Chapter 2

Ichecked the rearview mirror. Sandy-hair had gripped me low on the throat. Four little bruises marked the left side of my neck above my collarbone. A fat bluish thumbprint was higher on the other side. Thank God for Mindy's supersonic concealer, making them nearly invisible.

"Good enough," I said to my messy reflection.

After a birthday celebration that had left me battered, bruised, and extremely confused, I'd fallen into bed last night without setting the alarm. Mindy had been so wrapped up in her darling David and his heroic ability to carry her through the club, to the car, and then up one tiny flight of stairs to our apartment that she lavished kisses on him all the way home before collapsing into an appletini coma.

Steven had been more difficult to deal with. He insisted that he'd been hit on the head in the alley until I convinced him otherwise. No way was I admitting what really happened. When he mentioned that he'd taken some sinus medicine earlier that night, I persuaded him to believe he'd just had a bad reaction mixing medicine with alcohol.

I grabbed my backpack and red hoodie from the backseat, stuffed my iPhone in my shorts pocket, and took off. I practically sprinted across campus to Professor Bennett's classroom, slipping into my hoodie as I went.

Ugh. Professor Bennett. Nicely shaven. Well-groomed. Graying at the temples. Designer black-rimmed glasses and polished loafers. Wears a different blazer with dark jeans every single day. His professor-ish trappings and illusion of perfection apparently gave him the right to lord over the rest of us like we were slovenly, uneducated peasants.

Perhaps it was his attitude that made me dress more unkempt than usual for his class. The rebel in me couldn't help it.

I was tying my hair up into a messy bun as I entered the classroom. He'd already launched into one of his perfectly articulated lectures.

"Greetings, Ms. Drake. So good of you to grace us with your presence."

I plopped down in the front row.

"You're very welcome, Professor Bennett. I do aim to please."

Straight face. No smile. From either of us.

"Since you seem ready to go this morning, how about you take the first stab at explaining last night's reading from Milton?"

Oh crap. Homework. I'd glanced over it yesterday over lunch but hadn't taken any notes or anything. I opened my Norton Anthology.

"Page?"

"Page 908," came his sharp response, "where Lucifer first speaks."

I reread the excerpt from Paradise Lost.

Here at least we shall be free;

the Almighty hath not built here for his envy,

will not drive us hence:

here we may reign secure,

and in my choice to reign is worth ambition, though in Hell: Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.

There wasa bit of rambling from the devil before and after, but this was the crux of the speech.

"Well, it seems that the Fallen Angel is pouting about being thrown out of heaven, but he's also happy to have a place of his own where God can't tell him what to do. Sort of like kids going away to college."

A few snickers behind me. Professor Bennett's mouth tightened into a line.

"True, Ms. Drake. But what do you think of the quote where Milton expounds on the topic when he says, ‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.' How are these ideas related to Lucifer's fall?"

Damn, he was really punishing me for being late. I pondered a second or two.

"I suppose the idea that Hell has become Lucifer's kingdom or domain where he can reign however he sees fit is similar to our minds. We can choose to use our knowledge or intellect to create beautiful things like art or terrible things like war."

"Not exactly—"

"Or," I cut him off before he shot me down, "it could mean that we use our minds to make beautiful things ugly or ugly things beautiful with the way we view the world, treat others, or just live our own lives."

How's that for only having taken Philosophy 101? Professor Bennett was about to reply, but I had a question for him this time.

"What I want to know is what's so great about reigning and being in charge? Lucifer goes on and on about how power in hell is better than being a servant in heaven. But who wants all those responsibilities? I don't get it. I'd rather do my own thing and not worry about everybody else."

"Not everyone is like you, Genevieve," said Carol next to me, the stuck-up blonde who was the daughter of a senator or congressman or something.

Poor them.

"True, Ms. Drake," said Professor Bennett. "Power is a responsibility."

"Yeah," agreed my study partner Malcolm, "just like Uncle Ben said, ‘With great power comes great responsibility.'"

"Who's Uncle Ben?" asked Carol.

Malcolm rolled his eyes.

"From Spider-Man? Come on. Seriously?"

"So," I continued, "if the devil has all this power in hell, why does he need to possess people? He can do whatever he wants in his own domain. Why mess around up here?"

"Ms. Drake, you're confusing Milton's fiction with demon mythology. Both of which aren't actually real. You know that, right?"

"No, I don't know that. How do you know?"

An expression of self-satisfied smugness plastered itself on his perfect face.

"It is known in all intellectual circles. Demons do not actually exist. Angels do not actually exist. This is a tale to discuss on the intellectual plane, not for determining the reality of the devil's actions."

Carol giggled. I wanted to slap the blonde right off her. Wouldn't take much since she dyed it like once a week.

"But what if you're wrong?" I pushed.

"I'm not, Ms. Drake. Shall we move on? Carol, would you read the next selection?"

Just like that, I was dismissed by the all-knowing Professor Bennett. First off, I believed in angels. I knew my mom was among them somewhere up there. And second, I was damn sure demons existed because I saw one get ripped out of Sandy-hair's face last night.

Even if I was still reeling from the experience, I wasn't so dumb as to ignore what I saw with my own damn eyes.

Poor Professor Bennett. He really didn't know what he was talking about, even with all those academic letters behind his name.

I practically jumped for joy when class ended, shoving my books back into my backpack. Malcolm caught up to me outside.

"Way to go, Drake. Master of disaster." He laughed.

"So glad I could entertain."

"Always. Study group tomorrow night, right?"

"Yep. Meet you at the library, as usual, say six o'clock?"

"Sounds good. See ya then."

He loped off in the other direction as I headed for my car. No way could I handle translating Cicero today in Latin class. Too heavy after last night. It was okay. Professor Minga loved me in that class. I was calling my own sick day after the lovely debate on Milton.

Professor Bennett's words still milled through my mind as I walked across Loyola's campus to my car.

The weather was changing. I zipped my hoodie and hiked my backpack up higher on my shoulder. Hugging myself as I walked, my mind drifted to my mother. Must be all this talk of Milton.

As an artist, my mother admired Gustave Doré, who illustrated scenes from Milton's sad tales. She painted his drawings with her own impressionistic style. While Doré's originals were all black and white, my mother's were smeared with vibrant, wild color. Doré's artwork evoked a kind of stillness, but not my mother's. You couldn't view one of them without feeling something—horror, awe, pity, joy.

For some reason, her rendition of Doré's "Numberless Bad Angels" kept popping into my head. My mother's painting showed a smoky-blue heaven with a twisted line of fiendish-looking angels trailing behind Lucifer, who was depicted as a beautiful, fair-haired angel. All the others flew in a long shadow behind him.

I'd always wondered why mother showed the worst of the worst in this way—glowing and glorious. Maybe she was trying to imply that evil hides behind a beautiful face. I don't know why, but the image never left me.

I can see her now in the garage studio, standing in front of the canvas in paint-stained jeans. She dipped the brush and stroked in swift, curving motions. Music played in the background. She was partial to Wagner and Bach, but any classical composer could plunge her into another world.

The day she created the host of fallen angels, the distinct melancholy tune of Mozart's "Requiem Mass" lilted through the room. I sat on the stool in the corner, watching for hours.

My mother seemed to be guided by the music itself, slowing or speeding up with the tempo. Wispy strands of fair hair hung around her face as she lost herself in a world of blues, pinks and gold, of shadow and light, of dark angels and a darker demon with a beguiling face.

"Let it go," I whispered to myself, sighing and walking faster.

I'd parked illegally on the street, knowing full well I'd probably have a ticket on the windshield when I returned. Campus cops were like sharks in bloody waters, sniffing out offenders with notorious stealth. You never saw them but sure as hell felt bitten when they got you.

Dreading to see that I'd been attacked by one of these predators, I rounded the corner, and my heart stopped.

Propped beautifully against my silver 350ZX was my rescuer, the dark stranger from last night. Faded jeans fit snugly on his hips, and a gray T-shirt accentuated a perfect upper body. His black hair fell just right across lovely dark eyes. With casually crossed arms, he watched me approach.

Heart, please stop pounding that way before he notices.

This was no accident. He'd found me somehow. Should I be afraid? He didn't look dangerous. Well, not in a serial-killer sort of way. Hell, he looked good enough to eat. Totally faking bravado, I stopped in front of him with one hand on my waist.

"Are you stalking me?"

He didn't answer, eyeing me from bottom to top. His gaze paused at my throat, his jaw clenched, then he finally made its way to my eyes. Still mute.

I hated awkward silences.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you it's not polite to stare?"

That seemed to jar him a bit. He straightened, his expression grim at best.

"I apologize. I was—"

"Checking me out. Yeah, I got that loud and clear."

Damn, I was brave. He cleared his throat, hiding a smile now.

"I was going to say, examining you." He gestured to my neck.

"Examining? Why? Are you a doctor?"

"Of sorts."

"What sort of sort?"

"I have a doctorate."

No way. He seemed too young to have a Ph.D.

"A doctorate in what?" I asked skeptically.

"Philosophy."

"Your expertise?" I asked, noting the somewhat sarcastic lilt in my voice. He didn't bat an eye.

"My thesis was on how weapons reflect the savagery and sophistication of a culture and society."

That accent again. Definitely European. But what country?

"Well, a Ph.D. in weaponry may give you some idea how to inflict injuries, but it doesn't qualify you to examine and diagnose them."

"True."

Ha! One point for me.

"So…" I let the word hang. "How could you possibly have a Ph.D. in anything at your age?"

"I'm older than I appear."

A slow, slow devastating smile. A fluttering in my stomach felt like a frantic flock of blind birds. Re-lax, Gen. Thank God he spoke because, for the moment, my lips had completely forgotten how to form words.

"I simply wanted to determine whether you'd recovered from last night's attack," he said, pushing off my car and coming closer.

Oh no. He was going to touch me. Genevieve Elizabeth Drake, do NOT faint.

He reached out and gently folded back my hoodie. He lifted my chin and angled it so that he could see the marks I knew were purpled along the left side. Why was I letting this stranger get so close? Even if he was picture-book gorgeous. I pushed his hand away and stepped around him to my car.

"I'm fine," I mumbled, pulling the keys from the front pocket of my backpack. "What I want to know is how you knew where to find me. And why are you following me? It's a bit creepy, even if you did save my life last night."

We'd now switched places. I leaned back against my car. He stood there, examining me again, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of those yummy jeans.

"Yesterday was your twentieth birthday, wasn't it?"

Okay. Double creepy.

"How did you know?"

My question confirmed whatever idea he had in his head. I could see it in the nod and drop of his perfect cleft chin.

Two girls flitted by, engrossed in a conversation. One nudged the other when they caught sight of him, ogling shamelessly. They giggled. Couldn't blame them, but it pissed me off for some reason. He gave them no actual notice, turning back to me.

"I think we should go somewhere private to talk."

Said the creepy man to the little girl with a lollipop and a white van waiting around the corner.

"Um, I don't think so." I crossed my arms. "I don't know you. And no matter what you did for me last night, at this point, I don't trust you."

He shifted weight to his other leg. "As you wish. We'll talk here."

"Not that I'm ungrateful, but why were you following me last night? Into the alley?"

"I wasn't following you. I was following the demon."

Wishing that he hadn't just confirmed that last night wasn't a figment of my imagination, I sighed.

"Fair enough. How did you know it was my birthday?"

"Last night, I wondered but thought it impossible. I had not thought to meet another like you in all my time as a…" He paused, glancing around and lowering his voice. "As a Dominus Daemonum."

I shook my head. "Okay, hold up. Met one what before? And what the hell is a dominus da-whatever-you-said?"

Dark, enchanting eyes kept me still, even with my saucy attitude. A face chiseled in stone regarded me with care.

I would never admit it, but I was afraid to move. Something in those almost-black depths warned me that what he spoke of now would change my life forever. What's more, I knew those words. They were Latin. But the translation in my head didn't make sense.

"The what is a Vessel," he finally said. "And a Dominus Daemonum is a Master of Demons."

"Do you mean like a…a demon hunter?"

He nodded. No smile.

"That is what I am," he said.

"And what's a Vessel?"

"That is what you are."

"Okay," I said, drawing the word out in that you're-either-insane-or-stupid tone of voice. "Tell me what it is precisely that you think I am. What is this Vessel?"

He stepped closer. His presence suddenly became enormous and heavy. My heart picked up in pace. Those dark eyes stared down, bewitching me again. His words were more terrifying than any demon at that very moment.

"A Vessel," he said, his voice brushing against me like velvet, "is a unique being that demons may seek for centuries but never find."

I scoffed, forcing a laugh from my completely constricted throat. "This is crazy. Absolutely insane. I can hardly register what you're saying to me because it's just so…so fucking insane!"

I threw my hands in the air, exasperated. A guy walking by sped up, probably thinking he witnessed a lover's quarrel. I wish.

He stepped closer and peered down at me with something like sympathy in his eyes. I swallowed hard.

"Whether you can register what I'm saying or not is irrelevant. Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant. Truth is truth."

"Verum est verum," I whispered automatically.

His eyes narrowed. "You speak Latin?"

"Some."

"Not surprising."

"Why is that not surprising?"

"Because a Vessel would be drawn to the old tongue. You'll need it as a tool to defend yourself."

I closed my eyes, shutting him out. I needed a moment to come to grips with all of this. At the same time, I wanted to know more. Something inside itched to understand everything. I opened my eyes. He waited patiently. Watching.

"So," I sighed, "why would demons want a Vessel? What does that even mean?"

I knew I didn't want to know the answer. But I've always been too curious for my own good. His placid expression tensed with agony for a split second before straightening into a mask of indifference.

"Because once a demon bends a Vessel's will to his own, he can possess her at any time and control her without interference from the Vessel herself or from a Dominus Daemonum. Her power becomes his power. The demon can commit untold horrors. There are no rules or limits barring what can be done when in possession of a Vessel. Hence, the demons' attraction to her."

My heart beat a feverish pattern in my throat. How I found my voice, I do not know.

"Rules?"

"Yes, there are rules."

"For demons?"

"For demons. For everyone."

There was more to that statement.

"If I'm a Vessel, why haven't they been after me my whole life?"

"Because a Vessel will aperio on her twentieth birthday."

I frowned. "Are you testing my Latin skills?"

He didn't respond, just waited patiently. I had no patience, rolling my eyes.

"What does that mean that the Vessel will open?" I emphasized the word so he'd get that I was smarter than he thought. The left side of his lips lifted a fraction, barely a half-smile. "And why on my twentieth birthday?"

"Aperio refers to the very moment you become exactly two decades old."

I pondered this a second. My mother used to tell me how the full moon brought me early into her arms. I was definitely born at night. In the recovery room lit only by the luminescent globe high in the night sky, she sang to me a lullaby. She had painted this scene as she remembered it. The moment was frozen forever in shades of indigo, blue and pearly white over the mantel at home.

"I can only speculate about the age," he explained. "In numerology, twenty represents a call for spiritual upheaval, political revolution, or economic reform."

"That can be bad or good, depending on what the upheaval or revolution is about."

"Yes. A priest I once knew, an enlightened man, said it represents the source of all energy in the world, but he thought it ominous because it also represented the universal fight."

"Universal fight? What's that?"

"War." His voice dipped low, soft, his obsidian eyes capturing mine.

I didn't breathe, couldn't.

An autumn breeze fluttered past, lifting wisps of hair around my neck. I heard leaves scraping along the pavement behind me, but I was transfixed, unable to break away. Someone passed on a bike.

His gaze broke from mine to follow the biker, then he continued. "In Hebrew, this number is represented by the letter caph, in the form of an opened hand, meaning to seize and to hold."

"I don't understand."

My mind reeled, trying to process everything he was telling me in his easy tone as if talk of universal turmoil was an everyday occurrence. Who am I kidding? Of course, it was.

"Genevieve," he almost whispered, stepping into my space again. He really needed lessons on personal boundaries.

His scent invaded me, circled me in a woodsy heat that was all his own. "All I know is that at this exact age, the Vessel opens, and the opposing sides vie for her—the Dark and the Light. The demons will come for you. The light is already within you. Who wins will be determined only by you."

"Are you kidding me? Who in the hell would choose to go with demons?"

His face darkened. His eyes grew distant, colder. His voice dropped even lower, a rumble of rolling thunder. "Many have. Many would." A tingling chill crawled up my spine.

"But I don't feel any different. Wouldn't I know if I was a so-called Vessel?"

"You will."

He was as certain as the sky is blue. I could see that in his determined expression. But I wasn't so sure. I played along for the moment.

"Okay. So if what you're saying is true, then why did that demon want to kill me last night? Why didn't he just want to…to possess me?"

The thought made bile rise in my throat.

"I don't know." He glanced at the marks on my neck again. "That puzzles me exceedingly."

I scoffed.

"Puzzles you exceedingly? Are you kidding me? In the past twelve hours, I've been groped by a red-eyed demon on a dance floor, nearly strangled to death in an alley, watched an actual demon being pulled from another man's body, and now I've been casually informed by my new stalker, a Dominus whatever, that I'm like chocolate cake to every demon alive and all of them want a piece of me."

He came back from that faraway place, studying me with a smirk on those pretty lips.

"Chocolate cake. That's quite a metaphor."

Was he flirting with me?

"It was a simile," I snapped back, not even blinking. "I have to go." I clicked my key fob to unlock the door.

"There's more we need to discuss."

"Not today. Thanks for the pep talk. It's been real. Too real, but I can't take any more of this right now. I don't know what to believe." I tossed my backpack in the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. "That's another thing. How do you know so much about me? How do you know my name? I don't even know yours. I can't keep calling you—"

"Dominus whatever?" he asked with the smallest of smiles.

"Yeah. Right."

"My name is Jude Delacroix. Call me when you catch your breath, Genevieve." He passed me a business card. "I need to prepare you before the next one comes searching for you."

The card was stark white with his name in all caps and a phone number—no fancy symbols or details of any business.

"Man of mystery, eh?"

"I only give it to those who know who I am and what I do."

"Hmm. You could add some devil horns with a big X on it or something. Give it some pizzazz."

He was trying so hard not to smile. Somehow that made me giddy. He stood up and closed the door. I started the car, then heard a light tap of knuckles on the window. I lowered it.

"Call me, Genevieve. Soon. There's not much time to waste." His mouth straightened into a somber line.

I nodded, unable to speak. I'd run out of smart comebacks. I shifted into gear and sped away. My mind reeled with the current state of affairs.

If I could possibly swallow everything Jude had told me, I had several issues to consider. One—I was a Vessel, some mystical thing I'd never heard of before in my life. Two—demons would be hunting me, and soon. Three—my new would-be protector was probably the hottest man alive.