her?”

Weak, terrified, and emotionally drained, she could only stare into pitiless blue pools of ice, and accept the inevitable, just as she had last night when she’d picked up a razor blade. Bowing her head, she whispered, “What is it you want me to do?”

“Good girl,” Satan murmured silkily. He reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, casually claiming her as his own. He cocked his head, observing her closely. “You’re a Web designer, aren’t you?”

Hope nodded, unsure what that had to do with anything.

“Well, then.” He rose from the bed, and as he did, Hope saw that the disc was just a stone again; the image of Charity was gone. “I want you to build me a Web site.”

She frowned, looking up at him through her lashes. “A Web site?”

“Not just any Web site.” The Devil smiled. “A very special Web site, just for my followers.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

His smile disappeared. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“But . . .” She swallowed, trying her best not to make any kind of eye contact with the dark figure that loomed over Sammy’s shoulder. “There are tons of satanic Web sites all over the Internet already.”

“True,” Sammy said softly, “but none of them contain the words of power necessary to let my legions enter the world en masse.” He shrugged an elegant shoulder. “A demon here, a demon there . . . some of the faithful have figured out how to occasionally call them up, but demons are fickle creatures, and notoriously hard for humans to control; they usually end up killing the one who summoned them.” He shrugged again. “It’s a very inefficient system.”

Her blood ran cold.

“One or two demons at a time are all well and good for creating occasional havoc, but I think it’s time to up the stakes. You will be the means with which I provide the key to the gates of Hell, my pretty little Hope.” He chuckled, and to her horror, the creature behind him chuckled, too, a dark sound that made her breath catch in her throat.

Noting the look on her face, he glanced over his shoulder, smiling. “She doesn’t understand the joke, Nyx.” He handed the stone disc back to the demon and said, “Fetch me the key.”

The demon melted back into the corner, returning almost at once. In one black-clawed hand, it held a small book, which it offered to its master.

Sammy took it; a notebook the size of a diary, plain binding, no title. “The
Ars Goetia
,” he said, offering it to Hope. “Otherwise known as the Key of Solomon.”

Afraid to touch it, she merely stared.

“It contains the words of power given to King Solomon by the angels themselves, in the long-ago days when the war between good and evil was newly won. The key to controlling demons lies within these pages.”

“I—” Hope’s voice cracked. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple, my dear.” Sammy tossed the book on the bed, where it lay on the covers beside her. “The words of power have kept my legions contained for thousands of years, but reversed, and in the right hands, they can set them free.”

Greatly daring, she asked, “Why don’t you just put it in the right hands yourself?”

He shrugged. “Alas, some things are indeed beyond my abilities. The Key can only be read by someone pure of heart, and I’m afraid that neither I nor any of my followers fall into that category. Once it’s transcribed, however, all bets are off.”

“Why me?” She felt desperate, confused. “I’m hardly Mother Teresa.”

“Oh, Hope.” The Devil cocked his head, eyeing her in a disturbingly friendly fashion. “You’re sweet and kind and goodhearted to a fault. Losing your parents at such a young age could’ve left you bitter and angry, but instead it left you mistakenly carrying the weight of the world on those delicate little shoulders. Unfortunately for you, your misplaced guilt over your sister’s fate brought you to my attention. I hate to put it so bluntly, but it’s my nature to exploit that which is good, and use it for evil. It’s what I
do
.”

The shadow creature she feared gave a raspy chuckle, then melted back into the corner, retreating as though it had never been.

“It’s time to bring the power of social networking to bear.” Turning, he strode toward the door, where he paused. “I’ll give you two weeks. You’ll make these words available to my followers, or you’ll never see your sister again.” He smiled, the curl of his lip like wickedness itself. “Do we have a bargain?”

Hope bit her lip, eyeing the book.
Two weeks.
A lot could happen in two weeks, including figuring out a way to satisfy the terms of the bargain without putting the actual words out there; she could easily mess up a phrase or leave something out. And somewhere, deep in her heart, lurked the thought that if all else failed, she could destroy the book before anyone else did what she herself was being asked to do.

After all, if she was going to burn in Hell for being stupid enough to offer herself to the Darkness, maybe Hell would be easier to bear if the world she left behind was safer for it.

“Yes, we have a bargain, but—” She stiffened her spine, digging deep for the strength that had kept her going in the years since her parents died, the strength that had deserted her the evening before, during her dark night of the soul. “I want my sister back as soon as the Web site goes live, and then I want you to swear to go away and leave us both alone. Forever.”

Sammy laughed. “Dictating terms now . . . not quite dead yet, are you, Hope?” He gave a short nod. “Agreed, but allow me to give you a final word of warning: that book is very, very important to me. It’s the only copy in existence. If anything should happen to it . . . well, let’s just say that I’ll be watching, and so will Nyx.”

Chapter Two

G
abriel sat in the sunshine outside Moonbeans Café, listening to New Age music and sipping coffee while he watched the world go by. A few doors down was the vintage clothing store run by the woman who’d captured Samael’s heart, and unbeknownst to his angry, stubborn, onetime brother, he liked to stop in every now and then to check on her. In keeping a protective eye on Nicki Styx, he’d discovered the eclectic Atlanta suburb of Little Five Points, Georgia, where he would occasionally linger and people-watch.

Sammy had liked the funky little neighborhood, too, though Gabriel doubted he’d come here again.
Beautiful, terrible, troubled Sammy.
It saddened him still, what they’d lost; once brothers, now foes, each the other’s nemesis in the ways of the soul. Still, Sammy had shown mercy instead of vengeance when Nicki chose a mere mortal over him, and it was this crack in Samael’s hardened heart that had led Gabriel to believe he could one day find his way out of the Darkness that consumed him.

Now, after their last conversation on the hill overlooking the Garden, he wasn’t so sure.

With a sigh, Gabe pushed the vintage sunglasses he’d just bought higher on his nose. Ray-Ban Drifters, a name he found amusing, for a drifter was what he was, going here, there, and everywhere imparting grace and comfort in his role as an angel. Nicki Styx, her chocolate brown eyes twinkling, had told him they made him look “cool.” It was a shame, really—her kindhearted zest for life would’ve been good for Samael, who’d lived too long with his rage and bitterness.

Gabe took a sip of coffee, wondering yet again, as he had many times through the ages, what it was like to truly love a woman. He’d seen many men fight and die for a pretty face, risking their lives for a sloe-eyed glance or a night of pleasure. There was no denying the existence of feminine appeal—the One had designed women to be pleasing to the eye for a reason—but he’d personally never found himself tempted to do more than just admire, much as he admired the beauty of nature, art, and sculpture. He’d had many opportunities to
be
tempted, of course; women clearly found him attractive in human form, whether it be third-century Rome or twenty-first-century Manhattan. Even now, on the streets of Little Five Points, he drew continued admiring glances from the tattooed and pierced young woman behind the counter of the coffee shop, as well as several women browsing in and out of the stores along Moreland Avenue.

“Can I get you anything else?” The young woman had left her place behind the counter, and now stood next to him, holding a tray filled with pastries. She had a small ring in one nostril, three studs in her right eyebrow, and colorful tattoos on both forearms. “We’ve got some killer muffins today, and these brownies are epic.”

“Epic?”

“Awesome. Delicious.” The girl smiled at him. “Totally yummy.”

He didn’t need to understand the vernacular in order to know he was being flirted with, but he wasn’t interested in food or flirtation, and shook his head with a smile. “No, thanks.”

She arched a pierced brow, still proffering the tray. “You sure? Because I think you’d like what I have to offer.”

“I’m sure I would,” he told her, giving in to a full-blown grin, “but no thanks.”

She quirked her lip in disappointment and turned away, taking her goodies with her, while Gabriel went back to his people watching.

A woman came around the corner, striding quickly along the sidewalk. She was attractive: delicate features and blond hair, cropped short as a boy’s. She would’ve been more so save for her expression, which was sad and preoccupied, as though her thoughts were not to her liking. She glanced briefly at him in passing, and for an instant, it seemed that the world changed. He saw her, a small woman in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, then saw
past
her, into the soft white glow that surrounded her like a nimbus. Then he saw past
that
, noting with a chill the darkness that swarmed around that nimbus, desperately seeking a way in.

Gabriel blinked, and it was gone; she was just an attractive woman on the sidewalk.

She crossed the street, ignoring him while he eyed her narrowly behind his sunglasses. He’d never seen an aura attacked in such a way, never seen such sharp contrast between black and white. The warrior in him, battle-scarred from the age-old fight between good and evil, stirred, his protective instincts immediately roused.

When he saw the shadows slinking along on the ground behind her, he knew his instincts were correct. Smoky smudges of black, weaving in and out beneath of the feet of unsuspecting passersby, who would see them merely as shadows from the trees lining the sidewalk, caused by passing clouds or differing angles of sunlight. Gabriel, however, knew them for what they were: purposeful, evil harbingers of trouble, trailing after the woman like hounds on a scent.

He rose, leaving his coffee behind, and began following. Weaving his way through slow-moving cars, he crossed the street behind her, keeping her in sight as she passed several small shops, a T-shirt vendor, and an open-air fruit market. She paused, as did the shadows, which were trampled beneath her feet as she turned and walked back to the market, where bins of fresh fruits and vegetables were displayed for purchase.

Gabe entered the market area himself, pretending interest in a bin of Fiji apples while the woman grabbed a small basket from a nearby stack and began perusing some bananas, checking for bruises. She added a small bunch to her basket, then moved on to the vegetable area. A quick check of the sidewalk showed that the shadows kept their distance, blending seamlessly into the shade of a neighboring tree, but the prickle on the back of Gabe’s neck told him they were still there. He’d seen them before, usually just before the death of a person whose soul was in jeopardy. They were like flies, with no powers of their own, attracted by the prospect of feeding on whatever scraps a soul eater might leave behind, and as such, were indicators that a soul eater was nearby.

Of all the demonic denizens of the Underworld, soul eaters were the ones Gabriel hated the most. In particular, he hated Nyx, Sammy’s red-eyed second-in-command, whom he’d dealt with before. Part of him hoped Nyx would show up now, here, today, so he could put the filthy abomination in its place once and for all.

“Good morning, Hope. How are you today?” A plump woman in a straw hat and apron emerged from an open storefront that looked out over the fruits and vegetables. “I’ve got some lovely seedless grapes to go with those bananas. Add some apples and some fresh yogurt, and you’ve got yourself a feast.”

The blond woman—whose name he now knew was Hope—answered the fruit vendor rather listlessly. “Hi, Mrs. Rodriguez. That sounds great; I’ll take whatever you recommend.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Rodriguez knowingly, “I definitely recommend the apples.” She gestured toward the bin where Gabe was standing, deliberately drawing Hope’s attention that way.

Gabriel made a point not to acknowledge that he’d overheard the remark, recognizing a blatant yet well-meant attempt at matchmaking when he heard one. Fine with him; he could easily charm his way into the blond woman’s good graces, maybe buy her a coffee and keep her close while he found why she’d been marked as prey by the Darkness. He picked up an apple and examined it closely, feeling Hope’s eyes rest on him briefly before she turned away, heading for the grapes.

“That’s okay,” she told the fruit vendor. “I’ll just have some grapes and bananas. I’m not a big fan of apples.”

He was a bit surprised at the summary rejection, and took a quick glimpse at her left hand to see if she wore a wedding ring. She didn’t.

“I’ll be right with you,” the fruit vendor said to him, in a friendly fashion. She followed Hope toward the grapes, plucking a big bunch from the pile and placing them in a plastic bag she pulled from her apron.

“I need some extra bananas for my neighbor, too,” Hope said. “Poor Mr. Qualey hasn’t been feeling well lately, and I promised to make him homemade banana pudding.”

“No offense, chica,” said Mrs. Rodriguez, eyeing her customer with motherly concern, “but you don’t look like you’re feeling too good yourself. You doing okay?”

Hope turned away with a shrug. In profile, Gabe could see faint shadows beneath her eyes, her skin so pale it seemed translucent. “I’m fine,” she answered, using her free hand to tug on the sleeve of her shirt. “I’ve been working pretty hard, having a little trouble sleeping.”

“I’ve got just the thing,” answered Mrs. Rodriguez. “Lavender oil. A few drops on your pillow and you’ll sleep like a baby.”

“Sounds great. I’ll take it.”

Mrs. Rodriguez bustled off into the tiny storefront. Through the open doorway Gabe could see a wall of shelves, a single refrigeration unit, and a small counter that held a cash register—not much room for danger to hide.

Hope moved on to the plums, ignoring him while he picked up an orange and brought it to his nose, enjoying the sharp scent of citrus.

“Here you go,” said the fruit vendor, returning with a small bottle in hand. “On the house. Consider it a bonus for doing such a good job on the Web site. You’ll sleep good tonight, I promise.”

“No, I’ll pay you for it.”

Mrs. Rodriguez waved away Hope’s protest, dropping the bottle into her basket. “That online coupon idea was genius. We’ve already got over one thousand names on our Garden of Eatin’ mailing list, adding more every day.”

“Thanks, Mrs. R.”

“You’re welcome, chica. Get some sleep, eh?”

Gabe lingered while Hope finished her shopping, which didn’t take long. When she stepped inside to pay her bill, he meandered a few feet down the sidewalk in the direction she’d been going, keeping an eye on the patch of shadows beneath the tree while pretending to window shop at a neighboring bookstore.

He watched her reflection in the glass as she passed behind him and saw, too, that the shadows still followed. Keeping some distance between them, he trailed along behind, on the lookout for anything that might threaten the woman’s safety: a mugger, an out-of-control car, anything out of the ordinary. Human life was so fragile, something that could be taken in an instant, and while he accepted that, he never took lightly the idea of losing a soul to the Darkness. From what he’d seen of her aura, this woman’s soul burned brightly at its core, yet was clearly beset; should she die today, he would do what he could to guide her toward the Light.

A couple of panhandling teenagers with spiked hair and nose rings approached her, and he tensed, but Hope freely handed over some change and went on. About a block later the Little Five Points business district was left behind, and they entered a more residential area, with a few low-rise apartment buildings and a scattering of houses.

They weren’t the only two people on the sidewalk, as an elderly woman swept leaves across the street, and a young couple passed them by, hand-in-hand, so Gabe didn’t feel too conspicuous. The neighborhood would’ve been pleasant if he hadn’t been on high alert; big oak trees, green lawns, blue and pink hydrangeas in full bloom.

About a block later, Hope headed up the stairs to a small, two-story apartment building, disappearing inside. A small orange and black sign in one otherwise bare window read F
OR
R
ENT
. The shadows that trailed her still followed, oozing their way in around the lobby door as it closed behind her. Gabe quickened his step, bounding up the short stairs and going in. He came to an abrupt stop at the sight of Hope, facing him in the lobby, just a few feet away. She flung out her hand, and something wet hit him directly in the face.

“Get away from me!” she shrieked, throwing the now-empty lavender oil bottle at him as hard as she could. He ducked, barely able to dodge it; it hit him on the back of the arm, just missing his head. Luckily his new sunglasses had protected his eyes from the brunt of the oil, but they were still stinging, his nose filled with the reek of lavender.

She whirled and bounded up another short flight of stairs. “Mr. Qualey!” she shouted, at the top of her lungs. “Mr. Qualey, help!”

Gabriel stayed where he was, wiping oil from his face, stunned at how easily he’d been caught off guard. Despite her small size and vulnerable air, the woman was a bit of a tigress. He heard the frantic rattle of a doorknob, followed by more shouting. “Mr. Qualey!” There was a
thump
, followed by several lesser thumps as a purple plum came rolling down the stairs to lie, bruised and battered, at his feet.

He could go away, disappear as though he’d never been, but a prickle on the back of his neck told him he’d be giving the Darkness exactly what it wanted if he did. Now that she’d seen him, he decided to stop skulking and make the best of the situation.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said loudly, wishing Hope had chosen something less oily and smelly to hit him with. He was drowning in scent, and his attempts to wipe it away merely made it worse.

More frantic doorknob rattling and a muttered “Shit” preceded more yells for the neighbor, who apparently wasn’t home.

“I said I’m not going to hurt you,” Gabe repeated, irritated to feel a trickle of oil on his scalp; he’d never liked perfumed oils in his hair, even though it had once—centuries ago—been the fashion. “Lost your keys?”

There was a silence, during which he took off his sunglasses and used the hem of his T-shirt to mop his face, smearing oil all over it.