Demon's Fall (4 page)

“Choose another shape,” Kenan demanded.

“Consider it gratitude. You’re the one who freed me.” The glassy Kenan smiled at him. Its skin was gaining texture in place of its telltale sheen. A few more minutes, and it would be a true twin rather than a mirrored image. “And your form seems useful, if women yield to it so.”

“Choose another,” Kenan said. “I would not have us mistaken.”

The mirror-demon shook its head, still grinning. It reached out and traced a line down his cheek. Its nail was sharp, and drew blood. “Now we look different.”

Kenan struck out, but despite its appearance of flesh, the mirror-demon’s body was smooth and hard. His fist glanced off without any harm except to his own bruised knuckles.

It never stopped smiling, as though that expression had frozen upon its face. “You think you can break me? You, of a single fragile shape?”

Kenan was well aware of the limitations of his human form. He usually avoided physical confrontations because of it, and so all he had with him was a belt knife. He pulled it out now, knowing it would avail him little. The mirror-demon laughed and closed in.

“Run!” Jahel called.

“And let it go loose with its mischief to be blamed on me?” He circled his mirror-self. He swiped at it, but the blade only whined against that unnatural skin.

“You’ve scratched me,” the mirror-demon said, inspecting the line marring its arm.

“Are we even, then?”

“I’ve decided that it will be easier to pass as you if you are gone,” it announced.

Kenan sprang back just in time to avoid being hit by that deadly hand. He nearly stumbled into Jahel. “Get away,” he snapped.

“It’ll never pass as you,” she said urgently. “Let’s go.”

“It would become a problem at some point anyway. Better to take care of it now.” He crouched, wondering where best to strike it. He should have tried to stab it instead of using a
slicing motion. The mirror-demon came toward him, implacable. He ducked its blow and struck out at it, this time with the handle of his knife aimed toward its chest where a human’s heart would be.

He hit a lower rib instead, but there was the satisfying sound of glass cracking. It was odd to see a fracture in what looked to be the fabric of the mirror-demon’s tunic. He was distracted enough by the sight that when the other roared and lashed out at him, he was hit by that hard arm and swept to the floor.

Jahel stepped in front of him.

“Jahel!” He scrambled to his feet and tried to grab her arm, but her wings spread wide, blocking him. He darted around her and saw that she was empty-handed. The mirror-demon was grinning as it reached toward her. But before he could do anything, she lifted her face as though she could see Heaven above her.

Jahel sang.

The sheer power of her voice checked both him and the mirror-demon. And then Kenan was caught by the beauty of the music, the purity of the note.

Her voice lilted upwards until the mirror-demon began to tremble. She held that note effortlessly until it seemed to wrap around them, echoing against the walls and filling the air. And Kenan’s mirror-self couldn’t help shaking with ever-increasing strength, even as it stretched its arm toward her.

Just when it would have touched her, the mirror-demon shattered.

Kenan had crouched low just in time, his arms covering his face. He felt the sting of a hundred tiny cuts as slivers of glass struck him, and heard them shower the walls and ground. When it was quiet again, he looked up.

Jahel had shielded herself with her wings. She lowered them now. Before she could take a step forward, he remembered that she would never have needed to avoid trodding on glass before.

“Careful,” he said. His voice sounded dull and rough-hewn after the glory of hers. “You don’t want to step on any pieces. They could go right through your shoes.”

She turned around and snapped her wings open, then beat them a few times. A wind swept through the chamber and scattered the glass fragments to the walls, leaving the floor clear.

“You were made to conquer the Hall of Mirrors,” he said. “Jahel, that was incredible.”

She shrugged. “It wasn’t even proper singing.”

He heard it now, a lilt, the promise of music behind each word. He didn’t want her to stop talking. “But your voice…”

“It’s like your allure. You don’t even think about it, because it’s a weapon you carry everywhere.”

The bitterness in her words cut through to him. “Are you still upset about the queen’s soul?”

She turned away and began walking out. “No, I understand about that.”

He followed her down the stairs. “Do you regret killing the mirror-demon?”

“It would have killed you.” It sounded as though she were reconsidering the disadvantages of that. “Although it probably would have carried on your careless seductions while in your shape.”

It finally dawned upon him. “Gutter-wing,” he said, “are you jealous?”

She continued down the stairwell as though they spoke of light matters. “Did you have to touch her so?”

“Mortals become confused when they’re aroused,” he said. “Few would give up their souls unless blinded by lust, whether for power or sex. I had nothing else to offer her.”

She was quiet for a whole flight. Then, “What did you say to her at the end, to make her break the glass? She seemed so pleased with you till then.”

So she could watch him, but not hear. He couldn’t regret those words, despite the trouble the mirror-demon had caused once freed.

“I told her about you,” he said.

Her brows furrowed. “I thought you would say something about Lisha.”

“The princess? The queen only cared about the attention she took away. It was worse for her to hear, after I had been with her, who I truly wanted.”

“Me?” The surprise in her voice was genuine. “You must have had so many women,” she said. “And the queen was beautiful.”

“I didn’t care for her,” he said.

“I couldn’t tell.”

He took the steps two at a time until he was on the same one as she. “When I was aroused—”

She halted her descent and finally turned to face him. “Stop,” she said.

“—I was thinking of you.”

“No.”

“When I told her there was one more beautiful—”

“Kenan!”

“—I meant you.”

Her eyes filled. “Kenan,” she said softly. “Don’t play with me the way you do your quarry.”

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Don’t you understand?” he shouted. “It’s not play with you! I don’t know what it is, but I swear upon my soul that across centuries, among thousands of women, it has never been like this.”

He tangled his hand in her hair, tight against her head, and forced her head back so that he could devour her mouth. She filled him with an exultation beyond what any of his conquests had brought him. He tasted Heaven in her.

But then self-disgust cut into him. He’d never handled a woman so, except when she’d wanted it. He let her loose and turned away, setting one hand on the wall blindly to hold himself steady, breathing harshly.

“I’m sorry,” he said thickly, both meaning it and not.

She was quiet, there behind him, for so long that he wondered if she had slipped away. He could not make himself look. He didn’t know if he could bear it if she were gone.

Then her voice came, soft but clear. “When the mirror-demon took on your guise…”

He waited.

“It wasn’t a true reflection,” she said. “I know that it spoke when you did not. But what I mean is that it looked so vengeful and full of malice, and I know those have no place on your features.”

“I’m a demon,” he said.

She circled around him until she stood in front of him. “That doesn’t mean you don’t have a heart. I was caged and clueless, and you have only helped me.”

And she did not ask to what end.

“I’ve seen mortals in love,” she said. “I didn’t understand them. They did such foolish things. And angels know physical love, but it’s the pleasure of a moment, no more. I thought that I wanted you because you’re an incubus, the way all those other women were drawn to you.”

He had never truly had cause to curse that ability of his before. It had been a brief annoyance at times, but even when women or men he had not cared for had approached him, there had been a smug pleasure in it, knowing how easily he could twist them with their lust.

He hadn’t thought that he might want someone to come to him of her own desire, with no doubt to cloud its origin.

“I wish I could be rid of it,” he said, bitter for the first time about being an incubus.

“It’s part of you,” she said, matter-of-fact. “As you said, you’re a demon.”

He knew it was hopeless.

But she went on, “There are other parts of you I didn’t expect. While you’re cold-hearted in some ways, you’re noble in others.”

“Don’t cast me into something I’m not,” he said harshly.

“You’re someone who’s helping me,” she repeated. “You’re about to recover the soul I came here for. So I must thank you for working to keep it out of the hellhound’s clutches.”

He watched her lean forward. She might have been any experienced seductress, but her wings gave her away with nervous flutterings.

He never let a woman he wanted become nervous.

Kenan closed the distance between them and took her mouth. He wasn’t forceful, just relentless, finding meld after meld when she might have pulled away for breath. When her hands came up to curve over his shoulders, he set his own at her waist and pulled her against him.

Her legs parted, and he pressed against her center, making them catch their breaths in unison. He pushed again, the heat and softness of her so deliciously close.

“I want you,” he said, searching her face for any hesitation, but he only saw an answering need. Even as he somehow pulled his hands away from her to yank at his belt, she helped him, and when he finally bared his hard, aching flesh, she wrapped her fingers around it.

He jerked in her hold and caught her wrist, drawing her hand away to kiss it. His control was too precarious, the fight with the mirror-demon still afire in his blood, the note she’d sung still ringing in him. He needed her now.

He slid his hands down to her buttocks, then lifted her, sliding her dress up. He had braced himself against her weight but needn’t have bothered. She was so light her bones must be hollow, like those of birds.

Her wings rose to frame her slender body. He knew now why some mortals worshipped angels. But they did so from afar, fools. His hands gripped her hips and brought her just above him. The tip of him nudged her and she slid her hands down his arms and looked at him with simple trust.

“Yes,” she said.

He pulled her down and drowned himself in her slick heat. She made a sharp, high noise and he froze until her hands tightened on his shoulders and she tentatively pushed herself upward.

He immediately thrust deep inside of her again, unwilling to lose the sensation of being within her. This time she threw her head back, and gave a throaty cry.

“Jahel,” he said hoarsely.

“No,” she said, rising above him again. “Call me—the other thing.”

“Gutter-wing,” he said caressingly, and she shuddered. “Ah, my sweet, dirty angel. Do you like it, straddling a demon? Feeling me here—” he nipped at her breast, “—and here—” he squeezed her buttocks, “—and here?” He lowered her swiftly down his cock and arched his hips into her.

She began to rock mindlessly against him, taking him deep inside of her, rubbing herself against the hand he kept steady, oh so steady, right where it would give her the most pleasure. Her wings beat in rhythm, as though she were flying, and despite the gusts of wind with each sweep he felt feverish. He couldn’t stop moving against her, couldn’t stop crooning.

“Yes, my angel, there, keep going, keep flying, right into the fire…”

“Ah—”

“…so tight, so beautiful, gutter-wing, dream-wing, my glory…”

“Ah!”

Her wings snapped out to their full extension. Her mouth was perfectly rounded and her eyes stayed open, stayed on his, desperate, amazed, sated.

He finished taking his own pleasure then, while she was soft and pliant and mussed from his taking. He shot into her in exquisite bursts while she still pulsed around him. Then she folded down onto him, her breaths shuddering. He brought his arms around her, careful of her wings, and stroked her hair, knowing he had given her more than just his seed.

There was a hollowness inside of him that she fit perfectly, down to the last feather on her wings. He held her there as long as he could, knowing it wouldn’t be long enough.

Their pillow talk, Kenan was certain, was unique.

“What is Hell like?”

“Not so terrible. There are fiery regions, and those of ice, but I think its true horror is that it’s stagnant.”

She considered this, idly drawing lines down his back. He lay on his stomach, his head turned toward her so that he could marvel at how lovely she was.

“What is Heaven like?” he asked.

“Beautiful, of course. Peaceful. There’s no change there, either. But that’s because it’s perfect as it is.”

“Which is why angels venture to the mortal plane.”

“We can’t simply sit still when there are humans who could use our guidance—” She broke off. “I see what you mean. Heaven doesn’t exist in isolation, and as long as we know of those who aren’t within it, we can’t be content.”

“I’m sure it’s more pleasant than Hell,” Kenan said. “I just wouldn’t wish it for myself.”

“You prefer Hellsgate?”

“I like the mortal plane,” he said. “It’s rich and unpredictable. Perhaps the end of the Third Path is the same.”

“Perhaps.” Neither of them knew, of course. Angels and demons couldn’t go there, where the souls of those committed neither to Heaven nor Hell went.

He realized that the sweeping curves she was tracing on his back were symmetrical, from the shoulder blades downward. Wings.

An unexpected sorrow moved through him. Of course she had only let him bed her because he had done what she considered a good deed, something an angel would do. And he had wanted to bed her because trying to ensnare her soul was something a demon would do, he reminded himself. This could never work as anything more. He twisted away from her touch and sat up.

“What is it?” From her laughter she was anticipating some more amorous play—a new position, perhaps. Her fingers danced onto his thigh.

He set his own hand on top of hers before it could move any further upward. “We should give the soul to the hellhound,” he said.

She froze for a moment, then drew away. “Yes. Of course.” Her voice was flat.

He cursed himself for a clumsy fool. He couldn’t bear having taken away that secret joy that had shone in her eyes, the one he knew belonged to him, so he leaned down and kissed her long and hard. And there, it was back, and warmth suffused him. It wouldn’t last, but he wanted it, needed it as long as he could have it. He was still a fool. At some point he would want the bright coin of her soul, if only so that he could keep her forever.

For now, he would keep her happy so she would stay with him. He ignored the thought of later.

Her dress was hopelessly wrinkled, and when he tried to help smooth it out against his body, his hands were inclined to wander. There was something in the freedom to touch her like this, letting himself forget for a moment that he wanted her soul or her body because what he truly wanted what that smile. It wasn’t the Hall of Mirrors that made the world seem so bright.

They left the Hall with laughter still echoing within. And outside, he couldn’t help himself from taking her hand as they walked through the streets. When Jahel wanted a handful of
dates, he indulged her, and even helped her pit them as they headed toward the stable. When he sneaked one into his mouth, she lightly hit his shoulder and scolded him, then ate two herself.

Edom didn’t challenge Jahel this time, only snorted and said, “Back again so soon?” He eyed Kenan’s face. “And even in that short time you managed to find trouble, I see.”

Kenan touched the scab on his cheek. “Mirror-demons are treacherous,” he said ruefully.

“That, at least, hellhounds are not,” Edom said. “But no less dangerous. What web of bargains are you weaving?”

“One that’ll be brought to a close soon,” Kenan said.

Jahel sweetly offered Edom the dates before he could ask more questions, and they left the demon-horse busily chewing as they headed for the far stall.

The hellhound was sitting up as though expecting them. “Well?”

“We’ve brought you the queen’s soul.” Kenan held it out.

The hellhound came forward and took the coin in his mouth. Kenan held his hand steady, but it was hard not to pull away from that sulfurous breath.

“So you have,” the hellhound said. He went to the back corner of the stall, where he began to dig. The gleam of another coin was soon revealed by those massive paws. “Fairly dealt, incubus. Take it.”

Kenan bent to pick it up and brushed off the dirt. The profile of a breathtakingly beautiful girl was on one side; on the other,
Lisha Snow Whitten
.

“That’s her,” Jahel said.

Kenan nodded to the hellhound. “My thanks.”

“And mine,” the hellhound said. “The girl had gentle hands. They did not belong in Hell.”

“Why did you take her soul, then?” Jahel asked.

“I may regret my nature at times,” he said, “but I do not deny it.” He looked straight at Kenan.

Kenan offered a hasty farewell and ushered Jahel outside, trying not to dwell on its words.

He should give her the soul now. Instead he slipped it into his belt pouch, then took her hand and tugged it upward, over his head and behind his neck—pulling her into an embrace so that they were nose-to-nose. “Let’s get back to my home,” he murmured, “and into a proper bed. I want to spend all day exploring your body. I’ll kiss you everywhere. I’ll take hours on each handspan of skin. I’ll make you want to sing.”

She kissed him to quiet him. Her fingers stroked his nape. “You know I’m not too difficult to persuade,” she said with a thread of laughter running through her voice.

They went back to his house with indecorous haste. He fumbled with the lock because of the way she pressed against him and distracted him with kisses, and they tumbled inside once he opened it. He kicked the door shut behind him and backed her up against the bed.

If he pushed her onto it, she might crush her wings. He kissed her hard, then backed away. “Get on the bed.”

She crawled onto it and began to lie down, but he set a hand under her belly to keep her on her hands and knees. “Kenan?” she said uncertainly.

He tore his attention away from the perfect curve of her buttocks and kissed her shoulder. “I’m here.” His palm slid down her stomach to her mound and pressed. She rolled her hips, pressing back.

Kenan nearly tore off the row of buttons, pulling off her dress so that its fabric wouldn’t be between them. Then he found the same spot. She was moist already, so he eased a finger inside her. The noise she made would feed a dozen dreams. “You’re soaking wet, gutter-wing.” He pulled his finger out, watched her hips try to follow and her knees shift wider in invitation. “You want more?” She whimpered, and he added another finger. He worked them in and out of her a few times before he thrust in three with a twisting motion. His other hand came around her to stroke her clit.

It tore a sound from her. She shuddered, and he felt her tighten around his fingers as her wings went rigid. Only after she sighed and her wings dropped did he move into position behind her.

From here he could touch her wings. He did so delicately at first, just a single nail running along the outer edge, and when she shivered, asked, “Is it all right?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s just that usually no one touches them but me.”

He couldn’t resist stroking her feathers again. “Gutter-wing, there is nowhere on your body I won’t touch.” He slicked one of his fingers within her, then let it stray between her buttocks and pause against her other opening.

When he pushed the head of his erection into her, his finger echoed the motion.

She froze and cried out, but did not draw away.

“I will fill you every way I can,” he said. “Look at me.”

She twisted her head around, her eyes wide, and he kissed her. His tongue swept through her mouth, and he started thrusting with finger and cock, drowning, the rhythm becoming more imperative than that of heart or breath. He tore his mouth away and held her to reach the precise angle he was striving for, and he knew he’d found it when her arms nearly buckled and she gasped his name.

He drove into her again, knowing he was leaving bruises, unable to do anything but grip her hips even harder and plunge into her over and over. He was trying to pound her into this place, into his life, and keep her from leaving, and he knew it was hopeless, and he only tried harder. She made a helpless noise each time he slammed himself against her. She was arching into him, reaching for her crest, her wings spreading wider and wider.

There was a moment he always recognized, the perfect time to demand her true name. It was that climax that had mattered more than any physical release, sometimes. But the only words that rose from his throat were “Gutter-wing, you drive me mad,” and “So soft, and hotter than Hell,” and “I wish this wouldn’t end.”

But it had to. She threw her head back and uttered a throaty cry, and he lost himself in her. He groaned, fighting to keep his eyes open to take in the sight of her pleasure, framed by her wings. When he could finally unlock his muscles, he had to lift his fingers from her one by one.

She collapsed and he fell onto the bed next to her. For a moment there was only the sound of their breathing. Then she smiled at him and nestled in closer, setting a hand on his chest and her head upon his shoulder.

He froze, afraid that any movement might jar her. She murmured a wordless, satisfied sound, and he felt her lashes brush his skin as her eyes closed. He listened to her breaths deepen, wondering at himself for lying peacefully next to an angel with her soul untouched. His fingers felt strangely bare without a coin between them.

Kenan stroked her hair instead and thought about moving his hands to other parts of her. He’d come so close. It would be so simple to wake her and lure her to that edge again—perhaps even over it. Her soul would be exquisite, he knew.

But the notion faded against the warmth of her body along the length of his. He slowly relaxed. This was what he wanted forever, he realized before a pleasant lassitude overcame him, not their mindless joining, but the calm of her presence beside him.

* * *

He had never woken to such contentment. There was a warmth alongside him, but within himself too, if he were honest with himself. Jahel was lying on her stomach next to him, a few strands of hair fallen over her face. He brushed them away and drew the back of his hand down her cheek. Her lips curved, although her eyes remained closed.

He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to better view her body, and idly caressed her, thinking of how best to waken her. He carefully ran his hands through her wings, then stopped.

She made a sleepy murmur of protest.

“Your feathers have grown back,” he said. He’d forgotten how quickly angels healed.

“I know.” She yawned. “They itched abominably.”

“Jahel.” That woke her, using her name. “You could have flown away any time.”

She stretched, a sight that normally would have aroused him, but he was too intent upon her response. “I can’t get the collar removed in Heaven,” she said.

“Of course,” he said. His voice sounded distant, even to himself.

She tucked her knees under herself, then pushed up so that she looked down at him. “And I couldn’t just leave you, Kenan.”

“I know—your debt.”

Her fingers feathered their way down his face. “There’s more to it than honor.”

Her eyes held an adoration he had seen before in mortal women. It was the curse of being an incubus, and in the beginning he had sometimes mistaken it for more. He occasionally indulged in a mortal woman for an extended period of time, but lost interest quickly once he had her soul in hand. He didn’t even want Jahel’s soul anymore. Nor did he wish for her to be bound to him by mere physical desire.

He had to remove that collar. Angels didn’t belong in Hellsgate, and Jahel didn’t belong to him.

Kenan turned to her, summoning all the skills at his command. He focused on her, ignoring his own needs in favor of overwhelming her with every sensation he could give her. As he’d promised, he kissed her everywhere, exploring the texture and taste of her skin, and then finally, once she was writhing, tonguing her to her peak again and again.

Afterward he watched her fall back into slumber and knew he would never tire of it.

He slipped out of the bed and got ready quietly. The city outside seemed different, or perhaps it was the lack of Jahel beside him. Would it be thus every day after she was gone? He was glad he passed no one he knew.

But there was someone heading directly toward him. He veered toward one side of the street, hoping to avoid the demon, when he recognized the hellhound. It continued loping toward him.

The hound came to a stop just before him, panting. “Incubus. I was seeking you.”

“Why?” He should have given the soul to Jahel instead of selfishly keeping it—then there’d be no way for the hellhound to demand it back.

The hellhound said, “Edom has been bridled.”

He felt a chill. There were only four who could bridle a demon-horse of such rank. But the Horsemen were supposed to be safely sealed away until the end of the world was to come. “The Four Horsemen ride?”

“Just the one. But he is herald to more.”

Conquest, war, famine, death.

Armageddon. Heaven and Hell would strive in a battle so tremendous it would destroy the mortal plane.

“Why come to me?” he asked, but even as he spoke, he knew the answer.

“The Horseman has been ravaging the city already and calling demons to arms. They know war is to be loosed against the bright realm above. They have seen you with the winged one. She will be the first casualty.”

His first instinct was to return to her, but there was no way he could protect her from a multitude of demons. Now it was all the more imperative that Jahel be freed. “My thanks for the warning,” he said, and began running toward Tiras’s workshop.

It seemed a longer distance than usual, and along the way he saw either empty streets or gatherings that were too large, with ugly moods. When he burst into the workshop, it was with a sense of deep foreboding.

Tiras was sitting at his desk, frowning at a disassembled lock and oblivious to all else. There looked to be a hundred parts, but Kenan didn’t worry about breaking his concentration. He had an even more complex problem to offer.