By tradition, that’s what angels did to demons.
He turned her chin from one side to the other. His gold-sparked gaze sparked in her demon-compromised vision; demons might not see every aspect of the mortal realm clearly, but they were well adapted to recognize—and fear—angels. “You are not a talya,” he said at last. “I would know.”
As if having been buried balls-deep in her cunt gave him some special insight?
She decided not to say that aloud. “I am not teshuva. There are other kinds of demons.”
The horde-tenebrae came in many flavors—malice, feralis, salambe, djinni—each darker than the last. But he knew that. His grip tightened until she felt her carotid pulse banging against his fingers. “Then what are you?”
She opened her mouth and the word came out in a curl of frozen air. To the divine presence possessing him, she knew it was a nasty, craven sound, and her heart curdled to say it. To the human ear, the meaning was simple: “Imp.”
“Imp,” he repeated. Somehow, he managed to make it sound even worse. His thin, masculine lips—which had been so hot and possessive all over her skin—twisted in disgust.
She coughed a little, from the strangling power of his grip and the wounds in her throat. A spot of blood stained the white cuff of his shirt poking out beyond his coat sleeve.
He recoiled, letting her loose.
She wiped her mouth but didn’t try to run. Where would she go? The longest night was almost here, and this was the only place she could barricade herself.
“Why did the talyan not see you for a demon?” he demanded.
She touched the corner of her glasses and blinked over the cataracts occluding her corneas. “My eyes. Windows to the soul, you know. Well, my windows are dirty. No one can see in.”
“But you are human. I felt you…” To her demon senses, the blood flowing through his cheeks was unmistakable and tantalizing.
“The body is human. I am…not. Not exactly, not anymore.”
“Explain.”
“I…” She sighed. “Can we go up to my apartment where it’s more comfortable?”
His bark of laughter echoed through the shadows. “By all means, let’s get comfortable now.”
Dread—and his no-doubt furious glower—tightened the muscles between her shoulder blades as she led the way to the back staircase. Two identical baby Jesuses flanked the doorway, and she flinched at Fane’s explosive curse. There were two more—twins again, though in a different style—at the top of the stairs. She couldn’t stop herself from touching the hard ringlets of their plastic hair; she needed their protection a little earlier than she had expected. But—except for the fact their arms were already up, reaching in the classic baby Jesus pose—they probably wouldn’t lift a hand to protect her from an avenging angel.
She led Fane into her apartment, the last place she’d wanted him. There was a reason she’d fucked him on the bar counter. The addition of another dozen Jesuses only made the profusion of religious and spiritual paraphernalia more insane looking.
Russian icons plastered the walls between Tibetan prayer flags interspersed with fragments of ancient Torahs. Small figurines of Christian saints shared Wiccan altar space with Hindu gods and Kachina dolls. Islamic prayer rugs covered every inch of the floor and softened her steps. The bed, half hidden by a freestanding Buddhist triptych, was plumped with grandma-style throw pillows embroidered with quasi-religious affirmations. The open loft extended half the space of the bar below, though it looked smaller crammed with all the holy crap.
In the middle of the room, he turned a slow circle, hands on his hips.
She didn’t want to see his expression, not even the little details her altered vision granted her. “Do you want a drink?”
“No. Not after the last one you poured me.”
“Well, I need one.” She headed for the galley kitchen with its eating bar overlooking the living space. At the sink, she rinsed out her mouth and spat out pink froth. Not for the first time she envied the talyan their strong teshuva demons that healed as often as they hurt. An imp had nowhere near such power. Not that she deluded herself into thinking an angel would overlook her merely for her insignificance.
She mixed herself a cocktail from the mini bar she kept stocked from the bar’s supplies. She tossed back the first drink, cringing at the alcohol sting in her throat. Then she mixed another.
“You drink a lot,” Fane said, a grudging note in his voice, as if he couldn’t stop his angelic nature from commenting even on her little sins.
“I have good reasons. Or bad reasons, I suppose.” She hitched herself up onto the kitchen counter and crossed her legs.
He shifted his jaw, no doubt remembering the last time she’d been up on a counter. He kept his attention focused across the room, like maybe it’d be harder to slay her if he had to think about their evening together. Well, fuck him.
Oh, wait. She had.
She took another drink.
Finally, he turned back to her. “An imp is a lesser incorporeal tenebrae. It doesn’t have the possessive power of a teshuva or djinni. How did it take up residence in your body?”
Thanks to the sphericanum, he’d know enough about demons that she wouldn’t have to explain every stupid detail. How convenient. “This is not my body,” she said. “I am only the imp. There’s no soul here. Elvis has left the building.”
“How?”
She clutched the drink until the faceted edges of the glass grated against bone. “I killed her.”
A long, slow breath whistled from him, like the sound a descending fiery sword might make as it aimed for her neck. She supposed she should be glad Thorne had taken Fane’s abraxas. She could only hope to appeal to the compassionate angel inside him.
Just the thought almost made her laugh. Or cry. Crying had been the first thing she’d done in this body.
She swallowed more of the drink. “No, I guess that’s not quite true. The imp didn’t kill her. She intended to kill herself, and the imp was one of the horde drawn to her anguish.”
“Why didn’t you…” Fane fell silent.
“Why didn’t I stop her? I had no ‘I’ then. Just the imp, and it had no thoughts as you would understand them. The tenebrae are only ravening hunger and fury and obliteration. Of course they—we—were drawn to Mirabel and all the pain and grief gouging her. We yearned for a place to be, a place where we could hide from the tenebraeternum, and she had such a vast emptiness inside her.”
Fane was quiet a moment, then he said, “I want that drink now.”
Bella reached behind her for the open bottles and poured. He stood as far away from her as he could and still reach the glass. She tried not to let his distance hurt. She was a monster, after all.
“It happened up here,” she said. “This was a storage room at the time, and Mirabel was a waitress downstairs. It was on the solstice—the bar stayed open all through Christmas back then—and she had bruises from one guy who kept pinching her ass, but he tipped really good. That’s one of my first memories…” She stared down at her drained glass.
“What happened?” Fane’s soft question loosened her tongue more than the alcohol.
“I…Mirabel had come up here to restock the booze and to take a pain pill. She kept her drugs hidden behind a loose board over there.” Bella jerked her chin toward an old reliquary tucked into a wall nook. “She wanted to sit down for a minute, to rest her feet, but her butt cheeks were sore. So she stood, looking out over there—” She gestured toward the narrow, mullioned window. “It was snowing a little, maybe enough for a white Christmas, maybe not. Out of nowhere, she decided to take the whole bottle of pills.” Bella paused. “No, not out of nowhere. The tenebrae—we—had been focused on her for awhile.” She forced herself to look at Fane. “And you know what the tenebrae presence does.”