mist, bright as flame against the gray sky and shadowed hills. Brass numbers marked each motel room door. But he only watched number 9; the room with an empty parking slot in front of it now that the dark-haired woman had moved the sapphire blue Trans Am.
The door to room 9 opened and the dark-haired woman slipped out again, wearing the nomad's leather jacket this time. She eased the door shut. Walking with an easy grace, a predator's deliberate pace, she padded past the empty parking space, then stopped. She appeared to scan the parking lot, the highway, and the woods beyond.
Appeared to zero in on him.
The Morningstar drew in a breath. Held it. Shaped a hunting blind of tattered mist and rain and glistening, green leaves around himself; a seamless illusion.
Silence--except for the pat-pat-pat of the rain onto pine needles--filled the woods like cotton, absorbing and muffling all sound. Birdsong vanished. Insect clicking stopped. Nothing scurried or dug in the underbrush. Not with the Morningstar standing still and quiet, his radiance dimmed.
After one more long look at the spot where he stood, the mortal resumed walking, stopping at the vending machines.
The Morningstar released his breath and it feathered the air white. The blind vanished. He wondered about the lithe, dark-haired woman and the others who'd walked into room 9 with her. He needed to learn more about Dante's companions, needed to know who surrounded him and why.
Needed to learn more about Dante.
But the very fresh memory of how the others--including his cydymaith, his luscious Lilith of Lies--had been transformed into white power-sparked stone kept him on the safe side of the highway. Then, like now, the Morningstar had watched from deep within the pines as Dante had lost all control of his creawdwr magic.
"Did you kill him?" Dante says, fury lighting his face, seething in his husky voice. His gaze skips from face to face. "Did you? Or you?"
Blue light shines out from Dante, shafting into the aurora-glimmering air and into the Fallen, those on the ground and those still in the sky.
All are transformed into statues of exquisite detail, captured in gleaming white, blue-edged stone.
Wounded, exhausted, stumbling, only rage had kept Dante on his booted feet. Since Dante believed his father-- Lucien--dead, the bond between them must have been severed. Whether Lucien or Samael or whatever he wished to call himself had severed it himself or Gabriel had killed him, the result was the same: the lost bond had injured Dante, and the Morningstar could only hope that it hadn't damaged the young creawdwr beyond healing.
In any case, the Morningstar planned to keep the promise he'd given Lucien before leaving him in the pit, hanging from hooks through his shoulders.
I find it amusing that the slayer of one creawdwr fathers the next. Dante, an intriguing name, but inappropriate, don't you think? Once he's seated upon the Chaos Seat, he'll finally be far away and safe from the hell politely referred to as the mortal world.
And he'll be mine.
The boy needed stability and guidance, a sure hand. Before it was too late.
Before he lost his sanity. Before Gehenna ceased to exist.
CATERINA EASED THE DOOR open and slipped into the darkened room. She remained still as she waited for her vision to adjust. She heard a shift in someone's breathing--it had to be Heather; Dante and the llygad wouldn't stir until twilight. It pleased her that even as exhausted as the soon-to-be former FBI agent was, her survival instincts were still in high gear.
"It's me," Caterina said quietly. "Vending machines."
"Okay."
In just a few moments, Heather's breathing dropped back into the low, easy rhythm of sleep. Eyes adjusted, Caterina turned, and locked and chained the door. Returning to the desk chair, she stripped off Von's jacket. Draped it around the chair again, chains chiming.
The Red Bull winged jittery energy through her system and accelerated her heartbeat. Offered the
The door to room 9 opened and the dark-haired woman slipped out again, wearing the nomad's leather jacket this time. She eased the door shut. Walking with an easy grace, a predator's deliberate pace, she padded past the empty parking space, then stopped. She appeared to scan the parking lot, the highway, and the woods beyond.
Appeared to zero in on him.
The Morningstar drew in a breath. Held it. Shaped a hunting blind of tattered mist and rain and glistening, green leaves around himself; a seamless illusion.
Silence--except for the pat-pat-pat of the rain onto pine needles--filled the woods like cotton, absorbing and muffling all sound. Birdsong vanished. Insect clicking stopped. Nothing scurried or dug in the underbrush. Not with the Morningstar standing still and quiet, his radiance dimmed.
After one more long look at the spot where he stood, the mortal resumed walking, stopping at the vending machines.
The Morningstar released his breath and it feathered the air white. The blind vanished. He wondered about the lithe, dark-haired woman and the others who'd walked into room 9 with her. He needed to learn more about Dante's companions, needed to know who surrounded him and why.
Needed to learn more about Dante.
But the very fresh memory of how the others--including his cydymaith, his luscious Lilith of Lies--had been transformed into white power-sparked stone kept him on the safe side of the highway. Then, like now, the Morningstar had watched from deep within the pines as Dante had lost all control of his creawdwr magic.
"Did you kill him?" Dante says, fury lighting his face, seething in his husky voice. His gaze skips from face to face. "Did you? Or you?"
Blue light shines out from Dante, shafting into the aurora-glimmering air and into the Fallen, those on the ground and those still in the sky.
All are transformed into statues of exquisite detail, captured in gleaming white, blue-edged stone.
Wounded, exhausted, stumbling, only rage had kept Dante on his booted feet. Since Dante believed his father-- Lucien--dead, the bond between them must have been severed. Whether Lucien or Samael or whatever he wished to call himself had severed it himself or Gabriel had killed him, the result was the same: the lost bond had injured Dante, and the Morningstar could only hope that it hadn't damaged the young creawdwr beyond healing.
In any case, the Morningstar planned to keep the promise he'd given Lucien before leaving him in the pit, hanging from hooks through his shoulders.
I find it amusing that the slayer of one creawdwr fathers the next. Dante, an intriguing name, but inappropriate, don't you think? Once he's seated upon the Chaos Seat, he'll finally be far away and safe from the hell politely referred to as the mortal world.
And he'll be mine.
The boy needed stability and guidance, a sure hand. Before it was too late.
Before he lost his sanity. Before Gehenna ceased to exist.
CATERINA EASED THE DOOR open and slipped into the darkened room. She remained still as she waited for her vision to adjust. She heard a shift in someone's breathing--it had to be Heather; Dante and the llygad wouldn't stir until twilight. It pleased her that even as exhausted as the soon-to-be former FBI agent was, her survival instincts were still in high gear.
"It's me," Caterina said quietly. "Vending machines."
"Okay."
In just a few moments, Heather's breathing dropped back into the low, easy rhythm of sleep. Eyes adjusted, Caterina turned, and locked and chained the door. Returning to the desk chair, she stripped off Von's jacket. Draped it around the chair again, chains chiming.
The Red Bull winged jittery energy through her system and accelerated her heartbeat. Offered the
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