Chapter 6 – Jessica
S ince Ithuriel’s still… hibernating, and Sariel seems to be lost in introspection, I decide to get some rest as well.
After slowly descending into sleep, I dream that I’m in a great ballroom. A crimson ball gown is wrapped around my body and gold heels decorate my feet. Spinning in a circle, I fan out my skirts, and glittering lights wink at me wherever I turn. Someone grabs my hand and pulls me toward them. I look up and into serious pearlescent eyes. The angel is unsmiling, but his gaze shows a depth that reaches inside my very being.
Ithuriel spins me across the reflective marble floors, our feet hardly touching the ground. Breathless, I cling to the warrior’s broad shoulders, completely confident that he’d never lead me astray.
Warm breath hits the nape of my back and shivers skate down my spine. Tilting my head, I look over my shoulder until my horizon is swallowed up byenormous black wings.
Sariel’s hands gently grasp my waist. Instead of pulling me toward him, he takes a step forward, herding me into Ithuriel. He doesn’t stop until my front presses against the pale angel, the contours of his body now on display in a slim-fitting gray suit that does nothing to hide the hardness at the front of his pelvis. The fallen angel presses me against his old friend, and his bulge nestles against my butt. Their smell envelops me and my head spins. Ithuriel’s hand gently presses my cheek against his chest as Sariel grinds against me from behind, moving my body against the white-haired angel who moans and…
Ithuriel’s whimper startles me from my dream. I sit up and watch the angel subtly writhe in agony. Even unconscious, his motions are subdued. When I realize what inspired my steamy dream was the angel’s chorus of pain-filled sounds, I flush, warmth suffusing me from head to toe.
I glance at Sariel from the corner of my eyes, but he’s not looking at me. His unblinking gaze is lasered onto the other angel, eyes narrowed like every minute expression of pain Ithuriel displays is an affront. As if feeling my attention, his eyes slide to me without warning. His nostrils flare and his lips stretch into an insincere smile.
“Didn’t peg you for a sadist, poppet,” he all but purrs. “Enjoying poor Itha’s misery, are we?”
That rank bastard! Isn’t it common decency not to call out people on their wet dreams? Then again, idiot me for expecting a Fallen to have any kind of decency, let alone one that’s common. Maalik basically put us through boot camp when we first got to Hell, after all.
I roll my eyes at the wicked angel. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say breezily. “I was just dreaming about the entire cast of Magic Mike giving me foot massages. Taking turns. Sometimes tag-teaming.” I flip my ponytail over my shoulder and tighten it. Sariel chuckles. “What?” I growl.
“The only part of what you said that’s true is the tag-teaming. And neither of our names is Mike.”
The poisoned angel chooses that time to wake up, his eyes fluttering open, and I feel a little bit guilty for how relieved I am to have him as a buffer between Sariel and me.
Oh, no, Jess, control your thoughts; there will be no fantasizing about any sort of threesome combinations.
I lean over until I’m in Ithuriel’s line of sight. “How are you feeling?” I ask gently.
“What happened?” he asks instead of answering, his voice a husky whisper.
“Well, you decided you’d rather identify as a flying pincushion than anangel, and put your body between me and all the poisoned barbs flying at us.” I cringe while speaking, imagining how much pain the angel went through to save my squishy hide. “Thank you,” I say empathetically.
Ithuriel’s lips twitch into a ghost of a smile, his eyes hazy from whatever his angelic system is still fighting off. “You are welcome, Nephilim.” His voice comes out stronger this time. “And it has mostly already passed. I appreciate you removing the unnecessary decoration from my flesh,” he adds.
A startled giggle bursts out of me. “I didn’t know angels have a sense of humor. And I couldn’t have done it without Sariel. Your bones are definitely not hollow like a bird’s and you weigh a ton.”
All hints of amusement wipe from Ithuriel’s face halfway through my riposte –right about at the mark of me mentioning the Fallen. The prone angel is looking behind me now, and the muscles of his cheeks twitch.
“No thank you for me?” Sariel asks over my shoulder.
I can almost hear Ithuriel’s teeth crack from how hard he’s clenching them. I probably shouldn’t find their dynamic as amusing as I do. Finally, he answers. “Perhaps if you had not run off, I would not have had to protect the Nephilim alone.”
“Perhaps you aren’t fit to protect her,” Sariel drawls.
“Perhaps she’s capable of protecting herself,” I mutter into the standoff.
Ithuriel stands and shakes debris off his cloak in one elegant move. “It is my turn to fly with the mortal.”
Sariel’s laughter booms unsettlingly loud in the quiet region of Hell we’re in. I glance around, worried we’ll attract more beasties. “Some offense intended, dude,” Sariel begins, “but you look like death warmed over.”
I look at the angel and wince at what I see. His face is pale and drawn, and there are a few smudges of silvery blood on his cheek. He’s still gloriously beautiful, though.
Shut up Jess, you whore.
“Only a little bit!” I rush to qualify Sariel’s statement. Ithuriel raises a silvery eyebrow in question. “Death warmed over? Only like fifteen seconds in the microwave or so.”
This sets Sariel off again and he throws his head back, laughing so hard his chest shakes, the muscles of his pectorals that peek over the edges of his vest lovingly illuminated by the reddish glow of the Underworld.
Wow. Just, wow.
∞∞∞
Sariel ended up flying with me for the rest of that day and the one that followed. By now, we’re nearing the border between Asmodeus’ and Belial’s territories and the lands below are no longer quite as abandoned. Demons travel between eerie settlements, most on foot, some using skeletal horses whose hooves leave sparks bouncing off the ground. Seeing life in Hell is surreal, like a macabre mockery of medieval times.
“How would you like to sleep in a bed tonight?” The fallen angel’s deep voice rumbles through his chest, making my skin tingle where my body is pressed against his. I trample down the shiver threatening to expose my reaction.
“Is that possible?” I ask, eyeing the landscape underneath us.
The mischievous Fallen hums. “Possible? Yes. Wise, with Dove Wings over there with us?” He stops speaking to expel a malicious-sounding breathy laugh. The air hits the side of my neck and this time I can’t stop the gooseflesh from rising over my skin. I clear my throat in a clumsy attempt to divert his attention.
Sariel’s hands tighten around me and my pussy clenches in an echo. The traitorous hussy. “No,” he finally drawls.
“I do not wish to have these demon scum around our Nephilim, Sariel.” At the sound of Ithuriel’s voice, I stop daydreaming about the dark-haired angel’s hands on my naked skin. Because I’m now stuck on how Ithuriel said ‘our Nephilim’. I’m going to end this mission in a straightjacket.
“Don’t think we can keep her safe, Itha?” Sariel’s voice is the snake that tempted Eve into biting the apple.
“Why risk adversity unnecessarily?”
Sariel repeats Ithuriel’s words with a mocking lilt to his voice and I bite my lip to keep it from curling into a grin.
“There’s an inn at a crossroads not far from here,” he whispers into my ear, the silken skin of his lips brushing against the contours of my earlobe. When my neck arches, I can feel those lips spread into a smile I know oozes with arrogance.
“I know we’ve been traveling for just a few days, but I can’t say I’d mind sleeping in a bed.” My voice falters with uncertainty. “But are you sure they’ll let Ithuriel join us?”
Sariel’s cheek presses against mine as he turns his head toward the angel. “My word means something in Asmodai’s realm. I’m his favorite nephew after all,” he finishes, the smirk heard in his voice.
The icy angel flying a wing’s length away scoffs mirthlessly.
“You have something to say?” Sariel drawls lazily.
“It is widely known that aberration doesn’t even know his own brood’s names.”
Sariel clicks his tongue dismissively. “He has hundreds of kids but only one nephew. And I’m super memorable.”
Ithuriel turns his head and I notice his eyes have turned into ice chips with cold fury. “You are no more his nephew than you are Ashtaroth’s son!”
The fallen angel doesn’t seem to be intimidated by the angel’s anger. No, he throws his head back and laughs heartily, the sound booming in my ear, yet I can’t help but appreciate it. It’s like playing loud music in the car – as long as you love the song, it doesn’t bother you that the volume is at maximum. But, oh, man, if you hate the song? Torture. Needless to say, I love this wicked angel’s laughter.
He points ahead to a building at a crossroads. “There’s our inn,” he says through the last chuckles, ignoring the angel’s angry outburst. Swerving, he banks toward it, Ithuriel having no choice but to follow. The closer we get, the more details I can make out.
The building seems to blend into its surroundings perfectly – the sky here is gray, with roiling ashy clouds backlit by the orange glow of Hell’s flames. The inn’s walls are cracked stone, and a worn, slanted roof covers the top, creating an attic space above the two main floors. Even though it looks worn down, warm light spills from the windows and the old-fashioned, eerie lanterns hanging along the front porch. It’s surrounded by twisted, leafless trees, the gnarled branches reaching toward the structure. I can’t decide if the inn looks inviting or foreboding, and I’m curious to see what the inside looks like.
As we gently touch down on the dusty, Hell-baked ground, I realize my stomach is doing flips from more than just the descent.