Razr (Demonica Underworld #4)

Chapter One

Inside the confines of his boss’s office, demons

swirled in the air all around Razr. The screaming, tortured souls begged for mercy or shouted obscenities and threats.

Razr tapped the ring on his right index finger against his

thigh as Azagoth, an ancient being also known as the

Grim Reaper, sent tiny bursts of power at each one, making them screech in

agony.

Azagoth was playing with them,

toying with them the way a cat would a mouse. His plush office, deep inside the

underworld realm known as Sheoul-gra, had turned into

a grim playground of pain.

Pain was something Razr could deal with. Subservience was

not, and after hundreds of years spent as an elite battle angel, being

sentenced to serve Azagoth was humiliating as shit.

But it was Razr’s own fault, and ultimately, he was lucky. After all, he’d been

kicked out of Heaven, but he hadn’t lost his wings.

No, his angelic wings and their fate would be determined by whether or not he could repair the damage he’d done a

century ago.

So, yeah. Hanging out with Azagoth

and his band of freaky minions wasn’t exactly a great gig, but it could be

worse. Still, as he stood across from Azagoth, who

looked especially Grim Reaper-y in a black hooded robe, his green eyes glowing

from the shadows, Razr didn’t see how it could be worse at this particular moment.

Azagoth flicked his hand in

dismissal, and a wave of griminions swarmed

into the room like ants, their own miniature black robes dragging on the floor,

their faces hidden by cowls. They gathered the demon souls and scurried away,

disappearing into a tunnel in the wall to whatever hellhole they belonged in.

When Azagoth turned his attention to Razr, the chill

that settled on Razr’s skin quickly penetrated all the way to his bones.

“I want to know why you wear a damned burlap sack and

flip-flops every damned day. You have access to anything you want, but the only

times you aren’t dressed like a medieval monk are when you leave Sheoul-gra.” Azagoth cocked his

head and intensified his focus, leaving Razr feeling like a germ under a

microscope. “Is the clothing part of your punishment?”

Razr started. He’d been living in Sheoul-gra

and working in Azagoth’s employ for over a year now,

and this was the first time his boss had asked him anything that wasn’t

work-related.

“Yes,” Razr said, but it was a simple answer to a complex

issue.

“Your situation is unique. You aren’t fallen, but you aren’t

a Heavenly angel, either. You aren’t even Unfallen,” Azagoth

said, referring to the in-between state of an angel who had lost his wings but who hadn’t entered Sheoul,

the demon realm, to complete his fall from grace. He glided over to the wet bar

and splashed rum into two glasses. “Heaven created a new designation of angel

just for you.”

“Yeah,” Razr drawled. “Ain’t

I special.” Except he wasn’t. There was another who had shared his status, his

former lover Darlah, presumed dead after failing to return from a mission.

A mission that was now Razr’s alone.

Azagoth handed him one of the

glasses, and Razr struggled to hide his surprise. And suspicion. The other male

rarely acknowledged his existence, let alone treated him like an equal. “For

some reason, you are special.”

This was really getting weird. Azagoth

had never shown any interest in him, but honestly, Razr was shocked that the

guy didn’t know more about Razr’s story. He’d figured Heaven would have given Azagoth the full scoop, but apparently not.

“What I can’t figure out,” Azagoth

continued, “is why you haven’t managed to take care of your business and get

back into Heaven.”

Unable to remain still under this bizarre scrutiny, Razr

swirled the rum around in his glass. “It’s not like you give me a lot of free

time.”

“So it’s my fault?” Azagoth’s voice was smooth as velvet and just dark enough

to raise the hair on Razr’s head.

One didn’t just accuse the Grim Reaper of stalling shit. Not

if they liked wearing their skin.

“Not at all,” Razr replied carefully, because his skin was pretty useful right where it was. “It’s just that I have

limited resources in Sheoul-gra. I need more time in

the human and demon realms.”

Instead, he was stuck training Azagoth’s

army of Memitim and the Unfallen refugees who had

taken sanctuary here. Although, in truth, if Razr had to work for Azagoth, schooling angels on battle tactics wasn’t the

suckiest thing he could do. It was a challenge he enjoyed, given that angels

were notoriously hard to get to work together, and his specialty was teamwork.

He’d just rather be training angels in Heaven than in Hell.

The door to the office opened, and Zhubaal,

Azagoth’s right-hand man and Razr’s direct superior,

escorted a broad-shouldered male who smelled of sunshine inside. The angel, a

big bastard in a plain brown hooded robe who went by the code name of Jim Bob,

strode past Azagoth and stopped in front of Razr,

which was odd, considering the angel tended to keep conversation limited to Azagoth.

Which probably meant he wasn’t being straight with his

fellow angels about his business here. Razr had never met the guy in Heaven, so

he had no idea of Jim Bob’s real name or what his game was, but if Razr was

ever reinstated as a full angel, he’d have to do some investigating.

“What happened to your head?”

Razr jammed his fingers through his short, dark hair. “What,

you liked the bald look better?”

“Yes. Also, this is for you.” He

held out a thick gold business card embossed with silver letters that spelled

out “The Wardens.”

“What is it?”

“It’s where you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

Razr stopped breathing even as his heart revved from a

sudden injection of hope-fueled adrenaline. He stared at the silver letters as

if they were a lifeline and he was drowning. “Are...are you sure?”

“I have it on good authority.”

Razr’s hand shook so hard he nearly dropped the card. This

was it. The way to repair some, if not all, of the damage he and his teammates

caused when they’d lost three of Heaven’s most valuable weapons, the Gems of

Enoch, and got their human custodians killed. One gem, the Terra Amethyst, had

been recovered, but two remained: Darlah’s Fire Garnet and Razr’s Ice Diamond.

Finding either or both would return Razr to full angel

status and erase the stain on his reputation...and his soul.

Azagoth, clearly knowing what Razr

was thinking, nodded. “Go,” he said. “Take as much time as you need.”

Razr sucked in a stunned breath, but really, he shouldn’t be

all that shocked. Azagoth might have a reputation for

cruelty, but he was generous with those who were loyal to him. Razr was about

to thank him when the angel wing glyph on the back of his hand, usually

invisible, began to glow. Fuck. It had been less than twenty-four hours since

the last time. He usually got thirty-six, give or take a couple of hours, to

recover. Although once he’d gone barely eight. The random nature of this particular angelic punishment was a pain in the ass.

“That was shitty timing.” Azagoth,

the King of Demon Souls and Understatements, pulled a well-worn cat-o’-nines

out of his desk drawer. Because, of course, one must always be prepared for

spur-of-the-moment torture. He held up the weapon with way too much enthusiasm.

“Mine or yours?”

Razr’s personal flogger was in his pocket, and he swore he

felt it burning through his robes. “Yours,” he muttered, figuring it was always

better to get someone else’s stuff bloody.

Azagoth held the cat out to Jim

Bob. “Want the honor?”

Razr bit back a groan as the angel took the weapon and

stroked it like an old lover. “It’s been a long time.”

“Really?” Razr said. “Because you seem like the type who

gets off on torture.”

It was a stupid thing to say to someone who was far more

powerful and who was about to turn Razr’s back into hamburger, but he’d never

been known for his tact.

Jim Bob, who rarely even smiled, laughed. Clearly, the guy’s

sense of humor circled the gallows. Razr would respect that if he weren’t the

one swinging at the end of the rope.

“Will you stand or kneel?” Jim Bob asked.

“Good question.” He dropped his robe

so he was standing naked in front of Azagoth, Jim

Bob, and Zhubaal, “I figure I’ll start on my feet and

end on my knees. That’s usually how it goes.”

Jim Bob made a “turn-around” gesture, and after taking a

deep, steadying breath, Razr assumed the position, bracing himself against the

wall with his palms. “How many?”

“Six,” Azagoth said before Razr

could answer. “I don’t know why.”

“I do.” Jim Bob’s soft reply hung in the air and reeled

through Razr’s mind.

How did Jim Bob know? Sure, everyone in Heaven probably knew

about Razr’s screw-up with the Gems of Enoch, but few were privy to the

specifics of his punishment. The guy must be well connected in Heaven, which

only added to the mystery of his dealings with Azagoth.

The whistle of the nine leather straps, each tipped by sharp

bone spurs singing through the air, interrupted Razr’s thoughts. Pain exploded

across his shoulder blades and forced a grunt from him. But not a scream. He

never screamed.

The second blow was worse, the third so intense that he

sagged to his knees. Usually he could stay on his feet

until the fifth strike, but Jim Bob was strong, and he wasn’t holding back.

That was the thing about floggings in the angel and

demon worlds versus the human one; Razr could take hundreds of lashings from a

human. Hell, he could take thousands and not die.

But when someone with superior strength and mystical

capabilities was wielding the whip, the damage increased by a factor of holy

shit.

The fourth blow knocked the breath from his lungs, and the

fifth made him see stars.

The sixth, placed low on his hips, knocked him onto the cold

floor, sprawled in a pool of his own blood.

Maybe this was the last time. Please let this be the

last time, he thought, just before he passed out.