“I may be Lucifer’s son, but I was never his minion. This isn’t about winning a war.” His eyes widened. “Linnet, I think—I think He’s asking me for help.”
“Who’s asking? God?” Her brain boggled. “Blessed Bride, can’t He help Himself, if He needs it?”
“Incredible though it may seem to a mortal,” he said gently, “perhaps not. There’s much I haven’t told you about the discord in Heaven. We’re far from one happy family up there. If I’ve meant anything I’ve been agitating for, all these weary centuries, I have to drink from that Cup.”
She wanted to forbid him. With every particle of her being, she wanted to cry no. But it struck her that God wasn’t the only one who needed help.
For millennia, Zamiel himself had been begging for it. His fall from grace had occurred when the Angel of Death lost his faith. If drinking from that Cup would restore his belief and return him to grace, how could she possibly ask him to abstain?
She swallowed hard and steeled herself, an act of will so fierce it left her shaking. Forcing down the protests that clamored on her tongue, she loosened her frantic embrace.
“Aye, then,” she said quietly. “Do ye—want me to leave, so ye can do it in private?”
“No, dear heart,” he said tenderly. “I want you to stay and bear witness.”
That much, at least, she could do for him. Tightly she nodded and sank back on her heels to wait.
For an endless moment, he looked at her, his face soft with wonder.
“Linnet Norwood, you’re a miracle to me. The greatest blessing and sign of grace I’ve ever known. To think you came to me after I angered Him! Imagine how blessed we’ll be, and all those we care for, if I return to His favor.”
“I know naught of Heaven, and I’m beginning to see I know little of God,” she said steadily. “But I know that I love ye.”
And it was love that suffused his face, softening the fatal beauty of his blade-fine features, as he placed his hands gently on the well and leaned forward to peer within. It was love that transformed his eyes to wells of luminous lavender, love that limned his slender frame in a shimmering aura as his trembling hands sank into the cloudy waters.
It was love that embraced him as his hands folded tenderly around the holy vessel that blazed like a star in the glimmering depths.
* * *
Linnet blinked and gazed around her. A moment ago, she’d been kneeling in the Baptistery, her heart in her throat as Zamiel’s hands lowered into the shining waters where the sacred Cup twinkled like the evening star.
But she must have fallen asleep, or dreamed the entire encounter. For here she sat beneath the portico, the avenue of lions stretching away before her.
With a violent cry, she leaped to her feet. Surely she hadn’t dreamed all of it—that he’d followed her to Lyonesse, that they’d pledged their love, that he’d drunk from the bloody Grail?
Overhead the sky blazed, blue and sunless as ever. The light seemed no different, though surely hours had passed. How much time had passed in the mortal world?
Panic fluttered in her belly. She tried to call out, but her sand-dry throat refused to cooperate. Dear God in Heaven, how she thirsted! Desperately she worked to summon enough saliva to moisten her mouth. At last she managed it.
“Zamiel? Where are ye?”
“Behind you, love.” His voice caressed her ear, enhanced by new resonance. “Don’t be alarmed. You fainted in there. I brought you out so the fresh air would revive you.”
She whirled to find him silhouetted in the open doors, his supple frame haloed in radiant light. But the pulsing glow and swirling mist of the chamber had vanished. Behind him, the well gurgled—a pool of innocent water, no more. If she rushed to look, she knew by instinct, she would find no miracle floating in its depths.
Perhaps the Grail moved through time and space, directed by a Power she could scarcely imagine. Perhaps this was how it had remained hidden from unbelievers since the long ago day Joseph of Arimathea brought the holy relic to England.
But the Cup of Truth concerned her less than the man she loved. He stood before her, whole and smiling in his fighting leathers, wind stirring his raven hair. Even as she watched, the bright radiance of his aura dwindled to a subtle glow, barely perceptible.
But there was something else about him that was new. After searching his face for a few anxious moments, she knew.
Always before, his dangerous beauty had been edged like a sword. When he wasn’t laughing at his own antics, bitter disillusionment had lingered around his mouth. His eyes had burned with restless anger, reflecting the fires of rebellion that simmered in the cauldron of his soul.
Wrenching as his exile must have been, she almost understood why the keepers of celestial order had wanted him gone. The Son of Lucifer had been a blazing brand poised above dry kindling. One careless breath, and all of Heaven would have gone up in flames.
Now his eyes were clear, his smile unguarded, so infectious she couldn’t help grinning back. Skimming across the flagstones, she ran lightly to him. He caught her in his arms and lifted her, then whirled her in circles until she squealed.
“Now that’s more like it,” he purred, lowering her slowly. Her body slid along his until heat ignited between them. He prisoned her against his body, possessive hands closing around her hips, codpiece nudging her tingling womb. When she melted against him, he bent her backward for a lingering kiss that left her breathless and clinging to him. Liquid warmth gathered between her thighs.
His mouth tasted of honey and rose water, the taste of spring and renewal. It flooded her parched mouth and refreshed her, as though his kisses were the water of life. She could have drowned in his kisses, drunk them in forever in great thirsty gulps. But too much clamored to be said.
“Wait,” she gasped against his lips. “What happened while I...”
“No waiting,” he murmured. One hand slid up her ribcage in leisurely exploration and cupped her breast. Inevitably her nipple peaked against his palm. Through her gown he rubbed it, the delightful friction sparking flutters of excitement in her belly.
“You’re a goddess,” he breathed, nibbling her lips, tiny stinging bites that left her panting. “You have the ripest, lushest, most glorious breasts of any woman I’ve ever seen.”
“Mmmm...that’s nice to hear.” Her resolve was definitely wavering, but she managed to force out the question. “What happened with the Grail?”
“Later.” Her breast was tingling and heavy beneath the hypnotic slide of his fingers, the peak pressing hard against the fabric. When he cupped her other breast as well, weighing them in his palms, thumbs sweeping around the nipples in teasing circles, she moaned softly and felt her knees turn liquid.
“Zamiel,” she whispered, struggling to retain her wits.
But this too was sacred—the love between two souls, the frank passion of two bodies coming together to worship one another. With a sigh, she draped her arms around his neck.
“Do you like this, love?” While one hand teased and squeezed her nipple, his palm slid down her belly, inching toward the pulsing heat between her thighs.
Vaguely she knew time was slipping past in the mortal world. Yet her thighs fell open, yielding to his touch.
Unerringly, through her skirt, one knowing finger found her secret place, already swollen and hungry for his touch. She closed her eyes and undulated against him, riding his hand with a wantonness that should have shamed her.
How could he have learned to do this so quickly? Truly, he was the Devil’s son.
“That’s it, sweet.” His husky voice encouraged her, even as deft fingers tweaked and rubbed her nipples through her gown. “You want me to lick you there, don’t you? You want me to spread your creamy honey around your little nub and tease until you beg me for it, don’t you?”
“Aye,” she moaned, beyond shame, thrusting against his hand. Her body was a swirling vortex of craving. Blindly she fumbled to raise her skirt, right there in broad
daylight. Beneath she wore nothing, not even a smock.
A teasing breeze caressed her bare legs and played around her naked bottom. When he found the slick heat between her legs, he groaned.
“Take it off,” he said hoarsely.
Swallowing hard, she stripped the gown over her head, sharply aware of the lewd image she must present, utterly compliant and bared to the touch of her fully clad lover—practically begging him to take her. Her cheeks burned and she dared not open her eyes as he circled her pleasure-pearl and dipped a finger into her wet passage. Moaning, she rotated against that teasing touch, the soft full weight of her breasts bobbing with every move—tingling with awareness of his gaze upon them.
“So beautiful,” he whispered. “Unlace me.”
Her face on fire, she opened her eyes but kept them lowered to his codpiece. Fumbling a little, she untied the device and slid it aside.
Beneath, his black fighting leathers were a shockingly practical garment. His length already bulged against the taut fabric and nudged against the open flap. Through the leather, she caressed the hard bulge with covetous fingers, overcome by the certain knowledge that within moments, she’d be taking him inside her.
“Open it,” he said, his voice tight. “God, open it...”
Smiling, she folded back the leather and dipped inside. His manhood sprang free into her hand, smooth skin stretched tight over his length, the ruby head already weeping pearly drops in eagerness. She smoothed the moisture down his shaft, fingers dipping beneath to circle his heavy sac. He shuddered and voiced a hoarse groan of pleasure.
Emboldened, she worked him, stealing shy peeks at his face. Head tipped back, eyes closed, his blade-fine profile taut with sensual strain, he was the most perfect, most breathtaking creature she’d ever beheld.
With exquisite clarity, she recalled the transcendent ecstasy of his mouth on her body, and longed to introduce him to the same delight. Swiftly, before she lost her nerve, she sank to her knees and tasted him—a shy, swift taste, tongue flickering once over the swollen, weeping head of his shaft. He cried out her name and urged her on.
His salty taste filled her mouth. His warm, male, musky scent filled her head. She licked her lips, then swept her tongue around his tip, teasing him, drawing him in, then slowly sliding free. His hands closed around her head, urging her to take more of him.
She wrapped her arms around the lean leather-clad length of his legs and drew in harder, his gasping pleas a counterpoint to the soft sucking sounds that should have embarrassed her dreadfully.
Helpless to withstand this sensual torment, he arched into her mouth, his jutting length thrusting into her mouth, the salty musk of his passion sharp in her throat. His arousal fueled her own frenzy, intensifying the slow heavy throb between her legs until her moans and cries mingled with his.
Unable to resist, she cupped her breasts and teased her nipples, thighs splayed to let the sea breeze cool the fierce craving between her legs. Dew seeped from her channel as her body wept for him, begged for his possession.
As her moist lips caressed his length, she looked up to find him gazing down at her, drinking in the obvious signs of her arousal. The wind tossed tendrils of silken black hair around his features. His eyes glowed a faint lavender—not the blinding inferno of angel fire, but a soft radiance like the physical manifestation of love.
Zamiel might have relinquished his role as Angel of Death, but he’d drunk from the Holy Grail. Body and soul, he would always be something more than mortal.
And the fact that they’d found each other was nothing less than a miracle.
Smiling, she massaged his drum-taut length with lips and tongue, drawing strongly on his shaft. His hands tightened around her head.
“Linnet,” he panted, “all those nights...when I watched scenes like this unfold...I always wondered...if it felt as good as it looked.”
The spirit of mischief sparkled through her blood. She stroked his full sac with wicked fingers and made an interrogative noise.
“I didn’t have a clue,” he gasped.
She would have been more than content to see the business to its natural conclusion. For even a woman of her limited experience could clearly see he was reaching the limits of mortal endurance. But he fired into motion, peeling out of jerkin and shirt in a single swift movement that revealed the tight, supple lines of his torso, glistening with a fine film of sweat.
She helped with his sword belt and breeches, her tongue never ceasing its play. Even his clothes were a mystery to her, the masculine intricacies of points and laces, but somehow they managed to get him out of them. Released by his belt, his heavy gauntlets slithered to the flagstones.
By the time they sank entwined across the portico into a nest of discarded clothing, her body was afire with need.
Reclining in a tangle of wool and leather, head swimming with the mingled musk of sex, tobacco and her own lilac fragrance, she arched and stretched her arms overhead. Her thighs fell wide to display her slick passage, hot and swollen with wanting.
When he fitted himself against her, the friction of his engorged length sliding into her sparked a frisson of sensual shock that made her entire body tingle. An aching cry burst from her throat as her flesh contracted around him. Powerful convulsions of pleasure rippled between them.
His mouth covered hers, muffling the cry, his tongue thrusting against hers in a rhythm that echoed their undulating bodies. Limbs tangled, his back slick and trembling beneath her clutching fingers, he rode her until she saw stars, until her body hummed and pulsed with joy.
When the climax seized her and flung her high, he whispered again that he loved her.
Together, she thought dimly, they’d found their own Heaven.
* * *
“Will ye tell me now?” she asked much later. “What happened with the Grail?”
“I drank,” he said simply, rubbing his face against hers. His new whiskers rasped against her skin, leaving a gentle burn.
She took his face between her hands to lessen the distraction, her body still tingling from their recent love-play. Although her limbs were heavy and sated with pleasure, she’d wasted no time scrambling back into her discarded gown. She knew the City of Lions had been uninhabited for eons, yet she couldn’t shake the niggling sense of someone watching them.
Preoccupied with these vague worries, she’d briefly lost track of Zamiel. He took advantage of her preoccupation and slid his arms deftly around her. The codpiece he’d just donned now lodged suggestively between her thighs.
Her attention snapped back to him, this dangerously virile lover of hers. “Ye can’t be ready for more already, can ye?”
His eyes pulsed with lavender fire. “Try me.”
She couldn’t help smiling, treasuring the sweet warmth of being desired. But they’d spent enough time in this place indulging their desires.
“What happened with the Grail?” she repeated patiently.
He sighed and released her, but not without a parting caress, deft hands closing around her bottom for an intimate squeeze. She blushed beneath his smoldering gaze and concentrated on smoothing her gown, now rumpled and much the worse for its adventures.
“What happened...” He paused, muttering, to adjust his codpiece. “I need more room in this thing. Whoever thought this infernal device was a good idea—”
“For Bride’s sake, Zamiel! Ye do try a girl’s patience.”
“Peace, sweetheart,” he murmured, his mouth curving. “I drank from the Grail, I survived the experience—and I understand what’s happening up there. Faith, it’s so obvious, the wonder is I needed to drink from the Grail to grasp it.”
“To grasp what?” Son of Lucifer or nay, sometimes she wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him.
“Put simply,” he said, “Jehovah is grieving.”
“Grieving?” She gaped. “Do ye mean to tell me God is grieving?”
“Why not? He crafted mortals in His image, and you—I mean we—griev
e, don’t we? When Christ took human form, Jehovah sacrificed his own Son to a bloody, barbaric murder.” He quirked a quizzical brow at her. “All’s well that ends well, I know, but the ordeal was hardly a trifle. For the heavenly host, a couple of millennia pass in the blink of an eye. For Him, that sacrifice might as well have happened yesterday.”
Linnet floundered, finding her orthodox theology an inadequate vessel to sail this foreign sea. “Aye, well, when ye put it like that, I suppose it can’t have been pleasant. But what does He want from ye? If ye’re mortal and someone’s hurting, ye’d give him a cup of wine and a pat on the back. But how do ye help God?”
Zamiel grimaced in sympathy. “That part of it’s less clear, I confess. He must want me to do something, or else why show me? And the heavenly host—it’s chaos up there, Linnet. The first echelon, those closest to Jehovah, the Seraphim and Cherubim and Thrones—either they’re frightened and trying to protect Him, or they’re trying to take over.”
“But why would they do that? I mean, they’re angels, aye? Do they, er, want things, the way mortals do?”
“Are you asking if angels have ambition?” He shrugged. “Some of them do. Not all the bad seeds threw in their lot with Lucifer. For others—like Michael, the Angel of War—their main failing is inflexibility. They’re simply convinced they know best how to maintain their precious order, both above and below.”
Shaking his head, he paced the portico. “What I really need is Uriel. He and I didn’t exactly get along up there. He was the perfect martinet, and I was the perfect rebel. But we’re brothers now, both angels who chose a woman’s love over the chilly comfort of Heaven. If I can bespeak the Dominions, while he and Gabriele tackle the Archangels, we may stand some chance of sorting out this muddle.”
“He’s in France.” Linnet frowned. “Or he was. Elizabeth Tudor sent him with Rhiannon on a peace mission. And they’d barely set sail when I...when I forgot. Morrigan must have worked her magick on me as soon as her sister left.”
Laura Navarre - [The Magick Trilogy 02] Page 31
