My voice had vanished. I couldn’t think, couldn’t doubt; all I could do was feel. I was his completely, but he was holding back. “Take me,” I whispered.
“Take me.” And reaching up, I took his head and pushed it toward my neck, so that his mouth was there, hot and wet, and I felt the scrape of his teeth, and I wanted more. “Take me,” I whispered again. “Take everything.”
He tensed, froze in my arms, and for a moment I was terrified that he’d pull away from me. He lifted his head and looked at me, and there was such sorrow in his eyes, a sorrow I didn’t understand. “Allie,” he said softly.
But I was inexorable. My body was aching with need, a need I neither recognized nor understood; but I somehow knew I had to have his mouth on me, drinking from me, for me to finally feel complete. “Please,” I begged him, when I’d sworn I would never beg. “Feed.”
He kissed my lips, so gently I wanted to cry. He leaned down and kissed the side of my neck, with the same feathering sweetness. And then I felt the sharp, sweet, piercing pain as his teeth sank into my skin, felt the draw of him sucking at my neck, drinking from me, drinking life from me, and I felt tears running down my face, as I was finally made complete. Filling him as he was filling me.
His cock inside me seemed to swell, and I cradled his head against me, running my fingers through his thick, curling hair, whispering to him, soft words, love words.
And then he pulled away, rising up, and I could see my blood on his mouth, see the glitter in his eyes. He stared down at me, not moving, and I felt his climax deep inside me, giving me back what he had taken from me, and I joined him, flinging myself into the darkness with only him to guide me.
I MIGHT HAVE SLEPT MINUTES, hours, days. It didn’t matter. I was wrapped in Raziel’s arms, and neither of us was moving. I felt his hand brush my cheek, so gently. “You’re crying,” he whispered. “I hurt you. I knew I shouldn’t have.”
“You didn’t hurt me,” I said, rubbing my face against his hand like a hungry kitten. “I’m happy.”
He moved a fraction so he could look at me, and his expression was bemused. “Do you always cry when you’re happy?”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever been happy before,” I said simply.
He was about to argue, then stopped as he remembered my life, the life he knew almost as well as I did. “Maybe you haven’t,” he said finally, and kissed me.
I wondered if his mouth would taste of blood, but it didn’t. It just tasted like Raziel, and I kissed him back, then let him tuck me against his warm, naked body. I didn’t really want to move.
I ran my hand up his arm, my fingers delighting in the feel of him. “What does my blood taste like?”
His hand was at the back of my neck, his long fingers kneading the lingering tightness there, but at my words they stilled for a moment. “To me? Like honey wine, sweet and rich and intoxicating. Not like blood would taste to you.”
“So can you bite people and turn them into va—into blood-eaters?” I asked.
“No. Why would I want to? It’s a curse put upon us for disobeying God. Why in the world would I want to spread that curse, even if I could?”
“Because it would give eternal life, wouldn’t it?”
He knew what I was getting at, and he sighed, pulling me even closer. “No, Allie. It can’t be done. Humans are not made for the sacrament, and the one time one of the Fallen gave in to temptation, his mate died. It’s forbidden.”
“I was just curious,” I said.
“Of course you were.” His voice was wry.
“Are you always going to be able to read my thoughts?” I asked with a trace of asperity.
“I can try not to. When you’re feeling strong emotion, it will come to me, and it will go both ways. In day-to-day life, I can shield you.”
“And in bed? I’m assuming we’re going to do this again?” I held my breath, waiting for the answer. Was he still fighting it? Should I still fight it?
It was a long moment before he spoke, an endless one. “As often as possible,” he said.
I knew his thoughts, knew what he wanted. Now. Again. “Yes,” I said. “Yes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I SHOULD HAVE FELT GUILTY. I HAD tried to resist, but in the end she’d just been too much for me. I’d fed from her, drunk deeply, and in doing so I tied her to me forever.
It was something I swore I would never do again. I had my choice, aeons ago, and I paid the price. There was no escape for me or the others, but for Allie it was different. As long as I had kept away from her vein there was still a chance she could eventually leave.
Not anymore. And having taken her blood, I was going to find her serving as the Source even more difficult. Dangerous. Not for me, but for whoever dared approach her. They might have to restrain me for the first year or so, until I learned to control my possessive fury.
I should have known I couldn’t stop myself. Not when she was pleading. And I should have known she would plead. A bonded mate needs that ultimate joining. Without it she never feels complete, and I’d accepted that she was, indeed, my wife. Once I’d taken her to bed it was a foregone conclusion, and it was remarkable I’d fought it for so long. I wasn’t usually so thickheaded.
I’d lied to her, shielding my mind so she wouldn’t know. There had been rare occasions when a mate had fed from her partner, but it was very dangerous. Four out of five times the woman would die. The fifth time she’d gain hundreds of years of life, as long as she continued to feed.
Morag had finally died when her mate had fallen beneath the Nephilim; she’d been well over eight hundred years old. I knew what Allie would do if she heard about it, and I couldn’t afford to let that happen.
I wasn’t going to worry about that now. I’d done my best to protect her—by taking her blood I’d made her escape impossible, and I was sorry for that.
But sorry for nothing else.
I left her sleeping. I would have preferred staying with her, but I had to find Azazel. I knew him well enough, could feel his energy, and I knew things were very bad. Sarah had been his soul. He would be empty without her.
I found him perched on the top of the ledge, looking down over the compound and the sea beyond it. The funeral pyre of the Nephilim had burned down to a few live coals, and I shuddered as I saw it. Our fear of fire is so deeply ingrained that it haunted me. Like us, the Nephilim were terrified of it, but we were too vulnerable to use it as a weapon.
I folded in my wings and sat down beside Azazel. He was staring at the boat that had hastily been built, the boat piled high with the bodies of our women and our dead brothers. Sarah would be on that boat. It would be set afire and then sent out to sea, a Viking burial to suit brave warriors, men and women alike. It was our ritual, one we couldn’t avoid, the only time we willingly embraced fire.
“I’m going to leave,” Azazel said in a quiet voice.
“I know.” We had been together from the very beginning, from before we fell. I knew him as well as I knew myself. And for the first time in millennia, he was no longer going to be there.
He turned to look at me, and there was a ghost of a smile in his dark eyes. “How are you and the woman getting along? Are you still fighting your destiny?”
“My destiny? What exactly is my destiny?”
“You’re married to the Source, or will be. It only makes sense that you should be the Alpha as well.”
“No. You’re the Alpha. You always have been.”
“I’ve always been married to the Source, and I suspect you’re not about to hand her over.”
I said nothing. There was nothing I could say.
“Besides,” he added, “I won’t be here.”
I knew there was no arguing him out of that one. “I will serve in your place while you’re gone,” I said. “The moment you return, you get it back.”
He shook his head, his eyes bleak, staring into an empty future. “I may not make it back. The Nephilim are growing stronger, and t
here’s nothing Uriel would like more than to bring me down.”
“Then why go?”
“I have to.” He looked back out at the boat. “I can’t be here without her, not right now. This will heal, it always does, even if I don’t want it to. But for now I can’t stay in our rooms, sit at our table, be in our house without her.”
I nodded. The loss of a mate was the most devastating thing that could happen to us, and Azazel’s passion for Sarah had been deep and strong. I could only hope he’d survive beyond our safe walls. Walls that were not so safe anymore.
“I understand,” I said.
He glanced at me. “Are you going to be able to watch when the others take the blooding sacrament?” he asked. “You seemed to be having a hard time controlling yourself earlier today. It might be better if you waited until you feed from her. Until you do, your possessive anger will be hard to control.”
“I’ve already fed from her,” I said.
Azazel looked at me. “So soon? You surprise me. I thought you hated her. You certainly fought hard enough to get rid of her.”
“She’s mine,” I said.
He nodded. “I suspected as much. But I should warn you. Even though you’ve fed from her, the first two or three occasions when others take her blood will be hard for you. Gradually you’ll get used to it and see the difference between the sacrament and when you feed. But it will be difficult. Do not let your jealousy get out of control. The woman is besotted with you. Even if she were able to look at other men, she wouldn’t—I’ve known that from the very beginning.”
“Did you know she’d be the Source?”
Darkness shuttered Azazel’s face. “No,” he said. “If I had, I would have killed her.” He rose, and I rose with him, watching as his wings spread out around him. “I haven’t found the traitor. I’d planned to wait until we discovered who let the Nephilim in, but I find I . . . can’t.” He looked toward the funeral boat, and his face was bleak.
“You won’t be here for the ceremony?”
“No.” It was a simple word that conveyed everything. “Good-bye, my brother. Take care of that harridan you brought among us.” And then he left, soaring upward into the night sky.
I watched him until he was out of sight, then sat again, not moving. This was the change I’d felt coming, the end that threatened us all. Azazel had led us from the beginning of time—he’d never left us. I had no gift of prognostication—but even I had known the end of times was upon us. It was no wonder I’d fought it.
Would the Nephilim have broken in if Allie hadn’t been here? Had that been part of Uriel’s plan? Had he known I would hesitate, recognizing her from our earlier meetings? Anything was possible.
There was nothing he wanted more than to distract us from our main goal, and he had succeeded. Lucifer still lay trapped, farther away than ever, and for a long time we would be busy mourning our dead and rebuilding our defenses. The monsters would have broken through sooner or later, but had Allie’s arrival, the fact that she was unquestionably mine, somehow pushed things up? I would never know.
Uriel was winning. I knew it, so did Azazel. It was little wonder he hated Allie. Her arrival had signaled Sarah’s death.
I thought back to the Source, her gentle smile, her wisdom. Allie was a far cry from Sarah’s serenity. I wasn’t even certain she’d agree to the sacrament.
She’d insisted she wasn’t going to provide blood for the Fallen. Once they started to weaken she’d change her mind, of course. Allie wasn’t the kind of woman who’d stand by and let anyone suffer.
Except, perhaps, me, if I annoyed her. I liked peaceful women. Gentle, obedient women whose only reason in life was to love me. Allie was too much of the new world. Already she’d been a pain in the butt, and I knew she’d continue to be. I would have to get used to it.
I should go back, tell the Fallen that Azazel had left us. Most of them would already know—the unspoken bond among all of us was very strong. I could tell them, and then head back upstairs and wrap my body around Allie’s and wake her slowly.
I’d tried to be careful, afraid I’d hurt her. She was small, unused to me, and the thought of causing her pain was enough to slow the raging tide of my hunger for her. But I hadn’t been able to stop, any more than I’d been able to keep from feeding from her. Yet she’d been able to take everything with no more than a slight wince. More proof that she was made for me, when I’d refused to believe it for so long. No ordinary woman could take me as she had, not without pain that would preclude pleasure.
I’d felt her tighten around me in helpless response, felt her give everything to me. She was mine, and I was hers.
I was no longer alone. I turned to see Sammael land beside me, light as ever, his light-brown wings folding down around him. His face was set, emotionless, and I greeted him without rising. He’d lost his mate as well. His grief had to be very deep indeed. So deep that he didn’t allow it to show.
“Azazel has left?” he said.
I had watched over Sammael after he’d fallen. Helped him with the huge adjustments, listened to him, advised him when he’d asked for counsel, stayed with him when the terrors hit him. If Azazel was an older brother, Sammael was a younger one. Someone I protected, guarded against evil.
I looked at Sammael and I saw the emptiness in his eyes. And I knew the truth.
I REACHED OUT FOR RAZIEL, but he was gone. The bed was already cold where he had been, though mostly he’d been on top of and beneath and behind and around me. I should have slept for days after all the things we’d been doing. Instead I was awake and wondering where he was. And when he’d be back, beside me, inside me, again.
I didn’t want to get up—the evening air was cool and the covers were deliciously warm. Hadn’t someone told me I wouldn’t have to use the bathroom as much? They’d lied.
I got up, noticing with lascivious amusement that my legs were shaky. I staggered to the bathroom, understanding for the first time the term relieving oneself. Washing my hands, I looked at my reflection in the mirror and laughed.
He’d left his marks on me. The bite mark on my neck, two pale puncture marks that looked like something out of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The whisker burns on my breasts. The tiny bites and scratches and even faint bruises all over my pale skin. Tentatively I let my hands slide down my body, caressing all those marks, and I closed my eyes, letting out a soft sigh of pleasure. “More,” I whispered. What had the man done to me—turned me into a nymphomaniac? I’d had more sex in the last two days than I’d had in years.
I headed for the shower, stepping beneath the warm spray that was always at exactly the right temperature. Just another one of the perks of the afterlife, I thought. I’d always hated fiddling with showers to make sure the water temperature was right, particularly in a prewar apartment building in New York City with antique plumbing. The lovely perfection of the shower in Raziel’s rooms was joyful indeed.
Not to mention that there were seventeen different sprays, ranging from the rain-forest shower overhead to the myriad massaging sprays coming from the silver pipe, each aimed at a strategic part of my body. I reached for the liquid soap and almost swooned. It had the same spicy scent that clung to Raziel’s golden skin. I closed my eyes and slathered myself with it, letting the water sluice it away from me.
The bathroom was filling with steam, and I sat on the shower’s teak bench to enjoy it; a moment later I heard the door open, and my pulse leapt. He was back, sooner than I expected. I’d never shared a shower with a man. Sharing one with Raziel would be . . . delicious.
“I’m in here,” I said unnecessarily. “Why don’t you join me?” It was astonishingly bold of me—while shyness had never been my particular failing, sexual openness was equally foreign. But I had looked into his eyes and known how much he wanted me, and no foolish misgivings would get in my way. He wanted me, and for now I could let myself accept it, revel in it. He was mine.
I could see his outline through the heavy mist in the
bathroom, moving toward the shower’s doorless opening, and I rose in one fluid gesture, ready to move into his arms, when something stopped me. I froze, tilting my head to listen to him, but there was nothing but silence from the man who stood there.
It wasn’t Raziel. This man was shorter, broader. Dangerous. I’d already called out to him—there was no chance of pretending that I wasn’t there. No chance of slipping out of the open shower and hiding behind the bathroom door. I was trapped.
I left the shower running, on the off chance that whoever was in here had an aversion to getting wet, even as I realized how foolish that was—it wasn’t the Wicked Witch of the West who was threatening me. He moved closer, and the overhead spray beat down on his blond curls, his well-modeled face, and I felt relief wash through me. It was Sammael. Raziel must have told him to bring me to him.
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