The Fallen 03 - Warrior (30 page)

He knew she loved him, of course. He could practically taste her longing. It didn’t matter that her experience was just about nil. She could have been in love a dozen times before meeting his gaze in that room, and he would have known.

He was past railing at the unfairness of the universe that the Ultimate Power had abandoned to work things out on its own. He never bothered with self-pity—it was for Tory alone that he had raged. She would die, all too soon.

She was ignoring him, moving through Uriel’s latest
illusion with the pleasure the place always stimulated.

“Don’t eat anything,” he warned again, going after her.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said dismissively, practically skipping.

“And try to fight the euphoria,” he added, ignoring his own pleasure in watching her. He’d been watching her for days—there was no reason to feel such ridiculous longing. Just because he was doomed to care what happened to her, and it did feel like doom, didn’t mean she wasn’t still highly annoying.

He could blame the world-induced euphoria. Or perhaps his long-delayed acceptance that she meant something to him, that he didn’t have to fight that particular truth. Though maybe it was as elemental as how turned on he’d been when he’d seen her sizzle Theron with lightning bolts.

“Yeah, I know,” she said airily, glancing back at him. “I’m not allowed to feel good.”

“It’s safer not to.” He followed her broodingly. This nauseating world was as dangerous as the Wraiths, which still threatened them. While the ghost-hunters sucked the light and life from those who ended up in the Darkness, the euphoria of this world assaulted sanity another way, stripping away common sense and judgment and leaving nothing but unreasonable hope and joy, so that Uriel could smash it more effectively. But she wasn’t listening to his warnings. He was afraid he wasn’t either.

He followed her. She practically danced down the pathways, humming, as he maintained a stony silence. There was always the chance they could get through this world. He still had a few tricks left.

He fought his reaction, keeping his head down. It was only when he realized he no longer heard her humming that he looked up.

To discover that she had vanished.

I
KNEW
I
WAS BEING SILLY.
T
HE CALM
, careful part of me stood right outside my body, telling me this was an illusion, a trick of some cosmic sadist. It was as if someone had pumped happy drugs into the atmosphere, and I was trying so hard to fight it.

But I felt glorious. I felt even stronger, I felt beautiful, I felt blessed. I would live forever; anything I wanted would be mine. Including the dour creature who was following me at a distance.

I smiled to myself. He was doing a better job at fighting this joyfulness, but in the end he wouldn’t succeed. It was too powerful, too seductive. It wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. It was just enforcing it, making it too powerful to ignore.

He wanted me; he would love me if I simply did the right thing, said the right thing. How many women had thought that over the years? But this time it was
true. I had fallen, fighting all the way, fallen like the angels who were his people, and apparently mine as well nowadays. He would fall as well, reluctantly, just as he’d served heaven for far longer than the others. He would fall at my feet, and I would take him. Forever. I felt sure of it.

I glanced back to see him walking after me, head down, finding his feet and the pathway of supreme interest. I grinned. I was too much temptation for him, and that knowledge brought me great joy. He was slipping, and I would have him.

The smell of sugar and chocolate had faded so that it barely tempted me. I had a strong and enduring attachment to chocolate, but my interest in Michael trumped it. He was the one I wanted to lick and bite. And swallow.

I wanted to laugh at the salacious thought. I was getting dizzy with the whirlwind of emotions that had swept over me in the past twenty-four hours. The raw passion in the kitchen, the tenderness in the bedroom. The terror of watching him die, the rage at Theron’s brutality. The shock of finding the unexpected power that had lain hidden inside me. And, most shattering of all, the ridiculous, unnecessary, unexpected love that was consuming me for the man trailing behind me.

I needed to rein in my burgeoning feelings.

But why? the drugged part of me demanded. It felt wonderful to want, to know that I could
have
. That everything could be mine.

Illusion, I reminded myself sternly. And then I laughed. What was wrong with a little illusion every now and then? As long as I realized that was what it was.

Up ahead the path forked. To the left it led through a bamboo thicket of giant strawberry Twizzlers, never my favorite food. To the right was nothing less than a gingerbread cottage, with child-shaped cookies adorning it. I hoped to God the illusion wasn’t so strong that those were real children. No, I decided, testing my own powerful instinct that even Uriel-induced happiness couldn’t ruin. There were no children in any way, shape, or form around here.

I glanced behind me. Michael had fallen back even more, and a wicked thought struck me. I could surprise him, jump on him, and he’d be unable to resist. I slipped into the gingerbread house, hiding behind its thick, spicy walls.

It was an odd little room, with a large oven and child-size cages made of pretzel sticks. I shivered. That was carrying the fantasy a little too far. If I opened the oven, would I find a chocolate woman awash in candy-corn flames?

I was about to emerge when I heard him calling my name, sudden panic in his voice. It was this place, of course. In a normal world he would never allow panic to show. Not that we’d ever been in a normal world together, I reminded myself. I moved toward the door, planning to jump out and scare him, but I
was too late. He was already disappearing into the Twizzler-bamboo forest.

But I don’t like Twizzlers,
I reminded myself. And that wasn’t the right way to go. I emerged into the glaring colors, glad to be away from the cottage. I should go after him. I would follow orders and not touch the tempting foliage and infrastructure, but I was tired and my legs ached, and other parts of me as well. I’d had very little sleep the night before, and we’d been walking for a good long time. I could use a little rest.

I moved away from the disturbing cottage into the forest, where the smell of strawberry was strong. The ground beneath it looked soft and inviting, and I touched it tentatively, afraid if I lay down I’d be covered in icing. But it was springy to the touch—maybe dyed, shredded marshmallows, but at least it wouldn’t cling to me. I sat down carefully and waited, kicking off my new sneakers and rubbing my feet. No blisters—apparently such difficulties didn’t exist in Confectionary Hell. I felt a burble of happiness inside me and I tried to tear it out. It was too stubborn.

It was a beautiful day and I was in love. Of course I was happy.

I lay back on the marshmallow moss, staring up into the sky. Thick white clouds against a bright blue backdrop, and those looked like marshmallows as well. They probably were. I closed my eyes and let my senses speak to me. I let my mind wander up
my legs, which had trembled as he held them while he thrust into me . . . my sex, still swollen and sensitive, which tightened with longing when I thought of him . . . . my breasts, still feeling his touch, the suck of his mouth, the dance of his teeth . . . my neck, as I remembered his mouth pressed against it, drinking from me as he filled me.

Arousal swamped me at the memory, and my hands were shaking with it. I knew I should do something to stop it, but instead my hand moved across my belly in a slow, languorous caress. Up to my breasts, flicking the nipples with my fingers, but the touch wasn’t the same. One hand reached my neck, and my fingers caressed the spot, now invisible, where he had fed, as my other hand moved lower, starting to slide beneath the aqua capris that apparently were the height of fashion in midcentury America.

“What the hell are you doing?” Michael roared, and I opened my eyes lazily, smiling at him. He was doing a better job of fighting the insidious effects of this world. But I thought he was losing the battle.

“What do you think I’m doing?” I murmured happily. “Reliving last night.”

He caught the hand that was about to move beneath my pants and pulled me upright. “It’s the euphoria,” he said tightly. “It’s not real. You need to fight it.”

“There was no candy-induced insanity last night. And this morning,” I added judiciously.

“Don’t.”

I smiled at him. “Come here, Your Angelness. I want to be kissed.”

He shook his head. “You don’t know—”

“Of course I know. This world is infused with something very dangerous. It makes people happy, and I don’t care. It’s not making me feel anything I haven’t been feeling already. It’s just getting rid of my fears. Come here and kiss me.”

“Fears can be a good thing,” he said stubbornly.

I put out my hand and beckoned. “Not this time.”

“No.” He didn’t move, and some of my happiness faded. His will was too strong; it couldn’t be crushed by Uriel’s tricks or my dubious charms.

“I can’t read you here,” he said, “but I can guess. You’re thinking I can resist you, even with all the temptation thick in the air, because I don’t really want you. And you’d be wrong.”

“There’s another reason why you can resist me?”

He shook his head. “No. Fuck the magic atmosphere and the euphoria and the way it can strip away common sense. I can fight that.” He came closer.

I just looked at him, waiting for a mortal blow and hoping that here in the land of happiness it wouldn’t hurt too much.

“The one thing I can’t fight,” he said, moving closer still, so close I could look into his obsidian eyes and see myself reflected there, small and vulnerable, “is how much I want you.”

He kissed me then, just his mouth touching mine,
keeping his hands at his sides. I did the same, letting only our mouths blend, tasting his lips, opening my mouth when his tongue pressed against my lips, feeling the slide of his tongue, and my legs felt shivery, weak. It was then he caught me, pulling me against him, but his kisses were slow and lazy, as if we had all the time in the world.

“What’s on the ground?” he whispered.

“Marshmallows. Very soft.”

“Pillows or fluff?”

“Shredded and dried.”

“Good.” He pulled me down onto the cushiony bed, his hand running down to catch my hip possessively. Exactly where his tattoo lay deep in my skin. Another wave of desire shimmered through my body. I wanted his mark on me. I could feel the strength, the connection between us, and I reveled in the idea.

I could do this forever, float in this dream of sexuality. The bright colors, the euphoria, the smell of chocolate, wiped out any doubt I should have had, and I let go of any last trace of wisdom, giving myself to his mouth, his hands. He held me there, brushing his lips across my face, feathering my eyelids, my neck, the hollow of my throat. I didn’t have to see his beautiful hands to picture them as he pushed the virginal blouse out of the way, and then, oh, God, he was kissing my breasts, and I was going to climax simply from his mouth on me. He did things I hadn’t imagined, sucking and then blowing cool air on them, using his teeth, even his fangs, and the sensation
was shocking as tiny orgasms teased at me. I thrashed my legs in demand, but he simply stroked my body, as if to calm a skittish horse, until the screaming desire faded back into a vibrating need, and he laughed softly.

“We can’t do it here,” he said. “Too much innocence.”

I looked at him, startled. “We can’t?”

He shook his head. “Just another trick of Uriel’s. Either you’ll have a regrown steel hymen, or my erection will immediately disappear. But I can do this . . .” He stroked me, slowly, and I wanted to purr with delight.

“I love you,” I said happily. I knew he would freeze at my artless words, and I didn’t care.

He was leaning over me, the brightly painted sky behind him. “I love you too,” he murmured, brushing his mouth against mine. “But once we’re out of here, I’ll deny I ever said it.”

“That’s okay,” I said tranquilly. “Just tell me now so I can enjoy myself.”

He laughed again, and there was no mocking tang to it. “I’m in love with you, Victoria Bellona, Goddess of War, pain in the butt extraordinaire, wielder of lightning bolts, slayer of good intentions and angel-enforcers. I’ve tried to fight it—I don’t do love, but it’s too strong. The moment we leave here I’ll tell you you imagined it, but I’m tired of fighting everything, particularly myself. I love you, no matter how much you annoy me.”

This was nice, I thought happily as his large, clever hand kept tracing circular patterns on my stomach. It was the euphoria, of course. He didn’t mean a word of it. But I could pretend, and his caveat made it more believable. A sudden thought struck me. “You’re not just telling me because I backed you into a corner?”

“No.”

“It’s not because I’m going to die of some tragic, beautiful disease and you want to make my last weeks happy ones?” He jerked uncomfortably, which struck me as odd, but I went on. “No, that’s not the Archangel Michael. If I were about to die, he’d be practical and move on. He wouldn’t waste time with a lost cause.”