Company of Angels 02 - The Demoness of Waking Dreams

curled around the little glass vial hanging on a delicate gold chain around her neck. The single object she had managed to salvage during her rapid departure from America. The contents of that little vial would help her achieve her heart’s most fervent desire.
    Revenge.
    She had gone to America to get revenge. And she had failed miserably.
    Luciana’s plan had been to make Julian Ascher pay for all the things he had done to her. For getting her into the insufferable business of being a Rogue demon in the first place. When that plan had failed, she had nearly managed to kill the fledgling angel he was screwing—a moronically innocent girl called Serena St. Clair. And after failing to finish that kill, too, Luciana had only narrowly escaped capture at the hands of the Company of Angels.
    And then she had returned home.
    Exhausted. Depleted. But still alive.
    Julian Ascher will pay, she thought. The Company of Angels will pay.
    Luciana would have vengeance on them all. Inside of her, a dark alchemy had transformed this longing into a substance so hard and so sharp, it might have cut diamond. Once she finished with her annual hunt, she would turn her mind to completing her revenge.
    At the thought of it, she smiled.
    The boat cruised out from under the bridge, back into the sunshine.
    Luciana tilted her face upward in the humid air, gazing at the palazzos lining the waterway in their elegant decay. The day was still new. The possibilities, endless. The winding streets of Venice teemed with people, already beginning their preparations for tonight’s festivities.
    “You’re looking better already, baronessa, ” Massimo said, smiling back at her.
    “Thank you, Massimo. The city is a balm to my soul,” she said. “And the Redentore Festival always brings me such joy.”
    The fireworks display and homage to the Virgin Mary marked the height of every summer. Boats decked with garlands would crowd St. Mark’s Basin for the pyrotechnic spectacle. Restaurants and bars would overflow with drunken patrons. The canals would stream with locals and tourists alike, come to watch and to party.
    Venetians were masters of celebration. They had been honing the art of revelry for centuries. Looking up from their preparations, a boatful of shirtless men whistled as they watched her boat speed past.
    “Che bellissima!” one of them shouted. “Ciao, bella!”
    Ah, sì. The catcall. That was another thing Venetian men had mastered.
    Normally, she simply ignored such men. Had been doing so since adolescence, when her womanhood had begun to flower. This time, she gave them an enigmatic little smile and called back, “Te lo puoi sognare!”
    In your dreams…
    * * *
     
    Across an ocean, the full moon shone brightly on a night that was just beginning.
    Brandon Clarkson was deep undercover in the seediest area of downtown Detroit. A greasy sheen covered his body from not having showered in days, a stale feeling of exhaustion hung in his lungs. His ripped jeans and leather jacket, unwashed and overripe.
    To look at him, you would never guess he was what he was.
    A cop.
    Not one of the drug dealers he had been tracking for months.
    He slid into the dark alley, following the criminals he was on the verge of catching. He was close, so close. Knew they were here. Sensed their heartbeats nearby, could feel their breath mingling with the cool night breeze. The scent of them hanging in the air, alongside the smell of urine and garbage rotting in the darkness. The skitter of unseen vermin, animal and human, hidden in the shadows, surrounded him.
    Something in the pit of his gut called to him, a little voice whispering urgently that something wasn’t right here.
    There’s trouble …
    His brain overrode it, with a message that was loud and clear.
    You’ve been hunting these criminals for the past six months. This may be the only chance you’ll ever get.
    It was time to put these scumbags away. He knew their habits. Knew the sheer volume of their trade. Had seen a warehouse’s worth of heroin and cocaine pass through their hands, enough to keep the entire city of Detroit high for a week.
    He stepped forward, moving farther into the alley, holding his handgun at eye level, ready to shoot.
    Tonight’s the night, he told himself. This ends right here.
    He heard a noise behind him. A few quick footsteps striking on the pavement. A pop so loud he thought his eardrum might have erupted. And then his spine exploded. He felt a burst of pain that