Dalila reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone to call for help. The body moved, grunting in pain.
“Why me?” Dalila whispered. She looked out the window, sending up a silent prayer, then turned to search her car for a weapon, but the only things she had were books. She touched a hardcover. She was just going to check to make sure he was all right, then she’d call. She’d want someone to check on her if the situation were reversed. But what if he’s a serial killer and this was his goal the entire time? It was highly possible. In fact, it was a sure thing, considering the state of things in her life. If anything could go wrong, it would go wrong.
Dalila dug around some more, glancing down at a motorcycle book; it would do the job. It was a hardcover, with a thick spine. If the person on the ground attempted any sneaky shit, he would suffer death by book beating. Gripping her makeshift weapon tighter, Dalila slowly eased out of the vehicle. She took small steps toward the body, speaking in a calm voice.
“Excuse me, are you okay?”
You can do this. Take a deep breath.
The massive, well-toned body shook on the unforgiving ground, and his throat sounded blocked as he fought to gain control of his breath. The broadness of his shoulders blocked her car’s headlights, casting a dark shadow on the ground. He was wearing jeans and a tight T-shirt that stretched to accommodate the muscles straining to rip free. She knew she had no business seeing to the man on the ground, but she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be okay. And the Oscar for most likely to die goes to…
“You drunk or something, mister? You need help, a doctor? Do. You. Need. Me. To. Call. Someone?” She should’ve stayed her ass in the car and driven away; any other sane person would have done the same. Turn around, get back in the car. Call the cops when you get to a safe distance. That’s exactly what she should do.
The large male rolled to his knees, cupping his stomach while resting his forehead against the ground. Breathing hard, he took in short gasps of air. He faced away from her, away from the lights. The lights from the car must be too much for him. Dalila turned towards the open door of her car to turn off the lights. Bad fucking idea.
The moment Dalila turned around from reaching inside the car, he was standing right in front of her. His eyes, dark and fierce, pierced her skin like ice. She never even caught sight of him coming. He hadn’t made a sound. She almost screamed, but the moment sound would have erupted from her lips, his hand covered her mouth, silencing her as he crowded her body. She tried to keep her ground but came up against solid car and hard male body. Dalila was not able to control the tremors of fear coursing through her veins. The motorcycle book dropped from her hand as she stared into his hard eyes.
Not able to discern much in the dark, she absorbed his heat, heard his sharp intake of breath as he glared at her. Dalila prayed he only wanted her money and nothing more. He looked over his shoulder; with his other hand he raised his finger to his mouth to quiet her. Jerky movements caused her neck to cramp. A million what-ifs and should-haves ran through her mind as hot tears rolled down her cheek. She was going to die, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Chapter Two
Isaiah stared into the woman’s terrified eyes. He hadn’t meant to frighten her, but Azazel was still out there hiding.
The last thing he wanted was to make the bastard happy. There’d been a total of three Demonic murders since Azazel had fallen. All of them women, but at the moment nothing had linked them together. None of them would have any clue as to the Book’s whereabouts, let alone how to access it to use the gates. Why are you killing them, Azazel?
Hurting the woman was something Isaiah would not allow.
It was Isaiah’s job to find Azazel and question him about the Book and its location. He would play the judge, jury, and executioner if needed. He was the Commander of the Order, and right hand to Zariel, leader of the Burning Ones, and right now he was doing a piss-poor job. He slowly eased his grip on her mouth, compelling her to sleep. Isaiah didn’t have any other option at this point. Few things he’d warrant happening to a mortal but coercing them to sleep and erasing their memories were ones he used several times. Harming mortals was out of the question. He felt the collar at his throat tighten on his neck. The slave collar would remain for eternity now. The collar lay dormant against his neck and would remain that way for thousands of years. Never to awaken. The movement he felt now had to be a figment of his imagination. His soul mate had been killed in a blood-thirsty battle at the Temple Philae. In a way, he was grateful never to have to worry about anyone, other than himself, and the care and safety of his brothers. That he’d allow, that he’d handle. There was no reason for him to get entangled in an ache that he no longer felt. None of his brothers itched to have the bonding of their other halves anymore. The sensation died long ago with the last remnants of their humanity. Now they lived up to the tale of their fire. Emptiness surrounded the heart that beat in his chest. Warmth once flowed through Isaiah’s veins and heated his insides, but now everything was cold, perfunctory. Sleep and all other functions were performed to stay in optimal condition. The times he did need his lust sated, it was done not to give pleasure but to release pent-up battle energy. Isaiah and his brothers were harsh and indifferent; this mortal should pose no threat to his current plans.
Isaiah looked at the mortal female, who lay warm and asleep in his arms. He would take her somewhere safe, and then continue with his quest for Azazel and the location of the Book of Gates. He scanned his surroundings, noting dawn would arrive in a few hours. He had no clue where he should take her. Maybe he should leave her at a motel? No, that wouldn’t work either, Isaiah thought to himself. If Azazel indeed noticed the woman, he would hunt her too.
“Dammit,” he snarled. She would have to go with him. “I guess you’re coming home with me,” Isaiah affirmed more for his benefit than hers.
He unlatched her door, shoving her into the passenger seat. He hated small cars. The awareness of being cramped and confined strangled his senses. He slipped in beside her and started the engine. As he drove, he looked over at the sleeping woman, noticing for the first time her soft features. She was undeniably beautiful. Her skin flawless, her color warm and inviting, the sculpted, high cheek bones gave her a regal appearance and lips so sinfully full they begged a man to sip and bite for hours. He’d distinguished her eyes were a beautiful honey-brown, with sparks of golden yellow, while she had the face of a goddess, round with sophisticated features.
He’d never entered into direct contact with humans like he had tonight. Isaiah was always hunting some dumb-ass Demon, too preoccupied with missions to care. This, his first real encounter, piqued his curiosity.
Fascinated, Isaiah watched her breathe in and out in deep sleep. She looked peaceful and warm. Every now and then, he glanced toward her then back at the road. Her skin was pliant, smooth; he remembered when he’d touched her face, with her body plastered to his. They were too different from each other. She was soft and lush while he was hard, and battle-ready. She smelled sweet and delicate. He reeked of sweat and blood. Drive, dumbass, and watch the road.
Like he should care; his main concern should be Azazel. He knew his fallen brother would lay low for the remainder of the evening. He’d find whatever place he could to rest and shore up his strength for the next time they met.
“Demons, “Isaiah muttered to himself.
He glanced over at her again. She had turned to her side. The streetlights outlined her features in passing. Beautiful.
He conjured up the feeling of her body against his at the park, remembering how captivated he was by her beautiful honey-colored eyes he’d seen. It was like staring into the bottom of a glass filled with whisky. One taste, and he’d be unable to stop drinking, needing to consume the fire down to the very last drop. Her hair was tied in a ponytail with cottony spirals falling down her back. Her scent invaded his nose, the smell of anise and vanilla. For reasons unknown to him, his breathing increased
. Her clothes hung loose, but Isaiah remembered the softness of her body pressed to his. The body went with her face, supple and rich in the right places. A man’s playground.
“You won’t be here long enough to experience her,” he grumbled.
Here on business—never for pleasure. He was a Warrior, a protector, nothing more. The highest of Angels. No time for mistakes, only perfection. Precise calculated moves targeted and completed what goals lay ahead. This time Azazel was his goal. No distractions. No matter how alluring one mortal smelled. He needed Azazel to find the Book. He needed the Book to stop an oncoming war from happening. If the Book wasn’t found, everything that remained balanced would come unhinged. Something the Black Prince would never let him live it down. He couldn’t stand the male, but he knew from working with him in the past that he was correct. But with him off-world, there was no one left to help. Everyone was dealing with their own personal agendas. All of it tied back to the Book. He just needed to find it, and all their troubles would cease to exist. At least, that was the plan.
The mortals had it backward for thousands of years, telling tales of their gods and their gods’ enemies. What they failed to realize was the gods were at a standstill, and war wouldn’t happen if order was maintained. There was one sovereign: one maker, but he’d also dispatched factions, who in one way or another were a part or pieces of him. Vessels he controlled. There hadn’t been a clash of power in five millennia. The Book had gone missing right around the same time Azazel had fallen. There was unrest between the factions, and though his majesty was taking a silent seat in this, the Order comprehended what would happen if the Book were in the hands of evil. The gates would be opened, and Hell would do more than break through. Hell would feast on souls, until there was nothing left but a wasteland of emptiness.
Many had talked of the cleansing, but that was what it was. Talk. If this type of cleansing were allowed to happen, there would be nothing left to rebuild. Zariel’s words were that this concession not be allowed to happen. Alliances were already being made behind the factions. It was even said, ‘He who walks among the mortals,’ had taken up a side. Fucking politics. Entities throwing around their cocks and blades, to watch who’d draw blood first, inciting war.
Isaiah pulled into the driveway of his farmhouse, set back behind vast sprawling oaks, away from prying eyes. He gently pulled her out of the car and opened the front door. Although he missed home, he would miss being here more. The longer he stayed on Earth, the harder it became to go back. That’s what happened to Metatron. Two hundred years since Metatron had left, and no one understood why, except for Metatron himself. He went out after a Demon, and once the Demon was destroyed, Metatron simply left, never to return.
No one at the time believed anything was wrong. Everyone just assumed he stepped down, handing Isaiah his position. He’d walked to Metatron’s hall to ask him why the sudden change. But when he entered, his brother was gone.
Isaiah shook the memory out of his head and walked inside, turning on the lights. He headed toward the bedroom, the female in his arms. Carrying her had been harder than he realized. Everything about her enticed the nerves in his body to come alive with arousal. Something he hadn’t felt in centuries. Something he should not be conscious of now. He gently laid her on the bed. Closing the door behind him, Isaiah hoped it would put distance between them. Yeah right. Her fragrance had attached itself to his nose. Everything in him primal and carnal screamed he take her. Isaiah needed a cold shower, or to handle his lust and take himself in hand. Isaiah rubbed at the tension in his neck and detoured toward the kitchen, a glass of water would put his mind at ease. He pulled out his cell from his pocket and let out a silent curse. It was busted. Isaiah left the smashed phone on the counter and reached inside the refrigerator for a bottle of water. Ice-cold water slid down the back of his throat, calming his nerves. The evening had not gone to plan; Azazel was still out there, and now he had a mortal to babysit. It didn’t matter if she smelled terrific. He didn’t need or want the distraction. Emptying the contents of the bottle, Isaiah decided to head back out to the car to ascertain what information he could find about the human. Her warm smell would infuse its tantalizing scent in his sheets, his pillow. This was all kinds of bad. It’s all kinds of fucked up. He needed his head examined.
Isaiah walked back inside and sat on the couch, looking through her purse. He found her driver’s license and scanned the information. Her name was Dalila Miller. Her first name’s Egyptian. Interesting. He set her keys and wallet back in her purse and rested his head on the back of the couch. He might as well sleep too. She wouldn’t be waking for a few hours. Sleep was overrated, but he knew without it, his strength was nil. He just didn’t like the dreams that followed him into the darkness.
Dawn had come again, and his men were getting restless. They too wanted to celebrate their brother’s mating ceremony. The Nubi were fierce and loyal to their mates but had only one rule. The ceremony could only be performed in the company of their sisters, no other males allowed except for the one who was to be mated. It was a rule they understood too well. There was only one woman for them, from the time they’d been born. From the moment their mates were ready, cognizant of their other half, she would be the one. Above all things, she would release them of their burdens and fill their empty hearts. For now, their hearts beat for one sole purpose: protect, honor, and obey their god. The collars were given to them the moment an Angel decided to join the Order. They were told if they fought for the good of everyone, they would someday earn their freedom, becoming Omurukai, the Everlasting Immortal. There weren’t many Omurukai, elite warriors of the Order made whole by their mates. They’d become complete in everything it meant to be the ‘Burning Ones’ they fought and loved with a fierceness capable of bringing any Demon, mortal, or other to their knees. Today that would be Raphael. He’d been in service for over twelve hundred years, and by a chance meeting, he’d met his soul mate, Seraphina, in the market in Aswan. She’d been out looking for pottery when Raphael had found her. There was a loud battle cry in the entryway of the hall. The Warriors stood, looking at the door to see what had happened.
“What has happened?” Grey, the fiercest of his brothers, had spoken first.
Zariel had walked into the dining hall, his clothes covered in blood. Isaiah recognized the head of his brother before he noticed the heart in his high commander’s hand. Bloodcurdling roars shook the dining hall. Vengeance would be theirs. Raphael’s dead eyes were open in terror, his collar still attached to his neck which had been severed from his body, and they stared at his brothers with an emptiness that brought chills along Isaiah’s spine.
Isaiah woke with a start and noticed morning had come quickly. His body was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and his heart beat a rapid staccato against his chest. Groaning, he went to the sink to wash his face. Making his way back to the fridge, he grabbed another bottle of cold water. He walked to the center of the room and stared down the hall to the closed door, where the mortal woman still slept. He crept down the corridor, easing the door open. His intention was to wake her and explain last night’s events did not go down the way she might have imagined it. He would soothe her with his words, apologize for scaring her and try and keep her safe. Unable to remove her memory now that he’d touched her, he would just have to make something up.
She was still asleep, lying on her stomach, her hand under the pillow, the other, under her chin. Her cottony curls lay spread out on the pillow, still soft and in place. The sun kissed her skin through the bedroom window perfectly. Bronzed to perfection with a golden glow, there wasn’t a blemish on her face. Isaiah’s chest expanded from the large intake of breath currently lodged in his chest. He shouldn’t be the one hesitating. He shouldn’t linger and stare, like a man in the early stages of want. He was a hard, fierce Warrior among fighters. Isaiah palmed the back of his neck and squeezed hard. Here comes the fun shit. Silently he willed her to wake.
Ω Ω Ω
Mystic Realms: A Limited Edition Collection Page 185