Warrior (Fallen)

by Kristina Douglas

  The Archangel Michael had no real interest in me, unless you could count his reaction when I’d shown up in his bed, naked. The memory shamed me—he was more than capable of resisting me. I was never going to put myself in that position again. It didn’t matter that I seemed to have developed the equivalent of a teenage crush on him. I wasn’t going to offer again. I slammed the cupboard door as hard as I could and yanked open the refrigerator, my hands hot and tingling.

  Oops. Stronger than I realized in my blind rage. The upper hinge broke, leaving the door hanging lopsided.

  There was no separate freezer door, only a small compartment in the center. No ice cream, only ice cubes, and while my frustration and fury burned as hot as my hands, I didn’t think the cubes were going to help.

  “What the hell are you doing in there?” Michael demanded in a muffled roar.

  “Venting my frustrations,” I snapped, pulling the other hinge free and throwing the refrigerator door across the small kitchen with a satisfying crash.

  No sound from the living room. I yanked open another cupboard, grabbed one of the plates, and flung it across the room. Oddly enough, the crash was more satisfying than the heavy sound of the refrigerator door, and I reached for another.

  Hands closed over my wrists, yanking me around to face Michael’s thunderous expression. I tried to knee him—I was past any sense of fair play—and he sidestepped the crippling blow at the last moment, the flame of fury in his eyes growing hotter. He shook me hard, until I bit my tongue, and in response I smashed my head against his mouth, happy with his muffled cry of pain.

  He shook me again, gripping my wrists so tightly that my hands were growing numb. “Had enough?” he demanded furiously.

  “Not even close,” I snapped back.

  And then we both froze. He looked down at me, bafflement and rage fading from his face. His mouth was bleeding. “Oh, shit,” he said.

  He released my wrists. I didn’t know if he was going to try to pull away, but I wasn’t going to give him that chance.

  “Oh, shit, indeed,” I said, my eyes daring him.

  His mouth on mine was hard and angry, and I could taste his blood. It should have horrified me. It didn’t. I put my arms around his neck and kissed him back, letting my blood mingle with his, and a moment later he picked me up and set me on the kitchen counter, moving between my legs. His hands slid up under my T-shirt and touched my breasts, and I moaned into his mouth, hot pleasure filling me. I needed this so badly, I needed his body against mine, I needed his fingers squeezing my nipples, I needed the hard bulge of his cock between my legs.

  I held on to him tightly, half-afraid he’d pull away, but for now he had given up fighting. He lifted his mouth, and the blood on his lower lip was smeared. “You have blood on your mouth,” he said in a rough voice. And he leaned over and licked me, catching it with his tongue.

  It was a test, I knew. But it was an easy A. I’d already given him my blood, forced it on him. I felt no squeamish hesitation. In truth, when he had drawn the blood from the cut I’d made in my flesh, the sensation had been disturbingly erotic. I wanted him to do it again.

  His hand slid down between us, yanking the skirt up to my hips. “Shit,” he muttered again when he encountered the underwear. And then the panties were gone, sliding down my legs and sailing across the room to land on the discarded refrigerator door with a lot less noise.

  I wanted to touch him. I wanted to kiss him, to suck him, to taste him, but things were moving too fast, and when he touched me I burned, hot and sweet, needing more.

  “Christ,” he swore as I arched against him, and I knew a dazed moment of bemusement. Christianity didn’t seem to have anything to do with the Fallen or the strange worlds to which I’d been banished; but then all that left me as he slid his long fingers inside me.

  I shattered, letting out a low, keening wail, and he caught the cry from my mouth, drinking it in. Distantly I heard the clang of his belt buckle and the rasp of his zipper, and then he was inside me, sliding deep, pulling my legs around his narrow hips. I was already wet, aroused, my body accepting, and I clung to him, shocked. I felt like a boat on a stormy ocean, adrift in a tempest of sensation so powerful I could focus only on his body and what it was doing to mine. I could feel my nipples contract, almost painfully, as he thrust inside me again and again, and my breath caught, my entire being contracting into a bundle of overpowering sensations.

  My head banged against the cupboard above me, and then everything tilted as he picked me up, swinging me away from the Formica so that he supported me entirely in his strong arms. I could move now, levering myself on his cock, and I clutched his shoulders as I slid down on him. I moved with deliberate slowness, teasing him, savoring him now that the first rush of climax was past.

  He was cursing, low, guttural sounds that were even more arousing, and I tightened my legs around him, tightened my core around him, and he turned again, falling back against the opposite counter, bracing himself.

  I could sense the ripples of pleasure building, building, and I felt a flash of fear. This was too much; I was giving away too much power. I would lose everything, I would die. I couldn’t—

  He lifted his head and his black eyes bored down into mine, and I knew what he needed, what I needed, when he would have denied us both. Everything coalesced, and the fear vanished. I threw my head back, exposing my neck to his mouth. “Take my blood.”

  This time there was no hesitation. The sharp, sweet sting as he broke the skin was a triumph, and that was my last conscious thought as I shattered, and he followed, his seed filling me, my blood filling him, giving, taking, life and death, a climax so powerful that the world seemed to blank out. Next thing I knew we were both lying in a tangle on the linoleum flooring of the horrible kitchen I’d tried to destroy, a kitchen I’d suddenly grown to love.

  I lay sprawled across Michael’s body, my heart still racing God knew how long after. I’d lost my skirt somewhere along the way and the T-shirt was rucked up under my arms. He must have kicked off the khakis at some point, and I could hear his heart beating just as furiously beneath my head.

  I wasn’t sure what to do. What I wanted was to burst into noisy sobs and tell him I loved him. For all I knew, I’d done exactly that in the last few moments, but I had postcoital amnesia. I simply let myself drift in the feathery soft cocoon of his wings wrapped around us.

  Slowly his heartbeat returned to normal, a little before mine did, and his wings retracted and vanished. I felt cold, exposed. I needed to pull myself together. “So,” I said, and there was nothing I could do about how raw my voice was, “are we lying on shards of broken china?”

  For a long moment he seemed to hold his breath, and then he let it out, and I told myself I was relieved. “You’re a brat,” he said.

  “Yes.” He picked me up, and I pressed my tear-damp face against his chest.

  “Where are we going?” I always seemed to be asking that question.

  But this time the Archangel Michael answered. “To find a bed.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  MARTHA HATED CHAOS. HER life before she came to Sheol had been full of drama and disaster, with an alcoholic mother, younger siblings who needed constant supervision, and so many responsibilities that she’d felt old by the time she was sixteen. It was little wonder she’d taken one look at Thomas’s kindly face and fallen into his arms.

  Sheol was in chaos right now. The Source was suffering from an indisposition that no one wanted to name, though Martha knew as well as Rachel what troubled Allie. She was suffused with sorrow and longing for the baby that no Fallen had sired, and the blood that she gave the angels left them mournful as well. So she stayed in bed and wept when no one was watching.

  Martha had brought her ginger tea to soothe her troubled stomach, and Allie had managed to drink half the cup, albeit under duress. In the other room Raziel was meeting with some of his chief advisors, and his angry voice carried into the bedroom wh
ere Martha and Rachel sat, keeping Allie company.

  “Go tell them to shut up, would you, Martha?” Rachel said absently, holding Allie’s hands. “I’m working on something.”

  Martha wanted to protest. She hated anger and confrontation, and the leadership of the Fallen consisted of nothing but anger right now. But Rachel’s mysterious gifts were far too beneficial. Martha could offer the grief-stricken Source ginger tea. Rachel could offer healing.

  She closed the bedroom door behind her as she stepped into the colorful living room, taking a deep breath, but no one noticed her. Metatron and Azazel were glaring at each other—in Michael’s absence, Metatron had taken his place, though his training methods had managed to offend more than a few warriors. Asbel was there—a surprise, when he was usually so unassuming, but Martha was glad of it. Asbel was calm, restrained among so many hotheads. He could keep things in line.

  Raziel was deep in conversation with Tamlel, but the Alpha lifted his head, focusing his intent gaze on Martha’s face. “Is my wife all right?” he demanded in a rough voice.

  “Yes, my lord,” she said hurriedly. “Rachel is working with her, helping her to feel better. Her stomach is troubled.”

  “Her heart is troubled,” Asbel said softly, and Martha frowned. Raziel had enough to deal with right now. He didn’t need guilt and worry compounding things.

  “She’ll be fine,” she said firmly. “Just give her a little time and things should right themselves.”

  Raziel nodded, looking unconvinced, and she turned away, secure that voices had lowered when they were reminded Allie was nearby, but Raziel’s voice stopped her.

  “Had any good visions lately?” he asked in his cool, cynical tone.

  She shook her head, reaching for the door handle.

  “Because we need to know where the hell Michael and his wife are.” His voice exploded with frustration. “We have two weeks before the Armies of Heaven attack—that is, if your previous vision is to be believed—and the most important people on our side have disappeared. We’re just lucky Michael thinks people work better on their own, or we’d be in deep shit. I’m not convinced we’re not. What are our chances of surviving if Michael and Victoria Bellona don’t return in time?”

  She didn’t waste time trying to scour her mind for a vision that never came when summoned. “I don’t know, my lord. My vision said they would both be here.”

  “But things can change, can’t they? According to Rachel and Asbel, the goddess was kidnapped, and Michael went after her. Couldn’t that kidnapping have thrown the preordained future into dis-array?”

  “Possibly.” Her voice was cautious. “But I have yet to see any change of vision. I think that if things had altered that drastically, I would see something.”

  “Are you sure?” Raziel barked.

  She wanted to growl herself, but she remembered that she never lost her temper. Certainly not with the lord of the Fallen. “No, my lord,” she said. “I’m not sure of anything. I can only tell you what I believe to the best of my ability.”

  Raziel made a derisive sound, dismissing her as he turned back to the others. “We have to come up with some kind of alternate plan in case they don’t return in time.”

  Azazel glanced over at Martha, then back to Raziel. “I believe he will. I believe they both will.”

  “And then the goddess will be destroyed,” Asbel said. “Sad, but unavoidable. The future of all the Fallen is more important than the life of one girl.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Raziel snapped. Clearly he didn’t find Asbel all that soothing. “And we aren’t all the Fallen. There are a few more of us scattered all over the world.”

  Asbel looked abashed, his pale eyes lowering. “I don’t believe there’s anything we can do. Either they will return or they won’t.”

  “Brilliant,” Azazel muttered, and Martha remembered suddenly that Azazel didn’t like Asbel any more than he liked Metatron.

  Raziel rose, looking at her as she tried to make her escape back to the Source’s bedroom. “Is there anything more we can do?” he demanded, glowering.

  She met his gaze fearlessly. “We can pray, my lord.”

  MICHAEL LAY AWAKE in the small bed, holding her. She was curled up against him, sleeping, trusting, and he was holding his rampant lust in check. They’d had sex again when they got in bed, this time slowly, deliciously. She’d lain beneath him, accepting, looking up into his eyes as he thrust into her with fierce deliberation, pushing her, slowly, slowly, letting it build until she was shivering and gasping, until he couldn’t keep from letting go, holding still inside her, spilling into her as the tight walls of her sex spasmed with climax. His wings wrapped around them, cradling them, and he fell back against her, exhausted, replete. He hadn’t taken her blood this time, though he could smell it, feel it dancing beneath her skin, longed for it. He couldn’t understand it. He seemed to want her blood as much as he wanted her body wrapped around his. He’d never been at the mercy of his appetites before, and it disturbed him. He craved her, body and blood, like an addict.

  And because he’d taken her blood, she was going to die.

  He moved slightly, resting his chin against her tousled hair, holding her loosely so she wouldn’t wake up. They had to get out of here. He had no idea how fast time was progressing—it moved differently in the Darkness. All he knew was that they had to get back. He had to save Sheol even if he couldn’t save Tory.

  He had no idea how long the night would last here in the Darkness. It was random, though he’d once known how to control it. He had lost that ability when he’d fallen, but he still understood more about this terrible place than anyone still living, even Uriel. Uriel, who had never been to this place he ruled, leaving it to his enforcer, the Flaming Sword.

  If it were up to him, the night could last forever. But the Armies of Heaven would attack whether he was there or not, and if he left the Fallen alone with no one to lead them into battle, they would be defeated. Destroyed.

  He couldn’t do that. He had been created for war, and the upcoming battle was a righteous one. He couldn’t throw away his duty and honor for the sake of the girl curled up in his arms. He was surprised he even wanted to.

  But everything about her surprised him, not least his reaction to her. She was a warrior like he was, but she felt fragile when she lay in his arms, and he was filled with the need to protect her. Which was ridiculous—she could make mincemeat of anyone who came near her, with the lone exception of himself. He still marveled at the refrigerator door she’d torn off. He’d never been so turned on in his existence.

  But dawn was coming and fate was making its demands. The war was coming, and he was made to lead. It was time to go.

  HE WOKE ME with the gentlest kiss on my temple, his lips near my ear. “We have to go.” And if he felt any reluctance as he pulled away from me, I couldn’t sense it.

  My body ached in places I didn’t know I could ache. My womb felt battered. My breasts ached and my thighs still trembled.

  For some reason my shoulders and arms hurt, and then I remembered why. I had torn the refrigerator door off its hinges in my blind fury. In retrospect, that both shocked and impressed me. I seldom lost my temper, and I hadn’t been that furious since I found out Johann had betrayed me.

  I was stronger than I’d been at eighteen. I was someone to contend with, and I found that thought curiously soothing.

  Michael came back into the room, naked, and I jerked my eyes away from below his waist. He was enticingly beautiful enough, an angel-succubus, and I didn’t need further temptation.

  “You have just enough time to clean up.” His voice was cool and matter-of-fact, as if we’d spent the night playing checkers, and the tentative smile on my face died before it was born. “If you want to wash, you’d better hurry.”

  He began pulling on his clothes—going commando, I couldn’t fail to notice. Damn it. He’d set the tone of the day, but I could play it too.

  “Give me f
ifteen minutes and I’ll be ready.” I didn’t want to get out of the bed in front of him. After last night I would have thought I’d be entirely comfortable with nudity, but apparently I was wrong.

  “Make it ten, or I’ll haul your ass out naked,” he said, forever the gentle lover.

  Asshole, I thought, sitting up with only a slight wince, holding the sheet up. “Then go away and let me get ready in private.”

  I should have known I was playing with fire. He looked at me for a long moment, then crossed the room, yanked the sheet out of my hands, and scooped me up, ignoring my furious flailing as he carried me into that lurid pink bathroom. He dumped me feet-first into the tub, turned on the water, and left.

  The first blast was icy and I shrieked, reaching for the knobs. The shower here was wretched, I’d discovered earlier, the hot and cold taps separated, and there was no way to regulate the water properly. It was either frigid or scalding, and I started to believe this was hell after all.

  I worked quickly. When I stepped from the bath I would be renewed, the slate wiped clean. Michael wanted to act like it had never happened, and that was fine with me. I could ignore how my body tightened when I thought of him. I could control the way my very blood seemed to cry out for him. I could control my temper, control my longing.

  I just couldn’t control him.

  The mark was still there, low on my hip, indecipherable. I stared at it—what did it mean? Why had it remained? I couldn’t ask Michael. To show him I would have to shove down my pants, and that was the last thing I wanted. The tender lover from the dark hours had disappeared, as well as the demanding one from the kitchen. We were back at square one.

  “Time’s up.” Locked doors weren’t about to stop His Scum-Sucking Holiness. He slammed it open while I was still dressing. I was about to snarl at him when I saw he was carrying a pair of plain white sneakers in his other hand. For shoes I would forgive just about anything.