Company of Angels 02 - The Demoness of Waking Dreams

among the Venetians, to experience the city’s pleasures. To watch the fireworks, drink some cheap Prosecco and then tomorrow morning, to leave.
    To live.
    Then, as quickly as the moment had begun, it was over. The noise of the birds overhead and the clamor of the crowd rose to a deafening roar, the humans now pushing each other to get away from the chaos. And Luciana came crashing back into the present moment, back to the reality of standing here in this too-hot church that she hated.
    Back to the reality of exactly how much she hated this man and all his kind.
    She would destroy him. She must destroy him.
    She had never sacrificed an angel before.
    What better way to pay homage to the devil? Yes, this man would make a fine offering. She curved her lips into a smile honed over centuries, a smile she knew spoke of pleasure, without the need for words, beckoning to him across the rain of gray feathers that littered the air around them.
    Screw redemption, she thought. Let the hunt begin.

Chapter One
     
    One day earlier
     
    “W elcome home, baronessa. ”
    Luciana Rossetti’s private boat waited at the dock of the Marco Polo Airport, and her driver helped her descend from the dock into the polished mahogany vessel. The water shimmered, early morning sunlight glancing off the surface of the lagoon. “Thank you, Massimo. It’s good to be home.”
    “No luggage, signora? ” the driver asked.
    “I made an unexpected departure from America,” she answered, settling into a seat at the rear of the boat. She leaned against the tan leather upholstery, relaxing at last. Inhaled deeply. And exhaled a sigh of pure relief.
    Unexpected departure was an understatement. Narrow escape was more like it.
    But at the moment, words escaped her. Mere language could not begin to relate what had happened in the past three months. She simply lacked the energy to explain it all to Massimo.
    “Is everything all right?” Massimo asked as he steered the boat, navigating out into the lagoon. If anyone could sense when something was amiss with her, it was him. He was her maggiordomo, her steward, her right-hand man, and he had been for the past two centuries. He glanced backward now, brows drawn together as he scrutinized her. “You look tired.”
    “How many times have I told you not to say that, Massimo? No woman wants to hear it, even if it’s true,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “I’m fine. ”
    She was not fine.
    She closed her eyes and leaned against the leather. Perhaps with a little bit of time, she would be fine. But right now, she was absolutely exhausted. Utterly depleted.
    But still alive.
    “Everything is perfectly fine, Massimo,” she lied again, repeating the word for emphasis. “I had a brief run-in with some enemies, but suffered no permanent damage. There is only one thing of importance. I have made it home in time to attend this year’s Redentore Festival.”
    “Yes, of course, baronessa. ” Massimo’s handsome face lit with a smile. “You are a strong woman. And you have the support of your humble servants, we Gatekeepers. Do you think you will have enough strength for the hunt?” he asked, clearly worried. “If you don’t, I can assemble the staff. We can take care of your responsibilities if you wish.”
    “No, Massimo,” she said, rubbing her temples.
    Her Gatekeepers, low-ranking demons in her service, all happened to be young, Italian, male and pretty to look at. They were competent enough in their roles as housekeeping staff and minions for errands. But she didn’t— couldn’t —trust them to carry out her work.
    “Don’t concern yourself,” she said. “I need a few hours to rest. By tonight I’ll be completely recovered. Tonight is an eternity away. There is no need for the staff to take over a job that I am perfectly capable of doing myself.”
    Massimo nodded, concentrating on steering the boat as they entered the Grand Canal.
    “A job that I am obligated to do myself,” she added.
    Moments later, the boat passed into the shadow under the Rialto Bridge, and her head began to ache. The bridge invariably brought back agonizing reminiscences of the man who had just caused her impromptu departure from America. Because over two hundred years ago, she had met her ex-lover here. When she’d been barely seventeen years old, still innocent. Still fresh. Still human.
    Before Julian Ascher had ruined everything.
    Pain, white-hot and sharp, seared between her temples. Her fingers