He cast his free hand towards Rook and the white card whirled out of his grip, twirled and pirouetted as it danced down towards him. Another wave of power hit him so hard he was knocked from the air. He plummeted to the ground, passing the picture and disturbing its flight.
He grunted as he slammed into the black basalt, his knees taking the brunt of the blow, sending pain ricocheting up his femurs and spine. The sketch of the female swirled into view and gently came to rest before him.
Really think about her?
He reached out and plucked it from the ground, lifted it and stared hard at her face, that odd feeling lingering inside him. He canted his head to his left. Did he know her?
He had never seen her before.
The sensation of Apollyon’s power faded as another rose to replace it.
That of his master.
He swiftly pushed onto his feet and found himself slipping the picture of the witch into the waist of his armour as he twisted to face the fortress.
At the edge of the plateau, the toes of his polished black Italian leather shoes barely touching the flat slab of rock, stood his master.
The Devil.
The black-haired male adjusted the cuffs of the obsidian shirt he wore beneath his tailored black suit jacket, an air of irritation about him as his crimson eyes tracked the two intruders. Something crossed those eyes as the portal opened, a vast crack in the vault of Hell.
Rook looked up, glimpsing blue beyond all the blackness.
The mortal world.
He dropped his gaze back to his master, and the brief longing that had lit his eyes was gone, replaced with pure darkness as they narrowed.
“What did they want?” The Devil lowered his eyes to Rook, his deep voice deceptively mellow.
“I believe they meant to use the pool.” He wasn’t sure why he lied, but fuck, it unsettled him, had him twitchy as he shifted back, letting his demonic form fall away. “One of them was fallen.”
“A fallen angel in Hell that doesn’t belong to me?” The Devil arched his left eyebrow. “And what made you interfere?”
Rook hiked his shoulders. “I thought to capture them.”
The truth.
“Alone?” The Devil’s eyebrow lifted higher and the crimson in his eyes faded, revealing the gold of his irises.
He couldn’t risk lying any more to his master, needed to find a way to deflect the male’s questions away from what the angel and the fallen one had wanted. He liked his head where it was, on his shoulders, and the position of it was likely to change if the Devil discovered he had lied.
At the very least, it would screw up his chances of achieving command of the First Battalion.
That legion of Hell’s angels hovered in the air behind his master.
“No.” Rook jerked his chin towards his men. “They were late.”
“And were not dispatched by you when you first encountered the maggot. I had to dispatch them. Why?” Shadows flitted across the Devil’s sculpted features and Rook braced himself.
His master was known for his mercurial temperament.
He wouldn’t get any warning if the Devil decided to take his head. Maybe that was a good thing. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know in advance if he was going to die and end up serving Heaven again, stripped of all his memories to start anew as an angel.
Had he been a guardian angel as Apollyon and Einar believed?
Had the witch been his ward?
He pushed those questions aside. “The angel thought to taunt me. It distracted me. You summoned them before I could.”
“A trait very unlike him. Apollyon does not taunt. So what was the real reason he came to you?” The Devil looked as if he wanted to close the distance between them and a flare of crimson ringed his pupils when he looked down at his feet.
The power that kept him confined was fading, but evidently his master couldn’t move further from his fortress than his current position.
Not wanting to enrage the one he served, Rook obediently moved towards him, showing the Devil that he didn’t intend to remain beyond his reach. He did not fear his master, was his to command, and he trusted the male.
He stopped when he was within reach of the Devil, bowed his head and pressed his left hand to the chest of his crimson-edged black breastplate. “He attempted to make me believe I know him. When I resisted and mentioned the legion had been dispatched, he fled to this plateau where I pursued him and he revealed a fallen angel was with him. I believe he intended to fool me into following them from this realm by making himself appear an ally of the male… one who is like me.”
“You are powerful, Rook. There are those in this world who would like you removed from my company.” The Devil lifted his left hand, smoothed his palm along the straight line of Rook’s jaw, and viciously closed his fingers around his throat. He forced Rook’s head up so their eyes met. “But are you sure that is the only reason they were here?”
Rook managed a nod.
The Devil’s grip on him tightened, short black claws pressing into his flesh, and he choked as he fought for air.
His master smiled coldly. “I would hate for you to lie to me, my dearest Rook.”
“No lie,” he ground out as he struggled to breathe. “I wanted to… capture them… to please you… all I wanted.”
The Devil’s gold-to-crimson eyes brightened as his smile gained warmth and he released Rook’s neck to pat his cheek.
“You have always pleased me.” He turned away from Rook, all of the warmth leaving his voice as he added, “make sure it continues to be that way.”
He disappeared.
Rook waited for the legion to leave before he let his legs give out, landed on his knees on the plateau and stared at the fortress.
Why hadn’t he told his master about the female?
It had been on the tip of his tongue, at the front of his mind to do so, but something had stopped him. He pressed a hand to his bare stomach. It swirled and swayed, uneasy as he considered telling the Devil about the witch.
Rook pushed onto his feet, a need to be alone rushing through him. He kicked off and spread his wings, swiftly covered the distance between him and his basic quarters in the camp belonging to the First Battalion. He ignored the questions of his men as he landed, strode through the busy camp and ducked through the open door of the black stone building that was his home.
He shut the wooden door behind him and slumped onto the flat slab that served as his sole piece of furniture.
Why had the thought of telling his master about Isadora given him a bad feeling, one that lingered even now?
Why couldn’t he bring himself to tell the Devil everything? His master was just that—the one who commanded him, deserved his absolute and unwavering loyalty.
But he had lied to him today.
More than once.
And he hadn’t done it to keep his head on his shoulders or ensure he could still achieve the position he desired.
He had done it to protect the witch.
He looked around, checking no one was outside the open spaces in the walls that acted as windows in his small hut, and focused his senses to make sure everyone was at a distance.
Satisfied he would be undisturbed, he leaned to one side and carefully pulled the white card from the waist of his armour. He settled it in his palm and hunched over, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at it.
Stared at her.
Isadora.
Why had he hidden her from the Devil?
Apollyon and Einar were wrong. He didn’t know her.
She was beautiful though, bore no resemblance to the human females he had met in the past. There was an otherworldliness to her, something about her making her appear more fantasy than reality. He shook his head at that. She was a drawing, and for all he knew, she wasn’t even real. She could be another lie, told to him by the angel to make him falter and tempt him away from Hell.
Whoever had drawn her had done well though, evoking an image th
at was mysterious and enticing, and strong yet delicate. Delicate? She was a witch. Witches were powerful, dangerous, and known to be vicious, ruthless in their pursuit of power.
He didn’t remember ever meeting one, but once or twice in his lifetime, he had visited places where there had been some. Whenever he had discovered witches were present, he’d had an odd urge to avoid them. Something about them made him wary, had him wanting to keep his distance and ensure they didn’t see him.
He wasn’t sure why.
Had a witch done something terrible to him in a past life?
Had it been her?
Rook scrubbed his eyes and shoved the sketch under the pillow that rested at the end of the bench furthest from the door. She was a lie. A fabrication. He had to forget about her.
He considered burning her picture by tossing it into one of the arteries of lava that criss-crossed the valley not far from him.
For some reason, the thought of destroying it caused a tight knot in his breast.
He settled on ignoring it instead and focusing on resting, because he had patrols to lead later and an interrogation to oversee at the prison. He didn’t need the angels or the witch distracting him. If they wanted to save her, they would find a way. There was no reason for him to get involved.
Rook unbuckled his greaves and removed his boots, and then stripped off his vambraces, placing them close to the head of his bench in case he needed them. He could easily manifest them on his body rather than manually donning them, but he was tired, in need of rest, and wanted to conserve his strength. He rolled his shoulders and reached for the buckle on the right side of his breastplate, tilting his head downwards at the same time.
He froze.
Stared at the four-inch band of ink that wrapped around his forearm just above his wrist.
His eyes charted the intricate black and violet swirls, picking out the hints of blue and red that hid among the design. He’d had them for as long as he could remember, but he didn’t recall where or when he had got them done. They were beautiful though, captivated him whenever he looked at them, and the more he stared at them, the stronger a feeling inside him grew.
They meant something.
He had studied tattoos in his free time, had visited establishments that specialised in them in the mortal world, but no one had been able to tell him what they meant. Some settlements in Hell had males of his kind who were dedicated to inking their brethren with designs related to both Earth and this realm.
Whenever he considered approaching them to ask about his own ink, a chill swept through him and he found himself covering the designs with his vambraces again, keeping them hidden.
He wasn’t sure where that feeling came from. He just knew it was important that none of his kind knew about them.
It was important no one saw them.
He forced his wings away, twisted at the waist and lay back on the solid stone slab. He sighed as he rested his head on the pillow and pressed his right foot against the far wall of his cramped quarters, and bent his left leg at the knee.
He studied the swirls within the matching bands that circled his forearms and let himself get lost in them.
What did they mean?
Why did he feel it was important that no one saw them?
He wanted answers, but he would find none in Hell. Would he find them in the mortal realm if he ventured there again?
An urge to leave Hell and fly in the azure sky of the human world surged through him, one he felt sure stemmed not from a need to know what his ink meant but from something else.
He pulled the picture of the female from beneath his pillow and lifted it, held it above him and frowned at it.
Did he know her?
He didn’t think so, but as he looked at her, a feeling hit him, one that was powerful and commanding.
He wanted to know her.
He wanted to leave Hell and search for her.
He needed to see if he could find her.
Because if he could, then she might be able to answer all the questions that plagued him. She might be the key.
One that would unlock a past he couldn’t remember.
CHAPTER 3
Isadora had been a damned fool.
She clenched her teeth together as the vehicle bounced and swayed, rumbling along what felt like a track rather than a road now. She flexed her fingers in her lap, cursing the heavy cuffs that weighed her wrists down.
Manacles that had her drowsy, weak with a lack of power as they suppressed it, stealing it from her.
Spells weren’t the only things they were using against her.
She blinked hard behind the hood that covered her head and struggled to focus through the haze of the drugs as they finally began to leave her system.
The bastards had started drugging her whenever they moved her after the first long drive, where she had revealed that the spell on the shackles wasn’t enough to completely bind her magic. She could perform low-level spells if she really concentrated and was given enough time to gather the strength to cast them.
Her first failed attempt at escape had ended with her knocked out cold by one of the men in the group.
After that, they had been more cautious, using spells to keep her compliant whenever they were questioning her and drugs to keep her weakened when they were on the move.
Apparently, losing her wasn’t an option. She was their ‘payday’. Isadora gritted her teeth at that, anger blazing through her blood to burn away the chill of the drug. She wasn’t a damned payday. She was a living, breathing being.
Well, she was breathing anyway.
She wasn’t sure she had been living for a long time now.
Drifting perhaps.
Existing.
She lowered her head and exhaled, blowing the black material away from her mouth, and fought the pain that surged within her. It was endless and deep, always ready to grip her whenever her strength faltered.
It faltered a lot these days.
Days that were too long, stretched minutes into hours and seemed as infinite as her pain.
She lifted her hands, needing to rub at the sore spot between her breasts, where she ached the fiercest.
The man beside her grunted something. He grabbed her arm, shoved her hands back into her lap with enough force that her wrists hurt as they smashed against the metal of her shackles.
Mother Earth, she had been a fool.
She had believed in someone again.
They had betrayed her, had hit her with a spell that had stripped her power from her and had left her defenceless.
She curled forwards. The man pulled her back, slamming her spine into the side of the van.
“Something’s wrong with her,” he hollered, his French accent thick.
A regal British male voice answered from her right, in the vehicle's cab. “Hit her with another dose then. It’s still a few miles.”
She had named him Country Estate. She had given each of the five a name, had been slowly learning about them, devouring every drop of information they gave her whenever they slipped up, and even when they didn’t. Country Estate was second in command, and both the man beside her, Frenchie, and the one driving the vehicle, London Town, deferred to him. The other male in the group, Spanish Inquisition, only took orders from the group’s leader, a brunette who Isadora had named Bitch.
“We’re all out,” Frenchie answered.
“There’s more where we’re heading. Hit her with a spell instead.”
Witches.
She sneered that word in her head.
Sometimes, her kind could be worse than the demons. Worse than the Devil himself.
She erased that thought, because no one was worse than the Devil. Whatever these men did, it would never compare to what that dark fiend had done to her. He had taken everything from her.
He had stolen her forever.
And it had been all her fault.
She curled forwards again, the pain too much to bear as memories su
rfaced to torment her, to strip her strength from her as surely as the spell Frenchie muttered. A spell he didn’t need.
It washed over her anyway, mercifully stealing away some of that pain. Her mind grew hazier, thoughts swirling together until they made no sense and peace swept through her, a sweet oblivion that gave her relief.
She jostled in time with the van and Frenchie, rocked and swayed and didn’t care as heat stole through her, the spell binding her powers and leaving her weak again.
Weak enough to finally die?
She craved death.
Needed it more than answers most days, and some of those days she had even attempted it. It never stuck. She had learned early on that attempting to die was a recipe for a long and painful recovery.
While she was deathless, immortal now in a way, she wasn’t invulnerable. She was still mortal. Her bones took weeks to mend, still caused her pain when the weather was against her.
Her right shin and left wrist ached right now, a response to the cold of the van that smelled of snow.
How long had these witches had her under lock and key?
This morning, she had thought it had been weeks, but as she breathed deep of the tinny air, she realised it had to be months. Winter was here.
How far had they moved her from Paris?
She had been an idiot to head there, drawn by the rumours an angel had been spotted in the city, one bearing black wings.
She had been hopeful for the first time in centuries though and the thought it might be an angel she had once known, one who might know her still, had been too alluring to resist. She had gone to the city, had asked around among the witches, desperate to meet him because she had hoped he could lift some of the shadows from her heart.
She had hoped he could tell her how the angel she had loved and lost was.
And maybe part of her had hoped that she could see that angel again.
Rook.
Her desperation had led her into a trap.
This group of witches had told her they had seen an angel and knew where to find him. She had gone with them to a grand building in the suburbs of the city, had foolishly followed them inside, led by the hope they could give her answers she had badly needed for over a thousand years.
Bound Angel (Her Angel: Bound Warriors paranormal romance series Book 4) Page 3