She tried to quell the panic that threatened to wash over her, and forced herself to think. She'd lost her sword, but surely she could find something else to defend herself with before it was too late. Yet before she could form even the bare bones of an escape plan, the demon returned, and this time she was not alone.

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."

Chapter Twenty-nine

River Palace

The Duke's Arms turned out not to be a hotel.

Instead it was a palace, a veritable castle in the sky, a lavish fourplex penthouse in a grand skyscraper located at the far edge of town near the river Styx. The building was gaudy and gilded and frightfully ugly and tacky, with soaring pink columns, golden cherubim, leering gargoyles, decorated in nouveau riche flamboyance, Mimi thought. A real expensive eyesore. She didn't think it was Kingsley's fault: the place probably always looked like this no matter who was installed as consigliere. She noticed it was in a better part of town, though; the air along the river wasn't as gray or smoggy.

The doorman told them they were expected, and ushered them into the elevator.

When the doors opened, Mimi and Oliver found themselves standing in the foyer of a magnificent apartment with a curved, three-story staircase. A group of troll servants dressed in uniform stood in a row: butlers and footmen in livery, the maids and cooks in black dresses with starched aprons. All of them were wearing silver chokers with the sigil of the house engraved on the front.

"Welcome," the head butler said. "We have been expecting you, Lady Azrael."

Mimi gave him a queenly nod.

Now, this was more like it, Oliver thought.

"Shall you require supper, or shall I show you to your rooms?"

Mimi raised an eyebrow to her traveling companion. Oliver yawned. "I'm starved, but I think I'd rather sleep first."

"Our rooms, then."

"This way, please," a maid said, curtsying. They followed her down the hallway to another elevator, which brought them to a suite of rooms facing the river's eastern shore.

"This is where Helda stays when she visits," the maid whispered as she opened the double doors to a luxurious room with a grand view of the river. Mimi nodded. Kingsley meant it as an honor, surely, and while she was grateful to be so well taken care of, she was also just a little disappointed that he had left her side so quickly. She would have appreciated a shack alone with him rather than all these froufrou accoutre-ments. She said good night to Oliver and prepared for bed.

Oliver turned in as well. His bedroom suite was lavish and well appointed, but as he expected, the pillows were too soft, the bed too big, the air-conditioning turned up too high.

Still, he didn't complain. He was just glad to have a place to rest at last, even if it was in an ersatz Trump Tower with a creepy troglodyte domestic staff. When his head hit the pillow, he didn't care that it was too soft; he slept immediately, like the dead, never moving from one spot.

For her part, Mimi sat up in bed for hours. She had found a selection of silk, sheer nightgowns in the walk-in closet, and after a long soak in the marble tub, she had changed into the sexiest one, slipped under the covers, and waited. Finally, after what seemed like hours, she could hear the elevator doors open - and recognized Kingsley's rolling step. She waited for him to sneak into her room and have his way with her.

She would tell him to stop, of course, and demand that he explain his feelings for her before they went any further. But afterward, after he pledged his devotion and begged for forgiveness for that casual, ambivalent greeting at the club, she would let him do whatever he wanted - and she had to admit she could not wait to be ravished. She squirmed with anticipa-tion, remembering the way they had danced together - the feel of his strong arms circling her waist, and the way his body had moved with hers - and she arranged herself on the pillows to look as sleepy and innocent as possible.

But the steps grew farther away instead of getting closer, and then there was silence. Mimi cocked an eye open in annoyance. She fluffed her hair and the pillows again, made sure her nightgown fell on her body in an attractive, sultry angle, and resumed her position. maybe this was part of the game?

Teasing her again? But the minutes ticked by and still there was nothing. Mimi practically slept with one eye open the entire evening, but Kingsley did not visit her bedroom. Not that first night, and not for the nights after. In fact, she did not see him at all for the next couple of days.

Well played, martin, Mimi thought. Well played. She determined not to inquire about his whereabouts or give any indication that she was waiting for him to make the first move.

He had invited her to his house, so obviously he wanted her there. She thought she knew why he was making her wait. He wanted her to crumble and surrender so his victory over her heart would be complete. Mimi had a little more pride than that. A week after they had been installed at the Duke's Arms - so named, Mimi learned, because it was traditionally the seat of the Duke of Hell - a week after their awkward reunion, Mimi bumped into Kingsley in the breakfast room, and was able to match his polite tone.

"My trolls taking good care of you?" Kingsley asked, sitting down at the grand dining table with his bowl of fruit and cereal.

"Yes, very well, thanks." Mimi nodded.

He inquired about the comfort of the rooms and urged her to make herself at home, and to order the staff to do whatever her heart desired. Kingsley was the consummate host. It was totally depressing.

"How do you find the view?" he asked.

Mimi looked up from her granola (which Oliver would describe as too dry and not enough raisins) and shrugged. "It's all right."

"I know it's not Central Park."

"I didn't expect it to be." She looked down at her plate, unsure of how to broach the topic of their relationship. It was as if there were an impenetrable wall around him. They had not seen each other since that first night, and still he had not asked the reason for her presence, had not spoken to her in any real way. He was the Duke of Hell and she was merely an honored guest. She didn't know how long he planned to carry out this charade.

He picked out a piece of fruit from his bowl and began to eat. "I know it's all a mirage, and that I'm not really eating this apple. But it helps, doesn't it? To have the daily rituals, to have some sort of order to the day. It never gets dark here, or light. No sun, of course. Only the light of the Black Fire, which never goes out. Ever burning but never sets," he murmured.

"Mmm," Mimi said. "Enjoy your time here," he said. Then he was gone, and Mimi was left to eat her slightly sour yogurt alone.

* * *

For his part, Oliver spent most of his days swimming in the saltwater plunge pool on the top floor. After the initial excitement of living in a palace - not that it was all that different from the way he lived on the Upper East Side, really - he had started to feel lethargic and sluggish. As if his muscles had at-rophied from not needing to go anywhere or do anything or use his mind for any reason other than to ask the trolls for his slippers. There were no art galleries, no music halls, no opera, no theater, no libraries, no literary or artistic amusements of any kind in Tartarus. Worse, there was nothing to read. There were only nightclubs and flesh bars, gladiator matches and sporting events. The television showed reruns of the most pandering type of programming: unfunny sitcoms, gross reality shows; and on the Internet there was only  p**n ography. It was fun at first, but then vice is so boring when there's no vir-tue to balance it out. When there is nothing but sinful indulgence, sinful indulgence becomes a chore.

Oliver thought he would die from boredom. So he did laps in the Olympic-size pool - anything to make his muscles ache.

He wished that Kingsley would just get back together with Mimi already. Well, what was he waiting for? Was he just stringing her along? Sure, Mimi was sort of... well, annoying was the word he was looking for, but she wasn't all that bad, and obviously Kingsley was attracted to her. A guy could do much worse than Mimi Force.

Not that it had never crossed Oliver's mind - he was a guy, after all, and Mimi was a beautiful girl - but the thought of the two of them as a couple was so alien and laughable, he couldn't see their friendship developing into anything more.

And that's all they were, friends. Oliver liked Mimi, but he did not find her attractive in that way (she would tell him the feeling was mutual, of course). That's just the way it was.

Still, Kingsley was such a lucky devil. After all, Mimi had dropped everything in her life to be with him. She was here now. Their story was sure to have a happy ending if only Kingsley would stop being, well, Kingsley. Whereas he, Oliver, would never get what he wanted; not in this lifetime or any other. Not for the first time did Oliver wonder if nice guys really did finish last.