The Fallen 03 - Warrior (13 page)

In truth, he had no idea why he he’d gone after
her. She could have walked for days, weeks, and found nothing, no escape from the future she’d been born to, and it would have taken the decision away from him. She’d taken nothing with her, and he knew she was much smarter than that. Her desperation to get away from him was so strong it had clouded her better judgment.

Good. That would keep her at a distance. That was all he wanted, for her to be out of sight and out of mind. But he didn’t want her dying on the beach, alone, in pain. She had so little time left, shorter than the usual frail human existence, and he didn’t want any of it to be stolen from her.

By the time he reached the compound she’d begun to stir, and the feel of her warm, strong body in his arms did what he knew it would do. There was nothing wrong with his cock, nothing missing in his desires. He just chose to ignore them. Which was becoming harder as time went on.

He landed lightly outside the french doors and kicked them open, striding into the room and dumping her on her bed. She immediately tried to scramble up, but he simply pushed her back down.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he said. “Ever. You don’t need to risk your life by running away into nowhere, and trust me, the beach leads absolutely nowhere. The only way out of Sheol is through the gates, and they’re guarded, warded, protected. You can’t open them. So stop trying to escape, and I promise to leave you alone.”

She said nothing. She lay in the middle of the bed. Her dark hair had come loose from its plait, and her face was even paler than usual, her green eyes blazing up at him. It was getting more and more difficult to keep his gaze away from the delicious swell of her breasts, the temptation of her mouth.
No,
he reminded himself sharply.
No.

“Do I have your word you won’t try to escape?”

“No.”

“Fine.” He spun on his heel and stalked from the room, slamming the door as he went. The locks and wards clicked into place, sealing the room. She would be able to open the windows, to let the sea breeze in, but she wouldn’t be able to escape. Let her try the pleasures of house arrest again and see how she liked it.

It suited him perfectly. He needed time to regain his equilibrium. He’d almost kissed her again. He had to be out of his mind. Because if he did, he knew what would follow, as surely as the night followed the day, and he didn’t want that. Couldn’t want that.

Why not
? the voice in his head demanded.
Who would it hurt? Martha says you must. She’ll die anyway. Why not?

One hundred years of celibacy, two hundred years of taking nourishment only from the Source—and it had made him strong, invincible. He had watched history unfold from his place with Uriel, had seen the disasters wrought by lust. It had brought the Fallen to their knees, destroyed cities and worlds.
There was too much at stake to risk losing even one bit of his power.

His skin felt tight, his heart was pounding, and he was still hard, his damned, betraying body telling him what he wouldn’t admit. It was a waste of time denying it. He wanted her. Needed her.

He wouldn’t take her.

I
DIDN’T MOVE FOR A LONG TIME. AT
least this time I didn’t have the roiling nausea that had accompanied the first time he’d flown with me, but I didn’t want to move. I had too much to think about. About opening my eyes during that short, breathless flight to see him staring down at me. I’d wanted him to kiss me, really kiss me. I’d looked up into his eyes, and if I truly had been a goddess, I would have willed him to put that hard, beautiful mouth against mine, to breathe life and warmth back into me. The longing was so powerful it was like a tangible thing, so strong that I was certain he felt it too; but then he soared upward, into the icy cold night, and everything went black, and I went unkissed. And I wondered if he felt the same longing, the same regret for missed chances.

Finally I rose, walking over to the open window. The moon was high in the sky and a wind had come
up, whipping the trees at the base of the cliff, and that strange, aching feeling built, filling my chest, churning my stomach, washing through me with a wave of what I knew was desire. Real, honest, adult desire, something I’d never felt before. I didn’t like it.

I needed to eat. I had to stay strong if I was going to have any chance of escape. There was a huge salad with cheese and meat and chickpeas in the fridge, so I wolfed down the entire thing, followed by the ubiquitous Diet Coke, which was improving on further acquaintance. Rather like the Archangel Michael—and that way lay danger. I took a quick shower, changed my clothes, and headed for the door as the moon shone bright overhead.

I needed the sea wind on my upturned face, the moon shining down on me. I felt restless, sexual, at odds with my body and my life, and I needed to move, to run, to work off all this strange, disturbing energy.

The door was locked. I stared at it balefully, but it was impervious to my annoyance. I checked the other door, just to be certain, but of course it was locked as well. People opened locked doors with credit cards, according to the movies. I didn’t own one, but there were other forms of plastic in the kitchen that would serve the purpose.

I found a thin, hard spatula and headed back to the front door, prepared to slide it through the crack between door and frame. And then stared in astonishment.

There was no crack. The door and frame were solid, as if carved out of one piece of wood. It was sealed—there was no place to slide the spatula.

The french doors were the same, the joinery gone, smooth wood in its place. But they still had mullioned windowpanes, and in a moment of blind fury I picked up a chair and flung it at the doors.

It bounced back, almost hitting me. With a curse I threw myself at it, with the same results, except I landed sideways on the couch.

I knew a lot of curses. Watch enough movies and you can get very fluent in bad language, and I let it all fly. The rat-fucking bastard had locked me in. Not only that, but he’d put some sort of voodoo whammy on the doors and windows so I couldn’t break out.

I was going to kill him.

I pulled myself upright from my ungainly sprawl and glared at the front door. Rachel had insisted that I was a goddess. If that was so, where the fuck were my powers? If I was an ancient Roman goddess of war, surely I could demolish something as simple as a lock?

I knew Latin. I knew eleven languages, and had been in the process of learning new ones when I’d been called to my mother’s salon. People used Latin for spells, didn’t they? And for unearthly power. And it was certainly the right language for the mythical Victoria Bellona.

I eyed the door, and I made a little deal with
myself. If I could open that door without an axe or a key, then I would accept that I was who they said I was—the goddess of war, here to fight the Armies of Heaven.

It would have to be Latin. I couldn’t call on the Prince of Darkness like they did in witchcraft movies, since I had a strong suspicion that the Prince of Darkness would be on the side of the Fallen. As for appealing to the gods, supposedly I was one of them. I’d just go for straightforward Latin. Not a commonly used word such as
aperire
, to open. I needed something more forceful.
Erumpere
was to break open. The imperative form of that would be
erumpite
, wouldn’t it? I eyed the door with a baleful glare.

“Erumpite!”
I said in a ringing voice.

Nothing happened.

“Effringito!”
I tried again.

Nothing.
“Aperito!”

I was ready to give up, when something prickled along my arms. It was impossible, of course. Even so, I rose and started toward the door, just on the off chance . . .

It opened. I didn’t even have to touch the doorknob. At my approach the door simply popped open, standing ajar, and I stared at it in disbelief.

Well, this was entirely cool. Apparently all I had to do was make a demand in Latin and it would come true. And I was very, very good at Latin.

I checked the doors to the beach, but they were still locked, and I decided not to waste my time with
them. One avenue of escape was better than none, and it was getting late. I stepped out into the corridor, moving silently, and headed down the hall. I was seriously annoyed. How dare he try to lock me in?

I had just reached the building’s main door when I noticed the faint light coming from the workout room. Shadows flickered, as if someone was moving around in there, and I knew who would be down there in the middle of the night. He hadn’t gone straight to his room after locking me in. He’d gone to work off the frustration that roiled within him, frustration that was also threading through my body.

If I had any brains I’d get the hell out of there. Then again, sometimes being a fool was absolutely irresistible. Particularly when I’d get to savor the look on his face when I strolled in.

The doors were open to the night air, that seductive breeze blowing across the dimly lit room. There were several mats strewn around on the floor, but only one man was in the room. He was a blur of grace and speed, spinning, leaping, dancing through the air like a god. He wore no shirt, only the loose white pants he’d had on earlier in the day, and for the first time I got a good look at the tattoos that snaked and swirled around his body. I watched them slide up his lean, muscled torso, around his biceps, encircling his neck, dancing with him as he moved. If I hadn’t realized he was a supernatural being before,
I knew it now. No human could leap that high, move that fluidly, dangerously.

He stopped suddenly, and I was afraid he knew I was watching, but he simply walked over and picked up a bucket of water. He poured it over his body, and I watched it sluice down over his chest, his arms, dampening the loose pants so that they clung to him. I gulped for air.

He lifted his head, suddenly intent, though he didn’t look in my direction. “How did you get out?”

“Magic. I’m a goddess, remember?” I strolled into the room, determined to prove just how unmoved I was by all that wet, gorgeous male flesh.

“I remember. I didn’t think you did.”

“I thought I’d give it a try. Harry Potter movies are good for something.”

“Harry Potter?” he echoed, clearly confused.

“Don’t you watch movies here?”

“No.”

I shrugged. “Your loss.” Though in fact I’d seen enough movies to last me this lifetime and the next. “A little Latin goes a long way.”

He said nothing, watching me. He was faster, deadlier, more graceful, than anyone I’d ever seen in my life, better than the best of the truly impressive warriors I’d watched and sparred with today. Better than Metatron, who’d been suckered so easily; far better than Pedersen. Could I take him?

I moved into the moonlight. “I don’t want to be here.”

“Tell me something new.”

“You don’t want me here.”

He said nothing, waiting.

“I have a proposal. I’ll fight you.”

He laughed. I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him laugh before, and I could have done without it this time, since it was at my expense. “Don’t waste my time,” he said.

I bit back my instinctive response. “If I lose, I’ll stop trying to escape. I’ll be the nice, docile wife and you won’t even need to think about me.”

“I don’t think about you now.”

That was a lie, but I didn’t call him on it. “What have you got to lose?” I could do it, I was sure of it. I had opened those doors; I had bested their most powerful soldier with barely any effort. I gave him a silky smile. “Are you afraid of being shown up? I could have you on your back in a matter of seconds.”

“No,” he said, taking a step closer. “I could have you on yours.”

My temper flared. “Don’t do that!”

“Do what?”

“Pretend that you have even the faintest interest in me sexually. You’ve made it clear you’re willing to risk the fate of the world rather than sleep with me.”

I’d shocked him. And then that same slow smile curved his beautiful mouth, and I was lost. The water still glistened on his chest, and something tightened inside me.

“That rankles, does it?” he murmured. “You know as well as I do that it isn’t your charms that are lacking.”

“I know all about those kinds of excuses. ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’” I said with a trace of bitterness.

He rolled his eyes. “Look, I’ve been celibate for more than a hundred years. I’m not about to change my mind for no reason.”

“The fate of the world is no reason?” I shot back.

Now he seemed genuinely amused, and he took another step toward me. “Are you trying to talk me into it?”

“No! I just want to get the hell out of here, and I’ll do anything I can to make that happen.”

“Including fucking me?”

The word shocked me. Not that I hadn’t heard it before, not that he hadn’t used it before. But in this dark, heated atmosphere, it suddenly felt real, visceral. Possible.