C HAPTER T WENTY-THREE
TWO DAYS LATER, AZAZEL TOOK one last, reluctant glance at the woman lying curled up in bed. The time had come. If he’d been able to, he would have put the Grace of sleep on her, so that she didn’t have to experience the next twenty-four hours. Either they would survive or they wouldn’t, and he would have spared her if he could. But once mated, he had no power over her, no ability to control her, and no Grace to give her.
Preparations were already being made. They were making ready for battle. Michael, ever the warrior, was all ruthless efficiency as he marshaled his forces. The Fallen and their wives were arming; the house was buttoned up tight. There was no hint as to how the assault would come, but come it would. Today. While Sheol had no sages or oracles, enough of the inhabitants were given a sense of presentiment. Even he had enough of the gift to have sensed their enemies’ approach, pulling himself from Rachel’s arms to prepare for battle.
“Do we know how it will begin?” he asked Michael as he watched him strap on his leather armor. Azazel was one of the strongest fighters among them, fierce, unblinking, with a power that went far beyond normal limits. But he knew he was the second-best, making up in speed and cunning what he lacked in Michael’s finely honed strength.
Raziel was possessed of extraordinary skill with the sword, Tamlel with a spear. Gabriel’s wife was an archer of considerable ability, and Azazel had been assured that Allie was lethal with a dagger. Each and every one was gifted in self-defense. They would fight to the death; and rather than let Uriel torment her, Azazel would take Rachel in his arms and kill her himself before taking the death stroke. He would take that pain upon himself to spare her. If it came to that.
“Don’t look so gloomy,” Michael chided, in his usual high spirits when anticipating a fight. “We will prevail. We have right on our side.”
“And just how long have you been on this earth, that you think rightness has anything to do with victory?” Azazel said bitterly, reaching for his own leather armor. A sharp sword could slice through the thickness of the cured hides, but they had used it since the beginning of time. They would use it until the end of time, should it come to that.
But it wouldn’t. He wasn’t going to let Uriel win.
Michael must have read his thoughts. “That’s better. Where’s Rachel?”
“I’m trying to let her sleep.”
“Through an epic battle? Not likely. She’ll be angry that you tried to shield her.”
“She has many more reasons to be angry with me—she can add this to the tally,” Azazel said, buckling the straps around his torso, then picking up the leg coverings.
“She hasn’t forgiven you? She chose you—surely that means she’s chosen to absolve you as well.”
“Some things are too great to be forgiven,” he said, reaching for his sword.
Raziel appeared in the armory door. “They’re coming,” he said. “We need to assemble on the beach.”
Michael clapped a hand on Azazel’s shoulder. “We’ll prevail, brother. Have faith.” He headed out after Raziel, and Azazel slid his second, shorter sword into its sheath, preparing to follow. Only to come up short as Rachel appeared in the doorway, blocking it.
She’d plaited her wild red hair into a warrior’s braids and pinned them to her head. She’d managed to find a warrior’s uniform in the short period he’d been gone, and the expression on her face was fierce. “Were you just going to let me sleep through this?” she demanded.
“With luck, you never needed to know what was going on,” he said, keeping his face blank, his voice neutral.
“Because I don’t belong here, is that it? Everyone else is preparing for battle, ready to defend their home and their lives. And I’m supposed to just curl up in bed and wait for the outcome?” Her rough voice vibrated with rage.
“Yes.”
She gave him a steely glance. “Give me a weapon.”
“Are you thinking of gutting me?” he asked, curious. Curious as to whether he’d let her, as final penance.
“No. To help defend Sheol.”
“Go back to our rooms,” he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. “You will only hurt our chances of winning.”
“Fuck you,” she said in her hoarse voice.
The enemy were almost here. He could feel their approach. They’d reached the gates of Sheol, and in moments they would smash them down, breaking the covenant, the laws ordained by the Supreme Being. The Fallen’s banishment and eternal damnation were written in stone, but so was their life. Eternal life, eternal damnation, and the unbreachable sanctuary of Sheol. And now Uriel was about to break that law.
“Go back to our rooms.”
“Why?”
He took a deep breath. “Because you make me vulnerable. If you’re there, I’ll be thinking about you, trying to protect you, instead of fighting the battle I need to fight. Rachel, I can’t fight Uriel and fight you too. Go back, for the love of God.”
“For the love of God,” she echoed. “God is the one who cursed us all. Is there any particular reason I should love him?”
He heard the gate come crashing down before the steady march of their enemy. “I can’t argue about faith right now,” he said in a quiet voice. “They’re here.”
“Then I’ll have your back,” she said.
The assaulting host were marching toward the beach, and the army of Sheol, the small, ill-equipped force of the damned, was waiting for them. He looked at Rachel with her fierce braids and fiercer expression, and a slow smile crossed his face. He pulled her into his arms, just ducking the dagger she’d grabbed, and kissed her, not with desperation but with pure joy. Whatever happened, she was his, and it was enough.
“We have to go,” he said when he released her. Taking her hand, he headed out to the sandy beach.
Raziel and Michael were in front of the others, a powerful force, and Rachel released his hand, going to stand with Allie. He had no choice, wasting only a moment to accept that he might never touch her again. And then he went to join the other two leaders.
It was an endless army, as far as the eye could see. No leather armor for them: their bright metal glinted in the filtered sunlight. He looked for Uriel in whatever form he’d chosen, but the archangel wasn’t leading his army of angels today.
At their head was Metatron, king of the angels, ferocious and unblinking and huge. With a definite grudge to bear.
He stood front and center, towering over his foot soldiers, but his sword wasn’t drawn. He wouldn’t call his troops into battle until he raised it, and he was making no effort to reach for it.
“So he wants to talk,” Michael muttered in disappointment. “Coward.”
Raziel glanced at him reprovingly. “You have no wife, Michael. You have nothing to lose.”
“I don’t lose,” Michael said simply.
“Neither does Metatron,” Azazel said.
The king of the angels stepped forward, his black eyes meeting Azazel’s for a pregnant moment. There was no sign of Enoch—that form had vanished completely. There was only a giant among men, hungry for carnage.
“I would talk,” he announced, stopping about twenty feet from the three of them.
“I could kill him now,” Michael muttered, his tattooed arms flexing. “His army would scatter without a leader.”
“Control him,” Raziel snapped, and Azazel put a restraining hand on Michael’s shoulder as their leader stepped forward.
It should have been difficult for Azazel to watch Raziel in the place he himself had held for millennia, but he felt nothing but relief. He glanced over at Rachel. Her face was set, but she felt his gaze on her, and she turned, meeting it. And then she smiled at him.
It almost brought him to his knees. She had never smiled at him, not like this, full of love and promise and, yes, the forgiveness that he’d been too great a coward to ask for. He wanted to cross the sand and pull her into his arms, but he couldn’t move.
Instead,
he smiled back at her.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Michael growled. “I don’t remember ever seeing you crack a smile in your life, and you decide now is the time to do it?”
He turned to Michael, and his smile shifted to a more ironic grimace. “I’m in love,” he said. He looked back at Rachel. I love you, he thought, wondering if she could pick up the words.
Her eyes widened, and he knew she’d heard. She might not believe the truth of it, not until he said it out loud, but if he never got the chance at least she’d die knowing it.
Raziel had reached Metatron, and he halted, his hand on his sword, as Metatron began to speak.
“I, Metatron, first guardian of the ephemeral realm, enforcer of the law, protector of the Dark City, king of the warrior angels, demand the surrender of the so-called Fallen of Sheol and their whores to the most proper and right rule of the archangel Uriel, master of the universe.”
He heard a snort of laughter from Allie, which should have infuriated him. She quickly composed herself, whispering something to Rachel, who smothered a smile.
Raziel knew the prescribed form. “I am Raziel, leader of the Fallen and the inhabitants of Sheol, a place declared inviolate by the Supreme Being. We deny your right to have dominion over us, and demand that you leave.”
Metatron’s steely eyes narrowed. “We will not leave until the sand runs red with your blood and that of your mate and the blood of all who dwell here.”
Raziel didn’t move. “Then what stays your hand? Do you have doubts as to the righteousness of your orders?”
“I have no doubts. Will you surrender?”
“Never.”
Azazel waited, his hand poised on his sword, but Metatron made no move. “I will show no mercy.”
“Why should we expect mercy from Uriel’s minion?” Raziel said loftily.
Metatron ground his teeth. “Uriel has granted me the opportunity to make a bargain with you. Your best warrior against mine. If you win, we retreat. If we win, you give yourselves over to my men. I promise you death will be swift. It’s more than you deserve.”
Azazel moved forward, joining Raziel. “How can you possibly offer such a thing? Uriel would never countenance it.”
Metatron’s smile was sour. “I am not the minion you called me. I lead the armies, and it is my right to choose. The archangel Uriel must, on occasion, defer to me.”
Raziel cast a swift glance at Azazel, who nodded; then he turned back to the heavily armed soldier. “We agree, though we have little faith that Uriel will accede to your terms.”
“It will never come to that. I am the champion of my people, and I will kill your warrior and grind his bones into the sand, and then I will set his wife on fire, so that her screams will fill the air as my men destroy the rest of you. If you resist, you will die by flames as well. If you accept, then the sword will be swift and merciful.”
“Our champion is the archangel Michael,” Raziel said. “He has no wife.”
“He is no archangel. He has fallen,” Metatron said in dismissive tones. “And I have not made the terms clear. I am the one to choose your champion. And I choose Azazel.”
He heard Michael’s roar of frustration, but he didn’t turn around, and someone must have restrained him. He was more distracted by Rachel’s silent cry of horror. And he knew, to his sorrow, that her anguish was for him, not fear of immolation, the most painful form of death.
He had known it would come to this. He looked at Raziel. “By your leave?” he said formally.
After a moment Raziel nodded, and backed away, joining his waiting army, the pathetically small, ill-equipped family of the Fallen.
Azazel had known most of them for thousands of years. Michael and Gabriel had fallen later, as well as Nisroc and Jehoel, but most were almost a second self.
But it was for Rachel he felt the most fear. Metatron was a warrior—he lived to fight, just as Michael did. Azazel had managed to defeat him back in the Dark City because of the sheer rage that had suffused him. Here, on an even playing field, Metatron was by far the stronger. The two of them would stage a prodigious battle, and it was hard to guess who would come out the victor.
Though nearly as tall as Metatron, Azazel lacked the bulk of muscles, the sheer physical power. He would have to use his other gifts, cunning and speed, to keep the battle going until the larger man tired, and he could land the killing blow.
“I will fight you,” Azazel said, and he thought he could hear Rachel’s muffled cry. “And I will kill you,” he added pleasantly.
Metatron’s grin was savage. “You can try.” He spun around, in his element, ready to fight. “I will fight their champion,” he called out to his men, “and the outcome of that match determines the outcome of our assault. You are all to adhere to my agreement. No one is to be touched until I give the order. If I am vanquished, they are to be left alone.”
And then he turned back, his sword drawn, his smile filled with bloody anticipation. “This is a long time coming, traitor.”
Azazel drew his own sword. He was a worker in metals, and he’d crafted it himself, thousands of years ago. Its balance was perfect, its blade razor-sharp, its action smooth and swift. He smiled back at Metatron. “You’ve lived too long, minion,” he purred. “I’m waiting.”
Metatron lunged, his full force behind the move, so quickly that another man would have been unable to react in time. But Azazel knew him of old, and he’d shifted before Metatron even raised his sword, drawing his own across his enemy’s muscular thigh. He couldn’t reach the femoral artery, but he could cause pain, slow him down, and he whipped his sword across the other leg as Metatron spun around, a roar of fury bellowing out.
“Coward!” he shouted, bringing the sword down on Azazel’s neck, but finding only air. He spun quickly, the sword at waist level, and it slashed across Azazel’s chest, splitting the leather and cutting into his skin. Metatron grinned.
A moment later Azazel’s blade sliced his face. It was useless against the steel armor, but the cut was just above Metatron’s eye, and the blood poured down, blinding him, as Azazel moved in.
Even blinded, Metatron sensed him, spinning around and slashing, and Azazel felt the blade bite deep into his back. He went down, then rolled away as Metatron hacked at him, the heavy sword barely missing him in the blood-soaked sand. Azazel was up before he could free the sword from the grip of the sand, and his sword sliced deep into Metatron’s right arm.
Metatron only laughed, tossing the sword to his other hand. He was breathing deeply as he looked at Azazel. “You think I can only kill with one hand, traitor? I can kill you a thousand ways, and could have done so many times already.”
“Then what’s taking you so long, minion?” Azazel mocked him.
“Because I want to prolong your suffering. Knowing you are helpless to save the demon Lilith from the fiery death she deserves, you will suffer and slip and fall and die.”
“You’re wasting your breath,” Azazel said in a bored voice. “I am no child to be frightened by your talk. Use your sword instead, and stop posturing. None of our women are impressed.”
“Your women will all be dead!” Metatron shouted as he charged him.
It was not unlike bullfighting, Azazel thought, having seen the barbaric practice long ago. The more he maddened Metatron, the more mistakes the king of the angels would make, until he was exhausted, broken, bleeding. It was a dance with a savage partner, and the same joy filled him, the need to kill, to destroy the force that had drawn him in, deceived him, led him to betray not only Rachel but himself; with each slash, each bleeding cut, he was washing away his guilt, his culpability.
He had trained in the sand, was used to the feel and shift of it beneath his feet as he parried and thrust; but blood was caking his feet, and it slowed him just an infinitesimal amount, just enough, as Metatron’s blade came slashing down, and he heard Rachel’s raw, broken scream.
C HAPTER T WENTY-FOUR
THE SOUND R
OARED FROM MY mouth, a shattered remnant of a scream, as I watched the blade slash down on Azazel as he skidded in the wet sand; and the man who had once been Enoch jerked, unaccountably startled, enough so that the blade cleaved Azazel’s shoulder, not his neck, the force blunted, and Azazel was able to roll away, leaping back to his feet, graceful as a dancer.
But he was weakening. I could see it, and Metatron was too big, too strong, despite the slashes and cuts Azazel had landed. Azazel’s speed and agility had kept him safe, but he was beginning to slow, and if I didn’t do something I would see him hacked to death before my eyes. I would watch him die, and I wouldn’t even be able to cry.
I could run out, put myself between them, distract them long enough so that Azazel could land a killing blow. But Azazel had already said I made him vulnerable. If I interfered, it might result in his death.
I looked around desperately, but no one was doing anything to help. They seemed to be relying on some utterly stupid code of honor that was going to end up getting us all killed, and a sudden, ancient rage filled me.
Men and their honor. Men and their need for power, for control, for doing stupid things because of stupid pride and an insane belief in some ridiculous notion of what was right. They would kill us all with their pride, and I wouldn’t let them.
She was gone. But she was still within me. Lilith, the storm demon. Lilitu, the wind goddess, the raging fury who sent hurricanes and tornadoes and cyclones. I moved my hand, just slightly, and a spit of sand whirled up in a tiny funnel, falling back to the ground.
Azazel slashed at Metatron, slicing him above the other eye, and the blood poured down, blinding him. Metatron dashed it away, smearing it on his face, and struck back, his sword slicing through the leather jerkin Azazel wore, and I could see the blood gushing out, deep and red, and I knew if I didn’t move he would die.
I took a deep breath and went there, joined the demon who lived inside me. I spun my hand, and the winds came down, picking up the sand. Azazel tripped and fell, and Metatron loomed over him, sword raised for the killing blow—
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