Dark Awakening (3 page)

Shit.
Slamming on the brakes, the car skidded to a halt, inches from the man. Slowly, he raised his head and looked up through a veil of wet loose curls that shone blue-black in the light of her high beams. His eyes, she noted, were ice blue and they were looking straight at her, as if he could see her through the rain and the swishing wiper blades.

Holy shit!
She studied the height of him, the shiny, long dark coat, thought she saw some wispy shadow behind him. Wings? The guy from the bridge, she realised, sucking in her breath. Shit! She reached for the door lock and pushed it down. The lock slides clicked into place.

Blood continued to shadow on the white cotton of his shirt, increasing in diameter, darkening despite the rainwater. The flickering silhouette of wings unfurled in the darkness.

No, not an angel. Angels didn't bleed. Did they? No. It was just some guy who'd gotten bounced. Bad drug deal, she told herself. Definitely
not
an angel.

He studied her, making no attempt to walk to her car door. After what felt like minutes, but was probably only seconds, he straightened to his full height and stumbled away, clutching his side. With a sigh of relief, she let her foot off the brake and moved it on to the gas pedal, but her conscience suddenly wouldn't let her press it.

You can't just leave him. You cannot pull away and abandon him in the rain when he's wounded like that.

It was the nurse in her, she told herself. She couldn't leave anyone at the side of the road bleeding. She just couldn't. It didn't matter that she had quit the profession over two years ago because she'd been burned out and sickened by what she'd seen coming through the trauma room in the ER. Despite the burnout, and the antipathy she had felt, she'd never left a patient alone—not innocent bystander caught in a drive-by, nor the shooter; or the overdosed junkie who she'd seen over and over despite numerous resuscitations, and hours of counselling, not to mention the methadone program.

Yeah, she had lost her faith, lost her belief in the goodness of humanity. She still hadn't found it, despite spending the last two years, ‘searching’ for what she wanted in life. And what the hell had it gotten her? No money, a pile of unpaid bills, and three slices of bread and two eggs left in the fridge—all supposed to last her three more days, till her bonds came due and she could transfer them into her account. Yeah, she hadn't found anything but failure these past two years, and yeah, he was probably some druggie that had gotten popped because he owed his pusher. But she couldn't leave him. Not like this. That small part of her that wanted to believe she still had faith, just kept screaming to be heard.

Pulling up beside him, she put the car in park and unlocked the door before throwing it open and running out into the rain.

"Hey,” she yelled, running towards him. But he didn't hear her over the rumble of thunder. “Stop!” she ordered.

He did, and her breath caught. Now what the hell was she supposed to do? He was probably packing a weapon, not to mention he was probably high. He turned his head and looked at her over his shoulder. His eyes were narrowed slits and his expression was less than grateful.

"You're bleeding pretty badly. Let me take you to the hospital. St. Joe's is just a few blocks away. They've got a good ER."

He looked at her as if he could not comprehend what she was saying.

"Do you speak English?"

He didn't answer. From what she could see through her drooping bangs and rain soaked lashes he appeared dark haired and olive skinned. Maybe he was Italian, or French. Too bad she didn't remember much of her high school French, although she was able to get out a strangled, “parlez vous Anglais?"

"I am able to speak your tongue."

The voice was hard, angry. Nadira took a step back from the hate she saw flare in his eyes. What the hell was she thinking? She knew nothing about this guy—except that he was seriously wounded and that he was probably involved in something illegal. Something she
did not
want to get embroiled in. She had enough of her own problems, evading her creditors.

"Look,” she said, holding her hands up as she backed away from him. “Forget I offered. Let's just forget we saw each other, okay?"

"No hospitals."

"Where—” she bit off a scream when he reached for her arm and all but dragged her to the car. He shoved her down into the driver seat then walked around the front of her car. It wasn't until he tried to cram his tall frame into the passenger seat of her economy car that she saw just how badly he was hurt.

"God, your chest is ripped half open."

His eyes, which were an unearthly shade of blue, glared at her. “No hospitals,” he said again. “Just take me somewhere. I'll do the repairs."

"Repairs? We aren't talking about fixing a garden gate, or repairing a hole in the drywall, you know. You need a hospital, and probably a surgeon. Hell, you might have some major vessels that need to be tied off to stop the bleeding."

"You are an angel of mercy, are you not?"

She froze. What the hell?

"A nurse,” he said in disgust. “Were you not once a nurse?"

"Yes,” she muttered, wondering if this nut job had been one of her many patients. “But I didn't perform the sort of medicine that wound is gonna require. Furthermore, even if I could fix that gaping hole, I don't have the equip—"

"Drive,” he interrupted before shooting her a look that told her it was prudent to keep her yap shut.

"Ah, where exactly would you like me to drive you?” She asked, fearing his answer.

"Your house. Now."

Nadira closed her eyes and prayed. Where was that damn angel who claimed he'd been by her side her whole life? Where the hell was he now, when some maniac was sitting beside her, demanding he take him to her house?

"Drive.
Now
."

His tone left little room for argument. As she put the car in drive, she couldn't help but sneak a look at him. She shuddered when she saw he was staring at her. With a smile that was almost cruel, he turned his head and looked straight out the windshield.

"You are the key to the woman."

"What?” she muttered. Obviously fear was overriding all of her senses. She could hardly hear anything over the beating of her heart and the rain pitting against the windshield.

"You, Nadira, are the key I seek."

Nadira finally looked up into the stranger's blue eyes as she patted the gaping chest wound with cotton gauze. He was seated on a chair at her kitchen table. The kitchenette was small, just like the rest of her apartment, and his huge body seemed to take up all the available space—even the air seemed to be at a premium.

She saw that he was staring at her with an alarming mix of danger and perplexity, as if he had absolutely no idea what she was doing. His gaze, so absorbed and steady, watched her, hardly blinking as he scrutinised every inch of her face. Her hand trembled with nervousness and the gauze dropped from her fingers, landing in his wet lap.

Jesus, how had he come by this wound? And how the devil had he survived the blow? And why the hell had she thought to help him anyway? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Trying not to think of him, or his naked chest, she reached for the brown bottle that sat atop the table behind her. Stepping further between his spread legs she bent her knees and pressed in closer, trying to see how much damage to the tissues the wound had caused.

He didn't flinch when she poured the peroxide on the wound. The liquid foamed and bubbled over the jagged flesh, finally seeping into the oozing red tissue. He should have at least gritted his teeth and looked away. But he didn't. His breathing was slow and calm. His eyes were not closed against the pain, but open—fixated on her.

God, he really needed a doctor. No way was she going to be able to sew this wound closed and make it look presentable. It was going to leave a scar—a bad one.

"Why?"

His voice was controlled, not giving away any of the pain he must be silently enduring. “Why?” she replied while shaking her head. “It's gotta be cleaned. That knife or whatever it was that stabbed you was probably dirty."

"It was a mazzariel, not a knife."

"Never heard of it. What is it, some new weapon the gang bangers are using now?"

"It is an ancient, honourable weapon,” he said while reaching into the pocket of his long woollen coat that was draped over the back of the chair. “It is a sacred weapon."

Something heavy thudded on the table, making her jump. Her head turned, watching the silver blade, tip down and coated in red, land into the scarred wood of the table. The short handle quivered back and forth, glinting in the soft ceiling light. On the hilt were vaguely familiar markings, more like symbols than anything. One sign in particular caught her attention.

Dragging her gaze away from the dagger, she scanned the neck of the man and found a similar marking behind his ear. She had first noticed the strange marking when he'd been in the passenger seat of her car. His hair had been wet from the rain and brushed back from his face and neck, exposing the mark. She memorised it, wished she could reach out with her fingers and trace it—feel it—read it as though it were Braille. But she was not brave enough for that. If he was who she was thinking he was, she wanted nothing more than to get him the hell out of her kitchen.

Her gaze flitted back to the mark on the left side of his neck. Swallowing hard, she recalled the raised symbol branded onto the neck of the man who had held her in the park. He had been an angel. She had seen him, falling to the earth, his white wings spread. This guy, well, he had the mark, on the same side, but the wings were curiously absent. Yet somehow she knew he had them, and what colour they were.

He was the fallen angel she had seen in her vision. And what was more, he had been there tonight on the bridge, sitting on the railing like a menacing black crow.

Shit, a fallen angel. Now which one? Which damn angel was he? Nadira looked back at the dagger. She took in the blade that was serrated and jagged on both sides. It was designed to tear and mutilate—to kill and destroy.

Gadriel.

The name came to her on a rush of fear and excitement. Of all the fallen angels, Gadriel had most intrigued her. Every picture she had ever seen of him the artist had portrayed him as big, terrifying, but none of them had ever captured the soft waves of his hair, or the blue of his eyes.

Gadriel, the angel of ... what? She couldn't remember. Mentally, she went through every book she had ever read on Angels, and the Watchers—the original fallen angels. But his occupation still eluded her.

"I'd better keep cleaning,” she said in a rush while she wiped at the wound with the gauze. “You don't want this getting infected. Sepsis is a nasty way to die."

He cocked his head and studied her. His knees closed a fraction, caging her between two hard, denim clad thighs. “Why do you help me? I am not known to you."

Nadira looked away from his gorgeous face and concentrated instead on the wound. But that really wasn't much better since he had a set of spectacular pecs—all bronzed skin and hard muscle. She looked at his arms, and decided they were just as spectacular. No way did she dare to gaze lower. She just knew from looking at the width of his shoulders and the bulk of his arms that he probably possessed a chiselled six pack.

Fallen angel, she reminded herself. He had fallen from God's grace because he had sinned. Had done some reprehensible thing to invoke God's wrath. He was not some stud she could take pleasure in for the night. This was serious shit. She believed in angels—the good and the fallen. She knew many that would laugh at her, tell her she was acting like an idiot. But she knew better. He was dangerous—
evil.

He grabbed her wrist and she yelped, her pulse leaping in her chest. She gasped at the strength of his fingers as they wrapped around her wrist. She was no waiflike pixie. She had strong bones, with lots of meat on them, yet the size of his palm and the length of his fingers dwarfed her hand. Lowering his head, he angled his face until he could catch her gaze, which was staring fixedly at the toe of his black Doc Martens.

"Why do you help me when I am a stranger to you?"

Her breathing seemed to stop, and no matter how hard she tried to regain a breath she couldn't force it into her burning lungs. She couldn't do anything, except stare into those blue eyes.

He shook her wrist, drawing her toward him, his eyes now dark and suspicious. “Why?"

"I ... I couldn't leave you like that."

Damn it, she couldn't stop looking at his lips, at the contours of his strong jaw. And those eyes ... she could get lost in those eyes, and all that hard maleness.

"Do hum—” he stopped abruptly, then licked his lips, dragging his tongue along his bottom lip. “Do you usually do this for strangers?"

"No,” she answered, the reply sounding like a pant. His lips looked so kissable. She groaned, imagining their mouths atop each other, their tongues brushing and rubbing. “I have never stopped to pick up a stranger. I have never brought a stranger to my home. I ... I don't understand why I could not drive past you. I just couldn't."

His fingers dropped away from her wrist, and he looked away from her, dismissing her. She reached for the needle and thread that sat in a bowl of boiled water, trying to forget about the pain in her chest. He seemed satisfied with her answer, but less than satisfied with her. While she might be hot for him, he was not feeling the same for her. “I'll sew this up as quickly as I can,” she mumbled, trying to hide the embarrassment and the hurt that not being pretty, or thin enough caused her.

He didn't say anything, only stared at her with those intense blue eyes of his. Stepping deeper into the vee of his thighs, Nadira bent over him and poised her hand, the needle between her fingers, over the jagged flesh. She heard his breath hitch and refused to look up at him. She just wanted to get this over and done with and him out of her kitchen and back out onto the street—back to wherever fallen angels hid amongst humanity.

Working fast, she punctured his flesh with the needle and pulled the string through, almost disbelieving what she was doing. After a few stitches she realised how poor of a suturing job she was doing.