Reaver

No, she wasn’t. But she’d been at the mercy of too many people, and the thought of yet another stranger putting his hands on her, channeling power into her…

“Harvester,” Reaver said softly, “even if you won’t let him heal you, you need to feed.”

“I know.” If she didn’t, it could be weeks until she could do basic things, like sense Harrowgates, let alone grow her wings back.

They wouldn’t survive weeks down here, and even if she didn’t care about her own life, she couldn’t condemn everyone in the party to death because of her stubbornness. Or her fear.

She blinked in utter shock. Had she really just considered other lives besides her own? Maybe Reaver’s angelic goodness was rubbing off on her like itching powder on her skin. Great. Now she was torn between being glad and wanting to shower. She’d survived by committing herself to an evil way of life. Being nice got people killed.

“Harvester?”

Right. Get it together. You spent five thousand years in Sheoul and only five months in Daddy’s torture playground. Don’t be a pussy.

“Yeah,” she said abruptly, surprising even herself. “I’ll do it. I’ll feed.” She stood, hoping he didn’t notice that she wobbled.

He noticed. “You okay? We can hang out here for a few more minutes.”

“I don’t need your pity,” she snapped, realizing she was being a bitch, but she didn’t know how else to be.

Oh, she remembered her time as a trusting, nonbitchy angel, but those days were long gone, and the walls she’d erected when Yenrieth crushed her had been fortified into an impenetrable barrier that didn’t allow for breaches.

“I don’t pity you, Harvester.”

“He says, his voice dripping with pity.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Whatever. Can we go? I’ll feed outside. With you there,” she added, and then instantly regretted it.

She sounded needy and pathetic, and she swore if he said something nice right now, she’d rip his throat out with her fangs.

Trying to get a read on what he was thinking, she eyed him, which had never been a hardship. Tall and obscenely muscular, he had a body to die for and a wavy blond mane women would kill for. Add to his rugged good looks his deep sapphire-blue eyes, a mouth made to make even angels imagine wicked things, and a dangerous dose of irresistible sexuality, and he was the epitome of masculine beauty.

Then there were his wings. They were tucked away right now, but they were magnificent. Lush and pristine white with azure-tipped fringe feathers, they made her want to get them dirty as they rolled on the ground. Fighting or fucking, it wouldn’t matter. Better yet, both at the same time.

“You done sizing me up?”

Oh, she could size him up all day. Even among angels, all of whom made supermodels appear average, Reaver was special. A low-level current of power reverberated in the very air around him, something she felt under her skin like a caress.

“I’m wondering how you made it all the way to Satan’s stronghold if you can’t recharge your powers down here.” Reaching out, she dragged her finger down the center of his T-shirted chest and over his washboard abs. He was smoking hot, and she resented how easily he made her admire him. “I’m also curious about why you aren’t radiating an obnoxious angelic glow that should be attracting every evil being in Sheoul.”

“You make it very difficult to like you.” Expression shuttered, he gripped her hand and moved it away. Prickly asshole. “I’m carrying a couple of sheoulghuls. The power I can draw from Sheoul with them is amplified by the lasher glands I had implanted under my wings to mute my angel glow.”

“Impressive,” she murmured, and her own wing stumps throbbed painfully. “And creative.”

He rolled one powerful shoulder. “I have friends who think outside the box.”

Friends. A startling twinge of something… envy, maybe… pricked her. When she’d been a full-fledged angel, she’d had lots of friends and a best friend in Yenrieth. She’d been happy then. Could she be happy again? She’d given up on her dreams of having a normal life a long time ago, but if it was possible… damn, she had five thousand years of evil baggage to shed and she didn’t even know where to start.

Getting out of here might be a good place to begin.

“Are you as powerful down here as you are aboveground, then?” Say yes. A “no” meant the likelihood of them getting out of here was abysmal.

“Not even close,” he said, and her heart sank. “I can’t replenish my power as quickly, and when I use it, the results can be unpredictable.” Bending, he grabbed his backpack. “I was hoping you’d have some power in reserve.”

She automatically rolled her shoulders to feel her wings, but only the lingering sensation of ghost limbs greeted her. Deep inside her wing anchors, angelic energy tingled, but only a whisper.

“I have a little. Maybe enough to cripple a single demon.”

Reaver cursed. “Once you use it, how long will it take to replenish?”

“Several hours.” Which sucked. She’d rather be blind than powerless. Deaf than weak. Dead than vulnerable.

Reaver considered that. “Once you feed from Tavin, you’ll be a lot more useful.”

Useful? She’d be useful? “I’m more than useful, you haloed ass.” She sniffed. “You forget where you are and who I am. I am Satan’s daughter, and we’re in my domain.”

Not that any of that meant anything since she had no idea what region they were in, and right now, being Satan’s traitorous daughter only increased her visibility.

“Trust me, I can’t forget where we are,” Reaver muttered, as he looped the pack’s strap over his shoulder. “But you know, you could at least pretend to be grateful that I risked my wings, life, and soul to rescue you.”

He was right. But she couldn’t afford to be grateful. Gratitude meant owing him, and owing people meant they had a hold on you.

“I didn’t ask you to save me,” she snapped. “I made my choices with my eyes wide open and no false hope that I’d get out. Ever. So save the guilt trip for someone who cares.”

Reaver watched her as though trying to strip away every protective layer. She felt it as tangibly as she’d felt her torturer’s skinning knives, and anxiety robbed her of her breath.

“Stop it!” she croaked. “Stop looking at me.”

Frowning, he reached for her, but in her mind, it wasn’t his hand. It was her father’s, and his claws dripped with blood.

Terror squeezed her heart in an icy fist. She screamed, the sound ripping from her throat in a raw, hot rush.

“Reaver! Shut her up!” Tavin’s voice penetrated her horror, but something wasn’t right. Even as the clawed hand in her mind morphed back into Reaver’s, fear still clung to her like a dire leech.

The ground shook and a concentrated swell of evil descended on them like a cloud.

“Shit.” Reaver grabbed her hand and dragged her out of the shrub, which he’d iced over again. Outside, in the muggy air above, demonic critters swarmed, their wings clacking like bones striking more bones.

And beyond the inky cloud of flying things, standing on a blackened ridge, was an army.

Satan’s army.

Nine

Tavin was used to being chin-deep in trouble. Hell, he was in trouble more often than he wasn’t.

But as he and Calder stood behind a wall of stone and thorny bushes and scanned the massive army that seemed to stretch for miles on the cliffs above them, he was aware that this was a special kind of trouble.

“Stupid bitch,” Calder hissed. “Her scream brought them right to us.”