The Fallen 03 - Warrior (4 page)

This was a disaster, from beginning to end, but Raziel had refused to listen to his protests, and Michael had been forced to agree with him. Uriel was preparing to attack, the détente that had kept the Armies of Heaven from the grounds of Sheol about to be broken as easily as a crystal goblet.
He had no doubt the Fallen would eventually prevail, but certain things were needed to make that come to pass. Michael would do his part, and he would ensure that this girl did the same. Anything to bring down the vicious rule of the last of the archangels, Uriel, and end his bloody war against the Fallen.

The girl rose—though he supposed she wasn’t really a girl. Twenty-four. He could remember a time when women were ancient by the time they reached their twenties, their bodies worn-out by hard work and childbearing. This young woman didn’t seem to have done any work in her entire life.

“It will take me a few minutes to pack.”

“It’s been taken care of.”

A flash of annoyance danced in her clear green eyes, then flickered away. “All right. I’ll need to say good-bye—”

“There is no one you need to say good-bye to,” he said in the overpowering tone that allowed no contradiction. “I am ready. Come.”

He could feel her resistance, surprisingly powerful in one so young. But he had to remind himself that her physical years had nothing to do with the years—no, millennia—of power that had been transferred into her at birth. She really had no idea how strong she was.

Which was how it should be. Perhaps that was why the contessa had been so eager to destroy her,
jumping the gun by several weeks. Traditionally the candidate was destroyed on her twenty-fifth birthday, but that was four weeks away. If Martha hadn’t had her damnable vision just days ago, then this young woman would be doomed, and the eternal contessa would already be carrying a new goddess to be passed along to servants to raise until Pedersen took charge. They were a chilling factory; the contessa put him in mind of a spider hatching her eggs.

He knew why the contessa had sped up the date of termination for her latest offspring. It wasn’t the unruly tongue and lack of deference. It was the way Pedersen looked at the young woman when he thought the contessa wouldn’t notice.

It would have amused Michael in other circumstances. Even immortals were at the mercy of their whims and emotions, and it appeared that the previously impervious Pedersen had fallen prey to his latest student. What would have happened to her if he himself hadn’t entered the picture like a deus ex machina? Michael almost snorted at his own turn of phrase, but of late he’d lost his sense of humor.

He glanced at the big man. Pedersen probably would have tossed the girl over the cliff to join the bones of all the other young women. As long as no one else could have her, he would be content. Michael could read the thoughts behind that impassive face, sense the obsession, the stoic façade about to break.

If he did nothing, Pedersen might solve his problem for him. The idea should have been tempting, but it had been so long since anything had tempted Michael that he barely recognized the feeling. He had a duty to perform, and he would do it. He had to take Raziel’s word on faith that it was a necessary evil.

“You should wait—” Pedersen began, as Michael had known he would, and he allowed himself a sour smile.

The contessa jerked her head up to stare at her lover. “Wait for what? The sooner she is gone from here, the better. At least for a while we’ll be free.”

“A while?” Michael said, ignoring the young woman who sat and watched them all.

“If she is the right candidate,” the contessa said with a certain amount of satisfaction. “You yourself pointed out, Monsignor, that she lacks deference, respect, and virginity. I think it will not be long before we are called upon to shepherd another candidate through her childhood.”

There were creatures in the natural world who bit the heads off their mates and ate their children, he thought. The Contessa di Montespan was one of these. Celibacy had been an easy choice for him with women like the contessa in the world.

“You will do as you see fit,” Michael said.

The girl—no, woman—had risen, and he realized with an odd sort of approval that she was tall and lean, and there was strength beneath the skin that
looked soft to the touch. Good. The life he was taking her to wasn’t for the weak and gentle.

She knew she was trapped, and her eyes met his quite fearlessly. They were a bright, almost iridescent shade of green, startling with her very pale skin and inky-dark hair. Her shoulders were back, head erect. “I’m ready.”

He caught Pedersen’s instinctive move of protest out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored him. Pedersen was the past, no longer of consequence. If he had fallen in love with his charge, bedded her, then that was his problem and perhaps hers. It was no concern of his.

“You’ll need to change. Something warm. We’re flying, and you will be cold.”

She nodded, all business. A moment later she was gone, without a single glance at her mother and Pedersen.

“That’s gratitude,” the contessa said, before eyeing Pedersen with disapproval. Then she turned back to Michael. “May we offer you something, Monsignor? Some of our excellent Italian wine, perhaps?”

He despised these creatures almost as much as the girl did. He shook his head curtly. “I am in need of fresh air.”

“I’ll have Tory sent to you.”

“There is no need. I will find her.” It was the simple truth, and he saw a flash of sheer rage flicker across Pedersen’s face before it vanished. The man had never known how to find her, had never known
the kind of link that immediately existed between Victoria Bellona and her mate, whether Michael liked it or not.

“Then godspeed,” the contessa murmured.

Michael didn’t laugh. God had nothing to do with it.

I
T WAS STRANGELY UNSETTLING TO WALK
through the deserted hallways of the
castello
alone, with no one to guard me. The man who thought he was an archangel must be very sure of me. He was a fool.

Anyone who thought I was an ancient Roman goddess had to be certifiable. I had had every intention of humoring him until I could find a quick escape, but it was looking as if I didn’t even have to go that far. If I was truly unguarded, I could slip away before anyone realized I was gone.

I went straight to my room, stripping off the skimpy dress and pulling on dark jeans and a black turtleneck and sweater. I could imagine Angelina Jolie wearing something like this as she kicked butt and made her escape. I had money hidden in a place even Pedersen couldn’t find, almost one hundred euros. It wasn’t enough, but it meant I wouldn’t be
completely destitute when I got out into the real world. I hadn’t much experience with money, but judging by the recent movies I’d seen, a hundred euros wouldn’t go far. I would hoard it carefully.

Once I ditched the pretty, crazy man, I could finally begin my real life. There was a world I was missing, and I was more than ready to make up for lost time. I wanted to fall in love, I wanted to get a job, I wanted to have babies, I wanted to see the world. I was hungry for everything I’d missed during the long years I’d been kept in prison.

I even had a pair of black boots to complete my transformation. No ID, no passport, but I’d deal with that later. There were people who provided such things, according to the movies. The most important thing was to get away.

My door was unlocked but my windows were still barred. My escape route had been planned for years, and I knew exactly which direction I was heading. Pushing aside the priceless tapestry in the hall outside my bedroom, I reached for the knob of the long-hidden door and pushed it open, slipping inside before anyone could see me.

It was pitch-black, and I froze, waiting for my eyes to accustom themselves to the darkness. This was the oldest part of the
castello
, dating back to the time of the Borgias. I suspected the contessa was a descendant of that poisonous family.

Which made me one as well, I supposed, but from this moment on I was an orphan: no family, no ties,
no genetic inheritance. I could make it up as I went along—I was thinking along the lines of an Irish princess. Not that Ireland had princesses, but I figured my pale skin, dark hair, and green eyes might work for Ireland. That would be a good place to start. I took a deep, calming breath, waiting for vision to reassert itself. The chamber smelled of mouse and mold and neglect. No one ever came up here—I think everyone else had forgotten it existed. I’d explored it once, long ago, when they hadn’t watched me so closely, and I never forgot a thing. The short flight of stairs led up to a turret room, and then another, steeper set wound down inside the rounded tower to the cliffs outside. I knew exactly how many stone steps would get me up to the turret. The precise number of winding stairs that would then lead me down to the rough entrance overlooking the valley below. I had no idea who had used those stairs long ago. Armies seeking their way in? Cowards escaping? I was no coward.

The longer I waited, the more dangerous it was going to become. I began to move, carefully, trying not to stir the leaves that had found their way into the deserted stairwell, avoiding the crunch of what I expected were mouse skeletons. Or worse, rats. I held on to the cold, sweating wall and moved upward, concentrating on Pedersen’s martial arts training to remain utterly silent.

I remembered the path correctly, reaching the landing when I expected. At last there was a faint shaft of light coming from one of the arrow slits,
probably the portal the vermin had used to enter the
castello
, and I looked around me at the shadows. They would have started hunting for me by now, and I couldn’t afford to waste time. I crossed the littered landing to the narrow, curved stairway, and started down.

It was a good thing I was essentially fearless. I didn’t mind heights or dark enclosed places or even spiders the size of my fist. This was the way to freedom, and I couldn’t afford to hesitate. Once I escaped, I would never have to see them again.

I wasn’t crazy about the descent into total darkness, the stone steps slick beneath my feet, the sweating wall, slimy with moss and decay, providing a treacherous handhold. God only knew what lay at the bottom, but I had no choice. I had to move forward.

At least I would never again have to deal with Pedersen’s obsessive eyes following me wherever I went. I’d never have to hear the contessa’s contempt. I moved faster.

When I reached the dark, dank well that was the bottom of the tower, I was breathless. The door was still where I remembered it, but the years had been hard on it. When I pulled on the handle, it came free with a splintering of wood, leaving me trapped inside.

They would be far away, up in the main part of the
castello
. I would have to risk making noise. I spun, kicking at the door, and it splintered, a huge
hole gaping into the night air. Another kick, and I could shove the shattered remains of the old door out of my way, stepping out into my first breath of freedom. There should be bright sunlight and triumphant music, I thought, instead of a cool, biting wind and darkness. But I would make do with what I got.

The door opened onto a narrow spit of land that overlooked the cliffs. The Italians tended to build their castles on mountains, to fend off marauders from adjoining city-states, and this one was no different. If I turned left and followed the pathway, I would end up in the courtyard, in full view of the inhabitants. I had no choice but to turn right and try to climb down the rocky outcroppings to a safer trail that would lead me away from my prison.

I moved out of the shadows, starting toward the rocks, when a thick hand grabbed my wrist, gripping so tightly I made a small, betraying sound of pain. Pedersen. He’d always enjoyed hurting me, and it had been a matter of pride that I never let him see it, never made a sound. Well, perhaps my cry would be my farewell gift to him.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

I didn’t answer. It was self-evident, but I had learned to watch my tongue around Pedersen. He had a vicious temper despite the creepy, obsessive watchfulness that suggested something far more disturbing than a wish to hurt me.

“You think you can escape your destiny?” He was clenching my wrist so tightly the bones ground
together, the effect agonizing. For almost twenty years this man had tormented and tortured me, and I had had enough.

“I can escape you,” I said unwisely.

“No.” His denial was hoarse, guttural. “You aren’t going with him.”

“You’re right. But I’m not staying here either. Let me go, Pedersen. Or I’ll make you.”

He hit me. I should have been expecting it; he’d done it often enough. He’d broken my cheekbone once, my jaw another time. I always healed with unnatural swiftness, and I’d never given it a second thought.

This blow made me see stars, but he’d smashed no bones. I blinked, trying to regain my equilibrium. I didn’t have to let him do this to me, I reminded myself, shaking my head. Never again.

I looked into those pale eyes and knew that this time he was going to kill me. For whatever reason, he didn’t like my reprieve, and despite the brooding looks and his tendency to flatten me whenever he could, he clearly wasn’t envisioning a happy-ever-after with me. I glanced over the cliff. The rocks below were jagged, and with luck I would hit my head, an instant blackout so I wouldn’t have to suffer.