Fury Unleashed

by N. J. Walters

  After he pushed open the door, he hit the lights. Peering around him, she examined the space. “Nice.” She drew the word out, her eyes wide as she took it all in.

  The walls were lined with weapons from every age in the history of mankind, but they all had something in common. They were all edged weapons. There wasn’t a gun in sight.

  She strolled to the far side and ran her fingers over the hilt of a knife from biblical times. Next to it, she stroked the flat edge of one from the Bronze age.

  “These are incredible.”

  He grunted his approval and stripped off his shirt.

  “Not that I mind the view, but what are you doing?” Her gaze ran over his shoulders and chest before dipping lower to linger on his hard dick.

  “Watch,” he commanded. There was the lightest burning sensation on his skin, and then the push dagger inked on each palm became solid and fell into his hands.

  “How do you do that?” Fearless, she came forward, reached out, and stroked both his skin and the short knives.

  “Pure willpower.” Even after all these years, he didn’t quite understand how it worked.

  “You said you’d never lie to me.”

  He willed the small daggers to absorb back into his skin, to become ink once again. “I didn’t. I just didn’t tell you the entire truth.”

  It was as though a wall descended between them. Her gaze became shuttered, and her posture shifted from relaxed to on guard. He didn’t like it. Had become used to her being open with him.

  He yanked a Viking ax from the wall. “When I was in Hell, I needed weapons. I was always on the move, couldn’t afford to stop for long.” There’d always been demons hunting him.

  “I can’t even imagine.” Her tone softened, as did her body. “It was bad enough when I was there for my training, but to be hunted…” She shivered and shook her head. “There are some nasty creatures in Hell, ones I was lucky enough to never see.”

  “I saw them all.” As an angel, he’d already fought them, but always with other angels, never alone, until his fall.

  “So you found a way to keep your weapons,” she prompted.

  He swung the ax. It became an extension of his arm as he went through a series of movements. The familiar exercise comforted him in a way that nothing else ever did. His arm never tired. He could do this forever and never grow bored. There was something about a blade or sword or ax that spoke to him on a visceral level.

  A sharp pain in his back shocked him. He stopped with the ax raised above his head. It wasn’t muscular. It was more intense. It was gone as quickly as it had come.

  “Everything okay?” Morrigan was sitting on the floor, back to the wall.

  “How long have I been at this?”

  “Hours.”

  …

  Maccus was an artist with a blade. The two of them linked in some way that defied explanation.

  Any museum curator would have an orgasm just walking into the room. The history of the edged weapon was on display here. And Maccus was a master of them all.

  His moods were undecipherable. One second he seemed open, and then next he was closed tighter than Fort Knox. Then he’d started swinging the ax and had fallen into an almost meditative state that was mesmerizing to watch.

  Sweat gleamed on his wide shoulders and muscular chest, but she didn’t think he was tired. If anything, practicing with the weapon had seemed to energize him.

  The tattoos on his body were deeper and darker.

  His back was to her when he returned the ax to its spot on the wall. The black wings seemed to almost lift from his body they were so real. The curved blade between his shoulder blades shimmered.

  Then he faced her, this hard-eyed, battle-scarred fallen angel who had somehow managed to touch her heart. It shouldn’t have happened. Wouldn’t have happened in her old life. She’d have taken one look at him and run in the opposite direction.

  Now she wanted to pull him to her, to stand at his side and fight the forces that had brought them together. She’d learned over the past decade that there was as much beauty to be found in darkness as there was in the light.

  “I don’t know if it was what angel power I had left or if falling into Hell had changed it.”

  When he picked up their former conversation as if seconds had passed instead of hours, she slowly stood. Whatever was coming was important.

  He stood alone in the center of the room. In the blink of an eye, each hand held a throwing dagger and the skin on his chest where they’d been was smooth and unmarked.

  She’d never have believed it possible if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes. But then, she’d discovered that much of what should be impossible was very real.

  “All I knew was that I needed my weapons.” He tossed the blades into the air and caught them, doing it again and again. He flung them outward. They split around her, slamming into the wall behind her.

  Her heart jumped. Her breath caught in her throat. Her stomach lurched. He could have killed her.

  He held out his hands once again, and the blades appeared as if by magic. She swallowed hard and glanced over her shoulder. There were two holes in the walls but no knives.

  “The weapons really did become a part of me, an extension. It was quite by accident I discovered I could literally keep them on me.” A pair of short swords appeared in his hands, and he went through a series of lightning-fast maneuvers, ending with the blades in front of and behind her neck. With one twist, he could take her head.

  His black eyes gleamed like the darkest onyx, unreadable, unknowable. She was breathing heavily but hadn’t drawn her own weapons. Aggression would only breed more. Instead, she placed her hand on his chest, allowing the heat from his skin to seep into hers.

  He took a deep breath and shuddered. The swords disappeared.

  “I held a dagger to my chest as I slept. When I woke, it was gone, but it wasn’t. It had absorbed into my skin.”

  Still a little lightheaded, she kept her knees locked so she wouldn’t wobble. “But that was just one,” she pointed out. His body was covered in tattoos.

  “So it is. I pushed myself. I learned.” He grabbed a Scottish broadsword. She’d seen enough movies to recognize it for what it was. And it could cleave her in two in a heartbeat.

  “Some weapons are too large.” He twirled the weapon over his head and tossed it through the air. It landed back on the rack he’d taken it from. “I had to keep them in scale with my body.”

  That made sense. “So swords on your back and arms and knives everywhere else.”

  “Yes.” He stared around the room. “At one point or another, I’ve worn all these weapons or tried to.” The last was said with a hint of dark humor. Yeah, she could imagine the broadsword would have been interesting.

  “But those are your favorites.” She ran her hands over the throwing knives and up to the throwing stars embedded in each shoulder.

  When he nodded, a lock of hair fell forward. It was damp, and she reached up and pushed it back into place.

  Exhaling deeply, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. “I never expected you.” He said it as though it was some deep confession.

  It made her smile. “I never expected you, either.” Could never have imagined him, even on her most creative day.

  He eased back and studied her in that way he had, making her his complete focus. “What knives do you favor?”

  “Ah, I have this one.” She pulled it out and held it up. He glanced at it and sneered. “Hey, it might not be as fancy, but it’s saved my life more than once.” Slightly insulted, she started to return it, but he caught her wrist.

  “You’re right. Any weapon is a good one. May I?” He released her and held out his hand. Shrugging, she set the blade on it.

  “Good quality steel. Well made. Sharp. Symbols etched into b
oth the handle and the blade lend it a bit more of a punch.”

  She was already well aware of all that, but it was interesting to hear him lay out the qualities. His voice was so deep and moved through her like hot chocolate sauce over ice cream.

  “But you need better?”

  “Better?” Her curiosity was piqued. “That’s the blade they gave me when I got sent back here.”

  “And it’s good.” He slipped it into the sheath on her thigh, and it wasn’t her imagination that he stroked her leg before taking a step back and walking to an area that held smaller daggers. Intrigued, she followed.

  “But?” It would be stupid not to take advice from probably the world’s foremost authority on edged weapons.

  He ran his gaze over the wall and plucked a knife from the center of the collection. “This one.” The handle and blade were both dark and wouldn’t reflect light, at least not easily. From a few steps away, she sensed the pulse of power coming from it. The blade reminded her of Maccus—dangerous, dark, and deadly.

  He flipped it into the air and caught it by the blade and held the handle toward her. “Try it.”

  Lips dry, heart racing, she stretched out her hand. The handle slid into her palm as though it had been made for it. She curled her fingers around it and twisted her wrist in a few experimental moves. The weight was perfect, but that wasn’t a surprise considering who owned it.

  “What are these?” There were symbols she recognized, ones that would weaken demons, but there were more that were unfamiliar.

  “If you have to stab an angel, it will hurt more.”

  She studied them, trying to memorize the markings so she could add them to her blade. Couldn’t hurt. With great reluctance, she flipped the knife and caught it as he had then held the handle out to him. “It’s spectacular. Thank you for showing it to me.” He didn’t share this room with many people, if anyone. It was stupid to get a warm feeling in her chest because he’d opened up enough to show her this private space.

  He almost cut my throat.

  But not really. If he’d wanted her dead, she’d be dead. No, he’d been out of sorts for inviting her into his private domain and at her for being here.

  She got that. She didn’t want anyone in her personal stuff or space. How much worse was it for him considering how long he’d lived and what he’d been through?

  He went to the far wall and pulled out a drawer. There were cabinets built into the wall that were flush with it. There were no handles that she could see. There had to be some mechanism he pushed to make it work. Very clever.

  After sorting through several leather knife holders, he chose one and returned to her side. Without a word, he fitted it over her left forearm, strapping it around her wrist and just below her elbow. His fingers were strong and competent, callused and tanned. They were able to wield weapons with extreme skill. They were also able to bring great pleasure.

  He gave the strap an experimental tug. When he was satisfied, he took the blade from her and slipped it inside.

  Stunned, all she could do was watch in wonder. Finally, she found her tongue. “What are you doing?”

  “We’ll be fighting angels and demons. You need a weapon that can give you a shot at staying alive.”

  She swallowed heavily, words catching in her throat before she managed to dislodge them. “Thank you.”

  His expression darkened, and a muscle under his eyes twitched. “You should never have been drawn into this.”

  While she agreed, there was no getting past the truth. “I put myself here by taking Kayley’s place.” And even though it might have been a mistake, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t make the same decision again, even knowing she might have been lied to.

  Then there was Maccus. So much in her life had been terrifying, dark, and the stuff of nightmares this past decade. Maccus was all those things and more, but he’d brought a tiny ray of light and hope to her life, reminded her of things she’d forgotten.

  And while getting out of this situation alive wasn’t likely, she’d go down fighting, for herself and for him, because they had that in common. No one had ever fought for them, with them.

  Those days were over.

  She traced the supple leather covering the blade before pulling the knife. It came easily and without the slightest hesitation. She returned it and moved her arm several times. It wouldn’t impede her in a fight and would be damn handy to have.

  He was breathing heavily, his chest and shoulders shifting, the muscles rippling. Deciding not to wait for him to make a move, she went up on her toes, dragged his head down, and kissed him.

  It was hot and fast and consuming. Their tongues battled, and he swallowed her moan. Her entire body heated and came alive.

  It was also over far too quickly. He pushed her away and took a step back. “We need to get going.”

  “Right. The gallery.” The kiss momentarily addled her brain. Once they left the safety of his home, any physical contact was out. They needed their wits about them.

  They’d missed the opening last night, but she’d see Kayley’s work. And she’d find out how to contact her. The gallery would have some way of getting in touch with her.

  Had she been lied to, used, manipulated? It was time to learn the truth.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Maccus held the gallery door. Morrigan gave him a curt nod, squared her shoulders, and entered. He fought the urge to drag her back to his place and keep her there.

  But that wasn’t realistic. Their problem wasn’t going to go away, and he’d never hid from anyone or anything in his life. Better to face it head-on and take action. Offense was always better than defense.

  She was dressed in her leather pants and jacket, but beneath was new underwear and a tank top he’d had delivered. Dangerous and delightful were the first two words that came to mind. Satisfaction, dark and deep, welled up within him. She was wearing clothing he’d provided.

  The knife he’d given her was strapped to her arm beneath her jacket. The one she usually wore strapped to her leg was tucked at her back. And her gun was sitting in its holster beneath her shoulder.

  There wasn’t another woman here who was anywhere near her equal. She was unique.

  He pressed his hand against the small of her back and guided her forward when she paused just inside the door. The glittering crowd glanced in their direction. Many stopped what they were doing and stared. He was used to it, given his height and looks. People seemed either fascinated or afraid of him.

  Since this was New York, many others were wearing black, so they didn’t stand out in that way. People wore leather and lace, silk and cotton, couture and thrift store. The murmur of voices and soft laughter swept around them as they moved deeper into the gallery.

  Morrigan paused in front of a painting and gazed up at it. It was huge, dominating almost the entire height and width of the wall. Demons and dark images rose from a sea of fire. There was no hope, no salvation from above, only the laughing devil who stood and watched it all with glee.

  The work was signed in red in the bottom right corner—Kayley.

  “It’s him. It’s Lucifer.”

  No mistaking him. The rendering was a perfect likeness. The setting was familiar to anyone who’d spent time in Hell. If he recognized it, she likely did, too.

  “It is.” He couldn’t protect her from this. They were here to face whatever was to come.

  “All this time…” Her voice trailed off as she moved to another painting, this one disturbingly erotic and set in the underworld. “How could she do this? Her work used to be filled with such light.”

  “The work she showed you,” he reminded her. Kayley was manipulative, but he was afraid she would insist on seeing her sister as a victim. Family bonds died hard. Look at him. He’d believed in Gabriel right until the end, until it was too late.

  A ripple
ran through the crowd. Whispers grew, and anticipation crackled in the air. A woman entered the room. Her hair fell to her waist in a curtain of red. And in a sea of black and muted tones, she wore red. The dress clung to her curves and showed off both her bare shoulders and legs. Four-inch heels added to her height, making her almost six feet tall. The resemblance was unmistakable. In his mind, Kayley was a cheap imitation of the original.

  “Kayley,” Morrigan whispered.

  As though she heard her name, Kayley’s gaze whipped to their direction. Interesting. How much ability had she gained over the past ten years? This was no novice when it came to wielding power.

  “Stay or leave?” If she chose the latter, he’d figure out another way to draw out their enemies.

  She was pale but tilted her chin up. “Let’s do this.”

  Pride filled him as they strolled across the space. Senses wide open, he watched everything and everyone. Kayley remained where she was, surrounded by her adoring fans. How many of them knew what she truly was, where her talent and power really came from?

  Kayley ignored her sister and sized him up like she was measuring him for her bed. And she’d take him there in a heartbeat, not only because she was attracted to him, but because he was with Morrigan. This woman had never loved her sister, not the way Morrigan had loved her.

  “Well, well.” she gave him a sultry smile, stepped forward, and ran a finger up his chest. “And who are you?” He caught her finger and squeezed. The urge to break it was strong. The smile disappeared from her face. When she tried to pull away, he only increased the pressure.

  Morrigan touched his arm, and he immediately released her sister.

  The crowd around them shifted restlessly, sensing the dark undercurrents flowing around them. One woman gave an uncomfortable laugh. A man excused himself to get a drink.

  “Quite the guard dog you have there, sister.” Kayley finally turned to face Morrigan. Now that was interesting. She viewed him as nothing more than muscle, someone her sister had hooked up with—probably another hunter.

  All the better for him.

  His biggest concern was for Morrigan. She was pale but composed as she stared at the younger sister she hadn’t seen in a decade, the woman whose actions had led to her being taken to Hell.