Warrior (Fallen)

by Kristina Douglas

  As for Pedersen’s impressive intellect, I’d outstripped that years ago, and no one even made the pretense that he could keep up with me. The library was endless, and they put no restrictions on my reading or the movies I watched. Unfortunately, there was no useful guidebook to tell me how to get away from my incomprehensible imprisonment, and escape movies didn’t cover my situation. I could hardly tunnel my way out as they did in The Great Escape—I was surrounded by stone walls. I couldn’t rappel down the outside of the building like Bruce Willis—I had no ropes and not enough sheets to make one. The only situations that even came close to mine were those of fairy-tale princesses locked in towers, and for me there would be no magic spell or handsome prince to rescue me.

  This imprisoned princess had to rescue herself.

  And I’d tried. For a few years I tried constantly, only to be hauled back by Pedersen before I got more than a few miles away. I knew better than to enlist help, after Johann.

  He’d betrayed me—promised to love me forever—but all Pedersen had to do was flash money in front of him and he’d given me up like a bad habit, and I was once more a prisoner.

  Now I had the strong conviction I was about to be disposed of by the woman who should have loved me. It sounded like a bad made-for-TV movie. I had no proof, of course, which made me seem even crazier. But I had learned early on that my instincts were infallible, and I’d always known she hated me, that she was just biding her time. That time was coming, and unless I got out of there I was going to be in deep shit. But I was locked in. All I could do was wait for them to come to me, and I wouldn’t go down easily.

  It wasn’t until six o’clock that I heard the knock on my door. I started, calming the icy dread that rushed into my stomach. I could do this.

  I rose, fluid though I’d been sitting for three hours, and went to the door.

  The maid stood there with her usual stolid expression. This time she wasn’t carrying a tray of food—evidently I wasn’t going to be poisoned.

  “The contessa says you are to dress in your finest clothes and come to the drawing room.”

  I stared at her blankly. I wasn’t given free run of this house, and I had no idea where to find the contessa’s drawing room.

  “I will show you,” she said, closing the door behind her. I didn’t make the mistake of underestimating her. She would be child’s play, but the two hulking men in the hallway were a different matter.

  So I would have to use stealth and cunning. I could do that. I headed for my closet, withdrawing the shapeless gray dress I wore on the rare occasions I dined en famille, but the maid shook her head. “The contessa said you are to wear the black. And I will dress your hair.”

  I looked at her with surprise. I’d never worn the black dress, though I’d tried it on when it appeared in my closet one day. It was short and tight, sleeveless and cut low across the bosom. I usually counted on baggy clothes to disguise the tensile strength of my body, and that dress would reveal everything.

  But I knew how useless it would be to argue. “May I shower first?”

  The maid nodded.

  There was nothing in the bathroom I could use as a weapon. The mechanism of the toilet was concealed, so I couldn’t turn any of the working parts into a stiletto. I hadn’t watched enough prison movies to figure out how they fashioned weapons from bars of soap and the like. And besides, my soap was in the form of geranium-scented gel. I hated geraniums.

  I washed and dressed quickly, my nerves coming back, though I knew I covered them well. I sat still as the maid brushed my long black hair and fashioned it into six braids, wrapping them around my head in a style that made me look like an ancient Roman goddess. I stared back at my reflection bemusedly. For some reason they wanted me trussed and plucked before they killed me. Maybe I was going to be some kind of virgin sacrifice.

  Too late, I thought with dark humor. Johann had seen to that.

  The only pair of shoes that matched put me close to six feet, towering over the tiny maid. Could I take out one small female and two large, probably armed males? It was possible, but there were no guarantees. It would be easier if it were only Pedersen and my mother.

  The moment I stepped into the hall, I was flanked by the guards. Four of them, not two. Good thing I hadn’t attacked. They force-marched me through the stone corridors of the old castello, and for a moment I wondered if they were going to march me right off the cliff. I would take at least one of them with me if they did.

  But they took me to a room I hadn’t visited before, knocking before my mother’s voice floated out. I felt a meaty hand in the middle of my back propel me forward, and I stumbled into the room, graceless.

  “Darling,” my mother greeted me with a warm smile that didn’t reach her cold, dark eyes. “What took you so long? We have a visitor.”

  She didn’t need to tell me that—my mother never smiled at me without an audience. Pedersen was watching me, an unsettling expression on his face, and I turned slowly to face whatever had inspired the contessa to suddenly appear like a normal mother.

  And I felt my heart slam to a stop.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  HE HAD TO BE THE MOST BEAUTIful creature I had ever seen in my entire life. He seemed to fill the room, though physically he couldn’t have been as big as Pedersen. He had the face of a Botticelli angel—high cheekbones, a rich, beautiful mouth, a strong blade of a nose. His hair was close-cropped to his perfectly shaped head, almost a military cut. I’d always had a weakness for long hair on a man—Johann had had extravagant brown curls. But this man was . . . extraordinary.

  He was very powerful, I could tell that from the lean strength of his body, even though there was no bulk of muscle beneath the sleek black suit he wore with casual elegance. No tie, and the black shirt was open, exposing smooth, golden flesh. The contessa wouldn’t approve of such informality, I thought, looking him over. I tended to know instinctively whether I could take a man or not. This one might possibly be out of my league.

  I glanced back at Pedersen and the contessa. I could tell Pedersen wasn’t as impressed as I was—he was looking at the beautiful newcomer with just the faintest hint of contempt, probably fooled by his almost celestial beauty into thinking him a lightweight. But then, Pedersen’s intellect had never been as strong as the contessa had insisted.

  “Tory, this is Michael Angelo. And this is my darling daughter, Victoria Bellona, affectionately known as Tory.”

  I snorted. Shouldn’t have, I know, but I couldn’t help myself. First, at his absurd name. Second, at the thought of my mother having affection for me.

  “Are you named after the Renaissance master or one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  The man had been surveying me out of cool, distant eyes, eyes so brown they were almost black, but his gaze suddenly sharpened, homing in on me, and his mouth thinned. Clearly he didn’t like what he saw.

  “Tory, don’t be absurd!” Her trill of laughter got on my last nerve. “Turtles?” No one ever accused my mother of being versed in popular culture. If they hadn’t given me free run of the Internet, I might not have been either. “Pay no attention to her, Monsignor. She is young for her age.”

  Monsignor? Was the man some kind of priest? To be sure, there was an ascetic tone to his beautiful face and eyes, but the mouth was far too sensual for a man of God. Then he spoke, and things got a lot worse.

  “And what is her age, Contessa?”

  Jesus Christ, his voice was indescribable. Rich and warm, full of music and life and powerful seduction, even as his face was cool and distant. The ugliest man in the world would have women instantly on their backs with a voice like that. It was obscenely unfair that God had wasted so many gifts on one human being.

  The contessa stiffened but didn’t let her smile falter. “You know as well as I do, Monsignor. She is almost twenty-five.”

  He stared at me like a farmer surveying a pig for the slaughter. “Almost
too late.”

  “Indeed, Monsignor. If word hadn’t come today, we were prepared to dispose of her.”

  I turned back, shocked at the calm boldness of her words, verifying everything. “Dispose of me?”

  But the contessa had never paid attention to my questions. “If you think she is too old, we can wait for the next one.”

  Next one? What the hell were they talking about?

  The man continued to stare at me, and I thought I saw dislike in his dark eyes. What did he have to dislike about me, apart from my smart-ass question about his name? He shook his head. “We cannot afford to wait another eighteen years. She will have to do.”

  Okay, enough was enough. While I might not be able to take on the newcomer in hand-to-hand combat, it was clear the gloves were off, and the contessa was no longer dissembling about whatever it was they had in store for me.

  I walked across the room and sat down, halfway between my mismatched parental unit and the dark stranger. “Do for what?” I said. “Wait for the next who? Dispose of me?”

  The contessa let her cold gaze drift across me like I was an unpleasant interruption, but for once she answered me. “You know as well as I do, Tory. You always were an intelligent child, despite your other failings. The fact is, you were bred and born for a purpose, and that purpose runs out when you are twenty-five. Fortunately, word came from Monsignor that you were finally to be called. It would have pained Pedersen a great deal to dispose of you.”

  I didn’t even bother to glance at my hulking tutor. In all the years I’d known him, he’d never shown any emotion. I expected he was impervious to pain. But that brooding expression had grown even stronger, and he hardly looked like a man reprieved from an onerous duty.

  “But . . . but why?” I said when I could catch my breath. “Called for what? Who am I?”

  The silence in the room grew and stretched, and the contessa, the supreme hostess, shifted her bony ass uncomfortably in her seat. Pedersen said nothing either, and it was up to the stranger to enlighten me.

  “I would think it is more a question of what are you?” the man with the voice of an angel said. “And the answer is that you are Victoria Bellona, the ancient Roman goddess of war, and—”

  “You mean I was named after the ancient goddess of war,” I corrected.

  He wasn’t a man who liked being interrupted. “No,” he said. “You are the Roman goddess of war, or at least her newest manifestation. And you are my wife.”

  That took my breath away. Okay, so not content with just killing me, they were going to toy with me first by bringing in a beautiful lunatic to taunt me. “Yeah, right,” I said. “Somehow I seem to have forgotten the wedding ceremony.”

  His gaze dismissed me, and he turned back to the woman who had ostensibly given birth to me. “You forgot to mention her indecorous tongue. Your job was to raise her as befits her rank. Her lack of proper deference is disturbing.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him where he could stuff his proper deference, but the contessa spoke first. “And she is no longer a virgin. I believe I made that clear. Indeed, she is more trouble than she is worth, Monsignor. I would recommend you wait until the next, more appropriate candidate comes along.”

  The next? WTF? But Monsignor shook his beautifully shaped head. “We do not have that option. The virginity is of no matter, as the arrangement is a formality only. And she will learn to watch her tongue. I will take her.”

  Wrap her up, folks, she’s ready to go, I thought bitterly. I fastened my eyes on him. “And what if I don’t want to leave?”

  He glanced at me. “Do not be absurd, Victoria Bellona. Your choice is a quick death or life with the Fallen. Only a fool would choose death, and no matter what other defects you might have, you are not, I think, a fool.”

  He had me there. I had one last ounce of fight left in me, but in truth I’d go with Attila the Hun if it meant I could escape my mother and Pedersen. “My name is Tory,” I said. “Not Victoria Bellona. And who the hell are the Fallen?”

  For the first time that elegant mouth curved in a smile, though it was far from a pleasant one. “I’m neither some kind of turtle nor a Renaissance master, Victoria Bellona. The Fallen are fallen angels, and I am the Archangel Michael.”

  I could give long, assessing looks as well. Certain death at the hands of my guardians, or a future with a celibate madman? The choice was clear.

  “Okay, Your Holiness. I’m in. When do we leave?”

  He wasn’t happy with me, but that was the least of my worries. “Now.”

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL STARED at the flippant young woman, steeling himself against the bleak despair that filled him. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want her. He wanted the simplicity of the life he’d carved for himself, and there was no room in that life for the creature who had been foisted on him. Ever since Raziel had told him of Martha’s prophecy, three short days ago, he’d been dreading this. The sight of his future wife had only made things worse. This time the contessa and Pedersen had botched the job most thoroughly. They were called upon to breed and raise and train each new incarnation of Bellona, goddess of war, and over the centuries their work had been flawless.

  Their job was a strange one. Most of the ancient gods and goddesses had vanished, no longer needed. Only the gods of war remained strong, and throughout the millennia the contessa and her henchmen had bred them, raised them until the age of twenty-five, and then disposed of them if they weren’t needed. Victoria Bellona needed to be forever young, and there was no room for an aging goddess.

  Gods and goddesses should be immortal, of course, but what kept them that way was the faith of their followers. There was no one left who believed in the ancient Roman and Greek pantheons. She was as vulnerable as a human.

  A few of the incarnations had been called during the recent world wars, the fury of the Japanese assault on China, the battles that had raged over Europe and Asia during the centuries. The last few Victoria Bellonas had been effectively recycled, he thought with grim amusement.

  Now this one had been offered for the use of the Fallen in their battle with Uriel and the Armies of Heaven, and he watched her, judged her. This was no shy young virgin with downcast eyes. This one had escaped with a lover when she was a teenager, though Pedersen had made short work of that. They still hadn’t managed to tame her.

  This was a disaster, from beginning to end, but Raziel had refused to listen to his protests, and Michael had been forced to agree with him. Uriel was preparing to attack, the détente that had kept the Armies of Heaven from the grounds of Sheol about to be broken as easily as a crystal goblet. He had no doubt the Fallen would eventually prevail, but certain things were needed to make that come to pass. Michael would do his part, and he would ensure that this girl did the same. Anything to bring down the vicious rule of the last of the archangels, Uriel, and end his bloody war against the Fallen.

  The girl rose—though he supposed she wasn’t really a girl. Twenty-four. He could remember a time when women were ancient by the time they reached their twenties, their bodies worn-out by hard work and childbearing. This young woman didn’t seem to have done any work in her entire life.

  “It will take me a few minutes to pack.”

  “It’s been taken care of.”

  A flash of annoyance danced in her clear green eyes, then flickered away. “All right. I’ll need to say good-bye—”

  “There is no one you need to say good-bye to,” he said in the overpowering tone that allowed no contradiction. “I am ready. Come.”

  He could feel her resistance, surprisingly powerful in one so young. But he had to remind himself that her physical years had nothing to do with the years—no, millennia—of power that had been transferred into her at birth. She really had no idea how strong she was.

  Which was how it should be. Perhaps that was why the contessa had been so eager to destroy her, jumping the gun by several weeks. Traditionally the c
andidate was destroyed on her twenty-fifth birthday, but that was four weeks away. If Martha hadn’t had her damnable vision just days ago, then this young woman would be doomed, and the eternal contessa would already be carrying a new goddess to be passed along to servants to raise until Pedersen took charge. They were a chilling factory; the contessa put him in mind of a spider hatching her eggs.

  He knew why the contessa had sped up the date of termination for her latest offspring. It wasn’t the unruly tongue and lack of deference. It was the way Pedersen looked at the young woman when he thought the contessa wouldn’t notice.

  It would have amused Michael in other circumstances. Even immortals were at the mercy of their whims and emotions, and it appeared that the previously impervious Pedersen had fallen prey to his latest student. What would have happened to her if he himself hadn’t entered the picture like a deus ex machina? Michael almost snorted at his own turn of phrase, but of late he’d lost his sense of humor.

  He glanced at the big man. Pedersen probably would have tossed the girl over the cliff to join the bones of all the other young women. As long as no one else could have her, he would be content. Michael could read the thoughts behind that impassive face, sense the obsession, the stoic façade about to break.

  If he did nothing, Pedersen might solve his problem for him. The idea should have been tempting, but it had been so long since anything had tempted Michael that he barely recognized the feeling. He had a duty to perform, and he would do it. He had to take Raziel’s word on faith that it was a necessary evil.

  “You should wait—” Pedersen began, as Michael had known he would, and he allowed himself a sour smile.

  The contessa jerked her head up to stare at her lover. “Wait for what? The sooner she is gone from here, the better. At least for a while we’ll be free.”