Company of Angels 02 - The Demoness of Waking Dreams

enough hardship and betrayal for a dozen lifetimes. Being chained to a bed alone with Brandon was one thing. Deep down, she had always known that there was a way out. But now, staring out the tiny window of this little plane, in the company of these assholes, chained to the seat?
    There was no escape this time.
    America represents abject failure, she thought. When she had last left American soil, she had crept away a broken woman, barely alive, having escaped by the skin of her teeth. She had to clench her jaw to keep from screaming out what was going through her mind. Whether it’s Los Angeles or Chicago, it hardly matters.
    Brandon and Arielle stopped fighting, and the plane lapsed into hushed whispers. Brandon sat silently with his eyes closed, but the rest of the angels continued to murmur about the Guardians who would be waiting for them in L.A.
    Serena St. Clair…Julian Ascher....
    Mother of Lucifer, let me out of here, she pleaded. If I could only open a window right now, I would gladly pitch myself from this aircraft at ten thousand feet and spare these celestial vermin the trouble.
    “Serena is a yoga teacher whom Luciana had almost succeeded in killing only weeks ago,” Arielle explained to Infusino, who was nodding, taking in the information.
    Hearing that girl’s name is like fingernails on a blackboard, Luciana thought. But Serena is merely an annoyance, not a serious challenge.
    “And then there’s Julian Ascher,” Arielle said. Her voice dropped. “He’s Luciana’s ex-lover. The reason she had become a demoness in the first place.”
    Then, Luciana really did stop listening.
    She did not need to hear the details as Arielle murmured them to Infusino.
    It was a story the demoness knew by heart.
    A heart that had long ago been crushed into dust.
    The plane jolted and Luciana’s stomach churned, but whether it was from the turbulence or the thought of Julian Ascher was difficult to tell. The last time she had seen Julian, only a couple of weeks ago, her plan for revenge had been horribly spoiled. Perhaps now there would be another chance.
    Now, she had nothing to lose.
    Luciana smiled to herself, turning her head to conceal the smile.
    From across the plane, Brandon saw her and frowned.
    Let him wonder, she thought. He, too, will pay.
    That thought churned in Luciana’s head for the next dozen hours as she stared miserably out that little window. It churned and churned, until the plane landed and she found herself staring at the hazy-dry landscape of the San Fernando Valley in high summer. In only half a day, the angels had transported her a world away from her cool marble palazzo in Venice.
    A palazzo that was no more.
    * * *
     
    Brandon watched the demoness stare out the window, taking in every detail of their early morning arrival. Sunlight spilled over her features; he was struck by how beautiful she remained, even in the midst of her exhaustion. Still lovely despite her despair, despite her fury.
    He refused to feel sorry for Luciana.
    She deserves to be brought to justice for what she has done, he reminded himself. Whether that’s here in L.A. or in Chicago will be for Michael to decide once I contact him.
    He saw the clarity of her green eyes as she gazed out the window, sunlight slanting through her irises. Her gaze flicked to him.
    There was war in those eyes.
    Despite that, Brandon knew that abandoning the demoness now was not an option.
    “Let’s go,” Arielle instructed.
    Heaving a sigh, he uncuffed the demoness. Led her down the metal stairs and into the July heat, through the terminal and out the other side, where an SUV was waiting for them. Brandon pushed her inside and sat down next to her, while Arielle piled into the seat behind them.
    Watching the scenery roll by outside the car, in the strange peace of the early morning, none of them spoke a word.
    “No doubt, we’re heading to another hovel,” Luciana muttered, after an hour of silence in the car. “You angels and your sanctimonious poverty.”
    Like Luciana, Brandon had expected the compound to be a modest affair. By “retreat center,” he imagined a run-down operation that was poorly maintained. A few rustic cabins a step up from camping. Bathrooms with mildewed walls. Primitive cooking facilities with communal food preparation responsibilities. Lots of fireside sing-alongs.
    Not a gated compound, whose sprawling, multilevel buildings might have been conceived by Frank Lloyd Wright.
    A strange chill passed