Cipher (Demonica Underworld #8) - Larissa Ione

Chapter One

Blood sport.

Seriously. What the hell?

Lyre watched the spectacle in the arena below, a death match between a fallen angel and a Nightlash demon, the outcome of which would normally be predictable. Fallen angels were a thousand times more powerful than any Nightlash.

But this fallen angel’s wings—and source of his mystical powers—had been bound, limiting his abilities, and the Nightlash possessed an aural, one of the few reliably lethal weapons against an angel, fallen or Heavenly.

The whole thing was so...stupid. The point of this particular battle was to get the fallen angel to cooperate, which he wouldn’t be able to do if he was dead.

She gripped the railing so hard her nails left dents in the wood as the Nightlash, his armor dented from Cipher’s fists and feet, spun in a blur, slashing at Cipher’s bare chest. Cipher fell back with a hiss, and the stench of burnt angel flesh carried to her nose.

“Dammit, Bael,” she muttered. “He should have gotten armor too.”

The cold air surrounding Bael stirred like the fog off dry ice. He didn’t like his decisions being questioned. “Cipher should feel grateful that I allowed him to wear anything at all.”

Sure, because jeans were great fighting gear. But they did look amazing on the guy, ripped and stained as they were. Months of captivity read like a horror novel on his pants, but the real story was told in the spark of resistance in Cipher’s watchful blue eyes and the cocksure way he carried his lean, muscular body.

He hadn’t broken yet, but he would. At least, he would if Bael didn’t get him killed first.

Lyre glared at Bael, an ancient fallen angel whose impulsive cruelty and recklessness made him as stupid as it did dangerous. But his chaotic, bloodthirsty nature was exactly what had allowed him to excel as one of Satan’s top generals.

“If Cipher dies, you lose your best shot at getting Azagoth’s attention,” she pointed out.

“Oh, I have The Grim Reaper’s full attention.” Next to her, Bael smiled coldly, his ebony gaze fixed on the battle below. “And Cipher isn’t my only ace, my love.”

She forced a smile of her own, but damn, she hated it when he called her, or any female, that. He knew nothing of love. All he knew was hate.

“I’m sure you do,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice the catch in her voice as Cipher dove to the blood-soaked ground to avoid a swing.

Cipher rolled and swept out his leg, catching the Nightlash behind the knees. Bael nodded in approval as the Nightlash hit the ground hard on his back. The five hundred or so demons in the stands booed. Demons always sided with demons over fallen angels.

Lyre generally didn’t give a shit either way, but as Cipher wrenched the aural away from the Nightlash, she gave a mental sigh of relief.

Not that she gave a shit about Cipher, of course. She hadn’t known Cipher when they’d been Heavenly angels, so she had no prior relationship with him, and while she hadn’t been a fallen angel for much longer than he had, she already knew to never get attached to anyone. Sheoul, the demon realm humans called Hell, was a violent place, and no one could be trusted.

So while she couldn’t afford to care about Cipher, she did like her job as his handler. She’d balked when Bael had first tasked her with what she’d viewed as a punishment. But it turned out that being assigned to gain Cipher’s trust had been a welcome break from her usual duties as Bael’s errand girl.

Errand girl.

So mundane. Such a waste of her talents. So not the reason she’d willingly submitted to one of Hell’s most powerful warlords after losing her wings.

She wanted revenge on a lot of people, and if Bael played the board right he could make it happen.

But not if he kept sacrificing game pieces.

Cipher plunged the aural into the Nightlash’s throat, and the crowd erupted in cheers as blood spewed from the demon’s mouth. They might root for the demon during the fight, but they were happy to see anyone die.

“He’s good,” Bael grunted, a rare note of admiration in his hell-smoked voice. “But his hand-to-hand combat abilities are not the skills I need from him.” He turned to her, his eyes glinting with black ice, his handsome face and mundane slicked-back chestnut hair concealing the monster that lived behind the mask. “I need what’s in his head. I’m growing impatient.”

“Impatient?” She snorted. “You once spent an entire century torturing