Company of Angels 02 - The Demoness of Waking Dreams

quietly into the back, blending into the congregation of humans come to pay homage to their God. Humans who brought their hopes, their fears, their dreams to this place of worship. His heart ached for them, for the suffering that humankind underwent.
    No, he himself was no longer human.
    The faint scent of incense drifted from the priest’s censer, chants in Latin drifting with it: et ideo cum Angelis et omnibus Sanctis gloriam tuam praedicamus… The vague meaning of the phrase echoed in his mind despite the foreignness of the words…. Something about saints and angels, and the glory of the divine.
    As he stood there in the church, images from his most recent dream drifted into his head. Images of her face, her body, her voice. And his body reacted, sensing her nearness. But he knew that he must fight against the failings, the desires, the weaknesses of the physical body.
    She is here.
    He heard the commotion when it began, the shouts of “Demonessa!” He saw the man drag his elderly mother out of the church. In the resulting scuffle, Brandon sneaked up the side of the congregation, moving toward the source of the conflict.
    And he became all too conscious of his human desires.
    He was still close enough to his lost humanity that he could not control the twitch of his cock in the moment he first saw her.
    Dark hair tumbled down her back in a loose fall of curls. Green eyes the color of pale emeralds, of new grass, of springtime. Skin so fair it was almost translucent, glowing in the fading daylight that spilled into the chapel. She smiled, shrugging a little in innocence, appeasing those around her.
    Brandon stood watching, transfixed.
    When the ceremony ended, the church emptied, the congregation filing down the long nave and out the massive doors.
    Luciana remained. She knelt in one of the side chapels, pretending to be praying, her head bowed in a graceful imitation of reverence, the last rays of sunlight swathing her lush body. If she was truly absorbed in prayer, she was issuing a request for help from the other side.
    Murderer. Poisoner. Thief. Whore.
    Too beautiful. Too evil. And entirely too easy to find.
    Beauty can be evil. He knew that much. But not beauty like this…
    Once this evening, she had already been named for what she was. By an old woman near the threshold between life and death, who everyone assumed was completely insane. That was the only other person in the building who saw the truth about Luciana. Who knew that she was not merely an innocent woman, not a pious beauty who had come to pay homage to the divine.
    He neared, ready to approach her. He reminded himself why he was here. What he had been sent here to do. To find her. To capture her. To take her back with him. Back to America. Back to the Company of Angels.
    Then he looked into those absinthe eyes of hers.
    And felt himself falling.
    The sensation reminded him of dying—not the painful part of passing over, but the feeling of elation. The bliss of rising up into a curtain of pure light, spiraling into a feeling of absolute peace. He had never experienced it while embodied in a physical form before. But here he was, in the midst of this church, with the crowd of festive Venetians and tourists still dispersing. He felt as though he might have been alone with her. He felt tremendous compassion for her, almost as if his heart were about to burst open. As if he could absorb all of her sorrows from that one glance.
    For she was full of suffering, although she bore it behind a veil of pride and a noble bearing. Yet, there it was, an unfathomable sadness that made him yearn to fold her in his arms and wrap her in pure joy.
    More sorrowful than the Pietà.
    Full of grace, more than a demon should ever be.
    And then she saw him, and her entire countenance changed.
    He had never known that the color of fury was green, but looking into those eyes, at that moment, he was sure of it.
    The hottest fires of hell must be green.
    It chilled him for a moment, the depth of what he saw in those eyes. The lightning-fast change of emotions flashing in those verdant depths, a chameleon change so quick that it seemed he was looking at a different woman entirely.
    Not an innocent and pious beauty.
    But a dangerous and malevolent killer.
    Which, in fact, she was.
    Around them, in the silence, rose an unspoken challenge, a whisper so loud it seemed to ricochet off the walls of the church, louder than the wings of the birds that circled overhead.
    Nothing