Raziel

by Kristina Douglas

  “She’s going to come inside,” Raziel said, making it clear there were no options. That’s what he thought. My eyes narrowed, looking up at him.

  “And just where is she going?” the other man demanded.

  “My rooms,” Raziel said. “I don’t see that we have any other choice.”

  “She’s certainly not coming with us,” Azazel snapped.

  Sarah rose, a graceful, fluid motion that made me desperately envious. If I got back home, I was definitely going to start going to yoga. When, not if. I wasn’t giving them any choice in the matter. I wanted my life back.

  “Go with Raziel, child,” she said. “He’s not going to hurt you. In fact, he’s been looking out for you. When he wasn’t dying of fire poisoning,” she added with a mischievous glance at him. “Go with him, and he’ll answer any questions you have.”

  “The hell I will,” Raziel said. “I’ll take her to my rooms and leave her there until I figure out—”

  “You’ll do what Sarah says,” Azazel said, his soft voice chilling.

  Raziel shot the other man a disgruntled look. And then he crossed the sand to me, holding out his hand.

  I stared at it, not moving. Now was not the time to notice that he had strong, beautiful hands. Or that everything about him was beautiful, almost supernaturally so. I didn’t like pretty men, damn it. Though God knows I wasn’t sure if I’d ever seen anyone quite as gorgeous as he was.

  “Don’t make me carry you,” he said in a warning voice.

  Azazel and Sarah were already heading into the house, his arm around her waist. For a moment I considered scrambling to my feet and running after them; but reasonable or not, Azazel terrified me even more than this inexplicable man.

  I needed to get up, not loll there like a Victorian heroine. The only problem was that my knees felt like spaghetti. I’m as tough as the next woman, tougher maybe, but I’d been through a hell of a lot in the last . . . whatever. There was a limit to how much I could handle. I tried to rise, but he ended up putting his hands on my arms and hauling me up anyway. He released me quickly enough, and started back toward the odd house, clearly expecting me to follow like a dutiful third-world bride.

  The hell with that. I looked around me for some kind of escape and came up with a flat zero, unless I wanted to pull a Virginia Woolf and walk into the sea. There was no place else for me to go. The tide was coming in, and beyond the house all was misty darkness and forest. Besides, I was finally going to get some answers to my questions, wasn’t I?

  I just managed to catch up with him. His long legs ate up the distance, but after a shaky start I managed a brisk trot. “You needn’t be so grumpy,” I said, trying not to huff and puff. “It’s your fault I’m here.”

  “In case you don’t remember, I was unconscious when they brought me back.”

  “That’s up to interpretation,” I said. “I can’t argue, since I seem to have huge gaps in my memory. What do you think they should have done, then? Left me in the forest? With those wild animals out there in the dark?”

  He frowned. How could a man have a beautiful frown? “No,” he said. “They shouldn’t have left you.”

  “And what the hell were we doing there in the first place? What in God’s name is happening to me?” I hated the plaintive note in my voice, but honestly I couldn’t help it. I could be all Strong Modern Woman most of the time, but right now I was tired, cranky, and totally defeated.

  He didn’t answer. I hadn’t really expected him to. “Are you hungry?” he said instead.

  As a distraction, it was an effective one. I suddenly remembered I was famished. “Yes. Why don’t you take me to McDonald’s and we can hash this out?” I figured that was unlikely but worth a try.

  “No McDonald’s,” he said. “No restaurants at all, but we have people who cook. Tell me what you want and they’ll bring it to us.”

  “Just like that?” I said caustically. Not that I believed him, but if that was true, this might very well be paradise.

  “Just like that.”

  I decided to be difficult, simply because I could. Besides, my need for comfort food had become critical. “Meat loaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, strawberry shortcake for dessert. And a nice Beringer cabernet.”

  “You want champagne with your strawberries? Red wine is a little heavy for dessert.”

  He was being sarcastic, of course, but I simply nodded. “Of course. Moët, I think. No need to go overboard with Dom Pérignon.”

  He said nothing, walking into the house. I took one last longing glance outside. Nowhere to go. Until I found out what the fuck was going on, I was stuck.

  In a place with, supposedly, limitless, effortless food and a beautiful man who’d kissed me. I supposed things could be worse.

  I had to run to catch up with him. He made no effort to adjust his stride to mine, and I was damned if I was going to complain. It was taking forever to get to his rooms—we went through a maze of hallways, and up so many stairs I was ready to fling myself down on the polished wood floors, gasping and panting like a landed fish.

  “How much farther?” I gasped, clinging to the thick, carved handrail.

  He was watching me out of narrowed eyes. “One more flight. My rooms are at the top of the building.”

  “They would be,” I said in a dire voice. “And I don’t suppose you believe in things like elevators?”

  “We don’t need them,” he said.

  No wonder Sarah was so lean and fit at fifty-something. She didn’t need yoga, she just needed these stairs.

  “Sarah isn’t fifty-something,” Raziel said.

  I froze. “That time I didn’t say it out loud.”

  “No, you didn’t. You’re very easy to read. Most humans are.”

  Most humans? WTF?

  “Wait until we get to my rooms.”

  I hadn’t said anything that time either. I was getting seriously creeped out by this situation. It didn’t matter how much food I got or how pretty he was, this was just plain weird. The kiss had been nice, from what I could remember, but I wasn’t sure kisses were enough to—

  “I’m not going to kiss you again. I didn’t kiss you in the first place—you were drowning. I gave you breath.”

  This was just . . . wrong. Clearly silence wasn’t silence to the creature I was following, so I quickly changed the subject, trying not to think about the cool salt taste of his mouth on mine. “Then how old is Sarah? She’s married to Aza—what’s his name?”

  “Azazel,” he said. “Yes, they are married; at least, that’s as close a definition as most people could understand. And I don’t know how old Sarah is, nor do I care.”

  I looked at him with astonishment. “She’s got to be at least twenty years older than he is. And he’s, what . . . thirty-five? Cool.”

  “He’s older than she is,” he said in a dry voice. “And you might think twice about passing judgment on someone like Sarah.”

  If Azazel was older than Sarah, then I was the Virgin Mary. “I’m not passing judgment,” I said rapidly, following him down the hallway toward another miserable, cock-sucking, goddamned, motherfucking flight of stairs. “I meant it. Too often it’s men who have younger lovers. I heartily approve of boy toys.”

  “You think Azazel is a boy toy? He’ll be entertained by the notion.”

  “Christ, don’t tell him I said that! I expect by this time their marriage is more platonic than anything else.”

  He looked amused, which was even more annoying. “I believe they have a vigorous sex life, though I can ask Azazel to tell you all about it if you prefer.”

  “No need,” I said hastily. “It’s none of my business.”

  “No, it is not,” he said in that odd, half-formal way of speaking.

  I looked up at the steep flight of stairs. It was the last one, he’d said. Of course it had to be the steepest and longest. I took a deep breath, steeling myself. I could make it. If it killed me, I was going to make it.

  “What do
her children think of her new husband?” If I kept him talking he might not notice how long it was taking me to get up the stairs.

  “She has no children, and Azazel isn’t her new husband. He’s her only one.”

  I thought back to Sarah’s gentle, tender concern. “That’s a shame,” I said. “She would have been a wonderful mother.”

  “Yes.” It was one word, but there was a wealth of meaning beneath it.

  Suddenly I thought back to the stretch of beach in front of the house, the wide expanse of lawn. With no toys, no games littering the beach. Something felt off about the place. “Where do the children live around here?” I asked, uneasy.

  “Children?”

  “The women who were with Sarah—she said they were other wives. Some of them were quite young; there must be children.”

  “There are no children here.”

  “That goes against whatever crazy cult you have going on here? You send the children away?” I was righteously infuriated, and it gave me energy. And the end of the stairs was in sight, thank God. I was ready to fling myself on the top landing with a weeping cry of “Land!”

  “The women here don’t have children.”

  “Why not?” Shit, it wasn’t the top of the stairs, it was just a landing. I faltered, turning the corner, looking at what simply had to be the last flight. Maybe. I wanted to cry, and I never cried.

  Before I realized what he was going to do, he’d scooped me up in his arms and started up the final flight of stairs.

  I was too shocked to struggle. His arms were like iron bands, his body hard and cold and uncomfortable; for a bare second I considered arguing, then thought better of it. Anything was better than walking.

  “You know, if it weren’t for the stairs, I could manage it with no problem,” I said, keeping myself as stiff as he was.

  He snorted, saying nothing. When he reached the top of the stairs he dumped me on my feet, seconds before I could demand that he let me down. The hallway was shorter than the lower ones, with only one double door in the center of it. I must be near the top of this damned skyscraper, I thought, remembering those cantilevered shelves that stretched over the ocean.

  He’d left me again, already pushing open one of the doors, and once again I followed him, resentful as hell until I stepped into the dimly lit apartment.

  The door closed behind me automatically, and I caught my breath in wonder.

  It was like being on the prow of a ship. The front of the room was a bank of windows looking out over the night-black sea. Several of them were open, and I could smell the rich briny scent of it, hear the sound of the waves as they lapped against the rocks below. There were seagulls in the distance, and I breathed a small sigh of relief. At least something in this crazy place was normal.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  He was standing in the shadows. There were two mission-style sofas in the room, upholstered in white linen, and a low table between them. With a covered tray on top, a bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne waiting, and a bottle of red wine open to one side.

  I stared at the table mistrustfully. “Shit,” I said. I knew without question that there would be meat loaf and mashed potatoes beneath the domed cover.

  “How did you manage that?”

  “Sit down and eat,” he said. “I’m tired and I want to go to bed.”

  I stiffened. “And what does your wanting to go to bed have to do with me?”

  Such a pretty mouth, such a sour smile. “Since I don’t intend to be anywhere near you when I go to bed, I won’t be around to answer your incessant questions. So if you want answers, sit down.”

  “You’re an asshole.” I took a seat and pulled the cover off the tray. The smell of meat loaf was enough to make me moan with pleasure. Ignoring him, I started in on it, only looking up when I realized he’d poured me a glass of the red wine and pushed it toward me.

  Way to make me feel like a mannerless glutton, I thought dismally.

  “Mannerly,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Mannerly glutton. You haven’t drooled or dropped food or—”

  I dropped my fork. “Stop that! I don’t know how you do it, but stop it!”

  He took a sip from his own glass of wine, leaning back against the cushions of the opposite couch with a weary sigh. “Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s rude of me.”

  “You bet your ass,” I snapped. Of all the mental assaults of the day, his invasion of my thoughts felt somehow worse than anything else. I ought to be able to have my errant thoughts be private. Particularly when looking at Raziel made them so very errant. When he wasn’t annoying me.

  But I’d better behave. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude as well. Did you want some of this?” I gestured toward the decimated meat loaf.

  He shook his head. “I don’t eat meat.”

  It was my turn to snort. “Yes you do. You ate a hot dog.” I paused. “How do I know that? When was I around you when you were eating hot dogs?”

  “I don’t eat meat when I’m in Sheol,” he said.

  “Is that what this place is called? Isn’t that another word for hell?”

  “It means ‘the hidden place,’” he said. “And you’re not in hell.”

  I stopped shoveling food in my face long enough to drink some wine, hoping it might calm me down. I looked up to realize that Raziel was watching me out of his strange black and silver eyes, watching me too closely, and unfortunately it wasn’t with unbridled lust.

  “I want to go home,” I said abruptly, pushing away the tray.

  “You haven’t had your strawberry shortcake yet,” he said. “I’ll open the champagne—”

  “I don’t want any champagne, I want to go home.”

  “You can’t. You don’t have a home anymore.”

  “Why not? How long have I been gone?”

  He turned his attention to his glass of wine. “From New York? A day and a half.”

  I stared at him blankly. “That’s impossible. How can my hair have grown this long in a day and a half?”

  “You still have blisters on your feet from those shoes, don’t you?”

  I didn’t need to touch my heel to check. The blisters were still there. “If I’ve only been gone for a day, then my apartment must still be there. I want to go back.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re dead.”

  “Crap,” I said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I SET THE WINEGLASS DOWN ON THE table very carefully, pleased to see my hand wasn’t shaking at all. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t suspected as much—after all, I was no dummy. Men with wings, fires of hell, bloodsuckers. One moment I was in New York City, minding my own business, ogling a gorgeous man at the hot-dog stand, and the next I’d fallen down the rabbit hole. It didn’t mean I was going to give up without a fight. “How is that even possible?” My voice was hoarse but, apart from that, entirely calm. I’d learned to hide my reactions and emotions from my mother, Saint Hildegarde.

  “You think you were immortal?” Raziel said. “Everyone dies sooner or later. In your case, it was a combination of those idiot shoes of yours and a crosstown bus.”

  Okay. I sat back, the meat loaf sitting like a lump in the pit of my stomach, floating in a pool of gravy grease. “What were you doing there? You were there before I crossed the street. You were ahead of me at the hot-dog stand. I remember now.” I stared at him, thoroughly unsettled. “I remember everything now. Why? Why do I remember now when I couldn’t before?”

  “I lifted what we call the Grace. It’s one of the gifts we have, the ability to make someone forget things. You wanted to remember, so I lifted it.”

  “You should call it what it is: a mind-fuck,” I said, feeling definitely peevish. “What were you doing there? What am I doing here?”

  “I was there to collect you.”

  I let myself melt off the seat down onto the floor, needing something solid beneath me. I wasn’t going t
o hyperventilate. I hadn’t had a panic attack since I was a teenager, dealing with my mother’s attempts to save me from the devil. Guess Mom failed, because it looked as if I’d gone to the devil after all, if Raziel’s fangs and blood-sucking tendencies were anything to go by. Calm, I reminded myself. The sound of the sea would soothe me if I could just concentrate on it for a moment or two.

  The danger passed, and I sat straight, rallying. “And exactly what were you—”

  “Be quiet and I’ll tell you what you need to know,” he said irritably. “Your time was over. My job is to collect people and ferry them to the next . . . plane of existence. You weren’t supposed to fight me. No one does.”