Warrior (Fallen)

by Kristina Douglas

  It took precious moments to shove my hands through the cloth to find it, praying as I did that I hadn’t lost it in the car, the barn, the river. I slashed it across my wrist, and blood welled up. Ignoring my queasiness, I put my wrist against his lips, forcing my blood there.

  He didn’t move. I pulled him partway into my lap, cradling him against my breast as I smeared his beautiful mouth with my bright red blood.

  His eyes were closed. All life seemed to have left him, yet I felt a faint stirring in the body I held so tightly, a quickening.

  I caught my wrist in my other hand and tried to squeeze it, like wringing juice from an orange, but the steady drips weren’t enough.

  I reached up to my neck, feeling for my artery. Could I cut into that and still survive? I’d heard that if you nicked an artery, you automatically bled out and died. Of course, that was in a world without vampires or angels who drank blood.

  Last resort, I decided. I was willing to die to save him, simply because I couldn’t stand the thought of living without him. I refused to consider why; I only knew that the world would be unbearable without his rare, blinding smile. I wouldn’t let him die.

  I looked down at my body. I wasn’t endowed with much extra flesh, but the pale swell above my breast was reachable. I allowed myself a faint whimper of anticipation and then drew the metal across my skin.

  The reward was so much blood my hands were sticky with it. Using all my strength, I pulled his comatose body up against me, pressing his mouth against my torn skin, willing him to live.

  “Drink, you stupid jerk,” I hissed, stroking the bruised skin on his face. I let my fingers push through his short brown curls tenderly, like a mother, as I slowly began to feel the suck of his mouth against my skin.

  I could feel the slow beat of his heart growing stronger, and he caught me, holding me still as he drank from me, drank life. He didn’t need to know I was giving him everything I could give. How long had I known him? It didn’t matter. The last few days had held an eternity, and they were all that mattered.

  I was dreamy, only half-aware, as we slowly shifted; I was no longer cradling him, he was holding me in his arms, sucking at me with a slow intensity that was . . . arousing. I knew I was growing weaker, but it didn’t matter. I was in his arms, I loved him, and feeding him, saving him, was an even closer bond than the sex we had shared so far. I closed my eyes and dreamed, welcoming death.

  STUPID GIRL! THE stupid, foolish creature! Michael slowly released his grip on her, easing her down in the grass as he licked the last of her blood off his mouth. She had done this for him, and he was furious. Her chance of survival, always tenuous, had now vanished completely.

  He’d been dead, and she’d given him her blood, brought him back. And she would pay for that with her own life when they faced the Armies of Heaven. Unless he’d already killed her.

  Under any other circumstances she’d be dead or dying, past saving. But he had marked her with his wards to ensure she made it through the Portal, and those marks had kept her alive. Even now she was recovering her color, that horrifying ashen white returning to the soft blush he’d gotten used to. She was healing, thank God.

  He glanced down at his body. Most of his wards were back, transferred by her blood. And they were fading from her skin, almost invisible now.

  He hadn’t even known if it would work. There’d been no time to think—he’d acted on instinct, and only now could he sit back and berate himself.

  His death would have jeopardized the survival of the Fallen. And now she would die anyway.

  He looked up at the bright, deceptive sun that shone down so fiercely, so oddly in the Darkness. Night would come soon, and the Wraiths would be out. He needed to find shelter.

  He scooped her up in his arms, holding her tightly against his chest, and rose. He couldn’t afford to wait.

  FIRST THINGS FIRST: I wasn’t dead. That was as good a way to start the day as any I could think of, and I lay still in the darkness, drinking it in.

  I had absolutely no idea where I was. I seemed to be lying on a narrow bed pressed up against a wall, and the air was cold and damp. Light filtered in from a small window. Sudden panic filled me. Had I somehow ended up back in the cell in the Dark City? I managed to move my head, and relief flooded me. This was a different place, though I had yet to find out if it was safer.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d have said I was in the basement of an American house. I’d seen them in the movies, usually filled with washing machines and furnaces and monsters. None of those were visible, including the monsters, thank God. Unless you counted the one I’d married.

  Memory was coming back along with my strength, slowly, and I reached up to touch the upper swell of my breast. I’d slashed myself to save his life, and he had taken my blood, had cradled me in his arms and put his hungry mouth against the gash. I’d felt my life slipping away, and I had been happy. I had been loved.

  Ha! Almost killed was more like it. I’d managed to survive after all, probably no thanks to him.

  A horrible thought struck me. After he’d almost drained me, had he returned the favor? Poured blood down my throat? Eww.

  I licked my teeth, searching for the taste of copper, but there was nothing but a distant tang that took me a moment to recognize. Orange juice. Where the hell had he found orange juice? Just like the Red Cross, had he given me a cookie too as a reward for my donation?

  My lip curled, but the thought of cookies made me suddenly ravenous. Wherever the hell we were, I needed food.

  The Darkness. That was where we were supposed to be. Apparently this legendary place of terror was a suburban basement. Who knew?

  I moved my head lazily, and then I saw him. He was sitting on the cement floor, back against the wall, hidden in shadows, and I wondered if he was asleep.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Apparently not. His voice was its usual cool, musical enticement, though there was a thread of something beneath it that I didn’t recognize.

  “Like I got hit by a truck. You didn’t feed me blood, did you?” I needed to get my primal fear out of the way.

  “No. If I gave you my blood, you would die.”

  “Well, technically, it would have been my blood. Why would I die?”

  “It is forbidden for mates to drink blood. It can cause . . . problems.”

  “What sorts of problems? Do people grow two heads or something?”

  “Why are you so interested, Victoria Bellona? Do you have a craving for my blood?”

  Damn, he just loved to annoy me. We were back on track. “No, Your Angelic Idiocy, I don’t. I want real food like eggs, ham, maybe a croissant or two.”

  “This isn’t Sheol. Food doesn’t arrive simply because you desire it.”

  “Sometime you’re going to have to explain to me how that works,” I said, momentarily distracted. “And I know very well we’re not in Sheol. Do you want to tell me why the so-scary Darkness looks like a suburban basement?”

  He glanced around him. “The Darkness is composed of many different worlds, all seemingly harmless, all of them dangerous. Don’t be deceived by it.” He rose, moving toward the light that was now pouring in from the window, and I could see him clearly. He was shirtless, having lost the tattered rag that had made it through the maelstrom, and his beautiful chest was once again swirled with those gorgeous, slow-moving tattoos. The cuts and bruises had disappeared, leaving him beautiful and untouched. Perfect, as an angel should be.

  I lifted my own arm to look at it. The marks were gone, leaving my pale skin unmarred. “Where are my tattoos?”

  “You gave them back to me when you gave me your blood. There was just enough power in them to save you from my rapacious appetite.” His tone was wry, mocking, but I knew he was mocking himself. “So tell me, why the hell did you do such a stupid thing after I’d gone to all that trouble to keep you alive? Did you have no idea what all that fresh blood would do to me?”

  “Pardon me, but I
’ve never met a vampire before. I’m unaware of the protocol.” My voice was cool. I’d saved his life, damn it. Why was he mad at me?

  “I’m not a vampire,” he snapped.

  “Well, you drink blood to live and you have retractable fangs just like your wings. I’d say that makes you a vampire.” I thought for a moment. “Or a Venezuelan fruit bat.”

  Michael was not amused. “If you need food, we will have to leave this place, but you aren’t looking very energetic. Why don’t you stop annoying me and concentrate on getting stronger? It shouldn’t be more than half an hour before you’re at full capacity again.”

  I was momentarily distracted. “Cool. Will this happen every time I get hurt?”

  There was an odd look on his face, one that on anyone else I would have said was stricken, and I had to say something. “Look, don’t feel so guilty about drinking my blood. It was my idea.”

  “Why?”

  Oh, damn. I should have known that question would come. “You were dying.”

  “I was dead. Why did you decide to bring me back?”

  “Why the hell did you give me your tattoos and go through the Portal without them? Why did you die for me?”

  He moved toward me, and I struggled to sit up. This closeness made me uneasy, as always. To my shock he reached out and cupped my face with one hand, his thumb gently brushing against my parted lips.

  “An error in judgment,” he said in a whisper.

  I opened my mouth and took his thumb inside, sucking gently on it, the sensation rocketing to my core. I grew wet immediately. I wanted him, all of him, and this was the only piece he had given me.

  He looked down at me out of dark, unreadable eyes as he slowly, deliberately moved his thumb in and out of my mouth, and I wanted more, I wanted his entire beautiful body as my playground, and I sucked on him as he slid his thumb past my lips, and his eyes glittered.

  He pulled away so abruptly that I couldn’t still my cry of loss, but he was already across the basement, out of my reach. As always.

  “Let’s agree that we both did stupid things for incomprehensible reasons and leave it at that.” The cool, distant archangel was back in place. He glanced toward the bright pool of light, an unreadable expression on his face. “If this looks like a suburban basement to you, then there should be an upstairs complete with food and fresh clothes. Are you going to loll on that bed all day or are you going to get your pretty little ass up?”

  I decided to concentrate on the fact that he thought my ass was pretty and little, which wasn’t strictly true, and not on the fact that two minutes ago he’d told me to stay in bed and rest. His Holiness was in a snit.

  I pushed away from the cement wall, swinging my long legs over the side of the bed. My skirts were hiked midway up my thighs, and I caught him looking. He realized it and turned away abruptly, and I felt a sudden, erotic jolt.

  So many contrasting emotions were flooding me that I felt dizzy. Lust and irritation went without saying. But . . . he’d come for me. He’d died for me. He had my blood inside him, making him strong. He had me inside him.

  And in willingly giving him my blood, my life force, I was afraid I’d given him more than that. I had given him love.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I WOULD HAVE LIKED TO BE THE ONE TO follow him up the wooden stairs, more to keep him from looking too closely at my bedraggled self than for a chance to admire his pretty little ass. My hands felt sticky, and I looked down and shuddered. They were covered with dried blood. My blood.

  So was the exposed part of my chest, though I didn’t seem to have any gaping wound. For all I knew, the red dress was soaked with my blood as well.

  He pushed me ahead of him, his hands now impersonal, and I climbed the stairs, holding my skirts up.

  I stopped dead when I opened the door at the top of the stairs and half-expected Michael to barrel into me, but he must have been suspecting something of the sort, because he paused, easily looking over my shoulder from one step below me.

  It looked like a kitchen out of the 1950s, a perfect ranch house with orange counters and avocado appliances. And they were in color. Not just color—the hues were blindingly bright.

  “What is this place?” I breathed.

  “I told you. It’s the Darkness.”

  “This doesn’t look like any dark I’ve seen.”

  He gave me a little push, and I stumbled into the room. “There’s probably food here,” he said. “Why don’t you eat something while I see if I can find us some clothes.”

  I held up my bloody hands. “Speaking of eating,” I replied with no tact at all, “I’d really like to wash before I do anything else. Unless you’d like to lick it off me?” Oh, God, where the hell had that come from?

  Something flared in his eyes, and I couldn’t tell if it was hunger or irritation. Whichever it was, it was dangerous.

  “I would suggest you tread carefully with me, Victoria Bellona,” he said in a deceptively mild voice.

  I wasn’t about to let him see how he affected me. “Yes, Your Angelness.”

  “That isn’t even a word.”

  “I’m creative.”

  He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I’m sure you’ll find exactly what you need here.”

  I went wandering, just as happy to get away from him as he was to be rid of me. There were two bathrooms, both with pink tile and fixtures and fish murals on the walls. No freestanding shower, but I turned on the water in the tub and it not only worked, it was hot.

  I washed my hands in the pink sink, thinking that the advent of color wasn’t necessarily a good thing. I had no idea why these hues were so bright—perhaps I was simply reacting to a couple of days of sepia and gray. Nevertheless, a little pink went a long way. And I would have been just as happy not to see the brownish-red stains on my hands, the colors swirling down the sink like the shower scene in Psycho. Though, come to think of it, that movie had been in black-and-white as well.

  I checked what appeared to be the master bedroom. I knew instinctively that no one had ever lived here, ever would live here, so I felt no compunction about raiding the closet. There wasn’t much to raid. Several cheery dresses, the kind you wore with heels and pearls to do your vacuuming, and a fluffy pink evening gown.

  I settled for a strange sort of skirt that wrapped around my waist and reached below my knees and a white T-shirt that clearly belonged to the man of the nonexistent family. I bypassed the girdle but resigned myself to the industrial-size panties. I was ignoring the pointy bras altogether. The archangel already spent too much time looking at my breasts, and at least my smaller ones could get lost in the white cotton, rather than poking in his face. Much as I’d like to seduce him, for the moment I figured it was a lost cause.

  But the shower was heavenly, even if the shampoo came in a green tube that looked more like toothpaste. I soaped my body lavishly, then froze. Not all his tattoos had left me. There was a mark on my right hip, one I couldn’t begin to decipher. I scrubbed at it, but it didn’t fade, and it didn’t move, the way Michael’s did. Strange. I certainly wasn’t going to say anything to Michael about it. He’d probably done it on purpose, and he was waiting to see how long it would take me to mention it. He was going to have a long wait. I deliberately didn’t look down, not in the mood to see more dried blood go down the drain. When I finally climbed out of the huge pink tub and wrapped myself in fluffy pink towels, I felt almost human.

  Which I wasn’t, I reminded myself, turning to stare at my reflection in the mirror. I was an immortal goddess with no powers. Whoopee.

  The face that looked back at me was pale as always, my black hair such a mess I wondered if I’d ever tame it. There was a mark above my breast where I had cut myself. It had healed completely, but a thin red line marked the place where he’d put his mouth and drunk deeply. I shivered in reaction, not disgust but something else. Something deeper, more primal.

  I pulled on the clothes quickly, not surprised by the
ir perfect fit. Michael was wrong. This was far too much like Sheol. I had little doubt I’d find exactly what I wanted to eat in that ghastly refrigerator.

  I was wrong. No Diet Coke; instead there were small, heavy glass bottles of regular Coke, and it tasted even worse than the diet stuff.

  There were saltines and cans of tomato soup, milk in glass bottles and bread the consistency of foam rubber. I looked at it all helplessly. I had never cooked in my life, and the stove scared me.

  I certainly wasn’t going to let Michael know it. The can of soup came with directions, and the stove turned on easily enough, the concentric rings of the burner turning bright red. I poured milk into a saucepan along with the condensed soup, and began to stir with the only implement I could find, a wooden spoon.

  It didn’t scorch too badly, and I poured some in a pink plastic bowl, only to see Michael watching me from the doorway.

  He had taken a shower as well and his short hair was still damp and curly. He’d shaved, an interesting concept—I’d rather liked the stubble that had adorned his too-perfect face. He was wearing a twin to my T-shirt and a pair of baggy khakis. He looked like a man out of time. He looked delicious.

  “The soup tastes better if you crumble the saltines into it, rather than have them on the side,” he observed, casting a surreptitious glance at the half-filled saucepan.

  “Help yourself,” I said from my spot at the white metal table. “I left enough for you.”

  He didn’t hesitate, though he frowned at the scorch mark at the bottom of the pan.

  “Look, give me a break,” I said. “I’ve never cooked anything before.”

  He opened one of the square packs of saltines and crushed them in his big hands, dropping them into his bowl and stirring until he ended up with a kind of brick-colored sludge. He took the seat opposite me, digging in with relish. “Never?” he said in disbelief.

  “Never. I wasn’t allowed out of my room except to train. Of course, I watched years of Julia Child, but while I expect I could butterfly a leg of lamb or whip up a soufflé with a copper bowl and a balloon whisk, Julia never explained the intricacies of opening a can of soup.”