No Quarter

by L. J. LaBarthe

  “Sit still,” Gabriel ordered as he moved to inspect the dagger. He didn’t dare pull it out, at least not until Raphael appeared.

  “Bossy, much?” Uriel rolled his eyes. “If I die, I’m so going to haunt your ass, Tzad.”

  There was a strangled noise from Tzadkiel and Gabriel turned quickly, in time to see the Head of God’s Secret Police’s stricken and guilty expression. Grinding his teeth together in impotent rage, Gabriel grabbed Tzadkiel’s arm and shook him roughly, his fingers gripping hard enough to bruise.

  “Be guilty later,” Gabriel ordered. “Be useful now. Get me a cloth.”

  Tzadkiel, eyes wide, bit his lower lip and nodded, moving to fetch the cloth almost at once.

  “I think it’s poisoned,” Uriel said seriously as soon as Tzadkiel was out of earshot. “It doesn’t feel like a normal knife wound.”

  “By the sacred chalice of Saint Peter!” Gabriel hissed.

  “I’m impressed at your choice of epithet,” Uriel chuckled. “I’ll live. I’ve had worse.”

  “Be that as it may,” Gabriel retorted dryly, “you weren’t supposed to get this shit here, of all places!”

  Uriel’s blue eyes narrowed a fraction. “I swear to you, Gabe,” he said intensely, his voice very soft and icy cold with his anger, “I am going to give the evil wench who owns this place a multitude of lives and spend the next fifty years slowly tearing each one from her flesh.”

  Gabriel didn’t reply to that as Tzadkiel returned with the cloth. He took it with a nod and pressed it against the wound, being careful of the knife still embedded in Uriel’s shoulder. “Where the hell is Raph?”

  “Here.” Raphael’s calm voice was like a balm to Gabriel’s ears at that moment.

  “Thank the Lord,” Gabriel said in relief as he turned at the voice to see Raphael and Raziel.

  “No, just me.” Raphael was all business. “Out of the way, Gabe. Let me work.” He gestured to Raziel, his long fingers already probing at Uriel’s shoulder.

  Gabriel stepped out of Raphael’s way and went to stand beside Tzadkiel as Raphael and Raziel examined the wound in Uriel’s shoulder and the dagger embedded in it.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Gabriel said in an undertone.

  “What?” Tzadkiel started, looking at Gabriel with shock and guilt evident in his bright blue eyes.

  “I said, don’t blame yourself. This is not your fault, so don’t flagellate yourself over it.” Gabriel turned to face Tzadkiel. He had put on his General of God face, the expression that he knew his Seraphim referred to as “Gabriel’s Do Not Mess With Me face.”

  “Gabe—”

  “No.” Gabriel held up a hand. “This ain’t your fault. You were not to know. None of us were. My own bad vibes before you all started to check this place out included in that. If I’d paid more attention, we would’ve aborted the op and none of this would have happened. If you’d called retreat, none of this would have happened. If Uri hadn’t decided to fight three old demons at once, none of this would have happened. A million variables, Tzadkiel, do not make this your fault or your guilt to bear. Do you understand me?” As it did whenever Gabriel was completely serious with no hint of amusement, his northern English accent dropped away to a more formal, commanding one.

  “Yes, Sir,” Tzadkiel said automatically, saluting. Then he pulled a face. “Do you have any idea how intimidating you are when you get all General of God?”

  “Aye.” Gabriel grinned. “That’s why I do it.” His smile faded. “But the point remains the same, Tzad. This? Not your fault. No one’s fault except the demons and whichever Archdemon is giving them orders.”

  “And we’ve got seventy-two to choose from.” Tzadkiel sighed. “Hell and damnation.”

  “Literally.” Gabriel sighed heavily. “I’ll assign a legion of Seraphim trained in hand-to-hand combat to guard the Gates of Hell while Uri recovers. I wish I could spare more, but…,” he trailed off with a frustrated sigh.

  Tzadkiel nodded. “I’ll add fifty of my Ophanim to that. Do we keep them on that duty even after Uriel’s better?”

  “Too bloody right we do.” Gabriel was grim. “Until this shit is sorted, these charms are destroyed, and we know what the hell this poison is—he reckons the dagger’s poisoned, before you ask—I want Hell to be as heavily guarded as I can possibly make it. No one goes in or out through those damn gates.”

  “Right.” Tzadkiel squared his shoulders, and Gabriel could see that he was pulling himself together and applying himself to the task at hand. Tzadkiel’s gaze became distant as he reached out with his power and issued the necessary orders to his Ophanim. Gabriel shot a quick look at Raphael, but the healer was focused entirely on Uriel. Taking a deep breath, Gabriel reached out through the ether and issued the orders to the Seventh Legion of Seraphim to guard Hell’s gates and keep anyone from entering or leaving. He could feel through the connection all angelkind had to the Source—Heaven and God—when the angels moved out and took up their new posts at the Gates of Hell and was indescribably relieved that his troops were now in control of those openings between Hell and Earth.

  That done, Gabriel turned his attention back to Uriel. Raphael and Raziel were talking in low tones a few feet away, Raphael nodding as Raziel gestured at the dagger in Uriel’s shoulder. Together, the two Archangels moved back to Uriel, and Raziel took hold of the hilt of the dagger, looking seriously at Raphael.

  “On three,” Raziel said. “One, two, three.”

  As Gabriel watched, Raziel yanked the dagger out of Uriel’s shoulder, and Raphael clapped a thick pad of gauze onto the wound. The whiteness of the pad was a stark contrast to the red blood that bloomed through almost immediately and the black skin of Raphael’s palm. Raziel was carefully wrapping the dagger in silk and murmuring under his breath; Gabriel could see the shimmers of bronze-colored power as Raziel worked, and Gabriel realized that Raziel was shrouding the dagger in his power so that no one would accidentally be injured by the blade or the poison on it.

  “I’m taking this to my laboratory,” Raziel said, holding the dagger as if it were a live snake. “I shall inform you as soon as I know the results of my tests.”

  “I hope you can get me data sooner rather than later, Raz,” Raphael said. “Because otherwise…,” he trailed off.

  “I know.” Raziel shot Gabriel and Tzadkiel a quick look. “Don’t wait up for me,” he said. “Tell everyone they’re not to go anywhere alone until they’re told it’s safe to do so. That is not open for debate.” With that, he was gone.

  “Raph?” Gabriel looked quizzically at him.

  “It’s a poison,” Raphael confirmed as he sighed, rummaging around in his doctor’s bag and pulling out several vials and syringes. “A new one. One that’s lethal to our kind as far as I can tell. I can stop it from moving through the bloodstream with my power while Raz makes me an antidote, but in the meantime, that means you have to keep still, Uri.”

  Uriel frowned. “Why?”

  “Because—don’t wriggle—if you move too much, it’ll spread quickly—I said, stay still—all through your system.” Raphael injected the contents of one vial into Uriel, set it aside and picked up the next vial and syringe. “I’ll make you unconscious if I have to.”

  Uriel opened his mouth then closed it again. “Okay.” His meek reply caused Raphael to raise an eyebrow.

  “Okay? No arguing? No pouting? No tantrums?”

  “No.” Uriel was as still as a statue. “I don’t want to die, Raph.” The last was said very softly.

  “And you won’t,” Raphael said crisply. “Not on my watch. Now, Gabe, Tzad, Sophiel, and Brieus, if you’d be so kind as to help me get Uriel to my clinic without jostling him, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Anything you say,” Gabriel said, moving to Uriel with the others close behind him.

  Chapter Eight

  GABRIEL left a grim-faced Tzadkiel with a silent and somber Sophiel and Brieus and went to report to Michael. He made a detour via his ho
use in Deep Bay, relieved to find that everything was calm and quiet.

  “How are the kids?” he asked Samael, who greeted him at the back door.

  “Asleep,” Samael said in a quiet voice. “It is late, Gabriel. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Where’s Remi?”

  “Here.” Remiel joined them. “What’s up?”

  Gabriel sighed, feeling very old all of a sudden. He filled the two of them in on the events of the evening, finishing with, “Uri’s at Raph’s, and Raz is working overtime to find an antidote. Apparently, this poison is lethal to angelkind. Spread the word—no one is to go out alone until told otherwise.”

  Remiel nodded once. “Will do. Is Uri going to be okay?”

  “Raph says yes.” Gabriel lit a cigarette. “He’s the doctor, so I’ll have to take his word on it, but bloody hell, I’m not ashamed to say it scared me for a bit there.”

  “I can imagine.” Remiel shuddered delicately. “Right, so, I’m sticking to you like glue, Sammy. And when you need me, Gabe, I’m hauling Sammy along.”

  “That will be fine,” Samael said.

  “Yeah, that’ll work.” Gabriel drew in a slow, deep breath. “Just let me look in on the kids, and then I have to go report to Mike.”

  They nodded, standing to the side to let him in, and Gabriel went to check on his two children. Both of them were asleep, Mira curled up in a neat ball, her hands beneath her cheek, and John sprawled on his stomach, one leg hanging over the edge of his bed. Relieved, Gabriel quietly closed the doors of their bedrooms and went back outside.

  “Will you two be able to stay a little longer?”

  “Of course, Gabriel.” Samael smiled. “We love them too.”

  Gabriel smiled in return. “Thank you. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Michael will probably have orders for me, so…,” he trailed off. “Anyway, keep in touch, yeah?”

  “We will,” Remiel promised. “Go,” he added. “Sooner you go, sooner you can come back and talk to your kids yourself.”

  “Aye, you’re right.” Gabriel stubbed out his cigarette. “Thanks again.” Then he vanished.

  Gabriel didn’t bother with knocking on Michael’s door, he simply appeared in Michael’s living room, his eyebrows shooting up as he took in the sight of Michael, who was pacing back and forth up and down the length of his rooms, gnawing on a thumbnail and glowering at the floor.

  “Y’know,” Gabriel drawled as Michael looked up at him, “you’re going to wear a trench to China if you keep that pacing up.”

  “Pardon?” Michael stared at him, the color draining from his face as he took in Gabriel’s blood- and gore-smeared armor. “Gabriel! Are you hurt?”

  “Huh? No! Oh, no. No, this ain’t mine, just demons.” Gabriel grinned. “Takes more than a bunch of demons to hurt me.” Which was more than he could say for Uriel right now, he thought.

  Michael’s face was still pale. “You scared me,” he said. “You are certain you are not injured?”

  Immediately contrite, Gabriel took three quick steps across the room and took Michael’s hands in his. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I’m fine, I promise. Dirty, but fine.”

  Michael let out a long, slow breath. His fingers, Gabriel realized, were shaking.

  “As you say. You have come to report?”

  “Aye.” Gabriel let go of Michael’s hands. “It’s not a good report, though.”

  “They rarely are these days.” Michael sighed and sat down. “Give me the report.”

  Gabriel did, making it as concise as possible, and when he was finished, he watched Michael closely. The color had returned to Michael’s cheeks, and his dark eyes were full of concern and anxiety. The simple Chinese robes he wore were, Gabriel suddenly realized, what Michael wore when he was intending to sleep. Suddenly feeling like an intruder, Gabriel cleared his throat.

  “So, uh, I should leave you to it.” Awkward, he thought. Could I be any more awkward around Michael?

  “You do not have to.” Michael’s voice was soft. “In truth, I could not sleep until I knew the extent of Uriel’s injuries. Raphael is certain he will recover?”

  “As certain as he can be.” Gabriel bit his lower lip. He was about to say more, but at that moment, there was the sound of feathers rustling, and Raphael was there.

  Raphael looked tired, Gabriel thought, but he also looked relieved. “Raz works fast,” he said without preamble. “He’s come up with an antidote for Uri. Uri’s going to be fine. Cranky as a bear with a sore head, but fine. Coming up with a vaccine against the poison in the first place will take a little longer, but Raz is on it. I just figured you two should know.”

  “Okay, good,” Gabriel said. “So, until you and Raz have this inoculation thing sorted, keep everyone from going anywhere alone?”

  “Yeah.” Raphael nodded.

  “I am very relieved,” Michael said. “You are certain Uriel is well?”

  “Positive, Mike. Anyway, I’ve still got work to do, so I’ll leave you to it. I’ll let the others know. Have a good night.” With that, Raphael vanished.

  “What a relief,” Gabriel muttered, running blood-smeared hands through his hair.

  “Gabriel,” Michael said, sighing, “perhaps you should bathe. I am certain that you must be feeling sticky, to say the least.”

  Gabriel blinked. Then he started to laugh, the tension he was feeling dissipating. “Yeah, you got that right. Can I borrow your shower?”

  “Of course.” Michael gave him a small smile. “Make yourself at home.”

  “Thanks.” Gabriel headed into the bathroom and quietly closed the door behind him. It didn’t take long to shuck his armor, although cleaning it properly would have to wait. Gabriel used his power to get the worst of the detritus of battle off it with a thought, and with another thought, moved it back to his house in Deep Bay.

  He couldn’t deny that he felt sticky. Patches of dried blood stuck to his skin, and Gabriel wrinkled his nose in distaste as he turned on the faucets, adjusting them to get the water the temperature he wanted it. Washing himself down felt wonderful, and he was much more relaxed when he finally finished bathing. Turning off the faucets, Gabriel stepped from the shower and toweled himself dry. Then he wrapped the towel around his hips and stepped from the bathroom, trailing a cloud of steam behind him.

  “Thanks, I feel loads better,” Gabriel said as he ran his hands through his damp hair.

  Michael was standing by the window, and he turned as he heard Gabriel’s voice. He opened his mouth to say something and stopped, staring, his cheeks immediately going red.

  For a moment, Gabriel considered asking Michael what was wrong. His unspoken question was answered as Michael quickly crossed the room to him, cupped his face in his hands, and kissed him.

  Gabriel groaned into the kiss, his arms winding around Michael’s waist, pressing close. Michael kissed him harder, pushing him up against the wall, and Gabriel groaned louder, fingers clenching in the fabric of Michael’s robe. As Michael growled, running a hand over Gabriel’s chest, Gabriel broke the kiss, his head falling back against the wall. “Michael,” he panted.

  “Gabriel.” Michael’s voice was barely a whisper, rough, full of a myriad of emotions that Gabriel couldn’t begin to decipher. “I want you.”

  That was all the encouragement that Gabriel needed. He pushed off the robe Michael wore, his hands roaming over every inch of Michael’s strong, muscled body he could reach, mapping every line and curve. As Michael made a noise of pleasure and need, Gabriel leaned forward and kissed him.

  Gabriel couldn’t stop his touches, his almost feverish caresses of Michael’s skin. Heat burned through him, along with his need, bubbling through his Grace, his blood. Nipping at Michael’s lower lip, hearing the soft whimper that elicited, feeling Michael’s hands on him, only made Gabriel want more.

  “Bed,” Gabriel panted between hot, hungry kisses.

  “Bed?” Michael echoed, his hands tugging at the towel that now barely cov
ered Gabriel’s groin.

  “Bed,” Gabriel agreed, pushing Michael back, still touching his body, still kissing his mouth, and ignoring the loss of the towel that had been slung around his hips.

  “Gabriel,” Michael hissed, tugging Gabriel with him, his hands going to Gabriel’s hips. “Gabriel.”

  The desire Gabriel could hear in Michael’s voice and the way Michael said his name made his breath catch, and he paused a moment to look at Michael. He gazed at his body, his eyes traveling downward, taking in the form of Michael’s muscled chest and washboard stomach, the line of his pelvic bones and hips, the obvious erection still covered by clothing. Gabriel rested his hands on Michael’s hips, his gaze drawn to the trail of dark hair on olive skin that traveled down from his navel and beneath the waistband of the silk pants Michael wore.

  “Does it please you?” Michael was blushing again, Gabriel realized, as his gaze traveled back upward.

  “Oh yeah,” Gabriel breathed. “Very, very much. You please me, Michael.”

  Michael smiled shyly, running a hand down Gabriel’s chest. “You are very kind.”

  “Y’know what else I am?” Gabriel ran his fingers along the edge of Michael’s waistband.

  “What?”

  “Very horny.”

  “Gabriel! Language.” Michael blushed crimson.

  Laughing softly, Gabriel moved closer and tugged Michael down onto the bed with him. “You should lose the pants.”

  In reply, Michael captured Gabriel’s lips again, kissing him almost desperately and wriggling against him, making Gabriel moan raggedly. There was a soft whisper of energy as Michael shed the last of his clothing with his power. Gabriel’s hands went to Michael’s sides as he rolled onto his back, pulling Michael on top of him, and as soon as they were skin to skin, tip to toe, Gabriel felt as if he were going to explode with the rush of desire that shot through him.