Four times, apparently,
Ellie thought, at once smiling to herself. It helped break the darkening mood she’d found herself in.
After me, there will be three others. Maybe . . . Maybe, if I can make it through this alive, and Uriel and I can figure things out between us—then I can help the others. Somehow.
Eleanore pondered that for a moment. It was a bolstering thought. She took a deep breath, this one far less shaky than the last, and she got to her feet. As she did, she shoved her hands into the pockets of her hoodie and the tips of her fingers brushed against something cold, smooth, and round.
The bracelet.
It was the binding bracelet she had snatched from Max Gillihan after she’d struck him with lightning what seemed like ages ago. Every time she changed clothes, no matter where she went or what she did, she somehow managed to keep possession of the strange, beautiful article of jewelry.
It went from an inner fold of her red gown to the pocket of her fleece hoodie despite the fact that Michael had fashioned these clothes for her out of thin air. It was as if the bracelet were a mythical boomerang—it always returned to her.
Like Thor’s hammer,
she thought to herself.
She drew her hands back out of her pockets, leaving the bracelet there. Then she left the bedroom, feeling a little better than she had two minutes ago.
Uriel watched the three guards through the slits of his jade-colored eyes. They had no idea he was observing them. As far as they were concerned, he was curled in on himself, badly injured, and most likely unconscious.
He used their misperception to his advantage and took the opportunity to hastily formulate a plan. Several minutes went by, in which Uriel mentally measured distances, figured probabilities, and slowly and carefully flexed each of his muscles to make certain his bones had indeed been mended and that his limbs were working properly once more.
He could tell what kind of road they were on by the vibration of the tires on the tarmac. By the time they had taken an on-ramp and the van increased speed onto a highway, Uriel was ready to move.
Hoping he was right about the dispositions of these men, Uriel pretended to cramp up tighter and made sounds as if he were going to vomit. The nearest guard was seated close enough that his boot wasn’t far from Uriel’s chest. Uriel leaned a little toward him, using all of his acting ability to make it clear that he had no control over the bile that was now rising up his esophagus and would most likely project, cannonlike, all over the guard’s leg.
Just as Uriel expected, the guard pulled his leg back and kicked Uriel square in the chest, sending him flying across the van. Uriel twisted a little in midair, again making it look as if he had no control over his movements. By the time he hit the guard on the opposite side, he was facing him.
On impact, Uriel snatched the hand gun from the Adarian’s unsnapped holster. Then, with skills honed by thousands of years of battles and wars, Uriel landed on his feet and spun, aiming the shard gun at the guard who had kicked him. He fired once, got the Adarian in the chest, and then quickly leveled the weapon on the second guard, who was too taken by surprise to react. He pulled the trigger a second time and struck his target on mark. Another split second and he was whirling once more to face the guard whose gun he had taken. The gun went off a third and final time and all three Adarians were on the floor of the van.
Their chests were expanding in petrified blackness; their hands were claws that clutched and tore at their clothing. Within a few seconds, they slipped into unconsciousness.
Uriel stood alone at the center of his fallen enemies and lowered his weapon. It was fitted with a strange sort of silencer and had not at all sounded like the guns that had struck him and his brothers down at the gala.
With a sharp glance at the front of the van, where the driver continued to maneuver the vehicle as if he had not heard the commotion, Uriel bent to his knees and searched the body of the guard closest to him. He was looking for the keys to the manacles that still bound him. He’d had time to figure out that they kept him from using any of his supernatural abilities.
However, the keys weren’t on the first guard. Or the second or third guards. Which meant they were either with the driver—or with the general. Uriel was seriously hoping for the former rather than the latter.
He dropped the gun he’d been holding, presuming that a good amount of its ammunition had been spent, and took the two unfired weapons from the other fallen guards. Then he drew up the archangel who had kicked him, yanked his handsome head back by the hair, and sank his vampire fangs into the man’s thick corded neck.
The blood was slow to come, as there was stone in the guard’s veins, spreading in a sluggish petrifaction. But what Uriel managed to get was incredibly powerful. It was not sweet and intoxicating in the manner that Eleanore’s blood had been. There was no erotic note to it that fired his blood and forced the animal in him to awaken with dire, untamable need. It was only sustenance. But it was very old blood, and very potent, and Uriel hoped that if he tried hard enough, if he wanted it badly enough, and if he concentrated deeply enough, he might be able to absorb a bit of the power that came with that blood.
He
wanted
the Adarian’s abilities.
Uriel blinked in surprise when he felt a change in the sensation of each pull and swallow. He was doing it. He was absorbing the Adarian’s abilities. He briefly wondered why it hadn’t happened with Eleanore. Then again, he hadn’t wanted to take Eleanore’s powers when he’d bitten her. He’d only wanted to give her pleasure or send her away. He assumed now that if he drank from her while attempting to absorb her healing ability at the same time, he would be capable of doing so.
Apparently, you just had to want it badly enough.
Uriel drank more quickly when he realized that one of the powers he was absorbing from the Adarian was a sort of immunity to shard guns. Even as he drank, he noticed the Adarian’s body beginning to restore itself.
Uriel took his fill from the guard, then let him drop before he unloaded the remaining blasts from the first shard gun he’d used into the guard’s body. That would buy him more time.
Then he moved on to the next unconscious Adarian. He was fairly certain he hadn’t managed to kill them, but in the space of a few precious minutes, he had absorbed the supernatural abilities from all three of them, restoring the precious liquid that had been stolen from his own veins and restocking his own store of power.
Now to get the keys.
Uriel picked up the gun that he had discarded earlier and aimed it toward the right rear of the van. He tried to judge where the wheel would be spinning beneath it and aimed. Then he braced himself against the wall of the vehicle and pulled the trigger. As he’d hoped, there was a strange thumping sound as the tire went flat. The van did a jumping-grinding routine and veered to the right. Uriel presumed the driver took his foot off of the gas in order to slow down.
He lowered his weapon. He’d successfully blown the tire. That would at least get them to the side of the road.
When Eleanore reentered the living room, it was empty. She frowned and moved through it and into the dining room, but that was empty as well.
On the otherwise empty table, there was a full and steaming cup of tea. It was honey-chamomile-vanilla, from the smell of it. Her own special brew. She picked it up and turned it around in her hands, allowing its warmth to sink into her fingers and palm. It was light with soy creamer, which she loved, and could also smell. She knew it had been made for her.
She took a sip. It was really good and it warmed her as it went down, chasing away the chill that came with the questions she had been pushing away all night.
Will I ever see him again? Are they going to kill him?
“Are you all right?”
Eleanore lowered the cup of tea in her hands and turned to face Azrael, who stood in the archway that led to a series of hallways and rooms beyond the dining room.
“Yes,” Eleanore replied, nodding. “Thank you for the tea.”
“Think nothing of it. I had a feeling that after such an encounter, you would need something to calm your nerves. I apologize that we left you alone with him,” Azrael said calmly. “One of Jason’s abilities is that his form can be molded by his master,” he explained as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his black jeans and leaned his left shoulder against the wall. “When Samael’s scent was suddenly
not
his scent any longer and Jason was nowhere to be seen”—he smiled and shrugged—“I knew Jason was masquerading as the Fallen One as a diversion. The only reason Sam would have for wanting to disappear for a while is
you
.”
Ellie smiled a small smile, took another sip, and swallowed. “You were right.” Then she put the cup down. “Where is everyone?”
“In the garage. They’re nearly finished building the weapons we’ll use against the Adarians.”
“Gold grenades?” Eleanore hedged, only slightly joking.
Azrael smiled a dazzling, white, and fang-filled smile that lit up his eyes. “Clever girl,” he said. “In fact, yes. Among other things.”
Eleanore blushed a little beneath the compliment. She looked at the wall and bit her lip before saying, “Well, I figured that swords probably wouldn’t be the way to go against ancient angels using shard guns.” She could hear his soft chuckle and couldn’t help but look over at him.
He was still smiling at her. “You assumed correctly.” He pushed himself up off of the wall and strode gracefully toward her. He was so tall. . . . What was he? Six foot five? Six foot six? And draped in the color of night, with eyes so stark they nearly glowed, even when he wasn’t in full vampire mode.
“You were very strong in there. Not many people can stand up to the Fallen One as you did.”
Eleanore didn’t know what to say to that. He was complimenting her again, but it was embarrassing, too. It meant he knew what had happened between the two of them, despite the fact that Sam had soundproofed the room.
She tried to duck her head, but his finger at her chin prevented the movement. He caught her gaze once more and held it tight. “We’ll bring him home alive,” he said softly. “I promise.”
Eleanore felt a weight lift from somewhere in the vicinity of her chest. With those few spoken words, Azrael had managed to reach in to where she hurt the most and ease the yawning, empty pain.
“I’ll hold you to that,” she whispered.
“All right, kids.” Max appeared in the doorway carrying three black military-style sacks over his shoulder. “It’s showtime.”
Ellie and Azrael turned to face them as the other archangels appeared behind Max. Both Gabriel and Michael wore double shoulder holsters, outfitted with hand guns, and God only knew what was in the black packs they each carried. They were identical to Max’s.
Eleanore could see that on their arms, they wore bracers composed of leather with strips of gold sewn into the outside. Around their necks were what looked like torques also made of gold. They moved into the kitchen and Max handed Azrael the second of the three he carried. Then he turned to Eleanore.
“I have a few things for you as well,” he said, handing her a pack of her own. “We’ll fill you in on what they are and how to use them once we get to the trade site.”
“We’re leaving now?”
Max nodded. “I want to get there early so we can see the lay of the land.”
Eleanore looked toward the doorway, which was empty, and noticed that Samael and Jason had not come into the dining room. “Where are—”
“They’ll meet us there,” Max told her. Then he turned to face the dining room and raised his right hand. His palm began to glow and a portal swirled to life within the living room. “It’s time to go.”
Abraxos, also known as General Kevin Trenton, narrowed his gaze on the back of the van ahead of them. The right rear tire had blown out with no warning and the driver was pulling over. He had communicated as much over his radio.
Kevin gave his consent and the driver followed his order, but the general didn’t like it. It made no sense. The tires on his vehicles were all new. He and his men were very good at tending to every little detail in every operation. The tire should not have blown. Either something in the road had caused it to give—or there was a problem with their prisoner.
“Pull in behind him,” he ordered to his own driver. Then he turned to the men in the back. “Keep your weapons trained on the van. Shoot anything that comes out of the back without warning.” They nodded their assent and pulled their weapons.
Kevin waited until the SUV came to a complete stop behind the van. Then he pulled his own shard gun from the holster on his thigh and got out of the vehicle. He waited for the driver of the van ahead of them to get out and come around to the back, but after several long seconds, the driver’s door still hadn’t opened.
And then, suddenly, the van’s engine was revving. Kevin’s eyes widened when the back right wheel shimmered, rippled, and then exploded in a quick burst of light. He shielded his eyes with his arm and, when the light subsided, he saw that the tire was repaired—whole—as if it had never blown.