Company of Angels 02 - The Demoness of Waking Dreams

you did to Brandon. You should have figured that out by the time you didn’t go to hell. And you should have figured out that I’m not a murderer. Not like you.”
    “What do you want?”
    “Oh, there’s a lot I want from you. I know you have a lot of knowledge, and I hope we can channel that knowledge, together, for the greater good of humankind. Perhaps once we’ve gone through this poisoning process a few more times, you’ll begin to work with me.”
    Torture, Luciana thought wildly. She plans to torture me.
    “Brandon will never let you get away with this,” she managed to choke out.
    “Brandon is going home to Chicago,” said Arielle. “You’re going to tell him you want him to leave. He is far better off without you, in any case.”
    That’s the one thing you’ve got right, the demoness realized.
    Arielle held up a fistful of Luciana’s vials.
    “I’ve got half a dozen more like this, stashed away,” said the blonde angel. “You know exactly what is in them. If you dare disobey me, I will hunt down everything that is dear to you and obliterate it from the face of the earth forever. Those Gatekeepers of yours, especially that big one. What is his name? Massimo?”
    Luciana closed her eyes and swallowed back a cry, refusing to give the angel the satisfaction of an answer.
    “And just think. If you ever did escape, wouldn’t it be terrible to worry that perhaps Brandon was at risk, too?” asked Arielle.
    “They say the line between angels and demons is a fine one,” said Luciana, finally turning her head to stare up at her tormentor. “You’re starting to sound exactly like Corbin.”
    “Now, now. There’s no need for name-calling. Since you’re going to be spending a long time with us here, you’ll have to learn to be more civil. Mezza stronza, mezza strega, ” said Arielle as she loomed over the gasping demoness. She kicked her once, in the center of the gut, so hard that blood spilled out of Luciana’s mouth. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Chapter Twenty
     
    B randon bore down on the gas pedal, veering along the curves of PCH as he raced back toward the retreat center. He cranked the stereo up. The entire car rattled with the pounding beat, the screaming guitar riffs from a heavy-metal radio station threatening to blast out the windows and his eardrums.
    No music was loud enough to drown out his memories.
    A babble of conversations with Jude flooded into Brandon’s mind.
    Now, he could not help but dwell. Not just dwell.
    Seethe.
    In the hours before Brandon had entered that alleyway, he had fought with Jude.
    “We need to go down there tonight,” Brandon had insisted.
    “Buddy, we’re off duty.”
    “We have a job to do,” Brandon insisted. “I have a hunch about this.”
    “Suit yourself,” Jude said angrily. “I thought you were going over to play poker with the guys. I had other plans for tonight. But if you really want to go, then so be it.”
    Of course, they had gone. And Brandon had never gotten a chance to set things right with Jude. Had never gotten to tell him how much he had appreciated his friendship over the years. How much he missed the guy. Loved him, even.
    He had always regretted not telling him that.
    Jude Everett, the hero.
    Who had captured and arrested his shooter.
    Am I still supposed to feel grateful? What were your plans that night, Jude? Were you planning on banging her? Are you still a hero if you were sleeping with your dead partner’s wife all along?
    Jude’s grinning face floated in his mind’s eye.
    Brandon floored the gas pedal. The car shot forward.
    The rush of speed accelerated his anger. Fed his frustration. The next turn came a little too fast, a little too sharp. The car swerved out of control. He slammed on the brakes. The wheels spun out under him, sending the car rotating 360 degrees…720 degrees…how many revolutions it spun, he lost count…the palm trees and scrubby landscape and ocean blurred together into a dizzy splotch. The front bumper—or was it the rear?—bashed against the guardrail, sending the car flying across the road diagonally.
    And then it stopped.
    The radio was still playing something loud and thrashing.
    He shut it off, sat in silence.
    Mercifully, he had not crashed through the guardrail and ended up in the ocean.
    Thankfully, there were no other cars on the highway.
    No one else he could injure while he worked out his own horrific issues.
    He looked at the tattoos covering his arms, the