The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(100)
“Well here in Heaven, we call it blasphemy! Nephilim are cursed, end of story.” Raphael’s gaze narrowed on Michael. “You would do well to remember it.”
“Fine,” Michael said, shooting Gabriel an annoyed glance. “But philosophy aside, the current mess on Earth needs a solution. If we’re not going to disturb the Almighty, just how are we going to save humanity? Or at the least, keep the human race alive and reasonably unpossessed until He wakes on His own?”
Gabriel buffed his fingernails on his lapel, and then inspected them one by one. “I suspect our elder brother has a plan,” he said. “As usual.”
“Quite so.” Raphael climbed the three steps to his throne and seated himself with a flourish of golden robes. He opened his mouth to speak.
When he finished—some three human hours later, Michael estimated—it was with a firm nod of self-approval. The plan was a good one, he said. Practically foolproof, he said. The Earth was sure to be saved.
Michael wasn’t so optimistic. Sure, Raphael had a plan. That didn’t mean it was going to work.
There were bound to be loopholes.
***
Mab was in Houston.
Luc flew toward his alpha, his thrall collar straining toward the hand that had created it. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to fly in the opposite direction. But even if he could somehow break the collar’s compulsion and flee, the victory would be fleeting. And if Mab had to come after him, her fury would know no bounds.
He landed on the sidewalk in front of Club Tartarus. It was mid-afternoon. Too late for the lunch crowd, too early for clients seeking evening delights. A knock at the door was quickly answered, however. The bouncer—a human male named Carter—seemed to expect Luc’s arrival. He nodded with a touch of respect, as well as a hint of pity in his eyes.
“The Mistress is in Circle 9,” he said.
In other words, in the lowest circle of Hell. Club Tartarus was filled with fantasy rooms, available to the clientele for varying fees. The rates rose as the elevator descended. Only the richest and most...adventurous...of Mab’s clients entered Circle 9. There, attended by the most skilled of Mab’s male and female sex workers, their darkest and most daring fantasies sprang to life. The fee was enormous. Satisfaction and inviolable anonymity were guaranteed.
Luc was intimately acquainted with the tortures of Circle 9. Just thinking about the place made his brow break out in sweat and his hands go cold. His stomach heaved. He very nearly vomited on the spot, all over Carter’s expensive cowboy boots. As if to mock his fear, at that precise moment, the ruby in his thrall collar flashed so hotly, he could smell his own burning flesh. How he made it to the elevator, he had no idea. When he came back to himself he was inside it, alone, heading down.
He stepped out into a nightmare. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a line of snapping, gas-fired sconces. Hissing steam spurted from nozzles hidden in the floor, ceiling, and walls. The audio system speakers were hidden as well. Clanking chains and the snap of a whip mingled with cries of pain and moans of sexual bliss.
He moved slowly, his eyes scanning the room. At first it appeared deserted. Then a ball of crimson hellfire blazed to life high up near the ceiling. A shaft of light cast a tight circle on a figure below.
Mab, seated on a rope sling, swung gently. A shining vinyl unitard encased her lush body. Spike-heeled leather boots covered her legs to mid-thigh. Her hellfire whip handle twirled lazily in her fingers. Its stolen gems sparkled.
Mab’s touchstone shone blood red in the valley of her cleavage. “Luc.” Her voice was soft and silky, like languid sex. “You have come back to me.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
She tapped the butt of the whip handle against the opposite palm. “Why?”
“Because...” He licked dry lips. “Because I am yours, Mistress.”
“A fine answer that would be,” she said, swinging her long legs to the ground. “If it were true.” She walked toward him, heels clicking on the floor. Steam caressed her body as she prowled through the dark. “You ran from me, Luc. With the help of that little brat. She sprang you from the cellar.”
Zephyr. Luc’s blood went cold. “What have you done to her?”
The thin line of Mab’s plucked brows rose high above her cold blue eyes. “Why, nothing, Luc. Yet.” She stalked closer. “Put her out of your mind.”
“Please, ma’am, don’t punish Zephyr. She made a mistake, opening the cellar door. I should’ve sent her away. I’m the one who’s to blame.”
Mab’s sudden smile was, perhaps, even more threatening than her darkest expression. “Ah, the truth. At last. Yes, Luc. You are to blame. Are you very sorry for your sin?” He opened his mouth to respond. She halted his words with an upraised hand. “Do not lie to me, Luc. I’ll know if you do.”
He met her gaze squarely. “No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m not sorry.”
“See? The truth isn’t difficult. You’re not sorry. Of course you aren’t.” She spun the whip handle between her fingers. “But you will be, sugar. You will be.”
She circled a finger and said a word. A dozen or more sconces set high on the walls sprung to life. Waving, licking light flooded the far end of the room, falling upon a sort of low stage. Luc swallowed thickly. A long table against the wall held all manner of instruments. Manacles. Floggers, ropes, candles. A ball gag. Butt plugs. A massive strap-on dildo.