Warrior (Fallen)

by Kristina Douglas

  “Put the fucking thing on,” Michael’s voice snarled from beneath the enveloping hood as he dragged the man’s body into the torture room.

  Panic and joy swamped me. I wasn’t going to let either show. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Saving your ass.” He turned back to me, shoving the hood off his head. His face in color was a shock, when my eyes had grown used to the black and white that surrounded me. “Are you putting that robe on so we have a chance in hell of getting out of here?”

  “Are you going to unfasten these handcuffs so I can?” I responded, uncowed.

  He gave a long-suffering sigh, as if I were the one who’d screwed up, and a second later the cuffs fell on the floor. He kicked them into the room and shut the door.

  “How did you do that?” I demanded, impressed, as I pulled the enveloping robe around me.

  He didn’t answer my question. “Pull the hood low, and keep your hands tucked into the sleeves so no one will see they’re different.”

  “And for that matter, why are they different? What is this place? And why did you bother to come after me? I would have thought you’d be well rid of me.” And then I stopped asking questions. I could feel them coming closer.

  He felt them too. He reached over and yanked the hood down so low over my head that I couldn’t see, replacing his own at the same time. “Be prepared to run for it,” he muttered as he began hauling me down the dark corridor.

  “Can’t we fly?” I demanded, stumbling after him.

  “Not here,” he said grimly.

  True enough. The halls were too narrow. I had never seen him clearly enough to guess at the wingspan, but I doubted these narrow corridors could contain him. So I ran.

  In the best of times I could run for miles without tiring. In the best of times I hadn’t been zapped by the mother of all Tasers and I wasn’t running for my life. There was no way to set a reasonable pace with Michael hauling me—all I could do was run, trying to ignore my pounding heart and rapidly diminishing breathing.

  The halls were growing more and more narrow. The light was growing dimmer. And our pursuers, if they’d even been after us, were farther away, until we could no longer sense them.

  The corridors were tunnels now, with grim brownish lights set high into the stone walls. The paths forked, over and over, but Michael never hesitated, taking one turn after another.

  “In here,” he said roughly, taking my arm and shoving me through a small doorway.

  I went willingly, into a cocoon of darkness so intense that panic swamped me. I heard the thunk of a door closing, and it was all too much. I had never been claustrophobic in my life, but suddenly I was overwhelmed. I felt the walls closing down around me; my breathing was strangled in my throat, and I thought I was going to die—

  Hard arms encircled me and tugged me against Michael’s strong body, his hand on the back of my neck, pressing my cowled face to his shoulder. I shivered, trying to regain my calm. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I ranted at myself as I gasped for breath. You can’t afford to give in to any sign of weakness. Fight it, fight it—

  “Stop fighting,” Michael growled in my ear. “You’re making it worse. Let go. I’ve got you.”

  I’ve got you. Why did those words make me want to cry? I shut my eyes, though in the darkness I didn’t need to, and concentrated on the slow, steady beat of Michael’s heart against my racing, fluttering one. Concentrated on the hand at my neck, soothing me with slow, calming strokes. Concentrated on his solid body against mine, holding me close, his breath against my forehead, calm and certain. “I’ve got you,” he said again.

  And I let go.

  MICHAEL FELT THE fight leave her body, felt her slowly go limp. He picked her up, cradling her against him, and moved deeper into the storeroom. He knew this place, knew it better than anyone. For the time being they were safe, until he decided on their next move.

  He moved to the far wall, not needing his eyes to know where he was going, and sank down, Tory still in his arms. For a change she wasn’t fighting him. He’d been afraid, so afraid that he was too late. That he would come to Beloch’s room and find her one of them. Leached of color, leached of life.

  He should have known Beloch couldn’t take her so easily. She was a fighter, a warrior like he was. It would take more than Beloch to defeat her.

  She curled up against him, oddly trusting. The time in his bed was still disturbing, and it must be doubly troubling for her, given her limited experience. Then again, perhaps she didn’t know just how powerful their joining had been. As if worlds had collided and blended. This must be what bonding really was, whether he liked it or not. This must be what finding your true mate meant.

  He shouldn’t have done it. He hadn’t taken enough blood, but he’d still come dangerously close to fulfilling the prophecy that would kill her.

  He fought the urge to pull her closer. She was either asleep or resting, and she didn’t need anything disturbing her. She needed as much time as he dared give her.

  He dropped his face into her hair, breathing in the jasmine scent of her. No wonder he’d been unable to resist her. It must be chemical, hormonal. Something that was out of his control. A cruel trick of fate.

  He’d been both voracious and celibate at various times in his existence, and he hadn’t felt much difference. Celibacy was simpler. He’d only had one mate, and he’d never taken her blood. She’d died before he had a chance to know her, and he couldn’t even remember the sex. Tory was different, damnably so, and Martha and the others must have known it.

  Man up. Wasn’t that the term humans used nowadays? Don’t complain about what fate has handed you—deal with it and move on.

  He’d fought Tory, and he’d lost the first battle. Taking her to bed had definitely been a defeat, no matter how good it had felt. He didn’t need to tell her that. They had to learn to fight together, to get out of the Dark City and out of this world of endless night. In time to face the final battle that would take her life.

  Gods should be immortal, as angels were. Not that angels couldn’t die—the Nephilim and Uriel had seen to that. But Tory’s life seemed so much more fragile, for all her astonishing strength. It would be snuffed out in too little time. Life would be a great deal simpler if he didn’t give a damn.

  He should set her down, but the floor was solid rock, and she’d be more comfortable in his arms. Over the years he’d held many women, both before and after his fall, effortlessly. But no one had ever felt as right as Tory did, fit as perfectly against the mercilessly hard contours of his flesh. It was as if he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. More of fate’s cruel tricks. Though maybe fate had nothing to do with it.

  If he didn’t know better, he might have thought this was some sadistic game of Uriel’s. To send him someone who burrowed into his soul and then rip her away again.

  But even Uriel with his almost limitless power couldn’t control emotions, passion, the unbreakable bond that was being forged between them. And when it was broken by her death, it would feel as if part of him were being ripped away. And it would hurt forever.

  He felt her stir, and he prepared to tighten his grip if she started to panic again. He could feel the sudden tension in her body, and then she relaxed it, deliberately.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a soft voice. “I’m not usually that weak.”

  “You aren’t weak.” He kept his tone matter-of-fact. “Beloch is a master of manipulation.”

  “He didn’t manipulate me. I saw through the son of a bitch immediately.”

  The room was very dark, but his eyes were fine-tuned to it. She was looking both stubborn and shaken. “You’d be the first,” he said.

  She snorted. “How long have I been here? A day? He came swanning in when two Nazi hags were using a fire hose on me. Even though he stopped them, I figured anyone who was in charge of a place like this had to be a royal ugly dude.”

  “Royal ugly dude?” he echoed, bemused.

 
“Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure,” she said cryptically. And then, “A movie.”

  “I don’t watch movies.”

  “I know.”

  She hadn’t made any effort to climb out of his arms, and he didn’t make any effort to move her. They would separate when he got her back to Sheol, but for now he could let her rest against him.

  “I suppose you have a plan for getting out of here?” she said. “Do you even know where we are?”

  “Yes, and yes. I spent . . . a long time in the Dark City. I know its ins and outs by memory.”

  “You were a prisoner here as well?”

  He didn’t want to answer her. He couldn’t lie to her, but how could he tell her the truth? That he’d carried out Uriel’s orders. That he’d played the game, determined to follow his ordained course. And might still have been here, had not Uriel cast him out when things had finally become too much for him to stomach.

  He leaned his head back against the wall, half-afraid his move would send her scrambling off his lap, but she stayed put. “Cryptic Guy again,” she said. “Okay, I can handle that. You want to tell me what the plan is?”

  “We get out of here. The tunnels are a maze, and one of Beloch’s favorite pastimes is to send prisoners down here to wander until he gets tired of the sport. Sometimes they starve to death. One killed himself by banging his head against the rock. The only other person who knows his way through these tunnels is Metatron, and he’s back in Sheol.”

  “Only other? I take it that means you know how to get out of here.”

  “Yes. You want to tell me who brought you here? Was it Metatron?”

  ”I have no idea. I left your—I was heading toward my room when someone knocked me unconscious. I don’t remember clearly, but when I woke up I was here, dealing with female prison guards and an evil Dumbledore—”

  “A Dumbledore?” he interrupted. “What’s that?”

  She sighed. “Never mind. I’ll explain later. I asked Beloch who brought me here but he wouldn’t tell me. Is Metatron missing? Do you think he took me?”

  “He’s in Sheol. No one else was missing, only you. I have no idea who took you, but I mean to find out when we get back.”

  “And if I don’t want to go?” Her voice was very quiet, but she hadn’t moved from his lap, and he sensed only a frisson of tension in her body.

  “You want to stay here?”

  “Of course not. But . . . can’t I go somewhere else? You fulfilled the prophecy, you did your duty. Surely they wouldn’t insist I stay on?”

  “I don’t know,” he said carefully.

  Her heart was speeding up, he could sense it. “You have no reason to want me there, do you?”

  There it was, laid out in front of him, and for the life of him he couldn’t think of an excuse to keep her with him. He could only come up with the truth.

  “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

  Silence in the all-encompassing darkness. Her heart was pounding faster now, and he was afraid she was going to pull out of his arms. “Why?”

  He didn’t think about it. He just did it. He slid his hand behind her neck, tilted her head up, and kissed her.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  DARKNESS. THICK, ENVELOPING darkness, with his strong body surrounding me, his hot, wet mouth on mine. All arguments fled. I wanted this. Needed this. Ever since I’d left his bed, a part of me had been missing, and now it was found again. He had come for me. And I was his.

  His tongue slid into my mouth, and I felt unaccountably shy even after last night, but it didn’t seem to matter. When I tentatively moved my tongue against his, he let out a low growl of unmistakable approval, and I wanted to get closer. I wanted him inside me again, I wanted to take his cock into my mouth the way they did in the books I’d read. I wanted everything.

  Common sense deserted me as I sank into a sensual dream, with his long, deft fingers cradling my face, holding it at just the right angle for his deep, possessing kiss. Nothing mattered but Michael, his mouth, his body, the way he touched me. My breasts felt tight, almost painful, and I shifted, rubbing them against his hard, muscled chest, trying to find some kind of ease. He lifted his head, moving his mouth down the side of my face to my jaw, and I could feel the damp heat of his breath against me. He slipped one hand between our bodies, covering my breast, teasing, pulling at my tight nipple, and a spark of reaction spiked through me.

  There was too much fabric between us. I needed his skin against mine, his callused fingers rough against my softness. I wanted his mouth on my breasts, sucking them, pulling at them, and I squirmed again, needing more, so much more.

  I was holding on to his shoulders, clinging to him as the only shelter in a storm of sensuality, but I let go, reaching for the shirt that covered his strong, muscled chest, needing to pull it away and feel the heated flesh beneath it, to let my fingers glide over him.

  But his hand captured mine, and he lifted me off him, setting me on the hard ground beside him. I felt bereft. “Don’t,” he said in a ragged voice.

  “Why not?” I didn’t care how desperate I sounded. I wanted so many things from him I couldn’t put them into words. I was vibrating with need and I no longer cared about hiding it.

  “This is too dangerous.”

  “For whom?” I demanded.

  “For both of us. If I’m going to get you out of here safely, I need to have my brain working, and it doesn’t when I touch you.”

  That was little consolation for the feeling of absolute emptiness that washed over me. The ground was hard beneath my butt, and I was cold without his arms around me. Cold and frightened, when it took a lot to frighten me. I tried to fight off the insidious effect of his touch, his kiss, but at that particular moment, I didn’t give a rat’s ass about getting out of there. All I cared about was getting his hands on me again.

  “Okay,” I managed to say. At least the darkness provided a bit of protection—he wouldn’t know how complete my capitulation was. How desperately I wanted him. It should help me as well—I couldn’t see his astonishingly provocative beauty. I told myself he could be anyone in the darkness.

  It didn’t work.

  Silence pressed down on me, filling the inky blackness, and I wanted to draw in on myself, wrap my arms around my knees, give myself what comfort I could.

  He cursed beneath his breath. “Fuck it,” he said, and I felt him surge to his feet beside me. I pulled my knees up, resting my head against them as he moved around the room.

  I couldn’t imagine how he could. It was too dark to see anything, yet he wasn’t bumping into things and cursing. I heard the scrape of something against the floor and jumped nervously.

  “You feel strong enough to move?” His voice was cool, impersonal, as if he hadn’t just kissed me into a limp pool of desire.

  Pride overrode the lingering aftermath of Beloch’s special effects and my even more powerful reaction to Michael’s mouth, and I scrambled to my feet. I swayed for a moment, but he couldn’t see the hand I used to steady myself. “Of course,” I said, sounding positively perky. “Don’t even think I can’t keep up with you.”

  Even if I couldn’t see him, I could sense his amusement. “What did Beloch do to you?”

  “He didn’t touch me,” I said quickly. Even the thought of that old man’s hands on me made me shudder.

  “Of course he didn’t. Beloch is asexual. He doesn’t understand human drives and human weaknesses. But he hurt you. How?”

  I shrugged, then realized he couldn’t see it. “I kicked him in the head and tried to escape. Next thing I knew, I was pinned halfway up the wall feeling like I’d been electrocuted. I didn’t drop until he left the room, and I—I may have fallen asleep.” I’d passed out, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

  “You passed out,” he said, and I wanted to punch him.

  “Maybe.” I was grudging. “Whatever it was, it was nasty. I can still feel it.” I was weaker than usual, but sheer pride would keep me go
ing. “Don’t think I can’t keep up with you, Your Saintliness. It’ll be a cold day in hell that I can’t do anything you can do and do it ten times better.”

  He was suddenly very close, standing right in front of me, and I hadn’t even realized he’d moved. “I doubt it,” he said. “And stop calling me names.”

  He was so close that his heavy robe brushed against my own, and the rough fabric caught, mingled, moving against me. “When you start calling me Tory.”

  There was an audible sigh as his hands grasped my robe, pushing it back on my shoulders. At some point he must have opened his own robe, because when he took the edges of mine and pulled me against him he was wearing only a thin shirt and what felt like jeans. My head went against his shoulder, naturally, as his arms encircled me, as the robes encircled us, and he just held me, his heart against mine, slow and steady, a reassurance. It was going to be okay.

  We stood there for a long while. Long enough for our body heat to mingle in the damp, chilly air, passing back and forth, warming us. Long enough for my skin to tingle, long enough for that damned aching feeling between my legs. Long enough for me to feel the hard ridge below the waistband of his jeans.

  “We have to get out of here,” he said, pushing me away gently.

  I wanted to howl like a baby who’d had her toy ripped away from her. That, or her mother’s breast. “Okay,” I said calmly. “What are we waiting for?”

  He took my hand, and I could have followed him anywhere, even into this pitch-dark world. “Can you see where you’re going?” I asked.