Kristina Douglas - The Fallen 1 - Raziel (10 page)

This wasn’t normal. Why her, why now? Things were already in a mess, and I’d vowed not to risk bonding with a woman again.

Which meant my only sex was with myself, a quick, soul ess release that kept me from exploding in rage and frustration. Or with some anonymous human looking for a night of pleasure. A night I made sure she never remembered.

Neither did I.

Every woman in our hidden kingdom was mated, bonded to one of us. There were no offspring to grow up and carry on the tradition.

The only way a woman entered Sheol was as a bonded mate, so I was shit out of luck if I wanted someone new, which must please Uriel. Anything that caused pain and discomfort to the Fal en brought Uriel . . . satisfaction. I was fairly certain he was incapable of feeling joy.

But right now I was too tired, too edgy, to come up with any possible solution to the problem of Al ie Watson.

I couldn’t even leave her for the night. By putting her to sleep, I’d claimed a certain responsibility for her, at least until she woke up, anywhere from six to twenty-four hours from now. Even if her sleep had been normal, I couldn’t leave her alone up here, not until I’d extracted a promise of good behavior on her part. I couldn’t risk her running off again—the sea might take her, or if she managed to find the borders of our kingdom, the Nephilim would be waiting.

There was only one bed, and I was damned if I was going to give it to her. She would likely sleep at least eight hours. She’d slid farther, so that she was lying on the floor half beneath the coffee table, her head on the thick white carpet. She’d be fine where she was.

I drained my wine and headed toward the bedroom. I pushed open the row of windows that fronted the sea and took a deep, calming breath of air. Even in the dead of winter with snow swirling down, I kept the windows open. We were impervious to cold—the heat of our bodies automatical y adjusted. The sound of the ocean waves was soothing, and the cool night air reminded me that I was alive. I needed that reminder of the simple things that made up my life.

I stripped off my clothes and slid beneath the cool silk sheets. My arm stil throbbed where the poison had entered, but the rest of me had healed properly, thanks to the salt water and Sarah’s blood. My arm and my cock throbbed—and both were Al ie Watson’s fault.

I closed my eyes, determined to fal asleep.

I couldn’t. I kept picturing her on the floor, dead to the world. She’d had a rough couple of days as wel . I knew she’d curled up next to me on the hard ground the night before—I’d been dimly aware of it through the haze of pain, and I’d been comforted.

After an hour I gave up, climbing out of the bed I’d longed for and heading for the door. At the last minute I paused and pul ed on a pair of jeans. Nudity wasn’t something that meant much in Sheol, and I didn’t care about preserving her modesty. It was my own temptation I was trying to avoid. Even silk boxers or pajama pants were too thin, too easy to slip out of. These jeans had buttons, not a zipper, and it would take a major effort to get them off. Give me time enough to think twice about making such a foolish move.

I pushed the door open and walked back into the living room. It was lit only by the fitful moonlight reflected off the sea, and she was just a huddled shape in the shadows. I went over and scooped her up in my arms. She was heavier than some, though not enough to notice—her weight was no more trouble than carrying a loaf of bread would be for a human. I carried her into the bedroom and careful y set her down on the bed.

She needed to build up her stamina—she hadn’t been able to run very far, and she’d been breathless after only three flights of stairs.

She was a pampered city girl, not used to actual y moving.

She had a beautiful body. Her breasts were ful , enticing, and her hips flared out from a wel -defined waist. By current standards, she’d be considered maybe ten to fifteen pounds overweight. By the tastes of the Renaissance, she’d be considered scrawny.

The Renaissance had been one of my favorite periods. I’d enjoyed myself tremendously—the art, the music, the creativity that seemed to wash over everyone.

And the women. Ful and lush and beautiful. I’d sampled a great many of them before I made the mistake of fal ing in love with one, only to lose her. I would have had no choice but to watch my beloved Rafaela age; back then, foolishly, I would have welcomed the chance. But she’d run from me, certain I wouldn’t want her when she looked decades older than I did. She died before I found her again.

Too many women, too many losses, each bit of pain a boon to my enemy, Uriel. I wouldn’t go through that again.

If Al ie Watson was going to stay—and right now I couldn’t think of any other option—then she would have to learn to manage al those stairs. Sheol wasn’t set up for guests, and for now she was my responsibility. I couldn’t afford to coddle her.

The tangy salt breeze from the ocean rumpled my hair, and I remembered that humans were more susceptible to the cold. I pul ed the sheet up over her—probably a good idea anyway.

And then I lay down beside her. It was a big bed, and she wasn’t going to shift in her sleep, migrate over to my side. She’d lie perfectly stil until that particular Grace wore off. As long as my dreams didn’t move me toward her, I’d be safe.

And even if they did, I’d wake up long before I could do anything about it.

I hoped the Grace would last the ful twenty-four hours—I needed as much time as possible to deal with the situation. Not that she’d consider this particular comatose sleep a Grace, but that was the al -encompassing term for any of the extraordinary things we were capable of doing. The Grace of deep sleep was one of the least harmful. The Grace to cloud the minds of humans could have much more long-lasting consequences.

I stretched out, closing my eyes. She should smel of the flowered soap the women here used in the baths. She should smel like al the other women, but she didn’t. She had her own sweet, erotic scent underlying the flowers, something that made her subtly different.

Something that kept me awake as my exhausted mind conjured al sorts of sexual possibilities.

I glanced over at her comatose figure. She looked younger, prettier, when she was asleep. Sweeter, when I knew she was anything but. She was a time bomb, nothing but trouble, yet somehow I’d gotten tied up with her.

I propped myself up on one elbow, looking down at her. Could I take my breath back from her, loosening the hold she seemed to have over me?

I moved my mouth over hers, not quite touching, and sucked her soft breath into my lungs. And then I bridged the smal distance and rested my open mouth against her lips, caught by the sudden urge to taste her.

I sank back on the bed, cursing my own stupidity. I’d felt myself inside her, felt my breath in her body, the inescapable connection. In trying to take it back from her, I’d simply brought her into
my
body, completing the circle. I could feel her breath inside me now, curling in my lungs, spreading out into the blood that coursed through me.

I threw one arm over my eyes. Uriel would be laughing now. As if things weren’t bad enough, I’d just made them quantitatively worse.

I couldn’t think straight right now. Tomorrow I’d talk with some of the others. Not everyone was as cold and practical as Azazel.

Michael, Sammael, Tamlel, would look at things with more flexibility.

There’d be someplace to send her, where she’d be safe and I wouldn’t have to think about her. Sooner or later new breath would replace hers in my body, and the connection would be broken.

Wouldn’t it?

I groaned, a soft sound, though if I’d screamed she would stil have slept on.

It was going to be a long fucking night.

A
ZAZEL SAT IN THE GREAT HALL, alone in the dark. None of the Fal en knew the burden he carried. He could feel al of them—their needs, their pain, their doubts. Their secrets.

It was better that they didn’t know. He wouldn’t put it past some of them, Raziel in particular, to figure out a way to shield or control their thoughts, and that would put him at a disadvantage the Fal en couldn’t afford. It was simply something he had to endure, a physical pain that he bore with no outward sign.

Only Sarah knew. Sarah, the Source to his Alpha, the calm voice of wisdom, the only one with whom he could ever simply let go. The only one.

The centuries, the mil ennia, since they had fal en faded into the mists of time. The number of wives he’d had faded as wel , but he remembered every face, every name, no matter how short a time she had spent in his endless life. There was Xanthe, with the laughing eyes and ankle-length hair, who’d died when she was forty-three. Arabel a, who’d lived until she was ninety-seven. Rachel, who died two days after they’d bonded.

He had loved them al , but none so much as he loved his Sarah, his heart, his beloved. She was waiting for him, calm and unquestioning, knowing what he needed. She always did.

Because of al the things he needed, he needed her the most.

She wouldn’t let him get rid of Raziel’s woman, even though it was the wisest thing to do. The girl wanted to leave, and he should see that she did. The Nephilim would dispose of what was left of her if she went beyond the undulating borders of Sheol. At least, he assumed so. They preyed on the Fal en and their wives, and she was neither. He didn’t trust her, didn’t trust her unexpected presence in a place that al owed no strangers.

He leaned back in the ornate carved chair, trying to hear the distant voice that came so seldom. The voice trapped deep in the earth, imprisoned for eternity, or so the story went. Azazel chose not to believe that story, not when he heard the voice of the first Fal en answering his most impossible questions.

Lucifer, the Bringer of Light, the most beloved of the angels, was stil alive, stil trapped. He could lead the forces of heaven and hel , the only one who stood a chance against the vindictive, al -powerful Uriel and the vicious creatures who served him. But as long as Lucifer’s prison was hidden, as long as he was careful y guarded by Uriel’s soldiers, there would be no chance to rescue him.

And without Lucifer to lead them, the Fal en were trapped in a cycle of endless pain. Doomed to watch their beloved wives age and die, never to know the joy of children, to live with the threat of the Nephilim constantly on their borders, ready to overrun their peaceful compound. To wait, knowing that Uriel would send his plagues down upon them at any provocation.

Azazel pushed back from the ancient scrol s and manuscripts, exhausted. There were hints there, perhaps even answers, but he had yet to find them. He studied them until his vision blurred, and the next day the grueling process would begin again.

There would be no answers tonight. He rose, signaling the lights to stay low, and started toward the huge expanse of rooms that had always been his.

Sarah was sitting up in bed, reading. Her silver hair lay in one thick braid over her shoulder; a pair of glasses was perched on the end of her perfect nose. Her creamy skin was smooth and delicate, and he stood and watched her, fil ed with the same love and desire he’d always felt.

Uriel had never been tempted as the others had been, one after the other, fal ing from grace. Uriel had loved no one but his God, whom he considered infal ible except for the one stupid mistake of making humans.

Uriel despised people. He had no mercy for their frailties, no love for the music of their lives, the beauty of their voices, the sweetness of the love they could give. Al he knew of them was hatred and despair, and he treated them accordingly.

Sarah looked at him over her brightly colored reading glasses, setting down her book. “You look exhausted.”

He began to strip off his clothes. “I am. Trouble is coming and I don’t know what to do about it. We can’t fight Uriel—we’re not ready.”

“We won’t know until it happens,” she said in her soothing voice.

“Uriel has been looking for an excuse for centuries. If the girl is the catalyst, then so be it.”

Azazel rol ed his shoulders, loosening the tightness there. “Raziel doesn’t want her, and she doesn’t belong here. I could get rid of her when he isn’t looking, take her back to where Uriel charged she should go. The problem would be solved, and we could wait until we’re better prepared. . . .”

Sarah took the glasses off her nose and set them beside the bed.

“You’re wrong, love.”

“So you often tel me,” he said. “You think I shouldn’t get rid of her?

I have the right to send her back.”

“Of course you do. You have a great many rights that you shouldn’t exert. Raziel is lying to himself. He wants her. That’s what frightens him.”

“You think Raziel is afraid? I dare you to say that to him.”

“Of course I would tel him, and you know it. He wouldn’t rage at me as he would at you. The Alpha can be chal enged. The Source is just that, the source of wisdom, knowledge, and sustenance. If I tel him he wants her, he’l believe it. But I think it’s better if he discovers it himself.”

“He doesn’t want to bond again,” Azazel argued. “Losing Rafaela was too hard for him. One loss too many.”

“Losing me wil be hard for you, love, but you’l mate again, and soon.”

“Don’t.” He couldn’t bear the idea of a time when Sarah wouldn’t be there. Sarah with the rich, luscious mouth, the wonderful, flexible body, the creamy skin. The women in Sheol lived long lives, but they were merely a blink of the eye compared to the endless lives of the Fal en. He would lose her, and the thought was excruciating.