Of Alliance and Rebellion

by Micah Persell

  Of Alliance and Rebellion

  Micah Persell

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2015 by Micah Persell.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-8887-2

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8887-7

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-8888-0

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8888-4

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © iStockphoto.com/123foto

  It is a widely acknowledged fact in our house that heroes with beards are not represented as they should be in the romance genre. So—

  Cameron, my love, this one’s for you (and your epic beard).

  Glossary of Terms

  Compulsion: A phenomenon specific to angels. Once an angel plans out his or her mission, free will is not a possibility. At a certain point, the Compulsion will take over. The angel will complete the mission regardless of whether he or she wants to.

  Daughters and Sons of Men: Humans.

  Fall, The: A heavenly being who succumbs to his or her Temptation Falls: a phenomenon through which the heavenly being loses divine status and some or all of his or her powers.

  Impulse Pair: Anyone who eats of the Tree of Eternal Life will experience the Impulse—a phenomenon in which the human pairs with his or her intended mate. The humans in an Impulse pair will experience intense longing to be with their Impulse mate, and the longer they abstain from each other, the more intense the side effects of the Impulse. Impulse pain will grow until it becomes debilitating. Impulse pain can only be cured and avoided by the Impulse pair’s consummation.

  Knowledge, The: The ability, provided by the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, to determine whether someone’s intentions are good or evil.

  Sons of God: Angels; not always “sons,” which is an archaic reference used to encompass all of a species. Angels can also be female.

  Temptation: Each heavenly being will at some point encounter his or her Temptation—the one thing that will tempt them to Fall. Temptations can take several forms, but the most common is a daughter (or son) of man.

  Tree of Eternal Life: The tree in the Garden of Eden that bears fruit that turns living beings immortal.

  Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil: The tree in the Garden of Eden that caused the Fall of mankind. The fruit of this tree counteracts some of the effects of the Tree of Eternal Life. The fruit gifts humans with the Knowledge.

  Voice, The: A mysterious, disembodied entity that speaks directly to the minds of those who have eaten of the Tree of Eternal Life.

  The Lord God made all kinds of trees grow out of the ground—trees that were pleasing to the eye and good for food. In the middle of the garden were the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

  Genesis 2:9-10

  After he drove the man out, he placed on the east side of the Garden of Eden cherubim and a flaming sword flashing back and forth to guard the way to the tree of life.

  Genesis 3:24

  Now it came about, when men began to multiply on the face of the land, and daughters were born to them, that the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful; and they took wives for themselves…

  Genesis 6:1-2

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Glossary of Terms

  Biblical References

  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

  About the Author

  More from This Author

  Also Available

  Chapter One

  Somewhere in the deserts of Afghanistan

  A moan rent the air, penetrating Max Wright’s fitful sleep. The sound rooted its way into his brain, and he buried his head in the crook of his arm. When another moan followed the first, he made his way to wakefulness, prying open gritty eyes.

  He blinked once, trying to make sense of the crumbling stone wall inches from his face. Max felt his forehead pucker as he came even more awake. He blinked several more times, but the view never changed, only grew clearer.

  Moisture veined the ancient stones with white markings, and the cold night air of the desert penetrated the last of his grogginess. As always happened when Max remembered where he was and why he was here, his hand hovered over his face, fingers trembling, before he brushed them over the raised, ugly flesh that marred him. With the lightest of touches, his pointer finger traced the scar that began at his right temple. A weight settled in his gut as his fingers traveled the path of scar tissue down his ruined eyelid and across his nose to where it ended at the left corner of his jaw.

  He licked dry lips. It was not a dream.

  Another moan, almost a wail, wandered over to where Max lay. With a sigh, he planted one hand on the ratty cot mattress and shoved himself up.

  Knowing what he would find when he turned around, he plowed fingers through his matted hair, raking the strands over his right eye. He fought the urge to shake the unruly mop even further over his face. Acting as though it bothered him as much as it did was a show of weakness he could not indulge around the other two prisoners.

  Max sucked in a breath and held it until the sting gave him enough courage to face the rest of the cell. Through the dank light filtering in from the cell’s only window, Max could see the dark form of Luke huddled over Oliver. Even through the barrier of his hair, Max’s ruined right eye zeroed in on the two men with a mental snap that never failed to steal Max’s focus. His sliced eye, which was good for practically nothing but this, spoke directly to his mind and informed him that both Luke and Oliver were good. It always informed him of this whenever he looked at them, just as it always informed them that their prison wardens—the few that were left—were evil.

  Useless bits of information. Max gritted his teeth. He already knew his fellow soldiers were good men, and he certainly knew the fuckers who had kept them locked in this cell for nearly nine years were just about as evil as anyone could get.

  Max swung his bare feet around and planted them on the stone floor, flinching as his toes encountered frigid rock that had lost the earth’s heat soon after sunset. His sudden movement stole Luke’s attention, whose gaze collided with Max’s. Max again fought the urge to shake his hair over his face. He settled for turning his eye, the worst of his scarring, away, gazing at Luke with his good left eye. Even in the absence of light, Max could see the straining lines at the corners of Luke’s mouth.

  “Is he still conscious?” Max’s sleep-ravaged voice seemed loud in the small cell, bouncing off of the rock that imprisoned them.

  Luke’s equally dirty nest of red hair brushed his shoulders as he nodded once.

  Max hadn’t missed the screams whi
le he slept then. He clenched his fists when his hands wanted to tremble. It had been, what, four days since the last time Oliver had—done whatever it was he did every seven days? Max refused to think of it as dying, though that was probably the closest to the truth.

  “When’s the last time you slept?” Max asked Luke.

  Luke sighed before turning his attention back to the twisting form of Oliver.

  Max shoved to his feet and shuffled forward. “Come,” he said while gesturing to the cot he’d just vacated. “My turn to keep watch.”

  Luke didn’t seem to hear him. He still hovered over Oliver, reaching toward the man once then clenching his hand before allowing it to fall to his knee.

  Max glanced at Luke’s fingers as they flexed and felt a commiserating bitterness fill his mouth. Neither Max nor Luke could offer Oliver any real comfort. No pats on the shoulder. No holding his hand when the screams started. The lightest touch from either of them only increased Oliver’s torture.

  “Luke,” Max said gently—or at least, as gently as Max could say anything. When Luke jumped like he’d been poked, Max guessed his attempt at gentle had far missed the mark. “You can’t help him right now. Get some sleep. I’ll watch him, I promise.”

  Luke’s light brown eyes, so full of innocence that Max had to remind himself he and Luke were the same age, briefly closed before he got to his feet and walked over to the now-vacant cot, pausing in his stride to pat Max hard on the shoulder, a touch Max tolerated only because he knew it offered Luke comfort.

  Max made his way on heavy legs to Oliver’s side, feeling Luke’s gaze on his back as he settled on the edge of Oliver’s cot, making sure that he didn’t brush him in the slightest. Luke’s stare made the skin stretching over Max’s scar burn, even though it was focused on his back, not his face. It wasn’t until Luke’s breathing evened out and deepened that Max took a breath.

  With Luke asleep and relatively safe, Max’s responsibilities narrowed down to Oliver. Max focused on Oliver’s face—on the scrunched eyes, the thin, grimacing lips almost hidden from view by the unruly beard all three of them sported thanks to several years without access to a razor of any kind.

  Those lips parted around a deep moan, and something clenched in Max’s chest. “I know, buddy,” he whispered to the man, feeling every inch of his uselessness in this situation. “I know.”

  Oliver’s eyelids cracked open. The blue eyes that had charmed many a beautiful woman when they were in the army were now glassy and swimming with pain. “Hurts,” he groaned through parched lips. “So bad.”

  Max cursed on an exhalation of air. “I know,” he said again, rage and hopelessness coursing through him.

  “The One.” Oliver grunted as he tried to shift into a more comfortable position. “I need her.”

  He was asking for her again. Max’s hands clenched on his thighs. That damned woman! Oliver had seen her once. Once. Nearly two years ago. He had been ruined ever since.

  Quick calculations filtered through Max’s head, and he knew Oliver’s screaming would start in a few hours. It always did once he began begging for the woman who had left him in such torture with only one look. Tomorrow, Oliver would slip into sleep. Or a coma. Max didn’t know what to call it, but whatever it was, Oliver wouldn’t wake up from it until he—

  Max swallowed thickly. He didn’t have to think about that now. He leaned over Oliver, as close as he could without touching, and did the only thing he could do: he talked to the man. Keeping his voice low enough that Luke couldn’t hear what he was saying, Max outlined exactly what he would do to their captors once they escaped. It was a list of horrors repeated so often that Max had no problem talking through it without thought.

  As always, the lines around Oliver’s eyes eased as he took in Max’s voice. Whether it was the threats of violence against those who’d wronged them for nine years or the timbre of Max’s voice that slightly alleviated Oliver’s pain, Max never knew. But this was the only thing that seemed to help, and so Max would recite his plan for revenge until he went hoarse if necessary.

  The list was long and took Max several hours to get through. He paused only once: when one of the handful of guards who remained in the prison tossed a dried lump of bread and discolored bladder of water through the bars. As soon as the guard shuffled away, Max continued. Rage twisted his words as Oliver’s hands clenched the mattress beneath him, his back bowing, his head snapping back. The first scream of what would be many was wrenched from the man’s chest, echoing around the cell loudly.

  Luke sat up with a snort, jerked from sleep. He raced over to Oliver’s cot as Max rose to unsteady feet. “Oliver,” Luke said on a breath. “You’re okay.” Luke sat down where Max had been moments before. “You’re okay, man, you’re okay.”

  Max ran his tongue along his teeth and took a step back before he could strangle Luke. Oliver was most definitely not okay, and all three of them knew it.

  Max spun around, seeing nothing but red as another scream broke from Oliver’s now thrashing body. “Fuck!” Max bellowed. His fist snapped out before he could stop it, colliding with the stone wall hard enough that his hand broke.

  Luke jumped, but didn’t glance his way as Max gave a cursory glance at the cracked skin of his knuckles while it began to mend. The sight of his body supernaturally healing due to what their captors had done to him only enraged him more. He clenched his fists at his sides and let the blood from his hand drip to the floor unchecked.

  As Luke leaned over Oliver, whispered prayers tumbling from his mouth, Max paced back and forth, mentally repeating his diatribe of promised revenge until Oliver’s screams grew loud enough to block out even that.

  Chapter Two

  Nervous.

  Anahita, one of the cherubim and instrument of the Most High, was nervous. She knew the emotion well despite the fact she was supposed to be completely emotionless. Anahita felt as though she spent a good deal of her existence wallowing in the forbidden feeling.

  Though currently invisible to the human eye, she still leaned back into the cool stone façade of the makeshift prison as a human guard walked around the corner. Her heart thundered when the human passed close enough to touch, and Anahita allowed herself the small creature comfort of placing an open palm over her chest to try to calm it. No other angels were around, so the small gesture of weakness would not be witnessed by those who held her to the high standards of her kind.

  The same heart that thundered beneath her palm jerked a little in the direction of the cell behind her.

  She could feel him.

  It was so much stronger than she had anticipated, this link to her Temptation. This close to the man she should avoid at all costs, her taboo feelings were … intense.

  Anahita’s head sank back to the stone wall, her blond waves snagging against the rough, porous surface and pulling slightly. Why—oh, why—did her first official death mission, the mission she’d fought so hard to be given, have to involve him? Was it a test?

  Of course it is a test.

  “I will carry out my mission,” she whispered as she willed her still-thundering heart to slow. When the traitorous organ failed to comply, Anahita jerked her hand from its resting place between her breasts so she could no longer feel it. She did not have the flaming sword needed to kill the immortals, but she needed to strike now or she risked losing control of her Compulsion. She would capture them, and once they were in her keeping, she would attain the weapon.

  With a quick inhalation of air, Anahita closed her eyes and focused to sink through the wall and into the cell that held her targets. The cool night breeze faded, and she knew she’d made it into the cell. Keeping her invisibility fixed, Anahita turned and cracked her lids open.

  The immortals’ cell was cold, and not just in temperature. The complete lack of hope, the pain, the scent of unwashed male—all combined to create the coldest environment Anahita had ever encountered. Her right hand moved up to cup her left bicep in an attempt to generate warmth.<
br />
  To her right, a man with vivid red hair that not even dirt could dim sat huddled over another man with blond hair and a beautiful face knotted in agony. The face contorted even more, and the man’s body twisted on a dingy cot, his mouth opening in the silent scream of an infant who’d cried hard enough to lose his air.

  As she watched, the man’s chest convulsed with a great gulp of oxygen, and when next he opened his mouth, the scream was no longer silent. The pain was so vivid it caused Anahita to take a stunned step back, her wings hitting the unforgiving stone of the cell’s corner.

  The red-headed man shivered and hugged himself, feelings of impotence pouring off of him in tangible waves. But it was the sound of a strangled groan that snagged Anahita’s attention.

  At the opposite end of the cell, Anahita could barely make out the broad shoulders of the third man. The man that was hers.

  No. She shook her head, dislodging the errant thought. Not her man; he was her Temptation. And she would do well to remember that.

  Those broad shoulders were tense enough to hike up into the shaggy length of his hair: hair so dark in color that it must be black, even though it was impossible to tell in the dim light. Without her permission, her eyes roamed from the broad shoulders down to the well-muscled back that the man’s threadbare shirt did nothing to shield.

  The man’s back narrowed into trim hips that held up a barely together set of army fatigues that draped across the man’s buttocks like a caress of fabric. Anahita gulped.

  Here, Anahita’s eyes stalled, as she experienced a brand new emotion.

  Lust.

  Anahita was lusting after this human whom she was charged with killing. The emotion led humans to commit unspeakable atrocities, and yet, as Anahita felt it for the first time, she could not see what was so bad about it.

  Certainly, the emotion caused her belly to ache—something that had never happened before. And certainly, her heart was now thundering harder than it had been when she’d steeled herself for strength outside the cell moments before. And certainly, the emotion prodded at her, urging her to touch the man. To taste the man—