Kristina Douglas - The Fallen 1 - Raziel (27 page)

Which wasn’t surprising. My wings were particularly impressive—

an iridescent cobalt blue veined with black, they were emblematic of one rule of the Fal en. The longer we’d lived, the more ornate were our wings. The newly fal en had pure-white wings. Lucifer, the First, had wings of pure black. I was somewhere in between.

I let them fold back into place, hoping this would be enough to calm her, but she stil stared at me. Her unexpected tears had dried, thank God, and she was ready for battle. I could stil feel the lingering trace of her pleasure at our flight, and I stifled a grin. No one had ever enjoyed flying in my arms before, and it was almost as heady an experience for me.

“Al right,” she said. “What are we going to do about this mess?”

She’d decided to be reasonable. I could sense it, sense her struggling for her usual pragmatism. No problem was ever so big that it couldn’t be solved, she was thinking. There had to be a way around this.

“There isn’t,” I said. “We’re talking about forces beyond your comprehension. Things that can’t be reasoned with.”

She didn’t snap at me for reading her. “In other words, we’re trapped.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t like it?”

I could feel the too-familiar rage simmer inside me. I had never had to share my mate, ever, throughout the endless years of eternity.

Only Azazel had wed the Source, and I could remember only too wel the difficulties during times of transition. Difficulties I’d attributed to grief and the usual problems in a new relationship. Now I wondered.

“You don’t need to answer,” she said glumly. “I can feel it.” She was misreading me again, mistaking my anger at sharing her for a rebel ion against her as my wife. I looked at her, and a stray memory surfaced.

“Where did you grow up?” I demanded, more intent on answers than on soothing her wounded pride. I could take care of that quite effectively when I got her into bed.

“I’m not going to bed with you.”

I laughed, which startled her. She expected that her ability to read me would be annoying, but by now it was just the opposite. It was proof that whether I liked it or not, she was mine, just as I was hers.

“You grew up in Rhode Island, didn’t you?” I said, ignoring her protest.

“You already know everything about me, including the number of men I’ve slept with and whether I enjoyed it or not,” she said bitterly.

“I never paid attention to your childhood,” I said. I remembered her. She’d been seven years old, sitting alone outside a smal house near Providence. Her long brown hair had been in braids, her mouth set in a thin line, and I could see the tracks of her tears as they’d run down her dirty face. She was using a stick to dig in the dirt, ignoring an angry voice that came from the house. I’d stopped to look at her, and she’d seen me, and for a moment her eyes widened in wonder and her pout disappeared.

I knew why. Children saw us differently. They knew we were no threat to them, and when they looked they knew who we were, instinctively.

Al ie Watson had looked at me and smiled, her misery momentarily vanishing.

I should have known then.

I saw her again when she was thirteen, and too old to see who I real y was. I hadn’t expected to see her, and when I did I moved back into the shadows so she wouldn’t notice me. She was angry, rebel ious, storming out of a store in front of a woman who was praying loudly and cal ing upon Jesus to spare her such a worthless, ungrateful daughter.

I’d wanted to grab the woman, slam her against the wal , and inform her that Jesus was far more likely to spare the daughter such a harridan of a mother; but I didn’t move, watching as they got into a car, the mother tearing off into traffic, her bitter mouth stil working as Al ie looked out the window, trying to shut her out.

That’s when she saw me again. Even in the shadows, her young eyes had picked me out, and for a moment her face softened as if in recognition, and she lifted a hand.

And then the car sped around a corner, and she was gone.

I should have known then. Instead, like a coward I’d blotted it out of my mind. I’d been shown her early on so that I could look out for her, keep her safe, but I’d been too determined not to fal into that trap again, and I’d turned my back on her.

I should have come for her when she was ready. My instincts would have told me—it might have been when she was eighteen or when she was twenty. Instead I’d wasted al those years, when she could have been here, and safe.

“What the hel are you talking about?” she said. “Or thinking about

—whatever. Why would I want to be here? I want to go back to my old life. I want to write books, and go out to lunch, and have lovers, and wear my own clothes. I—don’t—want—to—be—here,” she enunciated. “Is that clear enough for you?”

I moved past her, climbing back into the apartment, knowing she’d fol ow. I didn’t bother checking to see if the door was locked—

no one, not even Azazel, would climb the stairs and interrupt us.

She came after me, of course. She watched, silent, as I found a bottle of wine and opened it, pouring us each a glass. I handed her one, and she took it, and for a moment I wondered if she was going to throw it in my face in the kind of dramatic gesture she was fond of.

“No,” she said, reading me, and went to sit on one of the sofas.

“But I won’t say I’m not tempted.”

It had been so long since anyone had been able to read me that it was going to take some getting used to. She was already far too adept at it, considering how little sexual congress we’d actual y indulged in. And I hadn’t fed from her.

I wouldn’t feed from her. Once I did, there’d be no going back, and there was just enough resistance left inside me to hold out that hope.

At least for a little bit longer. Besides, she was stil weak from Tamlel’s clumsiness, though I could sense her strength returning.

That was one more sign that she was the Source. Her ability to bounce back from blood loss.

“You can’t go back to your old life, Al ie,” I said wearily. “How many times do I have to explain this to you? You died. It happens to people al the time. You don’t get a happy-ever-after with a prince, riding into the sunset. You don’t get a house with a white picket fence and two-point-three children. You won’t have any children, ever. You died too young for al those things.”

I heard her quick intake of breath, a sound of pain that she tried to hide from me. I would have thought she wouldn’t care about being a mother. I was wrong. About this, about so many things.

“So instead I get to be the meal plan for a bunch of vampires?

Whoopee. Do I get weekly transfusions?”

I felt the now-familiar flare of anger at the thought, but I tamped it down. “You won’t need them. The Source provides blood for those who are unbonded, but the amount is minimal, the occasion is surrounded by ritual, and you won’t be cal ed upon to serve more than once a month.” The moment I said it, I knew it was a bad choice of words.

“Serve?” she said. “Like a waitress with a hearty meal?”

She was doing her best to anger me, and she was succeeding.

“No. Like someone with a higher cal ing.”

“Feeding blood to vampires is a higher cal ing?”

“Giving life to the Fal en is a higher cal ing. And the term is
blood-eaters.
”

“I don’t care what the term is, you’re vampires.”

I ground my teeth. She real y did have an extraordinary ability to get under my skin, when I’d managed to be impervious to everything and everyone for so long. She was bringing me back to life, and reanimating the dead was always painful.

“Fine,” I said. “We’re vampires. Get over it.”

“What did you do in the past when the Source died? Did one of you have to quick find a wil ing sacrifice?”

Beneath her hostility I could sense a real concern, and I decided to answer her. “Azazel has been the only one married to the Source.

The Source has never died suddenly—it was always natural causes and there was plenty of warning. The healers . . .” I wasn’t sure how I was going to phrase this, but Al ie filched the image out of my mind.

“They take blood from her at regular intervals and store it,” she supplied. “How charming. So how long does Azazel get to mourn?

How long before Sarah is replaced by some nubile young thing?”

“He has always had enough time to grieve. With Sarah it wil be a problem. I don’t know how long it wil take him to recover from her loss.”

“He’s had enough practice,” she said, her voice brutal. “So why me? And don’t give me that crap about being bonded mates—you and I both know that’s impossible. We don’t even like each other.”

I resisted the impulse to smile. She was putting so much effort into keeping me at a distance. She didn’t want me anywhere near her.

She didn’t want me pushing her down among the pure white sheets, moving down her sweet, gorgeous body, tasting her, my hands on her thighs, my mouth—

“Don’t do that!” she said, shaken. She was searching for some way to stop me, some kind of insult. “After two nights ago, I thought you didn’t believe in foreplay.”

“Was I too fast for you?” I said, unruffled. “It seemed to me you were right there along with me. Are you tel ing me you didn’t like it?”

“Of course not!” she snapped. “I’m just saying that women like to be wooed, slowly and respectful y.”

I laughed. “So those orgasms were faked? You’re able to control your body that wel ? I must admit I’m impressed. And clearly my information was incorrect—it said you only climaxed by yourself.

Which, by the way, is considered a sin by some scholars, but which we embrace enthusiastical y.”

She was blushing, and I couldn’t resist her. “Come to bed with me,” I said, rising and holding out my hand.

She just looked at me, mutinous. “So you can feed on my wrist?

You may as wel do it here.”

“No.” Again I felt that little growl that seemed to come from nowhere. The growl I knew she sensed, and which frightened her. I struggled to control it. “I won’t take your blood. If I did, it would be from an artery, not a vein.”

“Ew,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “What if you screw up your anatomy lessons?”

“I can hear the difference,” I said. “But it’s not going to happen.”

“Why won’t you take my blood? If I’m your supposed mate, what’s stopping you? Everyone else wil be having a go at me.”

“It’s not a good idea.”

She looked at me, long and hard, and the conclusions she was jumping to were a mishmash in her brain. “Fine,” she said, rising.

“You can sleep on the couch.” And she started for the bedroom.

I
WASN’T GOING TO SLAM THE DOOR, I was going to close it quietly and forceful y, indicating dignified displeasure, but he was already there, his hand yanking it open. “I’m not sleeping on the couch.”

“Al right,” I said. “I wil .” I started past him, but he caught me, spinning me around and pul ing me against him, his strong arms imprisoning me.

I didn’t like being control ed. At least, not real y. There was a tiny little shiver of erotic reaction as my body was clamped against his, and for a brief moment I took that pleasure, even though I knew I shouldn’t. I looked up at him, so close, so damnably, deliciously close.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, and bent his head and kissed me.

So, okay, I liked kissing him. I know I should have stayed stil , and I tried, I real y did. But he cupped my chin, his long fingers gently stroking my face, and his mouth was soft, damp, and real y, how could I resist? Because the brutal truth was, I felt more for him than I’d felt for anyone in my entire life. He was mine, even if I was afraid he stil wanted to wiggle out of it. He was mine.

I softened against him, and he released my wrists, knowing I wasn’t going to hit him. I slid my arms around his waist, pul ing him closer, and rose on my toes so that I could reach him better, so that I could press my breasts against his hard chest, so I could sink into the heat of him.

He picked me up effortlessly. Yes, I knew he was supernatural y strong, but I stil loved it, loved feeling delicate and weightless when I’d always felt clumsy. He thought I was luscious. I knew that, even as my doubts tried to discount it. He thought my soft, rounded body was irresistibly erotic. And I felt my blood heat, flowing through me like a river of pleasure; I wanted his touch, wanted his mouth on me, wanted everything.

He carried me into the bedroom. The light was muted through the bank of windows, and the awful stench was gone. Instead it smel ed like cinnamon and spice, like Raziel’s warm flesh and something underneath it, something hot and rich. He set me down on the bed, and this time I didn’t try to jump up again, didn’t try to argue or to fight, with his hands on me, unfastening the white tunic and pul ing it over my head. He kissed my mouth, he kissed the swel of my breasts above the lacy bra, he let his tongue dance across my lace-covered nipple before fastening his mouth on it. I let out a quiet moan of delight. I’d never known my breasts were so sensitive.

When other men had touched them it seemed simply part of the process, but when Raziel put his mouth on me—

He lifted his head, and his eyes were dark and glittery. “Stop thinking about other men,” he said, his voice close to a growl. I wondered if I was supposed to be afraid of him.

“No,” he said. “I won’t hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

I caught the strain of guilt and regret. He’d thrown me away from Tamlel, and I’d been knocked unconscious. I said nothing. His deep sorrow over what had been an accident was enough to assure me that I was safe. Whatever rage lived inside him, and I could feel it simmering, it would never be turned on me.