Hellsbane 01 - Hellsbane (18 page)

“I can’t lose you,” he said. “Not now. Not so soon after losing Thomas.”

“I know.” I lifted my gaze to meet his.

“I wasn’t honest with you before,” he said. “I
can
imagine what my brothers battled before they turned their backs on us. I often do. And I wonder if I am truly stronger or simply luckier. Thomas was right. It was too soon for me to take on a female illorum. But now that it’s done…”

He lifted his other hand to frame my face, and brushed his thumb over my lips, his gaze tracking the move. “Don’t let them end you, Emma Jane. I won’t survive it.”

“Eli…” I wanted to promise him—to reassure him. But the only thing I could be sure of tonight was that I wouldn’t make killing me easy.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Ticket for Tommy Saint James?” I said through the little cluster of holes in the bulletproof glass at will-call.

The young woman smiled, looking way too chipper for being locked behind a Plexiglas wall eight hours a day. “May I see your ID, please?”

I dug into my purse and wiggled my driver’s license out of its holder in my wallet. Sliding it through the arched hand hole, I said, “I’m not Tommy Saint James. I was hoping I could pick up the ticket for him. He, um, can’t make it.”

Will-Call Girl looked to be about my age, with spiked, snow-white hair and thin eyebrows drawn on her bare brow.
Her mom must be so proud.

She eyed my license, her gaze flicking to me then back down. After a few seconds of comparison she wrinkled her nose, sliding the card back through the hand hole.

“This license says Emma Jane Hellsbane,” she said.

“I know—”

“Sorry, but we only release the tickets to the person they’re left for,” she said, apparently offended I’d tried to pull one over on her.

“But he won’t be picking it up. He can’t,” I said. “Trust me. Tommy would want me to have the ticket.”

“Sorry.” She shrugged, then looked behind me as though I’d vanished the moment she’d dismissed me. “Next.”

“You don’t understand. Tommy Saint James is dead.” I pushed up to my toes to get my mouth as level with the little holes as possible. “No one’s going to pick up that ticket.”

“Then have him call in and reissue the ticket in your name, and I’ll be happy to give it to you…with proper ID,” she said, then flicked her gaze behind me again. “Next!”

“But…”

The next person in line shoved forward, a hefty elbow to my ribs sending me shuffling out of the way. I jammed my license back in my wallet and dug for the folded pamphlet the tie-dye couple had given me earlier. Careful not to ruin the admission coupon, I tore along the dotted lines. At least I’d get my foot in the door. After that, it’d be up to me how close I could get.

The David Lawrence Conference Center had opened its doors in 2003. All of Western Pennsylvania’s hospitality industry held its collective breath, worrying if it was worth the nearly $400 million price tag.

It was pretty snazzy, seamlessly blending functionality with cutting-edge technology. At least that’s what the brochure said. No matter how functionally edgy it was, I figured it’d have to be one helluva party to be worth a $400 million address. The building kind of looked like a big circus tent to me—in a functionally cutting-edge sort of way.

I followed three priests, a rabbi, and a Wiccan high priestess in a form-fitting suit dress into the elevator. Sounded like the start of a joke, but in my business I run into a lot of different religious types at some of the festivals I work. In the same way I’d gained a sudden knowledge of all languages, I kind of just knew people’s faith beliefs when I looked at them.

The whole convention was lousy with religious types. Every conceivable religion looked to be represented. I’d never seen so many different symbols on display: crosses, Ankhs, pentagrams, chaos stars, Hamsa hands, Star of David, and Vodoun Veves.

With so many conflicting soul-deep beliefs, tension hummed like a ribbon of electricity through wide corridors, all the way up to the balcony floor beneath the tall sloping ceiling. It tickled the fine hairs on my arms and at the back of my neck, radiating off the multitude of conference goers from every direction.

Yet no one breathed an intolerant word. Who could’ve imagined so many diametrically different people could come peaceably together under one roof? Faith Harvest spiritualists milled the hallways, handing out pamphlets, talking about “the coming new faith,” answering questions, encouraging more. But humans weren’t the only ones roaming the halls.

My stomach pitched and rolled, over and over. The place was crawling with nephilim. Most were probably unmarked, but the sheer number helped to keep the army of demons moving around, masquerading as Faith Harvest spiritualists, from getting a clear bead on me. The stench of brimstone was nauseating.

The energy level was high. There were booths set up on the lower level for demonstrations, past-life retrieval, spirit cleansing, ascending classes, whatever. People were eating it up. They’d all been drawn to this new faith Richard Hubert was preaching. The Faith Harvest Church welcomed all souls. Something didn’t sit right.

For centuries philosophers and intellectuals have said the root of all evil is religion. Many maintained that the only way for the human race to achieve global peace is to abolish all religion. So, if the eradication of all religion will bring peace, what would the melding of all religion do?

What would happen to the human race if there was only one worldwide religion? And what if God had nothing to do with it?

The thought snaked through me as I got off the elevator on the third floor of the convention center. The doors to the Spirit of Pittsburgh Ballroom were directly in front of me. According to my admission coupon, this was the room where I’d find the Fallen angel who’d ordered Tommy’s death—Spiritualist of Faith Harvest Church, Richard Hubert.

I crossed the floor toward the doors, my gaze sliding to the right, down the long hallway, to the far end and the enormous floor-to-ceiling window. It was dark outside, but I imagined the window would be even more impressive in the daylight.

The passageway was littered with people, most seeming perfectly normal, some not so normal, all respectfully keeping to themselves. A group of Mennonites was heading in my direction, two men walking side by side in their blue buttoned shirts, black vests, pants, and shoes, both wearing identical, wide-brimmed hats. Their plainly dressed wives and children trailed behind them. They looked like a family of ducks, with the ducklings all in tow.

The families passed between a congregation of Franciscan monks in dirt-brown robes and a group of Raëlism followers, who believe life on earth was created by extraterrestrials, dressed all in stark white.

My attention slid back to the ballroom in front of me, when something my eyes had caught finally registered in my brain. I glanced back to the right again, behind the group of Franciscans, standing farther back next to the stairs.

He was dressed just as I’d seen him before, long jacket, button shirt, slacks, and shoes all in white. He could’ve fit perfectly with the Raëlians, if not for those ghost-white eyes. His long Hot Tamale hair hung thick to his elbows behind him, his fine-boned face and sensuous mouth expressionless.
Friggin’ angels
.

What was his name? Started with an
F
. Fra—something. I wasn’t sure. I waved at him. “Hey, Fred.”

He didn’t respond, didn’t even blink. Maybe he didn’t like the nickname. If he followed me into the conference room, I’d ask him. I kept moving with the crowd from the elevator as it pushed forward around me.

There were three wide doors opening into the room. I aimed for the center doors and the teenager standing behind a waist-high ticket box. Two mountainous men in tight black suits and white shirts stood sentry behind the teenage boy on either side. There were two sets of attendants just like them, or close enough, at each of the other two entrances.

I waited my turn, shuffling forward behind an older couple, the man’s arm lovingly draped around his wife’s shoulders. Their look screamed “old money,” gold Rolex, gold chains, pearl necklace and earrings. It just proved no one, not even CEOs, were immune to the allure of religion…if the deity was right.

The young man ripped their tickets, dropping half in the tall box, handing back the other half and motioning them through the doors. “Welcome. May you unlock the barriers to personal health and spiritual healing.”

The old guy scoffed, leading his wife through the doors. “For a hundred and fifty bucks, I damned well better.”

The moment I was close enough, holding my tired coupon for the taking, my nose tickled with a hint of rotten eggs.
Demons
.

My gaze shifted to the bouncers, their attention snapping to me, violet eyes narrowing.
Crap
. Both men went stiff, shoulders straightening like guard dogs scenting fresh meat.

“Sorry, you have to use the other doors.” The teen ticket taker flicked his head, tossing his bangs from his eyes, only to have the stringy, straight hair slide back over half his face again. “This entrance and the one closer to the stage are for preferred ticket holders only.”

I took the coupon back from the boy and edged away, my gaze zeroing on the demon bouncers at the door again. Why didn’t they attack? Were they really so worried about making a scene, they’d let an armed illorum into the ballroom? Maybe they were just that confident they could stop me if I tried something.

Maybe they could. I guess we’d see.

My ticket was good at the far door. The double set of demon bouncers let me pass, though not without tracking my every step, glaring so hard I could almost feel their claws scraping against my skin.
If looks were daggers…

The ballroom was gigantic, easily big enough to fit two football fields side by side. And I was in the cheap seats. No surprise. My ticket was free.

The back third of the room was set with half-circle rows of seats in four sections. The chairs were up a level on tiered platforms stretching to the wall, stadium style. They’d strung a red velvet rope from one end of the ballroom to the other, separating the cheap seats from the preferred ticket holders.

The good seats were on the other side of that rope, and those came with tables…and drinks. They were divided in four sections, arching around a low stage, nearly all the seats filled, as were the more than three hundred seats in the freeloaders’ section. The place was packed.

A sapphire-blue curtain hung from floor to ceiling at the back of the stage, lights glowing from behind, giving them a soft, ethereal look. Two enormous speakers hung from either side of the suspended scaffolding above the stage, spotlights strategically positioned, ready for a rock star entrance. The crowd was low-key, conversation humming off the walls like a swarm of honeybees.

Now was as good a time as any to make my move. I crossed the room, past the center, and ducked under the rope. The idea of moving at illorum speed occurred to me right about the time someone said, “Hey, you.”

Too late
. I kept moving, walking at an angle toward the tables, like I had someplace to go, people expecting me.

“Hey, lady. Stop,” the same male voice called from behind. I managed three more strides before I felt his beefy hand clamp down on my shoulder. “Where’re you going? This section’s for preferred ticket holders only.”

I turned, his hand staying on my shoulder until we were face to face. He was as big as I expected from the size and weight of his hand, but he wasn’t a demon.
Lucky me.
He smelled like any guy: deodorant, mouthwash, and a little too much cologne.

He was probably military or ex-military, judging by the brutally short hairstyle and the oversized muscle. With my nephilim strength I might be able to wrestle free of him, but I wasn’t willing to risk it. Time to put my mad seat-jumping skills to the test.

I glanced in the direction I’d been heading, twisting my expression into one of anxious impatience.
I have someplace to be, people expecting me. I belong.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I looked away and back again.

“Do you have your ticket, ma’am?”

“What? Yes. Of course.” I glanced over at my imaginary table and the nonexistent people waiting for me. Seat jumping is all about attitude, and I had gobs of ’tude.

“Can I see it, please?”

“Seriously?” I huffed, patting my pockets, digging into the front two and then the back. “You seriously need to see it again? Why? I just went to the restroom. I don’t know what I did with it. It’s probably back at the table.”

Dressed in the same kind of too-tight gray pinstriped suit as the demon bouncers, the big guy sighed, ready to haul me out of the ballroom. I glanced back toward the tables, feeling my time running out so fast I could almost hear the ticktock of the clock.

And then my luck kicked into gear. Some guy stood up and waved in my direction. Okay, so he was a little to the left of where I’d been aiming, and I knew for a fact he wasn’t waving at me…details, details. He’d do.

“There’s my brother. See?” I said, pointing. The bouncer followed my gesture and I moved around so he’d give his back to the waver to face me again. It wouldn’t do at all for the bouncer to see whomever the guy was waving at arrive before I was free and clear.

“Listen,” I said, pouring on the charm. “They checked my ticket not more than five minutes ago. I swear. That stub’s so small I don’t know where I put it. I just snuck out to powder my nose. Can’t you give a girl a break?”

I smiled, sweet, sexy, with a coy tilt of my head, and batted my pretty blues at him. Yes, it was a shamelessly anti-feminist move, but remarkably effective.
Sue me.

Faced with flimsy proof I had someone to vouch for me and the possibility, however remote, of getting laid, the guy responded to type and let me go with a smile and nod of his own.

I made a beeline for the tables. The lights dimmed, the doors closed, and people filled their seats. My waver’s table was full, and so were all the tables in his section. I scanned the other sections, my heart pumping. There aren’t a lot of rules to seat jumping, but the biggest sticking point is you have to have a seat to jump to.

Spotlights warmed onstage, casting soft color and muted light as the house lowered to faint honey glows. Just before it grew too dark to see, I spotted my target. In the first row next to the stage, three seats sat empty. Even as I zigzagged my way there, I scanned to make sure no one was moving toward the table.

A bright light spotted onstage as I sat, sending the rest of the ballroom into comparative blackness. I jerked my chair around so I could face the stage. When I looked up, a forty-something man, dressed like a Hindu priest in a yellowish Sherwani jacket with gold trim and white churidar pants, had stepped center stage.