Demon

But he’d known, and been prepared for my reaction. He knew too much about me.

He was still watching me, and I was suddenly unwilling to meet his gaze. I slid down in the bed once more, turning my back to him. I was unwilling to get up and go in search of clothing, but his steady gaze made me desperately uncomfortable. “I’m going to sleep some more,” I mumbled.

I hoped he’d take the hint and leave the bed, leave me; for a minute he didn’t move. And then he did, sliding down, turning and curving his body around mine in a gesture I might have thought was protective if it weren’t for the hard ridge of flesh at my back.

His arms went around me, pulling me back against him, his hands sliding up to cover my breasts. I made a hissing noise, only squirming for an instant, and then settling back against his protective warmth. I don’t know why I felt I needed protection—he had proven to be my greatest danger. But for some reason he felt like my greatest safety, and I closed my eyes and slept.

LYING IN BED WITH RACHEL wrapped in his arms was pure hell, and it was only the beginning of his penance. If he could bring her at least a small portion of peace, then he would, no matter what the price. A raging hard-on was minor torment, right?

How had he come to such a place in his limitless existence? He’d prided himself on being cold and controlled with everyone but Sarah, and her loss had scoured away the last bit of gentleness he owned. It had taken too long to realize he’d become a monster, what he despised most. He might not have been Uriel’s bitch, but he’d come close enough, and it had taken Rachel’s near death to make him realize it.

He could still taste her—the sweetness of her desire, the richness of her blood—and he wanted to groan. He didn’t dare fall asleep; he’d probably end up with a wet dream, thoroughly horrifying her.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it: how she’d finally accepted him, wrapping her legs around him and drawing him in tighter; the soft sounds of need that came from her throat when he thrust; the way she’d thrown her head back and arched her neck into the pulling of his mouth as he’d sucked the nourishing, strengthening blood from her.

Hell, who was he kidding? The taking of blood was ritual, deliberate, a holy act and one of healing and strength. It was also the most erotic thing the Fallen were capable of doing, and it had sealed him to her.

God, he thought, shaken. And yet he’d known. Known that it would come to this, that they were bound together whether she hated him or not. She knew it too, even if she refused to admit it. He expected she’d keep fighting it. And he would let her, up to a point. He would have given her more time if he’d had the option, but Uriel was getting too close. Azazel had had no choice but to throw his own doubts and hesitation to the wind. He’d allow her to keep hers for as long as feasible. One more thing he owed her.

His face was in her hair, and it should have tickled. Instead it felt like silk against his skin. He remembered what it was like to feel this way about a woman, the physical connection that never left. And he knew the guilt that had ridden him hard. Guilt that had nothing to do with Sarah and everything to do with him and his own anger. Sarah had let him go, long ago. Now it was time for him to finish releasing her.

Rachel settled deeper into sleep, clearly exhausted. He hadn’t taken enough of her blood to make a difference—in fact, he’d deliberately denied himself as much as he wanted, all that would have been acceptable, in his urgency to protect her. But the power of the first real mating was bone-shattering, and she might sleep all day.

It didn’t matter. They had a war to plan. She could sleep, and he would come back to her.

She could sleep.

IT LOOKED LIKE LATE AFTERNOON when I finally woke, alone in the big bed. I was suffused with the strangest feelings: delight and dread, luxurious lassitude and the certainty that I needed to be rushing around, intense physical satisfaction and deep sexual longing. I wanted him again. I wanted him between my legs, leaning over me, sweating, pushing. I wanted his mouth on my neck, drinking what only I could give him.

I forced myself out of bed and headed toward the bathroom. I was in such a fog I could barely appreciate its elegance; but after a few minutes under a shower that felt like a gentle rainfall, I felt much more alive.

I found my discarded clothes neatly folded on a chair, and I wondered who had done it. The thought of Azazel tending to me was too bizarre to contemplate, yet I thought I would have known if someone else had come into the room. It had to have been him.

I dressed quickly, trying not to think about how those clothes had come off me. The one thing I couldn’t find was the camisole, and I remembered his disapproval and found a brief smile curving my mouth.

I went through the living room, not even bothering to look for something as civilized as a note, and opened the door to the hall. I could hear the arguments from there. Men’s voices, furious and demanding, behind the closed door of the council room. Immediately I turned around and went back in, closing the door behind me. I wasn’t interested in their curious eyes. They would know exactly what Azazel and I had done, and how we had done it, and right then it felt agonizingly personal. I didn’t want anyone else intruding.

So I was starving to death. Big deal—I’d survive.

The sun was already beginning to set. I opened the French doors and stepped out onto the secluded patio, letting the soft breeze dance around me. The smell of the ocean on the air was soothing, which was odd, considering that the sight of it terrified me. And thank the gods and goddesses, there was a tray on the low table, with fresh fruit and croissants and iced tea, the ice still fresh.

I glanced around for another entrance to the patio, but I could see none. Whoever had brought the food was a magician, and I didn’t care. I sank down into one of the wicker chairs and began to eat.

I could still hear the angry voices, but at a distance, and I closed my eyes, letting myself drift back into the memory of last night. I was immediately wet, and disgusted with myself.

I wasn’t going to worry about it. That’s what I felt like; and when he finally returned to these rooms, he’d sense my arousal and—

What if he didn’t return to these rooms? What if the initial bonding was all that was needed? He’d made it clear he didn’t want to have feelings about me. I didn’t doubt that he did—I wasn’t that insecure—but I knew he was more than willing to fight them. Just as I was.

Except that I wasn’t. I needed him, I needed him now. I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting my fingers drift to my mouth, down to my breasts, then up to the invisible brand on my neck, and I wondered if I could will him to come to me. If I called to him, would he hear me?

A shadow passed between me and the sun, and I opened my eyes in instant, unguarded delight. And then froze, looking up into the cloaked face of a stranger.

“Who are you?” I croaked. By now I knew every inhabitant of Sheol, by face if not by name, and this was no man I had ever seen before. I looked into his eyes and they were empty, as if there were no one there, and I had seen eyes like that before. When I’d been strapped to a table in a dark room in a dark city, out of my mind with pain.

I tried to scream, but no noise came out. They’d already taken my voice, and this time they would finish me. I scrambled to my feet, knocking over the chair in my hurry, but the creature didn’t move, simply following me with those empty eyes.

I tried again for my voice, and found a husking remnant of it. “Go away. You don’t belong here. I don’t have any more information for you. I’ve told you everything—you don’t need to hurt me anymore.”

He spoke then, in an eerie, disembodied voice that sounded mechanical. “We are not here to hurt you.”

We? I looked around and saw there was another one to my left, watching me with the same soulless intent. I stood a fighting chance against one of them. Two—impossible.

I still tried to back away, toward the French doors I’d stupidly closed. If I got inside I could lock the door, slowing them down while I ran for help. “Then why are you here?” I asked.

“To kill you,” the creature said, his voice expressionless.

“Why?” I was edging closer and closer to the door, and neither of them had moved. There was just the slightest chance I could make it.

“So it has been decreed, and so it shall be,” he said, moving toward me, and I saw his hands, hands that were more like claws, and for one crucial moment I froze in remembered terror.

My panic broke, and I whirled around just before he touched me, making a dash toward the door; but he caught me, talons ripping through the white cotton into my shoulders, and I felt the spurt of blood as I screamed once more, in deathly silence, knowing they would kill me, praying that death would be quick and merciful.

I didn’t want to die. Not now. I wanted to lie in bed with Azazel and explore all the pleasures of the flesh. I wanted to walk in the bright sunlight beside the water that frightened me. I wanted to talk with Allie and laugh with the others, and I wanted to do what I did best. I wanted to heal the loss, make certain there were babies for these women to hold in their arms.

I felt a strange frisson ripple through my body, almost as if I were changing form; and instead of running, I lashed out at the Truth Breaker nearest me, watching in shock as the talons of a night bird ripped across his face, and he screamed in pain.

A second later the French doors exploded in a hail of glass shards, and Azazel stood there, rage on his pale face, his wings, his beautiful wings, unfurled. They were a deep blue-black, seeming to fill the space with a righteous fury, and then he was a blur of movement, ripping the Truth Breaker away from me and slamming him against the wall. I could hear the crunch of bones, the creature’s high-pitched squeal of pain as I dropped to the ground, clutching my torn shoulders. I must have imagined that temporary shift, the lashing out with a raptor’s talons.

Someone had followed Azazel and was making quick, efficient work of the second one, breaking his neck and dropping him to the ground, but Azazel was horrifyingly merciless. He tore the pincerlike hands off the first creature as it shrieked and babbled, and then, with a quick twist, broke his neck and ripped his head from his body.

I should have been sick, horrified. Instead, if I’d had a voice, I would have cheered him. I was on my knees on the stone patio, blood streaming down my arms, my hands making no progress in trying to stanch it. Feeling dizzy, I swayed, thinking I could just lie down for a moment; then he was beside me, scooping me up in his arms, an unreadable expression on his face as he cradled me against him.

And then we went up, up, into the twilight sky, my blood soaking into his clothes as it soaked into mine; and I felt light-headed, though I wasn’t sure if it was from blood loss or being flown in the arms of an angel. And then I saw where he was heading.

I began to struggle, desperate to escape his grip. Allie had explained to me one afternoon how the sea had healing powers for the people of Sheol, and I knew he was taking me there, down into the black, murderous depths, and I knew I would drown once more at the hands of a man I loved.

“Stop it,” he said, crushing me against him. “You’ll make us fall.”

I didn’t care. I would rather die in a tangle of broken limbs than drown at his hands. I tried to tell him, but nothing but air came from my throat, and he simply ignored my desperate struggles as he rose vertically over the roiling ocean, and then plunged downward.

I expected bitter cold, but the sea was merely cool and salty. I shut my eyes to keep the stinging water out, closed my mouth on the silent scream and held my breath, fighting him as he pushed me down, down, and my lungs were bursting, my body sinking, as he pulled me to him and covered my mouth with his.

I was too shocked to resist, and he forced my lips open, breathing into me, sweet, pure air for my starved lungs, and my eyes fluttered open. I could see him clearly in the luminous blue water, smell the scent of his skin, and when he lifted his mouth I realized I was breathing.

He stripped the torn and bloody shirt from me, letting it drift away in the ocean, and the salt water washed my wounds, soothing them. I felt my body release its frozen panic, almost on its own, and I lay back, the water wrapped around me, cradling me, caressing me. A moment later we shot upward, his arms tight around me, so that we were floating in the water.

“I should never have left you alone,” he whispered against my ear. “But none of us ever imagined that the Truth Breakers would dare to come here. I ran as soon as I heard you call, but I was afraid I wouldn’t make it in time.”

How could he have heard me call, when I’d had no voice? It made no sense—but then, neither had that strange, momentary shift my body had gone through. He had come in time, and that was all that mattered. I let my head sink against his shoulder, my legs wrapped around his waist as he slowly carried me from the sea.

The shore was filled with people, and I was shirtless. He held me against him, shielding me, as Allie rushed forward. I didn’t turn my face from the warm presence of his skin, but I recognized her voice, her worried questions.

“She’s fine,” Azazel said. “I’ll tend to her.”

I must have imagined it, but I thought I felt the crowd draw back respectfully. He carried me effortlessly into the coolness of the main hall, back into the rooms that had been a haven.

He carried me straight into the huge shower, turned on the hot water, and stripped my sodden pants off me, his hands gentle, impersonal, as he soaped the salt from my body, warming me. The wounds on my shoulders had already begun to heal, and I felt limp, pliant, as he took care of me, wrapping me in a thick white towel when we were done and carrying me into the bedroom.

Someone had removed the smashed doors and cleaned up the broken glass, and a soft breeze came in through the open casement. I could only hope the same people had removed all the body parts. The bed had been remade, but Azazel yanked back the covers and settled me, towel and all, into the welcoming softness.

I didn’t want him to leave me, but I didn’t know how to ask. I didn’t have to. He slid into the bed beside me, his damp, naked body pressed up against mine, and he pulled me against him, wrapping himself around me. Finally, finally, I let out my pent-up breath. I was safe. I was well. I was loved.

No, that was ridiculous. As ridiculous as the thought that I could have shifted form and ripped into one of the creatures who had almost killed me. But there was no other word for it than love.

“Yes,” he murmured against my temple. He knew my thoughts, I remembered without alarm. What was he saying yes to? It didn’t matter. I could believe what I wanted to, what I needed to. At least for now.

Everything was still and quiet. Night had fallen, and moonlight drifted in the open portal. I wanted to stay like this forever. Didn’t I?

I could feel him growing harder, thicker, even though we lay perfectly still. Was he asleep? I knew men became aroused in their sleep. As a demon it had been my job to whisper in their ears, to excite them enough to take their wives and plant their reluctant seed. Could I whisper in Azazel’s ear and tell him to take me?

His hands slid down to cover my breasts, his fingers plucking my nipples, and the banked fire roared to life again. I pressed my butt against him, rubbing, and his sudden growl was pure animal need. Something that vibrated within me as well. I turned in his arms, and he kissed me, his mouth still tasting of the salt water, and I wanted to drink him in. Wanted to suck at him, as he had sucked at me, and I knew what I was going to do.

“Oh, God,” he muttered weakly, and I remembered he could read my thoughts. My body heated with a rush of embarrassment, but he only laughed, low in his throat, and shoved the covers off me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

AZAZEL LAY ON THE BED IN A perfect agony of anticipation, yet Rachel had suddenly become nervous. He’d forgotten that, despite her randy thoughts, in terms of pleasure she was practically a novice. She might know what she wanted, but she had no idea how to go about it. He could read her confusion, her shame, and he wanted to hold her in his arms, protecting her from everything, including her own uncertainties. But he could read her longing as well, and he had already proven he was a far cry from a saint.

He took the hand that clung to his shoulder and drew it down his chest, slowly. It was bunched into a nervous fist, and he used his fingers to open it, placing it flat against his stomach. He quivered in anticipation—even her touch would be enough to send him over the edge.

Lie back and think of England, he reminded himself with a streak of amusement. And brought her open hand to his straining erection.

She tried to jerk her hand away, but he wouldn’t let her, holding her against his hard flesh, and after a moment she calmed, letting her fingers touch him, learning him, encircling him. He wrapped his own hand around hers, showing her the motion, though it was a dangerous thing in his state of rapid arousal. She tugged and pulled at him with perfect precision, and just when he was about to stop her, she released him. He breathed a sigh of relief, only to feel her fingers drifting over him again, touching the sensitive head, drifting along the ridges and veins, and he could barely stifle his low moan.

She pulled her hand back swiftly. “Did I hurt you?”

His soft laugh was strained. “No,” he said. “It felt too good.”

“Oh.” She seemed to think about that for a moment, and even without seeing her face he knew she smiled in the darkness. He was growing attuned to her every mood, whim, and reaction. “In that case,” she murmured, and pulled away from him, rising on her knees over him.

He felt the feather-light touch of her mouth against his throat, and he remembered her bite in the pouring rain, her unconscious mimicry of the sacred bonding ritual. She moved her kisses down his chest, until he felt her small wet tongue against his nipple, and he reached up his hands to hold her there, to guide her, then dropped them again, fighting his own need to control.

She moved down and then halted, and unconsciously his hands fisted the sheet beneath him. Then her hand found him again, and her closed mouth brushed against the sensitive head of him. He moaned, but this time she realized it was from pleasure, and she moved her lips over him, feather-light touches that were an agony of delight. Her mouth left him, and he let out his strangled breath, only to feel it open around him, taking him into her mouth, sucking him in deep, her tongue moving against him, and it was all he could do not to climax immediately. He could do this, he reminded himself. There were far worse things than being tortured by pleasure.

Or maybe there weren’t. She was kneeling over him, and it was easy enough to pull her against him. He wanted his mouth on her, tasting her as she sucked at him; but she resisted, clearly not wanting the distraction, so he had to content himself with sliding his fingers between her legs, finding the tangled damp, pushing in as she tightened around him.

She slid her mouth down, trying to take all of him, and he found her clitoris, using his thumb as he thrust his fingers into her. She responded, her mouth moving up and down on him with such hungry urgency that he knew in a moment he’d be lost.

With a strangled roar he reached down and pulled her up, over him, ready to let her straddle him. He placed his cock against her, and she sank down eagerly, a perfect precision of their two needs, and she laughed low in her throat as she took him. And then, to his astonishment, she rolled over onto her back, tugging him with her so that their connection didn’t break, and he was covering her, her knees up high around him.

He looked down at her, cupping her face, and kissed her with all the force and power he’d been holding back; and she met him fully, a kiss of rampant desire and demand. He moved then, pulling out and then pushing in again, the eternal rhythm that somehow always felt new, and he could feel the shimmering convulsions tightening around him. He wouldn’t last long, couldn’t last long, and he sank his head next to hers, concentrating only on their joining, when her soft voice suddenly penetrated his haze of lust, and he froze in an agony of need.

“I want …” she whispered in that lost, broken voice that filled him with shame and sorrow, “… I want to change positions.”

He managed a crooked smile. “Of course,” he said, starting to turn and pull her on top; but she resisted, pushing at him.

“No,” she said. “There’s another way.”

He held very still. “There are many other ways,” he said finally, his own voice sounding as damaged as hers.

“I … I …” Embarrassment colored her voice, and he knew she couldn’t find the words.

“You want me to guess?” he said with strangled amusement. “We could just try it different ways until we hit the one you had in mind.” And then he caught the image from her mind. “Ah, that one. One of my absolute favorites. If you’re sure.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice muffled.

He pulled out, moving back, and she turned over, lying flat on her stomach. He slid his arm under her waist, pulling her up. “No, love,” he said. “It won’t work that way.” He reached between her legs, finding her, and began to push in slowly, the unaccustomed angle slightly tighter.

He didn’t mistake her moan for displeasure, and her first shimmer of climax almost pushed him back out again, but he held still; when the convulsion lessened he pushed in farther, a slow, easy invasion that was going to kill him, he was certain of it.

When he finally came up against her he held still, letting her get accustomed to the feel of him, deeper than ever, and she lowered her head onto the sheet. He was too close and he knew it, but he wanted her with him. He thrust, hard, his hips flexing, and she braced herself, welcoming him, and he gave in to it, pumping into her, no longer able to control himself. He felt her begin to climax and put his hand between her legs to touch her, driving her as he spilled into her; and his wings unfurled, wrapping around them both, encasing them in a cocoon of safety and desire.

It felt endless, delicious, closer to heaven than anything he’d known since the beginning of time. He felt her shudder and weaken beneath him, and he held her, cradling her, as the last stray tremors faded away, and his wings folded back in, releasing them.

He rolled over onto his back, taking her with him, letting her collapse on top of him, an exhausted, pleasured little heap of a girl. He didn’t need to ask why she’d wanted it that way. Accepting his weight on top of her yesterday had been an act of faith, of letting go of the stubborn need to control that had brought about disaster, just as his own questioning had done for him. By deliberately choosing a highly erotic but symbolically subservient position today, she’d banished the last of her fears. She could take him any way she wanted, as long as it gave her pleasure.

Her lips were at his throat, and she nuzzled him there. “Why didn’t you bite me?” she whispered.

He hesitated before giving her the truthful answer. “It doesn’t have to be every time. If you don’t like it, we don’t have to—”

She was stronger than he expected. She rolled over, and he was once more on top of her, cradled in her thighs. She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, brushing a kiss across his mouth, reading his hunger, and he knew that it matched her own. She arched her neck, pushing his face down, and his fangs were already extended for the bite when he touched skin, the taste of her blood incredibly sweet on his tongue.

He had to be careful. She’d lost blood today; and while he’d taken the bare minimum last night, she was still operating on less than usual. He pulled away, licking at the twin wounds, closing them, and sank down beside her, holding her in his arms, totally spent. If Uriel won, if all their efforts came to nothing, he would at least fade from existence knowing that the end of his life had been the very best part of it. And holding her close against him, he slept.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

TWO DAYS LATER, AZAZEL TOOK one last, reluctant glance at the woman lying curled up in bed. The time had come. If he’d been able to, he would have put the Grace of sleep on her, so that she didn’t have to experience the next twenty-four hours. Either they would survive or they wouldn’t, and he would have spared her if he could. But once mated, he had no power over her, no ability to control her, and no Grace to give her.

Preparations were already being made. They were making ready for battle. Michael, ever the warrior, was all ruthless efficiency as he marshaled his forces. The Fallen and their wives were arming; the house was buttoned up tight. There was no hint as to how the assault would come, but come it would. Today. While Sheol had no sages or oracles, enough of the inhabitants were given a sense of presentiment. Even he had enough of the gift to have sensed their enemies’ approach, pulling himself from Rachel’s arms to prepare for battle.

“Do we know how it will begin?” he asked Michael as he watched him strap on his leather armor. Azazel was one of the strongest fighters among them, fierce, unblinking, with a power that went far beyond normal limits. But he knew he was the second-best, making up in speed and cunning what he lacked in Michael’s finely honed strength.

Raziel was possessed of extraordinary skill with the sword, Tamlel with a spear. Gabriel’s wife was an archer of considerable ability, and Azazel had been assured that Allie was lethal with a dagger. Each and every one was gifted in self-defense. They would fight to the death; and rather than let Uriel torment her, Azazel would take Rachel in his arms and kill her himself before taking the death stroke. He would take that pain upon himself to spare her. If it came to that.

“Don’t look so gloomy,” Michael chided, in his usual high spirits when anticipating a fight. “We will prevail. We have right on our side.”

“And just how long have you been on this earth, that you think rightness has anything to do with victory?” Azazel said bitterly, reaching for his own leather armor. A sharp sword could slice through the thickness of the cured hides, but they had used it since the beginning of time. They would use it until the end of time, should it come to that.

But it wouldn’t. He wasn’t going to let Uriel win.

Michael must have read his thoughts. “That’s better. Where’s Rachel?”

“I’m trying to let her sleep.”

“Through an epic battle? Not likely. She’ll be angry that you tried to shield her.”

“She has many more reasons to be angry with me—she can add this to the tally,” Azazel said, buckling the straps around his torso, then picking up the leg coverings.

“She hasn’t forgiven you? She chose you—surely that means she’s chosen to absolve you as well.”

“Some things are too great to be forgiven,” he said, reaching for his sword.

Raziel appeared in the armory door. “They’re coming,” he said. “We need to assemble on the beach.”

Michael clapped a hand on Azazel’s shoulder. “We’ll prevail, brother. Have faith.” He headed out after Raziel, and Azazel slid his second, shorter sword into its sheath, preparing to follow. Only to come up short as Rachel appeared in the doorway, blocking it.

She’d plaited her wild red hair into a warrior’s braids and pinned them to her head. She’d managed to find a warrior’s uniform in the short period he’d been gone, and the expression on her face was fierce. “Were you just going to let me sleep through this?” she demanded.

“With luck, you never needed to know what was going on,” he said, keeping his face blank, his voice neutral.

“Because I don’t belong here, is that it? Everyone else is preparing for battle, ready to defend their home and their lives. And I’m supposed to just curl up in bed and wait for the outcome?” Her rough voice vibrated with rage.

“Yes.”

She gave him a steely glance. “Give me a weapon.”

“Are you thinking of gutting me?” he asked, curious. Curious as to whether he’d let her, as final penance.

“No. To help defend Sheol.”

“Go back to our rooms,” he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. “You will only hurt our chances of winning.”

“Fuck you,” she said in her hoarse voice.

The enemy were almost here. He could feel their approach. They’d reached the gates of Sheol, and in moments they would smash them down, breaking the covenant, the laws ordained by the Supreme Being. The Fallen’s banishment and eternal damnation were written in stone, but so was their life. Eternal life, eternal damnation, and the unbreachable sanctuary of Sheol. And now Uriel was about to break that law.

“Go back to our rooms.”

“Why?”

He took a deep breath. “Because you make me vulnerable. If you’re there, I’ll be thinking about you, trying to protect you, instead of fighting the battle I need to fight. Rachel, I can’t fight Uriel and fight you too. Go back, for the love of God.”

“For the love of God,” she echoed. “God is the one who cursed us all. Is there any particular reason I should love him?”

He heard the gate come crashing down before the steady march of their enemy. “I can’t argue about faith right now,” he said in a quiet voice. “They’re here.”

“Then I’ll have your back,” she said.

The assaulting host were marching toward the beach, and the army of Sheol, the small, ill-equipped force of the damned, was waiting for them. He looked at Rachel with her fierce braids and fiercer expression, and a slow smile crossed his face. He pulled her into his arms, just ducking the dagger she’d grabbed, and kissed her, not with desperation but with pure joy. Whatever happened, she was his, and it was enough.

“We have to go,” he said when he released her. Taking her hand, he headed out to the sandy beach.

Raziel and Michael were in front of the others, a powerful force, and Rachel released his hand, going to stand with Allie. He had no choice, wasting only a moment to accept that he might never touch her again. And then he went to join the other two leaders.

It was an endless army, as far as the eye could see. No leather armor for them: their bright metal glinted in the filtered sunlight. He looked for Uriel in whatever form he’d chosen, but the archangel wasn’t leading his army of angels today.

At their head was Metatron, king of the angels, ferocious and unblinking and huge. With a definite grudge to bear.

He stood front and center, towering over his foot soldiers, but his sword wasn’t drawn. He wouldn’t call his troops into battle until he raised it, and he was making no effort to reach for it.

“So he wants to talk,” Michael muttered in disappointment. “Coward.”

Raziel glanced at him reprovingly. “You have no wife, Michael. You have nothing to lose.”

“I don’t lose,” Michael said simply.

“Neither does Metatron,” Azazel said.

The king of the angels stepped forward, his black eyes meeting Azazel’s for a pregnant moment. There was no sign of Enoch—that form had vanished completely. There was only a giant among men, hungry for carnage.

“I would talk,” he announced, stopping about twenty feet from the three of them.

“I could kill him now,” Michael muttered, his tattooed arms flexing. “His army would scatter without a leader.”

“Control him,” Raziel snapped, and Azazel put a restraining hand on Michael’s shoulder as their leader stepped forward.

It should have been difficult for Azazel to watch Raziel in the place he himself had held for millennia, but he felt nothing but relief. He glanced over at Rachel. Her face was set, but she felt his gaze on her, and she turned, meeting it. And then she smiled at him.

It almost brought him to his knees. She had never smiled at him, not like this, full of love and promise and, yes, the forgiveness that he’d been too great a coward to ask for. He wanted to cross the sand and pull her into his arms, but he couldn’t move.

Instead, he smiled back at her.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Michael growled. “I don’t remember ever seeing you crack a smile in your life, and you decide now is the time to do it?”

He turned to Michael, and his smile shifted to a more ironic grimace. “I’m in love,” he said. He looked back at Rachel. I love you, he thought, wondering if she could pick up the words.

Her eyes widened, and he knew she’d heard. She might not believe the truth of it, not until he said it out loud, but if he never got the chance at least she’d die knowing it.

Raziel had reached Metatron, and he halted, his hand on his sword, as Metatron began to speak.

“I, Metatron, first guardian of the ephemeral realm, enforcer of the law, protector of the Dark City, king of the warrior angels, demand the surrender of the so-called Fallen of Sheol and their whores to the most proper and right rule of the archangel Uriel, master of the universe.”

He heard a snort of laughter from Allie, which should have infuriated him. She quickly composed herself, whispering something to Rachel, who smothered a smile.

Raziel knew the prescribed form. “I am Raziel, leader of the Fallen and the inhabitants of Sheol, a place declared inviolate by the Supreme Being. We deny your right to have dominion over us, and demand that you leave.”

Metatron’s steely eyes narrowed. “We will not leave until the sand runs red with your blood and that of your mate and the blood of all who dwell here.”

Raziel didn’t move. “Then what stays your hand? Do you have doubts as to the righteousness of your orders?”

“I have no doubts. Will you surrender?”

“Never.”

Azazel waited, his hand poised on his sword, but Metatron made no move. “I will show no mercy.”

“Why should we expect mercy from Uriel’s minion?” Raziel said loftily.

Metatron ground his teeth. “Uriel has granted me the opportunity to make a bargain with you. Your best warrior against mine. If you win, we retreat. If we win, you give yourselves over to my men. I promise you death will be swift. It’s more than you deserve.”

Azazel moved forward, joining Raziel. “How can you possibly offer such a thing? Uriel would never countenance it.”

Metatron’s smile was sour. “I am not the minion you called me. I lead the armies, and it is my right to choose. The archangel Uriel must, on occasion, defer to me.”

Raziel cast a swift glance at Azazel, who nodded; then he turned back to the heavily armed soldier. “We agree, though we have little faith that Uriel will accede to your terms.”

“It will never come to that. I am the champion of my people, and I will kill your warrior and grind his bones into the sand, and then I will set his wife on fire, so that her screams will fill the air as my men destroy the rest of you. If you resist, you will die by flames as well. If you accept, then the sword will be swift and merciful.”

“Our champion is the archangel Michael,” Raziel said. “He has no wife.”

“He is no archangel. He has fallen,” Metatron said in dismissive tones. “And I have not made the terms clear. I am the one to choose your champion. And I choose Azazel.”

He heard Michael’s roar of frustration, but he didn’t turn around, and someone must have restrained him. He was more distracted by Rachel’s silent cry of horror. And he knew, to his sorrow, that her anguish was for him, not fear of immolation, the most painful form of death.

He had known it would come to this. He looked at Raziel. “By your leave?” he said formally.

After a moment Raziel nodded, and backed away, joining his waiting army, the pathetically small, ill-equipped family of the Fallen.

Azazel had known most of them for thousands of years. Michael and Gabriel had fallen later, as well as Nisroc and Jehoel, but most were almost a second self.

But it was for Rachel he felt the most fear. Metatron was a warrior—he lived to fight, just as Michael did. Azazel had managed to defeat him back in the Dark City because of the sheer rage that had suffused him. Here, on an even playing field, Metatron was by far the stronger. The two of them would stage a prodigious battle, and it was hard to guess who would come out the victor.

Though nearly as tall as Metatron, Azazel lacked the bulk of muscles, the sheer physical power. He would have to use his other gifts, cunning and speed, to keep the battle going until the larger man tired, and he could land the killing blow.

“I will fight you,” Azazel said, and he thought he could hear Rachel’s muffled cry. “And I will kill you,” he added pleasantly.

Metatron’s grin was savage. “You can try.” He spun around, in his element, ready to fight. “I will fight their champion,” he called out to his men, “and the outcome of that match determines the outcome of our assault. You are all to adhere to my agreement. No one is to be touched until I give the order. If I am vanquished, they are to be left alone.”

And then he turned back, his sword drawn, his smile filled with bloody anticipation. “This is a long time coming, traitor.”

Azazel drew his own sword. He was a worker in metals, and he’d crafted it himself, thousands of years ago. Its balance was perfect, its blade razor-sharp, its action smooth and swift. He smiled back at Metatron. “You’ve lived too long, minion,” he purred. “I’m waiting.”

Metatron lunged, his full force behind the move, so quickly that another man would have been unable to react in time. But Azazel knew him of old, and he’d shifted before Metatron even raised his sword, drawing his own across his enemy’s muscular thigh. He couldn’t reach the femoral artery, but he could cause pain, slow him down, and he whipped his sword across the other leg as Metatron spun around, a roar of fury bellowing out.

“Coward!” he shouted, bringing the sword down on Azazel’s neck, but finding only air. He spun quickly, the sword at waist level, and it slashed across Azazel’s chest, splitting the leather and cutting into his skin. Metatron grinned.

A moment later Azazel’s blade sliced his face. It was useless against the steel armor, but the cut was just above Metatron’s eye, and the blood poured down, blinding him, as Azazel moved in.

Even blinded, Metatron sensed him, spinning around and slashing, and Azazel felt the blade bite deep into his back. He went down, then rolled away as Metatron hacked at him, the heavy sword barely missing him in the blood-soaked sand. Azazel was up before he could free the sword from the grip of the sand, and his sword sliced deep into Metatron’s right arm.

Metatron only laughed, tossing the sword to his other hand. He was breathing deeply as he looked at Azazel. “You think I can only kill with one hand, traitor? I can kill you a thousand ways, and could have done so many times already.”

“Then what’s taking you so long, minion?” Azazel mocked him.

“Because I want to prolong your suffering. Knowing you are helpless to save the demon Lilith from the fiery death she deserves, you will suffer and slip and fall and die.”

“You’re wasting your breath,” Azazel said in a bored voice. “I am no child to be frightened by your talk. Use your sword instead, and stop posturing. None of our women are impressed.”

“Your women will all be dead!” Metatron shouted as he charged him.

It was not unlike bullfighting, Azazel thought, having seen the barbaric practice long ago. The more he maddened Metatron, the more mistakes the king of the angels would make, until he was exhausted, broken, bleeding. It was a dance with a savage partner, and the same joy filled him, the need to kill, to destroy the force that had drawn him in, deceived him, led him to betray not only Rachel but himself; with each slash, each bleeding cut, he was washing away his guilt, his culpability.

He had trained in the sand, was used to the feel and shift of it beneath his feet as he parried and thrust; but blood was caking his feet, and it slowed him just an infinitesimal amount, just enough, as Metatron’s blade came slashing down, and he heard Rachel’s raw, broken scream.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE SOUND ROARED FROM MY mouth, a shattered remnant of a scream, as I watched the blade slash down on Azazel as he skidded in the wet sand; and the man who had once been Enoch jerked, unaccountably startled, enough so that the blade cleaved Azazel’s shoulder, not his neck, the force blunted, and Azazel was able to roll away, leaping back to his feet, graceful as a dancer.

But he was weakening. I could see it, and Metatron was too big, too strong, despite the slashes and cuts Azazel had landed. Azazel’s speed and agility had kept him safe, but he was beginning to slow, and if I didn’t do something I would see him hacked to death before my eyes. I would watch him die, and I wouldn’t even be able to cry.

I could run out, put myself between them, distract them long enough so that Azazel could land a killing blow. But Azazel had already said I made him vulnerable. If I interfered, it might result in his death.

I looked around desperately, but no one was doing anything to help. They seemed to be relying on some utterly stupid code of honor that was going to end up getting us all killed, and a sudden, ancient rage filled me.

Men and their honor. Men and their need for power, for control, for doing stupid things because of stupid pride and an insane belief in some ridiculous notion of what was right. They would kill us all with their pride, and I wouldn’t let them.

She was gone. But she was still within me. Lilith, the storm demon. Lilitu, the wind goddess, the raging fury who sent hurricanes and tornadoes and cyclones. I moved my hand, just slightly, and a spit of sand whirled up in a tiny funnel, falling back to the ground.

Azazel slashed at Metatron, slicing him above the other eye, and the blood poured down, blinding him. Metatron dashed it away, smearing it on his face, and struck back, his sword slicing through the leather jerkin Azazel wore, and I could see the blood gushing out, deep and red, and I knew if I didn’t move he would die.

I took a deep breath and went there, joined the demon who lived inside me. I spun my hand, and the winds came down, picking up the sand. Azazel tripped and fell, and Metatron loomed over him, sword raised for the killing blow—

When my wind caught him. The sand blinding him, the gust pushing him away as Azazel once more managed to stagger to his feet. I swirled the wind beyond Azazel, buoying him as he gathered the last bit of his strength, advancing on Metatron, who was fighting the funnel of sand that had encircled him.

I moved my hand, and the wind halted, the sand falling to the ground, and Metatron saw Azazel. He grinned, raising his sword, and Azazel sliced beneath his arm, beneath the armor.

Metatron fell to his knees, his face blank with shock. And Azazel brought his sword down on his enemy’s neck, hacking into his body.

The warrior fell face-first into the sand, and silence reigned.

There was only the rasp of Azazel’s labored breathing, the soft remnants of my angry wind, the shushing of the ocean that terrified me.

I rushed forward, catching Azazel before he fell. He was heavy, but I was strong, and I pulled him toward the sea. A moment later Allie was with us, supporting his other side, and he glanced down at her with a momentary grimace. And then he smiled. A glorious smile that seemed to have appeared from nowhere.

The water lapped at our feet. “I need to go back,” Allie said. “You can take him from here.”

“Yes,” I said. And I carried him into the healing, terrifying water, deeper and deeper, until it closed over our heads and I breathed it in.

I stripped his bloody jerkin off him beneath the salt water, and watched his savage wounds begin to close. I kissed his mouth, breathing him in, and let him wrap my legs around him, holding tight. He pushed up into the air, and his black wings unfurled, carrying us higher, over the sand, and I clung to him, afraid of nothing. Not the deep ocean, not flying through the misty sky, not loving a hard man. Not the demon who still hid inside me, who could help save the man she loved. She would be a secret. I had thought she was gone, hated her; but she was a part of me, a part of the being who loved Azazel, and I welcomed her.

We set down on the sand near the house, and he released me, but I held him against me, protecting him as he protected me. We looked up as Raziel stood before the army of angels, a cold glint in his eye.

“Your champion is defeated,” he called out, “and Uriel has broken the laws of the Supreme Being. You have no place here. Go, and never return.”

He got no argument. They began to retreat, when one of them stopped. “May we take the body?”

Allie had managed to turn Metatron’s huge body over, and he lay on his back in the sand, covered in blood, his eyes closed. But then I saw he was still breathing, and I joined her, kneeling in the sand and unfastening the heavy metal armor.

“It is Azazel’s choice, as champion,” Raziel said.

Azazel was staring at his vanquished opponent. “He lives,” he said shortly. “Ask him.”

To my astonishment, Metatron’s eyes opened beneath the heavy mat of blood and sand, and they focused on me for a moment, then past me to Azazel. “I tried,” he said in a bare whisper. “I’m dying.”

“Yes,” Azazel said, glancing at me for an uncomfortable moment before turning back. “Do you wish to be returned to your army?”

Metatron met his gaze, and he slowly shook his head. “Bury me here. I have no wish to return to the darkness.”

There was nothing more to say. They began to retreat, the legion of soldier angels come to wipe us out, and a few minutes later his army was gone.

Allie made a gesture. “We need four strong men to carry him into the water. Carefully, now. His wounds are very bad.”

Azazel broke away from me, coming forward with three others. They lifted Metatron’s bloody and broken body gently and carried him toward the sea. I followed, because I didn’t want Azazel too far away. I had almost lost him, and right now I refused to let him out of my sight.

“You drown your enemies?” I heard Metatron say in the voice of delirium. “As good a way as any. It is a fitting resting place for a soldier.”

A moment later he was underwater, and the four men were chanting something beneath their breaths, something strange and musical, as we all waited.

And waited. I was knee-deep in the surf, watching them, and Allie came up beside me. “What a lucky wind that was,” she murmured, casting an oblique glance my way.

“Yes, it was,” I said, concentrating on the water where Metatron had disappeared. “Is he going to live?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes the wounds are too grievous.” She smiled at me, a knowing smile. “It’s nice to have secret weapons against an oversized enemy.”

I looked at her with all the innocence I could muster. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

My skills at prevarication were rusty, but even if I’d been an expert she wouldn’t have believed me. “Neither do I,” she said cheerfully, turning her gaze to the water.

A minute later Metatron shot up. “Bloody fucking hell!” he sputtered. And then he looked around, at the Fallen who surrounded him, at the people waiting on the shoreline, at me, and then at Azazel. He flexed his shoulder, the scar showing the line that had almost cleaved him in half, and then he grinned. “I like your burials at sea,” he said.

I LAY SPRAWLED ON TOP of Azazel, sweaty, happy, replete, his hands still stroking my back. My eyes were closed as I took in the taste and the smell of him, the wonder of having him. There was nothing else I needed.

“Yes,” he said.

“Did I ever tell you that your one-word sentences annoy me?” I said sleepily, kissing his neck.

“Yes,” he said again.

I bit him lightly. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, Rachel.”

I laughed. “You know what I meant. You said yes. What did you mean?”

“You know what I meant,” he said in a grouchy voice. “You need to let me sleep, woman. I’ve beaten the greatest warrior who has ever lived, with only a little unfair help, and I’ve pleasured you almost as much as you’ve pleasured me. I need to rest.”

I froze. “What unfair help did you have?” I said uneasily. I probably should have just ignored it.

“The wind,” he said calmly. “It was extremely kind of providence to provide it at just that moment, or I would be dead.”

“Providence,” I said happily.

“We’ll call it that for now,” he said. “My lovely, delectably wanton demon.”

“That’s really not a term of affection. You hate demons,” I pointed out.

“But you’re not a real demon. Just a little tiny bit,” he murmured.

I kissed his mouth. “I’m not a demon.”

“If you say so,” he murmured sleepily.

“You still didn’t tell me what you were saying yes about,” I said, deciding to avoid the subject of demonhood for now.

“Yes,” he said again.

I slid down on him, resting my head against his shoulder. “You’re annoying me again. Yes, what?”

“Yes, you need one more thing. Yes, you already have it.”

I bit him, harder this time. “You can’t say it?”

“Yes, I love you,” he said.

And for the first time in my endless existence, I burst into tears.

Just discovered Kristina Douglas?

Turn the page for a taste of

the first sexy novel in her Fallen series:

RAZIEL

Available now from Pocket Books

And look for Book 3 in the Fallen series,

featuring the angel Michael, the Warrior

Coming from Pocket Books in Spring 2012

IN THE BEGINNING

I AM RAZIEL, ONE OF THE TWENTY fallen angels spoken of by Enoch in the old books. I live in the hidden world of Sheol, with the other Fallen, where no one knows of our existence, and we have lived that way since the fall, millennia ago. I should have known there would be trouble on the horizon. I could feel it in my blood, and there is nothing more powerful than blood. I had taught myself to ignore those feelings, just as I had taught myself to ignore everything that conspired to betray me. Had I listened, things might have been different.

I rose that day, in the beginning, stretching out my wings to the feeble light of early morning. A storm was coming; I felt it throbbing in my veins, in my bones. For now the healing ocean was calm, the tide coming in, and the mist was thick and warm, an enveloping embrace, but the violence of nature hung heavy in the air.

Nature? Or Uriel?

I had slept outside again. Fallen asleep in one of the wooden chairs, nursing a Jack Daniel’s, one of the many pleasures of this last century or so. Too many Jacks, if truth be told. I hadn’t wanted this morning to come, but then, I was not a fan of mornings. Just one more day in exile, with no hope of … what? Escape? Return? I could never return. I had seen too much, done too much.

I was bound here, as were the others. For years, so many years that they’d ceased to exist, lost in the mists of time, I had lived alone on this earth under a curse that would never be lifted.

Existence had been easier when I’d had a mate. But I’d lost too many over the years, and the pain, the love, were simply part of our curse. As long as I kept aloof, I could deprive Uriel of that one bit of torture. Celibacy was a small price to pay.

I’d discovered that the longer I went without sex, the easier it was to endure, and occasional physical matings had sufficed. Until a few days ago, when the need for a female had suddenly come roaring back, first in my rebellious dreams, then in my waking hours. Nothing I did could dispel the feeling—a hot, blistering need that couldn’t be filled.

At least the women around me were all bonded. My hunger wasn’t so strong that it crossed those lines—I could look at the wives, both plain and beautiful, and feel nothing. I needed someone who existed in dreams only.

As long as she stayed there, I could concentrate on other things.

I folded my wings back around me and reached for my shirt. I had a job today, much as I hated it. It was my turn, and it was the only reason the détente existed. As long as we followed Uriel’s orders, there was an uneasy peace.

I and the other Fallen took turns ferrying souls to their destiny. Death-takers, Uriel called us.

And that’s what we were. Death-takers, blood-eaters, fallen angels doomed to eternal life.

I moved toward the great house slowly as the sun rose over the mountains. I put my hand on the cast-iron doorknob, then paused, turning to look back at the ocean, the roiling salt sea that called to me as surely as the mysterious siren female who haunted my dreams.

It was time for someone to die.

I AM URIEL THE MOST high, the archangel who never fell, who never failed, who serves the Lord in his awful majesty, smiting sinners, turning wicked cities to rubble and curious women to pillars of salt. I am his most trusted servant, his emissary, his voice in the wilderness, his hand on the sword. If need be, I will consume this wicked, wicked world with fire and start anew. Fire to scourge everything, then flood to follow and replenish the land.

I am not God. I am merely his appointed one, to assure his judgment is carried out. And I am waiting.

The Highest One is infallible, or I would judge the Fallen to be a most grievous mistake and smite them from existence. They have been damned to eternal torment, and yet they do not suffer. It is the will of the Most Holy that they live out their endless existence, forced to survive by despicable means, and yet they know joy. Somehow, despite the black curses laid upon them, they know joy.

But sooner or later, they will go too far. They will join the First, the Bringer of Light, the Rebel, in the boundless depths of the earth, locked in silence and solitude throughout the end of time.

I am Uriel. Repent and beware.

CHAPTER ONE

I WAS RUNNING LATE, WHICH WAS NO surprise. I always seemed to be in a rush—there was a meeting with my editors halfway across Manhattan, I had a deposit to make before the end of the business day, my shoes were killing me, and I was so hungry I could have eaten the glass and metal desk I’d been allotted at my temp job at the Pitt Foundation.

I could handle most of those things—I was nothing if not adaptable. People were used to my tendency to show up late; the secretary over at MacSimmons Publishers was wise enough to schedule my appointments and then tell me they were half an hour earlier. It was a little game we played—unfortunately, since I now knew the rules, I’d arrive an hour late, ruining her careful arrangements.

Tant pis. They could work around me—I was reliable in all other matters. I’d never been late with a manuscript, and my work seldom needed more than minimal revision. They were lucky to have me, even if biblical murder mysteries weren’t a big moneymaker, particularly when written in a smart-ass tone. Solomon’s Poisoner had done even better than the previous books. Of course, you had to put that in perspective. Agatha Christie I was not. But if they weren’t making money they wouldn’t be buying me, and I wasn’t going to worry about it.

I had just enough time to make it to the bank, and I could even manage a small detour to grab a hot dog from a street vendor, but there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about my stupid shoes.

Vanity, my uptight mother would have said—not that she ever left the confines of her born-again Idaho fortress to see me. Hildegarde Watson trusted nothing and no one, and she’d retreated to a compound filled with other fundamentalist loonies where even her own sinful daughter wasn’t welcome. Thank God. I didn’t need my mother to tell me how shallow I was. I embraced it.

The four-inch heels made my legs look fantastic, which I considered worth any amount of pain. On top of that, they raised me to a more imposing height than my measly five foot three, an advantage with obstreperous middle-aged male editors who liked to treat me like a cute little girl.

However, the damned stilettos hurt like crazy, and I hadn’t been smart enough to leave a more comfortable pair at my temp job. I’d been hobbling around all day without even a Band-Aid to protect my poor wounded feet.

I’d feel sorry for myself if I hadn’t done it on purpose. I’d learned early on that the best way to accomplish anything was to grit your teeth and fight your way through it with the best grace you could muster, and wearing those damned shoes, which had cost me almost a hundred and eighty dollars, discounted, was the only way I’d ever get comfortable in them. Besides, it was Friday—I had every intention of spending the weekend with my feet up, working on my new book, Ruth’s Revenge. By Monday the blisters would have healed enough, and if I could just tough it out for two more days, I’d be used to them. Beauty was worth the pain, no matter what my mother said.

Maybe sometime I’d be able to support myself with my writing and not have to deal with temp jobs. Snarky mysteries set on debunking the Judeo-Christian Old Testament weren’t high on the public’s interest meter, the occasional blockbuster Vatican thriller aside. For now, I had no choice but to supplement my meager income, making my weekends even more precious.

“Shouldn’t you be heading out, Allie?” Elena, my overworked supervisor, glanced over at me. “You won’t have time to get to the bank if you don’t leave now.”

Crap. Two months and already Elena had pegged me as someone chronically late. “I won’t be back,” I called out as I hobbled toward the elevator. Elena waved absently good-bye, and moments later I was alone in the elevator, starting the sixty-three-floor descent.

I could risk taking off my shoes, just for a few moments of blessed relief, but with my luck someone would immediately join me and I’d have to shove them back on again. I leaned against the wall, trying to shift my weight from one foot to the other. Great legs, I reminded myself.

Out the sixty-third-floor windows, the sun had been shining brightly. The moment I moved through the lobby’s automatic door to the sidewalk, I heard a loud crash of thunder, and I looked up to see dark clouds churning overhead. The storm seemed to have come out of nowhere.

It was a cool October afternoon, with Halloween only a few days off. The sidewalks were busy as usual, and the bank was across the street. I could always walk and eat a hot dog at the same time, I thought, heading over to the luncheon cart. I’d done it often enough.

With my luck there had to be a line. I bounced nervously, shifting my weight, and the man in front of me turned around.

I’d lived in New York long enough to make it a habit not to look at people on the street. Here in midtown, most of the women were taller, thinner, and better dressed than I was, and I didn’t like feeling inadequate. I never made eye contact with anyone, not even with Harvey the hot-dog man, who’d served me daily for the last two months.

So why was I looking up, way up, into a pair of eyes that were … God, what color were they? A strange shade between black and gray, shot with striations of light so that they almost looked silver. I was probably making a fool of myself, but I couldn’t help it. Never in my life had I seen eyes that color, though that shouldn’t surprise me since I avoided looking in the first place.

But even more astonishing, those eyes were watching me thoughtfully. Beautiful eyes in a beautiful face, I realized belatedly. I didn’t like men who were too attractive, and that term was mild when it came to the man looking down at me, despite my four-inch heels.

He was almost angelically handsome, with his high cheekbones, his aquiline nose, his streaked brown and golden hair. It was precisely the tawny shade I’d tried to get my colorist to replicate, and she’d always fallen woefully short.

“Who does your hair?” I blurted out, trying to startle him out of his abstraction.

“I am as God made me,” he said, and his voice was as beautiful as his face. Low-pitched and musical, the kind of voice to seduce a saint. “With a few modifications,” he added, with a twist of dark humor I couldn’t understand.

His gorgeous hair was too long—I hated long hair on men. On him it looked perfect, as did the dark leather jacket, the black jeans, the dark shirt.

Not proper city wear, I thought, trying to summon up disapproval and failing because he looked so damned good. “Since you don’t seem in any kind of hurry and I am, do you suppose you could let me go ahead of you?”

There was another crash of thunder, echoing through the cement and steel canyons around us, and I flinched. Thunderstorms in the city made me nervous—they seemed so there. It always seemed like the lightning snaking down between the high buildings would find me an easier target. The man didn’t even blink. He glanced across the street, as if calculating something.

“It’s almost three o’clock,” he said. “If you want your deposit to go in today, you’ll need to skip that hot dog.”

I froze. “What deposit?” I demanded, completely paranoid. God, what was I doing holding a conversation with a strange man? I should never have paid any attention to him. I could have lived without the hot dog.

“You’re holding a bank deposit bag,” he said mildly.

Oh. Yeah. I laughed nervously. I should have been ashamed of my paranoia, but for some reason it hadn’t even begun to dissipate. I allowed myself another furtive glance up at the stranger.

To hell with the hot dog—my best bet was to get away from this too-attractive stranger, drop off the deposit, and hope to God I could find a taxi to get me across town to my meeting. I was already ten minutes late.

He was still watching me. “You’re right,” I said. Another crash of thunder, and the clouds opened up.

And I was wearing a red silk suit that I couldn’t really afford, even on clearance from Saks. Vanity again. Without a backward glance, I stepped out into the street, which was momentarily free of traffic.

It happened in slow motion, it happened in the blink of an eye. One of my high heels snapped, my ankle twisted, and the sudden rain was turning the garbage on the street into a river of filth. I slipped, going down on one knee, and I could feel my stockings shred, my skirt rip, my carefully arranged hair plastered limp and wet around my ears.

I looked up, and there it was, a crosstown bus ready to smack into me. Another crack of thunder, the bright white sizzle of lightning, and everything went calm and still. Just for a moment.

And then it was a blur of noise and action. I could hear people screaming, and to my astonishment money was floating through the air like autumn leaves, swirling downward in the heavy rain. The bus had come to a stop, slanted across the street, and horns were honking, people were cursing, and in the distance I could hear the scream of sirens. Pretty damned fast response for New York, I thought absently.

The man was standing beside me, the beautiful one from the hot-dog stand. He was just finishing a chili dog, entirely at ease, and I remembered I was famished. If I was going to get held up by a bus accident, I might as well get a chili dog. But for some reason, I didn’t want to turn around.

“What happened?” I asked him. He was tall enough to see over the crowds of people clustered around the front of the bus. “Did someone get hurt?”

“Yes,” he said in that rich, luscious voice. “Someone was killed.”

I started toward the crowd, curious, but he caught my arm. “You don’t want to go there,” he said. “There’s no need to go through that.”

Go through what? I thought, annoyed, staring at the crowd. I glanced back up at the stranger, and I had the odd feeling that he’d gotten taller. I suddenly realized my feet didn’t hurt anymore, and I looked down. It was an odd, disorienting sensation. I was barefoot, and if I didn’t know it was impossible, I would have said there was thick green grass beneath my feet.

I glanced back up at the rain-drenched accident scene in front of me, and time seemed to have moved in an odd, erratic shift. The ambulance had arrived, as well as the police, and people were being herded out of the way. I thought I caught a glimpse of the victim—just the brief sight of my leg, wearing my shoe, the heel broken off.

“No,” said the man beside me, and he put a hand on my arm before I could move away.

The bright light was blinding, dazzling, and I was in a tunnel, light whizzing past me, the only sound the whoosh of space moving at a dizzying speed. Space Mountain, I thought, but this was no Disney ride.

It stopped as abruptly as it had begun, and I felt sick. I was disoriented and out of breath; I looked around me, trying to get my bearings.

The man still held my arm loosely, and I yanked it free, stumbling away from him. We were in the woods, in some sort of clearing at the base of a cliff, and it was already growing dark. The sick feeling in my stomach began to spread to the rest of my body.

I took a deep breath. Everything felt odd, as if this were a movie set. Things looked right, but everything seemed artificial, no smells, no sensation of touch. It was all illusion. It was wrong.

I wiggled my feet, then realized I was still barefoot. My hair hung down past my shoulders, which made no sense since I had short hair. I tugged at a strand, and saw that instead of its carefully streaked and striated color, it was brown again, the plain, ordinary brown I’d spent a fortune trying to disguise, the same plain, ordinary brown as my eyes. My clothes were different as well, and the change wasn’t for the better. Baggy, shapeless, colorless, they were as unprepossessing as a shroud.

I fought my way through the mists of confusion—my mind felt as if it were filled with cotton candy. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

“Don’t struggle,” the man beside me said in a remote voice. “It only makes it worse. If you’ve lived a good life, you have nothing to be afraid of.”

I looked at him in horror. Lightning split open the sky, followed by thunder that shook the earth. The solid rock face in front of us began to groan, a deep, rending sound that echoed to the heavens. It started to crack apart, and I remembered something from Christian theology about stones moving and Christ rising from the dead. The only problem was that I was Jewish, as my fundamentalist Christian mother had been for most of her life, and I was nonobservant at that. I didn’t think rising from the dead was what was going on here.

“The bus,” I said flatly. “I got hit by the bus. I’m dead, aren’t I?”

“Yes.”

I controlled my instinctive flinch. Clearly he didn’t believe in cushioning blows. “And who does that make you? Mr. Jordan?”

He looked blank, and I stared at him. “You’re an angel,” I clarified. “One who’s made a mistake. You know, like in the movie? I shouldn’t be dead.”

“There is no mistake,” he said, and took my arm again.

I sure as hell wasn’t going quietly. “Are you an angel?” I demanded. He didn’t feel like one. He felt like a man, a distinctly real man, and why the hell was I suddenly feeling alert, alive, aroused, when according to him I was dead?

His eyes were oblique, half-closed. “Among other things.”

Kicking him in the shin and running like hell seemed an excellent plan, but I was barefoot and my body wasn’t feeling cooperative. As angry and desperate as I was, I still seemed to want him to touch me, even when I knew he had nothing good in mind. Angels didn’t have sex, did they? They didn’t even have sexual organs, according to the movie Dogma. I found myself glancing at his crotch, then quickly pulled my gaze away. What the hell was I doing checking out an angel’s package when I was about to die?

Oh, yeah, I’d forgotten—I was already dead. And all my will seemed to have vanished. He drew me toward the crack in the wall, and I knew with sudden clarity it would close behind me like something out of a cheesy movie, leaving no trace that I’d ever lived. Once I went through, it would all be over.

“This is as far as I go,” he said, his rich, warm voice like music. And with a gentle tug on my arm, he propelled me forward, pushing me into the chasm.

Table of Contents

Beginnings: The Real World

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

The Dark City

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Sheol

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

In The Beginning

Table of Contents

Beginnings: The Real World

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

The Dark City

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Sheol

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

In The Beginning