Demon

by Kristina Douglas

  When my wind caught him. The sand blinding him, the gust pushing him away as Azazel once more managed to stagger to his feet. I swirled the wind beyond Azazel, buoying him as he gathered the last bit of his strength, advancing on Metatron, who was fighting the funnel of sand that had encircled him.

  I moved my hand, and the wind halted, the sand falling to the ground, and Metatron saw Azazel. He grinned, raising his sword, and Azazel sliced beneath his arm, beneath the armor.

  Metatron fell to his knees, his face blank with shock. And Azazel brought his sword down on his enemy’s neck, hacking into his body.

  The warrior fell face-first into the sand, and silence reigned.

  There was only the rasp of Azazel’s labored breathing, the soft remnants of my angry wind, the shushing of the ocean that terrified me.

  I rushed forward, catching Azazel before he fell. He was heavy, but I was strong, and I pulled him toward the sea. A moment later Allie was with us, supporting his other side, and he glanced down at her with a momentary grimace. And then he smiled. A glorious smile that seemed to have appeared from nowhere.

  The water lapped at our feet. “I need to go back,” Allie said. “You can take him from here.”

  “Yes,” I said. And I carried him into the healing, terrifying water, deeper and deeper, until it closed over our heads and I breathed it in.

  I stripped his bloody jerkin off him beneath the salt water, and watched his savage wounds begin to close. I kissed his mouth, breathing him in, and let him wrap my legs around him, holding tight. He pushed up into the air, and his black wings unfurled, carrying us higher, over the sand, and I clung to him, afraid of nothing. Not the deep ocean, not flying through the misty sky, not loving a hard man. Not the demon who still hid inside me, who could help save the man she loved. She would be a secret. I had thought she was gone, hated her; but she was a part of me, a part of the being who loved Azazel, and I welcomed her.

  We set down on the sand near the house, and he released me, but I held him against me, protecting him as he protected me. We looked up as Raziel stood before the army of angels, a cold glint in his eye.

  “Your champion is defeated,” he called out, “and Uriel has broken the laws of the Supreme Being. You have no place here. Go, and never return.”

  He got no argument. They began to retreat, when one of them stopped. “May we take the body?”

  Allie had managed to turn Metatron’s huge body over, and he lay on his back in the sand, covered in blood, his eyes closed. But then I saw he was still breathing, and I joined her, kneeling in the sand and unfastening the heavy metal armor.

  “It is Azazel’s choice, as champion,” Raziel said.

  Azazel was staring at his vanquished opponent. “He lives,” he said shortly. “Ask him.”

  To my astonishment, Metatron’s eyes opened beneath the heavy mat of blood and sand, and they focused on me for a moment, then past me to Azazel. “I tried,” he said in a bare whisper. “I’m dying.”

  “Yes,” Azazel said, glancing at me for an uncomfortable moment before turning back. “Do you wish to be returned to your army?”

  Metatron met his gaze, and he slowly shook his head. “Bury me here. I have no wish to return to the darkness.”

  There was nothing more to say. They began to retreat, the legion of soldier angels come to wipe us out, and a few minutes later his army was gone.

  Allie made a gesture. “We need four strong men to carry him into the water. Carefully, now. His wounds are very bad.”

  Azazel broke away from me, coming forward with three others. They lifted Metatron’s bloody and broken body gently and carried him toward the sea. I followed, because I didn’t want Azazel too far away. I had almost lost him, and right now I refused to let him out of my sight.

  “You drown your enemies?” I heard Metatron say in the voice of delirium. “As good a way as any. It is a fitting resting place for a soldier.”

  A moment later he was underwater, and the four men were chanting something beneath their breaths, something strange and musical, as we all waited.

  And waited. I was knee-deep in the surf, watching them, and Allie came up beside me. “What a lucky wind that was,” she murmured, casting an oblique glance my way.

  “Yes, it was,” I said, concentrating on the water where Metatron had disappeared. “Is he going to live?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes the wounds are too grievous.” She smiled at me, a knowing smile. “It’s nice to have secret weapons against an oversized enemy.”

  I looked at her with all the innocence I could muster. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  My skills at prevarication were rusty, but even if I’d been an expert she wouldn’t have believed me. “Neither do I,” she said cheerfully, turning her gaze to the water.

  A minute later Metatron shot up. “Bloody fucking hell!” he sputtered. And then he looked around, at the Fallen who surrounded him, at the people waiting on the shoreline, at me, and then at Azazel. He flexed his shoulder, the scar showing the line that had almost cleaved him in half, and then he grinned. “I like your burials at sea,” he said.

  I LAY SPRAWLED ON TOP of Azazel, sweaty, happy, replete, his hands still stroking my back. My eyes were closed as I took in the taste and the smell of him, the wonder of having him. There was nothing else I needed.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Did I ever tell you that your one-word sentences annoy me?” I said sleepily, kissing his neck.

  “Yes,” he said again.

  I bit him lightly. “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Rachel.”

  I laughed. “You know what I meant. You said yes. What did you mean?”

  “You know what I meant,” he said in a grouchy voice. “You need to let me sleep, woman. I’ve beaten the greatest warrior who has ever lived, with only a little unfair help, and I’ve pleasured you almost as much as you’ve pleasured me. I need to rest.”

  I froze. “What unfair help did you have?” I said uneasily. I probably should have just ignored it.

  “The wind,” he said calmly. “It was extremely kind of providence to provide it at just that moment, or I would be dead.”

  “Providence,” I said happily.

  “We’ll call it that for now,” he said. “My lovely, delectably wanton demon.”

  “That’s really not a term of affection. You hate demons,” I pointed out.

  “But you’re not a real demon. Just a little tiny bit,” he murmured.

  I kissed his mouth. “I’m not a demon.”

  “If you say so,” he murmured sleepily.

  “You still didn’t tell me what you were saying yes about,” I said, deciding to avoid the subject of demonhood for now.

  “Yes,” he said again.

  I slid down on him, resting my head against his shoulder. “You’re annoying me again. Yes, what?”

  “Yes, you need one more thing. Yes, you already have it.”

  I bit him, harder this time. “You can’t say it?”

  “Yes, I love you,” he said.

  And for the first time in my endless existence, I burst into tears.

  Just discovered Kristina Douglas?

  Turn the page for a taste of

  the first sexy novel in her Fallen series:

  RAZIEL

  Available now from Pocket Books

  And look for Book 3 in the Fallen series,

  featuring the angel Michael, the Warrior

  Coming from Pocket Books in Spring 2012

  I N THE B EGINNING

  I AM RAZIEL, ONE OF THE TWENTY fallen angels spoken of by Enoch in the old books. I live in the hidden world of Sheol, with the other Fallen, where no one knows of our existence, and we have lived that way since the fall, millennia ago. I should have known there would be trouble on the horizon. I could feel it in my blood, and there is nothing more powerful than blood. I had taught myself to ignore those feelings, just as I had taught myself to ignore everything that conspired t
o betray me. Had I listened, things might have been different.

  I rose that day, in the beginning, stretching out my wings to the feeble light of early morning. A storm was coming; I felt it throbbing in my veins, in my bones. For now the healing ocean was calm, the tide coming in, and the mist was thick and warm, an enveloping embrace, but the violence of nature hung heavy in the air.

  Nature? Or Uriel?

  I had slept outside again. Fallen asleep in one of the wooden chairs, nursing a Jack Daniel’s, one of the many pleasures of this last century or so. Too many Jacks, if truth be told. I hadn’t wanted this morning to come, but then, I was not a fan of mornings. Just one more day in exile, with no hope of … what? Escape? Return? I could never return. I had seen too much, done too much.

  I was bound here, as were the others. For years, so many years that they’d ceased to exist, lost in the mists of time, I had lived alone on this earth under a curse that would never be lifted.

  Existence had been easier when I’d had a mate. But I’d lost too many over the years, and the pain, the love, were simply part of our curse. As long as I kept aloof, I could deprive Uriel of that one bit of torture. Celibacy was a small price to pay.

  I’d discovered that the longer I went without sex, the easier it was to endure, and occasional physical matings had sufficed. Until a few days ago, when the need for a female had suddenly come roaring back, first in my rebellious dreams, then in my waking hours. Nothing I did could dispel the feeling—a hot, blistering need that couldn’t be filled.

  At least the women around me were all bonded. My hunger wasn’t so strong that it crossed those lines—I could look at the wives, both plain and beautiful, and feel nothing. I needed someone who existed in dreams only.

  As long as she stayed there, I could concentrate on other things.

  I folded my wings back around me and reached for my shirt. I had a job today, much as I hated it. It was my turn, and it was the only reason the détente existed. As long as we followed Uriel’s orders, there was an uneasy peace.

  I and the other Fallen took turns ferrying souls to their destiny. Death-takers, Uriel called us.

  And that’s what we were. Death-takers, blood-eaters, fallen angels doomed to eternal life.

  I moved toward the great house slowly as the sun rose over the mountains. I put my hand on the cast-iron doorknob, then paused, turning to look back at the ocean, the roiling salt sea that called to me as surely as the mysterious siren female who haunted my dreams.

  It was time for someone to die.

  I AM URIEL THE MOST high, the archangel who never fell, who never failed, who serves the Lord in his awful majesty, smiting sinners, turning wicked cities to rubble and curious women to pillars of salt. I am his most trusted servant, his emissary, his voice in the wilderness, his hand on the sword. If need be, I will consume this wicked, wicked world with fire and start anew. Fire to scourge everything, then flood to follow and replenish the land.

  I am not God. I am merely his appointed one, to assure his judgment is carried out. And I am waiting.

  The Highest One is infallible, or I would judge the Fallen to be a most grievous mistake and smite them from existence. They have been damned to eternal torment, and yet they do not suffer. It is the will of the Most Holy that they live out their endless existence, forced to survive by despicable means, and yet they know joy. Somehow, despite the black curses laid upon them, they know joy.

  But sooner or later, they will go too far. They will join the First, the Bringer of Light, the Rebel, in the boundless depths of the earth, locked in silence and solitude throughout the end of time.

  I am Uriel. Repent and beware.

  C HAPTER O NE

  I WAS RUNNING LATE, WHICH WAS NO surprise. I always seemed to be in a rush—there was a meeting with my editors halfway across Manhattan, I had a deposit to make before the end of the business day, my shoes were killing me, and I was so hungry I could have eaten the glass and metal desk I’d been allotted at my temp job at the Pitt Foundation.

  I could handle most of those things—I was nothing if not adaptable. People were used to my tendency to show up late; the secretary over at MacSimmons Publishers was wise enough to schedule my appointments and then tell me they were half an hour earlier. It was a little game we played—unfortunately, since I now knew the rules, I’d arrive an hour late, ruining her careful arrangements.

  Tant pis. They could work around me—I was reliable in all other matters. I’d never been late with a manuscript, and my work seldom needed more than minimal revision. They were lucky to have me, even if biblical murder mysteries weren’t a big moneymaker, particularly when written in a smart-ass tone. Solomon’s Poisoner had done even better than the previous books. Of course, you had to put that in perspective. Agatha Christie I was not. But if they weren’t making money they wouldn’t be buying me, and I wasn’t going to worry about it.

  I had just enough time to make it to the bank, and I could even manage a small detour to grab a hot dog from a street vendor, but there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about my stupid shoes.

  Vanity, my uptight mother would have said—not that she ever left the confines of her born-again Idaho fortress to see me. Hildegarde Watson trusted nothing and no one, and she’d retreated to a compound filled with other fundamentalist loonies where even her own sinful daughter wasn’t welcome. Thank God. I didn’t need my mother to tell me how shallow I was. I embraced it.

  The four-inch heels made my legs look fantastic, which I considered worth any amount of pain. On top of that, they raised me to a more imposing height than my measly five foot three, an advantage with obstreperous middle-aged male editors who liked to treat me like a cute little girl.

  However, the damned stilettos hurt like crazy, and I hadn’t been smart enough to leave a more comfortable pair at my temp job. I’d been hobbling around all day without even a Band-Aid to protect my poor wounded feet.

  I’d feel sorry for myself if I hadn’t done it on purpose. I’d learned early on that the best way to accomplish anything was to grit your teeth and fight your way through it with the best grace you could muster, and wearing those damned shoes, which had cost me almost a hundred and eighty dollars, discounted, was the only way I’d ever get comfortable in them. Besides, it was Friday—I had every intention of spending the weekend with my feet up, working on my new book, Ruth’s Revenge. By Monday the blisters would have healed enough, and if I could just tough it out for two more days, I’d be used to them. Beauty was worth the pain, no matter what my mother said.

  Maybe sometime I’d be able to support myself with my writing and not have to deal with temp jobs. Snarky mysteries set on debunking the Judeo-Christian Old Testament weren’t high on the public’s interest meter, the occasional blockbuster Vatican thriller aside. For now, I had no choice but to supplement my meager income, making my weekends even more precious.

  “Shouldn’t you be heading out, Allie?” Elena, my overworked supervisor, glanced over at me. “You won’t have time to get to the bank if you don’t leave now.”

  Crap. Two months and already Elena had pegged me as someone chronically late. “I won’t be back,” I called out as I hobbled toward the elevator. Elena waved absently good-bye, and moments later I was alone in the elevator, starting the sixty-three-floor descent.

  I could risk taking off my shoes, just for a few moments of blessed relief, but with my luck someone would immediately join me and I’d have to shove them back on again. I leaned against the wall, trying to shift my weight from one foot to the other. Great legs, I reminded myself.

  Out the sixty-third-floor windows, the sun had been shining brightly. The moment I moved through the lobby’s automatic door to the sidewalk, I heard a loud crash of thunder, and I looked up to see dark clouds churning overhead. The storm seemed to have come out of nowhere.

  It was a cool October afternoon, with Halloween only a few days off. The sidewalks were busy as usual, and the bank was across the street. I could a
lways walk and eat a hot dog at the same time, I thought, heading over to the luncheon cart. I’d done it often enough.

  With my luck there had to be a line. I bounced nervously, shifting my weight, and the man in front of me turned around.

  I’d lived in New York long enough to make it a habit not to look at people on the street. Here in midtown, most of the women were taller, thinner, and better dressed than I was, and I didn’t like feeling inadequate. I never made eye contact with anyone, not even with Harvey the hot-dog man, who’d served me daily for the last two months.

  So why was I looking up, way up, into a pair of eyes that were … God, what color were they? A strange shade between black and gray, shot with striations of light so that they almost looked silver. I was probably making a fool of myself, but I couldn’t help it. Never in my life had I seen eyes that color, though that shouldn’t surprise me since I avoided looking in the first place.

  But even more astonishing, those eyes were watching me thoughtfully. Beautiful eyes in a beautiful face, I realized belatedly. I didn’t like men who were too attractive, and that term was mild when it came to the man looking down at me, despite my four-inch heels.

  He was almost angelically handsome, with his high cheekbones, his aquiline nose, his streaked brown and golden hair. It was precisely the tawny shade I’d tried to get my colorist to replicate, and she’d always fallen woefully short.

  “Who does your hair?” I blurted out, trying to startle him out of his abstraction.

  “I am as God made me,” he said, and his voice was as beautiful as his face. Low-pitched and musical, the kind of voice to seduce a saint. “With a few modifications,” he added, with a twist of dark humor I couldn’t understand.

  His gorgeous hair was too long—I hated long hair on men. On him it looked perfect, as did the dark leather jacket, the black jeans, the dark shirt.