Oh Christ,
she thought frantically, and placed her hand to her chest.
He’s scary as hell
,
but so gorgeous . . . and so close . . .
Her heart was racing.
He smiled down at her, no doubt reading her thoughts. “Give me what I want, Eleanore, and I will reciprocate. It’s that simple.”
He raised his hand to gently cup the side of her face. She suppressed a shiver at the contact. He was so warm and that warmth suffused her upon contact, the way a sunbeam through the window in the winter could chase away a deathly chill.
“Give me this small boon. All I ask is that you trust me.” He drew nearer and Eleanore’s breath hitched. He lowered his lips until his next words caressed her ear. “And come to me.”
He laid the gentlest of kisses against her earlobe then, causing a hard shiver to course through her slender form. “You have everything to gain,” he whispered, so soft, so warm.
And nothing to lose . . .
The thought went floating, unchecked through her mind. She didn’t know whether it was her own but she didn’t care. She was under his spell, whether he’d done it on purpose or not. He was simply too perfect. Too beautiful. Too warm and tall and hard and strong and persistent and gentle and dangerous.
So wonderfully dangerous
.
She tried to nod, and didn’t know whether she’d succeeded until he was gradually pulling away just enough for her to open her eyes. He had one of her wrists in his hand, his fingers curled around her in a gentle but firm grip. In his other hand, he held the pen; it glimmered in the sunlight coming through the window and sparkled in her eyes.
“Let me make this easier on you,” he told her, bringing the inside of her wrist to his lips, where he gently laid a kiss over her pulsing vein. She watched in fascination as he pulled back and a small droplet of blood welled up from the place he had just kissed.
There was no pain. She was just bleeding.
“The pen requires the blood of each contracting party.”
He then lowered the tip of the fountain pen to the blood and deftly filled the interior compartment with the red, precious fluid.
Once it was filled, he turned and set the pen down on the coffee table as it reappeared, still holding her arm firmly in his fingers. Then he faced her once more and loosened his grip on her wrist, running his thumb gently over the tiny wound he had created. It disappeared, leaving her flesh once more unmarked.
Eleanore’s knees felt weak, and he must have known it, because he took her other wrist in his hand as well and guided her back down onto the couch. As she sat, he knelt before her, maintaining eye contact.
“Eleanore, will you promise to come to me should Uriel do something to hurt you within the next seven days?”
She hesitated. But then she realized there was no backing out now. Uriel was a vampire because he’d made a deal to protect Eleanore. The least she could do was return the favor and try to get him out of the mess she’d inadvertently placed him in.
And . . . it was more than that.
She didn’t only feel she owed him. She
wanted
to help Uriel. In the normal scheme of things, it wouldn’t make any sense. They’d only just met. But this wasn’t the normal world. This was a world of archangels and their soul mate archesses. It was
her
world—and Uriel was at its center. If there was even the slightest chance that this deal with Samael would put an end to the pain she had seen Uriel enduring in the garage in the mansion, then it was worth it to her.
All Samael was asking was that she allow him to protect her. That she trust him. What could be the harm in that?
She looked up into Samael’s eyes and swallowed hard, nodding once.
“Say it, Eleanore,” he instructed calmly, his gray eyes glittering darkly.
She blinked rapidly and licked her lips. “Yes,” she said. “I promise.”
With that, Samael smiled a winning, beautiful smile and gently placed the now ruby-red diamond pen in Eleanore’s hand. Its sharp fountain tip bubbled slightly with a tiny red drop, ready to be put to paper.
Samael stood and backed away from the table so that Eleanore had a clear view of the ancient parchment atop it. It was no longer blank; black lettering was scrolling itself onto the page even as she watched. The words were written in what she knew simply from the sight of it was a very old language. Ancient.
Like Sam.
When it had finished scrolling, a pair of signature lines appeared at the bottom of the page. One was for her.
Samael waited patiently, but Eleanore knew that if she didn’t do it now, she would lose her nerve. So she slid off of the couch and onto her knees in front of the coffee table. Then she placed the pen on the line and signed her name.
She expected something to happen then. Perhaps lightning would strike her or maybe she would spontaneously combust. Instead, all that she heard was a gentle rustling beside her as Sam moved to the other end of the coffee table and knelt as well. He held out his hand, palm-up, and she realized that he wanted the pen.
She handed it to him, noticing that it was no longer red, but once more crystal-clear and empty. Samael took the pen from her, his fingers brushing over hers as he did so. She shivered and pulled away, looking at the floor.
What have I done?
When she heard the sound of scratching on parchment, she looked up to see that he was signing his own name, and once more, the pen was red. He’d taken his own blood and she hadn’t seen it. She was grateful for that. Her stomach felt a bit strange at the moment. She was so unsteady, so unsure....
When he’d finished, he waved both pen and parchment away and they simply disappeared. Then he stood once more, moved to her side, and offered her his hand. The expression on his incredibly handsome face was one of keen concern. “Are you okay?” he asked.
This struck Eleanore as odd. Why would he ask? Why did he care? He’d gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he? She blinked up at him and then nodded once. “I think so.”
“Then I will ask you for one last favor, Eleanore.”
Oh no, here it comes,
she thought.
The lightning ...
“The gala that Christopher Daniels must attend in Dallas is not until tomorrow night. I know you’ve agreed to go with him and I won’t stop you. However, I also know that he’s not the only one who poses a threat to you.” Here, he paused, allowing the information to sink in. She realized it meant he knew about the men who had chased her for the better part of her life. “I am not sure you’re safe in your apartment any longer. Please allow me to provide you with safe lodging until tomorrow.” He paused again, allowing her to consider his request. Then he added, “I will make certain you’re provided with food and clothing—and anything else you need or desire.”
Why is he being so nice to me?
If it were possible, his stormy gray eyes looked sad then. Perhaps a bit weary. No—a
lot
weary.
He’s exhausted,
she thought suddenly. The strong impression was there one moment and swept away with the next. Fleeting. She wondered if she had imagined it.
Reluctantly, she nodded. He was right. She couldn’t go home.
He said nothing more. Instead, he released her hand and looked down at the floor. He seemed to be thinking deeply, the muscle in his jaw tensing and relaxing. “I’ll have Lilith, my assistant, take care of everything.”
“I have to call the bookstore,” Ellie said.
“It’s been taken care of,” he replied.
With that, he turned away from her and strode to the door of the office. Once there, he grasped the handle, turned the knob, and then glanced at her over his broad shoulder. He gave her a searching look and she wondered what it was he was searching for.
Then he opened the door and stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
M
ichael watched with obvious keen interest as Max finally wiped his brow on the back of his sleeve and braced himself on the desk, letting his head drop in exhaustion. The blond archangel had been watching Max patiently as he’d worked. The contract and its unraveling, swirling, glowing words still rested before him on the polished oak surface of the desk, but the unscroll-ing had more or less stopped. It was now completely decoded.
It was quiet for a long while as Max leaned on the large desk, his head bowed, his eyes closed. It had taken just about everything out of him to unravel Sam’s trickery.
Finally Michael spoke up, apparently tired of waiting. “Well? What does it say?”
Max raised his head to stare at him. “Nothing.”
Michael frowned. “What?”
Max straightened once more, took off his glasses, and began to clean them with the hem of his untucked shirt. He was a mess. “It says nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He sighed. He slipped his glasses back on and adjusted them. “Samael was toying with me.”
Max took a step back and gazed at the glowing words that floated in the air, filling the space from the desktop to the ceiling in front of him. They hovered there in a vague paragraphic formation; there were thousands of them. And they meant nothing.
He ran a tired hand through his hair and turned away from the display to make his way to the liquor cabinet against one wall. “The only hidden obligation in the mess was the one that has already transpired,” he told Michael calmly. “That being the one that gave Uriel his new vampire form. Everything else is nonsense.” He pulled a crystal decanter from the top shelf, uncorked it, and poured a good amount of the brown liquid into a waiting crystal glass. “I suspect he was trying to keep us busy for a while. Either that, or this is simply his idea of fun.”
He turned to see Michael shoot him a frustrated glare. “Knowing Sam, it was both.”
Max grimaced as he swallowed a heady load of alcohol and gritted his teeth. He nodded and ground out, “Indeed.” Max almost never drank; it just wasn’t his thing. However, tonight the amber liquid was calling his name and since his guardian abilities allowed him to will away its effects with no more than a thought, he wasn’t going to hold back.
“So what do you think he’s been busy doing while we’ve been here decoding bullshit?”
“I’m sorry—‘we’ ? ” Max asked incredulously. He was very tired and was all out of social niceties just then.
Michael had the decency to look a bit guilty. He shrugged. “Sorry. I mean ‘you.’ ”
“He’s been up to no good, that’s what,” said Max. He was feeling the alcohol already; it was hitting him hard and fast. “Most likely involving Eleanore.”
“Aye, that ’e has,” came a new voice from the doorway.
He and Michael turned to see Gabriel saunter into the room, his expression bleak. “She signed a bloody contract with the bugger.”
Max almost choked on his drink.
“What?”
Michael roared.
Max hurriedly swallowed and cleared his throat. “How do you know this?” he asked, wondering whether he should sober himself up really quickly with a bit of magic.
“We knew she was in the Tower, so I waited outside since there’s no gettin’ in.” Gabriel strode across the room to where Max stood and took the drink from his hand. He unceremoniously swigged the rest of the liquor in the glass and then handed the empty container back to Max.
Max shot him a dirty look, but Gabriel failed to notice—or to care. “Lilith came out and told me every-thin’.”
Max wasn’t surprised. Lilith often helped the archangels when it came to dealing with Samael. It was simply part of who she was: selfless, brave, wise. It was one of the many things that Max admired about her.
“What the hell happened?” Michael asked.
Gabriel reached up to the top shelf of the liquor cabinet and took down the same bottle that Max had poured his drink from. With one hand, he positioned Max’s glass, still in the guardian’s hand, and with his other, he refilled it. Max watched him do this in irritation and vague bafflement. When Gabriel had finished, he returned the decanter to the top shelf and then once more took the glass out of Max’s hand to throw back his head and swig its contents in one swallow. This time, when he returned the glass to his guardian’s grip, Max’s jaw muscle twitched. Gabriel gritted his teeth, belched, and turned away from the liquor cabinet to make his way toward the couches at the center of the room.
Max rolled his eyes and set the glass down on the countertop with an exasperated
thunk
.
“Gabe,” Michael repeated, as calmly as he could, given the circumstances. “What the hell happened at Sam’s fortress?”
Gabriel glanced at his brother and shrugged. “Wha’ can I say? He offered her wha’ we could no’ give her.”
“Which is?” Max asked, now completely sober once more. It was pointless to attempt insobriety around Gabriel. The archangel would always have him beat at that particular game.
“A lift to Uriel’s curse.”