Dark Awakening

by Charlotte Featherstone

  "And fall on their knees before a creature of dirt? Never, Sammael. This war in Heaven won't stop until the humans are banished from our Heaven, until He no longer thinks them superior to us. It is not me who has started this war. It is not me who commands the legion of the unfaithful."

  "We stood side by side during the first war, when Lucifer was cast out of Heaven. We fought side by side. Have you forgotten that? Have you forgotten that you were once one of His most trusted and faithful angels, that you commanded the faithful in his army? Side by side, Gadriel. We were brothers."

  "And we fell together. You for the pleasures of human female flesh, and me for my hatred of that flesh."

  "Come back to us. We need your powers—your gifts."

  "To protect the humans? To watch over them?” he laughed then pinned his gaze on Sammael. “Is that why Sariel has come? To beg me to repent?"

  "Sariel? I had no idea he was in town."

  Gadriel smirked as he circled Sammael. “Are you both not here on some divine mission? Is the woman not part of your plan?"

  "I have no idea what Sariel's assignment is, but I'm certain you know what brings me to Earth."

  "Still the Angel of Death, are you?"

  "The Angel of Benevolent Death and Transformation,” he corrected.

  "Then what is Sariel doing tracking down the woman you're supposed to be gently guiding into the light?"

  Sammael's dark eyes widened as if he were surprised by this news. “I have not seen Sariel. And I may assure you, the woman is mine."

  "Yours, or your mission, Sammael?"

  Sammael's lips pressed together in a sneer. He wouldn't budge. Wouldn't come clean with any details.

  "No matter. I'll discover everything for myself soon enough. Now, Sammael, you will tell me where the woman is."

  "You'll not get your hands on her. She has nothing to do with this war. There is no plan for her other than her death."

  "There is a reason you are here. There is a reason Sariel is here. He has not sent a Watcher and an Archangel to guard her for no reason. I want the female. And I want her now."

  Sammael moved swiftly, rushing at him and pinning him against the railing that threatened to give way beneath his weight. “She is not part of this war, Gadriel. She is not part of any plan. She is mine."

  "You're fucking her,” Gadriel sneered, shoving Sammael away from him. “You're touching that human and liking it."

  "Have you ever smelt them? Have you felt how soft their flesh is, how it fits against your body? I was never even aware of my own form until I felt a woman against me. You cannot imagine the feel of being inside one, of hearing her breath in your ear. You cannot fathom the pleasure of having your body touched and kissed. It is so easy to fall—to sin—with them, Gadriel. I guarantee you brother, you would bow at their feet—you would beg—just to have one in your arms."

  "I'll be sure to let her know how you feel about her right before I kill her."

  With a grunt and crazed eyes, Sammael came at him, lunging with his hand raised and the jagged edges of a dagger glinting in the moonlight. Savagely, Sammael thrust the blade deep into Gadriel's chest, twisting it back and forth until Gadriel could feel the warmth of blood running down the hilt of the dagger and on to his hand. Sammael grunted against him, the knife burning through his flesh as Sammael tore it out of the wound. A loud sucking gasp intermingled with the sound of cracking bone and the knife was once more plunged deep into his chest.

  "You protect this human not out of duty,” Gadriel gasped, feeling his heartbeat slow, “you protect her out of lust, and that, brother, is a sin."

  Despite the pain and the knife in his chest, Gadriel's strength surpassed that of Sammael's. Picking up the Watcher and bringing him above his head, Gadriel turned and flung Sammael from the bridge. Wood splintered and flew towards him. With a grunt, he dragged himself up to look over the broken guard rail, waiting to hear the splash of water.

  None came.

  Fuck, he grunted, pulling the knife from his chest and shoving it in the pocket of his coat. Sariel was gone, and so too, was any lead to the woman.

  * * * *

  "I know you, your voice,” Nadira said to the man who held her captive.

  "I have come to you, Nadira to tell you how very important you are. Not only to my kind, but yours as well."

  "What the hell are you?"

  "You know what I am. You've known since you were a child. All those dreams of angels? All those books and obscure texts you've read. Have you not always looked about you and seen angels walking amongst you? Have you not seen them look at you with their black eyes and raise their fingers to their lips and whisper ‘shhh', to you?"

  Shit! Her struggling was revived with the revelation. This ... whatever he was, knew way too much about her.

  "You've sensed me in your life all along, don't tell me now that you do not know who I am or that you do not believe in us. Where is your faith, Nadira? Where is the little girl whose bedtime prayers I listened to?"

  "Sariel,” she said on a long rush of breath. Reaching up behind her, Nadira sought his face. Wet hair clung to his jaw and she followed the wet tips of hair with her fingers until her fingertips grazed the left side of his neck. On his skin, like a brand, were the markings she had once seen in a dream. “Sariel,” she repeated, “Command of God."

  "Yes,” he whispered as his palm, warm and strong, slid up her belly till it rested beneath her breasts. “But I come to you, by His command, as the Angel of Prophecy."

  "You're here for Mary."

  "I am not here for Mary. Another has come for her."

  "What do you want with me?"

  He looked down at her through his wet hair, his eyes were large and blue, not black like the angels she had seen as a child. His face was the face of the angel she had seen in her vision. He had been the first to fall from the sky. The one to put his fingers to her lips.

  "Yes, it was me you saw."

  "I don't understand any of this. I mean ... this is way too weird. Unbelievable."

  "You were born for an angel, Nadira.” She gaped at him. “Your heart, it is meant to beat for one of my kind. An angel is your destiny."

  "What are you saying?"

  "That tonight another will come to you, and you will accept him. You will take him into your body."

  "Another? Another what? An angel? A man? What, and I'm supposed to have sex with a stranger? Right, like I believe all this. You're an angel, and another angel is going to come for me and take me to bed. I'm not believing you. In fact, none of this is even happening. This is just a hallucination brought on by lack of caffeine."

  "The seeds of the prophecy will be sown tonight. You must have faith, Nadira, that what you do, what you're feeling, is right. That is all I can say."

  She looked away from him, her head swimming. Certifiable. That was what she was. Was she truly believing this guy's story? There were no wings on him, no shimmering halo above his wet head, no white robes edged in gold. Just a brown woollen trench and the strange feeling in her gut that told her to believe.

  "You must believe, Nadira. So much depends upon your faith. You've known all along that angels have been in your life—that I have been there with you. You always believed. I know you lost your faith, that it has been tested and tried. But you must find it again."

  "I gotta go,” she muttered, stepping away from him and heading toward the bridge that was now empty. God, she was losing it. Totally, fucking losing it.

  Chapter Four

  Shaking off his hold, Nadira ran across the bridge that was now empty, before jogging up the grassy incline to the parking lot. Beneath a lamp pole her little yellow Sunfire gleamed in the rain.

  What the fuck was going on here? Was she going insane? Did she really believe he was an angel? That she was a part of some divine plan? Was her life so damn pitiable that she was reduced to experiencing a little excitement by conjuring up sexy angels who wanted to do her?

  Opening the car do
or, she slid down onto the seat and rested her head back against the worn out fabric of the headrest. Closing her eyes, she sought to calm her nerves, but instead, she saw flashes of the bronzed statue, the image of the angel falling from the sky. She saw Sariel, the angel she had felt as a presence in her life for as long as she could remember. She saw the black winged angel—a fallen one—and she felt the touch of angelic hands as they roamed over her body.

  Definitely certifiable. And what was more, she had completely forgotten about Mary. Some best friend she was. While she was secretly cavorting in the bushes with a so-called angel, Mary was what? Dying? Good God, she could not be dying—not alone. Nadira had sworn that Mary would not see the end, alone in the dark.

  Turning the key in the ignition, Nadira started up the Sunfire and shifted it into drive. It was pouring so hard now that her windshield wipers could barely keep up with the torrents of water running down the glass. Listening to the rain as it pelted against the windows, Nadira stepped on the gas, the gravel spitting out beneath the wheels as the car fishtailed over the loose stones. Straightening the steering wheel, she headed for the park entrance.

  Through the swaying wipers and the rivulets of rain, she could barely see anything. Suddenly there was a man standing in the beams of her headlights. He was a giant of a man who stood with his legs braced and his head partially bowed. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a long black leather trench coat that was sopping wet. Beneath the trench, his white tank top was stained red.

  Shit. Slamming on the brakes, the car skidded to a halt, inches from the man. Slowly, he raised his head and looked up through a veil of wet loose curls that shone blue-black in the light of her high beams. His eyes, she noted, were ice blue and they were looking straight at her, as if he could see her through the rain and the swishing wiper blades.

  Holy shit! She studied the height of him, the shiny, long dark coat, thought she saw some wispy shadow behind him. Wings? The guy from the bridge, she realised, sucking in her breath. Shit! She reached for the door lock and pushed it down. The lock slides clicked into place.

  Blood continued to shadow on the white cotton of his shirt, increasing in diameter, darkening despite the rainwater. The flickering silhouette of wings unfurled in the darkness.

  No, not an angel. Angels didn't bleed. Did they? No. It was just some guy who'd gotten bounced. Bad drug deal, she told herself. Definitely not an angel.

  He studied her, making no attempt to walk to her car door. After what felt like minutes, but was probably only seconds, he straightened to his full height and stumbled away, clutching his side. With a sigh of relief, she let her foot off the brake and moved it on to the gas pedal, but her conscience suddenly wouldn't let her press it.

  You can't just leave him. You cannot pull away and abandon him in the rain when he's wounded like that.

  It was the nurse in her, she told herself. She couldn't leave anyone at the side of the road bleeding. She just couldn't. It didn't matter that she had quit the profession over two years ago because she'd been burned out and sickened by what she'd seen coming through the trauma room in the ER. Despite the burnout, and the antipathy she had felt, she'd never left a patient alone—not innocent bystander caught in a drive-by, nor the shooter; or the overdosed junkie who she'd seen over and over despite numerous resuscitations, and hours of counselling, not to mention the methadone program.

  Yeah, she had lost her faith, lost her belief in the goodness of humanity. She still hadn't found it, despite spending the last two years, ‘searching’ for what she wanted in life. And what the hell had it gotten her? No money, a pile of unpaid bills, and three slices of bread and two eggs left in the fridge—all supposed to last her three more days, till her bonds came due and she could transfer them into her account. Yeah, she hadn't found anything but failure these past two years, and yeah, he was probably some druggie that had gotten popped because he owed his pusher. But she couldn't leave him. Not like this. That small part of her that wanted to believe she still had faith, just kept screaming to be heard.

  Pulling up beside him, she put the car in park and unlocked the door before throwing it open and running out into the rain.

  "Hey,” she yelled, running towards him. But he didn't hear her over the rumble of thunder. “Stop!” she ordered.

  He did, and her breath caught. Now what the hell was she supposed to do? He was probably packing a weapon, not to mention he was probably high. He turned his head and looked at her over his shoulder. His eyes were narrowed slits and his expression was less than grateful.

  "You're bleeding pretty badly. Let me take you to the hospital. St. Joe's is just a few blocks away. They've got a good ER."

  He looked at her as if he could not comprehend what she was saying.

  "Do you speak English?"

  He didn't answer. From what she could see through her drooping bangs and rain soaked lashes he appeared dark haired and olive skinned. Maybe he was Italian, or French. Too bad she didn't remember much of her high school French, although she was able to get out a strangled, “parlez vous Anglais?"

  "I am able to speak your tongue."

  The voice was hard, angry. Nadira took a step back from the hate she saw flare in his eyes. What the hell was she thinking? She knew nothing about this guy—except that he was seriously wounded and that he was probably involved in something illegal. Something she did not want to get embroiled in. She had enough of her own problems, evading her creditors.

  "Look,” she said, holding her hands up as she backed away from him. “Forget I offered. Let's just forget we saw each other, okay?"

  "No hospitals."

  "Where—” she bit off a scream when he reached for her arm and all but dragged her to the car. He shoved her down into the driver seat then walked around the front of her car. It wasn't until he tried to cram his tall frame into the passenger seat of her economy car that she saw just how badly he was hurt.

  "God, your chest is ripped half open."

  His eyes, which were an unearthly shade of blue, glared at her. “No hospitals,” he said again. “Just take me somewhere. I'll do the repairs."

  "Repairs? We aren't talking about fixing a garden gate, or repairing a hole in the drywall, you know. You need a hospital, and probably a surgeon. Hell, you might have some major vessels that need to be tied off to stop the bleeding."

  "You are an angel of mercy, are you not?"

  She froze. What the hell?

  "A nurse,” he said in disgust. “Were you not once a nurse?"

  "Yes,” she muttered, wondering if this nut job had been one of her many patients. “But I didn't perform the sort of medicine that wound is gonna require. Furthermore, even if I could fix that gaping hole, I don't have the equip—"

  "Drive,” he interrupted before shooting her a look that told her it was prudent to keep her yap shut.

  "Ah, where exactly would you like me to drive you?” She asked, fearing his answer.

  "Your house. Now."

  Nadira closed her eyes and prayed. Where was that damn angel who claimed he'd been by her side her whole life? Where the hell was he now, when some maniac was sitting beside her, demanding he take him to her house?

  "Drive. Now."

  His tone left little room for argument. As she put the car in drive, she couldn't help but sneak a look at him. She shuddered when she saw he was staring at her. With a smile that was almost cruel, he turned his head and looked straight out the windshield.

  "You are the key to the woman."

  "What?” she muttered. Obviously fear was overriding all of her senses. She could hardly hear anything over the beating of her heart and the rain pitting against the windshield.

  "You, Nadira, are the key I seek."

  Chapter Five

  Nadira finally looked up into the stranger's blue eyes as she patted the gaping chest wound with cotton gauze. He was seated on a chair at her kitchen table. The kitchenette was small, just like the rest of her apartment, and his huge body seemed to tak
e up all the available space—even the air seemed to be at a premium.

  She saw that he was staring at her with an alarming mix of danger and perplexity, as if he had absolutely no idea what she was doing. His gaze, so absorbed and steady, watched her, hardly blinking as he scrutinised every inch of her face. Her hand trembled with nervousness and the gauze dropped from her fingers, landing in his wet lap.

  Jesus, how had he come by this wound? And how the devil had he survived the blow? And why the hell had she thought to help him anyway? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Trying not to think of him, or his naked chest, she reached for the brown bottle that sat atop the table behind her. Stepping further between his spread legs she bent her knees and pressed in closer, trying to see how much damage to the tissues the wound had caused.

  He didn't flinch when she poured the peroxide on the wound. The liquid foamed and bubbled over the jagged flesh, finally seeping into the oozing red tissue. He should have at least gritted his teeth and looked away. But he didn't. His breathing was slow and calm. His eyes were not closed against the pain, but open—fixated on her.

  God, he really needed a doctor. No way was she going to be able to sew this wound closed and make it look presentable. It was going to leave a scar—a bad one.

  "Why?"

  His voice was controlled, not giving away any of the pain he must be silently enduring. “Why?” she replied while shaking her head. “It's gotta be cleaned. That knife or whatever it was that stabbed you was probably dirty."

  "It was a mazzariel, not a knife."

  "Never heard of it. What is it, some new weapon the gang bangers are using now?"

  "It is an ancient, honourable weapon,” he said while reaching into the pocket of his long woollen coat that was draped over the back of the chair. “It is a sacred weapon."

  Something heavy thudded on the table, making her jump. Her head turned, watching the silver blade, tip down and coated in red, land into the scarred wood of the table. The short handle quivered back and forth, glinting in the soft ceiling light. On the hilt were vaguely familiar markings, more like symbols than anything. One sign in particular caught her attention.