Before she saw him, before she saw even his monstrous feline daemon who was not a daemon, she knew that he was there. Zebedee tensed on her lap, his feathers rustling under her hand. “Jane…” he whispered.
Jane gathered him up in her arms and stood to release him. She would have preferred to keep him as close as possible, but if the fallen angel and his lioness were coming, the only chance she had was to send her daemon out of their reach. Zebedee’s strong pheasant wings took him to the rafters, and Jane closed her eyes and prayed.
A floorboard creaked, close enough to reveal that something heavy with a silent footfall was right in front of her. The fallen angel’s voice was at more of a distance, but not by much. “Open your eyes, Drusilla.”
She kept them shut, no longer in prayer but defiance. “My name is not Drusilla!”
He laughed, and she heard him step closer. “Aye, and mine wasn’t Angelus. You’ll embrace it soon enough.”
A finger stroked along her cheek and under her chin, tipping her face upward. She squeezed her lids tighter, but hot tears were pushing through. <i>I was so close to freedom,</i> she thought wretchedly. <i>He could not have touched me once I took the holy orders. How, how did he find me?</i>
There was a dissatisfied grumble, and then a feminine voice: “I want the bird. Where is he?”
At the threat to her daemon, primal fear made Jane’s eyes pop open. Facing the languid cruelty in the lioness’s eyes as she was, she didn’t look up to the rafters, but Angelus did. “Pay attention, Slabhra,” he scolded, then extended an arm to point, over Jane’s head and behind her. “There’s a fine cock pheasant for our table.”
Slabhra liked to hunt. Jane had watched, helpless, as her family’s daemons had fallen one by one to the lioness. Mother’s poor hedgehog had tried to defend himself the only way he could, only for the great claws to worm their way into the ball of spines and tear into the underbelly. Anne’s daemon hadn’t been old enough to settle, and he had flickered from wolf to hawk to deer to python as Slabhra tore mercilessly into him.
Jane hadn’t truly thought that she was safe with Zebedee up high, but she had hoped this would gain her a cleaner death, one without her daemon’s suffering as the final sensation of her life. She cast an imploring look at Angelus; maybe he would grow impatient with the chase and take her now.
He grinned back at her, features transforming. In two great bounds, the lioness had leapt from the floor to the cabinet to Zebedee’s roost, returning to the fallen angel’s side with the pheasant held firmly in her jaws.
Jane’s scream was cut off by fangs in her own neck. Zebedee made a pitiful sound. As her blood ebbed away, the grip on her daemon tightened, on and on in a nightmare spiral until darkness finally took her.
From the aether he materialized, El-cana’m. He was a creature of bone and claw and flightless wing, a lesser god of the jungle-hell, an embodiment of rage and madness, a companion of the heart, neither friend nor enemy. His round eyes blazed. Somewhere, Slabhra was laughing with delight.
“Tell me your song,” Drusilla commanded.
The bird raised his heavy head. “I HAVE NO SONG. I AM THE DEATH OF MUSIC. I AM YOUR ONLY LOVE.”
Angelus leaned forward. So he was here, too. “Perhaps he’s right,” he chuckled. “I’ll not be your love, after all, my Dru.” Casually he reached out and took El-cana’m’s face in his hand, and waves of ecstacy and revulsion coursed through Drusilla’s still heart. “A fine sin you are.”
The bird wrenched himself away and let out a blood-curdling cry. “A FINE SIN! A FINE SIN!”
Somewhere in Drusilla’s memory, a pheasant flew away for the last time.
Jane gathered him up in her arms and stood to release him. She would have preferred to keep him as close as possible, but if the fallen angel and his lioness were coming, the only chance she had was to send her daemon out of their reach. Zebedee’s strong pheasant wings took him to the rafters, and Jane closed her eyes and prayed.
A floorboard creaked, close enough to reveal that something heavy with a silent footfall was right in front of her. The fallen angel’s voice was at more of a distance, but not by much. “Open your eyes, Drusilla.”
She kept them shut, no longer in prayer but defiance. “My name is not Drusilla!”
He laughed, and she heard him step closer. “Aye, and mine wasn’t Angelus. You’ll embrace it soon enough.”
A finger stroked along her cheek and under her chin, tipping her face upward. She squeezed her lids tighter, but hot tears were pushing through. <i>I was so close to freedom,</i> she thought wretchedly. <i>He could not have touched me once I took the holy orders. How, how did he find me?</i>
There was a dissatisfied grumble, and then a feminine voice: “I want the bird. Where is he?”
At the threat to her daemon, primal fear made Jane’s eyes pop open. Facing the languid cruelty in the lioness’s eyes as she was, she didn’t look up to the rafters, but Angelus did. “Pay attention, Slabhra,” he scolded, then extended an arm to point, over Jane’s head and behind her. “There’s a fine cock pheasant for our table.”
Slabhra liked to hunt. Jane had watched, helpless, as her family’s daemons had fallen one by one to the lioness. Mother’s poor hedgehog had tried to defend himself the only way he could, only for the great claws to worm their way into the ball of spines and tear into the underbelly. Anne’s daemon hadn’t been old enough to settle, and he had flickered from wolf to hawk to deer to python as Slabhra tore mercilessly into him.
Jane hadn’t truly thought that she was safe with Zebedee up high, but she had hoped this would gain her a cleaner death, one without her daemon’s suffering as the final sensation of her life. She cast an imploring look at Angelus; maybe he would grow impatient with the chase and take her now.
He grinned back at her, features transforming. In two great bounds, the lioness had leapt from the floor to the cabinet to Zebedee’s roost, returning to the fallen angel’s side with the pheasant held firmly in her jaws.
Jane’s scream was cut off by fangs in her own neck. Zebedee made a pitiful sound. As her blood ebbed away, the grip on her daemon tightened, on and on in a nightmare spiral until darkness finally took her.
From the aether he materialized, El-cana’m. He was a creature of bone and claw and flightless wing, a lesser god of the jungle-hell, an embodiment of rage and madness, a companion of the heart, neither friend nor enemy. His round eyes blazed. Somewhere, Slabhra was laughing with delight.
“Tell me your song,” Drusilla commanded.
The bird raised his heavy head. “I HAVE NO SONG. I AM THE DEATH OF MUSIC. I AM YOUR ONLY LOVE.”
Angelus leaned forward. So he was here, too. “Perhaps he’s right,” he chuckled. “I’ll not be your love, after all, my Dru.” Casually he reached out and took El-cana’m’s face in his hand, and waves of ecstacy and revulsion coursed through Drusilla’s still heart. “A fine sin you are.”
The bird wrenched himself away and let out a blood-curdling cry. “A FINE SIN! A FINE SIN!”
Somewhere in Drusilla’s memory, a pheasant flew away for the last time.
