Fallen
by
Christina Skye
Praise for Fallen
"A deserted English graveyard. A night of dreams and danger. Now a rugged Crusader knight is torn from the past on a mission of honor--and harsh revenge. Get ready for paranormal passion and ghostly suspense served up by a master. FALLEN is a riveting journey you won't want to miss."
---Denise Domning, Award-winning, best-selling author of WINTER'S HEAT
"Imagine a battle-weary knight summoned from the past. Picture a stubborn American beauty who has learned too young to trust no one. As the deadly fog of a London graveyard closes in, they will taste an eternal desire--while their oldest enemies wait in the night. FALLEN is a spellbinding tale with all of Christina Skye's special magic. I couldn't put it down."
---Jennifer Blake, New York Times best selling author of SILVER-TONGUED DEVIL
"Christina Skye knows what readers want."
---ABC Worldwide News
Begin Reading
Table of Contents
Other Books
Copyright
About the Author
TABLE OF CONTENTS
COVER
PRAISE
TITLE PAGE
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A NOTE FROM CHRISTINA
COPYRIGHT
2 AM.
London
West End.
Archer Sloan hunched forward, closing his thin overcoat against the rain. It was typical weather for October. He hated the drizzle and the fall cold. He hated the incessantly gray skies.
But he wouldn't have to endure them much longer. The thing that he had wrapped up in his briefcase would guarantee that.
As a senior researcher at the British Museum, Archer Sloan had access to restricted documents and locked storerooms. He knew every security guard and every curator. It was time that he was rewarded for all his years of drudgery and politicking.
They were going to boot him out next week anyway. Retirement would be a pleasant change, they assured him, and he would always be welcome to help out on special projects.
A sneer twisted his mouth. Damned right. He was going to enjoy being retired, but not the way they imagined. As it happened, his contact was waiting for him already. Every detail had been arranged. With luck, in two hours he would be on a jet tucked snugly into first class, bound for South America.
To hell with their ideas of retirement.
A sound echoed up the empty street. He frowned, glancing behind him at a nearby parked car. Something moved in the darkness, but he saw that it was only a box carried past him by the wind. Sloan told himself to stop being so jittery. If he let his nerves get the best of him, he would die the way he had lived, useless and inept, his life a lesson in failure.
Instead of that he was going to have 20 more years of pleasure, reveling in all the good things that a million Euros could buy—starting with a glass-walled mansion on a private island far off the radar of the British police force.
Yes, he had already planned how he would spend his reward for being very clever. He had found the perfect property. He would use his new Swiss account to wire through the funds and complete the transaction within hours.
He smiled as he pushed open the door to his building, lost in pleasant images of sun and wine and bare, tanned women. His flat was on the ground floor, in the same cheap building he had found right out of university. There had never been money for anything better.
But all that was about to change.
He glanced behind him, then unlocked the door’s three latches and went straightaway to the table, where he laid his briefcase down carefully.
He couldn’t be careless now. Not with a million Euros waiting for what was in that case.
Something skittered through the darkness behind him. Sloan swung around nervously, frowning as a tall figure separated from the shadows by the kitchen doorway.
“You’ve got it?” the low voice said.
“Everything’s here, just as I promised.” Sloan tried to act irritated. “Now I want my money.”
“Of course.”
The figure turned. The curtains moved beside him. Sloan heard the hiss of low voices.
Dozens of voices. The air seemed to hum. To churn. He was no longer alone.
No—
His face caught in a mask of terror.
By the time the cold wind from the window hit him, Archer Sloan was already torn to pieces.
The shrill cry of the phone woke him.
Izzy Teague rolled over with a muffled curse. 3:14 A.M.?
No one ever called with good news at this hour. It was always a security,, a missing agent, a bio-terrorism threat. And Izzy was always the one they called first.
He tried not to think about the warm leg anchoring his—or about the things they had done in the last two hours. It had been an amazing night—and it was just starting.
Or so Izzy had thought.
The warm, naked woman’s body turned, driving him down against the crisp sheets. It took more willpower than he imagined possible to sit up, grab the phone and trot into the bathroom.
“Izzy, come back.” The woman’s voice was husky, still half asleep. The sound was sexy as hell.
He wished he could drop everything and oblige her, but the number on his cell phone was highest priority. The coded message that came next signaled an alpha-priority threat level.
Hell. So much for his first real date in six months. This is what he got for being married to his job.
Grimly he pulled on his shirt and jeans, then coded in a response.
On the way.
Fill me in at HQ.
When he emerged, the beautiful, caramel-skinned woman was blinking sleepily. Izzy took an appreciative glance at the vision she made wearing only hot fantasies and cool air. He leaned down and smoothed a heavy strand of mahogany hair behind her ear. “Sorry, Kadra. I have to go.”
“Go? It’s almost 4:00 A.M.” She gave a sleepy, sated sigh. “Why now? I don’t want you to go yet. We were just getting…started.”
Hell, Izzy didn’t want to go either. But that was that. When you got the call you went. If you signed on for this particular job, you gave up any claim to free time or personal life. Izzy had known exactly what he was getting into—and he happened to love his job, loved the adrenaline highs and the constant mental challenge and the certain knowledge that he was making the world a safer place.
Well, most of the time he loved his job. Right now, watching his X-rated fantasies go up in smoke made him think about turning in his resignation.
“Sorry, gotta go. Just had a call.”
Her sensual eyes narrowed. Kadra worked for the same agency that he did. They had been circling each other carefully for months, both interested and yet trying to hide it. It was a relief for Izzy not to have to worry about everything he said. Her security clearance was actually higher than his - and that was saying something.
“Do you want me to call you a cab? I’d wait for you, but I—”
Izzy frowned and picked up the fully packed field bag he kept at his front door. “I—well, I’m sorry.”
She gave a crooked smile. “Well, at least we got half a night. It could be worse. No complaints from me.” She stretched a little, smiling as she watched his eyes move over her full curves. “But if you keep staring at me like that, all bets are off. I’m going to jump you and pull you back into bed, work or not.”
“I only wish,” Izzy muttered. But they both loved their work too much to give it a second thought. That was one of the reasons Kadra had impressed him so much.
He caught the elevator down to the lobby and dug in his pocket for a $20 bill, which he handed to the sleepy attendant at the front desk. “My friend will be down shortly. I'd appreciate it if you would call her a cab. And be sure that she takes it,” he said firmly.
Kadra had a lot of skills, but downtown DC was no place for a single woman to be wandering around alone at three in the morning. The least he could do would be to see that she got a cab to take her home safely.
Izzy was just strapping on his motorcycle helmet when a black sedan prowled around the corner and blocked his way.
A tall man got out of the front seat. His eyes were cold as they assessed Izzy's mode of transport. “Ditch the cycle, Teague. You’re coming with me.”
“I’ll make better time on this, sir.” Izzy hid his surprise. His superior officer never met him personally. What was going on?
“Not this time. Plus we have to make a stop.”
This was definitely not stardard operating procedure, Izzy thought. Where would they be stopping at this hour? But he knew enough to muzzle his questions. His boss was waiting impatiently by the car.
The details would have to wait.
Izzy studied the road as they headed south. There were no research facilities in this part of DC and no reason that Izzy could think of to be going in this direction.
He racked his brains, trying to think of any operatives in the area, but came up empty.
He turned and cleared his throat. “I haven't been in this part of DC since college.” Wind gusted around the car, tossing newspapers and garbage bags across the road. “Not exactly Alexandria, is it?”
“You could say that. But you should remember the area. You handled surveillance about a mile from the next intersection.”
Izzy rubbed his neck, working back through his various cases.
And then he stiffened. There had been that mess five years ago. The hackers. They had actually managed to breach security at the Pentagon before Izzy had tracked them down.
It still made him angry at the thought of this waste of talent. A waste of government manpower too, seeing that all of them had been less than fifteen years old when they were arrested.
He sat tensely, staring out at the dark and abandoned buildings marked by neon graffiti. The area was far worse than he remembered.
He took a deep breath. “Is this about Madisson Munro?”
“Good memory. Yes, she’s involved. We’ve targeted her for this operation and we need her active compliance and participation. That’s where you come in.”
“Me? The man who broke her and got her arrested? What makes you think she’ll listen to me?”
“Because you can be very persuasive when you want to be.” The department chief passed Izzy a thick file. “And we need her particular talents. We’ve tracked her online activities and discovered that she has been researching certain techniques that we have need of. They involve pattern recognition and historical cryptography.”
Early codes? That was interesting, Izzy thought. Not a subject that came up often in his field.
Izzy’s chief gestured at the heavy file. “Everything you need to know about Madisson Munro is in that file. According to our sources, she has shown exceptional skill at her private research, and we need someone who’s an outsider. Find something in that file to elicit her cooperation. I don’t care how you do it, just make it happen fast. You two have a jet waiting at Dulles.”
“You’re not going to tell me what this is about or what she’s getting involved in?”
“No time. Just get her aboard that airplane with a commitment to work. I have backup files waiting for you in flight.”
The powerful car eased to a halt at an alley lined with garbage cans that hadn’t been emptied in weeks. Something moved between the cans, and Izzy didn’t think it was a cat or a dog.
He felt a stab of guilt at the way things had turned out for Madisson. Why why the hell hadn’t he kept in touch with her after the sentencing? He had planned to, but Izzy remembered that there’d been a kidnapping in India and a biohazard threat in Italy. Things had been crazy for almost a year.
No excuse. Meanwhile he had a mission to run.
He took the file, shoved it in his bag, and opened the car door. “How much time do I have to persuade her?”
His superior looked at his watch. “Fourteen minutes. I suggest that you talk fast."
Izzy had a bad feeling as he walked to the heavily graffitied apartment building. The front door had been broken and repaired badly at least three times. The lock probably required the skill of a six-year-old to break in. Maybe not that much, Izzy thought sourly. He made a mental note to get the door fixed—or to get Madisson moved to a better location.
His anger grew as he walked up the stairs, where litter and urine were the prominent design elements. How in heaven’s name had she ended up here?
Another thing to look into.
He glanced at his watch.
A little after five. They had told him she was home but they hadn’t mentioned if she was alone. He tried to remember if she had been involved with anyone back in school. He couldn’t remember. But there had been some problem about her mother.
Her door looked like all the others on the hall. Grimy beneath layers of old graffiti.
He tried the buzzer, but it didn’t work. Izzy frowned at the broken cord hanging down uselessly. He knocked hard.
No sound inside.
He tried again. This time he put his ear to the door.
Soft rustling. A movement at the peephole.
“Madisson, it’s Izzy Teague. I need to talk to you.”
Silence.
"You need to let me in, Madisson. It's important."
“Izzy Teague. Well isn’t this a surprise.” Her voice was husky and angry, just as he remembered. “Got nothing to say to you, Teague. Beat it.”
“I wish I could. But this isn’t exactly a social call.”
He heard the slam of a hand against the inside of the door. “No? But let’s see, it’s been four—no make that five years. And you show up now? It has to be earthshaking if the great Izzy Teague comes to visit. But I’m not interested.”
Izzy studied the lock, frowning at the anger in her voice. She had always been angry. It was part of the reason she had gotten caught up in that stupid hacking episode as a kid all those years before. But this new voice from behind the grimy door was colder, flatter. And it was totally devoid of any personal feeling.
That worried him. “We need to talk. Open the door and give me five minutes. If you still feel the same way after that, then I’ll leave.”
There was a pause. “Talk outside. Right where you are," came the cold answer.
“You know I can’t do that. Not about this subject. Let me in.” He was working as he talked, pulling a small wedge of plastic from his coat pocket and sliding it along the outside of the door.
A loud buzzing sounded inside. Okay, her door wasn’t as flimsy as it looked. At least she had some security in plac
e.
“Forget it, Teague. My door stays closed. I’ve got it wired. The next time you get a nice little shock. The time after that you get a nasty one.”
He had to smile at that. That was the old Madisson he remembered.
But he’d done what he could for her. If it hadn't been for his testimony, she might still be in a jail cell somewhere. She’d been a juvenile offender, but the government planned to make an example of the group.
“Come on, Madisson. We both know a few wires aren’t going to keep me out. And the clock is ticking. You still hoping to get your brother into that specialized aviation college in Florida? The deadline for his recommendations is next week, as I recall. We should probably talk about that.”
He heard a string of muffled comments inside. He could almost feel the snap of her anger. Silence fell. Then a chain banged. The door opened a crack, anchored by two more chains.
“So what? Don’t tell me you’re going to help, because I’ll believe that as much as I believe the other lies you told me five years ago.”
“Then you’d be wrong. I am going to help. I’m sorry how this all turned out. I should have kept in touch after your sentencing. I’m going to change that. Let me in and let’s get started. As I remember, you never liked to waste time, so don’t waste my time now.” She'd had a tough childhood and she wouldn’t expect sympathy or concern. So Izzy would give her exactly what she expected—a challenge and a threat. "Or maybe I should leave now and you can watch your brother’s dream go up in smoke."
She yanked the last two chains free and stood back, opening the door.
He saw the inside of the apartment first, navy blue walls brightened by Anime posters. Everything else inside screamed computer geek. There were at least a dozen hard drives arranged on the long table by the wall. Two bookcases with thick tech books. Izzy picked out two books on historical cryptography nearby.
Then he saw the girl he had arrested years before.
He wouldn't have recognized her. Her eyes were colder and her cheeks were thin, her bones almost too defined for her face. The oversized flannel Hello Kitty pajamas she wore made an odd match with her biker boots and torn leather motorcycle jacket. A single earring dangled beneath her multi-colored hair. She looked too pale. Too angry. Old at twenty.
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