Death's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels (30 page)

Chapter Thirty-two

I
n a large white marble chamber, complete with round marble columns and firelight flickering off the polished marble surfaces, a man sat cross-legged in the center of a circle of white candles. His thick black hair curled over the collar of his crisp white button-down shirt. His incredibly strong body was at ease, relaxed. And his beautiful but frighteningly different eyes were closed.

The flash of an image passed before those closed eyes—and they flew open. Pupils the color of ice surrounded dark stars born of a darker magic that was capable of spreading like wildfire and growing like a weed. The man gazed through those eyes into a scene of a vampire on a beach—and a woman who had escaped her bonds.

So be it
,
the man thought.
It is time
.

* * *

I love you.

He heard it loud and clear. The single, short thought cut through the thick fog that was the rest of the world as if those three words were the only three words any being had ever uttered in the history of time.

In that moment, everything bad that had ever happened in his existence was nothing. It was gone, blown away like dust in a hurricane. All was forgiven, all was right, and all he wanted to do was kiss the woman who had made it possible.

I love you.

She jumped up on her tiptoes and ran her hand through his hair and for the briefest of moments, he was so stunned, he simply stood there and let her pull his lips to her own. And then he was taking over, every fiber of his archangel being roaring to life once again.

She flinched and he felt a thrum of quick, sharp pain move through her as if it was his own. He pulled out of the kiss, regretting it at once, and looked down at her. She was staring at her palm where Gregori’s mark had been replaced by a shimmering golden tattoo.

Of a pair of wings.

It was the sudden shifting of the air on the beach that prevented him from grabbing her hand for a closer look. A disturbance around them drew his attention and switched on his defenses. He straightened and turned, holding his breath as his now glowing gaze skirted the shadows of the shore.

There was a popping and then a sucking sound, and everything changed. Azrael was moving so fast that his body blurred, his vampire-archangel reflexes spinning him around and drawing Sophie behind him in the blink of an eye. He took in the scene and processed it in no more than a millisecond.

Phantoms swarmed the beach, a handful of wraiths among them. Their presence warped and froze the air, sending out negative energy so thick it was stifling.

Azrael’s fangs erupted, his eyes shifting to red. His breath formed icicles in the phantom-chilled night. The presence of these monsters was inexplicably wrong. They were obviously there for Sophie. If they’d wanted Azrael, they’d had thousands of years to attack.

The milky-white bodies of the phantoms turned toward the couple, their grisly visages twisting into black, razor-toothed smiles. They stood seven feet tall, and their skin slithered and swirled as if it were coated with a thin layer of fog. In some respects, they looked like photo negatives of mortals, though they stood taller.

Their shoulder-length blue-white hair was so fine, it looked like feathers in the breeze. Their eyes were no more than pools of bottomless black. Their broad chests were bare, and around their tight abdomens were tattooed strings of arcane symbols inscribed in glowing blue-white ink.

Phantoms were the bane of the supernatural community. They could disappear at will, transport through a space of any size in the blink of an eye, and when they touched a victim, the victim was sapped of strength and chilled from the inside out, resulting in a painful, frozen death.

One phantom alone was a challenge none of the archangels would have taken lightly.
Many
phantoms was an apocalyptic nightmare. Fortunately, phantoms were known to be solitary creatures and had never before worked in any kind of group. What Azrael saw before him now, he’d previously thought impossible.

The wraiths among the phantoms moved more slowly. They were less powerful than the notorious assassins, but their figures stood out more. Their power was simple and horrible: they possessed the ability to literally open old wounds simply by touching their victims. Any injury ever sustained in a being’s lifetime could reappear, tearing holes in flesh and cracking bones within seconds.

Long ago, when the Old Man had first created the wraiths, he’d realized his mistake, and he’d taken the hands off every wraith and then cast the monsters to Earth. However, once on Earth, the wraiths had quickly found substitutes for their missing hands, turning their stumps into working appendages once more by robbing what they needed from the dead.

Now they existed as black-cloaked figures with faces like wax, bleeding red slits for mouths, eyes of stone—and skeletal hands. One touch from those skeletal hands and every wound Azrael had ever suffered would begin to resurface.

Az did a quick count: at least a dozen phantoms, and half that number of wraiths. And then a flicker of movement caught his eye and he glanced to his left toward an outcropping of wet black stone.

Icarans. He sensed at least three, although their black skin camouflaged their presence in the dark night. Icarans were also known as leeches because they fed on magic. They were attracted to it; it was their sustenance, and they tended to gorge on it, often to the point of a grisly, explosive death. They were no doubt drawn to the beach by the massive amount of supernatural power gathering on it at that moment.

Sophie’s fingers curled around Azrael’s right wrist as she peeked out from behind him at the small army of monsters closing in on them.

“Holy hell,” she whispered, her voice shaking with both cold and terror. “What in G-God’s name are th-those?”

Azrael didn’t reply. He was too busy trying to figure out how to deal with their situation. The phantoms could transport at will; their presence here was easily explained. They’d mostly likely brought the wraiths with them; it was the only logical explanation for the wraiths’ synchronized appearance, despite the fact that it seemed to go against phantom nature. The Icarans had probably been somewhere nearby and had simply followed the magic.

There was little time. Azrael didn’t know why the monsters had gathered, but he knew he had to get help very quickly. It took seconds for him to send out a mental call. Unfortunately, there were no archways or anything even remotely door-like on the beach that could serve as a portal. His brothers and Max would not be able to use the mansion to get to him in time. Only Azrael’s vampires could come to his aid fast enough. But first he and Sophie needed to survive the seconds it would take for help to arrive.

He could take Sophie and escape through the shadows to someplace safer—but the phantoms would only follow him. It was one of the many, many things that made them so dangerous. They could track anything, anywhere. Only vampires and black dragons could traverse the dark web of passageways in the shadow realm, but phantoms could sniff out who had been
through
them, when, and where they were headed next. They would know where Az was going before he got there. Then all they had to do was transport to that location. If Az disappeared through them with Sophie, he would come out the other side only to find himself walking into an ambush of terrible proportions.

His only other option was to take to the skies with her. Both phantoms and wraiths could fly, and they would be hot on his tail. But vampires, at least, were faster.

Az had decided to do this and was turning to face Sophie when she was suddenly ripped from his side. He spun, blurring with the motion, but too late.

Sophie was caught fast, a strong arm around her shoulders both pinning her to her captor and covering her mouth so that she couldn’t scream. A second hand fisted in her hair to expose her neck to the now frigid air. A pair of glowing blue eyes glared at Azrael over Sophie’s head, and a set of sharp white fangs threatened her throat.

Azrael froze. “Abraxos,” he whispered.

Abraxos grinned at him through those misbegotten teeth as Sophie struggled ineffectually in his strong grasp. The Adarian vampire winked at Azrael and stepped back into the shadows behind him, taking Sophie with him.

Az was rushing forward to follow him into the darkness when something cold and horrible struck him from behind. An arc of freezing pain shot through his chest, clutching at his heart. He stopped in his tracks, fighting not to fall to his knees. Unsteadily, he attempted to inhale, but his lungs felt frozen. He looked down to see icicles forming across the black clothing over his chest, and he knew that the flesh and bone beneath it were freezing just as rapidly.

From the center of his chest protruded a taloned, slithering white hand shrouded in magical mist. As he watched, the phantom slowly twisted its arm in Azrael’s chest, and then yanked it back out again, sending Az to his knees after all.

The pain was excruciating, but Azrael’s worry for Sophie was stronger. It shoved his legs back underneath him and brought him once more to his feet. But the moment he again attempted to blur into forward motion, he was met with another, different kind of pain that brought him to a fast halt for a second time.

He cried out as the left side of his neck was embraced with lightning speed by the skeletal hand of a wraith. The touch sent a malevolent, magical poison through his system, turning back time to wrong all rights.

Azrael had been battling the monsters of the universe for thousands of years. Over that time, he had sustained many injuries. Several of them reopened now: a claw rake across his back that left four deep gouges and was instantly welling blood, a blade’s clean slice across his left quadriceps that nearly disconnected two halves of the muscle, a burn on his right shoulder left there by a red dragon before Az was a vampire.

Azrael’s back arched with the pain and he stumbled, bending to clutch at the wound in his leg. He was not only an archangel but a vampire, and the wound would heal, as would the claw marks across his back. But the last wound was the one that frightened Azrael the most. It had been born of fire, and his vampire-archangel blood could not heal it like the others. Worse yet—the bite was poisonous. The fire would spread, burning across his skin and scorching it to a crisp until it could be magically halted in its tracks. This hadn’t been a problem for Azrael the archangel; his blood had healed the wound before it had a chance to spread.

Now, however, things were different.

Azrael gritted his teeth, his fangs aching in his gums. He spun on the wraith, fury and fear fueling his movements. The monster reeled back, realizing his mistake in remaining too close for milliseconds too long. Azrael grabbed the creature’s thin, waxy neck with one hand and twisted with fierce, violent momentum. The wraith made a wretched choking sound and dropped to the ground.

But it was quickly replaced. Another phantom raked its icy-death claws through Azrael’s already churning midsection while he went for the neck of yet another supernatural monster. Azrael felt the fire of the red dragon wound spreading even as his others healed. He couldn’t get near the shadows that Abraxos and Sophie had disappeared into. If enough time passed, he wouldn’t be able to track them. And he wondered for the first time if he was going to die on that beach.

At least she loves me,
he thought.

And that’s reason enough to live, my lord
,
said Uro, his voice a stunning comfort in the confines of Azrael’s spinning mind.

Az turned, having to peer over the shoulders of two phantoms who simultaneously attacked him in order to catch sight of the vampires who were now stepping out of shadows of their own. Uro was the only vampire Azrael had ever created who could move through the shadows. But the Egyptian had not come alone. He’d brought the entire band along with him, no doubt having to concentrate to the point of pain in order to move so many bodies through the murky, confusing labyrinth that was the shadow realm.

Az had rarely seen a more welcome sight. Just as he was ducking to avoid the reach of another wraith, Uro attacked, yanking a phantom back by its hair and taking it to the skies in an angry white blur.

Azrael’s attention was divided then. Half of him fought with the creatures around him, as did Rurik, Devran, and Mikhail. But the other half of him was fast becoming a slave to the pain of the burns moving through his body.

He needed to get to Michael or one of the archesses. Sophie would have been able to heal him, but he would have to go through Abraxos to get to her. In his current state, Azrael honestly didn’t think he was up to the challenge.

The red dragon’s poison was moving inward. He could feel it edging toward the arteries of his heart. It wouldn’t be long before the muscle was burned. And when that happened . . .

Azrael pulled his thoughts from the possible dark fate and concentrated on his other option. A phantom shoved his fist through his shoulder, Azrael pulled it back out again, broke the arm at the elbow, and then backhanded the phantom so hard that the monster went sailing across the beach.

It was either up to Az to move through the shadows to the mansion himself in order to find Michael, Ellie, or Jules—or up to Uro to bring Michael to him there on the beach. The former was far more likely and far faster than the latter.

So that was what he concentrated on. All he had to do was make it through three more phantoms and a wraith before the fire could take his heart, and the shadows would be his to traverse.

Chapter Thirty-three

S
ophie closed her eyes against the feeling that moving through the strange darkness gave her. She was torn between wanting her abductor to release her and wanting him to hold tighter to her so that he wouldn’t lose her in the miasma of shadows.

When they finally stepped through the other side and her captor shoved her into a bright white room of pure marble, Sophie felt like crying with relief. And just plain crying.

Her wobbly legs crumpled beneath her. She went down hard, landing on her knees on the smooth white stone before she could get a good look around. As she hit, she sucked in a breath of pain and bit her lip. Then she took a shaky breath, raised her head, and shoved her hair out of her face in order to more fully take in her surroundings.

She saw that there were people in the room, but at first she couldn’t focus on them. Instead, she was distracted by the strangeness of the space itself. The room was octagonal and divided by several tall white marble columns. Veins of gold and what looked like crushed diamonds were woven through the polished stone. At the center of each wall was a large arched window, apparently gilded in gold.

Whoever had abducted her couldn’t have been an Adarian. From what Juliette and the archangels had told her, Adarians would never have surrounded themselves with anything resembling gold.

Beyond all eight windows stretched the same stark landscape: mountains and canyons of pure white ice climbed from valleys of pristine, glimmering snow. The sun’s twilight rays nearly crested the tops of the spiked, crystalline hills, lending the view a pinkish orange glow. In a few minutes, the fiery orb would rise and the land would reflect its brightness in blinding brilliance. Sophie experienced the temporary urge to simply stare out the windows for a while until the sun did so. She was certain it would be spectacular beyond her wildest dreams.

The frigid landscape waited beyond the open arches of the windows and yet she was warm, which was disconcerting. She’d only recently come into her archess powers, and she had yet to fully digest the fact that she
was
an archess, but she understood enough through Juliette and through what she’d done so far to know that this room seemed made specifically with her powers in mind. There was nothing in the room to throw around with telekinesis. There was no fire to manipulate. And the fact that she couldn’t feel the outside world through the windows meant that the room was magically shielded from its location. Any storm she caused around them would have no effect upon the inhabitants of the marble chamber. She was powerless here.

As she considered this, Sophie tried desperately to ignore the tower of energy she felt radiating from the man in white several feet away.

“I can’t deny that I’m disappointed, Sophie,” came his familiar, eerily beautiful voice.

Sophie tried not to look at him. She didn’t want to get sucked into Gregori’s ice-rimmed dark stars. She knew him now. As she knelt there on the floor, her body shivering with fear, she felt that she could finally think clearly enough to see the man in white for what he was.

He’d done something to her last time. He’d marked her, and that mark had taken her over, turning her against the man she loved.

The man I love
,
she thought, the words stunning her and empowering her at the same time. Here she was, kneeling before a creature who would most likely kill her—
why
, she had no idea—and yet her recognition of the love she had for Azrael seemed paramount.

“Disappointed.” Gregori sighed, sounding so truly sad that Sophie couldn’t help but look up at him at last. “But I cannot fault you,” he continued, tilting his beautiful head to one side and giving Sophie a gentle, understanding smile. “If your feelings are true.”

To say that Sophie was confused would have been an understatement. Who was Gregori and what the hell did he want with her? What was his game?

She chanced a quick glance at the other occupants of the room. There were four other people in the room with them. One was the man who had taken her from the beach. Sophie glanced at him over her shoulder. If she had to guess, she would peg him as a vampire. He was tall and broad, with jet-black hair and very blue glowing eyes with fiery red pupils. There was something strange about those pupils, but Sophie couldn’t bring herself to look into them long enough to figure out what it was. She didn’t want to turn her back to Gregori for any significant length of time.

Two other men in the room stood on opposite ends of the chamber. Each was nearly seven feet tall, appeared broad and strong, and possessed skin that was pale to the point of translucence. One had brown hair with green highlights running through it. The other had black hair with blue highlights. Their eyes were . . .
reptilian
. Instead of the round pupils of a human, their slightly reflective eyes possessed slits like those of a lizard.

Sophie knew she shouldn’t, but she stared at them in stark fascination while they gazed straight ahead at nothing in particular. They were as still as statues, their hands at their sides, and each was dressed in blue jeans, engineering boots, and a leather jacket encrusted with what looked like genuine gemstones. They were simply too deep in color, too refractive of the light to be crystal or cut glass. One of the jackets contained gemstones of green—emeralds? The other had blue sapphires.

Jesus
, thought Sophie,
those jackets must be worth a fortune.

Finally, she looked away. The other person in the room she recognized as John Smith, the man who had taken her from her cell on Alcatraz. Smith now watched her with an enigmatic expression on his face.

“Why am I here?” she asked, choosing to meet Smith’s gaze since it didn’t make her stomach feel as if it was boiling.

“You would find this hard to believe, but the truth is, I bear you no personal ill will, Sophie Bryce,” said Gregori, at once stealing her attention. She turned back to look at him and slowly stood in the hopeless attempt to not feel so small in front of the man.

He watched her rise, his expression unreadable.

“If I did, I would not have watched over you for the past twenty years.” His voice was level, his tone filled with meaning. “I would not have kept you safe when your parents died or protected you from the authorities when you killed your foster father.”

Sophie stared at him, dumbfounded.
It was you?
she thought.

Gregori nodded, just once. “You see, for many years, I blamed Azrael for my misfortune. He was the Angel of Death. And I lost someone very dear to me. I had an ultimate plan, of course, but I saw no reason why Azrael shouldn’t suffer in fulfilling that ultimate plan. And what could make him suffer more than losing the one he loved as well?”

Sophie’s gaze narrowed. A riddle here and there was one thing, but this was going too far. She was sick and tired of not knowing what was going on. “You lost me,” she said honestly, her own tone low with impending storm. She was furious at being ripped from Azrael’s embrace, and she was more than a little worried for the archangel’s safety. The monsters that had been swarming the beach before her capture had not looked at all friendly.

Gregori’s brow raised, whether because he was impressed or amused, Sophie couldn’t tell. She found her throat going dry as the man in white watched her for a moment in silence.

Finally, he took a deep breath and let it out in a weary sigh. “Many years ago,” he said, turning to pace a step away and then pausing to glance back at her. “
Many
years,” he repeated with emphasis, “I fell in love with a mortal woman.” He paused again, and his expression changed, his voice taking on a softer tone. “Her name was Amara.”

He smiled wistfully and for a fraction of a fraction of a second, Gregori was no longer frightening. He looked human—and sad.

But then the impression was gone and he laughed softly but harshly, shaking his head. “The name means ‘eternal.’ It was unfortunately ironic, as her life was to be anything
but
.” He resumed pacing then, his gaze on the pristine marble floor in front of him, his white wing-tipped shoes making soft clicking sounds as he moved. “In my realm, we were forbidden from mingling with the mortals of Earth. The Old Man decried them as unfit and did not want us to be tainted by their wayward spirits.”

The Old Man
, Sophie thought.
So Gregori’s from the same realm as the angels
.

Gregori stopped and looked up at Sophie, his eyes boring instant holes through her. She ceased breathing.

“Oh, we are most definitely from the realm of the angels, Miss Bryce.” He smiled grimly. “In fact, we were there long before the archangels were created. Long before the Adarians.” He waited and the silence stretched. “We were the first.”

* * *

I made it.

It was a simple thought, free of embellishment, but it meant everything to Azrael. It had been a long while since he’d had to fight so hard to do no more than survive. Whoever Gregori was—
whatever
Gregori was—he meant business. Not even Samael had ever come after the archangel brothers with such ferocity.

By the time Azrael was stepping out of the shadows and into the mansion’s foyer, the red dragon fire in his system was inches from taking his heart. It was only by some twist of luck and fate that once Az had taken off with Sophie after pulling her out of her apartment, Michael himself had decided to return to the mansion. There were so many places he could have been, and Az didn’t possess the strength to track him down. Fortunately, he didn’t have to.

Az stumbled through the archway that led to the living room where all three of Azrael’s brothers, Eleanore, and Juliette now sat with Max. Some of them held steaming cups of tea in their hands, and all wore decidedly worried expressions. They also looked tired; it had been a long few days.

Everyone turned toward the foyer’s entrance as Azrael appeared. Heartbeats later, Michael was up and out of his seat and racing toward Azrael. Gabriel joined him, and the two of them helped Az to the nearest couch as Uriel cleared away the pillows and throws to make room for his tall frame.

“You look like rubbish,” Gabriel breathed.

Azrael lay back with a wince. He was being eaten alive by fire poison, and more than a few phantom and wraith wounds were still attempting to heal themselves.

Michael took one look up and down Az’s normally strong body and his expression became grim. At once, he knelt beside his brother and placed his hands atop Azrael’s abdomen.

Az bit back a curse of pain.

“Where is Sophie?” Max asked as he approached the couch and Michael shut his eyes to concentrate.

Azrael’s head spun and his heart physically ached, as though the poison had already reached its mark. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Abraxos took her.”

“Bloody hell!” Gabriel exclaimed gruffly. “Again?”

Michael opened his eyes, his concentration clearly interrupted.

“Not helping,” Uriel said softly as he and Max shot Gabe a warning look. Gabriel shut his mouth, his silver eyes flashing.

“Move, sweetie,” said Juliette. She and Eleanore pushed their way past the Scot in order to kneel beside Michael.

“You’re gonna need our help,” said Eleanore, with a sidelong glance at the Warrior Archangel.

Michael nodded his silent thanks and the three turned back to Azrael.

Az met his brother’s blue-eyed gaze.
Quickly, please
, he pleaded without speaking.
Or I’ll lose his trail.

Michael closed his eyes once more and his hands began to glow. The archesses followed suit. Azrael rested his head against the arm of the sofa and prepared for the pain he knew would come with the healing. He hadn’t looked in a mirror since the wraith had attacked him, but he could feel the damage it had caused. There were third-degree burns across his shoulder, his neck, and the right side of his jaw. Those burns continued across his chest and the right side of his abdomen, nearly to his hip. The entire right half of his upper body was virtually unrecognizable.

Vampires naturally withstood healing where burns were concerned. This would be more difficult to undo than a sword wound. In that moment, Azrael was incredibly grateful for the help the archesses were able to give. He wasn’t sure that Michael would have been able to handle this one alone.

When the warmth of their combined healing power enveloped the already burned tissue on Azrael’s chest, he closed his eyes and focused inward, pulling himself away from the agonizing sensation. In his mind’s eye, he saw his archess: her golden hair, golden eyes, and bright, beautiful smile. He heard her voice, soft and sweet. He almost smiled when he imagined her laugh. The hidden smile turned wicked when he heard internal thunder and thought of her intense fighting spirit . . . and the delicious punishments it caused her to bring upon herself.

“Done,” came a tired voice beside him.

Azrael opened his eyes. The pain was gone.

He looked down at his destroyed clothes and caught sight of the smooth flesh beneath. No acid burned in his veins; no fire rushed through his arteries toward his waiting heart.

Azrael sat up and the three healers moved back. Eleanore brushed a lock of raven hair from her lovely face. She looked a tad paler than usual. Juliette’s wild hair seemed a bit frizzier than normal where it framed her petite, perfect features. She appeared every bit the highland fairy. Michael stood slowly, his tall, strong frame as warrior-esque as ever. But Az could sense his weariness. There was a darkness to his eyes . . . as if his blue skies bore clouds.

“Thank you,” Azrael said as he stood. There was no time to waste. He offered his hands to the archesses, one to each of them, and they accepted, allowing him to help them up. Then he moved around them, toward the foyer and its longer shadows.

“If you’re goin’ ta fight Abraxos, I’m bloody well comin’ with you,” said Gabriel.

Azrael glanced at him over his shoulder to find that the archangel was already steadfastly moving in place behind Az. And he wasn’t alone. Michael, Uriel, and Max were right behind him. A few feet back, Eleanore and Juliette shot wary, uncertain glances at each other. They clearly wanted to tag along, but were torn about how much they would actually be able to help—and they were worried about their husbands.