Absolute Surrender (5 page)

With little choice, Aethan summoned his own. No way would he let the bastard crow over this.

Instead of the usual smooth gliding off his flesh to shimmer and take form in his hand, the weapon tore out of his skin. The pain just about brought him to his knees. The taunting smile on the warrior’s face made him growl.

Damn Celt! He thrived on pain.

Blaéz came flying through the air, attacking with the deadly mystical sword.

Aethan leaped back and blocked. The power of the blow reverberating up his arm, he swung around and struck. Blaéz easily countered the strike. The sound of the clanging swords echoed in the forest as they dueled...

***

Aethan wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. Dammit, he needed a break. His muscles, straining in protest, started to knot in retaliation. He’d worked up a thirst, too, could drink the freakin’ Nile dry, if only the clueless bastard would call it quits.

They’d been training for four solid hours. Blaéz didn’t know the meaning of the word
rest
. He could go on for days, if Aethan’d let him. The hardhead couldn’t feel tired—or any emotion for that matter. Never had. Except for pain—the reason why he summoned the sword.

But Aethan had had enough. The Celt could go fight the damn trees for all he cared. He willed his sword back onto his biceps and dematerialized, taking form inside the huge, underground gymnasium in a shimmer of bright sparks. Here, away from humans, he didn’t bother to tone down his true color.

The enormous facility was bare of equipment and protected with arcane magic against their powers. Concealed lights were embedded in the high ceiling. White walls flowed around him and light gray tiles ran the length of the floor. On the far end, an array of swords was displayed in a stand next to a fridge. Aethan headed over when Blaéz flashed in front of him.

“Hell, Blaéz—time out, man.”

“Scared?”

Aethan grabbed his katana from the reserves. No fucking way was he summoning his sword again. He came in hard and fast, his sudden thrust sent Blaéz tripping and sliding on his ass some distance away. His tattered tee hung by its seams, and blood welled from the new wound on his chest, dripping down his abs. The Celt’s eyes narrowed into slits as he sprang up. Grabbing the neckline of his shirt, he ripped it apart and threw it aside. “That was my favorite.”

Aethan shrugged. “It’s black, like everything else you—”

A shift in the air caught his attention. Power of unparalleled force surrounded the castle. The brief distraction cost Aethan. His sword, snatched from his hand, went sailing through the air. Blaéz caught the katana and attacked.

Aethan evaded a swing guaranteed to detach his head from his body.

Gods-damn it! Didn’t the crazy bastard ever give up?

“What do you know—he
can
get excited,” Týr drawled as he strolled into the gymnasium. “Empyrean, think it’s you who got the Celt hot under the collar?”

Aethan stilled. It was time Blaéz found a new target. And the Norse’s irritating yapping made the choice so easy. He changed direction and charged at Týr catching the katana Blaéz tossed back at him.

Týr snatched a sword from the backups, deflected their powered strikes. Grinning, he disappeared out of the gym and into the weight room. They followed.

“Now, now,” Týr chastised. “You both have to stop chasing after me. I don’t bat for your team—”

Aethan struck from the front. Blaéz came in from the side. The meeting of steel reverberated off the walls.

Týr grunted, skidding back as his sword fell. Didn’t seem to care that two deadly blades were pressed against his throat. “Cheating now, Celt? Well then.” A flame burst out of his palm. He rolled the fire in his hand as one would a tennis ball. “You look like the ghost of
Christmas Past
. I think you need a tan.”

His chest heaving, Blaéz didn’t respond. His winter-blue eyes were placid ice lakes and all the more dangerous.

Aethan stepped away, his objective completed. He headed for the fridge and snagged a bottle of water.

“My lords?” A low voice rumbled through the gym.

Aethan turned and saw the butler, standing in the doorway, frowning.

“Yes, Hedori?” Aethan asked the male who’d followed him from Empyrea eons ago.

The butler straightened all six feet of his wiry build. Steel-colored hair woven into a single braid lay down his back. His expression slid back into its usual impassive lines.

“The Archangel is here.”

The flame Týr had been rolling in his palm snapped back into his body at the news. “Guess that shift in the air wasn’t Armageddon happening or something equally delightful. Shit’s flying. We’re screwed man. Time to haul out the heavy duty shovels.”

Týr was right. It was never a good thing when Michael showed up. Just meant more crappy jobs were about to be heaped on them.

Aethan twisted the cap and took a deep swallow of his water.

The sharp scent of glacial ocean with a hint of woody amber flooded the room. Cursing, Aethan clamped down his shield against the draw. Couldn’t Michael just tone down the angelic allure?

“Thanks, Hedori, for announcing my arrival. Hearing delightful words of welcome makes my day,” Michael drawled as he strode into the weight room.

Hedori bowed and left the room at a quick trot.

Taller than most immortals, with thick muscular arms, Michael let his black hair hang wild and free around massive shoulders. Dark shades covered his eyes, his tanned face set in foreboding lines. At six-foot-nine-inches, the Archangel was a helluva sight, even without wings.

“Cut it out, Arc. The humans get a whiff of that stuff—unless you want the chaos?”

Instantly, the fragrance disappeared, and Aethan snorted.

Michael glanced around the place. “It’s been a while. Good to see all’s in one piece and the castle still stands.”

Týr smirked at the Archangel. “So, what’s doing, my man?”

His shaded gaze rested on them. “There’s been a spike of activity on the psychic planes, which is of concern to the Celestial Realm. It correlates to another smaller one that occurred several years ago.”

And there it was: the reason for Michael’s sudden arrival. The last contact, several weeks ago, with orders to find the psychic female, had been through a phone call. And it meant this one couldn’t be ignored. Restlessness started to creep back into Aethan, despite the punishing training hours earlier. Now, he itched to head out and find a real fight. But that wasn’t happening until this meeting was over.

Setting the water bottle aside, Aethan took a soft cloth from the supplies stored near the lockers, sat astride an exercise bench, and began to wipe his sword. As long as the psychic spike didn’t concern this realm, he cared less about them happenings in others.

“Why would this be of concern to us?” Týr asked. He opened his locker and pulled out a change of clothes.

“It means a prophecy has come to pass.” Michael’s expression was grimmer than usual. “A mortal of Zarias’s bloodline has awakened and is the reason for the increase in
demonii
activity.”

Aethan paused in the cleaning of his blade. “
Demoniis
look for the same female we search for—the psychic one?”

“Yes. Did you find any with even a spark of
pyre and rime
?”

“Nothing,” Týr said. Stripping off his jeans and shirt, he yanked on sweats and a tee.

“Same,” Blaéz added.

The image of honey-kissed skin, annoyed brown eyes, and a lush mouth, compressed in irritation, flashed through Aethan’s mind, haunting him.
Shit
. He slammed off the vision and met the Archangel’s stare. Shrugged. “No.”

He wasn’t about to confess crap to anyone about how a mortal affected him. The taste of her was like a drug to his senses. He shifted on the bench, rattled at how easily that damn part of him he had no control over hardened with mere thoughts of her. Setting the sword aside, he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees to hide the tenting of his Gi’s.

“Not what I was hoping to hear,” Michael said, his tone grim. “We have to find her fast. The demons may not have the actual prophecy but they are aware of its existence. They will use anyone, do anything to get to her.”

“How can you be sure that particular prophecy has begun?” Blaéz asked. He finally let his sword shimmer and settle back on his biceps. “This could be another foolish attempt for them to seek world dominion.”

“Gaia summoned me. She wants the mortal found.”

Aethan stilled at the name.

Gaia. That mystical force of nature, the creator of all they stood on, who saw to the protection of mortals. She was the Being they’d sworn allegiance to. The fact she chose to task them with this proved they had no choice but to wade into ancient crap. And clean it out.

“Talk about heading into shitsville,” Týr muttered, winding his way between the benches as he joined them. “Who was Zarias, for this to happen?”

“An immortal. The first to disregard a fundamental law and be executed—long before your time.”

Aethan tossed the terry cloth on the bench and glanced back at Michael. “Want to tell us why the Celestial Realm took this to Gaia?”

“They cannot ask us to deal with such prophecies without her approval. Our allegiance lies with her now. But Zarias’s descendant is mortal. So either way—”

“We’re still drawn into the cesspit,” Blaéz said.

Michael nodded, bracing his arm on a treadmill. “If you like. More importantly, hers is a bloodline far more powerful than you can imagine. It’s imperative she is found and brought here to the castle. Before you say anything, I get that it’s going to be difficult to have a human female underfoot—”

“You don’t hear me complaining,” Týr drawled, sitting on a bench. He picked up a free weight and began to work his right biceps. “Having one of the forbidden, fairer sex living under our roof should liven things up a bit.”

Aethan got up and put away his sword. The Norse might want to rile Michael, but he understood far too well the temptation mortal females presented. Thoughts of
her
had his restlessness growing in spades. He should’ve let her punch him yesterday—maybe her tiny fist would’ve knocked some sense into him.

In this realm, darkness shadowed the immortals that lived here in the form of the Absolute Law, which forbade liaisons between mortal and immortal. If caught, it meant a death sentence for both. The same law Zarias had broken and been executed for.

These males who now guarded Earth as warriors were once gods, stripped of their powers and banished from their pantheons for all eternity for whatever had happened there several millennia ago. And yet they were still bound by the archaic ruling.

Truth was, Aethan doubted anyone gave a damn, anymore.

The Absolute Law didn’t apply to him, since he came from the Empyrean Realm, because his cursed powers were a surefire way not to break those decrees.

He should know.

Hannah. The moment he’d seen her, he wanted her. Hell, he hadn’t known better. When his powers filled Hannah at the height of his passion, her writhing beneath him hadn’t been one of ecstasy, but death. He’d broken away so fast and tried to save her, but her mortal heart gave out, unable to survive the electrical surge of his powers flowing through her.

He regretted her death. One he would never allow to happen again. And no amount of taunting from Týr would make him forget that. He stuck to summoning immortal females from the pantheons the rare times he gave in to his sexual demands...and here he was back to threading dangerous grounds. He couldn’t stop thinking about
her
. He had no desire for those empty liaisons from before, he wanted more. He wanted—
shit
! What he needed was a damn fight to get his head screwed on right again.

Týr’s voice dragged him back. “Arc, are you bringing the others in on this?”

Michael drew off his shades and pinched the bridge of his nose then glanced at them with eyes resembling fractured sapphires. The strange silver light glowing between the fissures in the wild blue irises made them all the more eerie. “Just one. The demons are gathering in forces searching for the female. It’s why I asked Dagan to assist.”