“Like Sammael the traitor?” He knew his voice was icy and uncompromising.
“Like Sammael the martyr,” Beloch returned. “Your little girl could go free if you are willing to open yourself to the Truth Breakers.”
There was something so familiar about that smooth, tempting voice. It would be so easy to give him what he wanted. “No,” he said. “Those are not my secrets to reveal.”
“Instead you’ll see your lover ripped to pieces by the Truth Breakers?”
His face felt as cool and hard as the marble floor beneath him. “She is not my lover. And her fate is hers.”
“And it has the added advantage of breaking the prophecy that terrifies you so much,” Beloch pointed out. “Bring her to me tonight.”
“You said she could stay—”
“I changed my mind. She weakens your resolve. The kindest thing I can do is remove temptation. You needn’t have sex with her again, Azazel. Isn’t that generous of me? You’re released from that particular punishment.”
Azazel didn’t move for a moment. “When do you want her?” he said finally, and Beloch’s smile widened.
“Bring her to the river by seven. The Nightmen will come and relieve you of that particular burden.”
He looked at Beloch, his self-satisfied smile. He was immortal—it would do no good to break his neck, beat him to the ground. Azazel was trapped, and it shouldn’t matter. But it did. “I’ll bring her,” he said. And walked away.
IT WAS ALMOST DUSK WHEN Azazel returned. I’d been waiting for him in the library, impatient, nervous. I’d tried to read, but my eyes would glaze over, and I would remember his hands on me, and I would end up staring into nothingness, reliving those moments. It was little wonder I was in a jumpy mood when he finally walked in.
“Are you ready?” As a greeting it left a lot to be desired, and I wondered if he was talking about going upstairs again.
“Ready for what?” I said carefully.
“I want you to show me the river walk. Where the Nightmen found you.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
I swallowed a growl, and rose. I didn’t want to have sex with him again, and if he’d suggested it I would have flatly refused. There was no reason to feel disgruntled and disappointed. “How are we getting there?”
“We’re walking. The more people who see us together, the better.”
“I don’t know why. Besides, they barely pay any attention to us. I tried to talk to one young woman and she practically ran away screaming.”
“The people of the Dark City are watching us very closely. Everyone is a spy. The more time we’re on the streets walking, the less time we’re supposed to be having sex. I assume that would meet with your approval.”
My stomach had jumped at his words. Again I could feel him, and again I forced myself to banish the memory. “Absolutely,” I said in a firm voice.
I made the mistake of looking at him, into his pale face and his blazing blue eyes, and I knew he didn’t believe me. He knew I wanted him again. Just as he wanted me.
The twilight held the promise of rain in the air. I looked up into the sky, searching for any familiar sign. I had no idea where we were, if we were in some strange, alternate world that existed in another universe. I never saw any sun overhead, only the omnipresent grayness that had spread into everything. Azazel and I were still in color, our flesh alive, our mouths red, our bodies creamy. What was this world, where every spot of color was gone?
We were halfway to the river when I heard the distant rumble of thunder, and I felt a moment’s nervousness. Something was wrong. Not that that was anything new. It just felt more wrong than before, and my skin felt like ice. “There’s going to be a storm,” I said unnecessarily. “Maybe we should go back.”
“We’re unlikely to melt.”
“What if we’re struck by lightning?”
“It won’t kill us.”
Okay, I believed that. So I walked on, Azazel at my side with his hands in his pockets, occasionally brushing against me. Each time it happened my entire body reacted, suffused with warmth, and I wanted to lean against him, close my eyes and sink into him, into his bones, lose myself in his beautiful white-gold flesh.
I kept walking.
The river was in sight when the first light rain began to fall. The coat I’d found in my wardrobe had a hood, but I didn’t bother with it, turning my face up to catch the drops of rain. He took my arm then, steering me across the street to the embankment along the roiling gray river, leading me toward one of the empty benches that fronted it.
He released me and sat at one end, and I understood perfectly well that he didn’t want me cuddling up next to him. I sat in the middle of the bench, so as not to be too obvious, and looked at him.
“Where were the Nightmen?” His voice was as calm and dispassionate as always.
“They came from under that bridge.” I gestured toward the narrow passageway that led back into the darkness. There was a door across it now, faded and probably rusty. The area was deserted—the gloomy evening was too stormy even for the dour inhabitants of the Dark City.
He turned to look at the passage, then back. “They’re not anywhere around,” he said.
“How do you know that?”
“I know. I’m not doubting your word. But if the Nightmen were here last night, they’re now in some other part of the city.” He leaned back against the cement bench, now marked and splattered with the gathering rain. “No one is going to see us.”
“See us do what?”
At that moment lightning split the sky, so bright that for the first time the Dark City was bathed in crackling white light like an old Frankenstein movie, and then it was gone again as the sharp crack of thunder followed.
I rose. “We should get out of here.”
He glanced up at me. “I couldn’t find the cameras. They may not even exist—it wouldn’t be unlike Beloch to lie in order to torment us. But if they’re there, I can’t find them and disable them.”
I had no idea why he was telling me this, telling me now. Another bolt of lightning, this time so close I could hear the sizzle as it struck nearby. He rose and took my hand in a tight, unbreakable grip, dragging me across the cobbled walkway much as the Nightmen had the night before. But Azazel wasn’t going to kill me.
We reached the sheltered door and he released me, reaching for the handle. It was locked. He yanked at it, hard, but it was stronger than it looked, and it didn’t move. He swore beneath his breath, something foul, and looked around somewhat desperately. There was no other form of shelter.
“I guess we’re doomed to get wet,” I said, doing my best to sound cheerful.
“Yes,” he said. And shoved me against the door.
C HAPTER T HIRTEEN
THE ROUGH WOOD OF THE DOOR was hard against my back. I stared up at Azazel in astonishment. “What are you doing?”
His body crowded mine back into the darkness as his hands slid up my neck, his thumbs stroking my throat, and I knew a brief glimpse of fear. He kissed me, and if the fear didn’t leave entirely, it morphed into an instantaneous arousal. I’d wanted his hands on me, his mouth, his body pressed against mine, since I’d awoken. No, I’d wanted him since he’d lifted me off him and I’d turned away. This was what madness was—destructive need that was drowning out common sense and wisdom and self-preservation. I whimpered against his hard mouth, put my arms around his neck, and pulled him closer still, letting him kiss me with a furious desperation that I met.
This was bad, I knew it. It would only end in disaster. Yet I couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. It didn’t matter what price I would end up paying—it would be worth it. Worth it to feel his hands slide down between us, slipping inside my coat, under my loose T-shirt, cupping my breasts through the lace of the bra. It had a front clasp, but he ripped it open anyway, and his fingers on the bare skin of my breasts made me cry out, aroused beyond belief.
I could feel the thickness
of his erection against my stomach, and I was wet, that quickly, ready for him, needing him, not caring if he shoved me down on the cobblestones and took me there. I wanted his skin, and I pushed at his shirt, shoving it off his shoulders so that I could feel it, and I wanted so much more I could have cried. I could never have enough of this man, never in a thousand lifetimes. He was mine, he was my body and my soul and my heart, and I was caught so tightly with him I would cease to exist if someone tried to break the connection.
I kissed him back, my tongue against his, and closed my eyes, letting the delicious reactions sweep over me, the tightening of my breasts, the fluttering between my legs. He was pressed against me, hips against mine, and I could feel his long legs against the skirt I was wearing, and I momentarily cursed it, wishing I were wearing pants so I could get closer to him, wrap my legs around him. He rocked against me, and I felt a frisson of reaction, then another, as he bumped against me again, deliberately, pressing, and I remembered my fear last night of the deep blackness. I had survived and come through, wounded and yet complete, but I wasn’t ready to go there again. It was too much, but he’d shoved my T-shirt up, exposing my flesh to the cool, wet air. His fingers stroked my breasts, plucking, pinching the nipples gently, and a shiver went through me, a choking gasp as a tiny explosion rocked me.
He broke the kiss, moving his mouth to my neck, and I tried to speak. “Let’s go home,” I gasped. “I don’t care about the goddamned cameras.”
“No,” he said, his voice rough. His hands left my breasts, and I was afraid he was going to pull away.
“Wait,” I cried, my fingers digging into his bare shoulders. “Don’t stop. Not yet.”
I’d never heard him laugh before. I didn’t know if this was even a laugh—just a short, derisive sound. “No,” he said again, his hands sliding down my waist, down my legs. Pulling the long skirt up, exposing my legs in the stormy afternoon, so that I felt the rain pelting against them, and I knew I should care whether someone was watching. I did care, just not enough. Not even when he reached for my panties and with one rough yank tore them off.
He put one hand under my butt, lifting me up, pressing me back against the door, and I heard the rasp of his zipper, his muttered curse as he freed himself, and then he pushed inside me, not waiting to see if I was ready for him.
I was. More than ready. The thick force of him made me gasp, afraid he might hurt me, but it stopped short of pain, only a faint discomfort that quickly spread into such pleasure that I felt another small orgasm hit me, a spasm of pleasure that jolted through me, and I tightened my legs around his hips, holding on tight.
Another sizzle of lightning, followed immediately by a crack of thunder. I saw something spark but I closed my eyes, the better to absorb the deep thrusts that were shaking me apart.
His hands were on my bare thighs, holding me up, and he pushed into me again and again. I could hear the wet slap of our joining, and it was another jolt of dark pleasure. He kissed me, hard, and I could taste blood, his or mine or both, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t get enough of me and I couldn’t get enough of him.
He was going to want that final surrender, that dark explosion that frightened me. If I went into that place I might never return, and I tried to fight it, but I couldn’t. Everything seemed centered between our bodies, on the powerful invasion of him into me, my unbound breasts rubbing against his chest, his mouth on mine, and holding back was no longer an option. If I went there he would be with me, he’d keep me safe as I let go of everything else.
He tore his mouth away, gasping for breath, and I rested my head on his shoulder as a dry sob was torn from my throat. The world exploded. One more crash of lightning, and the sky opened in a deluge. He slammed back into me, and I went over the edge as I felt him jerk and pulse into me. I have no idea why I did it, only knew that I needed to; my mouth opened, and my teeth sank into his strong, powerful throat, breaking the skin, tasting the rich sweetness of his blood.
I heard his deep groan, felt him swell inside me, and then nothing more as sheer sensation washed over me. I shook, convulsing, lost in a place that terrified me, with only his arms and his body supporting me as I flew.
It might have been moments, it might have been hours, before I opened my eyes, shivers still rippling through me. I lifted my head. There was blood on his neck, a faint smear, and I licked it away, feeling him jerk again in reaction. Why had I done such a thing? Why had it felt so right? As the shudders began to slow I put my arms around his neck, rested my forehead against his shoulder, and said the damnable words.
“I love you.” My voice was rough, broken, as if I’d been screaming when I knew I hadn’t made a sound. The rain was pounding down around us, streaming into my eyes and his as I lifted my head to meet his unreadable gaze. “That much of the prophecy must be true.”
And then I heard them coming.
HE PULLED OUT OF HER, letting her feet down on the ground, still holding her against the door. He could feel the weakness of reaction still rippling through her, and he wasn’t sure she’d be able to stand yet. When he thought she was steady enough, he let go of her and rearranged his clothes, pulling up his zipper, then looked up to see the raw panic in her eyes.
“We need to get out of here,” she said in a shaky voice. “They’re coming.”
He had already felt them. Known they were converging on this place. Known that they would sense their presence. He should feel regret, but it was too late for that. He’d known it would end this way when he’d let himself come inside her last night. When he’d been torn with desire all day. When he’d felt her teeth nip his flesh, just enough to draw blood. When he’d heard her words. “I love you,” she’d said. And impossibly enough, he knew it was true. The demon loved him. For no reason. She was right, the prophecy was true.
And he had no choice whatsoever.
She was tugging at him. “We need to run.”
He looked into her eyes, slowly shaking his head. And then she realized the full extent of his betrayal, and her eyes grew black with shock and pain. She tried to break away, but he was too strong. He held her, his hands wrapped around her wrists like manacles, and he knew he was hurting her, knew that in a little while the pain he was inadvertently inflicting would seem like a caress.
She fought like a madwoman, but she’d forgotten any of the powers she’d once had, except for the power over him, and there was nothing she could do. The Nightmen rounded the corner at a forced run, swords drawn, and he wondered if they would finish him as well. He could only hope so.
But this strange existence never offered an easy way out of the betrayals and cruelties and need that living brought. He stepped back when they put their hands on Rachel, and he saw Enoch’s eyes glittering with pleasure. No, not Rachel, he reminded himself. The Lilith. A demon, neither male nor female, and he’d broken the laws of creation and fucked her, at Beloch’s orders. It was the only way Beloch would do his part in helping them find the truths she had hidden inside her altered memories, and if Azazel paid for it with the soul he’d already lost, then so be it.
There was no pleading, no reproach, no fury, in her huge eyes. After the first shock, something had closed down over her, and she turned her head away, not looking in his direction.
She had a trace of blood on her mouth. His blood. He reached up and touched his neck. She’d barely broken the skin, and the bleeding had been minimal. He had no idea why she’d done it. But if he’d had any doubts about what he was doing, that was a sign.
They were hurting her. They’d manacled her hands, using iron to keep her lost gifts at bay. Demons were powerless against iron—he’d used it himself when he’d staked her out to die. It would have been more merciful to have left her there. It would have been over, in the past, and he would have forgotten her.
But they would never have gleaned the information she had locked in her brain, as the Truth Breakers were sworn to do. And he might have doubted his decision, with no proof that she was any dang
er to him.
He had that proof now. He was tied to her, part of her—his blood and his semen—and she was part of him. In the taking of his fluids, she had taken his autonomy. They were bound together, in flesh and feeling. Until they killed her.
“Take her to the Truth Breakers,” he said in a harsh voice.
“We’ll take her anywhere we damned well please,” Enoch said, and Azazel wasn’t sure which was worse: the Nightmen’s random, murderous violence, or the careful sadism of the Truth Breakers’ torture.
“Beloch will be displeased if you kill her,” he said coldly, playing the one card he had. He wasn’t doing her any favors by saving her for the Truth Breakers. But the Fallen needed the information that was buried as deeply as her demon memory.
Enoch’s face darkened. “We would never disobey his orders. But he won’t mind if we hurt her a little. Get a taste of what you’ve been enjoying. It’s not every day you get a chance to fuck the Lilith.”
His blood roared in protest, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “You would regret it,” he said. “She’s a scourge. She’ll cause your man-part to shrivel and fall off. I’m immune because of the prophecy. None of you would be so lucky.” The lie came easily, shocking him. He shouldn’t have been able to lie.
Enoch looked properly horrified, and the men holding Rachel shifted uneasily, appalled even to be touching her. Good. He’d spared her that much, at least.
“Keep your distance, men,” Enoch commanded. “I don’t know if Wing-boy here is lying or not, but she’s not worth taking the chance.” He glanced back at Azazel. “I didn’t think you had the stones to do this. You must be more like us than I thought.”
Azazel didn’t flinch. The rain was pouring down, drenching them, and he felt as if he were drowning. There was nothing more he could do.
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