by Tigris Eden
Heka held her steady. “Leap us now, child. Leap us to the desert.”
Ω Ω Ω
Metatron slammed his fist into the stone table.
Rules.
Always with the fucking rules.
Raphael slain at the hands of an evil woman. The affront required retribution. But the people in the room thought otherwise. His brethrens’ betrothed mates lying strewn across the floor of the temple meant nothing to the Alliance.
Nothing.
The Alliance didn’t interfere. They sat in their chairs conducting various conversations with one another. No emotion. No reaction.
“None of you see what’s wrong with this?” the angel asked the group.
“Their deaths will be mourned.” This came from Raphael’s own ancestor, her voice too calm, her breathing too easy.
“No amount of mourning will justify the carnage I had to clean up.”
His brother’s body was nowhere to be found in the gruesome picture he’d come face to face with.
“Silence.” The male only known as the Elder spoke up, standing from his chair. “What’s done is done. We will mourn, reflect, and move on.”
Move on?
“How? My brothers are forever indebted to the Order now.”
“A debt they’ve earned on their own.”
Metatron ground his molars, trying his best to remain calm.
“This entire scene is a farce. You all sit fat and lazy on your self-proclaimed thrones. None of you know true sacrifice.”
If you take the Book. You can right the wrongs.
Yes.
The Book.
He could travel back in time. To the very beginning. Even before their enslavement. Raphael had posed such an idea to him. Not even the Alliance knew the true powers that the Book of Gates held. All it wielded. Pure power. It did not allow for only passage through the Gates. No. The Book itself could build and destroy worlds. A hidden passage in the Book that could only be opened after a large sacrifice and a blood ritual uncovered its true strength. If performed correctly, each Gate keeper who guarded the hours would be released from their never-ending prison.
If removed, it would open the sacred Gate of Time and Chaos.
A plan was forming.
“You’ll regret your part in Raphael’s and Seraphina’s deaths.”
With those parting words, Metatron left the Alliance.
He’d set things right no matter what.
Chapter 1
Present Day: 21st Century
Isaiah rammed his shoulder into Azazel’s stomach with a grunt as they collided in midair. He tried to bring the bastard down again. It was a fight that seemed never-ending and exhausting. Frustration and anger coated Isaiah in a cold sweat. Always in pursuit, always one step behind Azazel, barely grazing skin. How many additional souls would be taken at the hands of this warrior-turned-Demon?
At the sound of a loud crack, pain radiated through every bone in Isaiah’s body. He used the weight of his form and his wings to propel himself forward into a large tree that greeted Azazel’s back. More bones cracked, but it didn’t seem to faze the Demon.
“Give it up, Isaiah.” The Demon laughed. “You and I both know your efforts are futile. Come, brother, it was not that long ago we sat at the same table.”
“You’re no longer my brother!” The words ripped from his mouth and constricted his heart. This man was his brother. It hurt profoundly that Azazel had fallen the moment Metatron had decided to take his leave centuries ago. No one knew of Metatron’s location or the reasons he left, only that he said his time had come.
The Order had then been placed into Isaiah’s keeping. He was the third to take over. Before him was Metatron, and before that, his murdered comrade and brother, Raphael. At one time, they’d fought side by side for the greater good. The Burning Ones, they were called, due to the immense blue flames of energy they used while in the heat of battle. They were of the warrior class of Angels. It was an honor to be brought into their fold. No longer were his wings white. They were now black, and at times encased in flames. Isaiah was no longer just a rage Demon turned Angel, he was a Warrior Angel of the highest caliber. The pride that had filled him when the honor was bestowed upon him still had the power to humble him. The Burning Ones were judge, jury, and executioner throughout the realms. Every faction came to them when wrongs had been done.
Azazel’s claws dug into his arms, and he bared his fangs, the smell of sulfur strong in Isaiah’s nostrils. He hated the scent of Hell and everything it represented. There was a reason his brethren moved about using Gates. Travel was faster, and because they were of Demon blood, they could leap at any time without consequence. To travel by Gate was most often the safest method, but only on the first two levels. The other ten acted as a sort of prison for the worst of Demonkind.
The Book of Gates was the reason Isaiah was here now. Ultimately, if the Book was not recovered, the Gates of Hell would break open. Literally. Red haze blurred his vision, and in a powerful burst of strength, he took Azazel down with a battle cry as they streaked toward the ground. Azazel waited until the last possible moment before they made contact and then leaped, leaving Isaiah to plummet with astounding force.
He barely had time to collapse his wings and tuck himself into a tight ball. His body bounced off a steel object and with a loud crunch, he hit and rolled off, coming face-to-face with hard, warm earth.
Isaiah’s body absorbed what the ground had to offer. At the moment, the only thing he understood was the burning in his limbs as his body tried to come to terms with the immense pain and overwhelming fatigue. He didn’t like Earth, or any of the ridiculous things it had to offer. Like humans.
He’d visited many times before and knew what the vermin were capable of. Even if it was his job to protect them. He didn’t have to like it.
Ω Ω Ω
I need to get my shit together. I can handle being alone. I’ve always been isolated. What makes this time any different from any other?
Dalila looked up and realized that she’d driven to the state park. She’d been traveling for hours, reminiscing. How had she not realized the coming events? How did she miss the signs? She put the car in park and turned off the ignition. She had always loved to come here and read, but at night, the park had an ominous tickle, as if the trees were watching, waiting to reach out and envelop her and pull her deep into their keeping.
Turning off the lights to her Bug, she rolled down the window to capture the summer breeze. Fireflies flickered yellow, dancing in the darkness. The trees stretched over the park, shrouding it from the outside world. The sounds of the insects and animals almost made her relax.
Dalila moved her seat back into a lounging position, the day’s events taxing what little nerve she had left. A roar echoed in the night, causing her to jump into an upright position once more. The wind in the trees had picked up, causing a whistling sound as it traveled through the branches.
What in the world?
A loud crash shook the roof of her car, the sound vibrating through her bones. Metal crunched, and her heart pumped furiously in her chest. Dalila looked up at the roof. Thank the Lord she hadn’t been crushed. Something massive had dented the ceiling of her Bug, rolling from the roof to the hood, shaking the vehicle on its tires. Dalila froze.
“What the hell?”
She’d watched plenty of scary movies and knew that extras died first. They either ran up the stairs or hid in a closet rather than heading for their only means of escape—the front or back door, provided you knew where the murderer was. Dalila was unmistakably an extra. No one would ever miss her. She slowed her breathing and made a conscious decision. She was not going to be that person. She reached up and turned on the interior lights to get a better view.
Dalila sat up cautiously and looked out the window. There was an enormous body lying face-down in the dirt. That wasn’t there a second ago. Hesitating for only a moment, she reached for the door handle. Should she get
out of the Bug? Of course not, who gets out of the car in the movies? A soon-to-be-dead person, that’s who. She already starred in her own horror movie. She didn’t have time to deal with this shit surrounding her now, especially when it involved a body.
Dalila barely had time to suppress the event that had led to her being here at the park. Jared had left her for another woman. Hell, it was high time she started defending herself, starting with the fool who’d hit the roof of her vehicle. That’s right. Take charge of your life. Own your destiny and be that boss bitch you know you can be. Easier said than done. That was something Lyric would say and do. Not Dalila.
Dalila reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone to call for help. The body moved, grunting in pain.
“Why me?” Dalila whispered. She looked out the window, sending up a silent prayer before turning to search her car for a weapon. Unfortunately, the only things she had were books. She touched a hardcover. It was a copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. It wouldn’t save her, but it didn’t look like the body on the ground could do her much harm anyway. She was just going to check to make sure he was all right, then she’d call. She’d want someone to check on her if the situation were reversed. But what if he’s a serial killer and this has been his plan the entire time? It was possible. In fact, it was probably a sure thing given the state of things in her life. If anything could go wrong, it did go wrong.
Dalila dug around some more, glancing down at a motorcycle book—it would do the job. It was a hardcover with a thick spine. If the person on the ground attempted any sneaky shit, he would suffer death by book beating. Gripping her makeshift weapon tighter, Dalila slowly eased out of the vehicle. She took small steps toward the body, speaking in a calm voice.
“Excuse me, are you okay?”
You can do this. Take a deep breath.
The massive, well-toned body shook, and his throat sounded blocked as he fought to gain control of his breath. The broadness of his shoulders blocked her car’s headlights, casting a dark shadow on the ground. He wore jeans and a tight T-shirt that stretched to accommodate the muscles straining to rip free. She knew she had no business seeing to the man, but she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be okay.
And the Oscar for most likely to die goes to…
“You drunk or something, mister? You need help, a doctor? Do. You. Need. Me. To. Call. Someone?” She should’ve stayed her ass in the car and driven away. Any sane person would have. Turn around, get back in the car. Call the cops when you get a safe distance away. That’s exactly what she should do.
The large male rolled to his knees, cupping his stomach while resting his forehead against the dirt. Breathing hard, he took in short gasps of air. He faced away from her, avoiding the lights. The headlights must be too much for him. Dalila turned towards the open door of her car to turn them off. Bad fucking idea.
The moment Dalila turned around after reaching inside the car, he was standing right in front of her. His eyes, dark and fierce, pierced her skin like ice. She hadn’t caught sight of him coming. He hadn’t made a sound. She almost screamed, but the moment sound would have erupted from her lips, his hand covered her mouth, silencing her as he crowded her body. She tried to keep her ground but suddenly came up against the solid vehicle, caged by a hard, male body. Dalila wasn’t able to control the tremors of fear coursing through her. The motorcycle book dropped from her hand as she stared into his hard eyes.
Not able to discern much in the dark, she absorbed his heat, heard his sharp intake of breath as he glared at her. Dalila prayed he only wanted her money and nothing more. He looked over his shoulder, and with his other hand, raised a finger to his mouth to quiet her. Jerky movements caused her neck to cramp. A million what-ifs and should-haves ran through her mind as hot tears rolled down her cheeks. She was going to die, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Chapter 2
Isaiah stared into the woman’s terrified eyes. He hadn’t meant to frighten her, but Azazel was still out there, hiding.
The last thing he wanted was to make the bastard happy. There’d been a total of three Demonic murders since Azazel had fallen. All of them women. Nothing linked them together. None of them would lead to any clue as to the Book’s whereabouts, let alone how to access it to use the Gates.
Why are you killing them, Azazel?
Hurting the woman was something Isaiah would not allow. No matter how much he disliked humans, he still had a duty to uphold.
It was Isaiah’s job to find Azazel and question him about the Book and its location. He would play judge, jury, and executioner if needed. He was the Commander of the Order, and right hand to Zariel, leader of the Burning Ones. Though right now, Isaiah was doing a piss-poor job.
He slowly eased his grip on her mouth, compelling her to sleep. Isaiah didn’t have any other options at this point. He’d condone few things happening to a mortal but coercing them to sleep and erasing their memories was something he’d done several times before. Harming mortals was out of the question. He felt the collar at his throat tighten around his neck.
The slave collar would remain for eternity now. It lay dormant and would remain that way, never to awaken. The movement he felt now had to be a figment of his imagination. His soulmate had been killed in a blood-thirsty battle at the Temple Philae. In a way, he was grateful that he didn’t have to worry about anyone but himself and the care and safety of his brothers. He’d allow that, handle that. There was no reason for him to get entangled in an ache that he no longer felt.
None of his brothers itched to bond with their other halves anymore. The sensation had died long ago, along with the last remnants of their humanity. Now, they lived up to the tale of their fire. Emptiness surrounded the heart that beat in Isaiah’s chest. Warmth had once flowed through his veins and heated his insides, but now, everything was cold, perfunctory. Sleep and all other functions were performed to stay in optimal condition. The times he did need to slake his lust, it was done not to give pleasure but to release pent-up battle energy. Isaiah and his brothers were harsh and indifferent. This mortal should pose no threat to his current plans.
Isaiah looked at the mortal female, who lay warm and asleep in his arms. He would take her somewhere safe and then continue with his quest for Azazel and the location of the Book of Gates. He scanned his surroundings, noting dawn would arrive in a few hours. He had no clue where he should take the human. Maybe he should leave her at a motel? No, that won’t work, Isaiah thought to himself. If Azazel did indeed notice the woman, he would hunt her.
“Dammit,” he snarled. He would have to bring her with him. “I guess you’re coming home with me,” Isaiah affirmed, more for his benefit than hers.
Isaiah fixed the dent on the roof of her car. It was the only way he’d be able to fit inside.
He unlatched her door, shoving her into the passenger seat of the vehicle. He hated small cars. The awareness of being cramped and confined strangled his senses. He slipped in beside her and started the engine. As he drove, he looked over at the sleeping woman, noticing her soft features for the first time.
She was undeniably beautiful. Her skin was flawless, her color warm and inviting. Her high, sculpted cheekbones gave her a regal appearance, and she had lips so sinfully full that they begged a man to sip and bite for hours. He’d distinguished that her eyes were a beautiful honey-brown with sparks of golden yellow. She had the face of a goddess, round with sophisticated features.
Poetic much?
He’d never entered into direct contact with humans before like he had tonight. Isaiah was always hunting some dumbass Demon, too preoccupied with his missions to care. This, his first real encounter, piqued his curiosity. It shouldn’t have, but there was something hypnotic about the sleeping human next to him.
Fascinated, Isaiah watched her breathe in and out, deep in sleep. She looked peaceful. Every now and then, he glanced at her and then focused back on the road. Her skin was pliant, smooth. He remembered when he’d touched
her face, had her body plastered to his. They were so different from each other. She was soft and lush, while he was hard and battle-ready. She smelled sweet and delicate. He reeked of sweat and blood.
Drive, dumbass, and watch the road.
His main concern should be Azazel. He knew that his fallen brother would likely lay low for the remainder of the evening. He’d find someplace to rest and shore up his strength for the next time they met.
“Demons,” Isaiah muttered to himself.
He glanced over at the mortal again. She had turned onto her side. The streetlights highlighted her features.
Beautiful.
He conjured up the feeling of her body against his at the park, remembered how captivated he’d been by the glimpse of the beautiful, honey-colored eyes he’d seen. It was like staring into the bottom of a glass filled with whisky. One taste, and he’d be unable to stop drinking. Would need to consume the fire down to the very last drop. Her hair was tied in a ponytail with cottony spirals falling down her back. Her scent invaded his nose—anise and vanilla. For reasons unknown to him, his breathing increased. Her clothes hung loosely on her frame, but Isaiah remembered the softness of her body pressed to his. Her physique went with her face, supple and rich in the right places. A man’s playground.
“You won’t be here long enough to experience her,” he grumbled.
Here on business—never for pleasure. He was a warrior, a protector, nothing more. The highest of Angels. No time for mistakes, only perfection. Precise, calculated moves targeted to complete what goals lay ahead. This time, Azazel was his goal. No distractions. No matter how alluring one mortal was, regardless of how good she smelled.