Matched With A Demon Read online

  Still holding Armaros’s hand tightly, she took Hanielle’s as well. “Then you just have to find a way to make it right.”

  32

  Armaros

  The ground disappeared beneath Armaros’s feet, and he fell. His wings were charred, exposed bone and muscle screaming.

  Unfurling his wings and beating them against the air was instinctive, though, and despite knowing it would do him no good, he tried. Around him were screams and cries as the other angels, the ones who had chosen like him, tumbled through the air.

  The fall was endless, through dimensions and heavens. Unceasingly, they screamed. Armaros’s voice mixed with the others.

  In Heaven, their voices blended harmoniously, beautifully. Now, they were bound together by their screams and their choice, and in the infinite fall, their song was one of fear and terror. One begging for mercy and forgiveness that didn’t come.

  Armaros’s voice broke, and the silence was worse than the screams. He didn’t feel the pain anymore, his focus had gone inward, igniting his anger until it grew and he could have illuminated all of space and time with its flame.

  His sister. He thought of her face. Of the determination on her features when he chose freedom over servitude, and she followed suit. In the blackness, he saw her shock and terror when they began to fall and she realized she’d given up everything she’d ever known.

  Black lightened to blue. A blue so vibrant and bright, he could feel it on his skin. He shut his eyes, feeling cold for the first time. Air rushed past his ears, forcing his eyelids open. Beneath him was the dull brown of earth, rising faster and faster, ready to meet him and smash him to pieces, grinding him to dust and sand.

  Despite their fractured and mutilated voices, the angels screamed again. There was nothing to stop them, nothing to cushion their fall.

  Armaros twisted his head, unable to watch his fate approach him at unimaginable speed.

  Hitting the ground was everything he imagined. Crushed. Flattened. Pulverized. Body turned inside out. And yet somehow, the ultimate cosmic joke, he went on.

  His sister lay next to him, only her eyes recognizable. They stared at each other, unable to make a sound, watching the other’s body change, knit together, heal into a form antithetical to the one it was supposed to be.

  Beyond his sister was a golden expanse. Armaros never realized sand could have so many colors. White, gold, brown, grey. The sand blew in his eyes, across his skin. It stuck to his wounds, piling onto his back as he lay through the day and into the night, and then into the next and the next. Eventually the sand covered him completely.

  It smothered him. What was first a fine layer of dust built up until it weighed upon him like granite. Each breath drew the dust into his lungs, choking him.

  Armaros prayed for death. For nothingness. Why hadn’t the Creator ended them all like they’d never existed? Why have mercy for humans and not for those born to worship?

  His anger burned, hotter and heavier than the sand and the sun. Somewhere in the darkness, buried like him, was his sister. She suffered as he suffered, worse maybe, because he’d forced her hand, forced her to make a choice she’d never have made except for him.

  Perhaps, he lay in the sand for a thousand years. Time meant nothing to him when there was only darkness, heat, and pain.

  From the desert, scattering like beetles sloughing off the sand and silt, the Fallen emerged: perverted, twisted. Their beauty gone. In their place were beasts.

  Even his sister was horrifying. Her back hunched under metallic black wings. Wings born of sand and sinew and heated like glass.

  But her eyes were the same, and they traced his form with sadness.

  “Vasanthi.” His voice wasn’t his voice. It was a voice which screamed for distances immeasurable.

  Her voice echoed in his head. “Is this real? This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”

  “I’m sorry,” he replied. This never should have happened to her. Those whose fault it was would suffer for her pain. For the choice he forced her to make. “I’m sorry!”

  The desert disappeared. There was no sun and no heat. Only the dull, grey gleam of ancient stone walls. His wings didn’t ache, they weren’t heavy. They were cradled, nestled in soft sheets and softer blankets.

  The wind no longer tore at his skin and eyes. It was a warm breath tickling his skin. He shifted, his body under his control and saw Lucia, head resting on his arm, eyes closed. Lips parted, her breath swept over him.

  Lifting his head, he studied her. Her skin was red, flushed not from sleep, but burned from the sun. The delicate skin around her eyes pebbled were the sand had blasted it. Even her hand, the one entwined with his, was dry and chapped. It would blister and peel.

  He remembered her appearing in the desert. Her voice cracked and hoarse. His nightmare made sense now. It reminded him too much of his fall, and the fate he’d foisted on his sister. It was his fault she’d fallen, his fault she died. Just like it was his fault Delia was missing, and Lucia was prepared to give up school. The responsibility for her injuries, for the danger to her soul, all of it rested squarely on his shoulders.

  He couldn’t let it happen. His love for her overshadowed everything, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her, nothing he wouldn’t give to keep her safe. Even if it meant spending the rest of his eternal life without her.

  Her fingers remained tightly wrapped around his while her other hand cushioned her head and held onto his arm. He reveled in her touch, allowing himself to enjoy what would be the last time her skin was on his.

  Pulling his hand from hers was the hardest thing he ever had to do, but it was the words he pushed from his mouth that hurt the most. “You shouldn’t have come after me.”

  Watching her awaken, taking in the features he fixed with anger and distance, made something crack inside him. She smiled at him, as if she could lighten the tension descending on the room, and he had to force himself remain aloof.

  “You’re going to be okay,” she told him, her voice rough. She winced, and his anger at himself grew. “The angel, Hanielle, she healed you.”

  He saw himself from outside his body. Eyebrow raised, eyes frigid. She reached for his hand, but froze when she intercepted his glare. “What’s the matter? Are you hurt? In pain?” She swallowed thickly, grimacing.

  “This was foolish.” He didn’t answer her question.

  “I don’t understand.” But she did, he could see it on her face. The problem was she didn’t want to believe it.

  “Lucia. We are too different. It was never going to work.”

  While he spoke, she shook her head. “I love you. You love me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You do.”

  “I’m not arguing, Lucia.” Swinging his legs off the bed, he stood. Nearby was a jacket, he didn’t bother with a shirt, he pulled it on. If he didn’t get out of here right now, he’d give himself away. “It’s over. I’m going to find Delia, and you can forget about us.”

  She grabbed him before he could leave. “I won’t forget.” As she dug into the coat, she winced, and he glanced down. Her fingernails were broken and torn, scabs forming on the tips. Her other hand wrapped around her waist, holding her ribs, reminding him she tried to claw her way out of her body when Belias possessed her. Her pain only made him angrier.

  Gathering every shred of iciness possible, he stood straighter. Her hand fell off his coat, joining the other at her waist. Forcing himself to maintain his distance, he stared at her in disgust. “All humans forget. I don’t love you, and you’re not worth the trouble you’re causing. Possessions. Battles. Unanchored and running. I. Don’t. Run.” He pretended it was all her fault, let her see it in his face. “You don’t make me better. You make me weak.”

  Tears gathered in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks, but she quickly swept them away. Her lips trembled and she mashed them together. “You’re a coward and a liar. Do you think I can’t see what you’re doing? You do love me, and it scares
you. Not because it makes you weak, you don’t care about that. What you care about is me, and you’re afraid for me. I see you, Armaros.” She stepped away from him, her eyes accusing, shoulders heaving with each breath. A cry left her lips and she smothered it with her hand, but then went on, “Don’t leave. We can get through this. We’re stronger together.”

  He almost let it happen, almost fell to his knees and begged her forgiveness. She must have seen it because she stepped toward him, tweaking some hurt and grimacing. No. Without him, she would live. Go back to her life, a good life, and live for a long time.

  “Forget about me.” He knew what he had to do.

  “Don’t. Armaros. Don’t.” Backing away, she held up her hands. Her palms were raw, as blistered as her face.

  He stepped forward, threatening, looming. Where was her fear? All he saw was sadness and it gutted him.

  “These are my memories. I won’t let you take them.” Narrowed eyes met his. Could he do this? Now, he was connected to her in a way he’d never been to anyone. Could he reach into her head, find the memories and tear them out?

  It would hurt her, and destroy him.

  One step followed another until she stood with her back against the wall, staring up at him.

  “Armaros, please. I can’t take it.” Her voice shook, but she trusted him. She believed if she asked, he’d agree.

  Without warning, he dove into her mind. There was no skill in his work, he slashed and destroyed. Anything with a whisper of his presence, or Delia’s, was pushed down, buried, locked away.

  She tried to fight him. Trailing in his wake, she gathered them up, and held onto them, but he grabbed them back and stuffed them into the darkness.

  A sound ripped him away from his task, a sound of betrayal and suffering. Lucia’s blue eyes swam with tears but held his. “They’re mine,” she choked. “Stop.” A trickle of blood dripped from one nostril, and she wiped it away.

  He had to go back in. It wasn’t working. He was breaking inside, splitting into pieces as surely as he was hacking away at Lucia’s memory. Readying himself, he took the first step, but something stopped him. Bright white light coalesced and formed a wall between him and Lucia. Try as he might, he couldn’t get through it. Focused as he was on her, on battering down the shield keeping him from her, he didn’t hear the voice echoing in his mind.

  “Enough. You’ve hurt her enough.”

  Growling, he struggled, hands smashing against the invisible barrier keeping him from Lucia. She stared at him, holding his gaze despite her devastation. Wings erupted from his back and he spun, waiting for the sound of breaking and shattering.

  His wings burned where he attempted to slice, a shower of sparks raining on his head.

  In his head, there was a sigh, and then the room, and Lucia’s beautiful sad eyes, disappeared.

  “Are you happy now?”

  He ignored the angel who had taken him from Lucia, focusing instead on the thread he could see traveling across space back to her. When he would have made the jump, the angel shut him down.

  “You’re not going back.” Hanielle sighed. “Leaving her was the right thing to do. Now let her stay gone.”

  All at once, the fight left him. He sat, legs unable to hold him anymore. The angel watched him with something akin to sympathy.

  “It’s too dangerous. The others will find her,” he tried to explain. “The demons, the Fallen. I made her susceptible to them.”

  “No one will touch her,” a voice stated calmly. Clear blue eyes met his, set in a pale face, auburn hair falling in waves and touching broad shoulders. Lucifer.

  The angel brought him to Hell.

  “Home again,” Armaros observed a little hysterically.

  “Indeed,” Lucifer answered, eyeing him with interest before turning his attention to Hanielle. “You can go.”

  The beautiful angel rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “I want to be here even less than you do, Morning Star.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that.”

  “Sympathy for the devil?” she asked saucily. “I don’t think so.”

  “Armaros.” Two thin arms wrapped around his neck. A small, sharp-chinned face digging into his shoulder. “I missed you.”

  The voice was so unexpected, he froze. Shocked, he slowly wrapped his arms around Delia to return her embrace. “Where have you been?” His voice was as rough as Lucia’s had been.

  “Here,” she answered, pushing away and pointing to Lucifer. “With him.”

  “With him.” He tried to put Delia away from him, but she held on. Finally, he gave up, standing and holding her.

  “I came here,” she continued, “on purpose. He didn’t take me.”

  “We’ve had a lovely time,” Lucifer added.

  Hanielle, who’d been watching each player with interest, narrowed her eyes. “Liar. Father of lies.”

  “He’s not.” Delia was quick to come to his defense. “It wasn’t safe on Earth, and it’s not safe with you guys.” She gestured to Hanielle, who looked insulted. “So, I came here. It’s fine. Boring, but fine.”

  “I would have kept you safe, little one. If you had asked,” the angel said quietly.

  But Delia interrupted her. “You couldn’t. You were too busy hurting Lucia.”

  Armaros hadn’t forgotten that detail either, and now, far away from her, his anger a bright red flame, he wanted revenge. Lucifer grabbed his shoulder before he could put aside Delia and materialize his sword. His grip was inescapable. Unless Armaros could remove Lucifer’s arm from his body, he wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Hanielle, I suggest you leave,” he told the angel.

  Her eyes flashed. She wanted to accept his challenge. Perhaps, this angel was a guardian, but clearly, she had the drive to be a warrior.

  Good. A battle was what he needed. He needed to hurt as much on the outside as he did on the inside.

  “Please, don’t,” Delia whispered, her arms squeezing him.

  And just like that, he couldn’t. His niece had no one. With Lucia out of the picture, he was the one she would rely on. All the responsibility for her fell squarely on his shoulders.

  “I won’t,” he replied, staring at Hanielle while he answered. Pride made it difficult to turn away, but he did.

  Lucifer saluted the angel, who with one last stare in Armaros’s direction, winked out of Hell.

  “Should we show your uncle your room?” Lucifer asked, his attention back on Delia.

  Pulling back, she stared at Armaros. “No,” she answered. “I think we need ice cream.”

  “Definitely no ice cream in Hell,” Lucifer answered. “But I know where we can get some.”

  33

  Lucia

  It was ridiculously easy to slide back into her old routine. Her mentor didn’t blink when Lucia showed up in his office, merely pointed to a stack of papers she needed to grade and told her to hurry to the European History class while muttering about freshmen and entitlement.

  Her body wasn’t up to snuff yet, and she’d moved back in with her parents. Burns covered her face and hands, but enough students returned from spring break looking like her so she didn’t get many open-mouthed stares. Her bruises were mostly on her torso, and since it was February, and she’d never worn a crop-top in her life, those were easily covered. She moved at half-speed and took the elevator instead of the stairs, but she dealt with it by leaving a little earlier for school and the train.

  Every alley she walked by, every corner she turned, she searched for Delia and Armaros. Her stomach would clench, butterflies fluttering. She could see the reunion in her mind. Delia would call for her, she’d spin around, surprised. Delia would jump into her arms, and behind her would stand Armaros. Handsome, hair slicked back from his face, blue eyes flashing with promise and love.

  Even though it hadn’t happened yet, she had hope it would. Ahead of Lucia stood the newest building on campus. Freshmen classes were the largest, and this building housed the most auditoriums. Her c
lass had two hundred students, most of whom were taking the class as a pre-req, which meant most of them couldn’t give a fuck.

  One at a time, each foot carefully placed to minimize jarring, Lucia went down the steep steps leading to the podium. By the time she reached the bottom, her ribs were throbbing and back aching.

  “Let’s begin!” she called out, waiting while the students took out their computers and ignoring the burn in her throat. Using the remote on the podium, she set up the projector, syncing it with her computer to show the pictures and Power Point she’d created. “We left off at Charlemagne. Now, who remembers his father’s name? Best name ever. Anyone?”

  A few chuckles alerted her that, despite their lack of participation, some of the students had actually been paying attention, and maybe one of them even remembered what she’d taught.

  “No? Okay. So, Pepin the Short…”

  The room erupted in laughter like she’d planned, and she went on. “And there is my useless information for the day, and though it will probably be the one thing those of you non-history majors remember from this class, let’s move on to Charlemagne’s coronation at St. Peter’s.”

  Pressing the button, Lucia indicated the slide, and stopped. The picture of the ancient king’s coronation was embroidered onto a medieval tapestry. The muted colors and golden borders reminded her of the monastery. In the corner of the tapestry was the rough form of a chapel, all arches and columns. How could she be homesick for a place she’d visited only briefly? She stared at the image, lost in thought, and missing Armaros so achingly, she could have doubled over in pain. As it was, she clutched her side, trying to remember to breathe.

  A cough behind her brought her back to the present and she faced the class again. “I apologize. Pope Leo. Charlemagne. How about that bromance?”

  The rest of Lucia’s lecture was uneventful. Students laughed where she wanted them to, and took copious notes. When the class was over, a few students approached her to ask for clarification, or her office hours, but then she was left alone in the auditorium.