Lost in Time (Blue Bloods 6)

It was a Croatan, a silver-haired angel—beautiful but with hard, flat crimson eyes, and scars on his face that marked him as one of Lucifer’s own. The Corrupted leered at her, and Schuyler could smell its lust as a physical assault, as he sent her images that she could not escape from. She could not close her eyes, as the thoughts had penetrated her mind, and she saw exactly what was in store for her if she did not get away.

She felt her courage begin to wane. She was trapped here—disarmed, vulnerable—but she raised her chin and her eyes flashed with rage. She would fight with every ounce of her body and soul.

“She’ll do,” the Croatan said. His voice was low and melodious but frosted with malice. “Get her ready.” He held her by the chin with his hand. “The boys were right. You are a pretty one. But I’m not paying the bride price for her. The Fallen won’t be able to bear me the children I need.”

“But look at that hair, those eyes—she’s the spitting image of Gabrielle,” the demon protested. “Surely—”

“No negotiation. You’re lucky I’m taking her off your hands,” he said, and stroked Schuyler’s cheek one last time before leaving.

“Well, you heard the fool. Let’s go,” the demon grumbled.

“Come on, let’s get you to zani’s house.”

“Zani?” Schuyler asked. “You mean the priestess of the temple of Anubis?” She felt her heart beat faster at the prospect of finding the woman who might be Catherine of Siena.

“What are you talking about, child?” The demon clucked her tongue. “Down here, the zaniyat Babel is what we call a cathouse. The Whores of Babylon. Lucifer’s brides. ’Course, not everyone gets chosen by the Dark Prince. You’ll be wed to Danel, for instance. Lucky you, he’s quite the looker, don’t you think?”

Schuyler swallowed her shock to digest the information.

“Zani” was no priestess. It was a code word for this operation—taking human brides for demons.

No. The zaniyat Babel was no holy woman. She would not find Catherine of Siena here. “Zaniyat” was an ancient name, all right. There had been many names for the women who had been taken by the Croatan over the centuries: Deming had told her the Nephilim had called his mother “The mistress.”

Satan’s mistresses. Whores of Babylon. It was all the same.

The mistress of Florence must have been the first to birth a human-demon hybrid, but since then, there had been many to take her place, and now Schuyler would be one of them.

The demon led her down another underground passageway, and when they emerged out of it they were standing in the middle of a small-town bazaar, ringed by dusty buildings that did not look very different from the marketplaces of Cairo. Schuyler’s captor rapped on the door of one of the buildings, and after a few minutes they were ushered inside.

A group of scantily clad heavily made-up human matrons greeted them in the entryway. Schuyler thought the presence of the Red Bloods meant that they must be in Limbo, the first circle of Hell, just beyond the living glom. Humans could not survive too long much deeper in the underworld.

“Danel wants her ready for the bonding in a few hours,”

the demon told them. “And he doesn’t want her drugged.”

The matrons nodded, and two of them led Schuyler to a small boudoir with a dressing room. They pushed her down on the cushioned stool in front of a vanity mirror.

“Let’s see what we got here,” the fatter, older, and darker lady said, jangling her gold bracelets.

“

Too thin,” her companion said. “We’ll have to use the cutlets.”

“Danel always picks the young ones.”

Schuyler sat on the stool and glared at them. “Let me go,”

she ordered, but either the powers of compulsion were dif-fused in the underworld, or the humans had learned how to protect their minds from it. It was useless. The ladies merely laughed.

She couldn’t believe how casual they were about what they were doing. “You give your daughters to these demons,”

she said to them. “You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

The Red Blood madam slapped her across the face.

“Speak to me like that again and you will lose your tongue.”

“Stop!” her companion warned. “You’re going to give her a fat lip. The boss doesn’t like it when they’re beaten up. Remember, we’ve got to make her look pretty.”