Of Heaven and Hell Read online

  “I’ve already agreed to that.”

  “And I’ve already ordered him to obey you as if you were me. You know how it works?”

  Charles did. Once a demon was properly summoned, its will was bound to its owner. Unless the incantations were nullified, the demon was incapable of disobedience—although a clever few managed to trick their way free eventually.

  “No interruptions,” Charles said.

  Davenport gave a shallow, mocking bow. “Not for sixty minutes.” He stepped around Charles and out the door.

  Charles bolted the door behind him. It was a flimsy lock that wouldn’t hold if someone made a real effort to get in, but it was good enough. He’d already seen that the shutters were closed over the trailer’s tiny windows. He took a deep breath before turning to face the demon.

  The demon knelt on the dingy floor, legs spread, head drooping forward. His wings were pressed tightly against his back, and his hands rested palms-up on his knees. Angry welts striped him, and blood and other fluids streaked his skin and matted his hair. He trembled slightly, but whether from fear, weakness, or pain, it was impossible to tell.

  After Charles stood quietly for several moments, the demon finally lifted his eyes—and gasped.

  Chapter Three

  THE MEN had been especially brutal tonight. Tenrael hurt inside and out, and he yearned for the false sanctuary of his cage. What troubled him most, however, was the man he’d seen while still in chains. Actually, Tenrael wasn’t at all sure it was a man. His scent was odd, for one thing, sharp and sweet above the stink of the crowd. And his eyes—they were the strangest shade of green, pale and transparent as bottle glass. But mostly he felt different. He made Tenrael’s nerves buzz in a way that terrified him.

  Tenrael had been sure the strange man was there to destroy him, and he’d almost begged for it. But the man had shaken his head, denying Tenrael even that mercy. No surprise, perhaps. The world held no mercy for Tenrael’s kind.

  So tonight, more than ever, he longed to curl up in his cage and shut out the world, at least for a little while.

  But Davenport and Ford had confused him, dragging him across the lot to a trailer instead. When Davenport made him kneel on the floor, Tenrael understood. Over the years, a few people had paid to spend time alone with him. The experience was never pleasant. The weariness itself was nearly enough to make him weep.

  Until he caught an odor like ripe oranges and looked up to find the strange, pale man staring down at him.

  Tenrael did the only thing he could do. He allowed his upper body to collapse until he was fully prostrate, his arms spread beseechingly. “Please,” he whispered.

  The answering voice was rough. “What’s your name?”

  “Tenrael.”

  Tenrael couldn’t see with his face pressed to the dirty floor, but he heard the slight tap of a foot. “Tenrael,” the man said thoughtfully, drawing out the vowels. “Yes. A bringer of nightmares.”

  Shocked into lifting his head, Tenrael gaped. “You... you know?”

  “I know the names of five thousand demons. The Bureau drilled me until I had them memorized.” He sighed slightly. “I’m Charles Grimes.”

  “What... what are you?”

  Grimes’ face twisted so angrily that Tenrael flinched. “I am Lieutenant Charles Grimes, a field agent with the Federal Bureau of Trans-Species Affairs.”

  Tenrael had heard of the Bureau. It was created shortly before he was captured, but he’d never feared it. From what he understood, the agency concentrated on bigger threats, while he did nothing worse than bring unease to people’s slumbers—although he’d prided himself on being very good at it.

  Then he’d lost his freedom, and next his will, and finally his dignity. His pride had been the last thing to go, struck down like a tree felled by an ax. Now he had nothing but a faint hope for an end.

  “Destroy me,” he pleaded. He dropped his head.

  Grimes came closer, until he was near enough to tightly grasp Tenrael’s chin and pull it up. Tenrael’s eyes were swollen from the beating he’d received, and he blinked to clear his vision, examining Grimes as the man inspected him.

  Grimes was tall and lean. He wore grubby farmers’ clothes like the rest of the rubes, but Tenrael could easily imagine him in a suit—not a flashy one like Donovan’s, but one with clean, spare lines. Grimes’ face was narrow and angular, his mouth paradoxically wide and lush-lipped, and his striking eyes were topped by eyebrows almost too light to see. Although the hour was late, his pale cheeks were as free of stubble as Tenrael’s.

  “You don’t have to shave, do you?” Tenrael blurted.

  With a low growl, Grimes gripped his chin hard enough to hurt. But he didn’t deny the words either. “You stink of them.”

  For the first time in decades, Tenrael felt shame. He wished he could have washed himself. Which was ridiculous. Grimes had come to destroy him, hurt him, or abandon him. None of those required that he be clean. But despite the absurdity of it, he wanted to please Grimes. Wanted Grimes to take him and fill him and make him feel alive again. He hadn’t wanted anything in years except to die. This felt good, even if he knew he wouldn’t get what he longed for.

  Shocking even himself, Tenrael wrenched away from Grimes’ hand and lurched to his feet. He put his hands on the back of Grimes’ head—knocking his hat off in the process—and tugged him close for a kiss. He’d never done such a thing before and was surprised he was able. But then Davenport had never specifically forbidden it.

  Even more surprising, Grimes didn’t move away. The opposite, in fact. He grabbed Tenrael’s horns hard and invaded his mouth with a passion and ferocity that made Tenrael weak in the knees. None of the marks ever wanted to kiss him.

  When Grimes finally broke the kiss, Tenrael braced himself for a blow. Instead, Grimes breathed raggedly in his ear. “Thought you’d taste bad. Corrupt. You don’t.”

  Grimes himself tasted wonderfully bittersweet.

  Then the long-fingered hands were all over Tenrael’s skin, dragging, prodding at bruises, the nails scratching at lash marks. It hurt very nicely, especially paired with Grimes’ teeth on his nipple.

  In all the years of his captivity, all the thousands of times he’d been used, Tenrael had never once been aroused. But now his cock grew as hard as the iron bars of his cage, and for once, his moans were of pleasure rather than pain. He plucked at Grimes’ shirt. “Please... skin.”

  Grimes backed away, but only long enough to shrug off his jacket; then he pulled his shirt impatiently over his head and tossed it aside. He was thin but sinewy, his hairless skin the color of fresh milk—except for his pink nipples. Unlike Tenrael, he had a navel. Without really intending to, Tenrael fell to his knees, grabbed Grimes’ hips, and tongued the neat little divot in his belly. Slightly lower down, Grimes’ erection was clearly visible through the fabric of his thin jeans. Tenrael wanted to lick that too, so he fumbled at Grimes’ belt, only to have his hands batted away.

  “No,” Grimes rasped. With unforeseen strength, he hauled Tenrael to his feet; then he kissed him again, driving him back and back until Tenrael was pinned against the wall, his wings grinding into the rough wood. More importantly, though, Grimes was grinding against him, providing sweet friction to Tenrael’s aching cock. All the degradation and agony he’d experienced that night—and hundreds of nights before—faded away; even his torn skin and bruised bones became meaningless as he bucked his hips and tasted sugar and acid on Grimes’ tongue.

  But when he laid his palms on Grimes’ back and felt the two long scars along the shoulder blades, Tenrael froze.

  Grimes stilled too, and then took a step back. His jaw was clenched so tightly the tendons of his neck stood out, and his eyes sparked green fury.

  “Please,” Tenrael whispered.

  Very slowly, Grimes turned. The scars were vivid red against his white skin. Angry.

  “They took them away?” asked Tenrael, feeling the anguish in his own wings.

>   Grimes spun, lunged forward, shoved Tenrael back into the wall. “I got rid of them,” he snarled.

  “Why?”

  “Useless.”

  For a long time, Tenrael’s wings had been useless too, except as proof to the marks of what he was. Sometimes he’d almost wished they were gone, because they seemed to taunt him, reminding him of lost freedoms. But sometimes they gave him comfort as he lay curled in his cage, the feathers his only insulation against bitter cold.

  Tenrael carefully reached behind himself, plucked a single feather, and presented it to Grimes on an open palm. He expected Grimes to refuse it, perhaps even beat him for offering. Grimes did neither. His face twisted oddly before he grabbed the feather and stuffed it into his pocket.

  The kiss that followed was tender. Grimes pulled him against his chest and stroked a furled wing with one hand, smoothing Tenrael’s sore ass with the other. Tenrael let his weight rest against Grimes, and oh, that was lovely—having someone hold him up, just for a few minutes.

  With his head swimming and his tears leaking onto Grimes’ shoulder, Tenrael barely noticed when Grimes moved his hand to Tenrael’s cock, gave a few firm strokes, and stopped kissing long enough to whisper, “Come.”

  For just a few moments, Tenrael felt as if he were flying.

  When he came back to earth, he was sagging in Charles’ arms.

  Charles eased him to the floor and stood looking down at him, the corners of his mouth turned slightly down. On impulse, Tenrael took his hand and licked it clean. His own spend tasted different from that of all the human men who’d used him, and he liked the way Charles shivered at the touch of his tongue. He wondered what Charles’ come tasted like.

  Almost gently, Charles withdrew his hand. “I came here to kill you.”

  “All right,” Tenrael said. And it was. A better end certainly than he’d hoped for. He moved to his knees and let his head fall in submission. Even from that position he could see Charles retrieve his shirt and jacket and put them on before reaching into a pocket for a small iron brand and a lighter. When Charles came closer, Tenrael saw the shape of the branding head: a stylized sun with a single letter in the center. The letter was from an alphabet invented millennia ago for a language long since dead, but Tenrael knew what it stood for: the beginning of the Highest God’s name. Burned or carved into his body, it would destroy him.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly, not looking up.

  But Charles didn’t heat the brand. He stood looking at it for a very long time; then he tucked it back into his pocket.

  “Give me your feet,” he ordered gruffly.

  Tenrael was deeply confused and wanted to question him, but he’d been commanded and his will was not his own. He lay on his back—uncomfortable due to the wings—and raised his legs.

  “Watch me,” said Charles, and of course Tenrael did.

  Tenrael saw Charles produce a switchblade and flick it open, saw him heat the knife in the flame of his lighter. Then Charles grabbed Tenrael’s right ankle, lifted the leg a little higher, and cut repeatedly into the sole with the burning blade.

  Screaming, Tenrael tried to move away, but Charles held him fast. “Be still,” Charles growled, and Tenrael was. He’d been branded on his feet before—each new owner marked him to seal the incantation, to make Tenrael his own—but this was worse, because he was being both burned and cut. And he didn’t understand.

  With a grunt, Charles dropped the foot, reheated the blade, and took the other foot. The trailer had already smelled of Tenrael’s blood, but now it also reeked of scorched flesh.

  Charles cut a few more careful marks before releasing Tenrael’s ankle. He muttered several sentences so quietly Tenrael couldn’t understand them. They weren’t in English, and they had the feeling of incantations.

  “Look at it,” Charles said.

  It’s an awkward thing to examine the bottom of your foot while lying flat on your back, but Tenrael had to obey. When he did, he saw the Davenport mark was gone. The new wounds were already healing, but the scars were vivid—two overlapping arcs, the bottom one with a small line intersecting the lower end. C and G, he realized. Beside them, a few red strokes forming a rudimentary feather.

  All the breath left his lungs in a long whoosh. “Y-your sign.” Even though he spoke the words aloud, he couldn’t believe them.

  “My sign. Kneel, Tenrael.”

  Tenrael clambered clumsily to obey, and his heart—for so long dead in his chest—hammered so hard he was almost deafened.

  Charles’ face was grim, but his eyes were soft. “You’re mine now. Do you feel it?”

  And yes, Tenrael did. He didn’t have a soul—no demon did—but there was something deep inside him, something that had once soared high but had long since festered in chains. It had hurt him even when his body was whole, and it had made him feel ill, as if it were rotting. But now... now the chains were still there, but the putrefaction was gone. Instead, his not-soul felt cool and clean and good.

  “Master,” he said.

  Charles closed his eyes and gave a brief shudder. When he looked at Tenrael again, he seemed to be in the midst of some internal struggle Tenrael didn’t comprehend. Then Charles took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh.

  “You belong to me now. But....” Again he mumbled a spell, all harsh consonants mixed with liquid vowels. He nodded when he was done. “I command you to retake your will.”

  The invisible chains within him flamed, melted, disappeared. Tenrael cried out and fell onto his side, convulsing as his skin burned and his wounds bled and his mind whirled.

  When the storm subsided, Tenrael rose shakily to his feet. He looked at his hands, turning them over as if he’d never seen them before. Realizing that, like the rest of his body, they were once again his instruments to use as he wished.

  “Why?” he asked, the word almost a sob.

  “Don’t know.” Charles opened his mouth as if he might say more, but then closed it again. He licked his lips. “Wouldn’t blame you if you killed them.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the door. “But if you do, the Bureau will send someone after you.”

  “Not you?”

  “No. The Bureau won’t send me next time.”

  Tenrael didn’t want vengeance. He felt too new for that. Too clean. “I won’t kill anyone.”

  Charles nodded. He came closer, and Tenrael thought Charles might kiss him again. But Charles just reached to caress a wing. “Fly, Tenrael,” he said.

  And without another word, he turned and left the trailer.

  Chapter Four

  CHARLES COULDN’T see the ocean from his little front porch, but he could smell it; and with his shirtsleeves rolled up, he could almost feel the tingle of salt spray on his skin. The sun, as it dropped below the red tile roofs of the houses across the street, stained the late summer sky with delicate pinks and oranges. If he could drink booze, this was the sort of evening for sipping good whiskey and slowly emptying a pack of cigarettes. Instead, a glass of water sat on the little wooden table, with a book splayed open beside it.

  A black sedan turned onto his short street, moving slowly until it rolled to a stop in front of his house. Charles wasn’t especially surprised when Sam Leonard got out. Sam wasn’t quite a friend, but he came closer to that than anyone else Charles knew. He’d worked for the Bureau almost as long as Charles, and he was... well, Charles didn’t know quite what Sam was. Not human, entirely. He moved faster than any man Charles had met, and his round yellow eyes had vertical pupils, like a cat’s. He always smelled slightly musky, but not in an unpleasant way. He and Charles never discussed the things that set them apart from other people, but their differences helped them bond.

  Sam wore gray trousers and white shirt. As always, he was hatless. He refused to wear the things; maybe they didn’t sit well on his thick blond hair. Light-footed, he ascended the front steps, crossed the porch, and sat in the vacant chair, just as if he’d been invited. He and Charles remained silent
for several minutes, both staring at the sky above rooftops.

  “Want something to drink?” Charles finally offered.

  “Nah.” Sam had an odd voice, very deep and rumbly for his compact frame. He leaned back in his seat. After another minute or two, he turned his head. “You don’t look hurt.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Chief says you’re out on medical leave.”

  Charles snorted softly. “I resigned.”

  Sam nodded a few times as if he’d suspected that already. “What happened in Kansas?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s not what I heard. I heard there was a demon and it got away.”

  The guys in the Bureau were more gossipy than housewives. “Yeah,” Charles said. “That’s what happened.” He rubbed his fingers along the smooth wooden armrests.

  “So... you failed and that made you quit?” Sam turned slightly to face him. He was smart—too smart for the Bureau, really—and nothing much slipped past him. Now his head was cocked slightly and his eyebrows were raised. “That’s not like you, Charlie.”

  Nobody else called him that. Even his mother had always referred to him as Charles. The diminutive cracked his defenses a little bit.

  “I’m tired,” Charles said. “I was with the Bureau almost fifteen years. I have so much blood on my hands.” He held them up as though the gore might be visible.

  Sam’s answer was quiet, measured. “You’ve saved a lot of lives.”

  “Maybe. Does it balance out? And in the end, does it matter?” His eyes prickled, and for a brief moment he hated Sam for bringing this out of him. He took a calming breath. “I’ve killed all these monsters just because they weren’t human, but I’m not sure they were all worse than the people I saved. Gods, Sam—the things men do!”

  Sam nodded and patted Charles’ knee. Nothing sexual about it—Sam liked dames. Solely a bit of consolation. “I know. I’ve seen. But there are innocent humans too.”

  “Maybe there are innocent monsters. Or... I don’t know.” He covered his face with his hands. He couldn’t drink booze, but maybe drugs would work. He’d never tried them. He knew places where he could buy opium or heroin. Even if the dope worked for him, he was aware the chemical peace would be brief. But it would be something.