Company of Angels 02 - The Demoness of Waking Dreams

unlike any she had seen before. She winced in the brightness of it, raising her arm to cover her eyes.
    Turning to look back had been a mistake.
    A last burst of energy pulsed from him. She felt herself propelled backward toward him.
    She made one last, desperate grab for the doorknob. This time, she closed her fingers around it. Twisted with every ounce of energy she had left in her. Yanked the door open.
    Stumbling into the shop, she looked for cover.
    Because she knew she only had moments before that force came in behind her.
    Relentless. Unstoppable. And about as easy to hide from as a heat-seeking missile.
    * * *
     
    The shop the demoness had entered was a glass studio.
    Lit by halogen lights, the window display illuminated the dark street. The colors of goblets and wine decanters, of ornaments and jewelry sparkled in the night.
    He pulled open the door and followed.
    Inside the dark gallery, shelves of more glassware sat in tranquility, moonlight from the front windows and the lit shop display spilling into the store. In the quiet space, not a soul moved.
    Where the hell is she?
    He stood, listening. Waiting.
    Edged deeper into the shop. His hand went automatically to the holster he no longer carried, touched the empty spot and felt only a wave of utter nakedness without a firearm.
    And then suddenly the air was full of flying glass. Objets d’art veered toward him in a spectrum of colors as the demoness began hurling items from the shelves. Broken shards rained down on him, their colors catching the moonlight in the seconds before he closed his eyes. He covered his face with his arms, boxer-style. Felt the first impact of glass against his skin, sharp edges slicing into his forearms as it shattered.
    The pain bit into his body. He kept moving through it. Toward it.
    Knowing he must push through this temporary torture to stop her.
    Forward, blindly stumbling. Beneath his shoes, the crunch of glass. Around him, the sound of smashing. He felt the blood dripping down his arms, the pain radiating from the shards slicing into his flesh.
    Then all motion stopped.
    Silence. Stillness.
    Around the shield of his own forearms, he hazarded a glance.
    There she was, backed into a corner. The shelves around her, empty. Eyes wild and gleaming, she fixed her gaze on him. Even in that moment of rage, he saw beneath it to her fear. She was like a cornered animal, defending herself.
    So dangerous, but so very vulnerable.
    She picked up the last object near her. She rushed at him then, her hand raised. In it, a long, thin silver blade glinted in the moonlight.
    A glass-handled knife, the kind you might use for cutting bread.
    She lunged forward with it. She missed, but the knife’s teeth slashed menacingly close to his skin. She made another pass. This time, he felt the serrated blade bite into his abdomen, slicing through his shirt, through a layer of skin to the muscle beneath.
    He grabbed past the knife, catching her wrist.
    Squeezed until she gasped and released the blade.
    With his other hand, he went for the pressure point at the side of her throat. Jammed two fingers into it. With the momentum of her own attack, he swung her body past him. Took her down cleanly in one broad sweep, as though they were partners in a dance, a tango dip. He held her suspended a foot above the floor.
    Poised above the broken glass.
    “If you’re nice, we can do this easily,” he said.
    “Nice girls finish last,” she said. “You have no idea who you’re messing with, but you’re about to find out. I’m going to send you straight to hell,” she hissed. Hauling in a breath, she screamed, “ Diavolo! Prince of Darkness, aid me now!”
    There was an eerie silence into which Brandon smiled, looking down at her.
    “I guess he’s not coming,” he said.
    He felt the hard jab of her knee connect with his groin. Pain seared through him.
    He dropped her.
    She cried out as she hit the floor, the broken shards grinding into her back. Her hair spread on the floor, a dark halo around her, mixed with shards of glass catching the moonlight. Her eyes, bright and deadly, glittered like the glass scattered around her. A thousand times more mesmerizing.
    Glaring up at him, she gasped, wincing from the pain. “Who the hell are you?”
    “Nobody,” he said.
    “Tell me your name. You owe me that, at least.”
    “Brandon Clarkson.”
    “Well, Brandon,” she said. “You may have won this round, but I warn you that the fight is far from