Warrior (Fallen)

by Kristina Douglas

  One of the invading angels struck me in the side, the blow partially deflected by the armor Michael had insisted I wear, and I fell to one knee, the breath knocked out of me. My enemy moved in, his blade held high to bring down a killing stroke.

  I shoved my sword up into his throat and felt his hot blood spray me before he pitched forward into the sand. I rolled out of the way just in time, springing to my feet again as more of the enemy landed.

  Time lost its meaning. The noise faded into silence as the battle raged around me, and I continued to fight like a creature possessed. I couldn’t worry about when my own fatal blow would land. I had accepted that it would, and that I would fight until it came. I fought until my arms were numb, until my skin was stiff with blood splatter.

  They were dying all around me, and I reveled in it, as tears ran down my face. I killed, I wept, I triumphed. I fought as my feet slid in gore and blood-soaked sand, I fought until I knew I could fight no more, and I kept going, knowing my strength, my precious strength, was beginning to fail me.

  I looked up as the sky darkened once more, and my heart sank in despair. A huge cadre of our enemy had appeared in the sky, so thick with sharp white wings that they blocked out the sun. I wanted to drop my sword and send what fierce punishment I could into the sky, but the fighting was too thick around me, and I knew we were all going to die, and I would go down fighting.

  There was no place for them to land on the bloody beach, and they hovered, a phalanx of death. Then I saw Rachel in the distance, bloody, fierce, throwing her hands toward the sky.

  If she could do it, I could. I thrust my sword into the sand. I was going to die anyway; I might at least die trying. I could feel the heat rush through my body, down my arms, and I raised them and flung the bolts of energy directly into the enemy’s midst.

  The angels veered, trying to avoid it, just as a fierce wind caught them, and they plummeted, miscalculating, into the sea, pulled to their deaths in the beautiful ocean.

  And then, suddenly, there were no more to kill.

  I looked around me in blind exhaustion and disbelief. The fighting was winding down and I knew that, at least for now, we had prevailed.

  And I still lived. It made no sense, but I lived.

  I looked across the body-strewn beach, trying to see whom I could recognize among the dead and dying. In the distance I saw Michael, his massive sword ablaze, still fighting the few remaining soldiers, unable to stop until the last enemy was vanquished; if I hadn’t been numb, I would have smiled. But something was wrong.

  Someone jostled me and I spun, arms raised defensively, only to see Asbel, curiously unmarred by the bloody war, standing there with his sword drawn. “It’s you,” I said with relief. And then that relief vanished as I stopped and focused. And remembered the smell of him, cinnamon, just before I’d been knocked unconscious and delivered to Beloch. “It’s you,” I said again, a world of meaning in my voice.

  He glanced around him. “Sorry, goddess. Just following orders.” His sword glinted bright in the sunlight, and I tried to block him, but I was just too tired. I’d dropped my sword, my arms were numb, and I was frozen to the spot.

  It didn’t hurt. I felt the slash of his sword ripping through me, and the heat of my blood poured out. I put up my hands, trying to catch it, knowing it shouldn’t be wasted, as I sank to my knees in the sand. I could hear Michael’s roar of fury, and Asbel’s face turned white as he realized he’d been seen. It didn’t matter, I wanted to tell him. This was all preordained. Nothing could change it.

  My eyes were open long enough to see Asbel’s head spin from his body beneath Michael’s sword. I felt Michael fall to his knees beside me, pulling me into his arms, and I tried to smile up at him, to tell him it was all right, but my muscles were weak, my voice locked.

  All I could do was close my eyes and die.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-THREE

  MICHAEL ROSE, CRADLING HIS wife’s body against his. She was covered with blood, but this time it held no erotic allure. This time she was dying, the blood that had defined her draining away, and he wanted to scream in rage and denial.

  The survivors moved out of his way, silence all around them as he started toward the house. He had no idea where he was taking her, but he refused to leave her body with all the others, broken and torn. He pulled her against him as if he could contain the very last flicker of life before it went out entirely, and he knew this was one battle he couldn’t win. Seawater wouldn’t heal her—she wasn’t an angel. Already the wounded were wading in past the bodies floating in the water, white wings sodden and outstretched. But he couldn’t waste time worrying about his army, not now. All that mattered was Tory.

  He carried her up the lawn toward the wide front opening of the house, where the Source waited for them. He slipped, going down on one knee, and realized with shock that he was weeping. Angels didn’t weep.

  But he was weeping for Tory.

  “Put her down, Michael.”

  He heard Allie’s voice from a distance, but he ignored her. As long as he held Tory she wasn’t gone, and it would take an army to pry her away from him.

  He felt a cool, soothing hand on his bloody shoulder. “Put her down, Michael,” Allie said again. “She needs to let go.”

  He wanted to scream at her, but he knew it was useless. He would break Tory’s bones if he continued to grip her like this, and she deserved to be as beautiful in death as she had been in life. Slowly he loosened his hold, setting her down on the grass.

  The sound of her final breath leaving her was so quiet it was almost inaudible, and yet it thundered through his soul. He needed to put back his head and roar out his pain, but Allie knelt on one side of him, Martha on the other. Martha, with her fucking visions of death.

  “She’s gone,” Allie said. “She died on her birthday, yes, Martha?”

  “Yes.”

  He wanted to tell them to leave him alone to mourn, to weep, but Martha had put her strong hands on his other arm.

  “You can save her,” Allie said.

  Raziel’s ragged voice broke through. “Allie, no!”

  She ignored her husband. “At least you can try. Give her your blood, Michael.”

  He stared at her blankly.

  “It will kill her,” Azazel said flatly.

  Allie shot him a glance. “She’s already dead. There’s a chance he can save her.”

  “It’s forbidden,” one of the other Fallen insisted.

  “It’s never been done.”

  “It shouldn’t be done.”

  “It’s been done,” Raziel said finally. “It saved Allie, years ago, after Sammael attacked her.”

  Silence fell. Michael had lost his weapons along the way, sending his flaming blade spinning into the air after he decapitated the traitor Asbel. He held out a bloody hand to Raziel. “Give me a knife.”

  He thought Raziel would hesitate. He didn’t. The curved blade was clean, no enemy blood tainting it, and he ripped away his leather armor to draw the blade across his chest. Blood welled, and he realized he’d cut himself just as Tory had slashed her own chest in an effort to save him.

  “Don’t,” Tamlel cried. “It could kill you!”

  He ignored the warning. Scooping Tory up, he put her mouth against the bloody wound, pushing the warm, coppery liquid into her mouth, massaging her throat to make her swallow.

  The first flutter of movement was so slight he thought he’d imagined it. It grew stronger, a pulse of life slowly beginning to glow, and he tucked her against him carefully as she drank.

  He knew when she’d had enough. Her heartbeat had grown strong and clear, and she began to choke. He pulled her away, looking down into her pale face, her dazed green eyes, his blood on her mouth almost unbearably erotic. “What . . . the fuck . . . are you doing?” she choked out.

  He laughed. For the first time in his endless existence, he felt such joy that he thought he might die from it. But that was no way to deal with joy. “S
aving your life, Victoria Bellona.”

  She screwed up her face in expected annoyance. “You better not be turning me into a vampire, Your Saintliness.” She was still weak, the words barely audible, but he could see that the hideous wound on her body had already begun to heal. She would live.

  He managed a shrug. He had a gash across his back that would need stitches, he could do with a dip in the ocean if he could fight his way through the bodies, and they needed to count their losses and review their triumph. This had been only the first battle in a war that had been a long time coming.

  He was doing none of that. He was going to hold on to Tory until his arms went numb and she yelled at him to go away, which she would, sooner or later. But for now she was his, and he was never going to let her go.

  EPILOGUE

  MARTHA CLIMBED THE END-less stairs of the big house, a basket looped over one arm. Allie and Raziel still lived on the very top floor instead of in the traditional quarters for the Alpha and the Source, which made visiting a pain in the butt. She didn’t mind. Rachel would already be there, and she didn’t want to wait.

  It had been a very long day. By now the bodies of the dead had vanished, by Uriel’s hand or by those of the Fallen. Their own casualties had been very light, but each loss was heartbreak. Gabriel was alone now, his wife dead in the sand. Tobias and Gadrael were gone as well, and others were grievously injured.

  But Tory lived again, safe in the archangel’s arms. Never in her life had Martha so wanted a prophecy to be proven wrong. In the end it hadn’t mattered. Allie had held the secret of life. In more ways than one.

  It was a hard day, reminding her of the day she’d lost her Thomas, cut down by the Nephilim. She still bore scars across her own body. But Tory’s triumph was somehow a triumph for them all, a reassurance that perhaps it could be all right in the end.

  Martha never wanted a vision again in her life. In truth, she’d been trying to keep herself awake so she wouldn’t dream, hoping that would be enough to keep the worst of them at bay, but for a few short hours this afternoon she’d drifted off as she waited by Tory’s bed, holding the girl’s hand while someone worked on stitching up Michael’s back. She’d seen him then, the black angel who was coming, and she’d been filled with apprehension. There was no room for newcomers in Sheol. They didn’t need any more trouble, and this man, she could tell, was nothing but trouble. She knew his name, though she wasn’t sure how.

  Cain.

  She could only hope it would be years before he arrived. But her dreams were never in the distant future. Once envisioned, they came true far too quickly. A decent gift would give them time to plan, time to adjust. A decent gift would give clear answers.

  She finally reached the top floor, premonitions sweeping through her. Everything was about to change.

  Rachel let her in, a conspiratorial smile on her face. “She’s in bed.”

  “Is she all right?” Martha demanded, worried.

  “She’s fine. Just a little sick.”

  Martha couldn’t resist asking. “Do you have any sense that something might be wrong? I don’t, but it might be wishful thinking on my part. She’s wanted this for so long. We’ve all wanted this.”

  “She’s fine,” Rachel said again. “I know these things. I’ve looked after womankind for most of my existence.”

  Martha took a deep breath. “All right,” she said, and marched into the bedroom like someone going before a firing squad. “Hi, Allie. How are you doing?”

  “Fine,” she said weakly. “I just wish I knew what was wrong with me. I’m feeling weird, bloated, and so damned tired.” She looked up at Rachel pleadingly. “I don’t want to die.”

  “You won’t,” Rachel said, sitting on the bed and taking her hand.

  Allie looked up at her warily. “I’m dying, aren’t I? Martha’s seen a vision. You’ve come to tell me I’m going to die, and this time Raziel’s blood won’t save me.”

  “You were very bad,” Rachel said. “Azazel told me it was a very dangerous thing to do.”

  “Not when it’s a question of life and death.”

  “And you’ve never had his blood since?”

  Allie shook her head. “No. We were afraid that the next time it might be lethal.”

  “Perhaps,” Martha said meditatively. “There have been many lies spun as truth over the years. Men like to control things, and the Fallen are, unfortunately, still men.”

  Rachel snorted. “You go, girl. Just don’t let Raziel hear you talking like that. He gets offended.”

  “He can handle it,” Allie said. “But if I’m not dying, then what’s wrong with me?”

  Martha put the basket in front of her and pulled back the heavy holland cover that had protected the delicate things for so long. Allie just looked down into the basket blankly.

  “Doll clothes?” she demanded. “Aren’t I a little old to be playing with baby dolls?”

  “Not doll clothes, dear Allie,” Rachel said softly. “Baby clothes. You’re going to have a baby.”

  EVERYTHING STILL HURT, including my stomach, but I didn’t care. I was strong enough to walk on the beach, now that the heavy rains had washed the blood away, strong enough to walk beside Michael. It was a beautiful day now that the storms had passed, and Martha’s prophecy had come true after all. I had died. And I lived again, strength flowing through me. Michael’s blood flowing through me.

  There was no sign of the carnage that had filled this beach, filled the ocean three short days ago. All was peaceful, the smell of the ocean filling my lungs. I smiled up at Michael.

  “Last one in is a rotten egg,” I said, and sprinted into the surf.

  He caught me before I was waist-deep, and we fell together, tumbling in the cool, healing water. I wrapped my arms around him, my legs around him, and let him take me wherever he wanted. I was whole, I was his.

  And I would live forever.

  Can’t get enough Kristina Douglas? Read on for a sneak peek at her next sizzling Fallen book

  REBEL

  Available June 2013 from Pocket Books

  I COULD FEEL IT COMING OVER me, and I was frozen with dread. Not now. Not again. I fought it, struggling, the entangling sheets trapping my body, and I ended up on the hard stone floor as pale mist filled the small confines of my room, and my heart clenched in dread. Could it be Thomas? Darling Thomas, dead for so many years, coming back to give me another, unwanted warning? He had always watched me a little too closely.

  I could hear soft whimpering, and knew it came from me. No, it wasn’t my dead husband. This was nothing more than the mist that always shrouded Sheol, keeping it safe from the ordinary world. Like Thomas, there was no malice in it, but it brought the visions that plagued me, and I curled up in a corner on the floor, wrapping my arms around my legs, burying my face against my knees.

  It wouldn’t stop the visions. Nothing would. I couldn’t control them, couldn’t understand them—months could go by without anything, and then I’d end up on my knees, sobbing.

  No one knew. Life in a world of fallen angels was never easy for a mortal, particularly one who’d lost her mate. If they had any idea the pain my visions cause me they would want to help, and I couldn’t bear the thought of it. Whether I embraced them or not, the visions came, and the best way to get through them was to keep them private. Otherwise there were too many questions, too many demands, for clarity that was maddeningly out of reach. I needed quiet to make sense of the bits and pieces that came to me like shards of glass, piercing my battered soul.

  I huddled in the darkness like a miserable coward, trying to calm my thundering heart. I was covered with a cold sweat, even though the room was warm, and I forced myself to take slow, steadying breaths. Letting it in.

  He was coming. The Dark Man, who brought disruption and destruction. The name had been clear in my mind for months now, but I had said nothing to the others. I knew nothing. Only his name.

  Cain.

  And he was coming for me.r />
  I should get up. I had no idea whether it was this day or another, but soon. Soon he would come and everything would be chaos. It was little wonder I hadn’t told Raziel. As leader of the Fallen he had more than enough to deal with, and now, with the astounding miracle of his wife’s pregnancy, he had no time to worry about half-formed visions that meant nothing. I’d hoped to wait until later, until I knew more about the prophecy.

  But later was now.

  My fears were absurd, of course. I knew it intellectually, but my heart still pounded. What disaster awaited the Fallen? What disaster awaited me?

  In the hierarchy of the Fallen, I was nothing but a vestigial organ, neither angel nor mate. Thomas had plucked me from the chaos of my human life. He’d been watching over me, he’d said. I told him once he had been a pretty ineffective guardian angel, and he’d been offended. Thomas hadn’t had much of a sense of humor about things. I was so young when he’d brought me here, only seventeen, but he had given me love and safety and a peace I had craved and never known, and for ten years I was happy.

  And then the monstrous Nephilim had broken through, and he had died, and the visions had begun.

  At first I welcomed those visions. Raziel had offered to send me back to the human world, my mind wiped clean of any memory of my life in Sheol, but I had refused. Why would I choose to return to hell after living with the angels, albeit fallen ones? Raziel had promised me that I would always be welcome among the Fallen, but trust had always been one of my failings. I’d been terrified he might change his mind, see me as useless.

  The visions gave me a purpose, a role in the world of the Fallen. While the angels had varying abilities to see the future, none were nearly as good as my own, imperfect dreams. As incomplete and frustrating as they were, they gave me a reason to stay in Sheol, one I welcomed despite the pain.

  So why should the Dark Man be coming for me?

  The next vision hit me like a knife, and I jerked, moaning, horrified by the vision. It was raw, embarrassing, a vision of sexual intimacy that made me close my eyes, trying to shut it out, but it wouldn’t stop. I didn’t want to see this, I didn’t want the sensual reaction that spread beneath my skin like the fire that poisoned the Fallen.