The Fallen 03 - Warrior (16 page)

The very thought horrified me so much that I slid out of bed without thinking. By the time I backed up I realized he was still asleep. He hadn’t even noticed I’d pulled away.

I stood there in the dawning light, watching him. He was beautiful as he slept, the fresh stubble on his chin a golden-brown color, matching the close-cropped hair. With his cool, distant eyes closed he looked like a different man. One capable of kindness, tenderness. Not the warrior I knew him to be, but someone almost human.

But I shouldn’t fool myself. He wasn’t human, and neither was I. I touched my neck, then looked at my hand. Just the faintest trace of blood. I thought he hadn’t drunk from me, but clearly he’d done the bare minimum. So the world wouldn’t end and the Fallen would be happy. See me jumping for joy.

I moved back to the bed silently, reaching for my neatly folded clothes. He slept like the dead, and as I stared at him I noticed for the first time the dark circles under his eyes. He was a man—an angel—who didn’t sleep well.

I could see him clearly in the growing light, his smooth back, the line of elegant tattoos snaking around his shoulder blades. No wings. Where did they come from? Did they just magically appear when he needed them? Apparently so.

Holding my clothes to my chest, I slipped out into the hallway, half-afraid I’d run into some early riser. Still, I figured running into a stranger when I was
stark naked was better than risking waking Michael. I closed the door silently, then yanked on my clothes. I went from mistake to mistake, and if I stayed any longer I’d be screwed.

I stifled a snort of laughter. Or not. As if things weren’t complicated enough, now Michael and I would be doing a little dance of would we or wouldn’t we, and I couldn’t stand the thought of it. He said there was only one way out, through the main gate. Okay, I’d find that main gate, or climb up the cliff face using sheer willpower. Whatever I was going to do, I wasn’t going to look him in the face again. Not after what we’d done, the way he’d touched me, the way I’d lost myself so completely in his arms. He now held too dangerous a weapon over me. A wise warrior knew when to retreat and regroup. And when to run like hell.

As I stepped outside, streaks of early sunlight crept over the cliffs behind the house, spangling the water with jewel-bright drops, and for a moment I wondered if I had time to strip off my clothes and jump in. The cool salt air called to me.

I ignored it. Once I escaped from here, there would be any number of oceans to find. Once I escaped, I would be free.

I’d forgotten my shoes. They were in the workout room—I’d need them if I was going to travel any distance. I turned back toward the door, when a faint prickling stirred the hair at the back of my neck.

I blamed Michael. If I hadn’t been so bleary from
the hours I’d spent in his bed, I would have been more alert. A lifetime of training, and all it took was a moment of inattention, as a shadow passed behind me, pain exploded in my head, and the slate pathway rushed up to meet me.

M
ICHAEL’S EYES FLEW
open. For a moment he didn’t move, trying to orient himself. He was in his own bed, naked, the way he usually slept. But something felt different.
He
felt different, and it took him only a moment to remember. The feel of her was still imprinted on his skin, as if holding her had made a permanent change to his flesh. The scent of her, flowers and sex, spiked his morning arousal. She’d left, thank God. Because otherwise he’d be inside her right now, he’d be taking her blood, and what they’d done under cover of darkness would be a very different thing in the saner light of day.

He sat up, shaking his head to clear the errant thoughts. He’d slept. He’d actually slept, for the first time in recent memory. Not that he needed much sleep—he was built to survive on very little, and as long as he trained he was fine. But it had been too long since he’d slept even a few minutes, and his body was filled with an intense satisfaction.

Or maybe it was something other than sleep that had filled his body with intense satisfaction.

It had been a mistake. He knew that, and he couldn’t afford to let it happen again. He had enough willpower to topple cities, and had done so under
Uriel’s savage direction. One lone female would be simple enough to control compared to the other creatures he’d battled and bested for millennia.

Except that she wasn’t one lone female. She was Victoria Bellona, Goddess of War. She was Tory, soft and vulnerable, shattering in his arms, beneath his touch. Tory, the taste of her blood lingering in his mouth, teasing him with what he could have, should have. Would never have. It had been too damned close to a complete surrender. Once he pierced her vein and drank deeply, she’d be doomed.

And he’d slaughtered too many innocents.

He rose, heading out into the hallway, past the workout room where last night had started, walking straight into the ocean. The ocean would heal him, clear away the confusion. It would bring him peace, wash her memory, her touch, her scent, from his body, and he would emerge renewed, invulnerable, never to touch her again. The healing waters would free him of this obsession.

The sea was frigid, and he sliced through it, swimming steadily, working his muscles, letting the blessed relief of hard work thrum through him. When he was out so far that the house was merely a speck in the distance, he dove, deep into the very heart of the ocean, so deep he could feel the pressure of the water all around him. And then he let go, floating, his eyes closed as he drew the power of the water into him, washing away uncertainty and doubt, washing away weakness and confusion.

He didn’t want it. Didn’t want the answer he was getting. Humans were always complaining. “Lord, show me a sign,” they said. And then, “Not that sign.”

This wasn’t what he wanted. He opened his eyes, as if that might change what he knew to be true. Opened his eyes to see a shark slide by, then turn gracefully, heading back for another look.

Michael remained still, meeting the creature’s black, merciless eyes. A predator, a warrior, just as he was. They recognized each other, but there was no need to test their skills. The shark brushed against him, a strange sort of greeting, and disappeared into the sea, in search of easier prey. Or in search of its mate.

Did sharks mate for life? Presumably not; they were solitary creatures. As was he. But the ocean was telling him otherwise. The ocean was saying what his body had told him, what his heart had told him, what his stubborn brain had told him, and he’d ignored it.

Tory was his mate. For less than a month, and then she would die. And running away from it wouldn’t change that truth.

He kicked, moving upward toward the light, feeling the pressure of the water ease away, until he spun upward, released into the warm morning air, feeling the sun wash over him as he unfurled his wings. He could talk to her, he supposed. He could control the raging need inside him, the beast that should never have been released in the first place. He could—

It hit him like a bolt of lightning, and he began to fall, tumbling toward the rocky cliffs. Righting himself, he landed on the ledge above the compound as he realized what had been troubling him all along, the nagging emptiness that he’d ignored as part of his unsuitable desire for her.

She was gone. It was that absence that had woken him from the first sound sleep he’d had in what felt like decades. That emptiness had driven him into the sea. Tory was no longer in Sheol, and she was in trouble.

IT WAS COLD
, dark, and terrible. I couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, wrapped in some kind of enveloping shroud as we moved higher and higher. I was in the arms of an angel, and there was no safety or comfort.

I tried to struggle out of the covering, but the arms that were holding me loosened, and for one breathless, terrifying moment I thought he was going to let go of me, let me plummet to my death, either into the merciless depth of the ocean or to smash against the unforgiving earth.

Who held me? Had Michael decided to get rid of me for good? He’d sworn he wouldn’t touch me, and within forty-eight hours we’d been in his bed.

It was getting colder, and I knew my kidnapper was moving higher, higher still, where the atmosphere was so thin I couldn’t catch my breath, smothered as I was by the cloth.

I was blacking out, losing consciousness, and I wondered if he was simply going to kill me this way, by cold and lack of oxygen. Everything was fading, and even though I had no idea whom I could trust, I couldn’t help it. The last sound I made before I lost consciousness was a pitiful cry for help.

“Michael.”

M
ICHAEL HEARD HER
. Calling his name, desperate, afraid. His warrior bride was afraid, and he needed to find her.

He had to fight the unnerving panic. He closed his eyes, trying to sense her, picture the places she might be. She was nowhere on the beach—he would feel her life force if she were. Unless she was dead.

But that was impossible—Sheol was safety personified. The gates were still barred, and she had to be hidden somewhere. Unless someone had flown her away. Unless, once more, a traitor lurked in their midst.

She was no longer in Sheol. He knew it with a feeling of dread. She was gone, and therefore someone—some angel—had taken her. He landed hard, moving through the annex purposefully. It took him a moment to pull on clothes, and he caught the scent of her, of them, on his sheets. She smelled like jasmine, and he cursed, heading for her rooms.

Of course she was gone. But nothing had been taken. No change of clothes, no food had been eaten, she hadn’t even taken a shower. In fact, she hadn’t
been back here since she’d left him—he would know it, sense it, if she had. Would smell the lingering, erotic trace of jasmine and sex as she moved through the room. He resisted the impulse to slam the door behind him, stalking down the corridor in a mix of fury and panic. She hadn’t run this time. He knew it. She had cried out for him. She was in danger.

“What’s wrong?” The voice startled him enough that he jumped, irrational hope warring with despair. He turned to see Asbel standing there, watching him with a concerned expression.

“Have you seen Tory?” he demanded, shocked that his voice was so raw.

“Tory? Oh, you mean the goddess. Why don’t you ask Rachel?” Asbel suggested, nodding toward the shore, and Michael cursed. Azazel and his wife were walking by the edge of the water, holding hands. He wanted to snarl.

Rachel was the very last person he wanted to talk to. She was a far cry from the usually docile Fallen wives, possibly because she had once been a demon—
the
demon, the Lilith—and he still wasn’t convinced she hadn’t found a way to tap into her ancient powers. Besides, he’d gotten the clear impression that Rachel considered herself Tory’s champion, against
him
.

“What’s wrong?” Azazel demanded when Michael reached them.

“Tory’s gone.” He glared at Rachel. “Did you help her? Do something to take her away from me?”

“Take her away from
you
?” she said. “I thought you didn’t want any part of her. Or is it only a particular part you were interested in?”

His already shaky temper flared. “She’s in trouble,” he snapped. “Someone’s taken her. Did you have anything to do with it?”

“Of course we didn’t,” Azazel said calmly. “We need her. We need you to cooperate. We were coming here to talk to you both, to try to convince you—”

The last thing he wanted to hear was Azazel telling him he had to have sex. Not now.

“It’s been taken care of.” His voice was still raw. “Bedded and blooded. So where the fuck is she?”

Rachel looked even more surprised. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the stoic Archangel Michael so wound up.”

He wanted to snarl, but he kept himself under control. Azazel was very protective of his wife, and any disrespect would result in a confrontation. Right now he didn’t have the time for politics. “This isn’t about me, Rachel,” he said in a tightly controlled voice. “This is about her.”

“About Tory.” Rachel used the name deliberately, like a prod. Of course she would notice that he’d avoided calling her by name.

“About Tory,” he agreed. “She’s not in Sheol.”

Rachel’s amusement vanished. “She has to be.”

“She’s not. I heard her call me. In fact, I think that’s what woke me up. Someone took her, and I felt her struggle.”

Azazel looked grave. “We’d best tell Raziel right away. He’ll send someone to check the gate, but if that’s still intact, then there’s no way anyone could get in here.”

“What if he was already in?”

The expression on Azazel’s face matched his own foreboding. “You can’t think we have another traitor!”

Michael hadn’t even realized Asbel was still with them until he spoke up. “There could be. If it comes to it, my money’s on Metatron. She humiliated him in the workout room, and he’s never made friends with any of the Fallen. I think he’d do anything he could to get back to Uriel.”

“How could someone want to get back to Uriel? He’s a soul-killing bastard,” Rachel protested.

“He could destroy more than her soul,” Michael said. “You’re right, Asbel. Metatron was his chief angel for millennia, and he’s the logical suspect. If he brought the goddess to the Dark City, I expect the archangel would allow him to stay.”