Rebel Angels: The Complete Series

by Rosemary A Johns

  Oomph — my back hit the column.

  I wriggled, but Gabriel held me by the throat, even if his thumb stroked over my fluttering pulse, as he leaned in to whisper into my ear, “They’re watching. Always watching.”

  “I know that I have one squeezable arse, but what’s turned me into the prize exhibit?”

  Gabriel tensed, as if he was struggling not to say what he truly wanted. Was he being spied on? “Didn’t you sense it in the Angel Games?” He eased his hand from my throat, tracing over the letters, which wound like rose stems around the pillar: HOLY, HOLY, HOLY. “Seraphim love entertainment, novelty, and the unique. You’re all three. You must retain that interest, however, by becoming more than the latest show: you become the player, not the played.” He sighed. “My father grows bored of watching worlds fall apart and walking as a stranger amongst humans. Yet I wish that I could leave this realm to experience even that.”

  I traced over his cheek with the back of my hand, and he flinched as if expecting me to backhand him like he had Mischief. “They’re watching now?”

  He nodded.

  I peered over his shoulder: hostile glares, whispers, and hidden glances.

  Yeah, Gabriel, Mischief and I were all on the naughty step.

  Then the Seraphim with four wings, who’d served me the cocktail, was dragged into the embrace of the elf owning Glory Seraphim. Both Seraphims’ wings crackled with energy, before the Glory dug her nails deep into the base of the server’s neck. He wailed, whilst silver magic jumped from his wings and into hers. I shuddered, unable to look away, as the server slumped to the ground in a puddle of sizzling cocktails, and the Glory laughed.

  She’d stolen his magic.

  I growled, but Gabriel kept me pinned to the column.

  “He’s an Acolyte,” Gabriel murmured. “They worship the Emperor with their service and bodies. How interesting that in his glory my father chooses the most powerful to be slaves.” My steel nails shot out, screeching down the marble. I’d kick Jahael’s ass, before I’d let him keep gods as slaves. Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “This doesn’t please you? Even though you own a Marked Wing?”

  “I don’t own anyone. And I’d rather gut myself with my own nails than take a slave.”

  For the first time that night, Gabriel broke into his genuine smile: warm and glowing. My nails retracted, and I rested my head against his chest. “Well, we can’t have that, can we? You’d make such a dreadful mess.” I swatted his arm. “Yet we’re none of us free.” He nuzzled into my hair. “Not yet…” Then he cocked his head, as if listening to something — or someone — inside his mind. He blanched. “It’s time to tame the bastard Archduke; may the Emperor burn all away in love.”

  You know how this works, hooker, you’ve been listening to me since you were crawling and sucking your sweet thumb.

  Jahael is talking to the Archduke inside his mind? Just like you talk to me…?

  Not the same as my fabulous self.

  I’m seeded: part of you. But Jahael can do the telepathic thing with any Seraphim that he wants.

  He’s everywhere in the shadows: worshiped, loved, and feared.

  I stared at Gabriel. “Jahael’s messing with your head right now?”

  Gabriel’s lips were pinched, as he nodded. “I’m honored that he’s chosen to speak to me. If he’s seeded you…” I shifted from foot to foot under his scrutiny. “Then he should see and hear everything that you do, unless…” Hell, why wasn’t I able to slip on a mask as quickly as Gabriel could? “You’re blocking him somehow or the seed is choosing not—”

  My jaw clenched. “Are you done with the Agatha Christy moment because I have a unicorn to break.”

  Gabriel pushed closer; his eyes were wide and panicked. “Be careful. He’ll know and—”

  Suddenly, Gabriel’s eyes clouded, before blazing. Then he shoved me against the column; his arms and wings boxed me in. He kissed me: hard, demanding, and passionate. It was the sun to the moon of his previous kiss.

  The intoxicating musky scent of agarwood bled through his magic.

  Wait…agarwood, rather than amber?

  It didn’t make me want to cherish, rather pressed at me to bow before him and worship.

  I quivered and gagged, whilst I recoiled. He wasn’t Gabriel…

  “Now you’re getting it. I’ll spank your perky arse, if you’re hiding anything from me, darling.” I shot backwards at the sound of Jahael’s voice murmuring out of Gabriel’s mouth.

  Gabriel stared back at me with anguish in his eyes, just as Jahael’s laugh bubbled out of his lips. Jahael was using Gabriel like a Seraphim puppet. “This is my temple, hooker. I’m the daddy: I can take over anyone’s mind or body. Their adoration belongs to fabulous me. I created you. That means I own you.”

  Gabriel slumped, and I caught him.

  What would it feel like to be possessed? To be truly controlled by another? To never know when you’d lose control again?

  When Gabriel raised his gaze to mine, I caught the apology. Before he could voice it, I shrugged. “I wanted an audience with the Emperor. I guess that I got one.”

  Gabriel rubbed his fingers together, and the jewel bit gag and bridle appeared. “You’re not alone: he owns us all,” he said, softly.

  I steeled myself because it was time to humble Mischief: The Emperor was watching.

  Turning, I forced my gaze to become flinty as it raked over Mischief, who was teaching rock-paper-scissors to the elf and losing. It hurt so badly to hide my love and respect for him. “Up,” I barked.

  Mischief jumped, before casting a final smile at the elf and straightening; his shoulders were tense, as he prowled to my side.

  I followed Gabriel through the drunken crowds towards the dance floor, which thinned at our arrival in excited anticipation.

  Golden curls, creamy skin, and satin like the night sky.

  I hesitated, staring at golden-haired triplets who were dressed in satin dressing gowns and squirmed on the sofa next to the dance floor under a swarthy Seraphim with a sweeping oiled beard, which flared all the way to his leather boots. His black military outfit looked straight out of Fascists Weekly, apart from the ornate sword strapped to his back.

  Except, they weren’t triplets: they were clones.

  Drake’s.

  I dragged the closest Drake clone away from Mr Oiled Beard, desperate with the joy of finding him safe, at the same time as vibrating with the fury of someone else touching the angel who I loved: son of the Mage, Marked Wing of the Matriarch, and Commander of the angelic armies. Yet here used as nothing but a plaything by the Seraphim bastards, along with his clones.

  And his clones were innocents.

  The clone holding my hand smiled with such yearning, even as he glanced anxiously back at Mr Oiled Beard, who still had his other two clones…or the real Drake…crushed under his huge bulk.

  Mr Oiled Beard spread his wings, stroking them along his Drakes’ necks. “Do you mind, daughter of the Burning One? They’ll be no touching of my novice without permission, and I haven’t finished here.”

  “You have now,” I growled.

  “Guardian,” the Drake in the center of the sofa, beneath Mr Oiled Beard — the Guardian — pushed himself up onto his elbows, and at once I knew that he was the real Drake: drawing attention to himself to save his clones and me. “I apologize for her uncouth interruption. Allow me to make it up to you…?”

  The Guardian’s dark brows furrowed, before he held out his hand to the clone who was clinging to me.

  The clone whimpered.

  Drake and I had developed a method of communicating via body language, when we’d been banned from speaking to each other in the Legion.

  Drake lifted his eyebrows, which roughly translated meant: What in la-la land, bitch?

  Roughly.

  I nodded at the Guardian: You want me to take him out?

  Drake looked down, with a shake of his head: No way to do the hit now. Let me play the good boy, unti
l I get the chance to be the bad boy.

  Very roughly.

  Drake was trapped with the Guardian, even as bile burned my throat at the sight of the Guardian’s possessive hand on Drake’s wing, and his smug reply, “I shall certainly enjoy your attempts to make it up to me, novice. You’re always creative: my compliments to both the Matriarch and your father. They trained you so thoroughly, I have precious little breaking left to do.”

  Yeah, and I was going to break the Guardian’s dick.

  Gabriel’s eyes swept over Drake, as he nodded a curt greeting to the Guardian — he so hated him as much as I did — before Gabriel tugged me onto the dance floor.

  Silence.

  The Seraphim fell back, encircling Gabriel. They’d known that this was going to happen: we were the grand finale.

  Mischief bowed his head, clasping his hands behind his back, although he couldn’t hide the way that his shoulders shook.

  In a searing blast of flames, Istafil materialized above us; her snapping ribbons flared as brightly as her hair.

  Had she been here all along — invisible and watching?

  Had Gabriel known?

  “Burn with love!” Istafil smiled, but it was cold and deadly. “Fun and games, dear hearts, can also teach us our place in divinity. So, tame your brother and bring him to worship.”

  I took a deep breath, forcing myself to walk steadily towards Mischief, even though inside I was screaming at the wrongness…

  When Mischief met my gaze, I’d been expecting anger or accusation but instead there was a steely determination. Because we were in this together: Istafil was trying to break all three of us.

  The gods wouldn’t break any of my family.

  “Unicorn god-out,” I demanded.

  Mischief smiled, just for a moment, before he smothered it. Then he transformed into a Shetland pony sized version of a unicorn. Not a killer war horse; he barely came up to my waist.

  One of Drake’s clones chuckled.

  Istafil hissed but before she could whip flames towards Mischief, I snatched the bit gag and bridle, slipping them over Mischief’s lowered head.

  Mischief whinnied sadly, as the sapphires bit into his brow, and the bridle magically tightened to fit. I fiddled with the straps, using it as an excuse to kiss his mane. Then I fixed on the bit gag, which rubbed the soft sides of his mouth; I flinched at the pained shake of his head.

  Hoots and cheers.

  The Seraphim clapped the gagging of their long-lost bastard Archduke. Yet standing proud, in a transformation of his choice, I thought that Mischief had never looked more of an Emperor’s son.

  Suddenly, Istafil shrieked, twirling around. “You did not have invitations to my party. All Non-Divine shall feel the Fire God’s wrath!”

  Maybe she’d drunk more than two of those Happy Hour cocktails…?

  Then a flaming spear exploded into the dance floor.

  Mischief reared backwards from the raging fire, whilst the Seraphim scattered in uproar.

  What the hell was happening?

  Seraphim wrapped in mismatched cloths in the same sunburst yellow as my cocktail, which even covered their faces, shimmered into the Rose Room. Clutching flaming spears, they were the invaders without the invites.

  This wasn’t play or entertainment: it was war. And we didn’t even have our weapons to defend ourselves because we hadn’t wanted to show our fear.

  Except, I was bastard afraid now.

  “Who are these Mad Max freaks playing at buttercups?” I demanded.

  Gabriel paled, seizing my arm. “They’re outlaws: The Damned.”

  “So, not an intimidating name at all.”

  A yellow figure materialized in front of me. Its violet wings flared, as its silver eyes met mine.

  Then a fiery spear dug into my throat.

  8

  J had warned me about the dangers outside the temple. Now one of them in sunburst yellow had their spear sizzling at my throat, as the Damned attacked my party in the Rose Room.

  Bastard gate crashers.

  How clever did the no weapons and only pretty jewels look now?

  I wet my lips. The bone-tipped spear nicked my neck, as I swallowed; blood traced down my throat. The stink of ash and black smoke from the burning sofas and upturned chairs mingled with the rose scent of the room.

  Shrieks, snarls, and screams.

  Velociraptors, werewolves, and Seraphim wildly charged at the Damned, whilst they blinked in and out, stabbing in surprise attacks.

  The blue haired elf crouched against the column, hugging his knees; he’d been abandoned in the carnage by his owner. Our gazes met for a moment, and despite the spear at my neck, I shook my head, flinching as the spear dug deeper: don’t bastard fight; stay where you are.

  The elf nodded.

  “By His holy fire, you shall not touch my sister, Damned,” Gabriel bellowed over the howling chaos; he squeezed my arm. “She’s a prisoner: spoils. Aren’t I the prize that you seek to sully?”

  The Damned’s gaze flickered to Gabriel. These outlaws must’ve chosen to attack Istafil’s screwed-up Welcome to the Gods for a reason, and that left Mischief or me. Especially since Istafil had vanished, either abandoning us or invisible. The bitch claimed responsibility for raising and correcting the Emperor’s sons, but she didn’t have their back.

  That wasn’t fam.

  Behind me, Mischief snorted, lowering his head. I bet he wished that he’d transformed into killer unicorn mode now. Then he’d have been able to fire from his horn and take out the Damned, just like he’d assassinated the vampiric leader of the Pure.

  Instead, he’d become a pony that looked like he should be pulling a cart in a Victorian mine. But why wasn’t he changing back into an angel?

  “Your sister has always been the prize,” a cultured female voice purred from behind the yellow mask.

  When the Damned pressed harder with the spear, my ancient powers stirred along with my magics to burn these invaders from the inside for desecrating my temple, defying my will, and harming my Divine.

  What the hell…?

  Those were Jahael’s echoed thoughts and outraged screams that blasted through every Seraphim: their lips moved, mouthing the same words, from which J’s shields couldn’t protect me.

  Then the Damned with the spear at my throat was staggering backwards, whilst the pressure at my throat lifted, because Drake’s arm was hooked around her neck from behind.

  Despite Drake’s satin dressing gown, he was all deadly Commander. His pale eyes gleamed. When the Damned rammed her elbow backwards, he spread his wings, soaring over her head and blocking her path to me.

  The Damned stabbed the spear through Drake’s shoulder.

  Drake howled, as the Damned twisted, before pulling out the spear with a squelch and vanishing.

  I caught Drake, as he crumpled to the ground, hovering my fingers over the oozing wound. He grunted; his breathing became shallow.

  “It’s of no consequence,” Drake murmured. I pushed back a golden curl, which had fallen over his eyes. “You’re safe, and I’m away from the Guardian, who discovered how to force us out at will and…” He shuddered. “Drake tells us that it’s impolite to beg but please, would you kiss me? I do not want the memory of the Guardian alone on my lips.”

  This was one of Drake’s clones?

  Once, in the Legion of the Phoenix, Drake had told me that he’d tricked the Matriarch that his clones could only be called out in battle to save them from being violated as bed slaves. Yet the Guardian’s magic had been too powerful to deceive, and now the clones were no longer safe.

  I loved Drake; how could I not love his innocent shadows?

  Above me, Gabriel shifted with a hiss of impatience, scanning the mayhem. I ignored him, pressing my lips to the clone’s with as much softness as I was certain he received roughness from the Guardian. His kiss was tentative and sweet. His feathers brushed up and down my cheeks, and he melted against me in a way that the real Drake wou
ld never allow himself to…but now I wondered whether it was what he dreamed about.

  “Enough. I believed we had an agreement on not dominating my shadows. Allow me to congratulate you, however, on the kiss. Have you been practicing as much as you made me practice?” The real Drake stood with his hands on his hips, staring down at me with the third clone next to him.

  Both had matching injuries on their shoulders. They were also as flushed as the clone who was draped in my lap, with matching hardness tenting the front of their dressing gowns.

  How could I’ve forgotten that they all felt the echoes of each other’s pain and pleasure?

  “He asked for it himself. Or are the clones your slaves?” I demanded.

  Drake recoiled. “Never… I only wish to…” He dropped onto his knees before the clone, who whimpered until Drake shushed him. “Hush, now. Our Queen is right. If I’d been able to grant you more freedom and keep you safe, I’d have done so.” Drake pulled the clone from my lap onto his own, tenderly kissing his forehead. Frankincense wound around me: rich and so intensely Drake that I leaned into him. “It appears that you’ve upped my tally as well.” He struggled to hide his smile. “I truly have lost count how many times it is now that I’ve saved your life, my Queen.”

  “Drink, music, dancing…none of that is romantic enough for you, but a battle, blood, and angelic clones, and you’re having this moment, of which my brother spoke?” Gabriel snarled, yanking me to my feet with a harsh jingle of beads.

  “What can I say?” I shrugged. “I’m the Bitch of Utopia not Shakespeare’s Juliet.”

  Drake held out his hand to his third clone, before merging back into one, shuddering back to himself. He slunk to his feet with cold fury. “Be silent and unhand my Queen, Firstborn.” To my shock, Gabriel dropped my hand. Someone had been trained to take orders…or maybe needed them. Drake blinked at him, as if the Seraphim’s obedience had been equally unexpected. “Good. Now, remove that despicable bridle and allow your brother to transform, so that we can retreat somewhere safer.”

  “I can’t.” When Drake raised his eyebrow, Gabriel flinched. “Only the one who put it on can remove it.”