The Fallen 03 - Warrior (19 page)

He could kill me quite easily. So why was he fretting about my being here only a short time? Where would he send me next, and why?

At least I was sure of one thing, and it was a soothing thought. Michael would never come here. If Beloch had that much power over me, then Michael would be in extreme danger; and if anything happened to him, the entire community of the Fallen would be in deep shit. As would the world.

I didn’t want that to happen. I liked the people I’d met in Sheol—Allie and Rachel, Asbel and the other men I’d trained with, even Martha, for all that her damned prophecy had landed me in this mess. I liked the place, for all it was just another prison. If I had to live in prison, I could be happy in the one by the ocean I’d fallen in love with.

They needed Michael to win the battle against the Armies of Heaven. Exactly where were those armies? Here in what he called the Dark City?

He wouldn’t come for me. He’d done what he
had to do, and he was probably happy to get rid of me. He wouldn’t risk everything with a misguided rescue attempt.

I was nothing to him.

Beloch was doomed to disappointment.

I
MUST HAVE SLEPT.
T
HE
O
RIENTAL RUG
beneath me was thick and beautiful, even if there were no rich colors to appreciate, and I really didn’t have the strength to pull myself up to one of the uncomfortable chairs. I still felt shaken—as if my entire body had short-circuited—and I needed to rest.

I was starving. I knew he’d left food behind, but even for the sake of cookies I couldn’t bring myself to stand up. Besides, he’d probably poisoned them. I was dying of thirst, my empty stomach was in a knot, and I felt as if I’d been electrocuted. All in all, not a good day so far.

Then again, I was never one to grovel. Cursing beneath my breath, I managed to haul myself up, collapsing into one of the chairs. The cold tea still smelled like bergamot, and sepia-colored cookies weren’t that tempting. I leaned back in the chair and
closed my eyes, working on drawing my energy back together.

It was something I’d learned from Pedersen. No, scratch that. It was part of the martial arts training that Pedersen had dismissed as unimportant. Since the one thing he and the contessa had not done was to restrict my reading and video watching, it had been easy enough to continue with the spiritual aspects of martial arts on my own. In the end, I suspected it was one of the reasons I’d grown stronger than Pedersen. There was only so much the human body was capable of, so much physical training could accomplish. When that failed, you needed to count on inner resources.

Then again, if I was a goddess and Pedersen a mere mortal, he’d been outgunned from the beginning. I hated the thought that I’d had an unfair advantage over that bastard.

I heard footsteps in the hallway, but the fight had gone out of me. Even if I managed to escape, where the hell could I go in this strange, colorless world? The lock clicked and two black-robed figures stood there, looking like something out of the Spanish Inquisition. The black of their garments was so intense it was almost blinding in the toned-down room, and the hoods covered their heads and faces like the robes of penitents. They put their black-gloved hands on me and I went without struggling. What had Beloch called them? Truth Breakers? Now, there was a name to strike terror into a mortal soul.

But I wasn’t mortal. And I would be hard to break.

“Easy, boys,” I said, channeling every insouciant heroine I’d ever seen on-screen. “I’ll go quietly.”

No response. My wrists were shackled, and I hadn’t even noticed when they’d done that. I let them lead me down, deeper and deeper into the bowels of this colorless world, until we came to a place that looked ominously like an operating room, complete with surgical instruments and a viewing window for either medical students or apprentice torturers to watch. I had no intention of going quietly.

One of them released his vicious grip on my arm and moved forward to unlock the door. The other black-robed creature’s grip on me was much lighter; if I could just count on a moment’s inattention, I could break free from him quite easily.

I waited for my chance, seemingly cowed and docile, watching the stronger man’s every move. I could catch him as he turned, kicking him as I wrenched my wrists free from the second man and looped my manacled hands around his neck, while—

No, that wouldn’t work. Maybe take out the man holding me first? But the first one was stronger, judging by the pain in my arm, and it made sense to disable him first while his back was turned, an unfair advantage I had no hesitation using. I tensed, ready to yank my arm free and spring—when the man beside me jumped, in a fast, graceful blur of movement my eyes couldn’t follow. The first Truth Breaker was down, and the second one was stripping the
black robe from the body with ruthless speed, exposing a burly man in striped boxers and a wife-beater. I stared down at the seemingly ordinary creature in astonishment, and then the robe was flung at me. I caught it reflexively in my bound hands, staring at the second man.

“Put the fucking thing on,” Michael’s voice snarled from beneath the enveloping hood as he dragged the man’s body into the torture room.

Panic and joy swamped me. I wasn’t going to let either show. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Saving your ass.” He turned back to me, shoving the hood off his head. His face in color was a shock, when my eyes had grown used to the black and white that surrounded me. “Are you putting that robe on so we have a chance in hell of getting out of here?”

“Are you going to unfasten these handcuffs so I can?” I responded, uncowed.

He gave a long-suffering sigh, as if I were the one who’d screwed up, and a second later the cuffs fell on the floor. He kicked them into the room and shut the door.

“How did you do that?” I demanded, impressed, as I pulled the enveloping robe around me.

He didn’t answer my question. “Pull the hood low, and keep your hands tucked into the sleeves so no one will see they’re different.”

“And for that matter, why are they different? What is this place? And why did you bother to come after me? I would have thought you’d be well rid of
me.” And then I stopped asking questions. I could feel them coming closer.

He felt them too. He reached over and yanked the hood down so low over my head that I couldn’t see, replacing his own at the same time. “Be prepared to run for it,” he muttered as he began hauling me down the dark corridor.

“Can’t we fly?” I demanded, stumbling after him.

“Not here,” he said grimly.

True enough. The halls were too narrow. I had never seen him clearly enough to guess at the wingspan, but I doubted these narrow corridors could contain him. So I ran.

In the best of times I could run for miles without tiring. In the best of times I hadn’t been zapped by the mother of all Tasers and I wasn’t running for my life. There was no way to set a reasonable pace with Michael hauling me—all I could do was run, trying to ignore my pounding heart and rapidly diminishing breathing.

The halls were growing more and more narrow. The light was growing dimmer. And our pursuers, if they’d even been after us, were farther away, until we could no longer sense them.

The corridors were tunnels now, with grim brownish lights set high into the stone walls. The paths forked, over and over, but Michael never hesitated, taking one turn after another.

“In here,” he said roughly, taking my arm and shoving me through a small doorway.

I went willingly, into a cocoon of darkness so intense that panic swamped me. I heard the
thunk
of a door closing, and it was all too much. I had never been claustrophobic in my life, but suddenly I was overwhelmed. I felt the walls closing down around me; my breathing was strangled in my throat, and I thought I was going to die—

Hard arms encircled me and tugged me against Michael’s strong body, his hand on the back of my neck, pressing my cowled face to his shoulder. I shivered, trying to regain my calm.
Stupid, stupid, stupid,
I ranted at myself as I gasped for breath.
You can’t afford to give in to any sign of weakness. Fight it, fight it—

“Stop fighting,” Michael growled in my ear. “You’re making it worse. Let go. I’ve got you.”

I’ve got you
. Why did those words make me want to cry? I shut my eyes, though in the darkness I didn’t need to, and concentrated on the slow, steady beat of Michael’s heart against my racing, fluttering one. Concentrated on the hand at my neck, soothing me with slow, calming strokes. Concentrated on his solid body against mine, holding me close, his breath against my forehead, calm and certain. “I’ve got you,” he said again.

And I let go.

M
ICHAEL FELT THE
fight leave her body, felt her slowly go limp. He picked her up, cradling her against him, and moved deeper into the storeroom.
He knew this place, knew it better than anyone. For the time being they were safe, until he decided on their next move.

He moved to the far wall, not needing his eyes to know where he was going, and sank down, Tory still in his arms. For a change she wasn’t fighting him. He’d been afraid, so afraid that he was too late. That he would come to Beloch’s room and find her one of them. Leached of color, leached of life.

He should have known Beloch couldn’t take her so easily. She was a fighter, a warrior like he was. It would take more than Beloch to defeat her.

She curled up against him, oddly trusting. The time in his bed was still disturbing, and it must be doubly troubling for her, given her limited experience. Then again, perhaps she didn’t know just how powerful their joining had been. As if worlds had collided and blended. This must be what bonding really was, whether he liked it or not. This must be what finding your true mate meant.

He shouldn’t have done it. He hadn’t taken enough blood, but he’d still come dangerously close to fulfilling the prophecy that would kill her.

He fought the urge to pull her closer. She was either asleep or resting, and she didn’t need anything disturbing her. She needed as much time as he dared give her.

He dropped his face into her hair, breathing in the jasmine scent of her. No wonder he’d been unable to resist her. It must be chemical, hormonal.
Something that was out of his control. A cruel trick of fate.

He’d been both voracious and celibate at various times in his existence, and he hadn’t felt much difference. Celibacy was simpler. He’d only had one mate, and he’d never taken her blood. She’d died before he had a chance to know her, and he couldn’t even remember the sex. Tory was different, damnably so, and Martha and the others must have known it.

Man up.
Wasn’t that the term humans used nowadays?
Don’t complain about what fate has handed you—deal with it and move on.

He’d fought Tory, and he’d lost the first battle. Taking her to bed had definitely been a defeat, no matter how good it had felt. He didn’t need to tell her that. They had to learn to fight together, to get out of the Dark City and out of this world of endless night. In time to face the final battle that would take her life.

Gods should be immortal, as angels were. Not that angels couldn’t die—the Nephilim and Uriel had seen to that. But Tory’s life seemed so much more fragile, for all her astonishing strength. It would be snuffed out in too little time. Life would be a great deal simpler if he didn’t give a damn.

He should set her down, but the floor was solid rock, and she’d be more comfortable in his arms. Over the years he’d held many women, both before and after his fall, effortlessly. But no one had ever felt as right as Tory did, fit as perfectly against the mercilessly hard contours of his flesh. It was as if he couldn’t tell
where he ended and she began. More of fate’s cruel tricks. Though maybe fate had nothing to do with it.

If he didn’t know better, he might have thought this was some sadistic game of Uriel’s. To send him someone who burrowed into his soul and then rip her away again.

But even Uriel with his almost limitless power couldn’t control emotions, passion, the unbreakable bond that was being forged between them. And when it
was
broken by her death, it would feel as if part of him were being ripped away. And it would hurt forever.

He felt her stir, and he prepared to tighten his grip if she started to panic again. He could feel the sudden tension in her body, and then she relaxed it, deliberately.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a soft voice. “I’m not usually that weak.”

“You aren’t weak.” He kept his tone matter-of-fact. “Beloch is a master of manipulation.”

“He didn’t manipulate me. I saw through the son of a bitch immediately.”

The room was very dark, but his eyes were fine-tuned to it. She was looking both stubborn and shaken. “You’d be the first,” he said.

She snorted. “How long have I been here? A day? He came swanning in when two Nazi hags were using a fire hose on me. Even though he stopped them, I figured anyone who was in charge of a place like this had to be a royal ugly dude.”