She didn’t want to close her eyes. What if she closed them and when she opened them again, Raven wasn’t there anymore?
“I’ll still be here,” he said.
“You can read my thoughts still? Azriel can’t.”
“Because you have my essence. Azriel can’t read my mind and I can’t read his. Now, close your eyes.”
“You promise you’ll still be here?”
“I promise.”
Slowly, she shut her eyes tight. After a few moments, Raven said in a low voice, “Open them.”
She did.
A gasp of surprise erupted from her. She was in Prague, in the beautiful hotel room where she’d awakened after Raven carried her off from her wedding. She lay in a four-poster bed with a roaring fireplace across the room. Trays of food were scattered to the left and right of her legs; even the long velvet curtains covering the windows were the same. It was all there.
“Raven,” she said in surprise.
“We’re not really here. This is pretend. It’s all part of The Void.”
“Why did he bring me here?” she asked quickly. “Why not Hir na Gog? I thought that was the point.”
He undid the last knot and motioned for her to stand.
“I’ll explain everything later. All you need to know now is that there are seven portals that lead to The Void. You entered through the seventh. I entered through the fifth, which is the way we’re leaving.”
Charity nodded. A sudden need to feel him, to touch him had her bending forward. He moved from her, though, and hurried to the door.
“Don’t distract me. Azriel’s going to go looking for you in his little paradise. When he doesn’t find you there, he’ll be in a rage.”
She got off the bed and went to him. When the sheer material of the robe flittered about her thighs, she remembered how scantily dressed she was.
Raven jerked as if struck, but his eyes tracked her progress across the room. He looked suddenly as lethal as a panther with his dark eyes fixed to her nearly naked body. Animal hunger flashed in his eyes as he watched her move, and heat gathered between her legs. Her knees felt weak and she realized quite suddenly she was panting.
When she neared him, he reached for her. His hand tightened around her wrist and he pulled her close. She half-walked, half-stumbled into his arms.
The feel of him, of his chest, of his muscled arms enclosing her, of his hair against her face and breasts, was heaven. She sighed and wrapped her arms around his waist.
When his mouth met hers, electric heat shot through her body. The kiss was excruciatingly slow, wonderfully deep. When he pulled away, she struggled to keep her arms locked around him.
He held her out before him and stared down at her, eyes full of erotic hunger…and something else she couldn’t name.
“We don’t have time for this,” he said, giving her a gentle shove.
“Please, Raven, I just need to feel your arms around me for a few seconds. I missed you so much. I’m so sorry I ran away from you in Prague. I should have stayed in the room, but I was hurt.”
Raven’s lips were clenched so tightly, they blanched white. His eyes narrowed to thin slits and he seemed suddenly distant.
Turning away from her, he called, “We’ll discuss this later. When you’re safely away from Azriel.”
Charity stood in the doorway of the hotel room and stared at his retreating back. He was so perfect, so extraordinary.
“Hurry, Charity. I’m going to take us directly to the entrance of the fifth portal. Once we’re there, you’ll see something that’ll look similar to a waterfall. It’s not a waterfall, but the entrance gate. Once we walk beneath the falls, we’ll enter the tunnels of the fifth portal.”
“There are ghouls in the tunnels. Ghouls and rogues.”
“And I’ll be there. As will Myrddin and Aliceanna.”
Chapter Fifteen
Al-Kenna decided she would pretend to leave. Such would set the Warlord’s heart at rest. But she wouldn’t be gone for long.
She’d already packed a bag. It was a small bag, but sufficient for her purposes. She was never one who carried around lots of unnecessary things. Plus, she was only carrying it because the Warlord might check it before she left to make sure she’d actually packed. He might even unzip the bag to see if there were clothes inside. So, she packed a few changes of clothes and undergarments, her hairbrush, toothbrush, shampoo, conditioner, mousse, and some lip-gloss. Al-Kenna also buried a few extra daggers, a sheathed machete, a sword, and a store of bullets tucked beneath her clothes.
Now, she stood before the open doors of her armoire where she kept her favorite weapons. She kept twelve daggers here. All of them were museum-worthy antiques collected by the Warlord during his centuries of battle and given to her on various special occasions. Over the years, she had taken care to keep the blades sharpened and the richly ornamented handles clean and well oiled. Below them was a small collection of semi-automatic guns, all gifts to her from the Warlord. They’d both learned long ago that an automatic pistol wasn’t a good idea in the hands of one as zealous as her. She’d press that trigger and keep the pressure on until she’d emptied the gun of bullets.
Her finest piece, though, was the broadsword. She lifted it from its case and studied it. Even with only the setting sunlight coming in through her windows, the blade glimmered. Light leapt across its gleaming surface, making its deadly-sharp edges all the more visible. She tested the weight of it in her hand, twirled it about her before returning it to its case where she could retrieve it when she returned. After the sword was in place, she picked four daggers and opened the drawer where she kept her leather arm guards and dagger sheaths. She plucked out two brown arm guards and fitted them on her forearms. Then she found four sheaths, from the assortment she kept at hand, and strapped those on as well. One for her ankle, two she strapped to her biceps beneath her shirt, and one she strapped to her back within easy reach between her shoulder blades. The daggers fit easily within their sheaths.
She had to search for the double gun holster she’d tossed inside this morning when she was dressing for mass, but found it lying on the floor of the armoire. After grabbing her favored Berettas, she slipped off her shirt and eased the holster on, setting them within.
After that, she braided her hair in one long braid down her back. Twisting the braid and keeping it in place at the top of her head had proved more difficult than she thought it would be. The braid kept slipping from its pins and falling loose. When she finally got it in place, she studied her refection in the mirror in the armoire door.
She still looked like Al-Kenna, but in the dark, the lack of hair falling about her face would be enough of a disguise to throw off the Warlord. That, and she would make a point to stay far from him. Once she returned, she’d remain hidden in the compound, listening for the signs of battle that were sure to come. Who knew, if the battle didn’t come until two days from now, she’d be happy for the prop clothes she’d packed.
Quickly, she removed the pins from her hair and stuffed them into a pocket of her discarded shirt. She unbraided her hair and checked her reflection a second time. This time, she looked very much like herself. Her curly hair fell down her back nearly to her waist.
Al-Kenna shut the double doors of her armoire and slipped on her shirt. Dressed and armed, there was nothing for her to do save pace the floor while she waited for someone to retrieve her for the mass exodus she was to be a part of.
That’s when she remembered.
“The book!” she gasped. “I forgot to replace the book.”
How on earth could she have been so stupid? Worse, she had no idea what she’d done with it. She remembered leaving her bedroom last night carrying the book with the intent to replace it. Then, she’d seen Alaric.
She must have left it somewhere in the library.
As she rushed from her room, she prayed everyone was too busy preparing for the attack to have bothered going into the library. More than anything,
she wanted to walk in the library doors and see the book lying somewhere on the floor.
When she got to the library, her fear escalated. She couldn’t find the book anywhere. It wasn’t in the hall outside the library where she’d been standing the first time she’d seen Alaric. At the thought of him, her heart quickened, but she forced herself to focus. Inside the library, she searched the dozens of shelves, crawled about on all fours to see if it had somehow been shoved beneath a sofa or a table. She even felt around under the sofa cushions where Alaric had laid her when he’d begun to kiss her.
She felt her face heat at the memory and warmth suffused her body.
“Alaric.”
She stood centered in the library and surveyed the entire room. With sickening clarity, she realized the book wasn’t there. It was gone.
But where could it have gone? It couldn’t simply disappear. She had brought it down to the library. That was her last recollection of it. It wasn’t in her room, so that meant she’d left it here last night.
She felt hope rise as she realized a possibility. Someone could have come into the library, maybe Father Caleb, and found the book lying discarded. He would have taken the book back to the archives where it belonged.
Yes, that had to have been what happened, she thought.
She still had the Warlord’s keys to the archives, too. All she had to do was hurry down to the archives and see if the book were there. If it was, she was in the clear. If not…she didn’t want to think about that.
When she got to the archive room doors, she slipped the Warlord’s key in the lock, eased the door open, and peeked inside.
It might as well have been night for all the sunlight that came into the room. But the darkness was enough to tell her the room was empty.
She eased inside and gently shut and locked the door behind her. A moment later, she turned on a light and walked past the shelves of ancient text. When she reached the section she was looking for, she turned into the stacks…and gasped.
Two coffins had been set between the shelves where she and Jesse had been sitting just yesterday.
Two coffins.
Her knees turned to mush beneath her, even as the sweetest of throbs vibrated between her thighs. Sighing, she took a step away. Fear should have been her dominant emotion, or perhaps a desire to fight. Instead, longing nearly leveled her where she stood. She was a few short feet away from where Alaric rested, and the knowledge made her feel giddy with anticipation.
Alaric was here. Sleeping.
Would he be lying naked in his coffin, body hard as marble and as beautiful as the finest work of art? Even clothed in his leather pants and boots, he’d be a sight.
Cautiously, she moved forward. She wanted to see him again, maybe even touch him. He’d been so perfect, so very masculine. Surely, no harm would come from opening the lid of his coffin to gaze at him.
When she was standing between the two coffins, she stared with indecision, glancing from one coffin to the other. Was she really going to go through with this? If the Warlord knew where she was right now, knew what she was doing, he’d go through the roof. But he didn’t know. Nobody knew. The only person she had to worry about right now was Al-Kenna.
The only question she had to answer now was, which coffin was his? One coffin held Damon, no doubt. The other, though…
“Alaric,” she whispered, loving the sound of his name on her tongue.
Coming to a quick decision, she turned to her right, pressed her hands to the grips of the coffin and paused. She remembered how much Alaric had wanted her last night. Even now as he lay in sleep, she was certain if he saw her, he’d welcome her into the warmth and safety of his embrace. But then again, he probably wouldn’t stir at all. Maybe he’d remain asleep and not notice she was there.
“Just do it,” she told herself.
She tightened her hold on the grips and raised the lid. The well-oiled hinges barely made a sound. In seconds, she had the lid raised and was staring into the coffin.
She moaned at the sight of him.
Seeing him lying on his back with his hands crossed over his chest in slumber was nearly too much. His golden hair was fanned on the crimson velvet pillow beneath him. He looked so innocent in sleep, so helpless, she wanted to reach out and stroke his cheek. She was a little disappointed to find that he wasn’t naked, but only for a moment. The silken shirt he was wearing when she’d last seen him had fallen open. She stared down at the bands of muscle lining his chest and abdomen. He was all hard muscle. Leather pants hugged the most powerfully built thighs she’d ever seen. His pants were sinfully tight, and she felt the need to repent just from the simple act of looking at him.
She knew her heart was racing in her chest, felt her shortness of breath. She had to get out of there before she did something stupid, like throwing herself into the coffin with him and begging him for more kisses. The Warlord was right, Alaric was way out of her league. Give her a battle and she knew how to defend herself. She had no idea, however, how she was supposed to protect her emotions from whatever it was Alaric was doing to her.
She was about to reach for the lid so she could shut it and leave Alaric undisturbed, but as she reached up, a hand reached from the inner depths of the coffin and gripped her wrist. She screamed in surprise, tried to step back, but the hand, its grip sure, held her firm. The strength in that single hand, in the fingers as they squeezed, made her marvel. She was, after all, no weak human. She was strong. But struggle as she might, she couldn’t pull free. Instead, she found herself drawn forward. She fought against the forward momentum, but her strength was nothing compared to the force driving her.
Thinking she’d awakened Alaric and he was merely having fun at her expense, she looked into the coffin, expecting to see his grinning countenance. The sight that greeted her turned her blood cold. Alaric hadn’t moved. His eyes remained closed, his body lay still, one hand remained folded over his chest. The other hand, however, had attached itself to her. She realized quite suddenly that Alaric wasn’t awake and joking, he was still asleep.
Her legs came out from under her and she fell forward. Panicked, she tried to jerk her arm free of him. But he drew her forward and over the top of the coffin. Her head banged hard against the mahogany lid, causing it to rattle.
“Alaric, wake up.”
He didn’t answer.
She felt herself being dragged into the coffin, realized there was nothing she could do to prevent it.
“Wake up!” she yelled.
She would have yelled again, had not his other arm suddenly vaulted into the air. Before she felt the strong fingers close around her neck, she realized what was happening. Alaric was protecting himself in his sleep from a possible predator. The problem was, she wasn’t a predator.
She got out the beginning of a scream before his fingers closed around her throat. She kicked, banging her knees into the side of the coffin, and struggled against him. He squeezed, his strength too much for her. Had she been human, her throat would have been crushed under such force; as it was, blackness played around the edges of her vision. Pain erupted in her head, and her limbs weakened as her ability to fight was forced out of her.
Her legs collapsed uselessly against the side of the coffin and she felt her upper body slumping inside.
She looked down and saw Alaric, beautiful as ever, still deep in sleep. Sleeping, but strangling the life out of her.
She gave one last effort at pulling his hand free of her throat before collapsing into the coffin.
Coldness closed in, and all went black.
* * * *
Even before he opened his eyes, Alaric knew something was wrong. He could feel a jet of warm air brushing against his face. That would be impossible if all were as it should be. He knew well where he was, in the archives, sleeping in a coffin. It was the clear memory of where he was that made him realize something was wrong. He was in a coffin. If the lid of his coffin were closed, he wouldn’t feel air…that thought was forgot
ten when he realized something was in his hands. Something soft.
And he knew. He knew with a surety that could only come from years of recrimination and self-hatred. He remembered leaving the village that last night, remembered telling Smenkhare to stay with his people, remembered returning and finding her dead.
He didn’t want to open his eyes and see what he’d done. He couldn’t bear it.
Could life be so cruel?
A sudden glimmer of hope sparked. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe someone had broken into the archives and…
He opened his eyes.
A low wail of misery erupted from his lips, rising in volume until the entire room trembled with the force of his rage.
She lay in a heap, looking as lifeless as a rag doll, his hand was still wrapped about her throat. In horror, he released her and stared at the offending member as if it had acted alone.
He got to his feet and lifted her from where she lay, half in and half out of his coffin. Cradling her as though she were a baby, he carried her to a corner. He didn’t make the decision to sit; rather, he fell against the wall and slid until he was seated, spread-legged, on the cold cement with her cradled in his arms.
She didn’t move. Didn’t stir.
“No!” he cried.
He studied the small body in his lap and cursed himself. She looked like a broken toy. He’d crushed her throat. Her head lolled to the side.
How had she gotten in? Caleb said the archives were kept locked at all times. He claimed the only ones who had access were himself and the Warlord. How the hell had she gotten in?
“No,” he said again. Could the gods really be so cruel? Could they have led him to his Smenkhare again, after all these centuries, just so she could die before her time again? Was this his destiny? Was this his punishment for all of the lives he had taken? Would every reunion with Smenkhare end like this, with her dead in her youth? He couldn’t do this again, couldn’t withstand the misery. He would die before he suffered the pain of her loss again.
Nephilim War: Book 2 Page 14