Right. This was the baby-power again. The dreams always started like this, and she had to remember what was happening. Maybe Azagoth would be here this time.
Please, please let him show up.
She rolled her shoulders, thankful that the pain of having her wings sawed off was gone. At least here in the dream world. Back on the cold floor of her cell, the agony was unbearable.
And yet, some of the pain wasn’t physical. A lot of it, actually.
She was going to die. She knew that, and she’d made peace with it. Well, maybe not peace exactly, but on some level, she’d accepted her fate.
What occupied her thoughts and terrified her beyond belief during every waking moment was concern for the baby. It couldn’t be born in Sheoul. There were monsters and misery around every corner, and the biggest fiend of all was Moloch.
Imagining what he would do to the innocent child of his enemy—easy to do since Moloch had described it to her in graphic detail—had left her shaking and vomiting for hours afterward.
And if, somehow, she was able to get it out of her head, her thoughts turned to Azagoth, and what he would go through if he lost them both.
When she first met the Grim Reaper, he’d been cold, all but dead inside. Ironically, he’d been emotionally numb because he’d once felt too much. As an empath of extreme sensitivity, he’d been pummeled by the emotions of others, and losing the ability had given him peace and freedom.
At least it had until Lilliana had awakened his emotions again. It had taken time for him to get them under control, and it was still a daily struggle. What would happen if he lost himself to grief and anger?
She was afraid she knew the answer to that.
It would consume him. It would destroy everything he’d built, everything he loved.
“Lilliana?”
Grinning, almost giddy at the sound of Azagoth’s voice, Lilliana spun around in the wet sand, only to be greeted by his expression of sheer devastation.
She launched herself across the distance and into his arms, desperate to comfort him, to keep him from falling into self-destruction. “It’s okay, Azagoth. I’m okay.”
“Your wings,” he croaked. “I’m so sorry. I’m so…sorry.”
“Shh.” She framed his face with her hands, forcing him to look at her. “They’ll grow back. It’s okay,” she said, even though it wasn’t.
Her wings wouldn’t grow back until she got out of Sheoul, and she wasn’t one hundred percent sure they’d fare better in Sheoul-gra.
“I know how much it hurt—”
She hushed him with a kiss. “I didn’t feel anything.” Another lie. She wondered if he’d taste the deception on her lips. “Flail did something to dull my senses.”
“Why?” His voice rang with justifiable skepticism. “Why would she do that?”
Lilliana thought back to Flail’s visit the other day in the cell. The fallen angel had come back twice more with edible food to convince Lilliana to call Azagoth, and both times, she’d refused. Flail’s pattern had been the same, first to plead, and then to get angry and throw around insults—and some of Lilliana’s dinner.
But she hadn’t once hurt Lilliana. During Moloch’s sadistic taking of Lilliana’s wings, as she was being held down by half a dozen handsy demons, Flail had even threatened them all with disembowelment if they hurt the baby.
“Because the baby can only be used against Azagoth if it’s healthy, of course.”
Those had been her words, but every once in a while, between screams, Lilliana had caught a glimpse of Flail, and she hadn’t seemed to be enjoying herself like everyone else in the chamber.
No, it had been so exciting for some of the demons that her de-winging had turned into an orgy.
She hated Hell. A lot.
“I don’t know why Flail would do anything to help me,” she said, and that, at least, was the truth. “She’s been oddly nice. I’m sure she wants something.”
“Fuck.” Azagoth wheeled away, his gaze cast down at the sand. “I’ve failed you in so many ways.”
“Failed me?” She moved around to face him. “None of this is your fault, Azagoth.”
“All of it is my fault.” He looked up, but not at her. His gaze, burning with pain and a tiny, alarming crimson spark of hatred, took in the crystal-blue-green sea, going somewhere she couldn’t follow. “The things I’ve done, the enemies I’ve made, all of it has led to this. I’ve endangered you and everyone I care about.”
“You can’t think that way.” She gripped his arm, wanting his full focus, but he was still somewhere over the water. “You’re the Grim Reaper. You had a job to do, and you’ve done it well and without any incidents for thousands of years. You’ve done things the way you had to. The battle between Heaven and Hell is what stirred things up. They are the ones changing the rules of the game.”
“This game,” he spat. In the distance, steam rose from the sea. “I’m so tired of it.”
“You’ve been dealing with life and death for so long—”
“That’s not the game I’m talking about.” He broke away to pace the beach. “Death…that makes sense to me. Physical forms only last so long. At some point, they have to release the soul. It’s so…basic.” He jammed his hands through his hair and snarled. “But the rest of it, always having to watch your back, always being pressed between two powers and millions of factions. If I could run away with you, build a life somewhere together where no one could touch us unless we wanted that…” His gaze lit on the sea again. “Ares has it right.”
He was dreaming of something they could never have, and it broke her heart. “His island is crawling with Ramreel demons and hellhounds,” she pointed out in a sad attempt to make Ares’ island sound less great than it was. “Not to mention all the friends and family that pop over at all times of the day and night.”
She shut up, realizing that she was actually making the opposite argument. Fortunately, Azagoth didn’t seem to notice. He’d stopped pacing and was back to making the water steam.
“Ares isn’t responsible for millions of souls or keeping the balance between good and evil. The people who visit him do so because they want to, not because they need to. He doesn’t have to spend eighteen hours a day with evil souls so contaminated with filth that it makes him feel dirty no matter how many showers he takes.” The surface of the sea began to boil, and his voice lowered, scraping the bottom of the deep trenches below. “Sometimes, after I’ve wrung information from a really foul, fucked-up demon, I can’t even touch you. I’m too…stained, and you’re too pure.”
He was going to a dark place, and if she didn’t drag him toward the light, he’d get lost in it.
“Darling?” She moved to him, willing away her swimsuit as she walked. “I don’t know how much time we have. Make love to me.”
It wasn’t an offer. It was a command, meant to snag his attention and trigger his natural impulse to meet a challenge.
He swung around, and she willed away his clothes, as well.
Holy damn, but he was remarkable. Supple, bronze skin stretched tight over lean muscles that rippled in all the right places and begged to be kissed, squeezed, scratched, and bitten. Powerful arms and shoulders that flexed as he squared his stance in the sand.