Warrior (Fallen)

by Kristina Douglas

  “You mean if I don’t take her, she won’t die?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know. It’s possible we may all be destroyed by Uriel’s armies if you don’t fulfill the prophecy. The only way we know we’ll be safe is if you complete the bond.”

  He felt cold inside. “No,” he said. “It was one thing bringing her here to help us. I was willing to make that sacrifice. But I’m not going to sign her death warrant by completing this ridiculous marriage, one I never wanted in the first place.”

  “She’ll almost certainly die anyway,” Raziel said, his voice even. “And she would have died if you hadn’t brought her here. We simply changed the place and manner of her death. And we’ve given her four more weeks.”

  Michael whirled on Martha. “Is that true?” he demanded. “Can you guarantee she’s going to die no matter what I do?”

  “No,” Martha said, and he felt a measure of relief. Martha was incapable of lying. “I believe her to be doomed no matter what, but my vision hasn’t shown me what would happen to her if you refused to complete the bond.”

  “I do refuse. For one thing, I’m celibate. For another, I won’t take blood from anyone but the Source. And I’m not going to sentence her to death when there may be alternatives.”

  Martha, practical as always, sighed. “I tried to say something at the ceremony, but no one listened, and the girl looked shell-shocked as it was. If you weren’t supposed to bond with her and mate with her, then why did you bring her all this way?”

  “Because you told me to, goddamn it!” Michael snarled. “You didn’t tell me it would kill her.”

  “I told you my vision said the only way we would vanquish Uriel was with the help of the Roman goddess of war, and that you needed to bond with her. Which means bond with her, Michael,” she said, a trace of annoyance in her usually soft voice. “It means have sex with her and take her blood.”

  “We fuck and then she dies. No.”

  “Her destiny will follow her. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t see her death before. It was only after she was brought here that the prophecy became clear. I firmly believe she will die on her twenty-fifth birthday no matter where she is, Michael, and there isn’t a thing you can do about it.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. She won’t die if the prophecy isn’t fulfilled, and I’m not touching her and bringing about her death. Tell me what your visions tell you.”

  “It’s not that simple—”

  “Tell me.” He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t have to. When he used that tone, everyone obeyed.

  “I see you bedding her and taking her blood, making the union complete. I see you training her with the others in the big room. I see you . . . cherishing her.” Martha’s voice shook a little bit at the words, as if she remembered her own grief. “And I see her falling beneath the sword on the blood-soaked beach. On her twenty-fifth birthday, twenty-six days from now. So it is foretold.”

  There was an unhappy silence in the room. Finally Rachel spoke. “It’s unfortunate, Michael, but it must be done. It’s not like it’s a huge sacrifice on your part. You may have given up sex for who knows how long, but you must remember how to do it. And like everyone else here, you’re ridiculously gorgeous. All you have to do is be a little bit more charming—”

  Azazel’s derisive laugh stopped her. “We’re talking about Michael here. He’s a warrior, love. He doesn’t understand charm.”

  “He can learn it.”

  “Not in one month’s time, trust me.”

  “I’m not raping her,” Michael said flatly.

  “Of course not,” Raziel said.

  But Martha was still looking troubled. “You can’t afford to wait, my lord. You need to explain things to her.”

  “And of course she’ll flop on her back and spread her legs.” He was brimming with fury. He had brought her here to watch her die. If he touched her. “It doesn’t matter. I refuse to take her blood.”

  Allie looked at him without pity. “Look at it this way—she’ll be dead in no time and you won’t have to be inconvenienced by her.”

  He pushed away from the table, pacing the room. “Go to hell, Allie. I told you I’m not doing it.”

  Raziel froze in swift anger, then began to rise, but Allie simply tugged him back down. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s just having a temper tantrum.”

  Michael stopped short. He had always prided himself on his self-control, and right at that moment he wanted to hit something. He quickly centered himself, taking a calming breath. “No,” he said again. “I brought her here, I married her. I’ll train her and look after her, but I’m not fucking her and I’m not taking her blood and bringing about her death. We aren’t death-takers anymore—Raziel broke that command. Besides, her blood would probably kill me.”

  “She’s your mate,” Martha said. “It would make you stronger.”

  “She’s a temporary inconvenience, for you all as well as me,” he shot back. There was a shocked silence at his callous words. In truth, his deliberate cruelty shocked even him, but he wasn’t about to show it. “There isn’t time for this,” he went on, trying to sound reasonable. “If the Armies of Heaven are going to attack in one month, we need to spend every spare moment training.”

  “I don’t know why you’re arguing,” Raziel said. “There was a time when you shagged anything female.”

  “They didn’t die afterward,” he snapped.

  His words were cold. As cold as the ice he could feel forming inside him. He didn’t even know her. He was a warrior, used to death. She’d lived almost twenty-five pampered years, which was better than many people got.

  Azazel rose, taking his wife’s hand. “If there’s no changing your mind, I guess we’re done here.”

  “We’re done,” Raziel said. He glanced at Martha. “Unless there’s anything else?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Not now.”

  Michael wanted to throttle her, but it wasn’t her fault, and in fact he’d always liked Martha. Thomas, her husband, had been one of his best warriors, and she’d taken his death with dignified grief.

  None of this was anyone’s fault, and he needed to take a step back and look at it rationally, as one more battle to be fought in the war against Uriel and the Armies of Heaven. Battles were his life—one more was nothing.

  He wasn’t going to do it. But there was a quiet little voice inside, a wicked, insidious one: You know this is what you want. You have the perfect excuse, and this way there won’t be any long-term repercussions. You can have her, and then she’ll go away. And you know you want her. You’ve wanted her since you first set eyes on her. Wanted her, when you’ve been impervious to every other woman you’ve seen for eons.

  And her blood. He could smell it dancing through her veins, and for the first time he understood the obsession that drove the bonded couples. He’d refused to bond, refused to take blood from anyone but the Source. He could deny Uriel that triumph.

  The girl—no, she was a woman, despite the untried aura about her. She called to him.

  He would not listen to that voice. He knew women, and she was afraid of him and desperate not to show it. If he took her, then her death was assured. If he left her alone, there was room for hope.

  But the fate of the world hung on this. Could he afford to ignore his duty?

  It wouldn’t come to that. He’d figure out some way. In the meantime, he was going to do what he did best—push his body to a state of exhaustion in training, and not think about anything else.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  WHEN I AWOKE, THE SUN WAS sending wide shafts of light across the floor of my bedroom, and I sat up, panicked, disoriented. It took me only a moment to remember where I was. I’d traded one prison for another, and looking out the glass doors to the glinting ocean beyond, I didn’t regret my choice.

  I pushed out of the comfortable bed, amazed that I’d apparently slept through the night, and quickly made it in military fashion as Pede
rsen had always insisted. Pedersen. He was dead, by my hands, and I should feel something, anything. All my life he’d been my tormentor and enemy, yet I felt no satisfaction at his death. No sorrow either. I just felt . . . odd. It was as if he were an enemy soldier and I was in the midst of a war. I’d had no choice. I wasn’t going to waste time lamenting that necessity.

  I showered quickly and dressed in the loose white clothes in the closet. To my astonishment, there were bras in my size, as well as lacy underwear. The clothes were utilitarian, a variation on a martial arts gi, but the underwear was pretty, feminine, almost decadent. There was even a delicate negligee, clearly made for a more romantic bride than I was.

  I actually liked the wicked underwear. It was my secret, a part of me that I didn’t have to share with anyone else. Particularly the beautiful man who now seemed to be my husband.

  I went out into the living area. There were flowers, a bright profusion of color, that had to have come from Allie. The woman who’d offered her wrist to Michael. I shivered, then lifted my head. I could smell coffee. The delicious scent was unmistakable, even though I hadn’t smelled it in years, not since Johann and I had made our escape. Either the contessa didn’t believe in coffee or she simply didn’t think her offspring deserved it.

  There was a carafe sitting on the smooth-top surface of the stove, and it was hot. I looked around me—I’d locked the doors, and I knew for certain no one had been here recently. How could the coffee be hot? For that matter, when had the flowers arrived?

  Those were the least of my worries. I poured myself a mug, added lots of cream and real sugar, and took a sip. Ambrosia. Maybe this new life wasn’t so bad.

  I took the mug and pushed open the french doors leading out to the small flagstone terrace and the steps descending to the sea. The air was crisp and cool, and I took a deep breath, loving it. The smell of freedom.

  I walked barefoot down to the edge of the shore, letting the water lap at my toes. It was cold, breathtakingly so, and I looked out past the gentle swell into eternity. I glanced around, but there was no one in sight—the beach outside my door felt secluded, but people could easily walk by. I drained the coffee, set the mug down in the sand, and walked out, fully clothed, into the surf for the first time in my life.

  I didn’t dare take my time—the cold would send me running back. I walked until the water reached my waist, held my nose, and ducked under, letting the salt sea wash over me.

  The current pushed me gently, and I wasn’t afraid. I shook my wet hair from my face, letting the cool, blessed waters flow around me, and I remembered stories I’d read of baptism. That’s what it felt like, I thought. A benediction.

  But it was too cold to stay in for long. I made my way out of the water, my wet clothes clinging to me, and I suddenly realized I was hungry—starving, in fact. I couldn’t remember if there was anything left in the fridge, and I’d never cooked a day in my life, even though I’d watched enough cooking shows on cable TV to qualify me as an expert. I’d have to see if Allie or Rachel could point me in the direction of the kitchens and something decent to eat. I was feeling carnivorous—I wanted scrambled eggs with cheese and fat sausages and brioche with raspberry confit.

  I headed straight for a hot shower, dumping my sodden clothes in the sink and luxuriating beneath the steamy water. Then I dressed, finger-combed my hair, and walked out to see a covered tray on the table in front of the sofa. I didn’t care what it was. At this point I would have eaten beets and olives covered in maple syrup, three things I disliked intensely. I took off the lid and looked down in a combination of delight and dismay.

  Scrambled eggs, fat sausages, fresh brioche with a red syrup that I knew, without question, was raspberry. Not only had something been able to read my mind and provide exactly what I wanted, it had also anticipated me. There was a fresh carafe of coffee and a glass of orange juice I just knew was fresh-squeezed.

  I shook my head, sitting down to my feast. It wasn’t any stranger than being carried off by an angel who drank blood and battled God. Actually, it wasn’t any stranger than spending my life imprisoned by a mother who hated me and being told I was the Roman goddess of war.

  Six impossible things before breakfast, I reminded myself. Which apparently included breakfast itself.

  This world was beginning to look more and more appealing. As long as beautiful, disturbing Michael kept his distance, I’d be just fine.

  “Hurry up,” came a rich, unexpected voice from behind me. “It’s time to train.”

  I turned to glare at my supposed husband. “I locked the door. How did you get in?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Locked doors won’t keep me out.”

  “Then what will?” I asked pointedly.

  “Nothing.”

  He was wearing all white, something similar to the clothes I had found in my closet, and I realized their resemblance to a martial arts uniform was intentional. “What makes you think I’m interested in training?”

  “There’s a war coming. You’re the goddess of war.”

  I speared the last sausage on my fork and leaned back on the sofa. “So you say. I doubt it. I have yet to notice that I have any supernatural powers, and a god deserves to have some. And what the hell makes you think I’m on your side? You practically kidnapped me—”

  “Bullshit. You’ve had a choice all along. You have one now. You can stay in this room and read romance novels, or you can come and train with the others. I’ll put Metatron in charge of you—you won’t even have to see me.”

  How the hell did he know about the romance novels? I wasn’t about to ask. Instead I said, “Who’s Metatron?”

  “Former leader of the Armies of Heaven, and the most recent angel to fall. You’ll like him. He’s a surly son of a bitch.”

  “So are you and I don’t like you.”

  I don’t know if I expected a reaction to that, but I didn’t get one. “As it should be,” he said. “Are you going to eat that sausage or fellate it?”

  Fellate it? For a moment I couldn’t place the word, and then I remembered. My education had been unlimited, and I had run across some extremely interesting books.

  I looked at the sausage critically, met his gaze, and took a sharp bite out of it, hoping to make him flinch. He didn’t.

  Tossing the fork down on the plate, I rose. “I’m ready.”

  “I doubt it,” he said. “But you will be.”

  THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL was going to send word down to the kitchens. No matter how much she wanted sausages, she wasn’t going to get them. This situation was absurd enough—he didn’t need her taunting him with her food.

  There were more than two score men and women in the main room going through their moves, and more outside in the private courtyard. He could hear the clash of metal, the knock of stick against stick, the kick against the bag, the grunt as something hit hard flesh. The smell of clean sweat and discipline. And then everything stopped as they all turned to look at the goddess of war.

  She met them look for look, not the slightest bit intimidated. He liked that about her. She didn’t seem to have an ounce of fear in her body—except, perhaps, when it came to him.

  “This is Victoria Bellona, Goddess of War. Victoria Bellona, these are the cream of the fighters among the Fallen. You’ll have to be very good to belong with these soldiers.”

  She looked at them with a measuring gaze, probably underestimating them. The weakest of them could take her in under a minute; the strongest could kill her in seconds. He could only hope Metatron could teach her enough tools to keep her alive.

  Assuming there was any possibility she might live. He suspected she’d die whether he touched her or not, but he wasn’t going to take the chance. She had less than a month, and she had no idea. He didn’t want to watch her die. Though as far as he knew, he could die before her. Martha hadn’t shared that particular information.

  She probably didn’t have it. Her gift was completely inconvenient, knowledge coming too la
te to help, some of it useless, some of it of earth-shattering importance. That was why Azazel and Raziel—and, yes, he had to count himself—treated her prediction about the Roman goddess so seriously. That was why he’d agreed to go. If this was one of the times she was right, they couldn’t afford to let it slip past.

  “Metatron,” he called out. “I want you to take over her training. See what she knows and what you can teach her in the next month.”

  “Why the next month?” the man grunted.

  “Because we’re running out of time.” He had no intention of elaborating. Even after five years, he didn’t entirely trust Metatron. There was something not quite right about him.

  “I’ll do it,” Asbel offered, and Michael froze. Not that he had anything against Asbel, but the angel was unmated, and Michael wasn’t in the mood to trust anyone around Victoria Bellona. Though Metatron was unmated as well. It was Asbel’s tendency to appear out of nowhere that got on his last nerve.

  “Metatron,” he said in a flat voice, and the big man nodded.

  At least this way he could keep an eye on him. The last to fall had done so reluctantly, after being brought to the brink of death in battle with Azazel. Putting him together with the girl would keep two problems contained.

  Metatron shrugged, indifferent. He was a good soldier. He followed orders without question, was lethal with lance and sword, and didn’t give a shit whether he lived or died, which made him willing to take chances. “Your Honor,” he addressed his new charge in a deep, ironic voice.

  “Just Tory,” she said to Metatron, moving off with him without a backward glance. Which Michael found annoying, though he wasn’t sure why. He turned his back as well, concentrating on loosening up, then checking in with each member of his small, dedicated force before he allowed himself to glance back at her.

  She moved well, he thought critically, watching as she ducked and parried Metatron’s carefully restrained blows. She had an innate grace, an understanding of combat that couldn’t be taught, which was something. He shouldn’t be surprised by that—she was, after all, the goddess of war. She also made stupid mistakes, which annoyed him. Annoyed him enough that finally he could stand no more, and he crossed the room in a few long strides, taking the practice sword from Metatron.