Samael

by Heather Killough-Walden

  The words sped through her fevered mind like a blur of neon on a wet summer night. It was a wanton, brazen thought that had no place being thought at a time like this. And once again, she didn’t care.

  With pleasure.

  He’d heard her; their powers were back.

  And he’d responded.

  Her T-shirt and bra dug momentarily into her skin as the Fallen One ripped them from her body without breaking his kiss. He tasted the way a rain storm smelled, like fresh hope and lightning, like fun and danger mixed into one terribly tempting cocktail. She became drunk on the flavor as he bruised her lips. She became lost in his endless demand.

  He didn’t have to rip her clothes off. Neither of them had to deal with clothing at all if they didn’t want to, not any longer. But whatever Sam was, he was very much a man, and he displayed that now with full force as his fingers curled over the waistband of her jeans and, a quick heartbeat later, shredded them with one fast, hard tug.

  Everything vanished in that moment, leaving her completely bare but for the lightning that cocooned them and clothed her skin like silk spun from a thousand suns. Like every delicious thing she was experiencing, it hurt. And she wanted more.

  He lifted her arms over her head and broke their kiss, relieving her of his bruising torment and yet torturing her with his new absence. She moaned, and it was well lost in the electric fizzing of their lightning encasement. His hands, as hot as the lightning itself, slid down her arms to the sides of her breasts, and their nearness drew another moan from the depths of her throat.

  Her nipples stood erect, so suddenly exposed, so hot and yet cold – wanting and waiting and ready. But he didn’t make her wait long. The mouth that had left hers was back, this time laying feather-soft kisses along the side of her neck, kisses she somehow felt more strongly than the crackling electricity. They lit a trail of fire along her flesh as he moved lower… closer….

  Until at last, his teeth encased her right nipple, clutching it tight enough for her to jolt in his arms, run-through with a whole new kind of lightning. It moved through her body, from nerve point to that ultra-sensitive network of pulsing wetness between her legs, and fingers of sizzling heat licked at her there, teasing in torment.

  He sucked her nipple into his mouth and pulled hard, forcing blood painfully into her nub. Her hands slid through the white locks of his hair and clutched tightly, pulling against his strength. She wanted him to stop. And she knew she would die if he did.

  She was bucking against him now, whipped into a near frenzy by the power of the storm and the monster within her. Blood was pooling into every sensitive area of her body, and as he moved his hands further down her sides to cup the supple cheeks of her bottom, that touch only took those sensitive nerve endings and flayed them raw. She felt even her eyes heating up; the world behind her closed lids was taking on a bright-white cast, like the glow of a halo or a sunrise.

  He was power incarnate; everything he did was too strong, too hot, too much.

  I can take it, she thought. I can take him. Somehow she knew she was the only woman who could, and she wanted to do so right now.

  He pulled back, releasing her tormented breast from his grip. Cold heat cascaded over her freed nipple, teasing the already tender flesh. But her reprieve was short-lived, and his teeth found what he had neglected, and proceeded to torture her further.

  Angel’s own teeth clenched tight, suffocating the growl that was building within her. She thrashed at this new tender brutality, uncertain she could take much more. The pain and pressure built, the electric pleasure shooting inward and downward with relentless aptitude.

  She was about to scream, to beg him to stop, to grovel that he end her suffering, when at last, he pulled away completely. Her breathing came in ragged hiccups of need. She was destroyed, fragmented, desperate.

  As if in a dream, she opened her fever-burning eyes to find them trapped in a gaze so tumultuous, it housed all the universe’s fury and release, the very heart of every storm that had ever been born. Lightning crisscrossed his charcoal gray irises, framing a pupil that crackled and zapped like a Tesla coil.

  His clothing was gone, and floating before her on a cloud of electricity was the angel who had inspired Michelangelo, who’d been the downfall of chastity, the haunted turning of hearts and minds for hundreds of years. No, thousands.

  Eons.

  And as she gazed up at him, utterly and completely lost, on the verge of a kind of madness she knew only the hardness of him – the man the angel was trapped within – could bring her back from, she began to slip over the edge of sanity. She knew she must be, because behind him, she could have sworn she saw the lightning re-forming.

  It was taking the shape of two enormous, impossibly bright buzzing, hissing and humming wings. They stretched out behind him like salvation and damnation, never seen before. Invisible all this time.

  But they were there only for an instant. She blinked and wondered whether she’d imagined them. And then his beautiful, beautiful face hardened into a mask of ravenous, furious need, and he was once more wrapping his arm around her lower waist to clutch her tightly to him.

  Her flesh met his, softness against unyielding strength, and she felt that hard promise there at the brink of her opening. There was but a moment for her to inhale – before he was ramming into her, and she was being torn in two.

  She clutched at his shoulders, her fingernails digging furrows of desperation. He was massive, and all this time, all this long, long time, Angel had never wanted anyone but him. She felt his arms tighten even further, holding her so close it was like he was afraid she would slip away. Like the end of a dream. She heard him make a low and reckless sound, in agony or in bliss, she couldn’t tell. She was too caught up in her own living dream, the waking culmination that her every wish had suddenly become.

  So hard… hurts so… can’t…. need….

  Her mind was spinning, her brain spouting the words her body felt because there was no filter any longer. She had no control over herself, over time, over anything. She was a vessel for building need and mounting pleasure, and the eye of the storm around them was but an echo of it all.

  It took forever, the slow infiltration of him into her body. He sank deep, filling every space she’d ever felt empty, pressing her to the limits of pleasure and pain, until she felt wetness upon her cheek.

  And Sam gently kissed it away.

  At last, he claimed her, body and soul. They were connected, and nothing would tear them apart. This promise Angel felt radiate from Sam as he pulled agonizingly away, stretching her sanity paper thin – and then thrust back with the force of a brand upon her soul. Again, he pulled back, and again he slammed home. Over and over, he took her like this, a slow pull, a hard thrust, and a claim that no one would forsake.

  And that lightning heat that had built within her began spinning, began blending. It joined his own, where lightning and fire meshed. The storm around them swirled and spun. Portals opened and closed like flashes on a screen. Worlds passed by in a blur of colors and sounds. They were impermeable, immortal, indomitable.

  They were Samael and Angel… and in that final inexplicable moment, when Angel felt that electric heat climax, when she felt it reach a summit where no more pleasure could possibly be had and no more pain could push it further, an orgasm ripped viciously through her, rung the same from him…

  And she realized that they were so very much more.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  He understood.

  In that precious, priceless moment when the multiverse held its breath and stared wide-eyed, when galaxies stopped spinning in respect and admiration – he understood.

  He remembered.

  Pleasure inexplicable pulsed through his flesh and blood and body and into hers. They were tied, bound as no one ever had been. Ever. He was complete.

  Slowly, oh so slowly, as not to disrupt the fabric of time and space, Sam loosened his hold on her and pulled back just enough. Thos
e beautiful, beautiful eyes blinked open above their shed tears, long lashes fluttering, storms gazing up at him.

  He smiled. And she smiled back.

  They both understood.

  They were one.

  He took time then, time for them, and time for what they’d shared. And when enough time had passed, he dressed them both. They hovered in that electric space where portals went when they weren’t there, in that other place that wasn’t here, and they held each other.

  “What do we do now?” asked his gentler half.

  He gazed down at her and shook his head. “You are so beautiful.”

  She blushed and looked away. But he tenderly placed a finger beneath her chin and brought her gaze back to his. “We’ll do what you think we should do. You’ve always been the wiser one.”

  She laughed, softly and perfectly. “Sure, you say that now.”

  And it was his turn to laugh. It was a wonderful sound. It had been so very long since he’d heard himself really and truly laugh.

  “It’s time to bring it all to a close,” she said softly.

  He nodded slowly. “I agree.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Again, he laughed. He could definitely get used to this. But he let it drift away, and when it did, it left a feeling of peace upon his lips. “And then what?” he asked, hoping she would say what he already knew she would.

  “You don’t have to ask.” She shook her head, smiling that same reflection of peace. “We’ll do what we were meant to do. We’ll do the right thing.”

  He kissed her. He couldn’t stop himself. And he would never even try again. When the kiss broke at last, he found himself grinning. “Of course we will.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Abraxos waited until the transport light around him faded. Then he turned a slow circle to take in his surroundings. A cacophony of noises, blasts, screams, and the intricate symphony of magic could be heard loud and clear, but he ignored it. Instead, he looked around.

  He was standing in a relatively small clearing within a tremendously thick copse of trees. The trees that had once been where he now stood had been uprooted, burned up, destroyed or disintegrated. The floor was riddled with their remnants.

  The other Adarians, all twelve of his former friends and comrades, arrived one at a time after he did, each arrival preceded by a popping sound and followed by the fading light of a dissipating portal. They, too, looked around. Then they looked to him, and waited.

  To Abraxos’s right, at one side of the outer edge of the flattened circle, the trees that made up the wall of forest were petrified. They’d literally been turned to stone. Upon closer inspection, in fact, it seemed they were partly… gold. To his left, another group of trees was chopped in half, as if a mighty scythe had come down and cut them off like broccoli tops just for fun.

  There were no animals in the surrounding forests; he would have known. He could sense life now, and it had fled long ago in self-preservation.

  A loud blast shook the ground, and Abraxos rolled his eyes. He sighed. Because he knew he had to eventually, he looked up. Up there, where the “floor” of a floating structure waited beyond the tops of the forest canopy, was where all the noise was coming from. Mighty winged creatures straight from the bowels of ancient yore swooped down and back up again in a deadly dance of fire, acid, poison, teeth, talons, and tails. Shocks of exploding magic sent rippling waves over the tree tops that remained, reminding Abraxos of a green ocean, disrupted by sound.

  He knew there was a veritable army of supernatural creatures up there wreaking havoc on the archangels and archesses for their master. For Gregori.

  Doing his bidding. Fighting his battles for him.

  Abraxos looked back down at his Adarians. They waited patiently and silently for him to give them their orders. They’d done so ever since Gregori brought them each back from their different brinks, from their various damnations, to those ends they’d all reached when they’d gone their separate ways. Abraxos supposed he owed Gregori that much. He’d reunited him with his brethren.

  But in that moment, they’d been changed. They went from being an army of angels to an army of incomprehensible darkness.

  Abraxos looked down at his hands. Blood was caked on them; it had been for some time now. They were dirty, and darkness stained beneath his fingernails. They were hands he’d used to rip the hearts out of living, breathing human chests, both young and old. He’d done it so that the life beating within them would replace just a fraction of the life he’d lost within himself.

  He looked up at his men. There was Asteraoth, whom Uriel had killed what seemed like eons ago. He was back, and watching Abraxos with the same quiet patience they all did. There was Dumah, also killed by Uriel. Elyon, whom they’d all called Ely. Laoth, also known as Luke. Mendrion, whom Abraxos had called Mitchell – the tall dark angel who was fond of human cigarettes and shadows. Morael, Puriel, Hamon… whom Abraxos had unfortunately killed, himself. Ramael, Rumon, Tartys, and Xathanael – all of them were there in that burned and desiccated field. They stood there before him, waiting for orders to come from the man they’d once called General, or in quieter, more peaceful and laid-back moments, “Brax.” And in more recent times, Kevin.

  They’d been through so much together. Two thousand years on Earth, and a history in the angel realm. Only to be gathered at last, mere slaves to a man they barely knew.

  Gregori had brought them together well enough, but he’d brought them together to suffer, and to cause the same to those around them.

  Abraxos took a deep breath, filling his lungs with remnants of smoke in the apocalypse that had become of the forest. “I don’t know about you, boys,” he said very softly. It was almost a whisper, barely intelligible amidst the din of the magic battle above. But he knew his men heard him anyway. “But I think I’m just about done.”

  The silence in the small clearing was nearly as deafening as the racket above. And then Ely lifted his chin and shifted on his feet. The tall black man took a deep breath, a calm gesture that was at odds with the blood on his stained clothing. “As am I,” he said.

  Mitchell pulled a cigarette out of his black leather jacket pocket, and the tiny click of a lighter broke the following silence. The Adarian took a long drag off its end, then lowered it, releasing his breath in a puff of smoke. “Same here.”

  Luke looked from Ely to Mitchell to Abraxos. He ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair, giving the impression of someone waking from a nightmare. “Yeah, me too.”

  One by one, the Adarians turned toward Abraxos and nodded in agreement.

  “I’ve had it.”

  “Count me out.”

  “We’re all done.”

  Until they stood at last truly reunited, joined in defiance against the man whose yoke they bore. When they’d finished, Abraxos asked, “Okay, then. So what now?” He’d never directly asked his men for advice before. He was the General, he was the idea man, he was the leader. But he recognized the wisdom of time and experience in his companions as he looked upon them now. Their dirty clothes, their stained fingertips, their soul-filled eyes.

  He was no better than them. They were a team.

  It was a long time before any of them answered. They glanced at one another questioningly until finally, Ely cleared his throat. “Well, I think it might be a good idea if we find a way to get rid of this heart-eating curse. I miss the taste of mac and cheese.”

  Kevin did too. And he smiled.

  The problem was, he had no idea what magic user in any of the realms connected to Earth would be powerful enough to negate a curse Gregori had placed on them. Even now, he knew they were going to have to face the man in white himself when Gregori learned of their defiance. They’d been sent here to do away with the archangels and archesses once and for all.

  But they weren’t going to do that. And now they would have to deal with Gregori’s wrath. If they even survived that bit, which Abraxos was dubious about, they would then b
e tasked with finding a cure for whatever Gregori had done to them to turn them into apocalyptic zombies.

  The battle was far from over, and the war had just begun.

  Just when Abraxos was taking a deep breath to warn his men of the work ahead and give them a pep talk as he had done in the old days, there was a shift in the wind. The smoke around them wafting up from the destroyed earth and trees swirled around the figures standing like monuments in the waste. Those swirls rose and switched direction, lifting away.

  The wind picked up in speed, clearing the air within a few seconds.

  Abraxos stood frozen to the spot. He could feel something moving in.

  Once, when the west was young, he’d placed his ear to a freshly laid railroad track, just to see if the rumors about the steam engine’s power were true. It had been said you could tell they were coming from miles and miles away by hearing the humming vibration they made in the metal rungs. The rumors had been true, and Abraxos remembered feeling slightly awed as he pictured the oncoming beast. In his mind, he saw the mightiest of all dragons, forged of cold iron and large beyond life, with breath of smoke and sparking ash.

  He had that same feeling now, that slightly scared sense that something very big was on its way.

  “Brace yourselves, men.”

  But they knew it too. Mitchell dropped his cigarette into the dirt and snuffed it out with his shoe… as if it were necessary in this scarred battle scape that errant magic had formed. He rolled up the sleeves of his long-sleeved white shirt. Beside him, Ely placed a hand on his shoulder and nodded at Abraxos. Luke looked to the other Adarians in silent communication, and they all moved inward, supporting each other, drawing close.

  Abraxos knew what was coming. And it was bringing hell with it.

  He closed his eyes, accepting that this may very well be the end. He’d had a good run of it, all in all. There’d been some crappy years near the end, and some extra crappy days at the end of those years. But if he were to average it all out, well, it hadn’t been that bad.