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  Chaos Falls

  Chaos Rises #3

  Pippa DaCosta

  ‘Chaos Falls’

  #3 Chaos Rises

  Pippa DaCosta

  Urban Fantasy & Science Fiction Author

  Subscribe to her mailing list at pippadacosta.com & get free ebooks.

  Copyright © 2017 Pippa DaCosta.

  December 2017. US Edition. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictions, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Edited for US readers in US English.

  Version 1a.

  Print ISBN-13: 978-1979614795

  Print ISBN-10: 1979614792

  www.pippadacosta.com

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  A note from Li’el…

  Also by Pippa DaCosta

  About the Author

  Prologue

  For two hundred thousand years, hominids have walked this earth. Humans. Two hundred thousand years of fine-tuned evolution lifting them out of the dirt, straightening their backs, honing their language. From beasts able to create fire to beings on the cusp of deep space travel.

  Two hundred thousand years and they are still critically flawed.

  Unlike me.

  Perfect from the moment demons split from humans. Perfect and unchanging. A predator. A being of divinity. A god among mortals. I look upon these creatures as they were: animals clawing in the dirt for beetles to feast on and killing each other for territory.

  I am above them.

  I am the epitome of perfection.

  I am Pride.

  Or, I was. Until the day the veil fell, and I fell with it.

  Chapter 1

  “Stop. Don’t make me shoot you.”

  It wasn’t the officer’s words that brought my train of thought to a jolting halt, nor was it her tone—designed to control and contain—more the position she had found me in.

  Parts of the mass of meat I was crouched over glistened on the road yards away. The body could have been male or female. The tattered clothing confirmed the victim was human. And here I was, hunched over the carcass like the lesser demon the trigger-happy human probably believed me to be.

  I lifted my hands and stretched the tips of my black feathered wings. “Stop what, exactly? Stop looking at the body, stop being so devilishly handsome, or stop breathing, perhaps? You’ll have to be more specific.”

  The weight of her gaze warmed my back. “Stop talking. Stand up. And step back.”

  I started straightening.

  “Move slow, demon.”

  Her radio crackled, but she hadn’t reached for it to call for backup. Foolish human. I could have killed her the moment she opened her mouth to demand I stop. Could kill her now with little more effort than a thought. Clearly, she had no idea who she was pointing her useless gun at.

  Slowly, as she had ordered, I stepped away from the body and lifted one wing back, to unveil the little police officer at the corner of the sidewalk. It was a wonder she had survived the Fall if this was how she approached demons. Perhaps other instincts kept her alive, because had she been smarter, she would already be running. Little thing with dark skin—not as dark or smooth as mine. Blue eyes from rogue genes, eyes that were trying to drill through my chest. Her pert lips held a snarl just for me.

  Still behaving, I turned some more and spread my wings until their tips stretched the full width of the street, ignoring twinges of pain. The glossy black feathers had frayed over the past few weeks, but under the pale hue of the street lighting, all she saw was their magnificence. Her eyes widened, lashes fluttering, and fear hid behind her police training. All humans reacted the same, eventually. Fear, admiration, attraction. They loved me, wanted me, wanted to be me. Men and women both. It was impossible to look upon my glory and not feel—

  The gun fired and the little bullet punched into my chest, through a lung, and blasted out my back, taking fragments of rib with it.

  I shook off the pain and stretched a shoulder, to help the fizzing wound edges stitch back together. “That was uncalled for.”

  She blinked, swallowed hard, and steadied her stance. “I said don’t move or I’ll shoot.” Her voice trembled as she realized how unprepared she’d been to encounter me.

  “You also said to step away from the body. I doubt you know what you want from me, officer.” I started forward, one slow, deliberately placed step at a time. There was no use in terrifying her. “Or perhaps you do.”

  Her aim wobbled. She lifted her chin, determination holding her rigid.

  “You have to admit,” I purred. “I am entrancing. Have you ever seen such a fine demon specimen as I?”

  “What?”

  I gestured at myself and wiped the dribble of blood from my sculpted chest, the bullet wound fully healed. “Your little human mind can barely comprehend what it means to be in my presence.”

  She stepped back, realized she had given me a small victory, and lifted her gun again, peering down its sights. “Stay back, demon.”

  “Or you’ll shoot me again? Please do. It tickles.”

  “I’ve killed hundreds of your kind.”

  “Oh, little lady, there are no other demons like me.” Before the last word had crossed my lips, I’d come undone, collapsing my perfect self into my element—air. A flittering mist had gathered where I’d been standing moments before. She thought me gone. “I didn’t kill your victim.” My words—whispered against her neck—instantly scattered tiny goose bumps in their wake. Such a delight to see them there. She shivered and spun, aiming wildly. I wound myself around her—ghostly, barely there at all, just enough for her to know she wasn’t alone. “But whoever or whatever did will kill again.”

  Fear permeated the air like the smell of hot copper. I didn’t want her afraid. Humans easily lost their meager minds, and there was something about this woman that intrigued me. Releasing her, I sailed upward onto the edge of a nearby roof and drifted there, unseen.

  After spinning on the spot and breathing out a sigh, the officer holstered her gun. She stood, perfectly still, listening. I listened too. The thudding of her heart, the race of her breaths, and finally the background din of the city. There was no sign of anything or anyone who might have caused our dead body. Whatever had killed the victim was long gone. From my kind, at least, she was safe. Realizing the same, she plucked her radio from her belt. “This is Officer Ramírez, badge number seven-six-eight-nine, division six-L. Code two-Charles-one-eight-seven.”

&nbs
p; Backup arrived fifteen minutes later and sealed off the street. Over the next few hours, panel vans and more vehicles with flashing lights arrived. Ramírez stayed, and when homicide sidelined her, she lingered until the sun had risen over LA’s jagged skyline. Tiredness showed around her eyes. She left only when a senior officer ordered her off the scene, but not before casting a glance up at the roof and spearing her glare through me.

  Part mist, part air, and virtually invisible, I studied her, knowing she couldn’t see me. It took great courage to look fear in the eye and stand your ground. I admired that.

  With Ramírez gone, I returned to the rooftop of my restaurant building and lifted my face to the morning sun. It would be another glorious day in the City of Angels. The city that had survived the Fall and driven back the demons. And tomorrow, another shredded body would feed the flies. Today’s body was the fifth in five days. Each was a warning. A message. I wasn’t the only predator left in LA.

  Chapter 2

  Pain.

  It wasn’t something I feared. For countless centuries, I had been untouchable. A Prince of Hell. Pain had been no more than an irritating distraction, much like the demons I had ruled over in the netherworld beyond the veil or the inconsequential pain of the officer’s bullet passing through my chest.

  But as I looked in the wall of mirrors in my apartment bedroom, I knew real pain. I had known it for every month, day, and hour since the veil fell and I became a shadow of my former self. The unending, radiating ache of loss. It beat inside my bones and throbbed in time with my heart. The loss of power, the loss of everything I had been, the loss of my home. My wings burned—not visually, though I vividly recalled the time they had been burned to cinders. They burned with the memory of having my title stripped. Pride was my weakness, my name. With the demon Court sealed away in the netherworld, on the other side of the veil, I was a prince of nothing, and my power faded with each passing day. Agony throbbed through my wings, reminding me over and over of how far I had fallen.

  I spread my wings, feeling every strained muscle grind, every seized tendon pop. The pain throbbed hotter, sinking its fingers down my back. I stretched farther, reaching silvery feather tips toward the walls of the vast bedroom, reaching as far as they would stretch. Pain pushed at my thoughts and blurred my vision. I gritted my teeth and bore the weight of it. And there, in my reflection, a single black feather broke free and spiraled toward the polished marble floor where it settled, barbs curled in, edges brittle.

  I let my wings fall and, with a gasp, turned them to mist. In the mirrors, I was just a man once more—an astonishingly handsome man, a god among men, but no longer obviously demon. Crouching, I picked up the feather and held it up to the sunlight streaming through the windows. My feathers had once been flawless. Black as night, so black they absorbed color, and edged in silken silver. A single feather was more than it appeared. They were promises, they were tokens, they were each a part of me. The one I held had dulled and contracted. Its vanes had split, rendering it useless for flight. I ran my fingers down its edges, feeling the velvet break and crumble.

  Somewhere inside my apartment, a phone rang. I ignored it and walked to the bed. From underneath, I dragged out a wooden chest, used air to push at the lock, and opened the lid. Forty-three feathers were nestled inside. Some larger than others. Some primaries from my wings’ leading edges, and some secondaries that made up the bulk of my winged expanse.

  I set the latest feather inside and gently closed the lid. More would follow. By the end of the year, my wings would be bare, the pain would be constant, and in my reflection, a monster would be looking back. I had been magnificence given flesh and spirit before time began. And now, with each fallen feather, I was a shade.

  The elevator chimed. “The restaurant opens in fifteen minutes,” Noah, my restaurant manager, informed me through the intercom. “You have an appointment with that TV streaming executive in an hour, and there’s a cop downstairs. She looks pretty comfortable, like she isn’t going anywhere until she speaks with you.”

  I dressed with a flick of my hand, building on the already perfect male body by wrapping it in a purple shirt and black pants and jacket. I made Target clothing look like the height of fashion. Perfection was my church. I preached from its altar daily.

  The elevator door whispered open, revealing Noah with his long-lashed eyes trained on his cell phone’s screen. Dusky-haired with a few haphazard curls that naturally fell over his eyes, he often caught the eyes of the staff and customers. But Noah drew a line, keeping his work time professional. Those were the lines I blew away.

  “You should have led with the police officer,” I told him, adding a smile. “Female?”

  He nodded. “Not your type.”

  I stepped into the elevator beside him and hit the button to the restaurant. “I wasn’t aware I had a type.”

  “Oh, you have a type, all right.” He chuckled, locking his phone and jabbing it into his back pocket. “They line up in pairs outside every night. There’s an online group that trades tips on how to catch your attention. Apparently, you’re fond of dark chocolate and strawberries.”

  True. “Sounds delightful.”

  An online group dedicated to the Church of Li’el? Wonderful.

  “Invite only,” Noah added. His smirk often won him a week’s worth of wages in bar tips a night.

  I arched a brow. He sounded familiar with this group. “You’re suggesting my type is any woman?”

  He snorted a laugh. “You said it, not me.”

  I straightened my jacket and cuffs. “You’re wrong. Why limit oneself to a single gender?”

  A glitter of mischief flashed in his hazel eyes. “You’re such an attention whore.”

  I grinned, and my reflection in the mirrored walls grinned back. If perfection were a crime, I would be serving a life sentence. “Most definitely.” The almost invisible scar on my chin only added to my impeccable image. “If my type is all women, then what is the police officer waiting for me if not a woman?”

  His smile slipped. “Trouble.”

  Trouble. I liked the sound of trouble. A challenge was difficult to find these days. I didn’t need to ask Noah for the officer’s name. If Ramírez was good at her job, she would have recognized me—even with the wings. I never had been one to drift in the shadows like some of my kin. I much preferred the spotlight. It wouldn’t take anyone long to mark me as the owner of several LA nightclubs and restaurants. Someone like Ramírez would have made the connection almost immediately.

  The elevator pinged and opened onto the restaurant floor. The first-shift restaurant staff prepared to open for lunch, and the female officer sat at the bar. Not Ramírez.

  How disappointing.

  She turned to face Noah and me. Her tight-fitting pantsuit cut away all her natural curves, and pumps declared you would have no trouble running down her perps. No jewelry, no earrings, and only a touch of makeup. Her middle-aged years had benefitted from her neither smiling too much nor frowning. I could make even the iciest person smile. It was one of my many talents.

  Noah cut me a “told you so” look. Challenge accepted.

  He veered off to prepare the bar while I approached the police officer and offered my hand. Without hesitation, she shook my hand. Her grip could crack nuts. Her look left me in no doubt that she would like to crack mine—with her knee.

  “Mister Leel Shahar, my name is Catherine Styles. I’m a detective with Hollywood homicide.”

  “Li’el Shahar,” I corrected.

  “Lee-all?”

  “Lee-elle.”

  “Unusual.”

  “European with a little Hebrew spice.”

  Her flinty eyes gave nothing away. “I’m sure.”

  “Catherine is French.”

  “Is it?” she asked, utterly disinterested.

  “Would you like to know what it means?”

  “No, I’d like you to tell me what this means.” She produced a cell phone from inside her jacket
and handed it over. Among reports of flash flooding in Inglewood and the latest celebrity gossip, one headline on the LA Post website read: DEMONS RETURN? A grainy color photo below showed a winged demon striding down an alley. The victim had been cropped out of the image, probably because publishing photos of mauled bodies would be in bad taste. I knew the body was there because the demon captured in motion was me. The image was blurred enough to make identifying my facial features difficult, but nobody else had such fabulous bone structure or wings that size. “A handsome devil.”

  She looked me in the eye. “A killer.”

  My smile was a careful one, but also confident. All demons were killers. All demons were monsters. That had been true until recently. Everyone who had survived the Fall knew it was fact. They had seen partners, families, and friends slain. They had fought for their lives and for their homes. Only now, almost a year later, were they recovering.

  I waved Noah over. He sloshed bourbon into a tumbler and offered it to the detective. Catherine declined, but she watched me lift my drink to my lips and taste it. She watched me roll it around my tongue, her analytical mind working. She wasn’t here to talk about headlines, so she must have known I was connected to demons. My restaurant had seen a few demon attacks and I was rumored … to have been involved in a few demon incidents, but that was in the past. People had moved on. The demons were gone. As far as my public profile confirmed, I was a businessman and nothing else.