by Anne Marsh
He Shifted smoothly, the wings ripping out his back as his body grew as if he were amped up on steroids.
Brends drew a blade, knowing talk time was over. He couldn’t afford to listen. Or to be caught off guard. Eilor’s form shimmied, Shifted into prime-grade weaponry. His new body was eight feet plus of saliva-spitting menace that rocked backward on two legs while it considered the best angle for attack. Lethal claws flexed, the powerful wings pulsing slowly up and down. The beast had a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth that made a barracuda look like a fuzzy bunny.
Brends’s right hand took a tighter grip on the hilt of his blade. With his left hand, he palmed a second blade. Throat. Groin. Face. He needed to get the bastard down and out for the count just long enough to snag the fyreblade and decapitate the bastard.
Pushing off his left leg, he lunged forward from the ball of his foot. His blade shot with deadly accuracy toward Eilor.
Shit. Eilor blocked and the blade slid harmlessly from the heavy wings. Fuck. The bastard’s skin was next-best thing to a flak jacket.
“That the best you got for me?” Eilor licked his lips and palmed his own blade.
Brends pulled the next blade, knowing that an entire arsenal wasn’t going to be enough to kill this particular rogue. Eilor had preternatural strength and hostages. Brends could take care of one—or the other. But not both, and that knowledge was ripping him apart. He was so fucked. Crunch time, but he wouldn’t sacrifice. Couldn’t bring himself to let Mischka Baran go.
And if he let her go, if he let the rogue slit her throat, he’d gain enough time to gut the bastard. A no-brainer, right? This was the opportunity he’d been waiting three thousand years for: the chance to prove with black-and-white certainty that the killer Michael had been trying to punish was from the Heavens, not the Fallen.
Mischka…or his brothers?
He was going to have to choose. Either way, he figured he came out the loser.
To hell with it. He was saving his woman. He figured she had to be worth more than all of them anyhow. She was certainly worth more than he was. Maybe the boys would understand or maybe they wouldn’t.
The primitive need to protect his mate wakened long-dormant nerve endings. And his beast, the fallen half of him he’d been condemned to live with for so many millennia? The beast approved.
The tattoo on his back rippled, the skin itching with a life of its own.
“Do it,” Mischka said, and he could tell she meant it. “You do what you have to do, Brends.” Her eyes flickered to her cousin and he could tell she knew exactly what she was giving him permission to do. “We’ll be okay.”
“You will be.” It didn’t matter how much it cost, he decided. Mischka and her cousin were walking away when this was all over. They’d have choices. And they’d be able to make those choices. But, Christ, first he had to kill this bastard who threatened his female.
He wasn’t letting another woman he cared for die. Not on his watch. Not again. Even if she was no longer his bond mate, he loved her too damn much to lose her like that. He’d let her walk away from him even if it killed him, but she’d walk because it was her choice and not because the crazy bastard facing off against him had decided to use her as a pawn.
His earpiece barked orders and curses. Zer. No time for his sire to reach them and nothing his sire could do that he couldn’t do better. All he had to do was find those damned wings again. He bared his teeth and moved in.
“Don’t fuck with me,” he said. “Or mine. Ever again. Got that?”
Exploding into action, he unleashed the terrifying rush of raw, primal power eating him up inside. The edges of his body blurred as he charged Eilor. Grabbing Eilor’s forearms, he drove the other male backward. Slammed him up against the stony entrance of the cave. Stone broke off in a sharp shower and a flurry of curses. Eilor cursed once and engaged, the fyreblade flashing toward Brends with deadly intent.
“Get out of here, Mischka,” he roared. He managed to move between her and Eilor.
Bringing his blade up again, he turned the edge toward Eilor’s neck and slashed with deadly force. The edge slammed into Eilor and skin broke, but he knew he’d merely sliced the bastard. He wasn’t close to incapacitating his opponent.
“Change,” Mischka demanded behind him. “Change now, Brends.”
He didn’t want to. Didn’t know if he could hold on to his humanity, his feelings. He wanted to. And he wanted to protect her, he reminded himself. No matter what. Mischka Baran came first. Always. Shoving the unwelcome emotions to one side, he reached inside for that power she’d tapped into the night before.
Fuck. For a moment, he had it, the Change shimmering across his skin, plucking at his nerve endings. Then, nothing.
Eilor slammed into him, shoving him backward, and he landed heavily against the stone side of the barrier. A muffled yelp told him he’d taken Mischka with him. Eilor drew that damned fyreblade again and advanced. Shoving himself to his feet, Brends knew he wouldn’t go out on the ground.
“I can’t Change,” he growled.
“Yes,” she demanded. “You can. Fucking do it now, Brends.” His favorite obscenity was a delicious shock on her lips. He had two, maybe three seconds before Eilor reached them. Might as well die happy, he figured.
Planting a hard, hot kiss on her lips, he made up his mind. “When I engage, you run,” he growled. “And, Mischka? Run real fast. Zer is almost here. You and Pell get to him and he’ll get you out of here.” He could see the SUV now, cresting the top of the road. The sounds of fighting had lit a fire under his sire’s ass all right.
“I’m not leaving.”
“The hell you’re not.” Eilor was coming toward them now like the freight train from hell.
“No. Change, Brends. I know you can. Fuck this. I’m not losing. Not now.” He had a moment to wonder what she wanted so damned badly, and then she shocked the hell out him. She dropped all her mental barriers, opening her mind to him. All sweet trust and feminine strength. Holy shit. She was wide open and he froze. Drank her in.
But he couldn’t stop the Change, couldn’t fight the wings tearing through the raw skin of his back. With a guttural groan, he gave in to the power rolling through his body, shoving up from his steel-toed boots like some sort of freakish paranormal orgasm. Hell. It hurt and it felt right and he embraced it.
There was no time to worry.
Mischka ducked and covered as power blasted from him, throwing her arms over her head.
Fyre shot down his arms.
Hell, yeah.
Gravel crunched. The cavalry had arrived. Maybe, just maybe, he had a fucking chance now.
Dathan came tearing out of the lead SUV like the brother had a fire under his ass. That wasn’t surprising—Brends figured Dathan had promised Pell protection and she sure as hell wasn’t safe at the moment. No, what shocked the shit out of him were the wings.
As soon as his brother was clear of the SUV, he Shifted and wings tore from his back.
Pell was his soul mate. Of course. But Brends didn’t have too much time to contemplate the ramifications before Dathan launched himself at Eilor. All he knew was that Dathan was fucking huge, and together they might have a chance.
He raised his blade and leaped into the fray.
His first slice laid open Eilor’s face. Red droplets sprayed the ground. Bastard wouldn’t be so pretty, and he sure as hell was going to be lacking in the peripheral-vision department.
Dathan was at his back, working around to the females.
Eilor’s next blow caught his blade edge, and the shock waves blew straight through his body. Brends retaliated with a well-aimed kick, and Eilor’s left arm snapped backward, cracking loudly.
Brends spared a glance for their females. Right where he’d left them, more or less, he noted. Mischka’s pale face had a whole lot of sorry written on it, because obviously, now she knew what he really was. A cold-blooded killer. It wasn’t his fault if she’d romanticized the Heavens’ guardians, b
ut part of him mourned that loss of innocence.
Dathan’s blade cut through leather and Eilor howled. There was blood running down his side now, but the rogue was still on his feet. And then he dropped the fyreblade. Mischka didn’t hesitate, rolling, her hands reaching for the weapon.
Her fingers wrapped around the hilt and she went after the rogue like a dog after a bone. Raising the fyreblade, she jammed it deep into Eilor’s throat, driving the sharp edge in with every bit of force she could muster. Hell, she didn’t do things by half measures.
Eilor’s roar of outrage was cut off as his hands went to his throat, clutching at the gaping edges. She’d torn him open, but she wasn’t quite strong enough to finish the job. Brends was.
Not taking his eyes from his target’s, Brends reached up and closed his hands over Mischka’s, tearing the blade through the Fallen’s skin and out the back of Eilor’s throat. With a too-quiet click, the razor-sharp edge slid between the blood-slick vertebrae of the spine and severed the last bone.
Game.
Set.
Match.
Twenty-Four
Taking a deep breath, Brends eyed the team waiting on the other side of the threshold. Christ, they all knew now. There was a bright stab of pain as he shifted his weight, not sure what he wanted to do. He felt all amped up. Powerful. Rolling his shoulders, he heard the crisp snap of his wings—his wings—catching the small updraft. This was going to change things for his brothers. It had to. So why him? Why not the others? He’d never done anything to deserve this opportunity.
Behind him, Dathan was sweeping Pell into his arms and taking her back to the SUV. So why was Brends hesitating?
The doorway to the Heavens was open and he had a long-standing date with Michael. Plus, the unseen watcher was already winging it up the gateway. Brends got an eyeful of dark wings and the sharp taste of power. Whoever had put Eilor up to murdering their soul mates had power. And lots of it.
What was surprising was the silence behind him. No more shouts or fighting. Just that eerie silence while his brothers stared at him, like they were waiting for him to make a decision. He snarled. He was missing something.
He wanted to pursue, and what the fuck was there to stop him? He’d lived for this moment, had lived and breathed and slept revenge for three millennia, and it was all being handed to him. By Mischka Baran, who was standing outside the gateway.
He looked back. Pell’s hands locked around her savior’s neck, but if those were endearments she was screaming at him, Brends would give up his wings.
The sensation of his wings rocked his world. He was flying up the passageway when he’d never thought he’d fly again. The heavy beat of the powerful wings shouldn’t have mattered so much to him except, damn, he’d missed this. The air vibrated and shook around him as if the elements themselves were celebrating with him in a primal war whoop. He was whole again.
The gateway opened ahead of him and he remembered the liquid, golden light that shimmered briefly, flickering as the watcher shot through. The Heavens. A wing stroke away.
It could be a trap.
Or it could be home. Without Mischka Baran, because she couldn’t cross the threshold until she was dead. She might have been part angel, but she was also part human—and that piece of her wasn’t allowed to cross over while her heart still beat and she was dragging oxygen into her lungs. And damned if he didn’t want to go back without her.
Shit.
This wasn’t good.
He paused, half turned around and unsure whether he had to go forward or not. He braced himself and looked at Zer, who was still standing on the other side of the threshold. He couldn’t cross over either, couldn’t engage in this fight, and it looked like it was killing him. His sire hadn’t found his own redemption yet. Fuck.
“Second thoughts?” Wings rustled as the watcher paused. Returned. The male was pale and silvery, almost as if Brends were looking at a transparency rather than a flesh-and-blood man. Scarred but still broad-shouldered, his dark hair hung to his lower back. Those strong biceps and calves were striped with scars and gouge marks. The man’s flesh had been pitted where chunks had been torn away and the wounds had healed. It was not the roadmap of scars that held Brends’s eyes, however. No, it was the man’s eyes: flat, silver and utterly without life.
Cuthah. Brends recognized the bastard from his days as a Dominion. Something real bad had happened to Cuthah, however, because angels almost never, ever scarred.
Brends extended one hand through the veil. The liquid heat washed over him. It was a delicious pleasure that his nerve endings recognized, embraced. He could pass through. It wouldn’t kill him. Reluctantly, he pulled back.
“Did you recognize me, Brends? From before? I watched you fall, heard you scream.” Cuthah’s laughter echoed mockingly from the other side of the veil as he wrapped his large hands around the blade. The silver armbands glinted, but otherwise, the bastard was naked except for a white loincloth. And the damned fyreblade. “Michael never did like violence, did he? Always a man of his word, your archangel, and so quick to choose a little dialogue over violence. If it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have bothered with a Fall.”
“You would have ordered us killed.”
“Of course.” Cuthah shrugged disdainfully. “But Michael, being Michael, offered an olive branch. He insisted that you Fallen have a chance at redemption.” He smiled coldly. “And a chance to perish once and for all when the soul thirst got the better of you. How have you been feeling lately, Brends? That little problem all cleared up for you?”
“What’s your point?” He was choking on the icy rage. Control, he reminded himself. Breathe. In. Out. He’d kill Cuthah and this problem would be solved.
“My point?” Cuthah’s gaze flicked behind Brends. “Well, my point really is that Michael failed to consider the dynamics of the soul thirst.”
Big surprise that Michael had fallen down on the job. Again.
“Yes,” Cuthah continued. “Michael and you…well, together you’ve handed me a ready-made army of the thirst driven in these Preserves, all neatly collected and waiting for my call.”
“You’re planning a revolt.” Hell. Cuthah was preaching sedition of the worst sort. If Brends had still been a Dominion, he’d have hauled the angel off for a little face-to-face with the archangels. But he wasn’t a Dominion anymore and he couldn’t afford to forget that. He was Fallen. He gripped the hilt of his blade hard. The bastards had framed him, had framed the other Dominions, and they’d gone down.
“A revolt? No.” Cuthah shook his head. “Larger than that, Brends. I’ll be using that army real soon, you see, and this awkward, barbarian world of yours is just a stepping-stone.”
“You framed Zer. You set us all up.”
Cuthah stopped his backward glide. “Yes,” he admitted, “but that plan turned out to be rather too simple. I hadn’t considered the larger ramifications. Frame Zer and your lot for a handful of violent crimes guaranteed to trigger Michael’s protective instincts?” He shrugged casually. “It was effective, but then I understood that I could have more than just the Dominions.” His eyes burned. “I could have the heavenly throne itself if I planned well enough.”
“You got rid of the first line of defense.” What else did Cuthah have planned?
“Yes. And permanently, as it turns out. When Michael made his vow, I admit I was worried at first. One or more of the Fallen could have found a soul mate, fallen in love and redeemed his wings. So I prevented it. Hedged my bets.”
“I’ll be back for you,” Brends promised, and he meant every word. “You and Michael.”
“Really? You and what army? No,” Cuthah said, when Brends looked behind him. “Not them. They don’t have soul mates. They can’t touch me.”
“Not yet maybe.” But that didn’t mean that there weren’t other soul mates out there for his brethren.
“Not ever,” Cuthah said, and he sounded confident. “Do you honestly believe that Eilor was simp
ly targeting random women? I fed him names. I armed him. And then I loosed him, so he could do to them what was done to your pairling. Rather poetic justice, if I do say so myself.” Cuthah paused at the edge of the gateway. Brends could see the familiar landscape of his home just beyond the edges of the other’s still-beating wings. “Of course, you could step over this line right now. You could come home, Brends.” And then he slid the catch in as if it couldn’t possibly matter to Brends. “Of course, you’d have to leave them behind. They don’t have their entrance tickets.” He gestured toward the silent group of warriors fronting the gateway, protecting Mischka Baran from whatever else might come through.
He wasn’t leaving any of his brothers. Not now, when they finally had something to hope for. He wasn’t letting another brother lose his female. Worse, however, was the pain of knowing that they had already lost soul mates. Which of the brothers who’d fought alongside him today might have been redeemed if they had acted more quickly, had uncovered Cuthah’s plot sooner?
“I worked a long time for this, Brends. I really couldn’t allow you to fuck it up now.”
“What do you want?”
Cuthah eyed him. “Let’s just say that I saw an opportunity to get ahead. To get one step closer to the celestial throne.”
“You won’t get away with it.”
“I already have. I live here, in the Heavens, and you—well, you live down below. With wingless, helpless humans. You’re every bit as imperfect as they are. Angels, Brends, are perfect. We do not tolerate flaws. I wanted you gone, Brends, and Michael handed me the means to exile you on a silver platter. He was so very quick to believe the worst of you. I wonder why that was?”
“I gave up worrying about Michael long ago.” Lie.
“True, although perhaps you should have cared just a wee bit more. He was the one who decided to exile you, you know. Oh, I wanted something more permanent. A punishment that not only would put the rest of the Heavens on warning, but something quite permanent. Instead, he voted for and got exile. Too bad, really. It meant that I couldn’t just let you go. No, I had to make sure that there was absolutely no way you’d be coming back.”
