Raziel

by Kristina Douglas

  I was freezing, colder than when I’d been lying on the wet sand. “What can I say, I fight everyone,” I said glumly.

  “I believe it. As annoying as you are, I was still fairly certain that you’re an innocent, and I—”

  “Depends on how you define innocent.”

  He glared at me, and I subsided. “I assumed I was taking you to . . . what you might call heaven. Unfortunately I was wrong, and at the last minute I became foolishly sentimental and pulled you back.”

  “From the jaws of hell,” I supplied. “My sainted mother would be so pleased.”

  He didn’t react to that. He probably knew all about my crazy-ass mother. Was probably best friends with her, being an angel. No, he was a bloodsucker as well—she wouldn’t countenance that. “In a word, yes,” he said.

  “Then maybe I shouldn’t be quite so cranky with you.” I made an effort to be fair. If he’d saved me from eternal damnation, then I supposed he deserved his props. “Then what happened? You got sick?”

  He looked disgusted at the thought. “We can’t tolerate fire. In particular hellfire, but we don’t like any kind of flame. The women here have to tend the candles and fires when we need them. I got singed pulling you back, and it poisoned my blood. It would have killed me if you hadn’t asked for help.”

  That was news to me. “Really? Who did I ask for help?”

  “I don’t know—I was unconscious at the time. I imagine you asked God.”

  Considering that I’d always had mixed feelings about the existence of God, I kind of doubted that. If God had created my born-again mother, he had a very nasty sense of humor. “And God sent them? The men who brought you—brought us back here?”

  “God doesn’t involve himself in the day-to-day business of life. Not since free will was invented. But if you asked God for help, Azazel would have heard you, and he’s the one who came to get us.”

  “Azazel, Sarah’s husband? I doubt it. He hates me.”

  “Azazel doesn’t hate anyone. Though if he heard you being rude about Sarah—”

  “I wasn’t rude, I was envious,” I said. “So they came and found us and brought us here. How?”

  He took a sip of wine, stalling.

  “How?”

  “You know, this is going to take an eternity if you don’t manage to infer anything on your own,” he said.

  “All right, I’ll infer up the wazoo and you can tell me if I’m wrong or right. I’m inferring that you’re . . . God, some kind of angel. If your job is to collect people and ferry them to the next existence, then that’s usually the work of angels, isn’t it? At least according to Judeo-Christian mythology.”

  “Judeo-Christian mythology is often quite accurate. Angels escort the souls of the dead in Islam and the Viking religion as well.”

  “So is that what you are? A fucking angel? Is that what all of you are?”

  “Yes.”

  Somehow I was expecting more of an argument. “I don’t believe you,” I said flatly.

  He let out a sigh of sheer exasperation. “You’re the one who came up with it.”

  The problem was, I did believe him. It all made sense, in a crazy-ass way. Which meant all my slightly atheistic suppositions were now out the window, and my mother had been right. That was even more depressing than being dead. “And how did they bring us here from the woods? They flew, didn’t they?”

  “I told you, I was unconscious at the time. But yes, I imagine they flew.”

  “They have wings.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have wings.”

  “Yes.”

  That was too much. “I don’t see them.”

  “You’ll have to take it on faith,” he grumbled. “I’m not about to offer a demonstration.”

  “So—”

  “Just be quiet for a few minutes, would you?” he snapped.

  “You’re not very nice for an angel,” I muttered.

  “Who says angels are supposed to be nice? Look, it’s simple. You died in a bus accident. I was supposed to take you to heaven. For some reason you were heading for hell, I experienced a moment of insanity and pulled you back, and now you’re stuck. You can’t go back. You’re dead, and your body has already been cremated, so I can’t return you even if I thought it might be possible. Right now you’re here in Sheol with a family of angels and their wives, and you’re going to have to put up with it until I figure out what I can do with you.”

  “This doesn’t make sense. If I’m dead and cremated, why am I here?” I looked down at my all-too-corporeal self. “I’m real, my body is real.” I reached up and hugged myself, and his eyes went to my breasts. Real breasts that responded to his look, wanted his touch.

  I was losing my mind. First off, I didn’t want him touching me. Secondly, last time I checked, my breasts were incapable of thinking. I was the one who wanted him to touch me.

  I was insane.

  “On this plane you exist and your body is real. Not on the mortal plane.” He pulled his gaze away from my body, a relief.

  “So I’m stuck here with a bunch of Stepford wives. Aren’t there any girl angels?”

  “No.”

  “Well, fuck that! Hasn’t God heard of women’s lib?”

  “God hasn’t heard of anything—he’s not involved. Free will, remember?”

  “Male chauvinist asshole.”

  “God isn’t male.”

  “Well, he sure as hell isn’t female,” I snapped. Not that I should have wasted the energy. Judeo-Christian theology was patriarchal and male-centric?

  Surprise, surprise.

  “True enough.”

  “So you live here together in this happy little commune and ferry people to heaven and hell. Isn’t that too big a job for the bunch of you? How many people die every minute of every day?”

  “One point seventy-eight per second, one hundred and seven per minute, six thousand four hundred and eight per hour, nearly one hundred and fifty-four thousand per day, fifty-six—”

  Oh, God. I had to be rescued by a pedant. “No need to get literal—I get the picture. Aren’t you a little bit overworked?”

  “Most people don’t need an escort.” He poured himself another glass of wine, then gestured with the bottle toward mine. I shook my head. I was already too rattled—I didn’t need alcohol making things worse.

  “Why did I need one? I’m no one important, no great villainous mastermind. Don’t tell me—it’s because of my mother.”

  He looked blank for a moment; then realization dawned. Of course he knew about my mother. “Your mother has nothing to do with it. I expect someone will be escorting her to hell sooner or later.”

  I’m afraid I was a bad enough daughter to chuckle at the thought. Maybe that’s why I’d been sent to hell.

  “I don’t know why I was sent to get you any more than you do,” he went on in his slightly formal way. “Why did Uriel decide you were to go to hell instead of heaven?”

  “Uriel? He’s one of the four archangels, isn’t he? What’s he got to say about it?”

  I’d managed to surprise him. “How do you know about the four archangels? Most people aren’t that familiar with biblical history.”

  “I know more than you think,” I said. “It’s part of my job.”

  “What’s your job?” He looked blank. “I’ve forgotten—”

  “I’m a writer. A novelist.”

  “Maybe that explains why you were going to hell,” Raziel said in a wry voice.

  “Shut up,” I said genially. “What’s Uriel got to do with who needs an escort or not? I don’t remember much of anything specific about him—wasn’t he the archangel of redemption?”

  He was staring at me, momentarily forgetting I annoyed him. “Among other things. How do you know these things?”

  “I told you.”

  “Remind me—what do you write?”

  I didn’t bother to disguise my irritation. He remembered my crackpot mother, but my life’s work was ea
sily forgotten. “Old Testament mysteries,” I said in a testy voice. “They’re tongue-in-cheek, of course, and a little sarcastic, but—”

  “There’s your answer. Uriel is as pitiless as a demon, and he has no sense of humor.”

  “I got sentenced to hell for writing murder mysteries?” I demanded, incensed.

  “Probably. Unless you have other dark secrets. Have you killed anyone? Erected false idols? Committed adultery? Consorted with demons?”

  “Not until today,” I muttered.

  “I’m not a demon.”

  “Close enough. I know what I saw downstairs. You may be an angel, but you’re a vampire as well.” My head was about to explode.

  “We’re not vampires. Vampires don’t exist. We’re blood-eaters.”

  I’m afraid I rolled my eyes at such nit-picking. “Whatever. I’m not saying I believe you. I’m trying to keep an open mind about it.”

  “How broad-minded of you,” he said, his voice acidic.

  “Besides, you’re not very nice for an angel,” I observed. “I thought angels were supposed to be sweet and, er . . . angelic.”

  “You’re thinking in modern terms. An angel is just as likely to be the instrument of divine justice with a flaming sword to smite the unworthy.”

  “And what kind of angel are you, precisely?”

  “Fallen.”

  I should have gotten past being shocked by now. “Fallen?” I repeated, no doubt sounding a little slow on the uptake.

  “I think you’ve heard enough for now,” he said. “Humans have a limited capacity to absorb this sort of thing.”

  “Who the hell are you to tell me what I can or cannot absorb? You haven’t even begun to explain the blood and Sarah and—”

  He gestured with one beautiful, elegant hand. It was a strong hand, which surprised me. Angels didn’t do any manual labor, did they? So they ferried people to heaven and hell—that didn’t require any particular strength. And what—

  It was like someone had turned out the lights. Suddenly I was drifting in a cocoon, soundless, lightless, no sharp edges or uneven surfaces. I struggled for just a moment, because it felt like death, and I didn’t want to find myself in even worse trouble; then I heard Raziel’s rich, golden voice in my head: “Let go, Allie. Just let go.”

  So I did.

  I LOOKED AT HER, NOT moving. I didn’t want her here, didn’t want her anywhere around me. She’d slid farther down on the floor, her head resting against the seat cushion of the couch, and she looked . . . delicious. That is, if I were someone else. She was not what I needed. I poured myself another glass of wine and leaned back, surveying her as dispassionately as I could.

  Which was easier said than done. For all the distance I was putting between us, I couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d saved my life, as surely as I’d saved her from Uriel’s pit of hell; and the unfortunate truth was that we were bound together, whether I wanted it or not. I most definitely didn’t want it, and the timing couldn’t have been worse.

  I was thinking too much, forgetting the rule of blind obedience, the rule that Uriel tried to force down our throats, usually with little success. If I’d just tossed her and left, my life would be much simpler, and the Fallen wouldn’t be bracing for angelic retribution on top of everything else.

  It was just as well she didn’t know much about Uriel. There was no doubt he was one scary motherfucker, and she was probably scared enough as it was.

  Though she hadn’t looked scared. She’d simply taken in the information I’d given her, with no drama, no hysterics. I was used to a little more Sturm und Drang when I told people they were dead. She’d just blinked her warm brown eyes and said, “Crap.”

  I stretched out on the other couch, looking at her. I was feeling better than I’d felt in months. Azazel was right, damn it. I’d needed the Source, rich blood filling all the empty places inside my body, repairing the broken parts, bringing me back to life. A little too much life, in fact. Because I wanted to fuck Allie Watson.

  Hear that, Uriel? I sent the thought outward. Fuck and mother fuck. Deal with it.

  She stirred, almost as if she could read my mind. Impossible—that Grace was given only to a bonded mate. I could read her anytime I wanted to, but there was no way she could know what I was thinking.

  I shouldn’t bother trying to feel her thoughts. I was already too attached to her, whether I liked it or not. One thing was certain—I was not going to have sex with her, even if I wanted to. Hands off from now on, at least while she was awake.

  Old Testament mysteries. I snorted. No wonder Uriel had judged her. She was just lucky it had been my turn. She wouldn’t have stood a chance with Azazel or any of the others—they would have tossed her without a second glance.

  Which would have been a shame, I thought lazily, watching the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the loose white clothes Sarah had provided for her.

  She’d saved me last night in the forest. If she hadn’t listened, if she’d run, the Nephilim would have ripped her apart and then devoured my paralyzed body.

  But she had stayed. And then, when she thought the Fallen were drowning me, she’d raced into the water to try to save me. I still couldn’t understand why.

  She would have drowned if I hadn’t breathed into her, filling her with . . . That knowledge was making me uneasy, unhappy. Aroused that she held my breath inside her body. The feeling was erotic, explicit, and powerful. She held my breath, my very essence, as intense a bond as if she held my semen, my blood. I was inside her, and in return a part of her claimed me, owned me. I was irrevocably tied to her, and I hated it. I was hard just thinking about it, and obsessed by it, and I had to break her hold.

  I should have insisted on waiting for the renewal ceremony until after she’d been dealt with. In my depleted state, I would have been impervious to the allure of a human female.

  Not just any human female. Even at my most vulnerable moments, I’d been able to resist the most beautiful, sexual women I’d been chosen to escort.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t feeling at all resistant to the current albatross around my neck. I was feeling . . . lustful.

  This wasn’t normal. Why her, why now? Things were already in a mess, and I’d vowed not to risk bonding with a woman again.

  Which meant my only sex was with myself, a quick, soulless release that kept me from exploding in rage and frustration. Or with some anonymous human looking for a night of pleasure. A night I made sure she never remembered.

  Neither did I.

  Every woman in our hidden kingdom was mated, bonded to one of us. There were no offspring to grow up and carry on the tradition. The only way a woman entered Sheol was as a bonded mate, so I was shit out of luck if I wanted someone new, which must please Uriel. Anything that caused pain and discomfort to the Fallen brought Uriel . . . satisfaction. I was fairly certain he was incapable of feeling joy.

  But right now I was too tired, too edgy, to come up with any possible solution to the problem of Allie Watson.

  I couldn’t even leave her for the night. By putting her to sleep, I’d claimed a certain responsibility for her, at least until she woke up, anywhere from six to twenty-four hours from now. Even if her sleep had been normal, I couldn’t leave her alone up here, not until I’d extracted a promise of good behavior on her part. I couldn’t risk her running off again—the sea might take her, or if she managed to find the borders of our kingdom, the Nephilim would be waiting.

  There was only one bed, and I was damned if I was going to give it to her. She would likely sleep at least eight hours. She’d slid farther, so that she was lying on the floor half beneath the coffee table, her head on the thick white carpet. She’d be fine where she was.

  I drained my wine and headed toward the bedroom. I pushed open the row of windows that fronted the sea and took a deep, calming breath of air. Even in the dead of winter with snow swirling down, I kept the windows open. We were impervious to cold—the heat of our bodies automatically adj
usted. The sound of the ocean waves was soothing, and the cool night air reminded me that I was alive. I needed that reminder of the simple things that made up my life.

  I stripped off my clothes and slid beneath the cool silk sheets. My arm still throbbed where the poison had entered, but the rest of me had healed properly, thanks to the salt water and Sarah’s blood. My arm and my cock throbbed—and both were Allie Watson’s fault.