In essence, they were warnings without reason. In whole, it should have read, “Do not break this seal . . . unless you have business with Samael.”
Which he did.
Uriel swiped his thumb beneath the seal and broke it. The fire beside him leapt higher, filling the room with a red-orange radiance that grew until it was all-encompassing.
He was a bit surprised at first—but the surprise faded fast. He didn’t bother placing his arm over his eyes. Instead, he faced the fire, gritted his teeth, and waited. The blaze engulfed him, painless but warm and bright enough that if he had been human, he would have been blinded for life.
It receded after a few seconds and Uriel was no longer in his master bedroom.
“Ah, so you’ve decided to join us,” Samael said from where he stood beside a liquor tray, pouring himself a Scotch on the rocks. The room Uriel stood in seemed to be a study, as opulently designed and decorated as everything else Samael surrounded himself with.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that just yet,” Uriel muttered.
Samael laughed and turned to face him. “Can I offer you a drink?”
Uriel said nothing. His gaze flicked from Samael to the tall, handsome man who was standing calmly against one wall. He had dark brown hair and blue eyes and was dressed in a fine Italian suit. “Jason,” he said in cool greeting.
Jason’s azure eyes glittered, flashing malign intent.
“You knew what you were doing,” Uriel told him.
“Said the avenging angel with the apathetic sword arm,” Jason shot back, his tone still calm, but his gaze shooting daggers.
Samael watched the two with interest. He arched a brow and returned his glass to the small table. “Perhaps it would be best if we got down to business.”
“I have some terms of my own,” Uriel stated as he turned to face the archangel he and his brothers called the Fallen One.
Samael calmly gestured to the small gray envelope that now rested, open, in Uriel’s hand. “By all means. Name them and they will appear on the document.”
Uriel glanced down at the envelope. Then he pulled the white sheet of paper out from its interior and deftly unfolded it. It was blank. But he knew it wouldn’t remain so for long.
“I imagine you’ll want equal face time with the archess,” Samael suggested, his own charcoal eyes shining with devious light. As he spoke, words of deep black ink, written in a language only vaguely known eons ago, appeared upon the page in Uriel’s hand. “And, of course, an extra day or two to undo what damage has already been done,” Samael added.
More words appeared on the page.
Uriel fought the urge to crumple it in his irritation. But, though he allowed the document to remain intact, his grip tightened and his teeth began to grind. He looked up and leveled the blond archangel with a withering gaze. “I want a hell of a lot more than that,” he said. “I want your promise that if I win, you will stay away from the others.”
That seemed to catch Samael by some small amount of surprise. He paused and considered Uriel’s words. “I assume that by ‘others’ you mean the other archesses.”
Uriel noticed that no further writing had appeared on the page. He smiled a rueful smile. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid, Samael.”
Samael shrugged nonchalantly, apparently completely unaffected by Uriel’s saber rattling. “More concerned, really, than anything else.” He paced around Uriel to the fire that blazed in the hearth across the room. There, he leaned over it, bracing his arms on the mantle as he gazed into the flames. “You’re playing with actual people here, you and your brothers. Real souls, real women, with lives of their own.” He straightened again and turned to Uriel. “And if they choose to reject any of you, I doubt you’ll give them the option. Freedom is not a choice for an archess, is it?”
“And you plan to save them from us—is that it?” Uriel asked, a look of utter disbelief on his handsome face.
Again, Samael shrugged. He smiled but didn’t answer. Instead, he changed the subject. “I can understand your reticence in signing, Uriel. After all, I’m far better at this than you and your brothers. I can see your need to protect the claims on these souls that you believe you’ve staked.”
“You won’t bait me, Samael. Michael, maybe. Gabriel, certainly. But me?” Uriel shook his head.
“Of course not,” Samael agreed readily. “The Angel of Vengeance can’t be fooled so easily into behaving in any form of rash manner.”
At this, Uriel bristled, but he kept his visage calm. “Those are my terms, Samael. Accept them or there will be no bargain.”
“Oh, there needn’t be a bargain, Uriel,” Sam said as he strode across the room toward the beryl-eyed archangel. “It matters little to me. Eleanore Granger can be mine by tomorrow night, with or without your blood on that document,” he promised. “I simply can’t pass up an opportunity to get a little something extra.” He stood before Uriel, the two angels head-to-head, toe-to-toe, and he peered deeply into his enemy’s eyes. “The Angel of Vengeance would make a very beneficial addition to my staff,” he whispered. “That is the only reason I have proposed a wager at all.” He shook his head once. “Otherwise, the archess is almost assuredly already mine.”
Uriel gazed long and hard into Samael’s stormy eyes. He thought of Eleanore Granger healing the child in the restroom despite the risk to herself that it posed. He recalled the way she smelled—like soap and lavender. He saw her eyes, so deep and indigo blue, their pupils expanded with desire.
She had wanted him. Nearly as badly as he’d wanted her. There was no denying that. It was this mutual desire that made Uriel confident he had a solid chance with her. If Samael backed off, Uriel might be able to undo whatever damage the Fallen One had already done.
He was good, Samael. Very, very good. With no more than a glance, he’d coaxed devout queens from their kings and launched battles that saw thousands dead.
Uriel took a slow, deep breath, composing himself before he spoke. Finally, he said, “I want a week alone with her. And you keep your lies to yourself.”
“I would never dream of lying to a woman.” Samael grinned, perfect white teeth flashing. “It isn’t my style.”
The contract grew warm in Uriel’s grip. He looked down to see that the entire page was now covered in the black ink lettering. There were two lines drawn at the bottom. One for Samael’s signature. The other for his.
The Fallen One snapped his fingers and a pen appeared in his hand. At the same time, the giant polished oak desk that was against the wall a moment ago was suddenly directly beside them. Samael snatched the contract out of Uriel’s hand and placed it on the table.
Then he turned back to Uriel and held up the pen. It was a clear crystal fountain pen. It looked as though there was no ink in it. “I suggest you read it over very carefully before you put pen to paper,” the archangel told him. “My contracts tend to be binding.”
Uriel’s gaze flicked to the pen in his hand and then to the contract on the table. He read it over, knowing full well that it most likely did no good to be careful. There was no such thing as safety when dealing with Samael. His grip on the document tightened when he saw that the clause he had requested regarding the other archesses had been left out. Samael wasn’t giving an inch. But there was nothing he could do about it.
When he’d finished, he turned back to his rival. “You first.”
The Fallen One arched a brow and then faced the table. With an expression on his beautiful face that gave away absolutely no trace of emotion, Samael placed the tip of the pen to the inside of his wrist and pressed hard. The metal slid into his vein and the pen filled with the deep red liquid.
Uriel forced himself to remain calm as he watched the most powerful archangel in existence sign his name in blood on the first of the two lines. When Samael had finished, the pen magically emptied itself once more—and the Fallen One held it out for him. He didn’t say anything; just waited for Uriel to make his move.
Uriel took the pen, and without hesitating, he pressed it into his own vein. The pain was far greater than it should have been, but then he had expected as much. Samael would pass up no opportunity to cause him, or any of his brothers, agony.
He never gave the fallen archangel the satisfaction of knowing how much it hurt. He simply placed the pen to the line and signed his own name. When he’d finished, he handed the pen back and waited.
He didn’t have to wait long. Both pen and contract vanished. “I’ll see you in a week, Vengeful One,” Samael said softly. “Until then”—he smiled, raising a glass of red wine that Uriel hadn’t seen him retrieve—“good luck.”
Samael took a sip of the wine, and then he and his servant and the study they’d been standing in were gone. Uriel was back in his room, in the mansion. And the inside of his wrist was throbbing.
“You have to be on live television in less than an hour, Uriel. You can cancel, of course,” Max told him, with faked nonchalance. “However, you’ll then have to explain to Jacqueline Rain and the half of the world that watches her why you changed your mind and ruined her show with absolutely no warning whatsoever. Then there will be inquiries. Most likely, far too many for our particular comfort level.”
Uriel shot Max an utterly exasperated look and again ran his hand through his hair. He was pacing back and forth across the foyer of the mansion and had been for the last twenty minutes. It was Monday afternoon and Jacqueline Rain was queen of Monday afternoons. This interview had been set up long ago and there was no way to cancel it. His mind was feverishly working, formulating the beginnings of a plan, and every interruption to his thoughts felt like a needle jammed through the pincushion of his mind.
Cars were waiting for him outside. The press had apparently gathered in the blocked-off street outside of the studio. Max’s cell phone had been ringing so often and so loudly, the guardian had been forced to switch it off.
The world was waiting for him.
And he had less than six days to win the heart of his soul mate.
“You’ve made a deal with the Fallen One,” Michael remarked from where he leaned against the banister, his well-muscled arms crossed over his chest. “I hope you have a plan.”
Uriel had to hand it to the archangel. Michael was disappointed in him; that was a given. But the man was also intelligent and wise enough to know that berating Uriel at this juncture would do no one any good.
“I’m working on it.”
Max stepped in front of him then, blocking his return progress across the marble floor of the foyer. “I’m sorry, Uriel,” he said sternly. “But we have to go.” He gave the archangel a no-nonsense look and added firmly, “Now.”
Uriel took a deep breath and nodded. In truth, he was ready. He knew what he was going to do and he hoped, desperately, that it would work.
He turned to Gabriel, who was leaning casually on one of the many side tables that lined the foyer. “Gabe, I need you to do me a favor.”
Gabriel uncrossed his own thick arms and straightened, his silver eyes coming to life. “What, then?” he asked. He and Uriel had their differences and none of them would argue that fact. But Gabriel knew good and well that this wasn’t a time for petty disagreements or grudges. His brother’s eternal freedom, as well as the safety of an archess, were both at stake.
“Make sure that Eleanore’s watching channel fourteen at three o’clock today.”
Gabriel nodded once. “That I can do.” Archangels had the ability to manipulate ordinary, everyday things such as the channels on televisions or radios, the temperature of a fridge or a microwave, whether or not an air conditioner would work, and so forth. It was a power that felt a little like using a remote control or taking the elevator when you had perfectly good legs, so it wasn’t one they used very often. However, it would come in handy today.
Uriel turned back to Max. “All right, let’s get this over with.”
Max nodded and led the way out of the mansion to the drive beyond. Right now, their ability to transport through a door in the mansion to any proximity they chose at a whim was certainly going to come in handy. If they hadn’t been capable of such a feat, Uriel never would have made it to the studio on time. It was in California and they were in Texas at the moment.
“I hope you’re at least learning a lesson in all of this,” Max muttered as they ducked into the limousine and closed the door behind them.
“Don’t worry, Max,” Uriel replied as he took his seat across from him. “If not, I’m sure the other three will learn from my horrid mistake.”
“Got another one, General.”
“Let me see it.” Kevin Trenton stepped forward, an apparently young man wearing army fatigue bottoms, combat boots, and a tight black T-shirt over his well-honed muscles.
He rested his palms on the desk on either side of the technician in front of him and gazed, with stark blue eyes, at the image on the computer screen. The map’s center pulsed with the red glow of another recorded flux.
He was getting closer. He had mapped these anomalies all over the world and at first they had appeared random. But now . . . Now there was a definite pattern to them. They seemed to be centered on none other than the same extraordinary young woman that he had been watching for the last twenty years.