The Fallen 01 - Raziel

by Kristina Douglas

  I was losing my mind. First off, I didn’t want him touching me. Secondly, last time I checked, my breasts were incapable of thinking. I was the one who wanted him to touch me.

  I was insane.

  “On this plane you exist and your body is real. Not on the mortal plane.” He pulled his gaze away from my body, a relief.

  “So I’m stuck here with a bunch of Stepford wives. Aren’t there any girl angels?”

  “No.”

  “Well, fuck that! Hasn’t God heard of women’s lib?”

  “God hasn’t heard of anything—he’s not involved. Free will, remember?”

  “Male chauvinist asshole.”

  “God isn’t male.”

  “Well, he sure as hell isn’t female,” I snapped. Not that I should have wasted the energy. Judeo-Christian theology was patriarchal and male-centric? Surprise, surprise.

  “True enough.”

  “So you live here together in this happy little commune and ferry people to heaven and hell. Isn’t that too big a job for the bunch of you? How many people die every minute of every day?”

  “One point seventy-eight per second, one hundred and seven per minute, six thousand four hundred and eight per hour, nearly one hundred and fifty-four thousand per day, fifty-six—”

  Oh, God. I had to be rescued by a pedant. “No need to get literal—I get the picture. Aren’t you a little bit overworked?”

  “Most people don’t need an escort.” He poured himself another glass of wine, then gestured with the bottle toward mine. I shook my head. I was already too rattled—I didn’t need alcohol making things worse.

  “Why did I need one? I’m no one important, no great villainous mastermind. Don’t tell me—it’s because of my mother.”

  He looked blank for a moment; then realization dawned. Of course he knew about my mother. “Your mother has nothing to do with it. I expect someone will be escorting her to hell sooner or later.”

  I’m afraid I was a bad enough daughter to chuckle at the thought. Maybe that’s why I’d been sent to hell.

  “I don’t know why I was sent to get you any more than you do,” he went on in his slightly formal way. “Why did Uriel decide you were to go to hell instead of heaven?”

  “Uriel? He’s one of the four archangels, isn’t he? What’s he got to say about it?”

  I’d managed to surprise him. “How do you know about the four archangels? Most people aren’t that familiar with biblical history.”

  “I know more than you think,” I said. “It’s part of my job.”

  “What’s your job?” He looked blank. “I’ve forgotten—”

  “I’m a writer. A novelist.”

  “Maybe that explains why you were going to hell,” Raziel said in a wry voice.

  “Shut up,” I said genially. “What’s Uriel got to do with who needs an escort or not? I don’t remember much of anything specific about him—wasn’t he the archangel of redemption?”

  He was staring at me, momentarily forgetting I annoyed him. “Among other things. How do you know these things?”

  “I told you.”

  “Remind me—what do you write?”

  I didn’t bother to disguise my irritation. He remembered my crackpot mother, but my life’s work was easily forgotten. “Old Testament mysteries,” I said in a testy voice. “They’re tongue-in-cheek, of course, and a little sarcastic, but—”

  “There’s your answer. Uriel is as pitiless as a demon, and he has no sense of humor.”

  “I got sentenced to hell for writing murder mysteries?” I demanded, incensed.

  “Probably. Unless you have other dark secrets. Have you killed anyone? Erected false idols? Committed adultery? Consorted with demons?”

  “Not until today,” I muttered.

  “I’m not a demon.”

  “Close enough. I know what I saw downstairs. You may be an angel, but you’re a vampire as well.” My head was about to explode.

  “We’re not vampires. Vampires don’t exist. We’re blood-eaters.”

  I’m afraid I rolled my eyes at such nit-picking. “Whatever. I’m not saying I believe you. I’m trying to keep an open mind about it.”

  “How broad-minded of you,” he said, his voice acidic.

  “Besides, you’re not very nice for an angel,” I observed. “I thought angels were supposed to be sweet and, er . . . angelic.”

  “You’re thinking in modern terms. An angel is just as likely to be the instrument of divine justice with a flaming sword to smite the unworthy.”

  “And what kind of angel are you, precisely?”

  “Fallen.”

  I should have gotten past being shocked by now. “Fallen?” I repeated, no doubt sounding a little slow on the uptake.

  “I think you’ve heard enough for now,” he said. “Humans have a limited capacity to absorb this sort of thing.”

  “Who the hell are you to tell me what I can or cannot absorb? You haven’t even begun to explain the blood and Sarah and—”

  He gestured with one beautiful, elegant hand. It was a strong hand, which surprised me. Angels didn’t do any manual labor, did they? So they ferried people to heaven and hell—that didn’t require any particular strength. And what—

  It was like someone had turned out the lights. Suddenly I was drifting in a cocoon, soundless, lightless, no sharp edges or uneven surfaces. I struggled for just a moment, because it felt like death, and I didn’t want to find myself in even worse trouble; then I heard Raziel’s rich, golden voice in my head: “Let go, Allie. Just let go.”

  So I did.

  I LOOKED AT HER, NOT moving. I didn’t want her here, didn’t want her anywhere around me. She’d slid farther down on the floor, her head resting against the seat cushion of the couch, and she looked . . . delicious. That is, if I were someone else. She was not what I needed. I poured myself another glass of wine and leaned back, surveying her as dispassionately as I could.

  Which was easier said than done. For all the distance I was putting between us, I couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d saved my life, as surely as I’d saved her from Uriel’s pit of hell; and the unfortunate truth was that we were bound together, whether I wanted it or not. I most definitely didn’t want it, and the timing couldn’t have been worse.

  I was thinking too much, forgetting the rule of blind obedience, the rule that Uriel tried to force down our throats, usually with little success. If I’d just tossed her and left, my life would be much simpler, and the Fallen wouldn’t be bracing for angelic retribution on top of everything else.

  It was just as well she didn’t know much about Uriel. There was no doubt he was one scary motherfucker, and she was probably scared enough as it was.

  Though she hadn’t looked scared. She’d simply taken in the information I’d given her, with no drama, no hysterics. I was used to a little more Sturm und Drang when I told people they were dead. She’d just blinked her warm brown eyes and said, “Crap.”

  I stretched out on the other couch, looking at her. I was feeling better than I’d felt in months. Azazel was right, damn it. I’d needed the Source, rich blood filling all the empty places inside my body, repairing the broken parts, bringing me back to life. A little too much life, in fact. Because I wanted to fuck Allie Watson.

  Hear that, Uriel? I sent the thought outward. Fuck and motherfuck. Deal with it.

  She stirred, almost as if she could read my mind. Impossible—that Grace was given only to a bonded mate. I could read her anytime I wanted to, but there was no way she could know what I was thinking.

  I shouldn’t bother trying to feel her thoughts. I was already too attached to her, whether I liked it or not. One thing was certain—I was not going to have sex with her, even if I wanted to. Hands off from now on, at least while she was awake.

  Old Testament mysteries. I snorted. No wonder Uriel had judged her. She was just lucky it had been my turn. She wouldn’t have stood a chance with Azazel or any of the others—they would have tossed
her without a second glance.

  Which would have been a shame, I thought lazily, watching the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the loose white clothes Sarah had provided for her. She’d saved me last night in the forest. If she hadn’t listened, if she’d run, the Nephilim would have ripped her apart and then devoured my paralyzed body.

  But she had stayed. And then, when she thought the Fallen were drowning me, she’d raced into the water to try to save me. I still couldn’t understand why.

  She would have drowned if I hadn’t breathed into her, filling her with . . . That knowledge was making me uneasy, unhappy. Aroused that she held my breath inside her body. The feeling was erotic, explicit, and powerful. She held my breath, my very essence, as intense a bond as if she held my semen, my blood. I was inside her, and in return a part of her claimed me, owned me. I was irrevocably tied to her, and I hated it. I was hard just thinking about it, and obsessed by it, and I had to break her hold.

  I should have insisted on waiting for the renewal ceremony until after she’d been dealt with. In my depleted state, I would have been impervious to the allure of a human female.

  Not just any human female. Even at my most vulnerable moments, I’d been able to resist the most beautiful, sexual women I’d been chosen to escort. Unfortunately, I wasn’t feeling at all resistant to the current albatross around my neck. I was feeling . . . lustful.

  This wasn’t normal. Why her, why now? Things were already in a mess, and I’d vowed not to risk bonding with a woman again.

  Which meant my only sex was with myself, a quick, soulless release that kept me from exploding in rage and frustration. Or with some anonymous human looking for a night of pleasure. A night I made sure she never remembered.

  Neither did I.

  Every woman in our hidden kingdom was mated, bonded to one of us. There were no offspring to grow up and carry on the tradition. The only way a woman entered Sheol was as a bonded mate, so I was shit out of luck if I wanted someone new, which must please Uriel. Anything that caused pain and discomfort to the Fallen brought Uriel . . . satisfaction. I was fairly certain he was incapable of feeling joy.

  But right now I was too tired, too edgy, to come up with any possible solution to the problem of Allie Watson.

  I couldn’t even leave her for the night. By putting her to sleep, I’d claimed a certain responsibility for her, at least until she woke up, anywhere from six to twenty-four hours from now. Even if her sleep had been normal, I couldn’t leave her alone up here, not until I’d extracted a promise of good behavior on her part. I couldn’t risk her running off again—the sea might take her, or if she managed to find the borders of our kingdom, the Nephilim would be waiting.

  There was only one bed, and I was damned if I was going to give it to her. She would likely sleep at least eight hours. She’d slid farther, so that she was lying on the floor half beneath the coffee table, her head on the thick white carpet. She’d be fine where she was.

  I drained my wine and headed toward the bedroom. I pushed open the row of windows that fronted the sea and took a deep, calming breath of air. Even in the dead of winter with snow swirling down, I kept the windows open. We were impervious to cold—the heat of our bodies automatically adjusted. The sound of the ocean waves was soothing, and the cool night air reminded me that I was alive. I needed that reminder of the simple things that made up my life.

  I stripped off my clothes and slid beneath the cool silk sheets. My arm still throbbed where the poison had entered, but the rest of me had healed properly, thanks to the salt water and Sarah’s blood. My arm and my cock throbbed—and both were Allie Watson’s fault.

  I closed my eyes, determined to fall asleep.

  I couldn’t. I kept picturing her on the floor, dead to the world. She’d had a rough couple of days as well. I knew she’d curled up next to me on the hard ground the night before—I’d been dimly aware of it through the haze of pain, and I’d been comforted.

  After an hour I gave up, climbing out of the bed I’d longed for and heading for the door. At the last minute I paused and pulled on a pair of jeans. Nudity wasn’t something that meant much in Sheol, and I didn’t care about preserving her modesty. It was my own temptation I was trying to avoid. Even silk boxers or pajama pants were too thin, too easy to slip out of. These jeans had buttons, not a zipper, and it would take a major effort to get them off. Give me time enough to think twice about making such a foolish move.

  I pushed the door open and walked back into the living room. It was lit only by the fitful moonlight reflected off the sea, and she was just a huddled shape in the shadows. I went over and scooped her up in my arms. She was heavier than some, though not enough to notice—her weight was no more trouble than carrying a loaf of bread would be for a human. I carried her into the bedroom and carefully set her down on the bed.

  She needed to build up her stamina—she hadn’t been able to run very far, and she’d been breathless after only three flights of stairs. She was a pampered city girl, not used to actually moving.

  She had a beautiful body. Her breasts were full, enticing, and her hips flared out from a well-defined waist. By current standards, she’d be considered maybe ten to fifteen pounds overweight. By the tastes of the Renaissance, she’d be considered scrawny.

  The Renaissance had been one of my favorite periods. I’d enjoyed myself tremendously—the art, the music, the creativity that seemed to wash over everyone.

  And the women. Full and lush and beautiful. I’d sampled a great many of them before I made the mistake of falling in love with one, only to lose her. I would have had no choice but to watch my beloved Rafaela age; back then, foolishly, I would have welcomed the chance. But she’d run from me, certain I wouldn’t want her when she looked decades older than I did. She died before I found her again.

  Too many women, too many losses, each bit of pain a boon to my enemy, Uriel. I wouldn’t go through that again.

  If Allie Watson was going to stay—and right now I couldn’t think of any other option—then she would have to learn to manage all those stairs. Sheol wasn’t set up for guests, and for now she was my responsibility. I couldn’t afford to coddle her.

  The tangy salt breeze from the ocean rumpled my hair, and I remembered that humans were more susceptible to the cold. I pulled the sheet up over her—probably a good idea anyway.

  And then I lay down beside her. It was a big bed, and she wasn’t going to shift in her sleep, migrate over to my side. She’d lie perfectly still until that particular Grace wore off. As long as my dreams didn’t move me toward her, I’d be safe.

  And even if they did, I’d wake up long before I could do anything about it.

  I hoped the Grace would last the full twenty-four hours—I needed as much time as possible to deal with the situation. Not that she’d consider this particular comatose sleep a Grace, but that was the all-encompassing term for any of the extraordinary things we were capable of doing. The Grace of deep sleep was one of the least harmful. The Grace to cloud the minds of humans could have much more long-lasting consequences.

  I stretched out, closing my eyes. She should smell of the flowered soap the women here used in the baths. She should smell like all the other women, but she didn’t. She had her own sweet, erotic scent underlying the flowers, something that made her subtly different. Something that kept me awake as my exhausted mind conjured all sorts of sexual possibilities.

  I glanced over at her comatose figure. She looked younger, prettier, when she was asleep. Sweeter, when I knew she was anything but. She was a time bomb, nothing but trouble, yet somehow I’d gotten tied up with her.

  I propped myself up on one elbow, looking down at her. Could I take my breath back from her, loosening the hold she seemed to have over me?

  I moved my mouth over hers, not quite touching, and sucked her soft breath into my lungs. And then I bridged the small distance and rested my open mouth against her lips, caught by the sudden urge to taste her.

  I sank
back on the bed, cursing my own stupidity. I’d felt myself inside her, felt my breath in her body, the inescapable connection. In trying to take it back from her, I’d simply brought her into my body, completing the circle. I could feel her breath inside me now, curling in my lungs, spreading out into the blood that coursed through me.

  I threw one arm over my eyes. Uriel would be laughing now. As if things weren’t bad enough, I’d just made them quantitatively worse.

  I couldn’t think straight right now. Tomorrow I’d talk with some of the others. Not everyone was as cold and practical as Azazel. Michael, Sammael, Tamlel, would look at things with more flexibility. There’d be someplace to send her, where she’d be safe and I wouldn’t have to think about her. Sooner or later new breath would replace hers in my body, and the connection would be broken. Wouldn’t it?

  I groaned, a soft sound, though if I’d screamed she would still have slept on.

  It was going to be a long fucking night.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  AZAZEL SAT IN THE GREAT HALL, alone in the dark. None of the Fallen knew the burden he carried. He could feel all of them—their needs, their pain, their doubts. Their secrets.

  It was better that they didn’t know. He wouldn’t put it past some of them, Raziel in particular, to figure out a way to shield or control their thoughts, and that would put him at a disadvantage the Fallen couldn’t afford. It was simply something he had to endure, a physical pain that he bore with no outward sign.

  Only Sarah knew. Sarah, the Source to his Alpha, the calm voice of wisdom, the only one with whom he could ever simply let go. The only one.

  The centuries, the millennia, since they had fallen faded into the mists of time. The number of wives he’d had faded as well, but he remembered every face, every name, no matter how short a time she had spent in his endless life. There was Xanthe, with the laughing eyes and ankle-length hair, who’d died when she was forty-three. Arabella, who’d lived until she was ninety-seven. Rachel, who died two days after they’d bonded.