behavior on her part. I couldn’t risk her running off again—the sea might take her, or if she managed to find the borders of our kingdom, the Nephilim would be waiting.
There was only one bed, and I was damned if I was going to give it to her. She would likely sleep at least eight hours. She’d slid farther, so that she was lying on the floor half beneath the coffee table, her head on the thick white carpet. She’d be fine where she was.
I drained my wine and headed toward the bedroom. I pushed open the row of windows that fronted the sea and took a deep, calming breath of air. Even in the dead of winter with snow swirling down, I kept the windows open. We were impervious to cold—the heat of our bodies automatically adjusted. The sound of the ocean waves was soothing, and the cool night air reminded me that I was alive. I needed that reminder of the simple things that made up my life.
I stripped off my clothes and slid beneath the cool silk sheets. My arm still throbbed where the poison had entered, but the rest of me had healed properly, thanks to the salt water and Sarah’s blood. My arm and my cock throbbed—and both were Allie Watson’s fault.
I closed my eyes, determined to fall asleep.
I couldn’t. I kept picturing her on the floor, dead to the world. She’d had a rough couple of days as well. I knew she’d curled up next to me on the hard ground the night before—I’d been dimly aware of it through the haze of pain, and I’d been comforted.
After an hour I gave up, climbing out of the bed I’d longed for and heading for the door. At the last minute I paused and pulled on a pair of jeans. Nudity wasn’t something that meant much in Sheol, and I didn’t care about preserving her modesty. It was my own temptation I was trying to avoid. Even silk boxers or pajama pants were too thin, too easy to slip out of. These jeans had buttons, not a zipper, and it would take a major effort to get them off. Give me time enough to think twice about making such a foolish move.
I pushed the door open and walked back into the living room. It was lit only by the fitful moonlight reflected off the sea, and she was just a huddled shape in the shadows. I went over and scooped her up in my arms. She was heavier than some, though not enough to notice—her weight was no more trouble than carrying a loaf of bread would be for a human. I carried her into the bedroom and carefully set her down on the bed.
She needed to build up her stamina—she hadn’t been able to run very far, and she’d been breathless after only three flights of stairs. She was a pampered city girl, not used to actually moving.
She had a beautiful body. Her breasts were full, enticing, and her hips flared out from a well-defined waist. By current standards, she’d be considered maybe ten to fifteen pounds overweight. By the tastes of the Renaissance, she’d be considered scrawny.
The Renaissance had been one of my favorite periods. I’d enjoyed myself tremendously—the art, the music, the creativity that seemed to wash over everyone.
And the women. Full and lush and beautiful. I’d sampled a great many of them before I made the mistake of falling in love with one, only to lose her. I would have had no choice but to watch my beloved Rafaela age; back then, foolishly, I would have welcomed the chance. But she’d run from me, certain I wouldn’t want her when she looked decades older than I did. She died before I found her again.
Too many women, too many losses, each bit of pain a boon to my enemy, Uriel. I wouldn’t go through that again.
If Allie Watson was going to stay—and right now I couldn’t think of any other option—then she would have to learn to manage all those stairs. Sheol wasn’t set up for guests, and for now she was my responsibility. I couldn’t afford to coddle her.
The tangy salt breeze from the ocean rumpled my hair, and I remembered that humans were more susceptible to the cold. I pulled the sheet up over her —probably a good idea anyway.
And then I lay down beside her. It was a big bed, and she wasn’t going to shift in her sleep, migrate over to my side. She’d lie perfectly still until that particular Grace wore off. As long as my dreams didn’t move me toward her, I’d be safe.
And even if they did, I’d wake up long before I could do anything about it.
I hoped the Grace would last the full twenty-four hours—I needed as much time as possible to deal with the situation. Not that she’d consider this particular comatose sleep a Grace, but that was the all-encompassing term for any of the extraordinary things we were capable of doing. The Grace of deep sleep was one of the least harmful. The Grace to cloud the minds of humans could have much more long-lasting consequences.
I stretched out, closing my eyes. She should smell of the flowered soap the women here used in the baths. She should smell like all the other women, but she didn’t. She had her own sweet, erotic scent underlying the flowers, something that made her subtly different. Something that kept me awake as my exhausted mind conjured all sorts of sexual possibilities.
I glanced over at her comatose figure. She looked younger, prettier, when she was asleep. Sweeter, when I knew she was anything but. She was a time bomb, nothing but trouble, yet somehow I’d gotten tied up with her.
I propped myself up on one elbow, looking down at her. Could I take my breath back from her, loosening the hold she seemed to have over me?
I moved my mouth over hers, not quite touching, and sucked her soft breath into my lungs. And then I bridged the small distance and rested my open mouth against her lips, caught by the sudden urge to taste her.
I sank back on the bed, cursing my own stupidity. I’d felt myself inside her, felt my breath in her body, the inescapable connection. In trying to take it back from her, I’d simply brought her into
I threw one arm over my eyes. Uriel would be laughing now. As if things weren’t bad enough, I’d just made them quantitatively worse.
I couldn’t think straight right now. Tomorrow I’d talk with some of the others. Not everyone was as cold and practical as Azazel. Michael, Sammael, Tamlel, would look at things with more flexibility. There’d be someplace to send her, where she’d be safe and I wouldn’t have to think about her. Sooner or later new breath would replace hers in my body, and the connection would be broken. Wouldn’t it?
I groaned, a soft sound, though if I’d screamed she would still have slept on.
It was going to be a long fucking night.
CHAPTER NINE
AZAZEL SAT IN THE GREAT HALL, alone in the dark. None of the Fallen knew the burden he carried. He could feel all of them—their needs, their pain, their doubts. Their secrets.
It was better that they didn’t know. He wouldn’t put it past some of them, Raziel in particular, to figure out a way to shield or control their thoughts, and that would put him at a disadvantage the Fallen couldn’t afford. It was simply something he had to endure, a physical pain that he bore with no outward sign.
Only Sarah knew. Sarah, the Source to his Alpha, the calm voice of wisdom, the only one with whom he could ever simply let go. The only one.
The centuries, the millennia, since they had fallen faded into the mists of time. The number of wives he’d had faded as well, but he remembered every face, every name, no matter how short a time she had spent in his endless life. There was Xanthe, with the laughing eyes and ankle-length hair, who’d died when she was forty-three. Arabella, who’d lived until she was ninety-seven. Rachel, who died two days after they’d bonded.
He had loved them all, but none so much as he loved his Sarah, his heart, his beloved. She was waiting for him, calm and unquestioning, knowing what he needed. She always did.
Because of all the things he needed, he needed her the most.
She wouldn’t let him get rid of Raziel’s woman, even though it was the wisest thing to do. The girl wanted to leave, and he should see that she did. The Nephilim would dispose of what was left of her if she went beyond the undulating borders of Sheol. At least, he assumed so. They preyed on the Fallen and their wives, and she was neither. He didn’t trust her, didn’t trust her unexpected presence in a place that allowed no strangers.
He leaned back in the ornate carved chair, trying to hear the distant voice that came so seldom. The voice trapped deep in the earth, imprisoned for eternity, or so the story went. Azazel chose not to believe that story, not when he heard the voice of the first Fallen answering his most impossible questions.
Lucifer, the Bringer of Light, the most beloved of the angels, was still alive, still trapped. He could lead the forces of heaven and hell, the only one who stood a chance against the vindictive, all- powerful Uriel and the vicious creatures who served him. But as long as Lucifer’s prison was hidden, as long as he was carefully guarded by Uriel’s soldiers, there would be no chance to rescue him.
And without Lucifer to lead them, the Fallen were trapped in a cycle of endless pain. Doomed to watch their beloved wives age and die, never to know the joy of children, to live with the threat of the Nephilim constantly on their borders, ready to overrun their peaceful compound. To wait, knowing that Uriel would send his plagues down upon them at any provocation.
Azazel pushed back from the ancient scrolls and manuscripts, exhausted. There were hints there, perhaps even answers, but he had yet to find them.
He studied them until his vision blurred, and the next day the grueling process would begin again.
There would be no answers tonight. He rose, signaling the lights to stay low, and started toward the huge expanse of rooms that had always been his.
Sarah was sitting up in bed, reading. Her silver hair lay in one thick braid over her shoulder; a pair of glasses was perched on the end of her perfect nose. Her
