Savage Wings: Book Three of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 12

I stared at the man who was still holding out his hand in greeting.

Could I even call him a man? Creature? Being? Higher power?

Beast.

The problem was he looked more like an indie rock-god than he did a hooved nightmare with twisted horns. He looked more like the stuff of every teenage girl's (and hot-blooded woman's) fantasy than he did the bringer of pestilence and disease. Reaching close to six foot tall, the Devil was beautiful indeed, with contoured cheekbones, smooth flawless skin and mid-brown hair that fell foppishly over his forehead. Dressed in slim fitting black trousers, black shirt rolled up to the elbows and black waistcoat, unbuttoned, he cut a lithe handsome figure. His eyes proved a mystery, first hazel, then a tilt of his head and they were a striking azure, he blinked and they were the darkest chocolate. The myriad of colours was almost as hypnotic as his smile, which was warm and inviting, holding no obvious malice or malevolence.

It's a quandary, isn't it? he said. Do I take his hand? What will happen to me if I do? He held it up in front of his face and wiggled his fingers. It's always the same. Curious really because it looks just like a normal hand. There is nothing remotely special about it, nothing out of the ordinary. Although I have been told - and I'm not bragging you understand, I despise braggarts - that this hand can work magic in certain situations and yet to me this hand is simply a hand. Oh well, never mind. I understand your reticence.

Lowering his arm, he hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his black waistcoat. Behind him, the demons massed together in a semi-circle, the most heinous of congregations in thrall to their dark pastor. Their bodies entwined and twisted together until it was hard to discern whether they were separate monsters or whether their flesh had fused together to form one multi-headed hellish mutant. They licked at each other's skin with long forked tongues, their clawed hands caressing quivering flesh in a lewd fashion.

Lucifer followed the direction of my gaze and frowned, his dark brows furrowing deeply as he shot them what looked like a warning glare. The closest ones whimpered, bowing their heads and backing up a few steps, their wounded cries like the plaintive mewling of animals.

My apologies, he said, his tone sounding strangely genuine. Their enthusiasm knows no bounds but their social skills are severely lacking. His rainbow eyes raked over me, making my skin prickle wherever they touched. I can see they make you uncomfortable. Would you care to join me in a walk?

I wanted to say no. Hell, I wanted to scream it. But instead I found myself falling in step beside him, albeit a few metres apart, and as we walked I couldn't resist staring at him, constantly aware that my own social skills weren't exactly commendable at this point and yet unable to drag my eyes away from this strange man who seemed utterly at odds with the shadows that undulated and writhed on all sides.

As soon as that thought entered my head, the world around me shifted and changed. Gone was the dark churning seas of Purgatory, the stinking sulphurous wasteland and the constant howls of agony that tainted the air and in its place were lush green coiffured landscaped gardens reminiscent of some Jane Austen novel. Under my feet, a manicured uniform lawn stretched out ahead punctuated at regular intervals by sculptured fountains spraying water high into the air. Bordering us on both sides were neatly-clipped hedgerows and the sound of birds busily chirping in the trees and above stretched a wide expanse of sunny blue sky.

With a panicked gasp, I threw myself to the ground, instinctively curling up into a tight ball, shielding my head with my hands and remembering all too well the feeling of my skin melting under the sun's cruel touch.

Megan! Lucifer said. It's okay. His fingertips grazed my shoulder. It's not real, Megan. You're safe. You're not burning.