No Quarter

by L. J. LaBarthe

  Michael moaned loudly, his fingers curling in Gabriel’s hair and tugging, and Gabriel looked up through his eyelashes. Michael’s eyes were half-lidded, his lips parted, and the olive skin of his cheeks was colored red with a flush of arousal. Gabriel hummed again, and Michael’s hips jerked reflexively, his wings unfurling and feathers shivering as Gabriel continued to suck his cock.

  “Gabriel,” Michael panted, “you may wish to remove your mouth.”

  “What for?” The idea of not swallowing hadn’t even occurred to Gabriel. Reaching up to cup and fondle Michael’s balls with one hand, he purred as Michael moaned raggedly, thrust into his mouth, and came with a soft cry of Gabriel’s name.

  Gabriel swallowed him down, licked him clean, then pulled back and pressed a soft kiss to Michael’s hip. Standing up, he grinned. “You okay there?”

  “Yes.” Michael nodded. He tugged Gabriel into a rough kiss, pulling him toward the bed. “I want you very much, da bao.”

  “How do you want me?”

  “I want you to take me. Hard.”

  Gabriel moaned into the kiss at the flash-fire of arousal that shot through him as Michael thought the request to him.

  “Okay.”

  “Is that all right?”

  “Oh yeah. It’s really, really all right.”

  Gabriel broke the kiss, tugging off his clothes quickly, tossing them aside, not caring where they ended up. Then he moved back to Michael, hands resting on Michael’s hips. “On the bed,” he said, his voice coming out as a low growl. “On all fours.”

  Michael licked his lips and nodded once, moving to do as Gabriel had said.

  Gabriel paused a moment to stare, to take in the image of Michael naked, hard, and aroused, on his bed on all fours. His eyes drank in the sight, feasted on it.

  “Gabriel?”

  “Comin’.” Gabriel shook himself out of his immobility, and he climbed onto the bed, settling behind Michael and between his legs, running his hands slowly over Michael’s back.

  As he pressed close, Gabriel’s fingers traced around the edge of Michael’s wing joints. Michael whimpered softly, his wings flaring, the ends of the long spans brushing the far walls. Gabriel leaned down and nibbled the edge of a wing joint, feeling the full-body shudder that rippled through Michael.

  “Gabriel,” Michael said again, his voice full of desire and want.

  “Mm, Michael.” Gabriel sat back on his haunches, slicked himself with a thought then shifted, slowly pressing his cock into that warm, eager body.

  Michael rocked back onto the thrust, and together they groaned as tight muscles flexed around hardness. Gabriel unfurled his own wings, sliding them against Michael’s, and groaned once more as Michael’s wings pressed hard against his own, as Michael’s muscles flexed around his cock once again.

  “Michael,” Gabriel panted, “this is gonna be over before it’s begun if you keep that up.”

  “I am sorry, da bao.” Michael didn’t sound all that sorry, Gabriel thought, and he leaned in and purred against the nape of Michael’s neck.

  “Am I going to have to tie you down?”

  The moan that came from Michael at that was loud and desperately hungry. Gabriel quirked an eyebrow, filing that information away for later. “I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Gabriel continued. “For another day when we have more time.”

  “Okay.” Michael rocked back onto Gabriel’s cock as Gabriel nibbled the nape of his neck. “Gabriel. Gabriel, Gabriel.”

  It gave one a certain ego boost hearing one’s name being said with such passion, Gabriel thought as he started to thrust slow and hard, a hand sliding up Michael’s chest to pinch a nipple. Michael’s body was hot and hard and so utterly beautiful that it took Gabriel’s breath away; his wings, russet and gold and brown, slightly bent due to a fracture having healed badly, twining with Gabriel’s own black, gray, and white ones. Their feathers mingled, power slithering from one to the other, little sparks of energy that brought even more pleasure to their fucking.

  Leaning forward again, Gabriel nibbled the base of one wing, eliciting a soft hiss from Michael. “Like that?” he asked in between nibbles.

  “Yes,” Michael gasped. “Gabriel.”

  Gabriel’s hand slid down from Michael’s nipple to his cock and began to stroke, thumb smearing precum over the head as he teased the slit. “Michael,” he murmured against Michael’s wing, his voice full of love and passion, need and desire. “You’re everything.”

  “Gabriel,” Michael gritted out, rocking back onto his cock and forward into his hand. “You are the only thing that matters.” He clenched down hard around Gabriel, and Gabriel cried out loudly as stars flared behind his eyelids, and he came.

  They lay together in a tangle of limbs and sweat-damp sheets, and Gabriel couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. “You really are amazin’, solnyshko.”

  “Hush,” Michael scolded, but Gabriel could feel him smiling against his chest.

  “No way,” Gabriel teased. “You’d hate it if I hushed.”

  “In truth, I fear that I would,” Michael agreed, shifting against Gabriel and stretching, making a noise of contentment. “We do not have to go anywhere for a while yet, do we?”

  “Nope.” Gabriel sighed happily. “And—”

  “Sorry to interrupt, Archangels,” Tzadkiel’s voice came to them through the ether. “We’ve got a problem and some information. Better get to my apartment as soon as you can.”

  “There goes our day,” Gabriel said, sitting up. “Armor, you think?”

  Michael was also sitting up, running his hands through his hair. “I believe it would not hurt. Better to be prudent.”

  “Aye, that’s my thinkin’.” Gabriel stood, concentrated, and shimmered into his armor, his sword belt resting on his hips over the silvered chain mail shirt he wore. “How about you?”

  “I am… of the opinion that I too should be armored.” Michael’s expression was grim, and Gabriel’s heart plummeted down to his boots. As he watched, Michael’s form shimmered a moment, and then he was dressed. His armor was simple: a steel and brass breast plate and shoulder guards, the rest of it made from wide strips of leather. His sword belt rested around his waist and with his hand on the pommel, Michael looked at Gabriel, every inch the warrior Archangel, the Commander of the Hosts of Heaven.

  “Shall we?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Gabriel said, saluting automatically. He was a soldier first and foremost, a father and a lover second. He knew that Michael knew that, knew that Samael and Uriel would understand that.

  “Then let us go,” Michael said, and he touched Gabriel’s gauntlet-covered hand and moved them to Tzadkiel’s apartment.

  Things were in an uproar when they emerged in the living room. Paper was strewn everywhere, and Agrat was half lying on the white leather couch, Shateiel, grim as death at her side. Samael stood to one side, looking concerned while Tzadkiel, Brieus, and Sophiel rushed about, bringing blankets, pillows, and cups of tea. Raphael was examining Agrat, and Raziel stood with Uriel. Gabriel noticed that Haniel, Metatron, and Remiel were absent.

  “What happened?” Michael was asking as he moved toward the couch.

  “They had angel wards up on the house,” Tzadkiel said. His voice was stricken. “I should have thought of that myself! I wouldn’t have asked—”

  “Hush.” Michael looked around, and Gabriel realized his lover had become the Field Marshal of God and spoke as such. He squared his shoulders and pushed everything aside in his mind, concentrating on what he was made to be: God’s General, God’s Rage and Jealousy and Fury.

  “Explain.” Michael’s order was curt.

  “Sir.” Tzadkiel straightened, moving away from the couch and the grumbling Raphael and silently enraged Shateiel. “Agrat went to use her powers on the guards and workers of this Bob Taytton’s house, as we talked about. She didn’t get a chance to do that because the whole area is riddled with angel wards. They start out innocuously enough, but if you ignore th
em and try and get closer, they get nastier. The ones that had Shateiel pull her out and bring her here were—”

  “Old ones,” Raphael informed them from where he continued to work on Agrat. “Demon-contrived ones. I don’t think this unpleasant human knows about those. Tzad said they were a different color and energy signature.”

  “Yes, that.” Tzadkiel wrung his hands together in distress.

  “I see.” Michael frowned. “Will she be all right, Raphael?”

  “Yeah, she’ll be fine.” Raphael smiled faintly. “I don’t think I need to order her bonded to keep her home and make her rest. I think he’ll do that anyway, won’t you, Shateiel?”

  Shateiel simply nodded.

  “All right,” Gabriel said. “So we’ve got a house and grounds that we can’t get into, is that right?”

  “Yes.” Tzadkiel sighed. “And Ish and your people, Michael, have managed to infiltrate Bob Taytton’s ‘religion’.” He used his fingers to make air quotes as he said the word religion. “They’re doing well. Ishtahar reported that there’s some strange energies around the church building he’s got, but that she thinks they’re in the nature of protection charms and sigils. Nothing that would hurt her or us.”

  “So what we need to know is what is in that house that is so worthy of protection,” Michael mused. “And we need someone who knows enough about what we are doing and who is not angelkind to retrieve this information.”

  “Would one of your Venatores—”

  “No.” Michael cut Tzadkiel off. “They are good, but I will not have them walk into a place like this. They would be killed.”

  “Any of the monsters be willin’ to help?” Gabriel wondered. “Do we have any current alliances with any of the clans at all? Shape shifters, werewolves, vampires, faerie, anyone?”

  Michael’s frown deepened. “I will need to check my records. I believe we have a few treaties that are still in effect.”

  “I’ll have a look at mine too,” Tzadkiel said. “Might be able to find a clan that’d be willing to form a treaty or alliance.”

  “Good.” Michael nodded.

  Gabriel sighed heavily. “This asshole is really asking for me to skewer him like a kebab on my sword.”

  “Language, Gabriel.” Michael sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “Well he is,” Gabriel asserted, shrugging one shoulder.

  “Perhaps. I agree with the sentiment, however. If not your choice of words.” Michael looked back at Agrat. “It has been a very, very long time since any of us were injured, Gabriel, and in the last week, we have had two—Uriel and now Agrat. I fear the repercussions this may bring.”

  Gabriel’s expression grew bleak, he knew it. He couldn’t help it. “I know what you mean,” he said softly. “Uri’s okay now, though.”

  “And Agrat soon too, but it should not have occurred in the first place.” Michael rubbed his face with one hand.

  It was precisely at that moment that the chime for Tzadkiel’s door sounded.

  Everyone looked at each other in surprise. An angel would normally simply blip into the room, appearing out of thin air. A human would not know anyone lived in the building Tzadkiel owned, thanks to the many protections and layers of power on it that all angelkind placed on any of their abodes on Earth. They sheltered their homes as a matter of course, a natural action by a species with deadly and dangerous enemies. The door chime was a mere formality, Tzadkiel had explained once, but now, for the first time that Gabriel could recall, it was sounding.

  Looking as confused as Gabriel felt, Tzadkiel moved to the speaker connected to the door as security and pressed the button. “Who is this?” he asked.

  “Ah, you do live here,” a cultured voice said. It had a rough timbre, gravelly and deep, and sounded more than a little amused. “I was concerned we’d tortured the knowledge out of the wrong informant.”

  The sound of steel being drawn was loud as Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, and Samael drew their swords as one.

  “And I repeat, who is this? Something very nasty will happen if I don’t get an answer,” Tzadkiel said.

  “My name’s Markus, Tzadkiel, and I’m the Personal Assistant to Lord Ondrass.”

  “Who?” Uriel mouthed at Gabriel, even as Raziel was moving to Tzadkiel.

  “Come up,” Raziel said and took Tzadkiel’s finger off the speaker button.

  “Are you sure, Raz?” Tzadkiel’s look was troubled.

  “Yes. I know Ondrass. That he’s sent his PA rather than a carcass of some dead human, half-breed, monster, or angel is a sign of respect and that he wants to talk a treaty. So, let’s hear Markus out.”

  “Do you know Markus?” Uriel asked.

  “Yeah.” Raziel chuckled. “I like him, actually. As much as any of our kind can like a demon. He’s sarcastic, intelligent, absolutely loyal to Ondrass, and doesn’t take any crap. Don’t try to play him, though, because he’ll know. Don’t try to con a con man. Or con demon, I suppose would be more accurate.”

  There was a light tap on the door, and Tzadkiel opened it.

  Silence greeted the male who walked through it. He was stocky, barely as tall as Raziel, who, at five foot ten was the shortest Archangel. He wore an expensive, tailored, jet-black wool suit with black silk shirt and tie, and his hands were in his pockets. He was smirking, a derisive expression that suited his round face. He was balding, and his eyes were bright and calculating, full of intelligence. Gabriel realized that Raziel’s brief description did this demon no justice. He didn’t bother to sheathe his sword.

  “Nice place,” Markus said, looking out the windows. “Good location. I bet this cost you a pretty penny, Archangel.”

  “What do you want?” Tzadkiel asked.

  “My boss asked me to bring a letter to your leader. Seeing as you’re all together in the one place, it made more sense to pay you a little visit rather than let one of your goons catch me and ask them to take me to your leader.”

  “Markus,” Raziel said then, nodding in greeting.

  “’Ullo, Raz.” Markus’s smirk broadened. “Good to see you. So where’s… ah. You, the brooding Chinese Archangel, would be Michael. Am I right?”

  “Yes.” Michael wasn’t so much brooding as he was giving Markus a look that could shrivel lesser demons to charcoal on the spot. “I am Michael.”

  “Splendid. Here.” Markus sauntered over and held out a cream envelope. After a moment, Michael took it.

  “What is this?”

  “A letter from my employer, as I said. Did you forget already? Soldiers, eh? Not much between their ears but—oh, hello.” Markus held up his hands in a placating gesture as Gabriel pressed the tip of his sword into the hollow at the base of his throat. “Now, now, Muscles, if you kill me, who’ll deliver your glorious leader’s reply to Ondrass, hm?”

  “I’m sure we can work something out,” Gabriel drawled. “Smoke signals. Semaphore. Killin’ a whole bunch of his minions. Y’know, the usual.”

  “Ah. Yes. Right. Well. That might… negate the spirit of the contents of the letter a little.” Markus took a step back from Gabriel and let out an audible sigh of relief as Gabriel lowered his sword.

  Clearly, the demon was not as comfortable in the presence of seven Archangels as his apparent nonchalance was letting on. This time, it was Gabriel who smirked. “Feel like cannon fodder, do you?”

  “A little,” Markus admitted with aplomb as he adjusted his tie. “That thing stings, Gabriel. Haven’t you heard? Guns are all the rage now.”

  “I’m a traditionalist, me,” Gabriel said. He was beginning to understand why Raziel didn’t mind this Markus. The demon’s dry, sardonic wit and his sarcasm were entertaining, and Gabriel, fond of duels in sarcasm, couldn’t help but respond in kind.

  “Besides,” he added, “guns are bulky.”

  “And a sword is ever so easy to conceal of course.” Markus shook his head. “Angels. Honestly.”

  “Of course it is,” Gabriel smirked. “But like I said, I�
�m a traditionalist.”

  “And a hedonist.” Markus was looking at him with a calculating expression.

  “One has a certain reputation.”

  “Indeed you do. Gambling, wenching, whoring… oh, weren’t you in a porn film once?”

  “Mhm.” Gabriel lowered his sword a little more. None of this was new information to the Brotherhood, although Shateiel was gaping at him, and Agrat, now conscious and aware, was stifling a broad grin. “You forgot the smoking, drinking, and occasional drug taking, although that were more in the sixties, and I kinda prefer normal tobacco and alcohol as my poisons.”

  “Aren’t you worldly,” Markus said in a tone that a proud grandmother might use on a child who presented a piece of macaroni art as the next Picasso.

  “Oh no.” Gabriel shook his head. “I’m just a soldier. Not much between my ears, remember?”

  Markus laughed. “Touché,” he said. “I think I like you, Gabriel.”

  “I’m thrilled,” Gabriel said, amused. “Feeling’s mutual. Though don’t think it’ll get you a free pass if you mess with us.”

  “Not I.” Markus looked offended. “No, I understand the rules, and I play by them. This delightful little verbal riposte is simply that: a verbal riposte. Nothing’s meant by it.”

  “Bingo.” Gabriel nodded. “Glad we understand each other.”

  “I’d drink to the occasion, but Tzadkiel hasn’t given me one.” Markus looked around again. “Matter of fact, now that I think about it, I don’t think I could actually drink anything any of you gave me without it having permanently debilitating effects.”

  “Our power trumps yours?” Tzadkiel asked, although Gabriel knew the answer already.

  “Of course. PA, here, Archangel. You’re all the top of the food chain, so to speak. Shateiel there, I could take in an even fight if I had to. Agrat, perhaps, as well. Are you all right, my lady?” he added with a half bow.

  She nodded.

  “I’m glad.” The demon was sincere, Gabriel noted with some surprise. “It was the misfortune that befell you that prompted my boss and his partners to pen that letter to the big, manly, broody male who’s your glorious leader.”