Redemption (A NOVEL OF THE SEVEN SIGNS) (26 page)

Not that she was Bridget fucking Jones, or anything. She had a life. But hell, she was sick of bedding children. That’s what Thor and his like were. Babies. Mastering them was too easy. Give her a decent fight any day. So long as she won in the end.

Know your place, Iria of the Tainted.
Michael’s ugly words echoed back to her, and the old anger flared, whetted bright by a centuries-old grudge. She knew her goddamned place, thank you very much. And it was on top.

Thor, lately the god of
fuck-me-Iria
if not of thunder, leaned his elbows on the marble bar. Sleek, half-naked, beautiful. Boring. “When do you get back? I thought we could catch some dinner. I know this awesome seafood place…?”

“Not likely, kid. Don’t forget your clothes, they’re…” She glanced around, perplexed. “Somewhere.” She wiggled her fingers in a wave, and flashed out to Bhutan.

Emptiness, no sound, no temperature. Subconsciously, she homed in on Michael’s diamond-sparkled aura. The archangel burned bright in the ethereal darkness, the space between
here
and
there
, leading her to him.

Wind swirled, and her boots crunched in wet pebbles.

Blinding white snow dazzled. She blinked away tears. A broad snowy plateau stretched for miles. In the distance, a towering escarpment of white-capped rock clawed for the sapphire sky. Atop it, cut into the mountain, a turreted monastery keep reflected the sun, stones glittering like coppery mosaic. To her right, a precipice dropped a thousand feet, and snowflakes danced upwards on freezing wind.

Iria sniffed the thin air, invigorated despite the altitude. Fresh, sparkling, but soured with a faint ashen stink. Demons lurked here. Today was their day to die.

Michael stood on a rocky spur, a flash of icy brilliance, brighter than the snow. He swept the looming horizon with piercing eyes. He wore battle armor, blinding silver, cuirass and twin vambraces, and the sun shone behind him, shedding a glittering winged silhouette edged with ice-blue flame. “Glad you could join us.”

Iria shrugged. “You know me. Wouldn’t miss a fearwraith swarm.” But she eyed the empty plateau, and chill tinkled like glass along her spine. This was a big operation, vital to the cause. Yet she saw no heavenly host.

Not one.

Plausible deniability? Shit. That never boded well.

“So glad you’re entertained.” Michael floated down and landed, feathers snapping. His unsettling sweet scent pierced the breeze. Her mouth watered. It made her crave hot chocolate syrup, and churned her stomach with brine at the same time. But that was Michael for you.

The archangel glared at the slipping afternoon sun, as if he could halt its slide. Maybe he could. “Where the hell is Trillium?”

Getting drunk and laid? Keeping the hell away from you?
“I’m not his keeper. He’ll be here—”

“Someone speak the magic word?” Trillium flashed in, an explosion of red-green feathers and wry panache. Intriguing
tattoos spiraled on his muscled arms—how he kept them there with his fast-healing angel flesh, no one knew. Sunlight gloated on the golden ring piercing his eyebrow. Blood still crusted his armor from his last battle, like he’d not bothered to clean up, and his rough leather trousers were ripped, just under his left butt cheek. He stank of cigarette smoke and sweat and impish mischief.

Iria shoved him, amused. “Dude, you
reek
. Don’t you ever shower?”

Trill dipped her a green-eyed wink. Brutal muscles bulged in his arm as he ruffled his sweaty orange hair. “And wash off all this manly dirt? You know you like me this way.”

She snorted. “Not in this lifetime, buddy.” But it was a good smell, she had to admit. A trustworthy smell, no perfume or scrubbing to disguise what really lay underneath. Over the years, men had perfumed themselves with varying levels of sexiness—patchouli was a long-standing favorite of hers—but through centuries of rapidly changing fashion, Trill had smelled like Trill, uncouth habits and attitude intact…

Her nose wrinkled, a whiff of lavender. Yeah. He also smelled of some girl, the latest teen pop star’s brand of sickly perfume. Classy. Not exactly Chanel or Dior. “What is that, candy? Jesus, Trill, this isn’t Regency England. It’s illegal if they’re still in school, okay?”

“I’m sorry, did someone say
cougar
?” Trill flashed his swords and spun them in twin flaming violet arcs, dancing a few lethal warm-up steps. “No doubt yours was barely out of diapers this time.”

“Younger men are sexy these days,” she lied loftily. “They’ve got class, and stamina. Unlike some crusty old fuckers I could mention.”

Purple light played over Trill’s limbs as he flexed, stretched, flipped a sleek somersault. “I am not
crusty
,” he retorted. “I look hot for my age. Guys like me are in jeans ads.”

“Hair replacement ads, more like. Dude, you’ve been on Viagra since before the fall of Rome. A wonder you can still get it up at all.”

He turned a one-handed cartwheel and landed on both feet, wings aflare. Getting it up notwithstanding, he had a great
ass. The hard muscular curve peeked through the hole in his pants. More than scrumptious enough for a jeans ad. He grinned, and vanished his blades with a showy purple crackle. “Let’s see who’s got the bigger hard-on, then, soldier. First to a hundred wraiths buys the whiskey?”

She couldn’t resist an answering grin as she unslung her crossbow to check it one more time. “Two hundred, or you don’t taste a drop.”

“My lovely, you are
on
.”

Another burst of light, and Jadzia appeared, dusting stray feathers from her armor. Her creamy-white wings fluffed, untidy, and her pale hair was braided askew, like she’d done it in a hurry. “Shit,” she muttered, yanking it straight.

Trill grinned. “Now the party’s started. Hey, Lady J.”

Jadzia strode over, wiping slim hands on her trousers. “Sorry I’m late.”

“So am I.” Michael fired her a freezing blue glare. “Finished putting on your face? Shall we get on?”

“Sure.” A cool Jadzia smile. “No problem.”

But Iria frowned. Jaz’s clear voice lacked its usual confidence. Her classically pretty face flushed warm in the frigid sunlight. Not that Michael would notice…but Iria recalled Japheth, sitting on her sofa wearing that
what-the-fuck-just-hit-me?
expression, and her feathers crawled.

Jaz was seeing a demon. Iria had caught her at it, or as good as, a few weeks ago in a burned-out Babylon office block. She’d assumed it was over now, just a brief dalliance, a hot forbidden fuck to spice up life in the shadow of eternal oblivion.

But Jaz didn’t look like a girl with no man problems on her mind.

Iria’s nerves coiled tight. She glanced at Trill and Michael, but neither had noticed a thing. Shit. Sometimes female intuition sucked.

She sidled closer, and nudged Jadzia with a wingtip. Jaz stared pointedly at the snow.
Damn it.
Iria’s palms itched. She wanted to whisper comfort, ask if everything was okay. But Michael was talking, something about fearwraith tactics
and the best killing technique. You didn’t interrupt Michael. Not if you wanted your skin intact.

Iria nudged harder, insistent, and at last Jadzia’s cool blue eyes met hers.

Shadows swirled there, dark with desperation.

Iria’s heart sank. Jesus. Not only hadn’t she ended it, she was up to her bloody neck in it.

Fuck
. She dragged her attention to Michael, but her mind sprinted laps. Jadzia was a good, faithful girl. But demons were wily. They milked information you didn’t even realize you were leaking. If Jadzia had let slip about this mission…if she’d murmured even a single word, while her hell-cursed lover teased her breathless…

“Iria? Am I boring you?” Michael’s gaze snapped, an ice-blue whip. Her nose popped, and she tasted blood.

“Sorry. I’m with it. Carry on.” But her bones chilled. What if Jaz had compromised them? Knowingly or not, the result was the same. The demon prince forewarned. Their surprise advantage lost. And the snow would melt crimson with Tainted blood before the day died.

But if Michael learned Jaz was sleeping with the enemy…well, there’d be Tainted blood in the slush, all right. Dripping from Michael’s blazing sword.

Double damn it.

“Two hours of sunlight left,” Michael said, and Iria forced her attention sharp. “That’s our advantage. The wraiths won’t mass until twilight, as usual, so don’t be waiting for shadows to cover you. Just get in there and secure your positions. And remember, you can’t flash. The place is wrapped in hell-fucked spellwork, Azaroth’s doing. Otherwise the damn Guardian could come to us, and we wouldn’t be freezing our balls off in this forsaken snowy shitheap. It also means you keep your feathers stowed, unless you want a hundred screaming imps diving down your throat. With me?”

They all nodded.

“After that, you know the drill. Each swarm has a queen wraith. Put some holy fuck-you into that bitch, and the rest will burn. Questions?”

Trillium linked his fingers, cracking tattooed knuckles. “What about this demon prince? Lucy-Loo, or whatever he’s called?”

Michael allowed an ice-cracked laugh. “Luuceat. Prince of Fire.”

“Whichever. Who gets to rip his skinny ass to demon jerky?”

“I’m getting to that. Trill, you and Iria take the wraiths. Jadzia and I will lure the prince inside, where he’s most vulnerable.”

Jadzia cocked an eyebrow. “And how will we do that, exactly?”

“We let our defenses slide, of course. Luuceat will overwhelm the Guardian easily enough. He wants the vial, we’re going to give it to him. Up to a point, that is.” Michael gave a chilling smile, devoid of feeling. “The point where I tear his greasy arms off and stuff them up his ass.”

Trill scowled, good-natured. “Typical. You get all the fun.”

“What about the Guardian?” Iria asked, doubts still howling like unquiet ghosts in her mind. “How does she feel about this plan?”

Michael shrugged, and diamonds tinkled into the snow, winking in the sun. “More authentic if she doesn’t know.”

“You mean she’s bait.”

A glacial stare. “She’s part of the ruse. Sweet Salome. The perfect distraction.”

“But—”

“The Guardian is expendable,” Michael snapped. A snow cloud gusted, stinging Iria’s face. “I don’t care if Luuceat makes a strawberry fucking milkshake out of her. Nothing matters but the vial. If that wrath gets spilled—even by us—the whole damned mission is pointless.”

“But—”

“Stow your attitude, Iria. What part of
hell on earth
are you still not comprehending?”

Iria’s fists clenched. Michael had betrayed the Tainted Host in the past. Shit, he’d betrayed everyone, at some time or another. But fuck if he didn’t sound sincere this time. The archangel’s eyes burned clear with icy-blue rage. If there was
one guy you could count on to win a fight, it was a pissed-off Michael. But if Jaz’s demon stud had betrayed their plans to Luuceat…

Shit. They were all going to die.

She cleared her throat on sour guilt.
Jadzia’s screwing a demon. She’s told him everything. And now she’ll never trust me again
…But the words clogged her tongue, and try as she might, they wouldn’t come loose.

Jadzia’s blue gaze homed in on Iria’s, pleading. Her pretty lip trembled…and then her mouth firmed, and she flashed her sword, planting its point in the snow between her feet. “I’m ready,” Jaz announced, looking Michael directly in the eyes.

Cool. Composed. Not a quiver of fear.

Not the stance of a traitor.

Iria’s resolve wilted. If Jaz was going in unafraid? She’d take her chances. And if demons jumped out and fried her gullible ass…well, at least she wouldn’t go to oblivion having betrayed a friend.

Iria slung her crossbow over her shoulder. “Me, too.”

“You got it.” Fire gleamed in Trill’s eyes.

Michael vanished his wings, a plume of dazzling white, and swept all three of them with a razor-blue glare. “How gratifying you’re all in agreement. Now lock and load, people, and let’s unfuck this sorry situation.”

CHAPTER 23

Rose awoke to the sound of a rippling waterfall.