Death's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels (21 page)

“Azrael’s vampires will be on our tails,” Kevin told the three of them. “I don’t know whether they can find this building or not,” he went on, referring to their hidden headquarters, “but it’s possible they’re familiar enough with shadow walking that they can track us through what we just came through.”

He let that sink in for a moment and then went on. “We need to keep moving. Gather the others.”

Chapter Twenty-one

A
zrael could feel his brothers’ frustration like needles against his spirit as he turned from them and Michael hit the light switch. Uro had just called out to him; the cry had been frantic, terrified, and filled with pain. The Adarians had struck without warning—
impossibly
—coming through the shadows and into the cave where he and Sophie had been hiding.

Somehow, Abraxos the Adarian-turned-vampire, had learned to traverse the shadow world, taking three of his men with him through the macabre passageways. They’d managed to find their way into the underground cavern where Sophie was, and then he and his fellow Adarians had attacked Uro and taken her back through the shadows with them.

In the two thousand years that he’d been a vampire able to walk the shadows, Azrael had only ever attempted to take one other being through with him, and that was Sophie. He wouldn’t have thought to bring his brothers through now if it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d taken Sophie through that same night—and that Abraxos appeared to have done the very same thing.

If Abraxos and his men could do it, maybe Azrael could do it with someone besides Sophie.

That knowledge had Azrael summoning Michael to his side as he faced the shadows in the corner of the mansion’s living room. Uro was on the other side of those stygian passageways, and he would need healing. Michael would not be able to do everything; the ancient vampire would need blood . . . and fire left scars. But the healing he could provide would make a big difference for Uro. Azrael knew this much from personal experience.

As Azrael placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder, he called out to his vampires across the globe. Months ago, Abraxos and his men had been at war with four archangels. Now the Adarians would face the entire vampire nation.

Minutes ago, in the temporary quiet and calm of the mansion’s living room, the news of Sophie being an archess had affected Azrael’s brothers as he’d expected it would. The only one who did not seem to be surprised was Juliette. She’d merely stared at Azrael, and then closed her eyes and nodded. The next words out of her mouth had been, “I should have known.”

Azrael had been prepared to discuss the importance of the development with Max and the others. There was so much to take into account: The fact that the archesses were suddenly cropping up all at once, the phantom that had caused the accident on the Golden Gate Bridge, the strangeness to the air that hinted at so much more going on than any of them had previously believed. But there was no time.

Uro’s call came in hard and fast and desperate. Now Az stepped into the shadows, guiding Michael and feeling as though a trench had been torn through the middle of his soul. The darkness engulfed them, welcoming its king back home.

Behind them, in the space where he and his brothers had been discussing events only moments before, Max and the others scrambled toward the nearest doorway. He could hear their portal opening just as the shadows closed him off from their world.

He wanted to let go and allow the varying degrees of darkness to simply guide him as they normally did. He’d been walking the shadows for so long, they were familiar tributaries and alone, he could have relaxed and let them carry him through as if he were a leaf on the river, and then used his momentum to move faster with the energy he would have spared.

But it was different with Michael, and Az found himself having to concentrate. His golden eyes burned a hellish red in the handsome frame of his face. His teeth absolutely throbbed in his gums. He could feel an anger radiating from his body that went deeper and clawed its way further into his being than any wrath he’d ever known.

All he wanted to do was find Sophie and kill Abraxos for touching her.

But having to take Michael through with him forced him to temporarily put thoughts of Abraxos aside. Azrael hadn’t known what to expect when taking someone as conscious and powerful as Michael through the darker dimension. Sophie had been relatively easy, but she was the other half of Azrael’s soul, a part of him—and she’d also been asleep. Az was certain that had made things easier.

Michael was another matter. It was an odd sensation, like both pulling and pushing at once, and there was a lag on Michael’s body that Azrael had to concentrate hard on getting past. It was as if the black space recognized the Warrior Archangel as a stranger—and it wanted him to leave.

It took much longer than he would have liked to get through the shadows and out the other side, but within seconds, Azrael was nonetheless pushing past the final murky barriers and entering the cave where he had left Uro and Sophie.

What he found when he stepped once more into the light turned his stomach to lead and opened a second gaping cavity in his heart.

He was beside Uro’s fallen form with blurred speed. “Uro,” he breathed, unable to say anything else. His friend’s body was caked with the grime of smoke and blood. His clothes had been shredded by the flames. Miraculously, though there were third-degree burns across his neck, chest, arms, and legs, only half of his face had sustained any damage, and it was minimal. Against all odds, Uro still had a full head of hair.

Not that it mattered.

With a painful slowness, the ancient vampire opened his eyes. Slits of glowing, throbbing red greeted Azrael and a voice echoed softly in his head.

Go after her now. I read his thoughts, my lord. . . . They’re going to take her blood. They might kill her.

“Michael, can you heal him?” Azrael heard himself ask. He was seething inside, going numb with the roaring, screaming, colossal fury battering his soul. And yet somehow he managed to ask the question that needed asking. For some reason, he maintained his place at Uro’s side—and even gently took his hand.

“I don’t know,” Michael said honestly. He had never tried to heal a vampire before. In the twenty centuries since Azrael had first fed on Michael’s blood to ease his pain, the vampire king had never needed Michael’s help. Vampires normally healed on their own, so the healing powers of Michael’s hands had never been necessary.

But fire was deadly to a vampire. And Uro was near death.

Even if Michael could close the wounds and erase the scars, Uro would need blood—and it would have to be something more than human.

Azrael knew this even as Michael very gently, very slowly, placed both hands palm down over Uro’s burned and smoking chest. Az watched his brother close his eyes and lower his head. A moment later, his hands began to glow.

Az felt the pull of time on him; Sophie was out there somewhere—and Abraxos meant to do her harm. But he had no idea where they had gone. He concentrated on zeroing in on her location and scrying her whereabouts, but either the fact that she’d been moved through the shadow realm or the fact that her mind was infinitely complex due to her burgeoning powers as an archess made it impossible to get a fix on her.

To make matters worse, he’d been traveling the shadows long enough to know that if enough time passed after someone had traversed them, there would be nothing left of them to track. Shadow substance was inky and clingy and magical in nature; it warped what moved through it and would erase all traces of Sophie and her abductors.

By this time, the shadows would be completely unable to tell him where the Adarian had taken his archess.

No one left a lasting footprint in a shadow.

Azrael ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes just as Uro’s quick, ragged breathing changed, slowing and growing deeper. Michael’s magic was working. There was that, at least.

“I have to leave,” Az said softly, without opening his eyes. Behind his closed lids, he saw Sophie smile. In the hollow, raging silence of his mind, he heard her laugh. Time ticked across his skin, raising his hairs, scraping his nerve endings.

“I know,” said Michael. He sounded more tired than ever.

Azrael opened his eyes to find his brother’s head bowed, his hands at his sides. Uro gazed up at Azrael. His clothes were still destroyed—but beneath them, his body no longer bled. His wounds had been closed. Angry red scars crisscrossed across his chest, ran up his side and down his right arm. A thick raised line marred his left cheek and trailed down the left side of his neck to disappear under the ruined shreds of his shirt and jacket.

Azrael wondered whether Michael might have been able to do away with those as well had he not had to heal dozens of injured people on the Golden Gate Bridge earlier that night.

“Go,” Michael said. His voice sounded hollow, empty.

“You’re coming with me,” Az told his brother. Michael wouldn’t be able to escape the cavern without a vampire to lead him through the shadows. And despite his love for Uro, there was no way he was stupid enough to leave Michael alone with the other vampire when they were both so drained. Uro needed blood and the hunger for it when a vampire was this injured could be overwhelming. The last thing Az needed was to have his brother and his first created vampire fighting in his absence.

Michael seemed to be in no mood to argue. He nodded and slowly stood on shaky legs. Azrael steadied him with one strong hand and led him quickly to the nearest shadow. He turned back to Uro, whose brow was furrowed in concentration. He was trying to draw his legs in, trying to get to his feet.

“Stay here,” Az instructed softly. “The others will be here soon. Randall will take care of you. Do as he says.”

Uro’s dark eyes met Az’s for a moment and throbbed a dull red once, twice, and then closed.

Azrael’s grip on Michael’s shoulder tightened—and then he was moving once more through the shadows, pulling his brother along beside him. It was even harder this time; Michael’s body was fighting not only Az but himself. The blond archangel was exhausted.

By the time Az was stepping back into the living room of the mansion, Michael’s form had begun to tremble.

Max and the others were gone, most likely meeting up with Randall, Terry, and Monte at the cave. The vampires would have had to use brute force to create a passage through the ground and into the cave for the archangels and archesses, as none of them could move through the shadows as he and Uro had. But Az knew they’d find the Adarians were already gone and Uro the only one left inside. Az knew Randall well enough by now to know that the ex-cop would offer up his own blood to replenish Uro’s. Uro was now under direct orders to do as Randall instructed, so he would drink. It would be enough to get him back out through the shadows. After that, it was possible that an archess would be able to heal what burns and scars remained on his body. Az had a feeling that both Juliette and Eleanore would insist on at least trying.

Right now, the mansion was empty and to Azrael, it felt cold. Which was strange—he never felt cold. The knowledge that Sophie was in enemy hands was turning the blood in his veins to ice.

Azrael took his brother around the waist and draped Michael’s arm over his shoulder to walk him to the nearby couch. Michael didn’t argue; he didn’t say a word.

“See that you eat something,” Azrael instructed.

Michael nodded. “Where are you going?”

Azrael waited before answering, truly not wanting to give voice to his response. In all of this chaos, there was only one being that Az was aware of who stood a real chance of knowing
exactly
where the Adarians had taken Sophie. And right now, Azrael was devoid of pride.

“You don’t want to know,” he told Michael. To his own ears, his voice sounded strange. There was a deepness to it reminiscent of the very shadows he’d just traversed. It was as if he was being tailed by darkness.

Without another word, he turned from Michael and stepped back into the shadows. He moved so fast, the Warrior Archangel never had a chance to object. If he made a sound of protest, Azrael didn’t hear it.

Chapter Twenty-two

S
ophie came awake slowly and comfortably. Her body was warm, the surface beneath her felt soft, and there was an aura of safety enveloping her that made her want to keep sleeping.

But she couldn’t sleep. Something tapped at her brain, knocking repeatedly, trying to get her attention. She kept her eyes closed and tried to ignore the sensation, ducking her head deeper into the softness beneath her cheek. But it grew more insistent, morphing from a gentle tapping to a kind of buzzing that circled around the base of her skull.

A flash of something raced before her mind’s eye. It was a sliver of a memory, a bit of a dream. It was dark and harried and red.

She was forgetting something. The buzzing grew and a thrum of apprehension went through her middle, forcing an extra beat from her heart and clenching her stomach. She frowned and blinked her eyes open. The room was dim and her vision blurred.

Where am I?

She rolled over to survey her surroundings. She was on a small bed and it was indeed fitted in the finest sheets, composed of a thread count that she was sure she would never be able to afford. The pillow cradled her head with a loving tenderness that only big bucks could buy. The duvet over her was thick, keeping the world’s chills at bay.

But the bed and its linens were where the comfort in the room stopped. Beneath the edges of her bedspread, the warmth surrounding her dispersed into the cold and damp of what could not be mistaken for anything other than a prison cell.

“What the . . .” She sat up slowly, her mouth dropping open as she took in the peeling paint on the walls, the rusted bars of the door, and the dented metal that had obviously been used as a mirror above a broken sink on one side of the closet-sized room.

A single bulb hung from the ceiling, shedding an eerie, unpleasant light on the cramped quarters. Beyond the bars at one end of the room, the darkness of the hallway loomed, deep and ominous.

Sophie’s body was beginning to tremble with fear as she pushed back the covers to slide from the bed. It was out of place in this room; that was clear now. Someone had put it in the cell for her to sleep on.

The dichotomy of the small kindness and the cruelty of locking her up in such a place struck her a confusing blow. She moved from the bed toward the bars on feet that still wore boots. They’d left her clothes on. . . . To further protect her from the cold?

Sophie gritted her teeth, frowning deeply as she wrapped her fingers around the bars and pulled. There was no give. Her movements clanged against the metal and the sound echoed through the halls beyond, seeming to go on forever.

In the distance, a foghorn sounded. A hard shiver rushed through her and she released the bars to hug herself.

“Oh God,” she whispered.
What’s happening to me?

Where was she? What had happened? She tried to remember, tried to make sense of her surroundings. . . . She squeezed her eyes shut—and moved back from the bars as more flashes of memory overtook her.

A cemetery, her stepfather—a gun.

Her heart slammed painfully as, all at once, everything came rushing back. A strangled cry escaped her throat and she stumbled back until her hip hit the top of the bed and she lost her balance.

Collapsing like a rag doll, Sophie landed hard on her bottom. A second later, she was curling her legs against her chest and cradling herself. The rocking came naturally—back and forth, back and forth—as the realization of what she had done struck her once again like a bomb.

She’d killed a man. He had been a horrible man and he’d been planning on raping and killing her, but somehow it seemed to make little difference. The feeling was the same. It was like a sticky, inky black blanket that draped itself over her and then began to tighten. She felt smothered in the truth.

And the truth wasn’t done with her yet.

Azrael’s a vampire
.

The fact floated, immaterial at first.

Azrael is a vampire
.

It was more solid this time, less two-dimensional.

Oh my God
, she thought.
Azrael is a vampire
.

* * *

None of Azrael’s brothers were aware of the former Angel of Death’s ability to traverse the boundaries of Sam’s fortress and enter unbidden. Samael knew. But Samael knew everything. Or he seemed to.

And there were many things about Azrael that Michael and the others were not aware of. It was a symptom of the man and creature and angel that he was, this solitude of sorts. He was a being apart, separate and mysterious. He knew this. There was no helping it. So he had embraced it.

When Az exited the shadows and stepped into Samael’s sixty-sixth-floor office in the former Sears Tower, Sam continued writing at his desk without looking up. When he was finished, he put down the pen and only then looked up from his desk. There was not the least bit of surprise on his incredibly handsome face. The stormy gray of his charcoal-colored eyes swirled and taunted; his expression was unreadable.

He was conveniently alone in the room. Normally the man was accompanied by one or more of his servants, monsters of the supernatural world who were sworn to do his eternal bidding. However, at the moment, none of these people were around, and Azrael wondered whether it was so that he and Samael could conduct their business in private.

Az left the corner beside a solid wood bookshelf and approached the center of the office on silent booted feet.

“I’m assuming the situation is dire indeed to bring you to my door,” Samael said softly as he pushed gracefully away from his desk and rose to his full impressive height. He was dressed, as usual, in a dark gray suit, expensively tailored. “So have out with it at once, by all means.” A tiny hint of a smile graced the corners of his lips as he smoothed the front of his suit and moved around his desk.

He and Azrael slowly approached each other, their essences colliding, circles of power that chafed against each other, setting off invisible sparks of negative energy. They stopped at three feet and Azrael considered the infamous archangel with great care.

This was a mistake.

“Of course it is,” Samael told him, flashing a bright white smile that would have left women swooning. “But you knew that before you stepped into my shadows.”

He did. He also knew he was out of his league here. But it didn’t matter; he had no choice.

“The Adarians have taken Sophie,” Azrael told him, aware that as he said it, it was probably something Samael already knew. “I need to know where they’ve gone.”

Samael cocked his head to one side, his dark gray eyes glittering. “I’m sure you do. I’m sure you also know that my assistance comes with a price, ‘Lord Azrael.’” He said the name softly, almost teasingly, and Az tasted blood in his mouth.

His jaw was too tight, his teeth too sharp, and his patience officially at an end. “Name it.”

Samael’s brow lifted. He considered Az for a moment, and not for the first time since coming to Earth, Azrael wished he could read the archangel’s mind as he could that of every other creature on the planet. And as
Sam
could so easily read
his
.

Then Samael’s smile faded and Azrael felt as if there were storms brewing in the Fallen One’s eyes. There was a building darkness there, a depth that hinted at . . . problems. Az wondered if there was something going on with Samael that failed to meet the eye.

Sam turned away to sit on the leather sofa on one side of the massive office. Az glanced at the giant windows that outlined a view of the lake and Chicago’s night lights below. The sky was lightening a little; dawn was fast on its way and the impending daybreak added to Azrael’s discomfort. Other than that, it was a stunning view. Samael had never settled for anything but the best.

“Which brings me to the subject of my price,” Samael said, his words cutting through Azrael’s thoughts. Az turned to face him. “You’re right, Azrael. I settle for nothing less than the best. I go for the gold in everything I do.” He shrugged, rather nonchalantly, and his perfect suit moved effortlessly with him.

“Sophie is mine,” Azrael told him simply.

Sam’s smile was back, but it was a smaller echo of the one he’d worn before. “You misunderstand me,” he said. “Sophie Bryce is absolutely priceless and an amazing catch, don’t get me wrong. But she’s right for
you
, Azrael. Not me.”

“Spit it out, Sam. What do you want?” Az could feel the weight of time settling over him, a shroud that grew heavier with each passing second.

“Your brother possesses the ability to heal,” Samael said. “I want you to take it from him.”

Azrael stared at Sam as the silence stretched between them. He would have assumed that he’d heard incorrectly, that he was imagining things, but he had very good hearing.

“Mind you, it won’t be permanent, if that’s worrying you,” Sam said, his tone so utterly casual it was not as if he’d just asked Azrael to do something so wrong it was nearly sacrilegious. “Take Michael’s blood,” he went on, “and concentrate on taking the healing ability with it. He will be without the power for several days.” He paused, let the weight of his request sink in, and then straightened on the couch, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and lace his fingers together. He eyed Azrael with cold, hard eyes. “That is my price, archangel. Take it or leave it.”

“Done,” Azrael said as he felt the world drop out from under him. Michael was the silent leader of their brotherhood. He was the one who kept them together. He was the spiritually strong one, the giving one, the brother who always had everyone else’s back. When Azrael considered everything that Michael had done for him over the years—the way he’d stood by him in those first few agonizing moments on Earth—a sort of sickness stole over him and he felt as if his chest would cave in.

But Abraxos had Sophie. And quite simply, Azrael would do anything to get her back.

Samael stood once more, gracefully rising from the couch and reaching into the inside pocket of his suit coat. Azrael watched in unexpressed misery as Sam produced the infamous diamond pen he’d used on so many of them before and held it up to the light.

“You’ll understand if I don’t take your word,” Sam spoke softly.

“Why would you?” Azrael replied just as softly as he strode across the room to take the pen from Sam’s outstretched fingers. Its tip was wickedly sharp, and Samael’s other victims had no doubt seen it as an object of perilous and menacing design. To Azrael, it was the period at the end of a sentence that condemned him to hell. Nothing more.

Sam waved his hand over the surface of the coffee table and the piece of furniture transformed. In a warping, dizzying display, the table became taller, morphing into a black stone altar. Atop the altar rested a contract composed of intricate and puzzling lettering.

“Unfortunately for you,” Samael said with a devious smile, “you
will
have to take me at mine.”

Azrael knew how this worked. Uriel had been in this position once, and for almost the same reason. Uriel’s account of his own signing with Sam had filled him in on the details. This particular pen used blood.

Az said nothing as he glanced at the contract and then pressed the pen’s tip into the vein on the inside of his wrist. The sharp nib broke the skin at once, drawing his blood into the diamond vial attached to it. Uriel claimed that when he’d signed his contract with Samael, the pen had drawn his blood painfully. However, Azrael felt nothing but a deepening sense of loss as the pen went from clear to crimson red. When it was filled, he removed the tip and turned to the altar. Sam remained stoically silent and watchful as Azrael pressed the tip of the pen to the first of two lines that waited at the bottom of the document.

He signed.

When he was finished, he handed the pen to Samael. It was empty. Sam lowered it to the document and as he did, it once more filled with blood. Azrael’s ears roared with the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins. The world seemed distant in that moment, out of reach. He was traversing the passageways of a nightmare.

Sam finished signing his own name in scrawling, perfect script and pocketed the again empty pen. And then, out of the inside pocket on the other side of his expensive suit coat, he extracted a small book.

“You’ll need this,” he said, handing the book to Azrael. “And I have a message for the Warrior Archangel.”

Az looked down, turning the book over in his hands. It was a tour guide for Alcatraz Island. The impatience abrading his skin got worse; the air was turning to steel wool around him. He looked back up and was caught in Samael’s mercurial gaze.

“Michael has been hunting a rapist,” Sam told him, no hint of emotion one way or the other on his handsome face. “Tell him to take a walk in the park.” He turned away from Azrael to casually make his way back to his desk. “Many people claim to find the answers they seek there.”