No Shadows Fall (12 page)

“Me either.” Gabriel grazed his teeth over the soft skin beneath Michael’s earlobe. “It ain’t important, though.”

“A-as you say. Gabriel.
Gabriel.
” Michael rolled onto his back, pulling Gabriel on top of him.

“Something you want?” Gabriel snaked his tongue around the shell of Michael’s ear, knowing exactly what effect that would have on his lover. Michael rocked into him, a low moan coming from him.

“You,” Michael panted, slipping his hands beneath Gabriel’s shirt.

“How would you like me?” Gabriel nibbled Michael’s earlobe.

“Take me,” Michael whispered. “Hard, fast. Possessive.”

Gabriel couldn’t stop the growl that slipped from him at that. He didn’t say anything, simply used his power to get them naked and the weight of his body to pin Michael down. He raked his nails up Michael’s sides, making Michael whimper, a ragged, hungry sound, and arch into Gabriel’s body.

Gabriel moved and kissed Michael then, a hard kiss, all tongue and teeth, his mouth devouring Michael’s. Michael kissed him back enthusiastically, moving his hands straight to Gabriel’s wing joints and rubbing, and Gabriel hissed, sliding his own hands down Michael’s body to his thighs. He pushed Michael’s legs apart without breaking the kiss, lifting them to his shoulders. Slicking himself with his power, Gabriel shifted again and thrust into Michael’s body slowly.

He took his time, dragging it out, thrusting in inch by agonizingly slow inch. Breaking the kiss to pant, Gabriel couldn’t help feeling a thrill of smug possessiveness as Michael babbled pleas and half-formed phrases, begging Gabriel for harder, more, now,
please
, anything. Gabriel continued to take his time, and when he was finally buried deep inside Michael’s body, he began to move, fucking Michael just as slowly as he’d thrust into him.

Michael continued to babble, his words growing more and more incoherent as desire rose. He tugged on handfuls of feathers, and Gabriel groaned, rolled his hips once, and rocked into Michael a little faster. Working a hand between them, he wrapped his fingers around Michael’s cock and stroked, slow and firm and in time with his thrusts.

Michael was trembling beneath him, muttering in Chinese and English, and Gabriel lowered his head and bit the curve of Michael’s neck and shoulder, gradually increasing the speed of his thrusts and strokes. Michael clutched at his wings, and Gabriel groaned raggedly, tasting sweat on Michael’s skin.

It didn’t take long, Michael’s orgasm hot and thick on Gabriel’s hand, and Gabriel continued to stroke Michael’s cock as he fucked Michael faster, right on the edge of his own orgasm. When he crested the wave of his pleasure, orgasm crashing through him like waves on a storm-swept shore, Michael’s name was on Gabriel’s lips and in his heart and Grace.

They lay together, panting, enjoying the afterglow, and Gabriel slipped from Michael’s body and lay beside him on the blanket, pulling up the second blanket to keep the chill wind at bay. After several moments, Michael rolled onto his side, cuddled up to Gabriel, and touched his cheek with tender fingers.

“Your name is always on my lips and in my heart and Grace also,
da bao
,” Michael murmured.

Gabriel smiled and kissed him.

P
ENEMUEL
WAS
terrified. He wasn’t alone—although his fellow Grigoris face gave no hint, he could tell from the way Kokabiel shifted from foot to foot how frightened he was. Baraqiel’s mouth was set in a firm, hard line, his dark blue eyes hooded.

The three of them stood on the pavement outside the apartment building that Azazel owned in Paris. They had met half an hour before the time that Semjaza wanted them to show up, in part to take courage from each other and in part to give voice to the same question: why?

Penemuel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He would rather be anywhere than here. He could feel Semjaza’s presence—Grigori Grace recognizing one of its own. Azazel would no doubt have fawned and flattered Semjaza outrageously, although Penemuel privately was of the opinion that Semjaza’s ego didn’t really need any additional stroking. But then, Penemuel thought, Azazel had always been unquestioningly loyal to Semjaza, even before the Grigori had been appointed the Watchers of humans living in Eden.

“Well,” Kokabiel said, his voice breaking Penemuel’s reverie, “I suppose we should go in and present ourselves.”

“I wish we could be anywhere but here,” Baraqiel said.

Penemuel nodded. “Amen to that.”

The three angels looked at each other and grinned ruefully.

“The sooner we do it, the sooner it’s over with,” Baraqiel said.

“All right,” Kokabiel said. “Let’s do this.”

The three walked into the building and took the stairs to the top floor, to the apartment that Azazel lived in.

Baraqiel tapped on the polished wooden door that was inlaid with mother-of-pearl and had a polished brass doorknob. There was a short wait, and then the door opened and Azazel, smiling, stood there.

“My Grigori brothers,” he said warmly. “Do come in.”

Silently, Penemuel followed Baraqiel and Kokabiel into the entry hall of the apartment. Azazel closed the door behind them; although the latch clicked softly, it sounded to Penemuel like the doom-filled clang of the door of a dungeon.

“This way.” Azazel didn’t wait for any of them to reply, simply turning and leading the way down the corridor and into the living room.

At any other time, Penemuel would have found Azazel’s living room a wonder and a delight. Furnished with priceless Art Deco antiques, the walls were painted a soft blue, and the carpet was a dark charcoal gray. The skirting boards were white and so was the ceiling. The elaborate plaster rosette in the center of the ceiling from which a brass and glass lamp hung was painted in a myriad of colors.

There were bookshelves against one wall, full to bursting with books, and a desk in one corner, piled high with papers, an antique brass desk lamp turned on. The curtains were authentic Morris and Company weave, no doubt purchased at auction, and Penemuel surmised they cost more than what he made in a year. The paintings on the walls were original pieces by artists from the Pre-Raphaelite period, and there was a Rodin brass on a polished white marble pedestal against another wall.

Penemuel took a deep breath and forced himself to look at the sofa. Seated upon the plush dark blue wool was Semjaza.

Penemuel bit his lower lip as he looked at the Prince of the Grigori. Semjaza had not changed—his expression was still proud, his eyes were still full of selfish, almost petulant confidence in his own power and abilities. His white-blond locks contrasted with golden-olive skin. He wore a gray three-piece suit and an indigo tie that made his blue eyes look even more intense. He was calm and composed, the perfect picture of wealth, elegance, and angelic beauty.

“Semjaza,” Kokabiel said in a neutral tone.

“Kokabiel,” Semjaza replied with a nod of his head. “And Baraqiel and Penemuel. It is wonderful to see you again.”

Penemuel didn’t dare look at his friends. He just nodded in response to Semjaza’s greeting, too frightened to say or do anything else.

“Ah,” Semjaza said in a soft voice, standing up with all the grace of a deadly panther. “I see you are all overwhelmed and robbed of speech. Behold, I stand before you, alive and free from Aquila, and I assure you all that I will have my revenge upon those who harmed us all.”

“Those who harmed
you
, you mean,” Baraqiel said.

“Is it not true that when one of us is harmed, all of us are harmed?” Semjaza gazed at them, unblinking.

Baraqiel muttered something and shuffled his feet.

“I will assume that your… attitude is born out of surprise and joy,” Semjaza continued, looking from one to the other of the three Grigori. “I will forgive you all your shock. It is indeed a shocking thing to be free after so long imprisoned.”

“We
were
in Hell, you know,” Kokabiel drawled. “You got off lightly, Semjaza.”

Semjaza quirked an eyebrow.

“Have you been in Hell?” Kokabiel continued. “Being alone in a prison made of stars is safe. It is silent. It is free of pain, torture, torment. It is empty of the sight of the rest of your choir slowly falling into despair and insanity around you as Archdemons do all manner of things to them. It is minus the sound of Lucifer Morningstar mocking you for all that you have done. Do not think to patronize us, Semjaza, Grigori Prince. Do not talk of your suffering, for yours was solitary confinement with an eons-long movie in surround sound of all that transpired on Earth, not locked in Hell with demons, fire, brimstone, and
Lucifer fucking Star of the Morning!
” The last words were delivered in an angry shout.

Penemuel wanted to cheer. Kokabiel had said it all so much better than he could.

Semjaza blinked, his expression becoming one of surprise. “I had no idea,” he said, his voice contrite. “I’m sorry, Kokabiel.”

“Spare us your contrition.” Kokabiel’s voice was full of contempt. “You have no idea, because you don’t care about anyone other than yourself. We three escaped Hell, yes, and Bara and I would not be free if it weren’t for Penemuel. And neither would your butt-kissing bestie over there. Azazel,” he clarified as Semjaza’s expression became confused. “Tell us what you want and get it over with. But don’t think for one damn moment that you’ll be able to command us, Semjaza. You lost that power when Gabriel imprisoned you in Aquila, and I, for one, am fucking glad he did!”

“You go too far,” Semjaza snarled, his face contorting into an ugly expression of rage.

“Not fucking far enough.” Kokabiel shook his head. “Things have changed since you were ruling Eden. Don’t get ideas of reclaiming that into your head, because you don’t deserve it.”

Semjaza lowered his eyes for a moment, and Penemuel held his breath. Then, so fast that it made Penemuel jump, Semjaza unfurled his wings. He lashed out with them, the tips razor-sharp, and sliced into Kokabiel’s stomach and chest.

Kokabiel cried out in pain, clutching his body as blood spurted out between his fingers. Baraqiel gasped, moving to grab his lover as Kokabiel slowly sank to his knees on the carpet.

“Do not think to tell me what to do, Kokabiel,” Semjaza snarled. “I am still ruler of our choir, and you would do well to remember that.” He turned away. “Fix him,” he ordered Azazel, who leapt to obey.

Penemuel closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, chewing the inside of his cheek so hard that he tasted blood. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Kokabiel, whimpering on the carpet in pain from Semjaza’s attack. He heard the hiss of power as Azazel used his talent to heal the wounds, but Penemuel knew those wounds would pain Kokabiel for the rest of his life.

He’d seen it before, back in Eden. Semjaza, furious when Ishtahar’s first child had been stillborn, had attacked the Grigori who had attended her during her labor. He couldn’t remember the name of the angel, now. He could remember the sound of the screaming as Semjaza used his wings to carve the unfortunate angel into pieces and fed the pieces to the wolves that lived outside the walls of the city.

Others had angered Semjaza over the years, and they had been cut deep into their physical forms by those deadly wings. The scars had never fully healed, and Penemuel remembered how the Archdemons assigned to deal with them in Hell had used those scars to inflict the maximum amount of pain on already tormented beings. He shuddered, pushing the memory into the back of his mind.

Semjaza sat back down, once again looking like a refined wealthy gentleman entertaining beloved friends. He smoothed his waistcoat and then clasped his hands in his lap.

“Now then,” Semjaza said with a bright smile, “I will tell you what I intend, and you will all support me.”

Penemuel swallowed against the bile that rose in his throat. “I will not kill for you, Semjaza,” he heard himself saying, and he trembled as he said it.

Semjaza waved that aside. “And I would not expect it of you, Penemuel. No, I will not ask anything of the three of you that are not within your talents. Azazel is my general; you, Penemuel, will resume your role as my intelligence officer, and Kokabiel and Baraqiel will assist.”

Baraqiel helped Kokabiel to his feet. “What are your plans?”

Semjaza smiled. “In no particular order, they are to reclaim my wife, to find my sons, to take Eden and rule it once more. To avenge myself against Gabriel for imprisoning me in Aquila, and Michael for imprisoning the rest of you in Hell. To avenge myself against Uriel for unleashing the Flood and locking the gates of Eden from all, and against Raziel for making it impossible for me to return there now. And most of all, I intend to punish Remiel for turning my wife against me and using her for his own perverted desires.”

“What do you want us to do first, then?” Penemuel asked. He wanted to leave, to flee from this apartment and this city, run from Paris as fast as he could and hide. But he couldn’t. At least, not yet.

“I want you to find where the Archangels are hiding themselves. I want you to tell me what their lives on this planet are like, what their weaknesses and strengths here are. Do you think you can do that?”