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moment she had seen
him standing there, so strong, so brave, so impossible. Hours it had been.
Less? More? Forever.
    She clenched her hands into tight fists at the sound of the
whip striking his flesh.
    It flashed through her mind that Asmodeus had known this
would happen. She fought back the stinging in her eyes, the tears she dared not
shed, for his sake as he’d asked.
    It was also clear that Templeton definitely enjoyed what he
did as he brought the lash down again and again, the chant keeping Asmodeus
locked immobile, helpless against the torture. If Templeton had not been able
to take his pleasure from watching them, he would take it from Asmodeus.
    Blood ran down Asmodeus’ broadly muscled back in thin
streams and pain etched every line of his strong, handsome face, limned every
taut muscle of his body. His wings were tucked to each side in a vain attempt
to keep them safe, to protect them from the rip and tear of the lash.
    Every stroke tore at her heart as it tore into his flesh.
    The sound was indescribable. It was even more horrible to
watch, but Gabriel could not turn away. Each time the thin little strands of
leather struck, a half-dozen stripes would appear on his skin, beading with
blood, and Asmodeus would jolt, however much he fought not to.
    “Stop it,” Gabriel cried, unable to bear it any longer. “You’ll
kill him.”
    Templeton sneered at her. “He’s a demon. He can’t die.”
    A sense of something from Asmodeus gave the lie to that
though Asmodeus himself said nothing.
    Greater horror ran through her.
    Asmodeus was neither immortal nor indestructible as Templeton
clearly assumed. He could indeed die given enough punishment. And if a part of
him wished to, wished for an end to this agony, to his imprisonment. She could
sense it. Something deep inside her went still as a new kind of pain tore
through her, a new kind of grief.
    “You bastard,” she said to Templeton, tightly, furiously.
She knew he reveled in her impotent outrage but she couldn’t hold it back.
    Though it was heartfelt, it was much less than what she
wanted to do, to say. Would have done if she could, if Asmodeus had not asked
her not to. Every muscle in her body was taut with the need to lash out, to
fight, to defend and protect. It was what she was, who she was. It was why she
had joined the FBI. She had promised. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t break
it. As futile as the gesture might be, she wanted, needed, to fight…and she
couldn’t.
     
    The first stroke of the lash had taken Asmodeus’ breath away
as it always did. The pain, no matter how often he suffered it, was always
shocking in its intensity.
    In a corner of his mind Asmodeus was intensely aware of
Gabriel, of how furiously she struggled not to fight for him. Spirit to spirit,
he knew what it cost her to stand aside and do nothing, despite knowing any
action would be a useless gesture in this place, against such odds. But he knew
she would have fought for him, had he not asked her to stay her hand.
    The lash came down again and again, until the torture of it
obliterated all thought and there was only agony. All there was within him was
the thought of Gabriel and the determination never to bow his head to the man
who held the whip.
    It ended at last with Asmodeus braced on a forearm against
the floor, his head bent but not bowed, breathing heavily from the pain as
blood ran down his sides to drip onto the floor in a steady patter that sounded
like rain. He would not break. Most especially not now, with Gabriel here.
There had to be a way to end this, to escape, although he had searched for it
constantly all these long months.
    Every inch of his body ached from fighting the constraint of
the spell but his back, shoulders and wings felt as if they were on fire from
the whip and its wicked little iron balls. The pain was terrible, sickening.
Each spot where they had ripped into his skin burned. He fought the fear that
his wings had been permanently damaged.