I closed my eyes, determined to fall asleep.
I couldn’t. I kept picturing her on the floor, dead to the world. She’d had a rough couple of days as well. I knew she’d curled up next to me on the hard ground the night before—I’d been dimly aware of it through the haze of pain, and I’d been comforted.
After an hour I gave up, climbing out of the bed I’d longed for and heading for the door. At the last minute I paused and pulled on a pair of jeans. Nudity wasn’t something that meant much in Sheol, and I didn’t care about preserving her modesty. It was my own temptation I was trying to avoid. Even silk boxers or pajama pants were too thin, too easy to slip out of. These jeans had buttons, not a zipper, and it would take a major effort to get them off. Give me time enough to think twice about making such a foolish move.
I pushed the door open and walked back into the living room. It was lit only by the fitful moonlight reflected off the sea, and she was just a huddled shape in the shadows. I went over and scooped her up in my arms. She was heavier than some, though not enough to notice—her weight was no more trouble than carrying a loaf of bread would be for a human. I carried her into the bedroom and carefully set her down on the bed.
She needed to build up her stamina—she hadn’t been able to run very far, and she’d been breathless after only three flights of stairs. She was a pampered city girl, not used to actually moving.
She had a beautiful body. Her breasts were full, enticing, and her hips flared out from a well-defined waist. By current standards, she’d be considered maybe ten to fifteen pounds overweight. By the tastes of the Renaissance, she’d be considered scrawny.
The Renaissance had been one of my favorite periods. I’d enjoyed myself tremendously—the art, the music, the creativity that seemed to wash over everyone.
And the women. Full and lush and beautiful. I’d sampled a great many of them before I made the mistake of falling in love with one, only to lose her. I would have had no choice but to watch my beloved Rafaela age; back then, foolishly, I would have welcomed the chance. But she’d run from me, certain I wouldn’t want her when she looked decades older than I did. She died before I found her again.
Too many women, too many losses, each bit of pain a boon to my enemy, Uriel. I wouldn’t go through that again.
If Allie Watson was going to stay—and right now I couldn’t think of any other option—then she would have to learn to manage all those stairs. Sheol wasn’t set up for guests, and for now she was my responsibility. I couldn’t afford to coddle her.
The tangy salt breeze from the ocean rumpled my hair, and I remembered that humans were more susceptible to the cold. I pulled the sheet up over her —probably a good idea anyway.
And then I lay down beside her. It was a big bed, and she wasn’t going to shift in her sleep, migrate over to my side. She’d lie perfectly still until that particular Grace wore off. As long as my dreams didn’t move me toward her, I’d be safe.
And even if they did, I’d wake up long before I could do anything about it.
I hoped the Grace would last the full twenty-four hours—I needed as much time as possible to deal with the situation. Not that she’d consider this particular comatose sleep a Grace, but that was the all-encompassing term for any of the extraordinary things we were capable of doing. The Grace of deep sleep was one of the least harmful. The Grace to cloud the minds of humans could have much more long-lasting consequences.
I stretched out, closing my eyes. She should smell of the flowered soap the women here used in the baths. She should smell like all the other women, but she didn’t. She had her own sweet, erotic scent underlying the flowers, something that made her subtly different. Something that kept me awake as my exhausted mind conjured all sorts of sexual possibilities.
I glanced over at her comatose figure. She looked younger, prettier, when she was asleep. Sweeter, when I knew she was anything but. She was a time bomb, nothing but trouble, yet somehow I’d gotten tied up with her.
I propped myself up on one elbow, looking down at her. Could I take my breath back from her, loosening the hold she seemed to have over me?
I moved my mouth over hers, not quite touching, and sucked her soft breath into my lungs. And then I bridged the small distance and rested my open mouth against her lips, caught by the sudden urge to taste her.
I sank back on the bed, cursing my own stupidity. I’d felt myself inside her, felt my breath in her body, the inescapable connection. In trying to take it back from her, I’d simply brought her into my body, completing the circle. I could feel her breath inside me now, curling in my lungs, spreading out into the blood that coursed through me.
I threw one arm over my eyes. Uriel would be laughing now. As if things weren’t bad enough, I’d just made them quantitatively worse.
I couldn’t think straight right now. Tomorrow I’d talk with some of the others. Not everyone was as cold and practical as Azazel. Michael, Sammael, Tamlel, would look at things with more flexibility. There’d be someplace to send her, where she’d be safe and I wouldn’t have to think about her. Sooner or later new breath would replace hers in my body, and the connection would be broken. Wouldn’t it?
I groaned, a soft sound, though if I’d screamed she would still have slept on.
It was going to be a long fucking night.
CHAPTER NINE
AZAZEL SAT IN THE GREAT HALL, alone in the dark. None of the Fallen knew the burden he carried. He could feel all of them—their needs, their pain, their doubts. Their secrets.
It was better that they didn’t know. He wouldn’t put it past some of them, Raziel in particular, to figure out a way to shield or control their thoughts, and that would put him at a disadvantage the Fallen couldn’t afford. It was simply something he had to endure, a physical pain that he bore with no outward sign.
Only Sarah knew. Sarah, the Source to his Alpha, the calm voice of wisdom, the only one with whom he could ever simply let go. The only one.
The centuries, the millennia, since they had fallen faded into the mists of time. The number of wives he’d had faded as well, but he remembered every face, every name, no matter how short a time she had spent in his endless life. There was Xanthe, with the laughing eyes and ankle-length hair, who’d died when she was forty-three. Arabella, who’d lived until she was ninety-seven. Rachel, who died two days after they’d bonded.
He had loved them all, but none so much as he loved his Sarah, his heart, his beloved. She was waiting for him, calm and unquestioning, knowing what he needed. She always did.
Because of all the things he needed, he needed her the most.
She wouldn’t let him get rid of Raziel’s woman, even though it was the wisest thing to do. The girl wanted to leave, and he should see that she did. The Nephilim would dispose of what was left of her if she went beyond the undulating borders of Sheol. At least, he assumed so. They preyed on the Fallen and their wives, and she was neither. He didn’t trust her, didn’t trust her unexpected presence in a place that allowed no strangers.
He leaned back in the ornate carved chair, trying to hear the distant voice that came so seldom. The voice trapped deep in the earth, imprisoned for eternity, or so the story went. Azazel chose not to believe that story, not when he heard the voice of the first Fallen answering his most impossible questions.
Lucifer, the Bringer of Light, the most beloved of the angels, was still alive, still trapped. He could lead the forces of heaven and hell, the only one who stood a chance against the vindictive, all-powerful Uriel and the vicious creatures who served him. But as long as Lucifer’s prison was hidden, as long as he was carefully guarded by Uriel’s soldiers, there would be no chance to rescue him.
And without Lucifer to lead them, the Fallen were trapped in a cycle of endless pain. Doomed to watch their beloved wives age and die, never to know the joy of children, to live with the threat of the Nephilim constantly on their borders, ready to overrun their peaceful compound. To wait, knowing that Uriel would se
nd his plagues down upon them at any provocation.
Azazel pushed back from the ancient scrolls and manuscripts, exhausted. There were hints there, perhaps even answers, but he had yet to find them.
He studied them until his vision blurred, and the next day the grueling process would begin again.
There would be no answers tonight. He rose, signaling the lights to stay low, and started toward the huge expanse of rooms that had always been his.
Sarah was sitting up in bed, reading. Her silver hair lay in one thick braid over her shoulder; a pair of glasses was perched on the end of her perfect nose. Her creamy skin was smooth and delicate, and he stood and watched her, filled with the same love and desire he’d always felt.
Uriel had never been tempted as the others had been, one after the other, falling from grace. Uriel had loved no one but his God, whom he considered infallible except for the one stupid mistake of making humans.
Uriel despised people. He had no mercy for their frailties, no love for the music of their lives, the beauty of their voices, the sweetness of the love they could give. All he knew of them was hatred and despair, and he treated them accordingly.
Sarah looked at him over her brightly colored reading glasses, setting down her book. “You look exhausted.”
He began to strip off his clothes. “I am. Trouble is coming and I don’t know what to do about it. We can’t fight Uriel—we’re not ready.”
“We won’t know until it happens,” she said in her soothing voice. “Uriel has been looking for an excuse for centuries. If the girl is the catalyst, then so be it.”
Azazel rolled his shoulders, loosening the tightness there. “Raziel doesn’t want her, and she doesn’t belong here. I could get rid of her when he isn’t looking, take her back to where Uriel charged she should go. The problem would be solved, and we could wait until we’re better prepared. . . .”
Sarah took the glasses off her nose and set them beside the bed. “You’re wrong, love.”
“So you often tell me,” he said. “You think I shouldn’t get rid of her? I have the right to send her back.”
“Of course you do. You have a great many rights that you shouldn’t exert. Raziel is lying to himself. He wants her. That’s what frightens him.”
“You think Raziel is afraid? I dare you to say that to him.”
“Of course I would tell him, and you know it. He wouldn’t rage at me as he would at you. The Alpha can be challenged. The Source is just that, the source of wisdom, knowledge, and sustenance. If I tell him he wants her, he’ll believe it. But I think it’s better if he discovers it himself.”
“He doesn’t want to bond again,” Azazel argued. “Losing Rafaela was too hard for him. One loss too many.”
“Losing me will be hard for you, love, but you’ll mate again, and soon.”
“Don’t.” He couldn’t bear the idea of a time when Sarah wouldn’t be there. Sarah with the rich, luscious mouth, the wonderful, flexible body, the creamy skin. The women in Sheol lived long lives, but they were merely a blink of the eye compared to the endless lives of the Fallen. He would lose her, and the thought was excruciating.
She gave him her full, sweet smile. “Come to bed, love. We don’t need to think about that for a long time.”
He slid in beside her, pulling her against him, pushing one leg between hers, his long fingers stroking the side of her face, her neck, the elegant collarbone. “What are you wearing?” he whispered against her skin.
She laughed, a low, sexy sound. “A nightgown, of course.”
“Take it off.” He was naked—he wanted her naked too.
She sat up and obliged him, pulling it over her head and tossing it on the floor. She’d pick it up in the morning, before the maid came in. She didn’t like having anyone wait on her, but on this one matter he’d overruled her. She had enough demands on her, providing strength-sustaining blood for the unbonded.
She lay back down, a smile in her eyes, and slid her arms around him. She buried her face against his shoulder, and he could feel her teeth nipping lightly at his skin.
He kissed her, hard and deep, and she pulled at him, her hands restless. “Hurry,” she whispered. “No foreplay?” he teased.
“I’ve been thinking about you for the last two hours. That’s foreplay enough.”
He laughed, rolling her beneath him, pushing into her. Her back arched, and he could feel the first tremor of her orgasm tighten around him. She knew how to pull back, contain it so she wouldn’t make him lose control. Their rhythms were perfectly matched, an elegant dance that culminated in a shock of pleasure.
This was faintly different. He sensed her urgency, when they usually took all the time they wanted. “Why the hurry, love?” he whispered.
She didn’t answer for a moment, and he could see the shadow of an old pain in her beautiful eyes. “I’m afraid we’ll run out of time,” she said finally, her voice so low he could barely hear her.
“Never,” he said. “Stop thinking.”
Her smile was faint, lovely, one of the most erotic things about her. “Now,” she whispered.
He didn’t hesitate. His fangs slid down and sank into her neck, finding the sweet spot he knew so well. The blood was thick, rich in his mouth, and he felt the spasms begin to take over, felt her own helpless response as his wings unfurled. He rolled onto his side, taking her with him, his teeth never leaving the gently throbbing vein, his cock deep inside her as his wings clamped around them both, locking them together as he gave himself over to the only kind of death he’d ever know.
CHAPTER TEN
I OPENED MY EYES AND GROANED. I was lying sideways across a big, rumpled bed, still fully clothed—and I was alone.
I had a really annoying habit of waking up instantly, cheerfully, with no need for coffee or a hushed silence to prepare for the day. It was sheer luck that I’d survived my college years—more than one roommate had been ready to beat me to death over my tendency to prattle in the morning.
Today I could have used a little fogginess.
I had actually slept in that man’s bed, though I wasn’t quite sure how I’d got there. Last thing I remembered was falling asleep in the living room, and here I was stretched out on his sheets, feeling physically cozy and mentally freaked-out. I wasn’t used to men carting me off to bed and then doing nothing about it. Actually, I wasn’t used to men carting me off to bed at all.
Except he wasn’t a man, was he? He was some kind of monster, or mythical beast, or a bizarre mix of both, but he was definitely not human. And I held the firm belief that interspecies dating was never a good idea.
I checked my neck, just to make certain, but there were no mysterious puncture wounds; and far from feeling dizzy from blood loss, I was feeling positively energetic, more than my usual morning bounce. The unthinkable had happened, the worst thing imaginable. It had been no surreal nightmare. I was dead and living with a bunch of vampires who seemed to have emerged from Old Testament Apocrypha. It was little wonder I was feeling disoriented. What I couldn’t figure out was why I was cheerful.
The good thing about total disaster—at least there was nowhere to go but up. Maybe it was that simple.
Or maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with the man—damn, I couldn’t stop thinking of him that way—who’d brought me here. Not that he was any too pleased to be saddled with my unwanted presence. Tough shit—it was his fault I’d ended up in this cross between Valhalla and Anne Rice territory.
The good thing was, Raziel appeared to have no interest in my far-from-irresistible charms, sexual, social, or otherwise. For all I knew, Raziel’s people were impotent. After all, no one seemed able to procreate.
That seemed unlikely. The heat between Azazel and his wife had been palpable, despite the disparity in their ages. Maybe Raziel simply wasn’t interested in women. Or, more likely, not interested in me—he would hardly be the first who’d failed to appreciate my particular brand of charisma.
I’d fallen as
leep on the living room floor and he must have been kind enough to carry me in to bed, though so far kindness hadn’t been a major part of his personality. He’d left me sexually and hematologically untouched, thank God. What more proof did I need of his lack of interest.
I had more important things to consider. I needed a bathroom; I needed a shower. Last night I hadn’t stopped to think about the dead or undead having actual bodily functions. All I knew was that I certainly did.
I rolled out of the huge bed, landing barefoot on the cool marble floor. The room was dim, the shades pulled against the bright sunlight. There was a door off to one side, and I headed for it. Eureka! A bathroom with a huge tub, a shower made for giants, thick towels, and even a toilet. If the afterlife contained a bathroom like this, it couldn’t be that awful.
I followed the coffee aroma to a small kitchen, bracing myself to confront Raziel, but the place was deserted. There was coffee in a white carafe, and I filled one of the mugs, looking around me with fresh curiosity. Things didn’t seem nearly so bizarre as they had yesterday—amazing what a good night’s sleep would do for you.
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