Warrior (Fallen)

by Kristina Douglas

  I felt my heart stop and then start again, faster. He kissed me again, and I followed his lead, the leisurely discovery of taste and tongue and teeth, and I ran my hands over his close-cropped head, loving the feel of him. He lifted me higher, pulling me into his arms, as the kiss deepened naturally, the slow embers of desire building, building.

  He was wearing a shirt, and I wanted it off him. I slid my hands beneath the collar, reveling in the feel of his hot skin, and tried to unfasten the buttons; but my fingers were clumsy, and he laughed. “Wrong shirt?” he said.

  I simply yanked it apart. The buttons went flying and he laughed again, shrugging out of it before putting his hands back on me, sliding up my arms to the straps of the gown.

  I don’t know how he managed to deal with it, but a moment later he’d pushed it down to my waist. “Only fair,” he whispered, and lay down beside me, pulling me against him, my bare breasts pressed against his chest, and the feeling was glorious. I moved, rubbing against him, and the arousal was overwhelming. I wanted more, and I didn’t know what to do.

  “Tory,” he whispered in my ear. “You don’t have to be frightened. It’s just me. Just this body you’ve already had a time or two. Do what feels good.”

  My eyes met his, and the last of my uncertainty fell away. He wasn’t going to leave me. He wasn’t going to betray me. We were past all that. We were going to make love, and I was going to do everything I’d ever dreamed about, and then do it all over again.

  I gently pushed him onto his back, and he went easily, his eyes hooded. I slid my hands up his chest, over the muscles that banded his ribs, covering the flat nipples, then moving down over his stomach. He lifted his hand to catch mine, to guide me, and then dropped it. Waiting for me.

  I slid my hand down and covered him, and I almost pulled back in blind panic. He was that big? He’d already unfastened his jeans, probably not wanting to risk permanent damage from my nervous hands, and I shoved them down his narrow hips. I had never thought a penis was beautiful. I didn’t even like the word. But he was gorgeous. Big and hard, pale with blue veins, and I circled him with my hand, loving the feel of him, silken skin over iron.

  He was watching me, breathing heavily, but he made no move to push me. And I did what I’d been dreaming about. I put my mouth on him, drawing him in deep.

  He arched off the bed, his hands gripping the sheet, and I felt his cock jerk in my mouth. And then I stopped thinking, loving the feel of him in my mouth, the taste of him, the scent of his skin, the pounding of his heart, the absolute fierceness of his arousal that was for me and me alone. I tried to take more, and more, but he was too big, and I started to shake with need, when he finally reached down and lifted me off him. “Next time,” he whispered. “I want to come inside you tonight.”

  I started to lie down on the mattress, but he moved, turning me so that I was on my knees on the bed, and he stripped the nightgown off me entirely, kicking off his jeans. He held me in place, coming up behind me, his hands on my hips.

  “Put your hands on the bed,” he whispered.

  I did it immediately and felt him against me, against my sex, sliding against the wetness between my legs. “Do you want this?” he whispered.

  I nodded, unable to speak, and he pushed forward, into me, sliding into the soft folds of my sex, and the angle was exquisite, shocking, wonderful. He was slow, inexorable, even bigger from this position, filling me inch by inch until I wanted to cry out. I put my face down in the sheets to stifle the noise I wanted to make, and the angle made his invasion easier, so that he slid the last bit, up against my womb.

  He began to move, and I sobbed with need, shivering beneath him. I wanted this to go on forever, I wanted my sex to grip him and never let go. He moved one hand down over my stomach, between my legs, and touched me as he surged inside, and I shrieked as the first powerful climax hit me like a lightning bolt.

  I felt my entire body ignite. He continued to thrust, slow and steady, as he caressed me, and no sooner did I start to come down than I shot to the stars again with that same driving force. I buried my face in the sheets, clutching them, sobbing, thrashing. I could hear my voice from a distance, begging him, begging him not to stop.

  And then it became too much. It frightened me, the darkness he was drawing me into; it was the death I was facing, and I wanted to tell him no, but he kept moving, and my mouth was filled with nothing but needy sobs as we went deeper and deeper into a place I hadn’t imagined existed, and the fear mixed with an incredulous joy as the last inhibition shattered, and there was nothing left but Michael and me.

  He thrust, so hard he was shaking the bed, pounding into me, and I reveled in it, in the pleasure-pain of it. He froze, and I felt his climax inside me as a final paroxysm shook me, and I lifted my face and screamed.

  We fell together, his body wrapped around mine, holding me tightly as a blanket of feathers enclosed us, and I reveled in Michael’s black wings, impossibly, feathery soft, wrapping us in the aftermath of our lovemaking, and then I stopped thinking anything at all.

  We didn’t talk for a long time. He stroked me, brushing the tears off my cheeks, and I turned my head for his long, sweet kiss before settling back against him. I had never felt so safe, so loved, in my entire life. This was Michael, my bonded mate, my lover. He was mine, for as long as I lived.

  I reached up sleepily, pushing my hair away from my neck, exposing my vein to him. I wanted him to drink from me, to take from me, but I didn’t know if he would. A moment later I felt the slight sting as he broke the skin, and then the slow, seductive suck of his mouth against me, and I drifted off in blissful arousal.

  If I had known, I would still choose this. Choose him. The world I had wanted to discover lay within him and me, and even if there wasn’t enough time, there was more than enough love.

  I was content.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-ONE

  ALLIE LAY IN BED, AFRAID TO MOVE. She would throw up again, she was certain of it. No one seemed to have the vaguest idea what to do about her stomach bug. She’d been sick for weeks now, barely able to keep anything down, and yet, despite Sarah’s promises that no one ever changed in Sheol, she seemed to be gaining weight.

  She needed to get up. Today was the day they had dreaded, the day they knew would come. Uriel would send the Armies of Heaven against them, and the Fallen would prevail. After disappearing for weeks, Michael had returned in time, bringing the goddess of war with him.

  And she would die.

  Michael was in love with the girl. Allie had needed only one look at him, as he watched Tory run from him on the beach, to know that the impossible had happened. The Archangel Michael, always so determined to keep aloof from life, had fallen for good, embracing the humanity he’d always avoided so assiduously.

  He’d taken her blood as well, when he’d sworn never to drink any more than the little the Source offered. In the end it would make no difference, Martha said. Whether he’d taken Tory or not, her death on the bloody sands was assured. At least this way there was some joy before the inevitable parting.

  It was a good thing he wouldn’t be looking to the Source—she had been called upon so often in the last few weeks that she figured that must be partly to blame for her constant sleepiness. To be sure, none of the unattached angels drank much. And Allie did her best to eat spinach and liver, though she really shouldn’t be anemic. Women in Sheol didn’t have periods, because their bodies didn’t change, and there were no babies to be had.

  And she wasn’t going to think about that. She’d let it go. She couldn’t spend the rest of her life mourning the inevitable. It distressed Raziel. It distressed them all.

  She’d already made peace with that. Loving Raziel as she did, she decided it would be enough for her. And for years it had been enough.

  It wasn’t as if she even had a biological clock ticking. While the other women in Sheol lived out long but normal lives, there was a good chance she’d make it several hundred years o
r more, thanks to the blood Raziel had given her when she had been dying from a sword thrust. Such gifts were strictly forbidden, and it was a lucky thing that Allie hadn’t died from the cure. Instead it had saved her, made her stronger, surer, more powerful.

  She’d never touched his blood again. He would take hers, and if she felt a strange sort of longing she ignored it, finding enough sensuous satisfaction in the giving of blood. After all, she was ostensibly still human, even if it was up in the air whether she was technically alive or not, having been whisked away to Sheol after her fatal encounter with a bus but before being cast into the afterlife Uriel had planned for her. Humans couldn’t digest blood—she’d looked it up on the Internet once in that previous life when she’d considered writing a book about biblical vampires. Little had she known how close that was to the truth.

  Funny, but she didn’t miss the Internet, or television. She still had books, and she wrote. Anything worth doing was worth doing for love, and there was something freeing about not having to worry about sales and marketing. She could just write, and no one would look over her shoulder.

  Except Raziel, who would snort in disbelief and then make her act out the love scenes in bed. Which was perfectly fine with her. As long as this intermittent nausea wasn’t plaguing her.

  Raziel wasn’t going to die today. She refused to consider that possibility. Besides, she would know, and if that were the case she would drug him and tie him up and hide him until the danger passed. There was no way in hell she was going to let him die, no matter how mad he got. To hell with honor and duty. She was keeping her man safe.

  But her Spidey-senses told her he’d be fine. Even so, she couldn’t loll around in bed while the Fallen were risking their lives. She needed to be there, for moral support if nothing more. She wasn’t sure she could wield a sword at this point, though maybe she could throw up on someone.

  She sat up slowly. Raziel had already left the bed, though he’d held her in his arms all night long. It was just past dawn, and the Fallen would be assembling on the beach, awaiting the first wave of Uriel’s armies.

  And, damn it, she was going to be there too.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-TWO

  IT WAS AN EXQUISITELY BEAUTIFUL morning. I walked out into the dawn-lit sky, listening to the gulls as they cried, watching their graceful swoop and dive. Was there such a thing as reincarnation? If so, I might want to come back as a seagull, here in Sheol. The fish were plentiful, the ocean would surround me, and I could watch over Michael to my heart’s content.

  But I wasn’t going to think about that now. There was a job to be done, and it was a good day to die. I would die cleanly, bravely, with the minimum of fuss. I just hoped it would be at the end of the day, when victory was assured, and not at the very start of the battle.

  Michael held my hand, his grip a little too firm. I felt almost tender. It would be worse, much worse, if he really loved me the way the euphoria had forced him to profess. He cared about me, I knew it. He did love me, just a little, though he was still fighting it. And he would grieve, I had no doubt.

  But he would get over it. He had been alive since the dawn of time; he had done horrific things and wondrous ones. During the small, quiet hours of the morning he’d confessed, driven by some need, and I’d heard it all, holding him in my arms. And when it was over I’d kissed him, and I felt his grief. He would be alive for millennia more, time enough to make amends for all the harm he’d done at Uriel’s behest, if he felt the need to. I wouldn’t be there. He might even forget all about me. I was a mere blip on the endless timeline of his life.

  I smiled up at him. His face was carved in granite, his eyes like obsidian. He was a man with everything held firmly in check. A soldier ready for battle.

  I was trussed in lightweight armor at his insistence. I humored him, though I knew it would do no good. He’d had far longer to get used to the inevitable, but clearly he wasn’t able to let go. If I could accept it, so could he.

  I looked up at him and a little part of me melted as I relived the feel of him, the taste of him, the sweet joy of giving and taking. I would die with his seed inside me, with the marks of his lovemaking on my breasts, on my thighs. I would die happy.

  We were a ragtag group, I thought, glancing down the line. Everyone was on the beach, more than I could begin to count, the Fallen and their wives and a few widows, armed with every sort of weapon. No guns, thank God. Guns were too impersonal. If someone was going to kill me, I wanted to see his face.

  It was after 6 a.m., almost full daylight, and the ocean had calmed, as if it knew all the drama was going to be played out on the sand. Rachel stood beside Azazel, both of them calm and determined. I could see others whose faces I knew but whose names were unfamiliar. Raziel paced before everyone, but there was no sign of Allie. I glanced back and saw her standing at the main entrance of the house, watching over everyone. She looked pale but composed, and there was a strange light emanating from her. I gazed at her, and felt an irrational hope for the future.

  “We’re all glad you’re back, Victoria Bellona,” Asbel’s soft voice intruded, and I jumped, startled. I hadn’t noticed him so close to us, his sword drawn, waiting with the others.

  I summoned a smile. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said lightly.

  The sun was shining cheerfully, glinting off the ocean, sparkling in the sand. It made the sudden darkness so much more startling as the sky was filled with shadows, and we all looked up, into a heaven filled with what seemed like a thousand winged creatures all heading toward us, blotting out the sun.

  I tried to pull my hand free of Michael’s, but he held on tightly, and I yanked at it till he turned to look at me. I gave him a warm smile. “You can’t hold on forever, Your Saintliness,” I said lightly. “We have a battle to win.”

  For a moment I thought he wouldn’t release me. The first wave of angel-soldiers had landed on the beach, the first clash of metal on metal resounding through the early-morning air.

  “I’ll look out for her,” Asbel said.

  “No one’s looking out for me,” I said firmly. “You will look out for yourselves.”

  Michael didn’t move, and in his dark, dark eyes I read love. “I need to tell you one thing,” he said, drawing his sword with his other hand.

  “Okay.”

  “I’m immune to euphoria.” He brought my hand up to his mouth and kissed it, hard, before releasing it. And then, with a furious roar, he drew his flaming sword and charged into battle.

  I had never been in a war before. The movies had it wrong—there was no glory, no courage, no sense. Just noise and blood and sweat as we slashed our way through Uriel’s army.

  There were so many of them, faceless angels, their wings stark white, a strange contrast to the deep hues of the Fallen, Raziel’s iridescent blue, Azazel’s jet black, the deep, burnished darkness of Michael’s wings that had felt so soft around us. Wave after wave they came, dressed in armor, wielding swords.

  The energy burned through my body, down my arms, and I flung it at the angels overhead, hearing their screams as they caught fire and plummeted to the ground. Over and over I sent the punishing bolts of energy into their midst, until the battle came to me, and I had no choice but to draw my own sword and fight hand-to-hand. I couldn’t count, but the ground was thick with them, and more were coming. I hacked and slashed my way through, ignoring the cries of pain, ignoring the blows that hit me. There was no way any of us would come out of this—we were outmanned, outmaneuvered. It didn’t matter that Michael had spent the time between arriving back in Sheol and coming to my bed involved in feverish planning. Even the most brilliant tactician couldn’t succeed against such insurmountable odds.

  It didn’t matter. I couldn’t think about outcome or survivors; all I could do was fight my way through this faceless crush of warriors, angels, friend, and foe, and push them back toward the sea. Rachel had told me the sea healed the Fallen. I had no idea why we were driving our ene
mies toward it, but I followed orders without question. In a moment I knew.

  As each wave of angels landed, their blindingly white wings furled, disappearing and leaving no sign on their strong backs as they charged into battle.

  But the moment their feet touched the water the wings unfurled, large and unwieldy, dragging in the seawater, soaking in it, until they were dragged down, helpless beneath their own murderous weight, and I felt hope burst in my heart. I didn’t have time to think of right or wrong, or the horror of taking joy in another’s death. This war was not of our choosing, and if we didn’t stop the invaders they would bring that war to the world, destroying humankind as if they were locusts. I pushed, forcing another into the sea, ignoring the blood that splattered me, ignoring the cries and howls of fury, ignoring everything but what I must do.

  I had to get as far from Michael as I could. Three times I saw him leave what he was doing to slash at someone heading my way, his vicious, flaming sword a beacon in the bright sunlight. I knew he was still trying to protect me. Didn’t he know it didn’t matter? He loved me. The foolish, tender things he’d told me in that sickly-sweet land hadn’t been brought out by euphoria; they had been real. He loved me, and that would be enough. Even if our time together was short, it had been glorious.

  More angels were descending, but the beach was filled with fighting men and bodies strewn about, and there was no place to alight. Many attempted to land on the edge of the surf, only to be pulled immediately into the water’s depths. Others tried to drop down atop the broken bodies of their comrades, but lost their balance and had to face the fury of the Fallen. Wave after wave, till the beach was soaked with blood and the water ran red, till the cries of the wounded and dying filled the air. In the distance I saw Metatron, fighting with a ferocity matched only by Michael’s, and I knew a moment’s confusion.