The Fallen 03 - Warrior (9 page)

I showered quickly and dressed in the loose white clothes in the closet. To my astonishment, there were bras in my size, as well as lacy underwear. The clothes were utilitarian, a variation on a martial arts gi, but the underwear was pretty, feminine, almost decadent. There was even a delicate negligee, clearly made for a more romantic bride than I was.

I actually liked the wicked underwear. It was my secret, a part of me that I didn’t have to share with anyone else. Particularly the beautiful man who now seemed to be my husband.

I went out into the living area. There were flowers, a bright profusion of color, that had to have come from Allie. The woman who’d offered her wrist to Michael. I shivered, then lifted my head. I could smell coffee. The delicious scent was unmistakable, even though I hadn’t smelled it in years, not since Johann and I had made our escape. Either the contessa didn’t believe in coffee or she simply didn’t think her offspring deserved it.

There was a carafe sitting on the smooth-top surface of the stove, and it was hot. I looked around me—I’d locked the doors, and I knew for certain no one had been here recently. How could the coffee be hot? For that matter, when had the flowers arrived?

Those were the least of my worries. I poured myself a mug, added lots of cream and real sugar, and took a sip. Ambrosia. Maybe this new life wasn’t so bad.

I took the mug and pushed open the french doors leading out to the small flagstone terrace and the steps descending to the sea. The air was crisp and cool, and I took a deep breath, loving it. The smell of freedom.

I walked barefoot down to the edge of the shore, letting the water lap at my toes. It was cold, breathtakingly so, and I looked out past the gentle swell into eternity. I glanced around, but there was no one in sight—the beach outside my door felt secluded, but people could easily walk by. I drained the coffee, set the mug down in the sand, and walked out, fully clothed, into the surf for the first time in my life.

I didn’t dare take my time—the cold would send me running back. I walked until the water reached my waist, held my nose, and ducked under, letting the salt sea wash over me.

The current pushed me gently, and I wasn’t afraid. I shook my wet hair from my face, letting the cool, blessed waters flow around me, and I remembered stories I’d read of baptism. That’s what it felt like, I thought. A benediction.

But it was too cold to stay in for long. I made my way out of the water, my wet clothes clinging to me, and I suddenly realized I was hungry—starving, in fact. I couldn’t remember if there was anything left
in the fridge, and I’d never cooked a day in my life, even though I’d watched enough cooking shows on cable TV to qualify me as an expert. I’d have to see if Allie or Rachel could point me in the direction of the kitchens and something decent to eat. I was feeling carnivorous—I wanted scrambled eggs with cheese and fat sausages and brioche with raspberry confit.

I headed straight for a hot shower, dumping my sodden clothes in the sink and luxuriating beneath the steamy water. Then I dressed, finger-combed my hair, and walked out to see a covered tray on the table in front of the sofa. I didn’t care what it was. At this point I would have eaten beets and olives covered in maple syrup, three things I disliked intensely. I took off the lid and looked down in a combination of delight and dismay.

Scrambled eggs, fat sausages, fresh brioche with a red syrup that I knew, without question, was raspberry. Not only had something been able to read my mind and provide exactly what I wanted, it had also anticipated me. There was a fresh carafe of coffee and a glass of orange juice I just knew was fresh-squeezed.

I shook my head, sitting down to my feast. It wasn’t any stranger than being carried off by an angel who drank blood and battled God. Actually, it wasn’t any stranger than spending my life imprisoned by a mother who hated me and being told I was the Roman goddess of war.

Six impossible things before breakfast, I reminded myself. Which apparently included breakfast itself.

This world was beginning to look more and more appealing. As long as beautiful, disturbing Michael kept his distance, I’d be just fine.

“Hurry up,” came a rich, unexpected voice from behind me. “It’s time to train.”

I turned to glare at my supposed husband. “I locked the door. How did you get in?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Locked doors won’t keep me out.”

“Then what will?” I asked pointedly.

“Nothing.”

He was wearing all white, something similar to the clothes I had found in my closet, and I realized their resemblance to a martial arts uniform was intentional. “What makes you think I’m interested in training?”

“There’s a war coming. You’re the goddess of war.”

I speared the last sausage on my fork and leaned back on the sofa. “So you say. I doubt it. I have yet to notice that I have any supernatural powers, and a god deserves to have some. And what the hell makes you think I’m on your side? You practically kidnapped me—”

“Bullshit. You’ve had a choice all along. You have one now. You can stay in this room and read romance novels, or you can come and train with the others. I’ll put Metatron in charge of you—you won’t even have to see me.”

How the hell did he know about the romance novels? I wasn’t about to ask. Instead I said, “Who’s Metatron?”

“Former leader of the Armies of Heaven, and the most recent angel to fall. You’ll like him. He’s a surly son of a bitch.”

“So are you and I don’t like you.”

I don’t know if I expected a reaction to that, but I didn’t get one. “As it should be,” he said. “Are you going to eat that sausage or fellate it?”

Fellate it? For a moment I couldn’t place the word, and then I remembered. My education had been unlimited, and I had run across some extremely interesting books.

I looked at the sausage critically, met his gaze, and took a sharp bite out of it, hoping to make him flinch. He didn’t.

Tossing the fork down on the plate, I rose. “I’m ready.”

“I doubt it,” he said. “But you will be.”

T
HE
A
RCHANGEL
M
ICHAEL
was going to send word down to the kitchens. No matter how much she wanted sausages, she wasn’t going to get them. This situation was absurd enough—he didn’t need her taunting him with her food.

There were more than two score men and women in the main room going through their moves, and more outside in the private courtyard. He could hear the clash of metal, the knock of stick against stick,
the kick against the bag, the grunt as something hit hard flesh. The smell of clean sweat and discipline. And then everything stopped as they all turned to look at the goddess of war.

She met them look for look, not the slightest bit intimidated. He liked that about her. She didn’t seem to have an ounce of fear in her body—except, perhaps, when it came to him.

“This is Victoria Bellona, Goddess of War. Victoria Bellona, these are the cream of the fighters among the Fallen. You’ll have to be very good to belong with these soldiers.”

She looked at them with a measuring gaze, probably underestimating them. The weakest of them could take her in under a minute; the strongest could kill her in seconds. He could only hope Metatron could teach her enough tools to keep her alive.

Assuming there was any possibility she might live. He suspected she’d die whether he touched her or not, but he wasn’t going to take the chance. She had less than a month, and she had no idea. He didn’t want to watch her die. Though as far as he knew, he could die before her. Martha hadn’t shared that particular information.

She probably didn’t have it. Her gift was completely inconvenient, knowledge coming too late to help, some of it useless, some of it of earth-shattering importance. That was why Azazel and Raziel—and, yes, he had to count himself—treated her prediction about the Roman goddess so seriously. That was why
he’d agreed to go. If this was one of the times she was right, they couldn’t afford to let it slip past.

“Metatron,” he called out. “I want you to take over her training. See what she knows and what you can teach her in the next month.”

“Why the next month?” the man grunted.

“Because we’re running out of time.” He had no intention of elaborating. Even after five years, he didn’t entirely trust Metatron. There was something not quite right about him.

“I’ll do it,” Asbel offered, and Michael froze. Not that he had anything against Asbel, but the angel was unmated, and Michael wasn’t in the mood to trust anyone around Victoria Bellona. Though Metatron was unmated as well. It was Asbel’s tendency to appear out of nowhere that got on his last nerve.

“Metatron,” he said in a flat voice, and the big man nodded.

At least this way he could keep an eye on him. The last to fall had done so reluctantly, after being brought to the brink of death in battle with Azazel. Putting him together with the girl would keep two problems contained.

Metatron shrugged, indifferent. He was a good soldier. He followed orders without question, was lethal with lance and sword, and didn’t give a shit whether he lived or died, which made him willing to take chances. “Your Honor,” he addressed his new charge in a deep, ironic voice.

“Just Tory,” she said to Metatron, moving off with
him without a backward glance. Which Michael found annoying, though he wasn’t sure why. He turned his back as well, concentrating on loosening up, then checking in with each member of his small, dedicated force before he allowed himself to glance back at her.

She moved well, he thought critically, watching as she ducked and parried Metatron’s carefully restrained blows. She had an innate grace, an understanding of combat that couldn’t be taught, which was something. He shouldn’t be surprised by that—she was, after all, the goddess of war. She also made stupid mistakes, which annoyed him. Annoyed him enough that finally he could stand no more, and he crossed the room in a few long strides, taking the practice sword from Metatron.

“No, no,” he said impatiently. “You’re reacting too quickly. Your form is good, relaxed, but you keep jumping in a moment too soon. Hold yourself like this. . . .” He put his hands on her shoulders, adjusting her position, then used his foot to nudge hers into a wider stance. And then froze, with his leg between hers, his hands clasping her shoulders.

He released her abruptly, backing away, mentally shaking himself. What was wrong with him? “Practice waiting a moment longer rather than rushing. It gives you more control. Wait for your opponent to come to you.”

“And what if he doesn’t?” she said quietly. “What if he keeps retreating?”

With any other woman, he might think she was talking about something else entirely. But Victoria Bellona had no carnal interest in him, no carnal interest in anybody. Which was a relief, since he was suddenly having a difficult time controlling his wayward urges.

“Then you find someone else willing to battle.” He turned his back on her and her far-too-perceptive green eyes.

“Or go back to your rooms and let the warriors do their job,” Metatron said in his deep, disapproving voice. He was a sexist to the core and had very little use for women.

The girl was looking pretty, weak, and helpless, and Michael knew a moment’s doubt. He was trying to keep his distance from her, but he was fairly certain she was neither weak nor helpless.

She looked up at the giant warrior. “Metatron,” she said meditatively. “You guys are very strange. We’ve got a Ninja Turtle and a Transformer. What’s next, Wolverine and the Power Rangers?”

Metatron looked at her with profound dislike. “She is too flippant,” he said. “This is a waste of my time.”

“Let me try once more,” she begged in a deceptively sweet voice.

Metatron nodded, the fool. He was an excellent soldier, but he had a tendency to underestimate his opponents. And Victoria Bellona was most definitely an opponent.

A few seconds later the ground shuddered as Metatron went down in as neat a move as Michael could remember seeing. So she had some skills—her defeat of Pedersen hadn’t been a fluke. This was going to prove even more interesting.

Dangerously so.

A
RROGANT ASSHOLE.
I
LOOKED
down at the giant lying at my feet. He’d fallen hard, harder than a warrior ought to, but that came from thinking his opponent was nothing but a useless girl. He was blinking, dazed, and I waited for his eyes to clear before holding out a hand to him.

A moment later he was up with a roar, knocking aside my hand and heading straight toward me with a murderous glare in his eyes. I had the wooden sword they used for training, and I timed it perfectly, smashing it across his throat at the precise moment it would do the most damage. Down he went again, on his stomach, and this time he stayed down.

My husband was watching me out of those unreadable dark eyes, and I wondered if I’d betrayed too much. “Lucky hit,” I said with a shrug.

“Indeed.” His voice was noncommittal. He turned
to Metatron. “Get up. If you can’t handle being hit by a little girl, you’re useless to me.”

“Little girl?” I echoed, drawing up to my full five feet nine in bare feet.