Page 40 of Metatron
“Zilla?”
“Who else would it be? And no time for niceties. You have to rescue Francesca.”
“What happened?”
“A demon took her.”
Chapter 12
I had no problem with Tron taking off to go after the escaping imps. Actually basked in the fact he didn’t pull some macho shit and recognized I had the situation on the rooftop under control, and by control, I meant I shot the monsters.
Bang.
Bang.
The gunshots cracked loudly, and with me standing to fire, the recoil packed a punch. Given I bruised like a peach, my shoulder would be a lovely color later if I didn’t ice it. The imps I hit dropped and almost instantly turned to dust, such a handy feature when it came to cleanup. Nothing worse than trying to explain to an accidental witness that you hadn’t just killed someone. A few even tried to go to the cops, but they ran into a dilemma when they couldn’t actually produce a body.
The final imp charged me, hissing, a few greasy strands of hair jutting from its crown, its teeth missing in spots. Hideous fuckers and not one ounce of intelligence in those eyes. Now that I’d met a real demon, the difference proved startling. In questioning Metatron and Zilla about it, they’d explained that weak demons produced even weaker offspring. In simple terms, the less pure the blood, the more likely the product of a union would be born flawed, often with bestial traits that forced them into hiding. The worst of those were named imp. And once imps started reproducing with each other? They reverted to their most primitive state.
Which led to me wondering, what were such base-line imps doing here in the city in such great numbers? This wasn’t a few random strays wandering in. I glanced around as if I could see in the darkness. Being in the city provided some illumination, but none of it far-reaching. The sky itself, with its clouds, could have been full of imps for all I knew.
A glance toward the pope’s palace, and I could see the glow of Metatron’s HALO, dipping and bobbing as he fought. How I wished I could join him, but I didn’t have wings, and while close, I wasn’t close enough to feel confident about taking shots. So much for being his backup.
“Zilla, can you drop me closer to the palace? Somewhere I can help Tron?” I questioned, only to get no reply. How odd. Usually, she responded right away. Maybe she was busy. At least I knew she could track me since she’d inserted a token inside me. A piece of herself so that she could always find me.
In the distance, I could hear screaming, the spine-tingling kind that spelled fear, and then abrupt silence. Metatron’s HALO hovered, and in its glow, I could see the outline of imps, holding someone in white between them. Oh shit, the pope!
What could I do to help?
I glanced at my stash of weapons. My rifle lacked the range. I’d need to get closer, which would take time.
In that quiet moment of contemplation of my options, a whisper of fabric drew my attention, and I whirled in its direction. I froze at the sight of a strange-looking woman standing at the door from which the imps had spilled. She reminded me of Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride, all giant eyes, long dark hair, pale skin, and torn white gown trimmed in lace. A gown spattered in red and brown stains. As she walked toward me, the rags undulated as if carried by a breeze, even as the air around me remained still.
A part of me screamed, Shoot her. Another part whispered, Drop the gun. There is no danger.
Thunk. Suddenly nerveless fingers loosened, and my weapon hit the rooftop. My gaze couldn’t leave the stranger’s. As she neared, I found myself frozen in place and only when I forcibly tried to look away did I realize she spoke inside my head. But worse than that, she controlled me.
“There’s a good, tasty girl. Stand still for Isadora. Let me smell delicious terror. It’s making my tummy rumbly. What a lovely meal you’ll make.”
Nothing like being told the tang of my fear made me palatable. The creature, for this was no woman, chose to walk around me, trailed by a carrion scent, not that I could gag. My limbs remained frozen. Only my horrified mind had free will, and it screamed this wouldn’t end well, not with those fangs peeking from her upper lip.
“Daddy said not to kill you, but he didn’t say you’d be so tasty.” The woman licked her lips as she reached me and circled.
“Who. Is. Daddy.” I managed to push the words past my lips.
Her lips widened into a smile that showed more than her prominent incisors were sharp. “As if you can’t guess? Astaroth, the greatest prince to ever live. Soon, he will take his rightful place in Hell, and I will have my pick of delicious things.”
As I fought the compulsion holding me, my tongue loosened, even as my limbs didn’t. “Astaroth isn’t a great prince. He’s a loser who got stuck on this planet. Do you really think Hell’s going to reward him for needing a rescue?”
“No insulting my daddy.” The cuff to the head rocked me, and I would have blinked back the tears at the sharp pain if I could move. Only my mouth had free rein.
“Your daddy is going to be in for a rude surprise, I think, as are you and your siblings. My understanding is Hell values perfection, and you”—I paused to draw it out—“are anything but. Or have you not looked in a mirror lately?”
A giggle spilled from Isadora, chilling and insane. “Daddy says I’m beautiful. He is going to make me a princess, and I will marry a prince. I shall ask for you as my wedding gift.” The thing that I wouldn’t call a woman stood before me, head slightly cocked, eyes completely mad, and stinking of rotted meat and shit.
“Assuming he is even going to bring you when he leaves.”
“Daddy promised.” Isadora stamped her foot.