Fallen Reign (Se7en Sinners Book 4)

  Fallen Reign

  Copyright © 2018 by S.L. Jennings.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover design: By Hang Le

  Photographer: Tess Farnsworth

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  Editing: Siren’s Call Author Services

  Proofreading: Kara Hildebrand

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  For Kris

  For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favor is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.

  Psalm 30:5

  The Legion of Lost Souls

  It had been millennia since they had walked the Earth.

  Humans had changed. This world had changed. Things moved faster, colors seemed brighter, and sounds rang louder. Still, something fascinated them about this odd new realm. These people did not cling to their unwavering faith, in hopes of their savior rising to deliver them from iniquity. No. They did not crave salvation. They believed in material possessions—objects of no real consequence.

  And they embraced the one thing they were only too happy to arouse.

  Sin.

  They saw the way women—and even men—spied them with lustful gazes.

  They noticed the poor and sick on streets, and how the more fortunate looked down at them with disdain and disgust.

  They cringed as they watched humans shovel massive amounts of foul-smelling food into their mouths without even coming up for air.

  There was no modesty or decency here. People spewed their vulgar thoughts without censor or shame just as fast as the words popped into their convoluted minds. And when they weren’t reveling in the desires of their flesh, they were whoring themselves to feed their other addiction: power.

  This was a strange land, indeed.

  And they loved it.

  Their plan was to spark chaos in every corner of the world. A whisper of malice, a touch of fear. And all Hell would break loose, just as they had planned. The men of their time seemed simple in wealth and worldliness, but their convictions for their Creator were strong. But these people were devoid of any substance beyond their own selfishness. Evolved, yes. But tragically weak in faith.

  This wouldn’t just be easy. It would be fun. And that’s exactly what they planned to have. A little fun before they ripped this world to shreds.

  “Hey sugar, can I buy you a drink?”

  They looked to the source of the voice—a weary-looking woman old enough to be this body’s mother—and a slight frown dimpled their forehead. Whore, they thought. Even in tragedy, sex was still on the menu.

  It had been mere hours since The Many had bathed in the blood of Uriel’s little human puppets, yet these people acted as if the carnage was no more than a dream. They had manifested and stumbled into the darkened, nearly empty establishment to conceal their identity from lingering sycophants, expecting to be met with intense mourning. But there was none of that from what they could see, aside from a few head shakes and heavy sighs towards the television screens on the walls. Gang violence, the headlines had boasted to describe the massacre. Their massacre. One of the deadliest in Chicago to date, but still…they had been reduced to gang violence.

  They had to do better. And they would.

  They gave the woman a once over from the top of her straw-like hair to her unflattering, too-tight clothing that seemed more appropriate in size for a toddler.

  She smelled of strong wine, dirt, and ash, and her face was caked with rouge two shades too dark for her complexion. She reeked of desperation and self-hatred.

  Perfect.

  Under their intense stare, she shifted on her scuffed, heeled shoes. Turn and flee, her niggling instincts told her. No, stay and play, an odd, otherworldly voice coaxed in rebuttal.

  They wouldn’t let her go just yet. After all, she did traipse over for a reason. And they hated to let a perfectly good, vulnerable soul go to waste.

  “Yes,” they uttered, their combined voices sending a shiver up her spine. Her bloodshot eyes widened with worry and intrigue. She would not turn away, because the evil in them called to the corruption in her.

  She raised two fingers to a man behind a dark wooden barrier—a bar. Moments later, he returned with two small glasses of dark liquid the color of tree sap. They pushed them both in her direction. They didn’t need to imbibe. They were already drunk with glee.

  The woman downed them both within seconds.

  “So what’s your name?” she asked, her raspy voice boasting the beginning of a slow and painful death attributed to her many vices. Lucky for her, they would do her a favor and speed it up a bit. Maybe.

  Something roiled inside them, like hot daggers stabbing their guts, then an odd, unfamiliar sensation. One that made them clench their teeth to bite through waves of lightheadedness. They coughed, noting the tang of metallic and putrid bile that tainted their tongue. Pain. They felt excruciating pain. That shouldn’t…that wasn’t supposed to happen…

  Legion.

  He was fighting them. He was trying to take back control.

  They smiled, tasting the blood that now stained their teeth.

  He had his chance. Now it was their turn.

  Now the fallen would reign.

  “More,” they rasped, gripping the bar to support their weight. “Another round.” Another twist in their gut. They could feel their insides being shredded by flame-tipped fingernails. He was strong, but together, they were stronger. The same could not be said for this body though.

  “Are you ok, baby?” the whore inquired, noting the sweat beading on their forehead.

  They pushed off from the bar, forcing their back to straighten despite the agony twisting their torso. “Fine. I said, more!”

  The bartender frowned at their terse demand but hurriedly filled the two small glasses.

  “And more for all of our new friends. Now! And don’t stop pouring,” they nodded towards the human patrons feeding their weakness and misery with cheap whiskey. It was late morning, and from the smell of them, they’d been here since dawn.

  Like before, The Many slid the glasses to the seasoned prostitute. Reluctantly, she picked up the first glass with a shaking hand and touched it to her cracked lips. When the bartender tried to back a
way, they caught his hand, pinning it to the bar.

  “Where are we?”

  The robust, yellow-skinned human frowned, but answered. “New York. Queens.”

  Queens. What an odd name for such a drab, dejected place.

  The bartender tried to pull away, but they admonished him with a taunting tsk.

  “And where do you think you’re going?”

  “Hey asshole, I won’t stand for any trouble in my bar.”

  “Trouble?” they grinned, baring their teeth. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  “The what the fuck do you want?” the bartender spat, although the fear in his eyes contradicted his brusque tone.

  “We want your world. Your reverence. Your souls. We want the crown. But for now, we’ll settle for a little chaos.” They pushed a glass of amber liquid towards the shaken human man. “Now drink.”

  Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.

  Vengeance is mine.

  I sat still for a very long time.

  I told myself to remember to breathe, although the effort of forcing air through the knot in my throat hurt. I should have busied myself with packing for a trip I had no plans to return from. Or I could have reverted back to my old ways—drowning my contempt in a fifth of booze before crying stubborn, useless tears into the fine silk linens, as if that would do anything to rewrite the wrongs spilled onto Chicago’s pavement.

  But I did none of that.

  Honestly, I don’t even think I know how to do that anymore.

  So here I sit. Counting all the ways that I could die at the hands of the demon I love.

  Mentally reciting how I could kill him just before he slowly ripped me limb from bloody limb. Or maybe he’d show me mercy, revealing a glimmer of his shattered humanity, and mist me into red vapor before fear and agony could set in.

  None of it mattered anyway. Because I had only had one task to carry out before taking Death’s skeletal hand and following him to my daunting fate. The very task I was created for. And failure was not an option.

  The Legion of Lost Souls would destroy our world and everything in it. And to stop him, I had to become what I was created for. I had to be the very thing that Uriel had bet on when he planted his seed of vengeance into my mother’s womb and sprouted the ultimate weapon.

  No tearful goodbyes. No proclamations of unrequited love. Those were reserved for helpless human girls who had the privilege of coasting along in blissful ignorance, unknowing of the terrors that stalked in stolen skin suits.

  I can’t decide what would hurt more: being killed or killing him. Maybe it’ll happen so quickly that I won’t even feel it. Or maybe he’ll draw it out and use his last moments on earth to maim and torture me. Or maybe the agony I feel right now as I sit here with my fists balled so tight that my nails have drawn blood from my palms, is as bad as it gets. Because this pain…there’s no beginning or end to it. No light to show me the way through. Just boundless misery that cuts so deep into my raw parts that I can’t even scream.

  Yet, I don’t make a sound. I don’t move. I don’t cry. It’s as if I’ve forgotten how to even process the pain. It’s there, but it’s almost as if I’ve become numb to it. As if it’s grown too great and spread too far within me that my nerve endings have become desensitized. Or maybe what I feel is something so far from mere suffering that my mind and body have shut down in an attempt to salvage what’s left of me. My heart beats, but only out of necessity. There is no purpose in it. No reason for it to exist within the hollow of my chest other than to pump blood through my beaten and broken body. That and the only fucking reason I was still existing on this earth at all.

  Vengeance.

  Someone would pay for what happened to my city, my people, my mother. And whether that someone was The Seraph, or even the demon I had debased myself for time and time again, they would pay with their last breath.

  I dash away tears that have long dried and look down at the small arsenal on the bedspread. I could do some serious damage with the weapons I’d collected, and to increase their effectiveness, each bullet and every blade is tipped in angelsbane. But even with the mini cache and my will-bending abilities—courtesy of dear old dad, the archangel prick who made me—there’s one thing missing. The Redeemer, the Se7en’s most sacred relic, and the only thing guaranteed strong enough to bring down a Seraph. I saw it happen just hours ago when Legion grabbed Raphael, using him as an angelic shield seconds before the tip of the blade sliced into his own chest. The knife was known to kill demons. This new revelation that it’s also lethal to angels, even the strongest, deadliest of them all, is a game changer for all parties involved. No one is safe. Especially not the remaining Seraphim.

  There’s a quick rap at my door, but I ignore it. I know who it is. I can sense him—taste him. His scent clings to invisible dust particles in the air, a sensual concoction of belladonna blooms and raw passion. And every speck of dust that drifts across the room to dance upon my skin is charged with an electrical current that nearly sizzles on contact. With every inward breath, I taste the remnants of our kiss—cotton candy, sea mist, and night—and I’m back at the top of the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier. Just a girl from the wrong side of town, stealing a few moments of unburdened bliss.

  I bite my lip to deny myself a gasp. Everything about Lucifer is erotic, and I hate it. Not just the way my body responds to his, but because even when I truly want to find a glimmer of trust in those violet, sparkling eyes, he never fails to prove that he is undoubtedly evil. Gorgeous, charismatic, and refined, but inherently evil to his core.

  And he’s all I’ve got.

  Another knock, and I hear him gently clear his throat from the other side of the door, a minuscule yet obvious sign of his disenchantment. It must really piss him off that I’m making him wait, especially when he can magically appear before me through whatever wicked sorcery he may possess. Or maybe this fucked up game of cat and mouse excites him—me telling him to fuck off every chance I get, him only using my words to fuel his twisted infatuation with me. I don’t get it. This was exactly what he wanted—for Legion and me to be apart. So why would he offer to help me find him?

  To kill him? I don’t believe that. He’s had more than enough chances to end him, but through a brotherly bond neither of them can deny, he hasn’t.

  To save him? That would suggest that there’s a chance that Legion could be saved. After what we all witnessed—Legion plunging The Redeemer into Jinn’s heart before ripping through dozens of demon-possessed civilians—it’s more than evident that Legion is beyond redemption. And as badly as I want to try, there may be nothing left worth saving.

  The man I love is dead. We all watched with terror-filled eyes as he purged his humanity and shifted into death and destruction incarnate. An evil so great that even the Devil himself stood in frozen horror as his brother slaughtered his way through Grant Park.

  I lift my heavy, exhausted frame from the bed and cross the room to the door. But before I twist the knob of my fate and let the devil in, I release a heavy breath, trying desperately to expel the haunting images that flash through my mind whenever I let my resolve slip.

  I’ve been through literal Hell. But the last twenty-four hours tested me in every way I never knew possible. It stretched me raw and bloody and left me open to a whole new realm of horror that shouldn’t even be whispered in nightmares. And now that the dust has settled and the adrenaline has subsided, I can’t afford to lick my wounds and feel sorry for myself. I have to work with the fate I’ve been dealt. Even if it means bargaining with the Devil.

  I whip open the door in a bluster, ignoring the cunning, crooked smile on Lucifer’s sensual mouth. “I need you to do something for me.”

  His violet eyes flare with mirth, and he licks his lips as if he can taste the promise in my words. “And hello to you too,” he croons.

  “I’m serious. I need you to make a
deal with me.”

  “Oh? Do tell.”

  He crosses over the threshold of my bedroom door, hands in the pockets of his pristine slacks, and I hold my breath. His presence is overwhelming as it is. But having him so close, close enough for me to note the specks of blue and green in his gaze, feels wrong. It feels like betrayal. We may be plotting Legion’s demise, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love him. That every part of me doesn’t ache with the memory of him in my bed and me in his arms. And if I concentrate really hard, I can still feel the ghost of him throbbing inside me, thrumming with that inhuman heartbeat reminiscent of a hummingbird’s wings.

  Lucifer moves to the armchair and gingerly picks up a discarded scrap of clothing, something I’d tossed in my flustered packing. Of course, it’s a pair of skimpy, black lace panties. Of-fucking-course. He lifts playful brows and let’s out a low whistle.

  “Don’t forget to pack these.”

  I roll my eyes. “If you’re done being a child, I’d like to discuss the terms of our deal. Unless you’d like me to seek out someone else. I’m sure there are countless demons running around who would be more than willing to oblige me.”

  He barely twitches. Barely lets that perfect mask of elegance and nonchalance slip. But I see it. The slight flare of his nostrils. The narrowing of his eyes. The way his full, almost feminine lips seem to pale. He’s jealous. And it’s that jealousy that I’ll need to exploit and manipulate to pull this off.

  “You needn’t seek anyone else. I’ll indulge you.” He says it so smoothly, as if his presence is a gift.

  “I want to know that if I fail…if I can’t bring my self to do it, you’ll stop Legion. No matter who you have to kill.” No matter if you have to sacrifice me.

  He dips his head from side to side, weighing my heavy request. I’ve just asked for the impossible. Legion is his brother—his blood. The one he loved so much that he incited a holy war in order to save him.

  “Interesting.” He brings a hand up to brush his bottom lip with his thumb. “And what’s in it for me?”