Demon (31 page)

“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.

T
HE 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

I
AM
R
AZIEL, 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.