My God,
she thought in stunned silence as she stared up at him.
His face was undamaged, and it was the most incredible face she had ever laid eyes upon. His fair skin and fine, absolutely perfect features reminded her of an anime character, especially when paired with his white-blond hair and incredibly tall, muscular physique. He had to be a model. Maybe a movie star.
He looks like an angel,
she mused as the Earth shifted beneath her.
Her vision was tunneling. As she slipped beneath that warm, black blanket, she thought she caught the hints of a smile at the corners of his perfect mouth.
Cruel
, she thought.
And then there was nothing.
There was something wrong. Uriel glanced at the grandfather clock again: 7:13. He turned and paced through his quarters and left his wing of the mansion to rush down the stairs to the main area below.
Michael was there, preparing to go to work; on his uniform, he wore the gold bar of a lieutenant, but they knew that he would soon be making captain. Though he used a different name and background information each time, Michael quickly worked his way up through the ranks of every precinct he went to work for. But the fact that he never aged and was never seriously hurt even though he was often shot at made his choice of professions a difficult one. Max was sometimes called in to wipe memories, as he had the time that Michael took several bullets to the chest.
In the end, Michael would quit his job under the pretense of wanting to run the family business or travel the country in a Winnebago. Uriel had little doubt that the archangel cop would soon be quitting again; he’d been with the NYPD for fifteen years now and hadn’t aged a day.
It struck Uriel as strange that he was still there; he thought Mike was supposed to be at work an hour ago. He was running late for his shift, apparently. Maybe he was trying hard not to get that promotion.
Gabriel was just getting back in; the fact that he was still damp from a shower at the station house was evidence that he’d been in the thick of another fire that night. However hard it was for Michael to be a cop, it was worse for Gabriel, the firefighter. You could fake the near miss with bullets. Fire was another thing altogether. It was vicious and unpredictable and always left scars.
Now Gabe sat on one of the couches, silently pulling on a dark bottle of beer.
Uriel passed both brothers by without a word and headed to the kitchen. He looked at the clock on the microwave: 7:14.
He gritted his teeth and ran a nervous hand through his thick hair. He felt on edge. He was anxious and restless and impatient and it was understandable; time was passing at an insurmountably slow rate. He needed to see his archess again. He needed to hold her, touch her—
take
her.
But there was something else, too. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it felt a little like there were guard dogs in his brain, and right now they were barking up a storm.
“I’m going,” he said as he left the kitchen and strode across the living room to where his leather jacket hung on the coatrack.
Michael looked up and caught his gaze. “You’ll be almost an hour early. She won’t be ready.” He shook his head in warning. “Women hate that.”
“She’ll get over it,” Uriel muttered as he grabbed his keys and pocketed them.
Gabriel had been silent on the couch, but now he leaned forward, put his empty bottle on the coffee table in front of him, and stood. “I’m going with you.”
Uriel stopped and looked up. Their eyes met; their gazes held.
“You aren’t the only one who can bloody well feel it,” Gabe told him, going for his own jacket.
“Christ, I knew it,” Michael muttered, taking his hat off and joining them beside the coatrack. He looked down at his uniform, there was a flash of white light, and suddenly he was dressed in street clothes. “I’m going, too.”
“I’ll meet you there,” said Azrael from where he was emerging at the archway that led to his wing of the mansion.
All three brothers turned to watch him pull on a long black trench coat, every ounce of his six-foot-five frame radiating the dark charisma that was the Masked One.
Now Uriel understood why Michael hadn’t left to go to work. All of his brothers had been in tune with him enough to know that something was bothering him—that something was wrong.
He nodded his thanks to each of them and then turned toward the mansion door. Luckily for the archangels, the mansion was really no more than a temporal spell of sorts; a portal through the magical building’s doors could be opened to any other door anywhere in the world. Uriel opened the door and stepped through to find himself coming out of an apartment a block down from Eleanore’s.
The night was cold and dark and almost unusually quiet. Azrael flew ahead of them while they jogged down the street, and Uriel was grateful for the vampire’s speed. The closer they got to the complex, the more Uriel was certain something wasn’t right. By the time he reached the stairs that led to her second-floor apartment, he was taking them three at a time and practically flying himself.
The three brothers came to Eleanore’s door to find it ajar. There was silence beyond.
“Az?” Uriel called.
“Come in, Uriel. We’ve been waiting for you.”
It wasn’t Azrael’s voice that greeted him from the other side of the open door. It was Samael’s.
Uriel pushed the door open to reveal Samael seated in the same spot that Uriel had been sitting in a few hours earlier. A tall man in a dark blue business suit was standing dutifully beside him.
Azrael was standing across the room, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He shot Uriel a warning look, his gold eyes flashing, and then turned his gaze back to Samael.
“Where is she?” Uriel asked angrily, stepping into the apartment.
“Honestly, Uriel, can you think of nothing more original to ask?”
“I’ve got one for you,” Gabriel growled, coming in behind Uriel, his own silver gaze glowing like ice. “Where the
fuck
is she, you scaff bastard?”
Samael chuckled, the low sound deep and rumbling. “Now, now. This is no way to greet a guest who’s come with good news.”
Uriel waited, wondering how long he would have to stand there before he could rip off the fallen archangel’s head.
Samael casually unbuttoned the top button of his expensive charcoal-gray suit jacket and adjusted his tie. “Your archess is safe and, thus far, untouched. I’ve come to offer you an accord,” he said, with every hint of nonchalance. “I propose a bargain.”
“Of course you do,” Michael said. His tone was as low as Samael’s. And, at the moment, just as deadly.
Samael went on as if Michael hadn’t spoken. “It’s simple enough. I wager that I can win the heart of our lovely Eleanore before you can, Uriel. The stakes are these,” he said, as he leveled his powerful gaze on Uriel and pinned him to the spot. “I win, and not only is the archess mine, but you agree to serve me for all time. You win, and of course, the archess is yours.”
The room was silent for what seemed a short eternity. Michael cocked his head to one side and frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m sure I didn’t hear you right. I could have sworn you just proposed a wager that there’s no way in hell we would accept. Would you mind repeating yourself?”
Samael’s smile broadened. He looked down at his hand and appeared to study his perfect manicure. “She has already fallen for me, Uriel.” He addressed his next words to Uriel alone. He glanced up at the green-eyed man who had once been the feared and notorious Angel of Vengeance. “I can have her in a day. No more.” He let his hand drop to his side and straightened. “And you’ve no way to get to her.” He shrugged. “You don’t even know where she is.” His smile was back. “Do you?”
“I’d wager she’s in your bed,” Gabriel ground out through clenched teeth.
Uriel chose that moment to strike, but his brothers were no fools. It took all of a heartbeat for Michael and Gabriel to come forward and wrap their arms around Uriel’s strong form. Azrael whirled through the room, his body seeming to mist under the speed with which he moved. He stopped between Uriel and Samael.
“He has Eleanore,” Azrael said, spearing Uriel with a golden gaze. “Remember that.”
“Oh, I dinnae think he’ll be forgettin’ it anytime soon,” Gabriel muttered, his grip on Uriel’s thick, banded arm very, very tight.
“Of course, you can try to take her from me, Uriel,” Samael continued, as if nothing had just transpired. “But good luck convincing her you’re in the right—and I’m in the wrong.” He cocked his head to one side and his gray eyes glittered. “Especially when you bring the bracelet into the scenario.” He shook his head. “I doubt she’ll appreciate the lovely gift once she knows the truth.”
“Get out.” It was Michael who spoke then, his voice a mere breadth above a whisper.
Samael’s eyes cut to the tall, blond archangel who had once been the Old Man’s favorite so long ago. His charcoal gaze began to glow. The look they exchanged was of the most pure form of hatred. Masked by the sheerest facade of calm.
“Very well.” Samael nodded once. “I’ve said what I came to say.”
He stood and moved to the front door of Eleanore’s apartment, the man in the blue suit following on his heels. In the doorway, Sam turned and his gray eyes pinned Uriel one last time. “The ball is in your court.”
With that, Samael’s form melted into the darkness behind him. He and his servant vanished and the apartment was once more free of his ominous presence.
Eleanore came awake in a pleasant daze, her limbs deliciously heavy, her body languid, her mind strangely at ease. But the feel of the mattress beneath her was different; it was foreign to her. The air felt unfamiliar. She slowly blinked her eyes open.
Where am I?
She could sense that it was freezing outside. It was a hard November freeze that would kill what remained of the farmers’ crops and the last, stubborn roses that clung to untended vines across the town. She could always sense these things, so she knew it to be true despite the warm, white comforter draped across her.
Slowly, she sat up; the sleepy succor her body was wrapped in made her feel luxurious and easy, like a cat taking a stretch after a long nap. Again, she blinked. Her short-term memory was blurred, but miraculously, she wasn’t afraid. She should have been. This, she knew. And yet . . . she couldn’t seem to be bothered.
“Where am I?” she asked out loud, taking in the opulence of the massive master bedroom suite she found herself in.
A hearth sat nestled into the opposite wall, flanked by carved granite and marble. It crackled pleasantly, the fire within it the perfect height and warmth. The flames sent dancing light across the marble floor and its thick rugs. The pile of the rugs was high, inviting bare feet. There were tapestries on the wall, each depicting something ancient and mysterious. There were unicorns and dragons and there was text written in languages she didn’t comprehend. The air felt clean, free of dust, and scented with something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. A kind of flower? A spice? It was intoxicating and made her feel even more relaxed.
There was a large oak door in the wall adjacent to the fireplace and upon it now was a gentle knock.
Eleanore wondered who could be on the other side, and when she did, she remembered everything that had happened that night: the motorcycle accident, the mad dash across the street, the fight to save the victim’s life.
She remembered passing out—and looking up at an angel’s face right before she had done so. She sat up a little straighter, ran a nervous hand over her hair, and glanced around at the bed and the room.
It must be his
, she thought, and she wondered how she had gotten there.
The gentle knock came again. Eleanore cleared her throat and called, “Come in.”
The door opened, swinging slowly inward. Filling its frame was indeed the impossibly beautiful angelic rider. “Good evening,” he said. His voice was so perfect that it sent shivers through Eleanore’s body. She hastily suppressed the moan that threatened, absolutely forbidding herself to give this total stranger the satisfaction.
His dark eyes were glittering with secrets and his lips were curled in a gorgeous, incredibly sexy smile. He easily strode across the room to stand beside the bed and she gazed up into his charcoal-gray eyes.
Oh crap
, Eleanore thought.
I want him. And I’m probably one of a million women he’s had in this bed who wanted him just as badly.
“Where am I?” she asked.
He was handsome, but he was a stranger. And she was alone and in his bed.
“You’re at the home of a doctor who has been out of the country for some time; I’m renting the house,” he said softly.
He was wearing tight, worn blue jeans and a form-fitting dark gray long-sleeved shirt that matched his eyes. Both the jeans and the shirt clung to his incredibly tall, trim, and muscular body. She could actually see the muscles rippling beneath the somewhat thin fabric of his clothing.