But the bed and its linens were where the comfort in the room stopped. Beneath the edges of her bedspread, the warmth surrounding her dispersed into the cold and damp of what could not be mistaken for anything other than a prison cell.
“What the . . .” She sat up slowly, her mouth dropping open as she took in the peeling paint on the walls, the rusted bars of the door, and the dented metal that had obviously been used as a mirror above a broken sink on one side of the closet-sized room.
A single bulb hung from the ceiling, shedding an eerie, unpleasant light on the cramped quarters. Beyond the bars at one end of the room, the darkness of the hallway loomed, deep and ominous.
Sophie’s body was beginning to tremble with fear as she pushed back the covers to slide from the bed. It was out of place in this room; that was clear now. Someone had put it in the cell for her to sleep on.
The dichotomy of the small kindness and the cruelty of locking her up in such a place struck her a confusing blow. She moved from the bed toward the bars on feet that still wore boots. They’d left her clothes on. . . . To further protect her from the cold?
Sophie gritted her teeth, frowning deeply as she wrapped her fingers around the bars and pulled. There was no give. Her movements clanged against the metal and the sound echoed through the halls beyond, seeming to go on forever.
In the distance, a foghorn sounded. A hard shiver rushed through her and she released the bars to hug herself.
“Oh God,” she whispered. What’s happening to me?
Where was she? What had happened? She tried to remember, tried to make sense of her surroundings. . . . She squeezed her eyes shut—and moved back from the bars as more flashes of memory overtook her.
A cemetery, her stepfather—a gun.
Her heart slammed painfully as, all at once, everything came rushing back. A strangled cry escaped her throat and she stumbled back until her hip hit the top of the bed and she lost her balance.
Collapsing like a rag doll, Sophie landed hard on her bottom. A second later, she was curling her legs against her chest and cradling herself. The rocking came naturally—back and forth, back and forth—as the realization of what she had done struck her once again like a bomb.
She’d killed a man. He had been a horrible man and he’d been planning on raping and killing her, but somehow it seemed to make little difference. The feeling was the same. It was like a sticky, inky black blanket that draped itself over her and then began to tighten. She felt smothered in the truth.
And the truth wasn’t done with her yet.
Azrael’s a vampire.
The fact floated, immaterial at first.
Azrael is a vampire.
It was more solid this time, less two-dimensional.
Oh my God, she thought. Azrael is a vampire.
* * *
None of Azrael’s brothers were aware of the former Angel of Death’s ability to traverse the boundaries of Sam’s fortress and enter unbidden. Samael knew. But Samael knew everything. Or he seemed to.
And there were many things about Azrael that Michael and the others were not aware of. It was a symptom of the man and creature and angel that he was, this solitude of sorts. He was a being apart, separate and mysterious. He knew this. There was no helping it. So he had embraced it.
When Az exited the shadows and stepped into Samael’s sixty-sixth-floor office in the former Sears Tower, Sam continued writing at his desk without looking up. When he was finished, he put down the pen and only then looked up from his desk. There was not the least bit of surprise on his incredibly handsome face. The stormy gray of his charcoal-colored eyes swirled and taunted; his expression was unreadable.
He was conveniently alone in the room. Normally the man was accompanied by one or more of his servants, monsters of the supernatural world who were sworn to do his eternal bidding. However, at the moment, none of these people were around, and Azrael wondered whether it was so that he and Samael could conduct their business in private.
Az left the corner beside a solid wood bookshelf and approached the center of the office on silent booted feet.
“I’m assuming the situation is dire indeed to bring you to my door,” Samael said softly as he pushed gracefully away from his desk and rose to his full impressive height. He was dressed, as usual, in a dark gray suit, expensively tailored. “So have out with it at once, by all means.” A tiny hint of a smile graced the corners of his lips as he smoothed the front of his suit and moved around his desk.
He and Azrael slowly approached each other, their essences colliding, circles of power that chafed against each other, setting off invisible sparks of negative energy. They stopped at three feet and Azrael considered the infamous archangel with great care.
This was a mistake.
“Of course it is,” Samael told him, flashing a bright white smile that would have left women swooning. “But you knew that before you stepped into my shadows.”
He did. He also knew he was out of his league here. But it didn’t matter; he had no choice.
“The Adarians have taken Sophie,” Azrael told him, aware that as he said it, it was probably something Samael already knew. “I need to know where they’ve gone.”
Samael cocked his head to one side, his dark gray eyes glittering. “I’m sure you do. I’m sure you also know that my assistance comes with a price, ‘Lord Azrael.’” He said the name softly, almost teasingly, and Az tasted blood in his mouth.
His jaw was too tight, his teeth too sharp, and his patience officially at an end. “Name it.”
Samael’s brow lifted. He considered Az for a moment, and not for the first time since coming to Earth, Azrael wished he could read the archangel’s mind as he could that of every other creature on the planet. And as Sam could so easily read his.
Then Samael’s smile faded and Azrael felt as if there were storms brewing in the Fallen One’s eyes. There was a building darkness there, a depth that hinted at . . . problems. Az wondered if there was something going on with Samael that failed to meet the eye.
Sam turned away to sit on the leather sofa on one side of the massive office. Az glanced at the giant windows that outlined a view of the lake and Chicago’s night lights below. The sky was lightening a little; dawn was fast on its way and the impending daybreak added to Azrael’s discomfort. Other than that, it was a stunning view. Samael had never settled for anything but the best.
“Which brings me to the subject of my price,” Samael said, his words cutting through Azrael’s thoughts. Az turned to face him. “You’re right, Azrael. I settle for nothing less than the best. I go for the gold in everything I do.” He shrugged, rather nonchalantly, and his perfect suit moved effortlessly with him.
“Sophie is mine,” Azrael told him simply.
Sam’s smile was back, but it was a smaller echo of the one he’d worn before. “You misunderstand me,” he said. “Sophie Bryce is absolutely priceless and an amazing catch, don’t get me wrong. But she’s right for you, Azrael. Not me.”
“Spit it out, Sam. What do you want?” Az could feel the weight of time settling over him, a shroud that grew heavier with each passing second.
“Your brother possesses the ability to heal,” Samael said. “I want you to take it from him.”
Azrael stared at Sam as the silence stretched between them. He would have assumed that he’d heard incorrectly, that he was imagining things, but he had very good hearing.
“Mind you, it won’t be permanent, if that’s worrying you,” Sam said, his tone so utterly casual it was not as if he’d just asked Azrael to do something so wrong it was nearly sacrilegious. “Take Michael’s blood,” he went on, “and concentrate on taking the healing ability with it. He will be without the power for several days.” He paused, let the weight of his request sink in, and then straightened on the couch, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and lace his fingers together. He eyed Azrael with cold, hard eyes. “That is my price, archangel. Take it or leave it.”
&
nbsp; “Done,” Azrael said as he felt the world drop out from under him. Michael was the silent leader of their brotherhood. He was the one who kept them together. He was the spiritually strong one, the giving one, the brother who always had everyone else’s back. When Azrael considered everything that Michael had done for him over the years—the way he’d stood by him in those first few agonizing moments on Earth—a sort of sickness stole over him and he felt as if his chest would cave in.
But Abraxos had Sophie. And quite simply, Azrael would do anything to get her back.
Samael stood once more, gracefully rising from the couch and reaching into the inside pocket of his suit coat. Azrael watched in unexpressed misery as Sam produced the infamous diamond pen he’d used on so many of them before and held it up to the light.
“You’ll understand if I don’t take your word,” Sam spoke softly.
“Why would you?” Azrael replied just as softly as he strode across the room to take the pen from Sam’s outstretched fingers. Its tip was wickedly sharp, and Samael’s other victims had no doubt seen it as an object of perilous and menacing design. To Azrael, it was the period at the end of a sentence that condemned him to hell. Nothing more.
Sam waved his hand over the surface of the coffee table and the piece of furniture transformed. In a warping, dizzying display, the table became taller, morphing into a black stone altar. Atop the altar rested a contract composed of intricate and puzzling lettering.
“Unfortunately for you,” Samael said with a devious smile, “you will have to take me at mine.”
Azrael knew how this worked. Uriel had been in this position once, and for almost the same reason. Uriel’s account of his own signing with Sam had filled him in on the details. This particular pen used blood.
Az said nothing as he glanced at the contract and then pressed the pen’s tip into the vein on the inside of his wrist. The sharp nib broke the skin at once, drawing his blood into the diamond vial attached to it. Uriel claimed that when he’d signed his contract with Samael, the pen had drawn his blood painfully. However, Azrael felt nothing but a deepening sense of loss as the pen went from clear to crimson red. When it was filled, he removed the tip and turned to the altar. Sam remained stoically silent and watchful as Azrael pressed the tip of the pen to the first of two lines that waited at the bottom of the document.
He signed.
When he was finished, he handed the pen to Samael. It was empty. Sam lowered it to the document and as he did, it once more filled with blood. Azrael’s ears roared with the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins. The world seemed distant in that moment, out of reach. He was traversing the passageways of a nightmare.
Sam finished signing his own name in scrawling, perfect script and pocketed the again empty pen. And then, out of the inside pocket on the other side of his expensive suit coat, he extracted a small book.
“You’ll need this,” he said, handing the book to Azrael. “And I have a message for the Warrior Archangel.”
Az looked down, turning the book over in his hands. It was a tour guide for Alcatraz Island. The impatience abrading his skin got worse; the air was turning to steel wool around him. He looked back up and was caught in Samael’s mercurial gaze.
“Michael has been hunting a rapist,” Sam told him, no hint of emotion one way or the other on his handsome face. “Tell him to take a walk in the park.” He turned away from Azrael to casually make his way back to his desk. “Many people claim to find the answers they seek there.”
Chapter Twenty-three
There are vampires.
Sophie had always believed there was more to life than what met the eye. She’d always had an open mind. Ghost stories intrigued her; haunted houses sparked her imagination. She’d seen every vampire movie and read every vampire book she could get her little orphan hands on while growing up. Not because she knew they were pretend and she had fun staring at the actors. But because they made her wonder. That was just the kind of girl she was.
But now, sitting on the cold stone floor of a cell God-knew-where and facing the very real fact that there were not only archangels but vampires as well, she realized that she was feeling . . . rather strange. As if she were composed of stuff as insubstantial and make-believe as the books and movies she’d loved so much. She was living in a fantasy world. She remembered teachers accusing her of that from time to time. If they could only see her now. . . .
A loud clanging sound drew her head up and had her hastily wiping her eyes. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying until now. She spun around to face the bars on the other end of the cell and wasn’t surprised to find herself face-to-face with someone she didn’t recognize. Nothing surprised her now, she guessed.
He was a man of average height and build, had slightly thinning brown hair, and his unremarkable blue eyes looked out from behind wire-rimmed glasses. He was dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit the same color as his hair.
The man waited until the bars finished sliding to the side, and Sophie noticed that the bars moved in time with those of other cells across the hall. She could see them all now; someone had turned on the lights, and there was also a softer edge to everything, as if the sun were rising. Row upon row of tiny concrete rooms stretched down the corridor. As the doors slid into their open place, the sound rang loud and clear through the hollow emptiness.
“Miss Bryce.” The man greeted her, his voice gentle. He stood in the open doorway, his hands clasped before him in a friendly manner.
Sophie frowned and blinked, coming to her feet.
“I do hope you rested comfortably,” he went on, gesturing to the bed behind her with one well-manicured hand. “I’m afraid this bed was the best I could come up with on such short notice.”
“Who are you?” Sophie asked, speaking before she realized she was going to do so. Her voice shook horribly. She was more of a mess than she’d realized.
“I’m John Smith,” he said. “But please call me John. I’m here to escort you to my employer. He’s been waiting patiently for you to sleep off the remainder of the influence the Adarian put you under. He would have awakened you, but he felt you most likely needed the rest.”
This took a moment for her to digest. Employer? Adarians? The employer wasn’t an Adarian? “Where are we?” she asked next, her subconscious clearly wanting to tick off the questions in order of importance.
“An old prison,” Smith replied with a glance at their surroundings. He made a slightly displeased face, but the look was quickly gone and his expression was once more emotionless. “It was not our choice, believe me. But time was of the essence, and this was where fate brought us.”
Sophie had never felt more confused or wrung out. She wondered if she looked as crooked and stringy and crinkled as she felt inside.
“Please,” Mr. Smith said as he stepped to the side and gestured for her to exit the cell. “Come with me.”
What else was she to do? It felt strange to step through that space and out into the hall; as her body crossed to the other side, it almost felt as if something pulled on it for the briefest moment—trying to draw it back inside, hold on to it. Keep it forever.
But it must have been her imagination. Unless ghosts existed too. Just like angels . . . And vampires.
“I imagine you are very confused right now,” said Smith as he led her down the long gray corridor. On either side the cell doors lay open, revealing empty rooms beyond. “And more than a little frightened.”
Sophie barely heard him; she was half listening and half stuck in her own numb, overcrowded world. She knew where she was now. She’d come here when she was very little. She had visited with her mother.
Back then, she’d been surrounded by other tourists, and the halls had echoed with the sounds of children and women whispering and men snapping photographs. Now the hallways were hollow. The only people here were her and John Smith—whoever he was—and the ghosts of the men who had been imprisoned here so long ago.
Smith
walked Sophie to the end of the corridor, a hall she seemed to recall was named after Broadway. As they crossed the threshold of the doors that led to another room, Sophie looked up to see a red handprint, faded but memorable, marking the peeling paint. No doubt it had been left there by Native Americans in the sixties when they’d occupied the infamous penitentiary. And it was still there now.
“I’m in Alcatraz,” she said softly, more to hear herself say the words than for any other reason.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Smith. “But though he felt it would be too cold there for you to rest comfortably, my employer prefers the open air, so we will be meeting him in the yard.”
“Who are you?” Sophie asked.
Smith glanced at her over his shoulder and offered her a warm, understanding smile. “I’m assuming you actually mean to ask, ‘what’ am I. And I can understand why.” His smile broadened, touching the blue in his eyes and lightening it. “You’ve been hit with a lot lately. Angels are one thing. Vampires are another, no?”
“Are you a vampire?” she asked.
He chuckled. “No,” he said, as if the very idea were too nuts to consider. “I am not.”
They pushed through a final set of doors and then stepped out into the frigid temperatures of an Alcatraz Island dawn. At once, Sophie was hugging herself. She still wore the warm clothes and army jacket she’d put on before she’d left her apartment what seemed like ages ago, but out here, in the middle of the bay, the temperatures were always much cooler—and the winds much stronger—than they were on the mainland.
She closed her eyes for a moment against a blast of cold, and felt something heavy being laid across her shoulders. She opened her eyes to see that Smith had moved behind her and was draping the coat of his suit over her. “Sophie Bryce,” he said, and she glanced over her shoulder to see that his eyes were on something ahead of her. “May I introduce my employer.”
He paused as Sophie peered through the stray strands of her hair to see a tall figure in white standing at the end of the long yard, his back to her.
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