The Forsaken (7 page)

Michael had discovered her a month after she’d left the caring hands of humans who tried to heal her. It had been a cold, drizzly day and she’d feared her voice might give out. He had walked up to her, while she’d been busking and handed her a business card. Their hands had touched briefly, but it was all Izzy needed to grasp the intel she’d needed. Michael wanted to help teens. He’d suffered his own loss and when the heavens opened up that night with a heavy downpour, Izzy took him up on his offer of help.

Over the years the center had changed, with her help and that of her sisters she’d rescued. Luckily, Michael never once said no to her. He had inherited what he called “old money,” and thoroughly liked trying to make a difference. She knew he had hopes of setting her and the band up with a “lucrative” record deal. Izzy wanted none of that. In exchange for the brownstone he and her sisters had helped refurbish, they sang and did other chores as needed for the center.

Izzy liked performing on Sunday nights. The crowds were less interested in scoring sex or looking tough. Most of the kids crossing Michael’s door were like her—in need. Sunday nights was more a night out with friends, a last hurrah before the week of school called them forth.

Tonight Izzy knew she showed a lot more flesh than usual. She’d discarded her normal high-top sneakers for the military-styled boots she wore when fighting demons and that should have told her something. She wasn’t feeling her usual calm, in-control self, and it was all Nathanael’s fault.

“Everything okay, Izzy?” asked Mike the minute she moved up behind him at the bar. He handed her a glass of her usual—ice-cold water.

“You bet. Why?”

“Seemed like there was a bit of trouble the other night. Care to explain all that?”

No, not really.
Izzy took a sip of water. Mike wouldn’t let her leave until she said something. “Old friend showed up unexpectedly. No biggie.”

He made a move to touch her arm. She tensed, her body instinctively moving out of reach. She, like all of her sisters, was an empath. While she’d touched him a few times over the years, she’d always tried to avoid it. If touched, they could find themselves choking on a sudden rush of human emotions. Izzy had learned to dull the effect by staying out of reach or instantly humming a healing chant to her soul.

Anya had yet to master turning off the tangible rush of human emotions. Tonight, like most nights, she lay quietly in her bed reading poetry. Currently, she was engrossed in Josephine Balmer’s
Sappho Poems and Fragments
. Izzy knew eventually she’d have to get the
novice
to face the real world. She’d tried in the past to get Anya to sing, knowing evoking her musical voice would bless her. Anya refused.
We all have our coping mechanisms.

Mike stopped himself from touching her and instead leaned his head closer to hers. “If he becomes a biggie,” said Mike, looking over at the table near the back of the bar where Nathanael sat, “I can deal with him.”

Oh no, you can’t.
“Thanks, Mike. Seriously, all’s fine. He’ll behave.”
I’ll behave.

“By the way, nice outfit,” said Mike, giving her a friendly wink.

“Daring, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s just not your typical attire. You sure everything’s okay?”

“Things are just blessedly great.” Before he could pop quiz her more, she turned away from him to make her way back stage.

“You’re wearing that to annoy him,” said Meredith, as she handed out the bells to each of the sisters.

For a second, Isabelle thought of asking who she meant, but why play stupid? All of them scented the Seraphim the minute his heavenly presence crossed the threshold. He smelled of soap mixed with steel. She wished he smelled like the overripe boys who frequented the establishment; they doused themselves in so much cologne it made her gag. Not Nathanael. He didn’t need to enhance what the Almighty had blessed him with. He was Seraphim.

Izzy leaned closer to Meredith. “You bet I am. Maybe he’ll realize I’m not the perfect Cherub, and certainly not wife material, and fly back to the heavens.” She made a mocking flying motion with her hands and laughed bitterly.

“I wouldn’t tease him. He just might decide to pounce for real,” teased Shea, picking up her small gold harp.

The harp had been a gift from Mike. Shea always played it on Sundays for him. Shea thought of Mike as a friend, but Izzy suspected their twenty-two-year old benefactor, who was six years Shea’s senior, thought of the Cherub in a different way. She wondered when he’d clue in on the fact that none of them aged.

Izzy watched as five of her sisters positioned themselves on the stage. The velvet curtain kept their movements hidden from the excited crowd. Even without touching humans, Izzy felt their emotions. One in particular thrummed through her. That edgy, daring feeling invaded her mind and body, but she vowed not to let Nathanael’s anger rub her wrong.

Izzy wore a white leather bra underneath a black-mesh shirt that barely reached her navel. The netting covered the scars on her back. Tonight she’d forgone the short skirt. Her legs, kept hidden in the tight white leather pants, hid the Rashi script inked into her flesh without her consent. Izzy knew she looked sexy. Pissed to the core, she showed more flesh than a Cherub should to any other than her mate. She wanted Nathanael to get her message loud and clear.
I’m not a perfect Cherub. I’ll dress any way I choose. I’ll wear what I think is appropriate. You will never dictate to me.

Taking her place center stage, Izzy prepared to sing her heart out. When the curtain ascended, her stomach pitched. Her gaze immediately sought him. She hated herself for that and for the fact she’d had little sleep since last night. His mere presence had disturbed the calm equilibrium she’d established. No one, especially not the son of the angel who had ripped off her wings, was going to get away with that.

* * *

Fury uncoiled in a swift bolt through Nathanael. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
What by the blessed scribes is she thinking?
His gut told him she knew exactly what she was doing—taunting him. He clenched his jaw so hard his mouth began to hurt.

Anger ripped through him. He wouldn’t be surprised if he found himself levitating—the one heavenly power he’d kept in this realm. Thankful now that the Mistress, in her wisdom, had removed his wings as a temporary measure, Nat knew if he’d had his wings, he’d fly to the stage and sweep her away. Rational, Seraphim common sense flew to the heavens the minute he’d spied his Isabella, and make no mistake, she was and would be his.

First, she’d had the nerve to cozy up to the manager—the same cursed human who had given him that unholy drink the other night. Nat felt his teeth gnash together again while his fist clenched tightly. He didn’t like how comfortable she appeared to be with the man. The only thing that had saved Isabella from him making a scene had been her sidestep away from the human the minute the male tried to touch her. If one finger from that man touched her velvet-soft skin, Nat was seriously going to be pissed.

To add insult, Isabella had sung a blatant Cherub lover’s song. Nat knew he was being put in his place by her voice, which totally disarmed him. Feeling edgy, he’d made his way from the table he’d been sitting at to stand against the wall, more in the shadow so he could observe her while also reclaiming his body’s dignity. The jeans he wore felt even more restrictive than the other night. Watching her and her bandmates work the crowd he saw pure pleasure sail across Isabella’s face. The way she smiled, carefree, made him realize that was how he wanted her to look at him.

Nat realized, he like every other male in the room, wasn’t immune to her sensual voice. But the humans were lucky. They didn’t understand the graphic words that had rolled off her tongue. For once in his life, he wished he’d been absent for the class on classic ballads and their meaning. At first when Isabella had teased him with her attire, he’d been shocked. She stepped over the line, playing and flirting with him through her songs. Tonight he’d give her his idea of fun. She probably wouldn’t like it, but tough.

Let’s see who wins this round.

Marching upstairs, he was at Isabella’s door and about to knock when Meredith approached.

“She’s upset.”

“Really,” said Nathanael with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

“She doesn’t usually act like that.”

That pleased him but he didn’t speak his thoughts out loud. “I need to speak with her.”

“I’d wait until she’s calmed down,” said Meredith, speaking her mind with more ease than she had before.

“I’m not waiting.”

“As you wish,” said Meredith, backing away, allowing him to grace Isabella’s door with a hard knock.

When no one responded he knocked louder. Waiting a few more minutes only served to heighted his temper. Through the wooden door he heard Isabella’s controlled voice.

“I’m busy. Leave me alone.”

Leave her alone.
Any sane Seraphim might have heeded her but Nathanael had been pushed enough for one day. He opened the door and almost got knocked on his ass. Isabella wore a white, belted bathrobe, but her leg had clearly come into direct contact with his chest.

He ducked and scrambled out of her way to avoid both her feet and arms, which seemed intent on doing some serious damage to him.

“I said get out!” said Isabella.

Nathanael grasped her arms, halting her attack. Bringing her body flush to his he realized his serious mistake. With her body pressed closed to his he felt every curve. Her head reached his shoulders now that she wasn’t wearing those ugly boots she wore on stage and the floral fruity scent of her soap hit him square in the gut. She was Cherub and having her in his arms reminded him of that. He should treat her with respect and be polite but looking at her angry face, he knew that would not win him any points.

Isabella was sputtering. She was so mad she couldn’t come back with her usual retort. Maybe she should have listened to Meredith’s advice. Too late now. Coming face-to-face with Nathanael, having the feel of him flush against her, she never wanted to experience again. Her gut clenched and that nervous feeling she experienced simply from looking at him, undid her.

She had pushed this Seraphim too far. She’d thought by teasing him he’d leave in disgust. Instead, a geyser of volcanic heavenly power wrapped with determination was reflected in the turbulent grays of his eyes. She’d made him mad and instead of disgust he thought to change her. That, Isabella wasn’t going to let happen. They could talk all day, but she’d never give into what he truly wanted of her.

“You shouldn’t be in here.” She hated the quiver in her voice.

He leaned his head down and for a second she swore he was smelling her wet hair. She attempted to lower her head but that brought her nose closer to his body.

“I shouldn’t,” he mocked. “By the path of light, who should be here?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“I know nothing of the sort, Isabella. I don’t know you and tonight you made it blatantly clear you don’t know me. Did you think your actions and sinful voice would repulse me? Ah, I can see you did. You are my—”

“Don’t say it. I can’t stand that word.”

“Then what shall I call you? Are you telling me you feel nothing for me? I know I certainly feel something, something I’ve never felt before.” He followed his words with action by bringing her even more into his embrace. She knew she could easily get out. All she had to do was knee him in the privates and escape would be within reach but that was a cowardly move she’d use only as a last resort.

His hand reached out to move a wet tendril of her hair off her face. Everything in her grew taut with awareness. Maybe she had pushed him because she wanted what he offered.
No, I do not.

He wet his lips, the move drawing her eyes to his mouth. Too masculine to be pretty, his lips were plump and a dark rosy red. Simple attire graced his frame, blue jeans, and black T-shirt. He’d had a dress coat over that earlier but that was probably lying on her floor by now.

“Tell me you feel nothing,” he whispered.

She froze, letting his finger trail down her exposed neck, past her collarbone to slide back up.

“Nothing,” she rasped.

“Liar.” He tsked, but his eyes never once left her flesh. “Not a Cherub quality, but then again I think you, Isabella, take great delight in debunking the Cherub way. Am I correct?”

Sucking in her breath, Izzy glared at him. “Get your hands off me.”

“You refuse my touch,
b’iã
?”

“No…I mean yes. And I told you not to call me that.”

His other hand snaked around her middle to lay claim to her waist, catching her further off guard. Izzy didn’t want this, but her body prepared to betray her. Her stomach muscles fluttered and her heart accelerated and her Cherub mind immediately recalled all of her teachings. His face moved closer to hers. His breath, minty fresh, blew across her lips, daring her to deny the evidence that they were meant for each other.

“I like to touch you, Isabella, or should I call you Izzy, since we’re becoming familiar?”

He teased her, the storm clouds in his eyes evaporating to reveal something she did not want to acknowledge. Dealing with his anger was easy compared to his passion.

“We are not and will never become familiar,” stated Izzy, not caring what he chose to call her.
Now or ever.

“Isabella we will become very familiar. I could press my point now as is my right. Is that why you continue to fight me?” The heat of his words a fraction of a breath away from her lips caused her to curl her toes. She dug her fingers into the palms of her hands to ground her.

“You don’t understand,” she mumbled.

His moved his head to the right and gently he nipped at her exposed neck. “You are the most beautiful Cherub I have ever seen.”

“Just how many have you seen?” she asked, knowing most Cherubs lived a life closeted away from the males.