by Anne Marsh
He was perfect.
Zer couldn’t keep tabs on them all, and that was an advantage. Better yet, Zer still held to the old code. He wouldn’t kill until he was provoked. That was a weakness Cuthah had every intention of exploiting.
“Of course. I’ve brought two. But if you had your wings back, you could have a steady diet of souls. Access to M City and all the delicious humans still living there.”
The growls from the darkness alerted Cuthah to the dark shadows moving closer. He had them now, even as the male who had refused the first offer slipped away.
“What’s the catch?”
Most were hardly recognizable as men, too far lost to their rogue side to do more than growl. The Preserves had stood for hundreds of years. Not much of a male remained after that sort of time had passed. Still, he could use these.
“No catch,” he assured his unseen listeners. “I offer you a simple business proposition. You threw your lot in with Zer and the other Fallen, and you—Fell. You lost—lost your wings, your rights, and your power. I can give you back all of that. In exchange, you vow loyalty to me. You fight for me, when and how I say.”
“We’ll be your men.”
“Medieval, but, yes. Mine, body and soul.”
“And you can truly return our wings?”
Negotiating was a bore, so Cuthah opted for a demonstration. “You,” he snapped, gesturing toward the first male.
Pulling mazhyk through his body, Cuthah focused on the male in front of him. He could have been more subtle, but there was no point. These males wanted the flash and drama of a demonstration, so he let the mazhyk spike through the air, rolling across the ground in a lightning-bright rush of light and sound. Power hit the male, pulling a low, animalistic growl of pain from him. As Cuthah pushed more power into the male, his body rose from the ground, bowing. The primitive growls from the surrounding shadows increased. Now. Cuthah released the power, and mazhyk was sucked out of the clearing like water down a drain.
Cursing, the male collapsed on the ground. He pushed up onto his hands and knees like a dog. The skin writhed across his back. Red ink covered that skin, blood-red signs and sigils snaking across the heaving surface. Cuthah spoke a final word, and the red ink snapped to life, taking on a recognizable form. A feathered outline. Wings.
“Rise,” he said coldly.
The male staggered to his feet, staring blindly into the darkness. The red ink writhed with a life of its own as dark wings uncurled from the male’s skin, unfurling into the darkness. With a ripple of sound, the fledgling feathers slid open in a soft hush, testing the air.
“Are you mine? Will you bond with me?”
Raising a hand, Cuthah called in the mazhyk again. The fledgling wings froze in mid-furl, teased by the sudden breeze whipping through the clearing.
The male stared. Groaned once. But there was no hesitation when he spoke. “Yes.” The guttural promise sounded as if it had been torn from him. “I am yours, sire, only let me keep these.” The large hand trembled as he reached behind him to stroke the silky feathers.
All around them, males were stepping out of the shadows, swearing their own promises of loyalty. Cuthah hadn’t survived as long as he had by trusting anything so simple as a vow. Words were, in the end, simply words. What he needed—what he wanted—was a mazhykical binding. Pulling on the mazhyk, he branded his own red markings on the men. It was a perversion of the bonding mark Michael had given them, but none of them cared.
He had them eating out of the palm of his hand. Crawling to him for what he could offer.
Groans and panting breaths filled the stale air of the clearing as wings tore through skin. Unfurling.
A sharp command to his lieutenants had the two males dragging forward the pair of young women he’d acquired in M City. The aphrodisiac he’d administered almost, but not quite, clouded their senses. Arousal competed with fear, but they’d been paid well—in advance—and so they’d willingly donned the BD/SM-wear Cuthah had provided. Musky ribbons of sensation peeled from their uncertain souls now, unsure whether to revel in the strange pleasures and stranger company or to heed common sense and start screaming.
Too late, darlings.
He’d spent a considerable amount of time considering how best to use these rogues.
“A prize.” He lifted a finger, and the Fallen paused. The psychic scent rolling off them lingered deliciously. Lust. Fear and greed. The sweet, sweet residual burn of pain. He licked a drop of blood from his fingers. He’d never promised them that regaining their wings would be painless. The Fallen could have swarmed the two women, could have overwhelmed his lieutenants, but they paused. Bitches brought to heel.
Now, they’d hunt on his command. The sky was lightening, the inky blackness paling where it met the edges of the Preserves’ walls. Soon, they’d burn to fly. After, of course, he’d given them a target.
“I want you to hunt for me.”
The male nearest Cuthah slowly turned his head. Lust streaked his eyes and had the bastard’s cock swelling hard and full. Rogue might have been an alpha in his former life, and he sure as hell might want to shout a Fuck You to his re-creator, but he wasn’t stupid. He stopped his slow, forward prowl, licking his lips.
“Tell me who you want.” Yeah. That one wasn’t stupid. He knew who really owned the wings sprouting from his back. And it sure wasn’t the Archangel Michael.
“Right now—” He savored the words, because right now he was all-powerful. Those rogues were all his now, and he wasn’t going to let them forget it. They wanted what he could give them, so they’d roll over for him. “Right now, I want Nessa St. James.”
Alpha just glared at him, so clearly he was well out of the G2’s loop. That was fine. Cuthah figured that the fewer males who knew what was going down, the easier it would be to control the situation.
“Tell me where to find her,” the rogue growled.
Tonight she was at G2’s, but surely Zer would move her. If Cuthah had known where, he wouldn’t have bothered resurrecting these dregs. These rogues might have been Dominions once upon a time, but that was fairy-tale time—once upon a time and long, long ago. Now, they were less than beasts, trapped in their Goblin forms or worse. Loping on all fours. Hunched. Twisted.
Talk about fucked up. He had to wonder if Michael had known what would happen after three thousand years of hard living—or if it was just a little unexpected bonus.
Fortunately, beasts could be trained. He pulled out the sweater he’d found in the AWOL professor’s office. Hell, he hadn’t even had to steal the damn thing—the university’s dean had been all take-what-you-want as soon as he’d counted the zeroes on Cuthah’s latest financial donation. Money talked.
“That’s your job.” He wasn’t going to say it twice. Tossing the sweater to the male, he continued. “You find her. You bring her to me. Alive.”
Alpha boy was raising the cotton fabric to his nose. Turned out he was the bitch that Cuthah had guessed. One long, deep inhale and Cuthah could read the satisfaction flooding those eyes.
“She’s in M City.” No point in wasting time. The sooner his new recruits tracked down the good professor, the sooner Cuthah could take care of his business with her. “Last known location: G2’s.”
“G2’s.” The club’s name was a low, rasping growl on alpha boy’s lips. Yeah, he remembered his former brothers all too well. “You need her all in one piece, sire?”
He didn’t have to have all of her. In fact, a little collateral damage might convince his professor that he was deadly serious. “Be careful,” he compromised. “No permanent damage.”
Alpha boy nodded, his talons shredding the cotton into a dozen lesser scraps. Kibble for his boys, Cuthah figured. “We bring her back here?”
Cuthah shook his head. He preferred to do his business outside the walls of M City. Between the radioactive currents and the burgeoning paranormal population, his tracks wouldn’t be as clear.
“Bring her here,” he said, and
he reeled off a list of coordinates. Alpha boy just nodded as if he had a built-in GPS. “One week,” Cuthah warned. “After that, I’m in the market for some new recruits. And, should you think to double-cross me, just keep in mind that those wings of yours are going to need a recharge.”
“Got it.” Alpha boy’s head did the requisite up-and-down. Clearly, he’d gotten the message. The wings were temporary—and, to keep them, alpha boy and his brothers would follow him to the end of the Earth and back. He’d give them this taste, remind them of what they’d lost.
“A token of my good faith.” He gestured, and his lieutenants stepped forward, dragging the females with them. One good push and the little darlings stood alone in the circle of fading light. Funny, but the women hadn’t considered what could happen to them, alone with a group of rogues. That wasn’t Cuthah’s problem—it was theirs.
As he and his lieutenants lit out of there, headed back for business in M City, there was no missing the flood of dark rogues swarming the pair. The women’s screams were music to his ears.
Behind him, the first of the newly changed took off, dark wings beating slowly up into the sky, breaching the protective wards of the Preserves. His hunters would ensure Nessa St. James did precisely as she’d been told.
Nessa woke up alone. She should have been glad the Fallen had had the good sense to hightail his ass out of the room before she woke up. Part of her, however, was disappointed. She hadn’t expected to wake up alone.
From the looks of things, at some point during the night, Zer had vacated the room and left her in sole possession of his large bed. The other pillow was smooth and undented, the only mark hers. The tangle of sheets should have meant sex and morning-after closeness, but, instead, all she had was the soft rub of the satin against the bare skin of her legs where the shirt Zer had given her now rode up.
Yeah. She winced. Not what she’d been hoping for. She’d known Zer was a one-night-stand kind of guy, so this morning’s wake-up call shouldn’t have been a shocker. For some reason, though, it was, and that made her stomach churn.
A knock sounded on the closed door. A knock that was far too polite to be her jailer.
Sitting up, she pulled the sheets around her and called out her permission to enter. The face revealed by the opening door was flawless, a perfect porcelain oval framed by a long, dark sheet of hair. Almost too perfect. That kind of cool-and-serene belonged on the pages of a fashion spread. And then the visitor smiled impishly, taking in the mussed bed and the man’s shirt.
“I’m not intruding, am I? Zer would kill me,” she added cheerfully. “I’m Mischka Baran.” She paused, as if she expected Nessa to recognize the name.
Since she didn’t, she settled for nodding. “Nessa St. James.”
“I know.” Mischka’s fingers tightened on the doorframe, and a low, masculine rumble sounded behind her. “I guess you could say I’m with Brends Duranov.”
“The club’s owner.”
“Yes.” She paused, as if she wanted to say more. Then she plowed ahead. “May I come in? Are you in the mood for breakfast?”
Mischka’s voice sounded cheerful, but there was uncertainty in her eyes as she poked her head around the door. Whatever she believed had happened, it wasn’t what Mischka Baran had expected. This was no routine delivery. Behind Mischka, she spotted the broad shoulders of Vkhin and Nael on other side of door. Yeah. She was still a prisoner—just a prisoner they’d decided to feed.
“Sure.” No point in starving just to make a point. Manners couldn’t hurt, either. “Thanks.”
Nodding, Mischka stepped into the room, followed by another too-large male carrying the tray for her. Brends, Mischka mouthed. Feeling stupid, Nessa nodded again. He set the dome-covered tray down on the table in the little sitting area. Turning to his mate, he bent his dark head down toward her, his silky hair closing around them, shutting Nessa out. Nothing new there, but there was nothing to prevent her from catching the end of a soft, private murmur. The large hands that had set the tray down on the table touched the other woman’s shoulder briefly. Intimately.
That little caress made Nessa’s own heart speed up a little, and that made her mad. Whatever bond these two shared, it was unfamiliar to her.
“I’m going to stay, share a cup of coffee with Nessa,” Mischka announced, shooing her reluctant mate out of the room. As she shut the door firmly behind him, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You do drink coffee, right?”
“Try to keep me away from it.” The tray was pure room-service fantasy. Dark, rich Jamaican coffee with thick cream. Fresh oranzh juice. Salted butter and pastries. A nice gesture, she was sure, but it triggered her suspicions instead. Why did they want her cooperation so much? That implied that—somehow—she could withhold it. Was this woman and her tray of goodies merely another well thought out step in Zer’s seductive campaign?
Her brain bombarded her with mental images of Zer seducing another woman, and, for God’s sake, those thoughts were putting her on edge. She didn’t want him. Didn’t care if he helped himself to a dozen other women from what was clearly G2’s large stable. Did she?
“Nothing happened last night,” Nessa said, and immediately she wanted to kick herself. Way to go, arousing suspicions. Still, there was no getting around the fact that here she was, planted in Zer’s bedroom and wearing only his shirt. Sometime during the night, her clothes had taken a vacation of their own, right down to her panties.
“He wouldn’t.” Mischka shrugged a shoulder in casual understanding.
Why was Mischka Baran so convinced that Zer wouldn’t make a move on her?
Mischka was watching her as she reached for her coffee, and there was that pregnant pause again. Nessa filed it away to consider later. She wasn’t falling for that tease right now.
“Bonding can make a lot of sense,” Mischka pointed out, and Nessa set the cup back on the tray. Suddenly, this breakfast gave a whole new meaning to the term dining with the devil.
“I’m not for sale.”
Mischka looked like she agreed, and that surprised Nessa. Maybe the other woman wasn’t on her side, but, equally clearly, she hadn’t sold out to the Fallen.
Not 100 percent, anyhow.
Getting out of bed, Nessa pulled on the cashmere wrap Mischka tossed her. The wrap still had tags on it. New. When she raised an eyebrow, Mischka smiled helplessly. “Zer asked me to find you something to wear.”
“I have clothes,” she pointed out. “In my own flat.”
That was a mood killer. Mischka muttered something about not being able to take the alpha out of the angel. “They’re male.” She perched on the edge of the bed. “They provide.”
“Pain in the ass,” Nessa supplied, and Mischka responded with a wry grin.
“They’re that, all right.” She raised her arm to take a quick, appreciative sip of her coffee, and her sleeve slid away from her wrist, putting her bonding marks on full display. The thick black swirls of ink were impossible to miss.
She’d grab this bull by the horns. “You’re a bond mate.”
“I’m bonded, yes.” Burying her nose in her coffee cup, Mischka inhaled the rich scent of the brew. The intangible glow of satisfaction surrounding her was as easy to spot as the markings. Happiness. She belonged with the male who’d escorted her to Nessa’s room. With, not to. It almost made Nessa believe in the myth of happily-ever-after. Almost.
Cream and sugar, Nessa decided, reaching for the tray. Today was not a dieting kind of a day. “How long have you been a bond mate?”
“I’m not—” she began, then closed her mouth. Nessa filed that strange pause away for future examination, too. “Two months, give or take.”
“How long does it last?”
Mischka looked up from the coffee she was stirring. “The bond? It varies. You have to phrase your favor very, very carefully, Nessa. You got that? Think before you ask.”
“What’s it like?” She had no intention of bonding with anyone, but the question came tu
mbling out before Nessa could stop it. Hell, she wasn’t winning any prizes for tact today, was she?
A pink flush covered Mischka’s exquisite cheekbones. “Intense.”
“That was too personal,” Nessa apologized. Whatever had brought Mischka to bond with one of the Fallen, she clearly had no regrets. Of course, Nessa figured junkies had the same affection for their dealers. Still, Mischka Baran looked like she’d bought every word of the happily-ever-after Zer had been selling.
“So”—Mischka took another long, meditative sip of her coffee, one hand crumbling a scone on the plate she’d balanced on the bed—“I’d ask why you’re here, but I’ve got a good idea.” Anger flashed in Mischka’s eyes. Good. Maybe there was someone on her side. “Brends didn’t tell me in advance what Zer intended to do.” She shrugged.
“Should he have?” Nessa got the impression that feudal didn’t begin to describe the world she’d fallen into.
“Damn right,” the woman perched next to her muttered. “I could have told him his plan wouldn’t work.”
“Kidnapping?” Nessa offered politely.
“Yeah.” Mischka slid her cup and plate back onto the tray and threw herself down onto the bed. “Problem is, these guys have some pretty flexible ethics.”
That was a fact, not an excuse. “I want to leave.”
“I can’t help you.” Mischka at least had the decency to look apologetic. “Brends closed that loophole. He specifically ordered me not to get involved.”
Somehow, the order-giving bit didn’t surprise her. “How? I mean—” She paused because, damn, she needed to phrase this right. No point in pissing off the only human she’d met so far. “How come he gets to give the orders and you have to jump?” Maybe that was just Mischka’s own personal kink. Somehow, though, Nessa didn’t think so.
“You asked about the bond.” Mischka lifted her coffee cup and stared across the rim. “Well, that’s part of it. We’re connected.”
“Emotionally, as in you feel really close to him, or some other kind of connection?”