by Tigris Eden
He took another step inside the room. “My name is Isaiah, and I never said I was a cop. You mortals always try to replace fear with calm, deluding yourselves about what’s right in front of your face, or writing it off as just a coincidence. There are no coincidences, female, and you would be wise to remember that. Everything happens for a reason.” His face became stone. “Everything.” Then he stood straighter and headed for the door.
“It’s over there.” He pointed down the hall. Dalila walked forward and looked in the direction he was pointing. She peered down the hall and noticed the restroom. He’d shown her before she could even ask the question.
He turned to face her. “It’s written all over your face. And just so you know, there are no windows. Don’t make me chase you, I don’t want you to be any more frightened than you already are. Take a shower. I will see to it that you have some fresh clothes.”
Ω Ω Ω
Isaiah watched as Dalila eyed him closely. “What do you mean, don’t make you chase me?” she argued. Damn, she just wouldn’t shut up and let him think, which he was barely able to do now that she was up and about. Isaiah raked a hand through his hair and groaned. This woman was going to be a handful. He could already see it. He should just keep her in sleep stasis until his job here was done. Dalila was still speaking to him, prattling on. Her words buzzed in his ear, but at this point, he genuinely couldn’t hear what she was saying. His collar was annoying the shit out of him, and he needed food.
“Get in the shower, please,” he said behind clenched teeth. “We can talk more about what’s going on later. But right now, I need to think, and you’re preventing that from happening.”
“Me... preventing you? I’m the one who’s being held against my will and prevented from following my schedule, not you. Then you come in here all surly and threaten me and try to scare me with all your macho talk. Well, I’ve had enough of your shit.”
Did her eyes just flash?
She took another step toward him, not toward the restroom. Isaiah found himself reaching for her. Instead, he took a step back. It was distressing enough that he couldn’t wipe her memory, and now he had a walking, talking problem that wasn’t listening to a damn thing he said.
“Fuck, woman!” he roared. Isaiah threw up his hands and figured, what the hell, she asked for it. This was the part he was trying to ease her into, but she wouldn’t listen. Summoning his true form would shock her. Hell, she’d probably faint. Isaiah grinned. Yeah, fainting might work to his advantage. Then he could call for backup. Have one of the others sit on her until he was done, and then one of his brothers could wipe her memory of everything so they could start over. Isaiah stood with both legs apart and arched his wings. They were always there, never truly hidden, just folded and masked. She was still going on about how he was going to let her go when she looked up and stopped dead in her tracks.
“You were saying?”
Isaiah knew in a moment that Dalila and the carpet were going to become quite close. Her body swayed for a second, then as if time were standing still, her body simply folded, directing her to the floor. He should have just let her fall given all the shit she had been talking earlier. He reached for her, and before she could get on a first-name basis with the floor, he scooped her up, placing her back on the bed.
Foolish woman.
Ω Ω Ω
He had wings. He had tremendous, black-ass wings. How the hell did he get wings?
“I’ve been drugged,” Dalila croaked. “You gave me some psychotropic meds, and I’m having a reaction.” Dalila groaned. She was back in bed, with Isaiah looming over her—with his wings. It almost had a cocooning effect. The feathers were the same color as his hair. They looked both lethal and soft at the same time.
Dalila reached up and gently ran her hand down the side of one appendage. She made it halfway down one of his plumes before Isaiah grabbed her wrist tightly. He didn’t say anything, and neither did she. They simply stared at each other as if they were having an internal conversation. His eyes bored into her soul, his gaze reaching out to touch the heart of her. She tried to look away, even tried pulling her wrist back. But his grip was too strong.
Between gritted teeth, he said, “Don’t touch my wings. Don’t ever touch them again.”
Dalila jerked her arm back. This time, he let her go. “Right, got it. I don’t know why I did that.”
Why aren’t you panicking? Because there is a Herculean man with enormous, hulking, black wings, sitting on the bed next to you. And he’s just…oh-my-fucking-gosh, too hot for words.
Dalila scooted back up against the headboard, while Isaiah sat a bit straighter on the bed. Yeah, she was taking this way too well for her own peace of mind. You did faint, that counts as a total freak fest, right? Right. But there was something else about him. Something drew her to him. In a way, it was comforting. But at the same time, it scared her. He reminded her of a caged beast. While on the outside of the glass, everything was safe. Normal even. But should a person fall in, or find themselves on the other side, they’d be in for the fight of their life. Dalila was done fighting. All she wanted was to live and survive whatever situation she’d gotten herself into.
“Like I was saying, Dalila, don’t make me go after you. You’d never make it. Even if you don’t want to believe me now, there are worse things besides a Seraph.”
“Did you say a Seraph? As in the Burning Ones?”
“How do you know of that name?”
“I studied them like about a gazillion times for a world religion class. My friend, Lyric, and I did a dissertation on Seraphim. Back in the day, they referred to your kind as the Burning Ones, likely due to the poison that you emit through your wings... Oh my God.”
Dalila put her hand to her mouth and took in a sharp breath. “That’s why I can’t touch your wings.”
Isaiah continued staring at her with a quizzical expression. “I liked you better when you were scared and yelling. I am not what your history books would have you think. I don’t have six wings.” He flexed his shoulder then, and his wings drew taut. “I am not cute and cherub-like. I don’t carry arrows of love and joy, and I sure as fuck don’t sing all day. I’m a warrior, and I am of the highest order of Angels next to the Omurukai.”
“Omurukai?”
“Yes, but that is none of your concern. Your only concern is doing what I say. By doing that, you’ll live a long and healthy life.”
“Whatever,” Dalila mumbled.
She scooted off the bed and gave Isaiah and his wings a wide berth. She wanted to touch them again; they were soft just like she thought. And silky, too. The amazing smell of rain and earth was him. He must have laid his head on the pillow. Knowing that she’d slept in the same spot that he had, did funny things to her insides. As she inched her way to the door, she looked over her shoulder at him. He hadn’t turned around. He still sat in the same position, his back to her, and she could see the spine of his wings. She could see the muscles in his back and knew from their size that he could use them for flight. Long, pointed, and angled, the tails were deeply forked, not a single feather out of place. They lay perfectly flat against him. His wings were beautiful. Dalila should have been scared. She was, but the fact that there was a man in a room with immense black wings, claiming to be a Seraph was far too appealing to her. The excitement overpowered her flight-or-fight response.
“Stop staring and go to the bathroom, Dalila.”
“You don’t have to be such a jerk.”
“And you don’t need to be so rude. I may not be human, but some courtesies extend even beyond your world, and not staring at a person is one of them.”
Isaiah twisted his upper body so he could look Dalila straight in the eye. If his eyes could throw daggers, she’d be dead. Again, she thought she saw warmth there, but just as quickly as it came, it was gone again.
“My bad, I forgot my meeting-a-Seraph-for-the-first-time manners. My apologies.” She brusquely walked out of the room and
headed for the bathroom.
Now would be an appropriate time to have that nervous breakdown you’ve been threatening to have.
Chapter 3
Deep under the Pacific Ring of Fire, a beast, more man in form, roared at its captors. He’d been chained to the same wall for longer than he could count. The same word rioted through his head and burned his ears over and over and over again.
Kill. Kill. Kill.
The one true word he knew, there was no pain, there was no sorrow, only hatred and vengeance. Those two emotions kept the fierce creature strong.
The sound of footsteps alerted him, and the beast stilled, listening intently. He heard voices outside his cell, and immediately, he began to roar again with fury, banging his head back against the wall, hearing his skull repeatedly crack as the blood dripped down his head and pooled on his shoulders.
Kill. Kill. Kill.
Debris from the cell wall sprayed him with pieces of rock and dirt. Still, the beast roared: mindless, unwitting, deadly.
Out of that combination, his captor only got one of the two words right. Deadly. He was deadlier now than he’d ever been before. The food they’d tossed him had been a potent mixture of dead Demon blood and the lifeblood from a source still unknown.
Over time, it had healed the almost severed head that now banged forcefully against the wall. At first taste, it had burned all the way down his throat and placed multiple holes in his stomach lining, the fluid leaking from his points of injury.
They had tried pouring the hottest of steel down his throat to seal the wounds and make him stronger, only to give him the deadly concoction time and time again.
Torture became necessary, as he began his transformation. No longer a man but something else. No desire for life, but a desire and a need to cause death to whoever stood in his path. He would wait. His time would come, and when it did, he’d kill them all.
Chapter 4
Isaiah watched her walk down the hall into the bathroom. His lungs burned from lack of oxygen, from a marathon he hadn’t run. He released the air. He hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath. Dalila was undeniably beautiful. Mouthy, but beautiful. Why a human had caught his interest bothered him. He had a job to do. Nothing more. Isaiah pulled the cordless phone from the bedside table and dialed his brother, Grey.
“Unless you have Azazel, I don’t want to hear it.” Annoyance poured from his brother’s voice, seeping into Isaiah’s ear, causing his eyes to squint.
“We have a problem.” Truth.
“When don’t we have a problem? The Book of Gates is missing, Demons are roaming the Earth, oh, and my dick has been hard for the last three thousand years, perpetually. So, yeah, we got problems,” Grey said.
“Man, I so didn’t want to hear the dick comment, miss me with that. There was a complication, and before you go straight-up bastard on me, just know there was no other way to handle the situation. I need you, and at least two others to come to the farmhouse.” Sharp arrows stabbed the phone in a staccato that penetrated far past the receiver on the other end of the phone. He could feel his brother’s anger.
“What’s the problem?” There was silence over the line for what seemed like forever before Isaiah spoke. He pulled his hand through his hair and told Grey the whole story about Azazel and how he’d fallen on Dalila’s car, making her a part of the problem.
Deflated, small, weak: all three words floated to the surface to attack. “I touched her, man.”
“Fuck all, you touched her? You know you can’t wipe a mortal’s mind once you come into physical contact.” Grey was going to pop a blood vessel if he continued his ranting over the phone. Isaiah didn’t need to see him to know that a vein on the side of his brother’s temple pulsed in cadence with his voice, bulging to the surface, straining to breach his skin.
“You obviously haven’t been listening, Grey. Just get the hell over here and bring the mortal some clothes. She’s in the shower.” He could have just willed her clothing, but why put all his qualities on display?
“I’m not a fucking mind reader, what size is she?” He knew his brother was irritated but he didn’t care.
“She’s probably comparable to a woman with all the right curves.”
“Curves doesn’t give me a size, dickhead.”
“Fuck if I know. Bring a couple of different choices. She’s not fat, nor is she skinny. She’s built in all the right places. Plump where she needs to be and round enough to where her pants may have problems around the waist.”
“So she’s got a nice-sized rack, a plump ass, and a flat stomach. Got it.”
Flustered and more than irritated by the conversation with his brother, Isaiah hung up the phone. How was he supposed to feel about her? There was a reason they’d crossed paths. Could she possibly know something? Isaiah’s mind began to wander over all the different reasons and scenarios as to why the two of them had met.
Ten minutes later, he was still pacing. He’d walked back and forth for what seemed like hours. He stopped in the middle of the room and decided he would head toward the front of his house. His brothers should be arriving shortly anyway. Isaiah walked down the hall, past the bathroom, and headed straight for the kitchen. Lustful thoughts and vivid images of him and Dalila wreaked havoc in his mind, awakening a side of him that he’d long thought dead. This shit was ridiculous, and there was no way he was going to play out any of the fantasies running through his head. Isaiah heard his brothers’ descent before they arrived. The heavy beat of wings manipulated the air and filled his ears, a steady pulse that breathed and extracted life from the displaced molecules encompassing the area. The deep thrum of air being moved could be heard, and strong shadows covered the back patio as they descended. Grey, being the biggest of his three brothers, entered through the sliding glass door first.
They’d all gone into service together: Grey, Castiel, himself, and their younger brother, Raz, all having the same father but different mothers. Their sister, Uriel, was the youngest, and the brothers did their best to keep her from harm. Isaiah was glad they hadn’t brought her. The four of them were unstoppable in battle. When it came time for them to take their roles as Seraphim, none of them had turned down the calling. Warrior Angels were fierce and master strategists. They had many purposes. One was to make sure the Book of Gates was protected to ensure that the Gates remained closed. All had been going as planned until Azazel fell, and the Book mysteriously disappeared.
Their other duty was to maintain order between the realms.
At one time, Azazel and Isaiah had been close friends. Isaiah always looked out for him when he took on the role of delivering messages between the Gates. Azazel was the messenger, but not of good news. He delivered portents of death. He’d taken on the role as a favor to his father.
Azazel had always wanted to be a Seraph, but instead of living his dream, he lived for his father and family. There were hundreds of Death Angels. All carried messages of death and displacement. Some viewed it as a good thing, and others viewed it as a curse. Life after death was something to look forward to for mortals. Some thought they would be recycled, others thought there was nothing. But Azazel came to offer them something more. Everything was not as it seemed.
Humans had life and rebirth wrong. Azazel came to the hall of records, recording their deaths and then restarting their lives. It wasn’t reincarnation so much as it was assimilation. The bodies of the dead were shed, and their souls were then taken to the next verse.
When the soul reached the next point of their journey, they were given a choice: new life or a sort of cosmic recycling where they became part of the stars—Watchers, as they were called. Or, they could try their hand on Earth again after three rotations, the equivalent of three hundred Earth years. Not many chose that path, but there were a few. Their minds were wiped, and they were able to start again.
Most Death Angels enjoyed their jobs, but Azazel remained unhappy. Almost a year ago, things started to change. Isaiah felt that s
omething was wrong. He tried numerous times to approach the issue with Azazel, but he always held him off, saying that things had changed, and it was time for him to leave.
That wasn’t an unusual occurrence. Angels came and went on a daily basis. However, like Metatron, Azazel decided not to come back. Later, he’d shown up at the Gates, issuing a challenge to the warriors, stating that he knew the truth. That they were being misled.
That had been almost six months ago.
Azazel, the messenger, became Azazel, the fallen. He said that he was taking something as proof to show everyone the truth. That was when the Book of Gates came up missing.
The Book of Gates separated the hours of the night, guarded by twelve different serpents meant to keep the bad guys in and the mortals out. Things went bump in the night; only now, some of them were bumping twenty-four seven in plain sight.
Within weeks, the first Gate had busted wide-open, releasing a beast. He Whose Name is Hidden had been the guardian of the beast. The beast wasn’t a creature of the twelfth hour but of many. The Guardian of the Desert wasn’t a regular type of beast. He greeted the black souls of the dead, who would first be held under the Mountains of the West. Each hour represented a level of Hell. But each hour also acted as a passage to another place, and in some instances, another time.
This had happened once before, but the Book had been quickly recovered back then. Lilith had used the attack on the Nubi not only for revenge but also as a diversion to get the Book. Honestly, she could very well be the cause of its disappearance now, as well.
His brother’s words brought him out of his reverie. “Is there a reason you’re ignoring us?” Castiel thumped him on the back of the head, and Isaiah graced Castiel with a double bird.
“You guys took long enough,” Isaiah commented as he took a seat on the couch. He leaned back, resting his head on the back of the sofa as he stared up at the ceiling.
“Last time I checked, you were just a high-ranking pussy of a commander.” Raz laughed. “Why are you trying to be all high-handed now? I was just about to close the deal, man, but then fucktard over there,”—Raz pointed toward Castiel—“told me I had to make haste. Make haste. Man, who the fuck talks like that anymore, anyway? You all need to get with the program. Man up. Go hard or go the fuck home.”