Temptation, Chronicles of the Fallen, Book 3 (6 page)

He crossed his arms along the back of the chair and pinned her with a steely gaze. “Do you know who your father is?”

Confusion and panic blinked through her angry eyes, quickly stifled as she turned her stony stare to a point just beyond his shoulder.

He waited a beat, two. Yet she refused to acknowledge him.

“I asked you a question. Do you know who your father is?”

She finally turned back to him and began a heated, if muffled tirade of mumbled syllables through the gag. Her pitch and tone rose and fell on her garbled end of the conversation.

Gideon looked on, utterly fascinated, as her angry tirade transformed into disgusted disbelief. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, all the while spewing a grumbling verbal barrage at him. Then the disbelief was gone, and once more, anger held sway and her words became a furious snarl through the gag. He waited until she wound down, then reached out and tugged the material from her mouth, letting it sag around her slender, tempting throat.

He waited, watching her in silence as his body vibrated with pure lust.

What. A. Woman.

A muscle in her jaw clenched as she glared holes clean through his hide. At last, she spoke, her voice filled with contempt. “Did that bastard send you?”

Stolas looked on in disgust and cursed the Fallen once more. The Halfling writhed in agony on the floor of the cell in his dungeon in a pool of her own blood. Every scream, every convulsion of her body caused the fury inside him to build until he felt the need to crush something, anything. Another Halfling dead, or as good as. Another setback in his plot to overthrow Lucifer.

Why weren’t they strong enough? Why did they continue to fail him? A female’s primary capacity—after a male’s pleasure, of course—was to bear young, wasn’t it? Why, then, did they keep hemorrhaging shortly after impregnation?

He snarled his disgust at the female as she began to pale, the flush of pain and fever fading to the translucence of death. The convulsions continued to rip at her body, but she didn’t even try to fight to them any longer. Her cries grew weaker, until she barely made the slightest whimper.

He’d given up on healing the Halflings. Subsequent pregnancies always ended the same way, so why waste the energy? If she wasn’t strong enough the first time, she wouldn’t be game for a second try, much less a third, thereby rendering her useless.

That he was forced to rely on these weaklings to accomplish his goal, to attain his birthright, was debasing. But he couldn’t get his hands on the Chosen One without a Halfling. And so he was forced to deal with this, forced to sift through Halfling after Halfling until he found one strong enough to bear demon seed to fruition.

Turning away, fists clenched at his sides, he stalked down the long, dim corridor lined on either side with cells. He stopped at the third on the left and let his gaze travel over the bedraggled creature crouching in the corner. A third generation Halfling, he’d been told when she’d first been brought to him. Long, matted hair straggled down her back and shoulders, partially concealing a narrow, pinched face. Her clothing was torn and filthy.

When she’d first been captured, her birdlike gaze had darted this way and that, intelligence lurking in its pale green depths. She’d displayed a will to live, a fighting spirit that had kindled a spark of hope in his breast. Oh yes, she’d given him hope. Perhaps, young as she was, possessed of the nature to fight as she was, she would be the one to bear the Chosen One.

But she’d proven as useless as all the rest. Even now she cowered, nearly comatose, her gaze dull as she stared at nothing. Though she’d lasted longer than the others, he didn’t have much hope for this one anymore either. She’d been here almost a full two months so far and had failed to breed.

Unable to find a first generation Halfling, he was growing desperate. Even so, he was too angry over the last Halfling’s failure to even contemplate mating this one again. Not now. In this state, he was just as likely to kill her as get her with spawn. Another lesson he’d learned the hard way. Halflings were a fragile lot. And they were getting harder and harder to find.

He shimmered to the sanctuary of his great hall, took a seat at the head of the long, onyx table and summoned a Charocté from one of the shadowed corners with a flick of his wrist. The servant scurried forth and bowed in submission. It summoned a decadent feast before him, then dropped to its knees a few feet from the table, arms crossed over its chest, fists pressed to shoulders, head lowered, all but prostrate as it awaited Stolas’s pleasure.

Stolas lifted the goblet to his lips, his mood too dour to savor the vintage of the blood therein. He toyed with the steak, watching the blood pool on the silver platter. The bread tasted of ash. The aged, hard cheese tasted of ash. The meat tasted of ash. Even the blood. All ashes in his mouth.

He leaned to the side, and propped his chin on his fist, as he glanced at the still kneeling Charocté. With Ronové’s demise, he’d been forced to enlist another demon capable of summoning him to Earth’s plane. A task easier said than done, but he couldn’t leave the bowels of Hell without the ritual being performed. The curse of his lineage. The problem was it took time to amass the necessary followers, time to build an earthbound nest stable enough to perform the rituals.

Time he did not have.

He cringed every time he was forced to bring another demon into his circle. But the Fallen were picking his minions off like flies. And it rubbed him raw—powerful as he was—having to rely on others to perform certain crucial tasks.

He longed to summon the Sword of Kathnesh to him, longed to hold it in his own hand, just once, just to feel the power radiating from it. He wanted to witness the blade with his own eyes, the blade that would set him free and make him ruler of all.

But he didn’t dare. Couldn’t risk having the blade anywhere near him lest Lucifer suspect him of such foul treachery. Nor would he risk bringing the sword out in the open, not even for his own peace of mind. It was safe, under his control. He would have to content himself with that.

Especially now that the Fallen had stolen the Arc Stone out from under his nose. Now he had no choice but to press his timetable forward. The pressure to find the other relics was mounting, and time was running out. The longer it took for him to collect the relics, the greater the risk of discovery. Without interference from the Fallen, he would have been able to continue his search with none the wiser.

Now? Now it felt as if his every move were being broadcast across the realms.

Just the reminder of that cursed bunch of traitors made his blood boil. He motioned toward the Charocté and watched as it fell, writhing on the floor, its features contorting in hideous pain. He flicked his finger this way and that, like a metronome. The servant flopped about on the floor, its mouth stretched wide as its screams filled the air.

Stolas sighed. Why was begetting one offspring so difficult?

He watched, detached, as blood welled in the Charocté’s eyes, gushed from its mouth. A wave of Stolas’s finger caused bones to snap and skin to rupture.

Bored, he waved his hand, and the Charocté erupted in flames, eventually disintegrating in ashes.

More ashes. How I despise ashes.

He’d been born to this realm. Born to fire and brimstone. Born to ashes and searing heat. But the stories his minions had brought back of Earth fueled his determination. A color called green. He wanted to see it with his own eyes. Trees with actual leaves. Waters that ran cold and smelled pleasant, not stagnant, sulfurous pools that boiled. And things called snow and ice. Rumored to be so cold they could freeze flesh.

Just imagine the sheer decadence of that!

Nothing would stop him. He would feel snow upon his skin. He would bury his enemies beneath a mountain of it.

Chapter Four

When her captor didn’t immediately reply, feigning shock instead, Maggie turned her face to the wall, determined not to give an inch. If the sperm donor thought this abduction was going to scare her into submission he had another thing coming.

“Well, that saves a bit of time then,” her abductor said in his honey-smooth Southern drawl, his amber stare drilling into her, searching, she was sure, for the slightest hint of weakness. From the periphery of her vision, she watched him as he tilted his head—only a fool took her attention off her enemy.

“Do you know
what
your father is?” he pressed.

She snapped her teeth together, gritting them in a desperate bid for control. She would not shout that Michael was
not
her father. A father was someone who was there for you when you needed him. Someone to teach you to swim and ride a bike. Someone to scare away the nightmares and to hold you in his arms when it stormed. Someone who told you he loved you no matter what.

A father didn’t show up out of the blue the day of your twenty-first birthday to tell you that you were different.

Not special. Not precious. Not loved.

Just different.

He didn’t place his hand upon your head and “unlock your special gifts”, as he so magnanimously decreed. Well, his gifts had turned out to be curses, as far as she was concerned. What good were random visions of the future when you couldn’t change them? What good was a sixth sense, the ability to identify those who meant her harm, if it didn’t also include a way for her to fight them off or escape should they capture her?

Like right now.

And a father did not resort to scare tactics like this.

“Have you met him? Spoken to him?” That honeyed drawl came once more.

The sperm donor’s henchman could press for answers all he wanted. She was a clam. She wouldn’t talk. She bit back a mocking laugh as she heard the henchman draw a deep breath, as if he was seeking patience. Well, he’d better have an endless well of it, because she had nothing to say to Michael or any of his cronies, no matter how attractive they might be.

“You noticed those three demons at the nightclub right away, didn’t you?” So he wanted to change tactics, did he? It wouldn’t do him any good. She wouldn’t answer. “How did you know what they were?”

And she sure as hell wasn’t going to answer those questions either.

She wasn’t about to tell him anything about herself, or her ability. An ability that hadn’t been as reliable as she’d first assumed, obviously. Case in point, trusting the man who’d just abducted her and tied her to a chair, and now sat staring at her as if he’d like nothing more than to strangle her with his bare hands. She hadn’t sensed any harmful intent in him when he’d stared at her across the nightclub. Nor had she sensed malevolent objectives when he’d offered her his assistance.

A tiny frown pulled at her brow. Even now, glaring at her as he was, she still couldn’t sense any imminent threat from him—though he was dangerous, of that she had no doubt.

Her attention swerved to him against her will, and she studied his features head-on. Amber eyes so bright they all but glowed. Like sunshine on gold. His jaw was strong, his shoulders and tattooed arms well muscled, his lips…nope, not looking there. His hair was a wild, tumbled mess. Like fingers had raked through it in the grips of passion. Over and over.

Sexy.

Nope! Nope! Nope! Does not matter!

But exactly what he was, she still couldn’t figure out. He wasn’t human. His little magic tricks had proven that. He wasn’t an angel. He didn’t radiate goodwill, didn’t give off that warm, fuzzy feeling angels did. Not that she’d had all that many encounters to rely on, only the couple of times she’d come face-to-face with the sperm donor.

But she’d had more than her share of run-ins with demons, albeit from a distance. And he didn’t feel like that either, not exactly anyway. There was no choking, cloying sensation of evil, like the greedy, malignant black of an oil slick, oozing from him. In fact, try as she might, she couldn’t sense either good or evil within him. He was a void. Favoring neither, but capable of either. Any sense of danger came solely from her human instincts alone, the instinct for self-preservation and survival.

Survival. That was what this was all about, wasn’t it? The sperm donor’s decree that she would learn to recognize and avoid the constant threat of a world he’d forced upon her. A world that, up until her twenty-first birthday, she’d been blissfully ignorant of. So the sperm donor had wanted her to be able to recognize angels and demons, wanted her to hide herself away and avoid notice. Well, she already knew how to recognize angels and demons, thanks to his birthday curse. That wonderful sixth sense clued her in every time.

She eyed the man in front of her. Well,
almost
every time. But the sperm donor had refused to show her how to fight, told her she was too weak. Told her that her only chance for survival was to hide.

Well, hiding wasn’t exactly in her nature. And it hadn’t been a very effective strategy anyway. Witness her current situation.

Aside from showing her how to conceal her curse—and obviously he hadn’t done a stellar job of even that—the sperm donor hadn’t wanted anything else to do with her. Perfectly fine with her. She had a life, one she wasn’t going to ditch every time she caught a whiff of something-evil-this-way-comes. She had a good, solid career. Great friends. A nice home. She didn’t want anything to do with the sperm donor either, him or his crazy messed-up world.

Her abductor regarded her with a new intensity. “Do you know what I am?”

She tore her gaze from him, focusing on the massive oil painting behind him. Horses and hounds. A fox hunt.

She felt like that poor little fox right now. Trapped. Helpless. With no way out.

Damn Michael to Hell and back.

“I don’t know anything,” she finally said, in a voice as calm as she could possibly make it. “Just let me go. I won’t tell a soul about this. I promise.”

“You don’t know anything?”

“That’s right.” She looked him right in the eye, and lied through her pearly whites. “Not a thing.”

One corner of those delectable lips of his lifted, just slightly, just enough to reveal the hint of a dimple in his cheek. “But you know Michael?”

Gritting her teeth, she cursed her earlier slip of the tongue and returned her attention to the oil painting.

“Did your father—”

“He’s not my father,” she hissed, the angry words exploding from her before she could contain them.

He leaned back, his head cocked to the side as he regarded her with unmistakable surprise. One long moment passed, then another as he seemed to search for the right words.

“Let’s start over, shall we? I think we got off on the wrong foot here, darlin’.”

So he wanted to play nice now? She jerked her wrists, hands splayed upward, to remind him of his manners. “Do you tie up all your guests?” Frustrated when he made no move to untie her, she thumped her fists against the arms of her chair. “And I am not your
darlin’
.”

Something flashed in his eyes. Just for a moment. Just a flicker of emotion, was it pain? Regret? She couldn’t quite say, but it was quickly masked by a charming façade. His grin blossomed fully. The sight of it made her catch her breath. “I only tie up the ones that like to throw things.” He waited a beat, and then he winked at her. Actually winked. “And the ones who ask for it, of course.”

“Untie me. I promise I won’t throw anything else,” she said with enough sweetness to guarantee a mouthful of cavities.

“I think we’ll talk first. Get to know each other a little better, what do you say?”

“A name would be a good place to start,” she suggested, trying to figure out the best angle.

“Forgive me.” He bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Where are my manners? I’m Gideon.”

“Gideon what?”

“Just Gideon. One name’s all I need.”

Oh, he was pouring the charm on thick now. Not that it would do him any good. Then another thought occurred to her. Maybe she could use this to her advantage. The sperm donor may not have taught her how to fight, but that didn’t mean she was helpless. She had a quick mind. She could figure a way out of this.

“You want to talk, so talk,” she coaxed, softening her tone. She could pour on the charm too. “What are you?”

“I figured you knew the answer to that already.” His chin dipped. “I’m a demon. The Demon of Temptation, to be exact. Well, former Demon of Temptation, at any rate.”

The heat of his gaze sent a shiver of awareness skating up her spine. But his words caught her off guard. Frowning, she argued, “No, you’re not.”

“I am Temptation,” he insisted. Clearly, she’d offended him somehow.

“I’m not disputing the temptation part,” she said. He grinned then, all kinds of sexy. Maggie scowled in response and forged on. “It’s the demon part I don’t believe. I would feel it if you were. So what are you? Really?”

The sensual playfulness drained from his features. He was all business now. “Feel it? Feel what?”

She chewed on the inside edge of her lip. How much should she tell him? How much would it take to get him to trust her, to let her go?

“I can feel evil, and good. I can feel when someone intends harm. It’s like a…a sixth sense.” She snapped her wrists against the restraints. “Though, obviously, it isn’t always…reliable.”

“Then you know I don’t intend to hurt you.” Statement, not question, as he ignored her less than subtle reminder. Why wasn’t he questioning her honesty? Why wasn’t he doubting her claim? Or her sanity?

And then a deeper truth hit her. He was right. Unless her instincts were wrong yet again. He did not intend her any harm.

But he also claimed to be demon. Yet he didn’t feel like a demon.

Why couldn’t she read him like she could all the others?

She pressed, “If you don’t intend to harm me, then why tie me up?”

“Because you needed to calm down long enough for me to talk to you. And because you need to stay here. With me. For your own safety. I need to know you’re not going to try to sneak off on your own.”

“Why? Why do I need to stay with you?”

“I’ve been charged with protecting you. For the time being, at least.”

“Protect me? From what?”
What’s Michael up to now?

“Look, I’ll tell you everything. But it’ll help me to know what you know so I know where to start.”

She blinked at him. Was this a trick?

Instincts. It all came down to her instincts. And, as with earlier at the nightclub, her instincts were telling her she could trust him, abduction and restraints notwithstanding.

“I know who, and what, Michael is,” she finally allowed, grudgingly.

“And do you know what you are?”

Puzzled, she frowned at him. “Of course I do. I’m Maggie.”

“I said what, not who. You are a Halfling.”

“Oh, that,” she said flatly. She vaguely recalled Michael mentioning that term. But she’d been too dazed by his sudden appearance and declaration to pay much attention. Add to it the stunning moment he’d laid his hands upon her head and the wall of dizzying heat that had slammed into her like a freight train and, well, scientific—or biblical—names just hadn’t ranked up there on her list of details to make note of.

“So you know you’re a Halfling, and that your fath—Michael,” he quickly amended when her eyes narrowed, “is an angel. Like you, I have special…gifts. I sense power. And you’re near to bursting at the seams with it. Yet you still refuse to believe I’m a demon?”

“Correct. You don’t give off the same vibe as the other demons I’ve come across.”

“Are you trying to insult my manhood?” His words were obviously meant in a joking fashion, yet there was a definite spark of curiosity there.

“Show me then. I’ve seen a demon transform before, from a distance, of course.” She was lying through her teeth, but he didn’t need to know that. “If you’re really a demon, then transform. Show me what you really are.”

His expression was comical. He looked utterly horrified, and yet, much as he might try to hide it, just the slightest bit tempted.

“No.” Gideon rubbed his palms up and down his thighs, as if they’d begun to sweat. He shook his head and pushed from the chair to tower over her. And yet, agitated as he was, she still sensed no threat from him. “You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he warned.

“Sure I do. I know you’ll get bigger. And scary looking—”

“Scary looking?” Gideon huffed out a mirthless laugh as he paced away, paced back. “You don’t know the half of it. I won’t change for you because I’ll—” He broke off. Color suffused his cheeks. Was he embarrassed? Angry? It was a simple request. Why did he look like he was about to freak out?

He raked a hand through his already messy hair and admitted, “I can’t control that other side of me. The rage takes over and there’s no more logic, no more sanity. I become a killing machine. I have trouble distinguishing friend from foe…hell, half the time I don’t even care. No.” He shook his head again, moistened his lips and visibly forced a swallow. “I won’t change. Not to satisfy your curiosity, not to convince you. Believe me, or don’t. That’s your problem.”

“But—”

“Damn it! I said no.” He’d started pacing away, then swiveled to face her. “Actually, I can do this. But this is all you get.”

Holding his arm out to his side, open palm up, he gave her a grim smile. That was all the warning she got. A seething, pulsing ball of a lavalike substance erupted, hovering in the air just above his palm. Even from that distance, she could feel the searing heat of the thing. Her mouth fell open.

Gideon abruptly fisted his hand, and the ball disappeared with a hiss.

“Satisfied?”

She slowly nodded her head, her gaze still locked on his hand. When she realized she was still gaping, she snapped her mouth closed and dragged her focus back to his face.

Clearing her throat, she worked hard to sound calm and unimpressed. “Okay then.”

She took another moment to compose herself. A moment to form coherent questions. “Why are you different?”